And Rise: Chapter 3

Nathaniel Howe, back from the grave- and he wanted to know what had happened to his father. She stared at him across the table, then set down what little remained of her drink.

"He's dead," she said, as if it were simple, as if she had no feelings on the matter.

"Yes, I gathered as much." His expression contorted for just a moment, and then he looked away, crossed his legs and took a breath. When he looked back to her he was composed again. "I would like to know who killed him. And why."

The Warden was on her tongue, but she hesitated. He was composed and almost cold, yes- but she could also see that subtle twist to his lips, the tightening around his eyes. She knew that look. That was the look of somebody determined to exact payment for a life lost. Why was immaterial; the who was what was important.

And the who had earned her respect, and to some extent her loyalty, and so she could not push the words out.

"Ser Cauthrien," he said, and he leaned in, the tightness around his eyes becoming more pronounced, his gaze narrowing. "I am asking your cooperation. Nicely."

"And would you threaten me if I don't comply?" She sat back, away from him, and shook her head. One hand went to her belt, fingers resting lightly on the pommel of her dagger. "Knights don't take well to threats, Howe."

At the sound of his name, he flinched and pulled away. "I told you not to call me that."

"And I told you not to threaten me." Her hand left her dagger only reluctantly, and she placed it palm down on the wood for him to see. She spread her fingers wide and stood. "This conversation is over."

He looked about to say something, scowling with frustration and maybe even a hint of confusion, but then-

The lights went out.

Every lantern, every hearth fire was extinguished in an instant, darkness descending like a physical force. It was accompanied by a howl, a shout, feet pounding on the floorboards and the crash of an overturned table. She reached for her blade, hand falling to her dagger only when she remembered she had no sword, that it had been lost, that she had opted to go out without it rather than remain in.

Maker damn it all.

She was a moment too late and year out of practice, and a body slammed into her, too strong and large to be human. She barely kept her feet, stumbling back into the table. It tipped, and there was the clatter and splash of her whiskey falling to the floor. Bringing her dagger up, she tried to kick her assailant off, but it roared and grabbed for her throat. Not again, she thought wildly. With a cry, she shoved the blade towards its face.

Hot blood misted her face and she closed her eyes and mouth on instinct. It made no difference in the dark, and the memory of darkspawn was too fresh. But this was no hurlock; it had no stench of the Blight around it, no smell at all except perhaps that of earth, and she had learned too well the sound the darkspawn made when they rampaged.

This was too quiet and too loud all at the same time.

She shoved the creature off of her and pushed away from the table, dropping to a crouch as she opened her eyes to slits, looking for any shadows she could make out, any hint of form. There were shouts and screams and cries of pain, cries of mercy, the scrape of wood on wood. She had been wrong. It was not as dark as it had been beneath the earth, and she could see too much and too little.

Outside, the clouds must have shifted. A single flash of moonlight illuminated the room in a jagged streak, and in it she could see a creature, almost a man, moving towards her, cloak covering its head and distorting the shape of its body.

She nearly struck before she heard him. "Cauthrien," Nathaniel hissed as he dropped to a crouch beside her. He shoved something toward her, and when she curled her fingers around it, she felt the familiar weight of a sword. "We fight our way out."

"What-"

"Follow me," he growled, and she had no time to fight him, no time to argue. Another beast was upon them, and now she could make out details, stretched flesh and unnatural protrusions from the shoulders, like a blight wolf but worse. There was human light in the eyes, a grin on its face, and she shoved herself forward to meet its leap.

She caught its chest with her shoulder and slid her blade just below its ribs, stabbing up and through. Its weight sagged heavy and limp against her, and it twitched and clawed before finally falling back. Nathaniel had a hold of it and he pulled it free, casting it aside.

She met his eyes and nodded.

There were others in the tavern, and her guard's instinct, honed in the absence of an army to command, a man to protect, told her to stay and serve. But there were too many, and she was one woman, unarmored and blinded and exhausted from a day's work. She followed him as he ran for the door, followed him along the outer wall of the tavern until they could duck into one of Denerim's many narrow, winding alleys. She ran after him, feet beating a tattoo out of sync with his. Her only concession was to slow down and strike a rhythm on the side of a guard house.

They would go for her, and end whatever had begun in that room.

When he slowed to a halt, she was winded and aching, and she gratefully ducked through the door he opened for her. The room behind it was empty, bare floorboards and no light but the moon coming in through a thick-paned window. She gasped for breath, bracing a hand on the wall.

"Are you injured?" he asked, shutting the door behind him and running a hand over his mouth, wiping away the sweat and blood there.

"Not badly," she said, shaking her head and glancing down at herself. "Bruises. Small scratches." Blood on her face and hands, her head pounding.The usual.

"Good." He scrubbed at a stubborn spot, then turned to her. "Now we can talk."

"Talk." She couldn't help her laugh, sharp and broken. "Talk. After what just happened, you want to talk? I told you, our conversation is over." She looked to the door. The nearest manned station was a five minute walk away, if she was right about where they were. She could go to them, make sure they knew what had happened instead of just that something had happened.

And she could sleep, and forget all of this come morning.

But Nathaniel moved to stand between her and the exit, and she glared. He did not flinch, saying only, "It's what I came here for."

"I didn't know single-mindedness was a Howe family trait," she bit out, straightening. She ignored his snort, the creak of curling leather as he clenched his fists, and instead took a better look at herself. Her body ached, but she could push through him if she needed to, could throw him and put him in his place. She'd dropped her dagger in the tavern, though, and her clothing was spattered with blood. And her sword-

Her eyes narrowed. Her sword was just that; her sword.

"No, you're right." she said, slowly, looking back to him. "Let's talk, Howe." Lifting the blade up so that it caught the light, she asked, "Where in theVoid did you find this?"

He said nothing.

"I lost this sword two hundred feet beneath Denerim not four hours ago. Where did you find this?" Her pulse thudded in her ears, mind spinning, trying desperately to make sense of it all. Hand around her throat, arm around her waist, bruises from fighting and waking up on her back in the dark-

"I took it from you," he said.