Personae Dramatis
Orla Amell - Grey Warden, Enchanter from the Ferelden circle.
Zevran - Ex-Antivan Crow. Roguish Assassin with a penchant for not keeping his mouth shut.
Sten - A Sten of the Beresaad, he came to Ferelden to answer the question 'What is the Blight.' Was returning to Par Vollen with Orla and Zevran.
Dane - A pure bred Mabari that Orla saved at Ostagar. He has been her loyal hound since then.
Sophina - Apprentice to Magister Barbatus.
Magister Fortunatus "Atus" Barbatus - Magister recognized by the Senate, holds various estates across the Tevinter Empire. Has a deep interest in Orla.
Edrea - Elfin slave to the Barbatus household.
TRIGGER WARNING: The end of this chapter contains a rape scene between Atus and one of his elf slaves. It is not graphic and can easily be avoided by stopping right after Edrea gives Orla her name.
Sophina stood two steps behind her master, her sandals steeped in blood. She couldn't complain too much about that when the sticky stuff dotted her dark skin and matted in her auburn hair where the tight curls touched her forehead. That bit was her own fault for wiping the sweat off her brow, forgetting how much blood spattered her forearms.
The elven page boy that had to give his blood for the spell work still gurgled on the ritual table as the storm above them faded with his life. "My pardon, Magister," despite being his apprentice, he still required her to use formal titles, "but is this truly worth your time?" she asked as their vessel sped towards the devastated Ferelden ship.
"Ah, my dear," Why do those words always sound so condescending from him? She thought, "There are things I do not expect you to understand but do not question me. Not on this," Fortunatus finished firmly. Even though she stood behind him Sophina didn't dare roll her eyes. If she didn't know better she'd think the sea sun had gotten to him. As it was his already deep tan skin was a shade or two darker from the couple of weeks at sea. At first, she thought it was a fools' errand. How could you hope to catch a ship that hadn't left yet? Yet like most of his otherworldly knowledge, it was perfectly correct.
"You'll want to take care of that," he said as an aside. Sophina didn't have to ask what 'that' was, she knew all too well. The Magister may not have taken the time to get to know his slaves, but she did. She was the one who had to make sure things ran smoothly, after all. Even though she understood the necessity of it, the death of the page boy just seemed so excessive. She would make an effort to pay the mother something for her son's service when they made landfall back home.
"Of course, Magister," Sophina said, picking up the small body and walking to the edge of the ship. She could feel the eyes of the slaves on her from below. She was sure they despised them for having done it in the first place or were glad it wasn't them. Though, if they thought to question it at all, she didn't know. In the fourteen years since her discovery and her family's elevation to the Laetan caste she still wasn't quite sure what went on in the minds of both Magisters and slaves.
Maybe it's best not to know, Sophina thought as she pushed the page's body off the edge and into the sea. Still, she couldn't shake the foundation she had grown up on. Even without that, without the faith in the Maker, killing a boy to lay waste to a ship that did you no harm hardly seemed right at all.
The body taken care of Sophina walked back to her master, staying behind him. It was odd for what he was that he couldn't stand the sight of blood. She'd have to clean up before she could face him or stand by his side. It was his secret shame, an Imperial Magister, a blood mage, who could not take the sight of blood. It meant the worst of the work fell to her.
"Wash up, my dear," Fortunatus said, "I will be sending you aboard."
Because you can't stand to see the carnage that you ordered, she thought to herself, "Of course," was her answer. With a slight bow he would not see, Sophina walked backwards three steps out of her master's presence before turning to go below deck.
"And have them clean up the mess," he called after her, "I don't want to look at it."
Sophina paused at the top of the steps, "Of course, Magister," she said with a slight bow. She wondered if she could count herself lucky that her childhood as a butcher's daughter prepared her for this work. She looked over at one of the elves with a slight nod up deck. He took a few of his fellows and some rags and a bucket of seawater and scurried by as she made her way to the tub near the galley.
"May I help you, Mistress?" one of the house slaves, the cup bearer oddly enough, asked as she held out a rag for her.
"I can attend myself," Sophina said, taking the cloth and starting to scrub the blood out.
"Mistress… I know it's not my place to ask, but…" The elf-girl trailed off.
"But what?" Sophina prompted, scrubbing hard to get the caked blood off her arms, even the smell of iron seemed to upset the Magister.
"Why…why did the master…" the cup-bearer's meek voice trailed off.
Sophina shrugged in reply, "I don't know," she looked over at the girl to see tears in her inhumanly large, brown eyes. The page boy and the cup bearer. How tragic. "I am sorry," she said. She had to be sure she was sorry only in the way one would be sorry at losing a cat, in the end you didn't spare it the same consideration.
"Thank you, mistress," the elf girl choked on the last word before running off. Sophina sighed to herself, turning her attention back to making sure she got the blood off of her skin and knowing she would have to burn the clothes she was wearing now. At least she had others.
Sophina could smell the burning flesh from the dinghy. The men with her didn't seem to be bothered, sailors told stories of things more terrifying and mystical than a boat full of charred corpses after all. They moved port side of the large ship and the men tossed a rope ladder up. After pulling on it to make sure it was secure they moved out of the way to let her climb up.
Even though she could smell it from below, she still wasn't prepared for the sight when she made it to deck. Though some bodies were charred and twisted most of them didn't seem to have died from fire. In fact, some were still writhing on the deck. The masked sailors that came after her made short work of those who were still alive. Sophina had another task to do. Walking towards the stern of the Ferelden ship her quarry was hard to miss, watched over as it was by a summoned Arcane Horror. Given she was the one who had summoned it, the thing was technically under her control.
At its feet were an elf, a Qunari, a dog and the human mage. The other woman was paler of skin than normal and rather green around the gills. But that wasn't what drew her attention. The other three were asleep, held firmly in check with the Horror's spell, that was not the case with the Grey Warden. She was on the cusp of waking, one of her arms was the wing of a hawk, flapping as it hopelessly tried to lift her weight.
"What in the bloody void is that?" one of the sailors walking up behind her said. For men used to magic, it still didn't take too much to bother them.
"She's a shape shifter. It's an old tradition, once common in the Avvars," Sophina said and then mused, "I didn't believe it was still practiced openly anymore. The Orlesian Chantry normally bans such things," she said, thinking she'd at least have to reassess the Magister's obsession with this girl.
"I want the other three on the boat," Sophina ordered sharply, "I will take care of her," she finished with a nod of her head to the mage. She pulled a dagger from a sheath on her hip and moved it easily against the skin on her arm. Blood came slowly to the surface, and started down her arm. She placed the hand of that arm on the other mage's forehead.
"You will thank me for this later," Sophina promised as she reached out, to enter a battle of wills with the other woman. It should have been easy to subdue a girl already under the influence of a sleep spell. Sophina didn't expect to enter a contest of wills and it hit her like a bucket of cold water to the face. Gritting her teeth she brought forth as much power as she dared. It faced the image of a hawk diving in to her mind, going for the kill. Grief hung in Warden's mind and Sophina chose to focus on that to create a makeshift cage. There was no telling how long it would last though.
Exhausted and breathing heavily, Sophina pulled away. She pressed her palm to the cut, the blood making her fingers sticky, "You two," she called to a couple of sailors who were still rifling through the bodies on deck, "Take her, bind her hands and gag her. There is no way to know how long she will stay enthralled and she is dangerous." In the back of the woman's mind had been a song! Was that the taint they spoke of?
While the sailors took them towards the dinghy, Sophina turned her attention to the Arcane Horror that stood watch where they were. The shock to the system had weakened the spell holding it in place, banishing it was going to be a fight and one she had to face head on. She could do it, she was, after all, a Magister's Apprentice, if not worthy of being a Magister herself... yet.
At six, the Templars were terrifying. Orla sat in a pew across from her older sister, Grace. Grace was eleven and able to sit calmly, her hands folded in her lap. The Templars stood between the two of them, in the isle as they waited for the Revered Mother. Tears had left their tell-tale tracks across the dirt that stained Orla's face. She looked over at Grace, who had walked in calmly with the Templars and was amazed that her sister hadn't also been sobbing. How could she be so calm?
Grace had gone easily. Orla, however, they had to drag kicking and screaming for her mother's skirts. She had no idea what the Templars were doing to stop the her lightning, the only defense she had. And it terrified her.
"Grace," she whined plaintively, trying to get her sister's attention.
"Quiet," one of the Templars snapped. He towered above her more so than the anyone she could ever recall, "Quit your whining, girl." The tone of the Templar's command just made her cry more.
"Please, let me sit with her? I can quiet her down, I promise," Grace pleaded, despite her otherwise passive nature, it was obvious this was wearing on her sister as well.
"No," said the other Templar, a woman whose face seemed unnaturally cut from stone with juts and valleys that not even the most novice of sculptors would have left in the rock.
In fact, looking back and forth, it occurred to Orla that both of them were in a lot sharper relief than they should be. It was like they were cut right from the Chantry walls. It was then a raven cawed from a perch by one of the stained glass windows. Orla closed her eyes, "This is a dream. I refuse to relive this," she said, her voice firm. The child took a deep breath and opened her eyes an adult to the vast landscape of the Fade, the black city in the distance.
"Not this again," Orla groused, exasperated. With a heavy sigh she took a moment to recreate her staff, her robes. There was something wrong with a world that considered the Fade a great trap for a mage. Any magically constructed prison could be equally deconstructed. The staff done, she leaned on it and looked around, this was not the open, raw fade. Someone had put her here. The fact that this was constructed meant she could find her way out through that person.
Whether or not it would be an easy task was another matter entirely.
A moment of exploration proved that she seemed to be set up in a labyrinth, the only way to go in this case was forward. It also likely meant that the maze would be populated with things from her own mind, meant to entice or pacify her. Each step forward would bring her closer to the mind of the person who put her here. Orla would not sit passively and wait to be awakened at the convenience of whomever had attacked the ship. The lives of her friends may depend on it.
No. Here, there was no way to go but forward.
There was a disturbing lack of traps, of demons, as she walked. Orla was becoming convinced that the trap was her mind, which meant those five minutes spent walking forward could have been as little as a second or as long as an hour. Time in the fade had no meaning, it could stretch on forever, meaningless, or pass so fast that it left you breathless. This is way too easy, she thought the second before a step forward found her in her apprentice robes, back in the tower almost three years younger.
The transition was shocking, and did its best to wipe from her mind her awareness of the situation. The staff in her hands become a book that Orla clutched to her chest, startled as the knowledge that she tried desperately to hold on to slipped from her mind. What was I doing? She wondered, looking down at the book in her hands, I should return this to the First Enchanter. Her teacher was more like a father to her but he wouldn't be happy with her. She had a habit of not bringing back the materials she borrowed.
It wouldn't have been so bad if she didn't fall asleep on open books, leaving stains where she drooled over the ink. Some of them were completely irreplaceable and she had gotten better with that, but it still happened. She wasn't looking where she was going as she turned the corner and ran head first into something cold and hard that sputtered out a hasty, "Orla? Are you… I mean… okay?"
Orla looked up and almost dropped the book. Cullen was new to the circle's Templars and he always seemed to pop up where she was. At first she had thought it was cute, and thought he was cute, but after awhile it had gotten… creepy. It hadn't helped that Irving had noticed it and had lectured her rather sternly on what often came from a Mage-Templar relationship. Since then she had been trying to avoid him if she could. It was hard when the tower was so small and when the other apprentices knew and liked to throw them together.
"I'm fine," she said, clutching the book closer to her chest like a shield and gazed at the floor. She had no weapons or armor to hide behind, and even the younger, greener Templars could stop a spell, it was what they did. It was all they did. Dear Maker, why did he have to be so cute? Orla wondered, trying to find a way out only to find she was flanked on either side by a bookcase. She did manage a couple of small steps back, which thankfully Cullen didn't follow by walking forward, yet.
"Good, I mean, I wouldn't want to hurt you. I mean for you to be hurt," Cullen finished quickly. He did take a step forward then. Both stood in awkward silence for a long moment after that. "Where were you headed?" he finally asked.
"I have to return this book to the First Enchanter," Orla returned, hoping that would be the end of it.
"He's your mentor, isn't he?" Cullen asked, "You must be very talented. After all you can't have been here very long," he said, and normally that would have been true. Most children who discovered their magic talent were at least old enough to understand what was going on at the time. It wasn't the case with her.
"I've been here since I was six," Orla said, "Almost ten years now. Can I pass yet?" she asked, the last taking on a the bite of sarcasm. Her wit was normally reserved for friends, but she was running late and she didn't want to get in trouble over this.
"Really? That long?" Cullen returned, seemingly not hearing the last bit. When Orla didn't answer he continued, "Um, why don't I escort you?"
Orla bit her lip, to give no for an answer could be questioned, reported and treated like she was hiding something even though that wasn't the case. She truly was just trying to return her reading material. And while Irving would vouch for her, it would be attention from the Templars she didn't want. She had been her long enough to be practiced at staying out of the Templar's sights. It was bad luck, to say the least, that she seemed to have caught one's gaze now.
"If you like," Orla said, trying to keep her voice impassive, "It's only a short walk," she pointed out.
He moved then, holding out one arm in a gesture that basically told her to get moving. Orla did, and hoped he wouldn't follow her. However, Cullen fell in step beside her walking close enough to almost be touching. The heat off his body, even through the armor had her blushing and once again it didn't help she thought he was cute. While the other apprentices were open and frequent with their dalliances, Orla had never indulged and now found herself questioning that wisdom. Maybe if it weren't for the lack of it, it wouldn't be on her mind so much now. Her studies had always been more enticing though. Now, with a side glance at him, she wondered…
The hallway seemed to curve off softly into the distance forever.
At first, Orla assumed it was embarrassment and her own wayward imagination that was tempting her with things she had never done that made the walk take so long. It wasn't until she noted a portrait on the wall that they had passed already that she paused. Something was not right here, and it ate at the back of her mind. Something she had to remember. Other people depended on it…
That didn't make sense though. Who, other than another apprentice would depend on her? Simply because she had the market cornered in writing theory papers for the others didn't mean it was a matter of life and death. Unless you were Jowan.
Orla stopped dead, hit with an image so clear of Jowan beaten and bloody sitting in a dungeon as shocked to see her as she was to see him.
"By all that's…you."
Orla took another, closer look at Cullen, at the walls of the tower itself. They shimmered, and there was something decidedly unholy surrounding Cullen. Orla took a step back as the thing that was wearing the Templar's skin so easily turned towards her, "What is it?" he asked, and along with Cullen's voice there was another, running deep beside it.
"This is a dream, and you're…you're a…" Orla trailed off, she knew it was true and yet it sounded so insane.
The thing wearing Cullen's face smiled, "And this is the best you could come up with," it said, "Let me try, hmm?"
Orla's clothing vanished, all that was covering her from the eyes of the demon was the book she still clutched to her chest. The hallway melted into a small dorm, a Templar's room. Though a part of her didn't want to, Orla looked up at him. Cullen, or the thing wearing his face, stood in front of her in nothing but his small clothes. It didn't take long before it was close enough that its breath ruffled her hair. She trembled with both terror and desire as Cullen's lips hovered over hers, not quite touching but close enough to set the skin on fire.
"Better?" he asked.
For the long, painful moment Orla couldn't breathe quite right, she didn't answer. "No," she managed. It might have been an idle fancy and a pleasant daydream, but she had never actually wanted this. The risk had been too great and in the end, it had just been infatuation. There had been things more worth her time and her attention. It might not have been the popular choice, but it had been her choice.
"What?" the dual voice, the light and the tenor crept back into the demon's voice. Along with a feeling of disbelief.
"I. Said. No!" Orla screamed, grabbing the thing by the neck, her skin and hair coming to light with electricity as magic coursed through her. The facade of Cullen faded, replaced by a desire demon, one in male form, screaming as power coursed through it, "The real Cullen never could listen to me either!" Orla's anger fueled the lightning, "Oh, he'd never go this far, but to get him to leave me alone I had to learn to be too forward to get him to run away. When I say 'no' I don't mean 'maybe!' I mean no!"
The spell finally shattered the dream and the demon vanished along with it. Orla was standing in the open Fade with sparks still dancing on her skin. Breathing heavy, her memories now back she looked around she tried to gauge if the demon would return. It likely would. Orla knew that each temptation would be worse than the last; it was what they did. It was all they did. And historically speaking they were quite good at it.
Orla stood up straight, "Many are those who wander in sin," she quoted, "Despairing that they are lost forever, but the one who repents, who has faith unshaken by the darkness of the world, and boasts not, nor gloats over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight in the Maker's law and creations, she shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction," the Chant didn't do that much for her normally, but she had grown up hearing it. And she held some verses closer than others.
The landscape around her shimmered again and Orla continued the chant while building her mana and feeling the hair start to rise on her skin, "The light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world and into the next. For she who trusts in the maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light."
"The veal holds no uncertainty for her," at the sound of the voice which she knew better than her own she faltered. Opening her eyes, Orla found herself in a large, well furnished room with Alistair. Shocked, the book she held fell to the floor. He was dressed well now, in fine furs and a well sewn doublet that was shaded an expensive violet. "No services today and yet here you are quoting the Chant," he said with a laugh.
For a long moment she couldn't say anything. Orla simply stood there, her hands over a mouth that hung open, agape with shock.
"Orla? What is it?" Alistair asked, concerned. He didn't get to say anything else about it, as Orla flung her arms around him and pressed her lips to his. He didn't hesitate in returning and deepening the kiss. It was like coming home again. This was where she belonged. She could stay here forever.
"Well, I'm certainly not going to protest a greeting like that," Alistair said after the kiss, his voice breathless. Orla still clung to him, unwilling to let go, for some reason she was terrified that if she did so he would fade away. It was then she caught herself crying. By the time she realized that she was, it was too late to stop the flood of tears that ran down her cheeks. "Hey," Alistair said, tilting her chin up and brushing the drops from her cheeks, "What's this for?"
"I… I think I just woke up from a terrible dream," Orla said, smiling through the flood of tears that refused to be held back, "I'm just so glad you're here with me."
"Now you're just making me blush," Alistair said brushing the tears from her face, "They're waiting for us."
"Who's waiting for us?" Orla asked, sinking into his embrace. She couldn't help but to feel this was where she belonged. It was what she had wanted since after Ostagar and it was so easy to accept it as truth.
"Everyone; our kingdom," Alistair said, pulling away slightly to take her by the hand, "They want to see us. Let's go give them what they want, hmm?"
Orla paused and then nodded, a smile breaking across her face, "Alright."
He held her hand up as they walked towards the large, wooden door. It opened on it's own, the light from the ballroom on other side blinding her for a moment. It was like walking in to the sun. When the glare faded there was thunderous applause. The room was full of faces, some she recognized and some she did not.
"His Royal Highness, King Alistair Theirin and his betrothed, the Lady Orla Amell," as they were announced there was another round of applause and Orla shot a glance at Alistair.
"I thought you were marrying Anora," she whispered. They had spent so much time setting it up, as horribly painful as it was. She had ripped out her heart for the good of Ferelden. The wound was still bleeding. Bringing it up was just a twist of the knife.
"Well, I lied," he returned, the words dropping off his lips so lightly that Orla couldn't help but to be taken in by them, "You're the one I can't live without."
Orla took a moment to let that sink in. The truth was there, it mirrored what they had whispered to each other desperately when the shadows were the darkest, when the world had been reduced to just the two of them. Despite the tears on her cheeks the smile that pulled at her mouth was a real one. There hadn't been many of those the past year.
"Shall we dance?" Alistair said, a nod to the ballroom floor. As he brought it up music seemed to fill the room. It reminded her of the music Leliana had played at camp. She and Alistair had danced to it while Morrigan rolled her eyes, Wynne hummed along, Sten sat in contemplation, Shale stomped on the birds that flew in, Oghren drank, Zevran clapped and made lewd comments and Dane nipped at their heels, as if trying to dance with them.
Though this time, it was just them. Neither of them could dance very well, but it didn't seem to matter here. They didn't trip over each other's feet or stumble in to the other on a turn. Every move was perfect.
Everything is perfect, Orla thought. Alistair twirled her to the music as the beat picked up and the audience, faceless and formless clapped to the beat and made room for them. Curious, Orla tried to catch a glance of the faces only to find that no matter how hard she tried they all blurred together. They weren't twisting and turning that fast. She should be able to see someone…
"Orla, look at me," Alistair said and she felt compelled to do so, "Don't worry about them. This is about us. There's only us," he whispered the last, his mouth close to hers.
"We've never danced this well," Orla pointed out, trying so very hard not to lose herself in the motion, in the dance. To lose herself in thoughts of what would come later when they were alone.
"I've been practicing," Alistair said impishly.
"When?" Orla asked, "We've been quite busy," she pointed out. Oddly enough, blights did not defeat themselves.
"Does it matter?" he cooed, his breath on her ear.
"This isn't right…" Orla muttered, a shiver running down her spine, "I shouldn't be here," she realized, though that was distant and dream like itself. In fact the last conversation she remembered with Alistair was bittersweet and filled with half-said things. Before that, an argument. The argument.
"Why did you do it?" Orla asked.
"Do what?" his tone changed slightly and the crowd shimmered around them.
"The reason we're both still alive to enjoy this 'happy ending,'" Orla pressed, "I told you, you didn't have to do it. I know you despise her. But here we are," she finished. The Dark Ritual, and everything it had required, had disturbed Alistair. Orla made it clear she wasn't going to force him to do anything, she was ready to die. She had already ripped her heart out for her country, her life seemed the next logical step.
And yet, when she struck that last blow on the Archdemon they were both still standing and Alistair hadn't been able to meet her questioning gaze. He had done it. That her life was really worth that much to him still shocked her. How many times am I going to have to do this? She asked herself, Dear Maker, wasn't once enough?
"Does it matter?" his tone was snappish.
"I have a confession to make," Orla said as he twirled her and then brought her close, "The night you spent with Morrigan I spent with Riordan." The vision of the ballroom shuddered, "And I'm not sorry," she said as the face of the thing that was not Alistair hardened and shifted. "Also," Orla said harshly, "I am tired of having to do this. How many times do I have to tear out my heart to get past a barrier? To solve someone else's damned problems?"
"Isn't this what you want?" the echo on Alistair's voice gave the demon away. Looking closely she could see the form of the desire demon, now in the guise of the man she loved more than her own life. And him wearing the facade of his form enraged her.
"Yes," Orla admitted a cold bite on her voice. Lying wouldn't serve any purpose here, "It's everything I ever wanted. But I know what I am and what I can't have. And the void take you for forcing me through it!" Lightning arced from her fingertips and then out around her, the vision falling to pieces. The demon dropped the guise of Alistair as it was hit. Through the tears that blurred her vision it almost seemed like there were two of them. It just angered her more.
"How dare you!" Orla continued, electricity crackled off of her at every angle arcing into the demon, "If you could suffer, I would your existence a lesson in agony! But you're a demon, this is all you know and I am not giving you what you want." The desire demon's form writhed as the lightning arced over him. "This is a trap. I want to see who put me here. Now," Orla spat.
The desire demon dissolved into nothing and the Fade shimmered. Orla could barely make out the form of another woman in front of her, human, with dark skin and tight auburn curls, her hands clutching her head.
"The music," the other woman's voice was distant, "make it stop."
Orla walked towards her, "No. I won't. It's a part of me. You'll have to kill me to make it stop," she said, half a smile on her face, "And you've gone through too much trouble to want me dead. You're lucky. It's not as loud as it was before we killed the archdemon, but I always hear it. It's always there," Orla's eyes focused on the woman's flickering image, "And it will never stop."
Orla took the final steps forward, reaching over and grasping the woman's face and the dream exploded. She awoke, screaming, the dark skinned woman curled up in a ball on the wooden floor. Orla tried to lunge forward only to have heavy chains rattle and pull against the wall. She struggled against them as a pair of feet came into view in front of her.
"Well now, that is quite impressive," a smooth, slightly accented voice said. Orla looked up her blurred vision clearing to a man. His skin was halfway between hers and the woman rocking back and forth on the floor and his hair a deep brown. The ostentatious robes he wore were Tevinter in make and design. Orla attempted to lunge forward again the manacles biting in to her wrists. When he reached for her face she put an arcane shield up, his hand touching that instead. He caressed the barrier, his touch leaving a shimmering trail.
"Who are you? Where are my friends, my dog?" Orla snapped, a shudder running over her. His hand might not have been on her skin but she could feel where it ran over the magical barrier. After the nightmares she had just been forced to endure being touched was the last thing she wanted. Yet here was a man was so intent on invading her personal space that she had to put up a literal barrier.
He removed his hand though he still stood at the terminus of the barrier and gave a little bow, "I am Fortunatus Barbatus, Magister of Tevinter. You, my dear, may call me Atus."
"I don't think I will," Orla returned, "And I am not your 'dear.'" She returned his gaze with steel and fire in her blue eyes. "Where. Are. Zevran and Sten. Where. Is. My. Dog."
"The elf and the qunari?" the Magister said, like it was an after thought, "They're well enough, I assure you. Contained, of course, and considered a part of your household. The mabari is presently unharmed, but caged and chained to prevent him from damaging any of my property."
"And what 'property' would that be?" Orla spat. She had a pretty good idea, given her past dealings with Tevinter magi in the alienage of Denerim. She had never known just how badly elves had been treated before. The Circle had sheltered her from so much.
"Come now, I shouldn't have to say what you already know," he said with a smile that rubbed already raw nerves the wrong way.
"Fine. Shouldn't you see to your apprentice?" Orla asked, with a nod to the woman on the floor, taking a guess at her station. This man reminded her of Uldred and men like Uldred had their underlings do their dirty work.
"I assure you, dear, she will recover," Atus said with a wave of his hand, "She isn't important right now. You are."
"Why's that?" Orla snapped, "And were the chains necessary?" Yes, this man was like Uldred. It wouldn't surprise her in the least to find out he was possessed, but he lacked the otherworldliness that came with it.
"Why, to make sure you didn't blow a hole in the boat, of course. Given your prior experience with my countrymen I figured this was the best way to keep you from doing so. But if you're ready, I'll be more than glad to see you moved to… better accommodations."
"I would rather take my friends and my dog and go. Feel free to drop us at Par Vollen," Orla said, standing as much as she could with her hands chained to the wall. She reached their limit, but pushed forward anyway with her shield still in place and her eyes cold.
"Of course you would," he said, rubbing his fingers together idly and flicking a speck of something off, "But let us make this perfectly clear, Lady Amell. You are on a ship in the middle of the ocean surrounded by men who have learned to make a living fighting the enemies of Magisters, which includes other mages. Not to mention the collateral damage. Oh yes, and the fact that if you so much as raise a finger to shock anyone on this ship you will never see your servants or your dog again."
Orla looked up at him with contempt. Even with the threat hanging in the air, the temptation was there to reduce the entire ship to ash. She could do it. She had slain the Archdemon. She had lead a year long campaign against the blight and had gone from a misty eyed, shy girl to a leader of an army. The girl she was would not have accepted the damage to others during an escape, the woman she was would willingly.
However, she wouldn't throw her friends and her dog to the either the Tevinters or the sea. Neither had any mercy to offer.
"Well?" Atus prompted, smiling down at her, "I wouldn't want to spend this trip chained to a wall. Won't you take down that barrier now?"
The shimmering field hung in the air between them for a two deep breaths that for her took an eternity before it vanished with a soft popping noise, "Alright," Orla said, her teeth clenched so much that it hurt, "But I am not 'Lady Amell,'" she held her head up defiantly, "I am the Commander of the Grey."
"As you say," Atus said dismissively. He gestured towards Orla and gave the command without looking back to his men, "Unbind the Grey Lady if you would," he said. A soldier in Tevinter style armor stepped forward and with a click in the lock her right hand was free and then her left. She managed to adjust her balance well enough that she didn't fall flat on her face and stood slowly.
On her feet, Orla placed her hand over the cuts the manacle had left on her right wrist. Soft white light glowed and she ignored the sudden push of a blade against her throat to finish the healing.
"Stand down," Atus sounded more than a little annoyed. The blade withdrew, though Orla gave it no notice. It simply didn't matter right now, "Let her heal her wrists. We aren't barbarians."
She moved on to the left wrist and despite rubbing them both afterward she couldn't banish the dull ache. All of Wynne's tutoring and it still seemed she'd never be a good healer. Done, she stood tall with her face impassive and looking straight ahead. She was a mess, covered with sea salt, dirt and blood. Orla also swore she could feel hay from the berth on the Ferelden ship, now lost at sea.
"Before you show me to my cabin, see to your apprentice," Orla said, making it an order. Atus flushed and she could see he was holding back a rebuke as he plastered the most fake smile she had ever seen on his face and nodded to another one of his men.
"Take her to her bed, won't you? I'll show the Lady-"
"The Commander," Orla corrected.
"-of the Grey to her cabin," he finished.
"I want to see my companions first," Orla ordered. Show no weakness, she would show no weakness.
"I assure you, your servant and animals are well cared for," Atus returned, staring right back at her.
"Animals?" Orla returned, "My companions and my dog," her voice was firm, "Sten is not an animal."
"Truly?" Atus returned, his lip curling up in half a smile, "I wonder if you know it as well as our people do."
"Just take me to them," Orla snapped. She wasn't going to get into a debate about the sincerity of her friends with someone who was willing to throw lives away to get her. "You'll forgive me if I don't take your word for their safety."
"I'm hurt, truly," Atus said, putting a hand to his heart. He didn't sound hurt so much as he did amused, "but if the Lady-"
"Commander."
"-insists," he finished, ignoring her.
"I do insist. And if you're going to refuse to call me Commander, call me Orla. But stop with the Lady," she said firmly. She didn't like the title at all. As far as Orla was concerned she was not a lady. The title was reserved for the nobility and she was not nor would ever be that, no matter what her mother might have been before she was born.
"Such a beautiful name," Atus noted, "It's very Ferelden. What does it mean…?" he asked casually as he gestured for her to follow him. Instead of behind him, she fell into step at his side with her gaze facing forward.
"Andraste's Golden Crown," Orla said. The downside of having a very religious mother was after Grace, she had named her and Brandon from the Chant in a hope that they wouldn't inherit the curse that her eldest sibling had. And they all had, so either the Maker didn't listen or he had a sense of irony that could only be described as cruel.
"A fitting name for a regal woman," Atus noted with a slight smile as Orla stayed in step beside him. The happy bark was the first sign that they were getting closer. She could hear Dane's thrashing rattle the chains he was bound in. The room was filled with hay and chains, the amount on Sten nothing short of impressive.
"Ahh, there is our bella," Zevran's voice sounded a bit weak, but was there, "See, my overly large friend. I told you she was fine."
Sten responded with a grunt she barely heard as she passed their host, stopping Dane from jumping against the chains and sitting down next to in his small cage, wagging his tail, "Zev, Sten, are you two okay?"
"We've been better, bella," Zev said with a small smile.
"They have my sword, Kadan," Sten growled.
"I'm surprised you didn't start crushing skulls," Orla said with a small smile, trying to make the best of it.
"Oh, he was tempted, bella, but we weren't assured of your own safety," Zevran noted, the chains clinking as he sat back.
"Well, I'm here now," Orla said, petting Dane who was nuzzling her hand and whining. She turned to face the Magister, standing up, "I will have my dog and my bodyguard with me and his sword returned," she said, "My elfin servant can work with yours."
"I am a very good servant!" Zevran said happily.
"I would recommend cutting out his tongue," Sten said dryly.
Orla tried very hard not to crack a smile, "Quiet, both of you," she said firmly, turning back to face Atus, "It will save you the resources needed to watch them."
"Well, I don't see why not, but I am against giving the beast his sword back," Atus said, returning her gaze.
"Peace-tie it. As long as you don't try to harm me you have nothing to fear from him," Orla returned.
For a moment, he said nothing and Orla wondered if this was a battle of wills that she was going to lose, and then Atus nodded, his dark hair bouncing slightly with the action, "Very well. That seems more than fair to me. You are, after all, our guest. We do wish you to feel safe." Orla suspected there was more to it than that. That he had cards up his hand that she wasn't even aware of. She didn't plan on making a break for it here, though. They were in the middle of the ocean; there was nowhere to go. And he knew that. What difference would a dog and Qunari make against a ship full of Tevinter soldiers? The beef bones she tossed Dane from the table held more freedom in them than this arrangement did.
"Where is my sword?" Sten asked, his hands flexing in the chains.
"We'll have it brought to your mistress' room," Atus said, not looking at Sten. From behind him the guard came and unlocked Zevran's binds first, but hesitated at Sten.
"He won't hurt you," Orla said. Right now, she added silently.
The man was obviously reluctant and did his best to get out of the Qunari's range after the bindings were undone. Sten simply stood there, not moving so much as an eyelash. The nervous guard went to Dane next. The moment the large mabari was free, he bounded forward knocking the man out of the way and jumping on Orla, knocking her to the floor, licking her face with a gusto.
"Yes, I'm glad to see you too, boy," she said, managing to get out from under Dane while ignoring Atus' amused expression. Now she had dog slobber to add to the things that currently stuck to her skin like a coat of bad paint. She stood up calmly. Years of dealing with Templars made it easy to not have her real thoughts present on her face, instead a simple calm was there.
"I'd like to be shown to my room now. And please have a bath ready," Orla said, keeping her expression impassive.
"But of course," Atus said with a nod, "Please, follow me," he said, gesturing out the door to the hold with his hand, a smile on his face as he turned on his heel and started forward.
Flames, what have I fallen into now? Orla asked herself as she fell in step behind the magister. It must have been her fate to have this type of thing happen to her over and over. Just once, I'd like a trip to go just as planned.
They followed the Magister through the ship to a hallway with two ornate doors on either side. Atus stopped and gestured to the door on the left, "Your room, Orla," he said, "Across from my own."
"How," predictable, she thought, "nice of you," Orla said with a forced smile, her hand on the door.
"After you get yourself cleaned up and changed you're more than welcome to join me for dinner," Atus said. His tone made it obvious the invite was mandatory.
Orla didn't look back, keeping her hand on the door, her expression grim but her tone polite, "Thank you for the kind invitation." Orla opened the door. The room was a lot more spacious than one would expect on a ship. It was very well furnished too, but the most important thing was the stonework tub by the small, round window, an elf girl with a towel standing by it, waiting. The girl couldn't take her eyes off of Sten who closed the door with a hollow thud. The poor thing looked terrified and tried to speak and Orla sighed, "What is it? You don't have to be afraid of him."
"His…his sword," the girl managed, pointing to the bed where the large blade sat, peace tied and magically bound to the scabbard.
"Asala," Sten said, his tone hiding fondness, as he picked up his blade. He fastened it back into place and then stood tall by the door, "I will stand guard here, Kadan," he said firmly. The way he stood you wouldn't have guessed he just spent time chained up.
"Thank you, Sten," Orla said. He often pointed out that thanks was not required and she always pointed out that it was a force of habit. Politeness added to longevity for Circle Mages. Now the exchange was silent between them, having happened so many times that each knew the steps. The looks done, Orla turned her back on the Qunari and started struggling with her sea-salt caked robes.
"Mistress, no, let me do that for you!" the elf-girl's voice was panicked. Orla paused, looking out over the rise of the blue and silver fabric to see the girl standing right in front of her, attempting to get her hands on the fabric.
"When last I checked I could undress myself," Orla returned, confused as to the level of panic coming from the elf-girl.
"But I'm to be yours while you're here!" the girl squeaked, pulling at Orla's abused robes, "Please, I have to do this for you!" she exclaimed with one last pull sending both her and the elf girl backwards as the robes went off over her head. Orla landed on a deck with a thud clad only in her small clothes, the girl right next to her buried in the Grey Warden robes, quickly folding them up.
"You really didn't have to do that," Orla said, standing up and crossing her arms over her chest out of force of habit. Being nude around Sten didn't mean anything, the stoic Qunari often guarded water holes while the group took turns bathing so she had gotten over fear of being seen naked by him. It was other people that still threw her for a loop somewhat. Magi in the tower didn't have servants, "I am perfectly able to dress and undress myself."
"No, Mistress," the girl said, standing up and bowing her head, the red-blonde hair covering her face and those wide elfish eyes, "I've been charged to do this while you're with us, if I don't…" she trailed off, taking a step backwards. Orla recognized the look of someone who felt they had said more than they should have. She sighed, attempting to run a hand through her tangled hair not getting far.
"You can stay in here, but I really don't need help with simple things okay?" Orla said, starting on her small clothes before the girl could get it in her mind to try to peel those off her as well. She wasn't going to get into a fight over who was taking off her under garments. Not with an elf girl she barely knew, anyhow. If she was getting into that kind of fight, well, there was only one person who still could have demanded that kind of attention.
And she had purposely left him behind.
Upset was a mild word to describe her emotions as she removed the last of the soaked and salted fabric and tossed it towards the bed before walking over to the tub and stepped in. After she settled into the steaming water she ducked under the water, holding her breath and letting the heat wash over her and start to take the sea from her skin. She didn't have to like where she was, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the bath was as close to the Maker's Side as one could get.
Orla came up for air, sucking in a deep breath and then jumping backwards as the first sight to greet her through her wet hair were the large brown eyes of the elf-girl, "Don't do that!"
"I'm sorry, Mistress!" she said, holding up a woven basket full of soaps, "I brought these. I thought, I mean do you need - or would you like help with your hair?"
Looking through the tangled, red locks Orla considered. She probably did, at least if she wanted to get it combed to any reasonable degree of neat, "Sure," Orla said, "But don't call me Mistress, my name is Orla," she tried turning a smile on the girl, "What's yours?"
"My what, Mistress Orla?" the girl said, setting the basket down and picking out soap, washrags and a sponge. Orla rolled her eyes, it was likely as good as she was going to get from her so she wasn't going to push the issue again.
"Your name. I can't just call you 'hey elf'," Orla explained.
"Though that is what we called the elf for months after we picked him up," Sten chimed in.
"I called him Zevran," Orla returned, unable to stop the small smile though it faded when she remembered that Alistair had called the assassin Ser Stabbity Stabbity Poke Poke for about a month and a half. "Anyway, I would prefer to use your name."
The girl paused with a sponge in one hand and some scented soap in the other. It took her a moment before she spoke, "Edrea," she said, "My name's Edrea."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Edrea," Orla said, "Now, I'll gladly take some help with my hair, please."
Edrea smiled in return, one that slowly spread from her lips to her earth brown eyes, "Of course, Mistress Orla."
Atus picked up a goblet of spiced wine that one of the slaves in the chamber had topped off. The spice hung on his tongue for a moment before evaporating, leaving behind a pleasant tang. The looking glass on the wall next to him was polished silver with old runes on it. It didn't reflect his image, though. He moved his hand over the glass, the runes shining faintly at the touch of mana. The mirror came alive, crystallizing an image of the room across the small hall in perfect clarity.
While the two beasts guarded the door, the object of his attention bathed, one of the slaves helping her with her hair. That red hair, which even salted and tangled was so much more beautiful in person. And her poise when she had stood toe to toe with him… it had been hard to not take her right there. If he had though, he wouldn't get to enjoy this show. Trained women and boys who knew how to display their bodies to the best of their advantage could not hold a candle to Orla Amell.
Atus had watched her for years once his research on the lines from Kirkwall was complete. At first he had been planning to spirit her from the circle to Tevinter. He knew that once she was there the short sighted Orlesian Chantry would brand her a blood mage and she would not be able to return to Ferelden or any other uncivilized void-cursed hole. Then, the Wardens had recruited her. Though it put a small damper in his plans, it did mean she was now easier to get to. Then she had taken that bastard prince for a lover! To say he was jealous would be an understatement. He still wanted to burn the man to a crisp for daring to touch his Orla. It wouldn't be advisable now, as the idiot sat on Ferelden's throne. At least he was out of the picture.
He didn't begrudge her her one night with the older Warden, however. It had been just a night and the man had died shortly after - Atus having watched it all knew it for what it was, knew her for what she was. As he now watched her bathe, taking in every detail, letting it soak in to him as the soap and water did to her. Those perfect breasts, smaller than most but firm and round with pale pink points excited by the water and the washing called out to him. He reached out and caressed the image, tragically all he could feel was the cold glass. Soon, though, it would be her flesh under her hands.
Orla stood up and stepped out of the tub and he shifted his few behind her, taking in the view. She had more muscle now than she did in the Circle Tower. The Warden's life had been good for her, resulting in a well formed and shapely buttocks. Again, he stroked the glass, the heat and strength of his desire becoming painful. Standing up, he grabbed the young elf who poured his wine, being the closest warm body in the room. He bent the boy over the table, tearing open the fabric of the elf-boy's trousers. Moving his own robes out of the way, he was in deep with a single thrust. His eyes weren't on the boy, the whole time he watched her. The water dripping off of her body, the curve of her hips, the play of the light on her skin. And when she bent over to dry her hair, a view of his final prize, pink and ripe as any flower.
His.
Finished, he ignored the shaking elfin slave boy who picked up the items that had fallen from the table. Atus moved to the mirror and touched his cheek to the cold glass, "You're finally mine, Orla Amell…"