Chapter 7: Refugees

Later that night, Aithne and Zevran sat wrapped in a blanket and shared the roasted birds and baked apples. "I think you can cook from now on, this is marvelous." Aithne took another bite of spiced grains and breaded grouse.

"So you like my cooking now, do you?" Zevran teased, his question having nothing to do with the food.

"Hmm, spicy, savory, a little zest of wine. What's not to like?" Two could play this game.

"I think I like your cooking better — particularly the honey." He fed her a slice of baked apple, then made a show of licking the dripping honey off of her breast.

Smiling she leaned her head on his shoulder. Aithne had given Alistair her virginity and her heart. This time with Zevran should feel like a betrayal. Yet it didn't. The world felt just as right in the Antivan's arms as it ever had when she was with her fellow grey warden. The thought disturbed her but she avoided analyzing it for the moment.

"Regrets?" Zevran seemed to read her thoughts.

"About tonight? No. About the past — too many to count." She turned to face him, his amber eyes filled with desire but cautious… always cautious. The mood was too serious and the past threatened, looming over both of them. Not tonight she vowed. They both needed a reprieve from the darkness, from what might have been.

"The Antivan massage was wonderful. What about a Dalish bath?" Allowing a grin she beckoned him to the river.

Zevran awoke to the scent of wildflowers, his face buried in her hair. Only the lingering soreness in his temple, thanks to the darkspawn, convinced him it was not a dream. Zevran smiled wishing he could preserve the moment; his Warden at last — if just for one night. His arm tightened possessively around her. His Warden, if he could convince her to forget about the human king. It was her choice though. She had taught him that when she had freed him from his vow after the fight with Taliesin.

She stirred in her sleep and rolled to face him. He kissed her and she smiled, mumbling, "Morning Zev." It was a start.

They broke camp late that morning — replenishing the wood supply under the overhang and cleaning the gore off their armor took some time. They also washed their dirty, blood soaked clothes from the previous day, though the garments were scarcely dry when they packed up to go.

Little conversation passed between them as they both mulled the new parameters of their relationship. Aithne was also uneasy — there were darkspawn ahead of them, probably right on the road through Gherlen's pass. Her warden sense gave her the impression that they were hunting. She was about to swing wide to come behind the troop, when her sensitive ears picked up faint human screams on the wind.

Zevran heard them too and looked at her with resignation. "Too the rescue, right?"

"I'm a Grey Warden, I have to go. We need to be careful though, it's a big group." Worried, she cued her horse into a gallop, Zevran a shadow at her side.

Breaking through the trees, it was clear the humans were losing the fight. Surrounded by at least thirty darkspawn, the group of peasants — though roughly the same size — was being steadily beaten back toward a small cluster of wagons and carts, where women and children were screaming. An emissary was filling the air with magic.

"Take the emissary — I'm going to try to rally them!" Aithne shouted at Zevran as she urged her mount to greater speed.

Charging through the mass of darkspawn, Aithne did what damage she could. She had never had much training in mounted combat, thus it was with relief that she reached the human line and swung off, sending her horse into the center of the circle near the wagons. She had just enough time to note a few elves among the humans, before she turned back to the stunned hurlock her horse had trampled and finished it with a sword to the spine.

"To me! Fight them!" She ordered as she waded into the fray.

Zevran marveled at his stupid fearless Warden, before he leapt from his mount and flattened the emissary to the ground with a dagger in his back. Pulling the weapon free, he drew his sword in the other hand and started working his way along the outskirts of the battle, doing what he did best: backstabbing, poisoning, crippling, removing darkspawn from the fight in the most efficient way possible. His Crow training allowed him to turn off the icy fear he felt for Aithne, standing in the middle of the melee drawing attention to herself — the worst possible tactical decision for a rogue.

Aithne struggled to keep up with the enemies pressing against her. She would love to slip out of sight and really start dealing some damage, but if she chose that course the peasants were likely to break and run, leaving the women and the children vulnerable. That she could not allow. She would kill the women herself if the darkspawn overwhelmed them, to spare them the fate of a broodmother. So she held the line and parried what she could. Blood was running down both arms and from a cut on her cheek and she had felled only a handful of darkspawn.

An alpha hurlock worked its way toward her, correctly assessing her as the greatest threat. The farmers near her fell back in fear, leaving her flanks exposed.

"Sodding nug-humpers." Oghren's favorite curse flew from her lips as she braced herself to deflect the blow from the alpha's massive battle axe. She had no room to dodge without running into another blade. As it was, a genlock's short sword dug deep into her hip just as the great axe came down, forcing her to her knees. Calculating her options she only saw one chance and rolling forward between the hurlock's legs, she came up behind him and pierced his chest through the opening in his armpit, as he struggled to regain his balance. The move had disposed of the hulking alpha but had placed her squarely in the middle of another knot of darkspawn. With no cover for her back or flanks, she was spinning madly, dishing out random damage, as a half a dozen blades sought her flesh. There was no opening to escape and her efforts became desperate as fatigue sapped her strength and speed. She felt (rather than saw) the pressure lessen at her back. Throwing herself sideways, she eviscerated a genlock, freeing herself from the trap. Relief washed through her as Zevran and a large human with a hammer stepped into the gap and occupied all but one of the remaining darkspawn. Burying her dagger in the last hurlock's eye as it gaped at its fallen comrades, she sank to the ground exhausted.

Zevran stood over his Grey Warden protectively as he quickly strung his bow to pick off a fleeing genlock. Only when it fell to the ground wheezing blood did his attention turn to Aithne.

"Of all the stupid, foolish, hare-brained…" He trailed off with a string of Antivan curses guaranteed to give even an experienced prostitute pause.

"Zev! Zev, I'm alright." Finding she couldn't stand without assistance, she reached for his hand. "Well mostly anyway."

He helped her to her feet and stood holding her for a minute. "That was…"

"Necessary." She finished for him. "They were after the women. You remember Hespith and the Broodmother."

Recollected horror shone in his eyes and he gave her a curt nod. "Can you walk?" he queried.

"Not far." She grimaced in pain as he slung her arm over his shoulder. "Careful, broken ribs." As they made their way slowly across the few dozen yards to the clustered peasants, she assessed the situation. The wagons and hand-carts were filled with household goods, a couple of chickens flapped in crates and four half-starved oxen stood patiently in their yokes. The people — human and elf — appeared in little better shape; gaunt cheeks and frightened eyes were everywhere.

The large human with the hammer cleared a spot for her to sit at the back of one of the wagons. "I'm Perrin, the blacksmith," he introduced himself with a deep Orlesian baritone. "I don't know why you came to our aid but we are grateful that you did."

"Aithne, Grey Warden. This is Zevran." Her hand was briefly engulfed in the blacksmith's huge paw in greeting.

"Luck was indeed upon us for a Grey Warden to come." The big man smiled though his eyes held much grief.

"Zev, will you make sure of the darkspawn so the wounded can receive aid?" The blond elf nodded and drew his dagger, though it irked him to leave her wounded and bleeding, the task was necessary.

Her next words were directed at the blacksmith. "With your permission," Aithne motioned to the stunned farmers milling about in confusion. She quickly organized the camp to deal with the wounded and dead from her perch on the wagon. The shell-shocked peasants seemed relieved to be given direction and did not argue with the stranger's orders. By the time Zevran returned, leading his horse and wiping blood off his dagger from a couple of darkspawn that hadn't been quite dead, the able bodied members of the camp had already unloaded the wagons to accommodate the wounded and had water warming over a small fire.

"Now it's your turn." He stripped off her armor and ruined clothes, wrapped her in a blanket and proceeded to clean and cover all of her wounds with healing poultices. The gouge in her hip was particularly nasty and, in the absence of a mage, required stitches. Zevran sewed carefully as she sat gritting her teeth and watching the farmers break up their meager furniture to make a pyre for their dead. They would need the wagons for the wounded anyway.

It was close to nightfall before all the wounded were tended and the dead consigned to the two pyres – one for darkspawn and one for the farmers. It was too late to move on, so Aithne grudgingly had the peasants set up camp only a mile from the battlefield. The last two chickens were killed to make broth for the wounded and Zevran emptied their packs to share supplies.

As a scanty meal was being prepared Aithne motioned Perrin over. "Tell me your tale. Why are Orlesian farmers traveling into Ferelden in winter?" As if her words were a cue, the first snowflakes started to fall.

The big man slumped forward staring into the fire. "We are from a village in eastern Orlais, our lord Chevalier passed on two winters ago leaving his son to rule. Chevalier Johns de SanBente was not like his father. He sold our crops, leaving no food for the winter; took our women and used them as he pleased. He took my daughter and when my boy went to her aid, he killed them both." The blacksmith's voice shook as he related his story. "I killed him for what he did — smashed his head open with my hammer." Perrin gestured to the large hammer he had wielded earlier that day. "His soldiers tried to avenge him but they underestimated my friends." His gesture encompassed the desolate group. "The entire village ambushed them and left their corpses rotting in the fields. Our lives are now forfeit in Orlais, but it seems we will perish here in the Ferelden wilderness." With sorrow and regret etched in every line of his body the blacksmith rose and left the fire.

"They will not make it without help you know." Zevran spoke softly, studying a dark-haired elvish boy seven or eight years old, dangling a bandaged knee and sharpening a butcher knife. "The life of a serf in Orlais is much worse than that of a peasant in Ferelden. They are little more than slaves, tied to the land they work for their lords. This group has shown great courage in fighting back and fleeing, most Orlesian peasants are so beaten down that they simply allow the lords to abuse them."

Following his gaze, Aithne was reminded of Zevran's history, how he was sold to the Crows at age seven. Sliding her fingers through his she replied. "We can take them to Redcliffe, Teagan will help." He surprised her sometimes, this Crow assassin. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he would have left these people to their fate without a second thought.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before rising. "If I don't get your clothes dry you will be wearing a blanket all the way to Redcliffe."

The next two weeks were pure misery. Snow fell almost every day and it was all the starved and dispirited peasants could do to keep walking. The worst of the wounded still rode in the wagons, along with the few young children, but every effort was made to keep the loads light to spare the starving oxen. Aithne and Zevran walked as well, putting a few of the more able bodied wounded, including the elf child, on the horses. There was no food if they did not hunt so hunt they did, sometimes into the night to find enough to at least make some kind of meal. On several occasions they were lucky enough to shoot a deer and have food for everyone. Even with a third of the men killed outright in the battle, there were a lot of mouths to feed. Aithne's ribs ached and her hip burned with every step, yet she was more fit than many of the serfs. Between alternating watches and hunting the two elves scarcely saw each other.

To make matters worse, some sort of ague seemed to be going through the group. It had apparently started shortly after the peasants had tried to trade for supplies near the gates of Orzammar. Most of the group was coughing and warm with fever, several of the children were dangerously ill. It seemed to be more severe in the elves and Aithne and Zevran were not spared.

The only bright spot was Cathal, the orphaned elf with the butcher's knife. He quickly attached himself to the two rogues and cheered them with his outrageous stories and youthful resilience. Zevran in particular developed a soft spot for the child and often gave him his own portion of their meager meals.

The last night on the road before they reached Redcliffe Zevran joined Aithne on her watch, too miserable to even sleep. Huddling together they shivered and coughed and watched the snow fall.

"Sometimes I don't know if I will ever be warm again." Zevran idly wondered. "In Antiva it rarely snows and it is warm most of the year. The afternoon rains in the summer are just cool enough to make the heat bearable. There is so much moisture in the air, it sometimes feels like you are swimming on dry land." He lifted one of Aithne's chapped and bleeding hands to his lips. "Your hands would be soft and beautiful there."

"Do you miss it so much?"

"The warmth, the silks and the smells of the markets, yes I do. The Crows — not so much. Still, Ferelden has its bright spots." He smiled to himself and Aithne noted that he did not care to name any of the bright spots.

Morning finally came — the pink and orange hues of sunrise creeping into the sky. Anxious to get to Redcliffe and with no food, the group was on the road before the sun had done more than peek over the horizon. Close to noon Aithne sent Cathal, who had quickly developed an affinity for riding, with a message to alert Bann Teagan of their impending arrival.

Thus it was only with moderate surprise that she greeted Teagan when he met them several miles from the village. Her message had described the peasants' distress and he had marshaled every cart and wagon in Redcliffe to help them over the final distance. When the last of the Orlesians had been safely helped into a conveyance, Aithne and Zevran mounted their own horses to head to the castle. She was alarmed at how Zev slumped in his saddle and barely noticed Teagan's attempt at conversation. Had he said something about Oghren?

Once again, many thanks to my beta, she valiantly trys to keep my writing intelligible.

As always, thanks to Bioware for letting me play in your sandbox.