Raviathan eyed the back of Alistair's head. The templar rolled up his tent, oblivious to the scrutiny he received.
While Raviathan had decades of practice hiding his magic, this misadventure into the wilderness tested him far beyond anything that he had experienced in the alienage. Back home he could work in secret as long as he kept his head down and a watchful eye out for rumors. Nobody outside his family knew of his abilities, and Valendrian as well as many of the adults protected him for his skills in healing, which also kept him safe from templars.
Now? All he had was a fellow apostate to take the fall for him, and with the light of revelation, Raviathan could no longer justify that particular cowardice. Just because she was willing to accept all the risk didn't mean he was right in exploiting her unwillingness-inability even-to hide.
That still left the question: what to do about Alistair? Leaving him behind or sending him on another mission wouldn't do anymore, and Raviathan could no longer continue as he had been.
If anyone had seen him yesterday… Maker's blood, that would be a disaster. Raviathan hadn't even told Morrigan about his breakthrough. He didn't know why he kept the change a secret. After all her work to teach him, she deserved to know. Certainly Raviathan felt pride at the accomplishment. In the past he couldn't wait to tell Solyn when he had discovered a new ability, to preen at his accomplishments. Having to keep his learning quiet around his father chafed horribly during the last few years. Like Morrigan, he would never be ashamed of his magic.
Yet something about the change felt too intimate to share. Becoming wolf changed him in ways he was still trying to unravel. He was wolf. After a lifetime of hating wolves for attacking the elves who traveled between alienages, of thinking of wolves as no different from bandits in that respect, or driving up the price of food because of slaughtered livestock, on seeing how they bonded with the taint more than any other animal… after all that, and now his perception could never be the same again.
The consequences of that spell reached far beyond a change in form, for the wolf inside did not flinch from the truth he had gleaned. His view of the world shifted as well, beyond animal, beyond elf, he had become a creature of Fade creation.
Strange how one word, wolf, meant each individual wolf and all wolves at once. From the distilled memory of all beings from all the ages, the reality of experience, along with all the collective histories, stories, and fables, all became bound in an ever-shifting and ever eternal concept more powerful than any one animal.
In a single moment, the wolf of the Dalish, the wolf of the Tevinter, the wolf from ancient elves to modern humans, an ideal blended with the perspectives of hunters, farmers, travelers, and vagabonds, came into focus and Raviathan had known. Raviathan had become the Fade ideal as filtered through his own identity, two things combined to form more than the whole of individual parts.
No wonder Morrigan couldn't articulate how the spell worked. She learned in the bud of her youth, full of feeling and wonder before the discipline of magic took over her later training. She had been like a child prodigy who could mimic music but not understand the complexities of composition or depth of feeling that took true mastery. Such a spell required intuition and concepts of idealization that words could not accomplish, only lead to.
For far too long, Raviathan had been fooling himself. He hadn't wanted to be the leader of this pack, and whining about not having a choice in who ran with him or how he ended up in this position could no longer hold. He wasn't sure what he should do, but denying responsibility was childish beyond reproach. With injuries and dangers that had hounded them daily, his secret was crippling all of their chances for survival. His long ingrained habits chaining him for fear of a templar.
Nibbling his lower lip, Raviathan finished packing his equipment. Alistair kept surprising him. He thought back to the Tower of Ishal and how Alistair treated the nameless mage who died that night. Alistair had been sympathetic and not said one harsh word to the man. No one could be that good an actor for so long, nor had he reason to lie, and Alistair couldn't be both incompetent and a master liar. Maker's blood, how Raviathan had wanted to believe the worst beyond all evidence and reason.
He deserved this shame. The first time on his own, with real responsibility, and Raviathan had chosen cowardliness and paranoid fantasies when he had a real enemy to face.
And those stupid jokes of Alistair's! Most of the time Raviathan wanted to roll his eyes or scowl, but more often than not, he was having a harder time not cracking a smile.
Yet… yet if Raviathan was wrong and misjudged Alistair's tolerance of apostates, the consequences would be life stuck in the mage prison. If those templars didn't kill him outright, that is. What would they do to Morrigan? She could possibly escape in animal form, but Alistair knew of those abilities and could warn the others. Raviathan never had asked Alistair what the templars did with apostates. Children could be molded easily, had little knowledge of the ways of magic, but templars were not so forgiving of adults.
Solyn.
Dried blood staining her legs. Rotting in garbage. She never practiced blood magic. Her life had been dedicated to healing magic so that she could help her kin. True, she knew some defensive spells.
And more.
Raviathan thought back to his lessons, most of which focused on spirit magic when he was first learning, then in the creative field. That spell to turn one's energy against them—it was a grisly spell, but not because the magic itself was evil or dark. The effects were extreme, but the spell did not torture a person or use blood magic. Indeed, a fire spell could leave a person with lifelong scars or in agony for days before dying. The spirit inversion spell killed the person outright, messily, but not with added pain.
None of the magic Solyn knew warranted what the templars had done to her. As evil as that shit lord Vaughan had been, Raviathan didn't torture on principle, even the bastards who deserved it, and knew that Solyn didn't torture either. That was for lords and templars.
Still, what to do about Alistair?
Well, maybe Raviathan would be able to continue to hide his magic until he had other Wardens to secure his position. Just because the elf treaty had unexpected entanglements didn't mean the other treaties would be as difficult.
~o~O~o~
"Into the belly of the beast, then." Alistair had his hands on his hips as he stared at the crumbling ruins that led under a hillock.
"There is no other way?" Leliana asked.
"Venger and I searched last night," Raviathan said. "The wolves have another entrance they use as their main, through a plateau of ruins not far from here, but they've bound the door tight. This still has their scent and is probably a back door for emergencies."
"Their scent?" Sten watched Raviathan from the side of his eyes.
"According to Venger and Morrigan, yes." Raviathan ignored the qunari's dark glare. Did the qunari suspect him or was this distaste for Morrigan's magic? Raviathan may be paranoid, but not without cause. Years of hiding, further sharpened by the death of his aunt, made him watchful. All this time he had worried about Alistair, but he never considered what the qunari view of magic would be, only that the giant did not seem to care for it.
Grit crumbled from the cracked roof above. A tightness constricted around Raviathan's chest, like he couldn't get enough air. Fear of the ruins that appeared to crumble before their eyes and trap them all in a suffocating death, or fear of discovery? New insight didn't change years of ingrained terrors. Still, whatever qunaris thought, it couldn't be worse than how mages were treated in the rest of Thedas.
Picking his way with care lest he break an ankle, Raviathan led the rest down the loose rubble embankment and across the grand entrance fit for a palace. He and Venger hadn't spent much time in here last night, just enough to know the passage led deeper into the den.
Dust hung heavily in the air, making the sunlight that shone through the exposed roof seem solid enough to touch. Thick webbing and animal leavings covered the cavernous chamber. Though Raviathan hadn't thought too much of the state of the elven ruins he fell into a fortnight before, the debris here gave him pause. Why hadn't the other ruins had more dust and grime? Old magic kept animals out, but insects as well? What magics did the ancient elves wield? And how had those magics stayed true for so many centuries without anyone to look after them?
A thickened system of centuries-old roots allowed them access to the lower chamber with relative ease. Sten and Alistair both slipped before catching themselves, the armor covering their boots scoring long, pale wounds into the roots.
"Will this structure hold?" asked Sten.
"I wish you hadn't said that," Alistair replied as he glanced about nervously, but he sounded resigned rather than actually fearful.
Raviathan shrugged. "The wolves live here and have for decades. Many buildings of old survive. Why shouldn't this?"
Sten let out a low grumble. "Dwarven made structures, maybe."
Raviathan cast a questioning look at the others. He had no experience in this field other than the few ruins that dotted the Ferelden countryside, and they seemed common enough.
"There's Ostagar and the Tower of Ishal," Alistair said.
"And do they have tons of earth and stone weighing them down, or roots prying them apart?" Sten asked.
"Er… well, no. I suppose not." Alistair pushed at a large chunk that had once been a pillar with his foot. "Doesn't…" Alistair trailed off.
"Does not what, Alistair?" Leliana asked.
"Well. I'm no expert, of course. This doesn't seem Tevinter made, does it?"
Leliana tilted her head as she examined the large chamber.
"Quite a few ruins are still strong in the Korcari Wilds," Morrigan said. "There have been many who have wandered this land, including the ancient elves, or so the poet spirits say."
Raviathan ran a hand over the crumbled pillar. What did he know of buildings? The alienage consisted of ramshackle structures piled anywhere an elf could find a space. He'd seen a few human inns and houses on the journey with Duncan, but they were nothing grand. Ostagar looked big. That's all he remembered as far as architectural details were concerned. The ruin he had fallen into held the lovingly-rendered details of the ancient elves, with graceful arches, which lent an airy feeling even though it was buried inside a mountain. This? He wouldn't even know what to compare it to.
"Time is wasting." With that, Raviathan strode to the double door at the opposite side of the chamber.
Dust, dust, and more dust coated the labyrinthine passages as the group made their way further down into the depths of the ruin. After a sneezing fit, Alistair tied a cloth over his nose and mouth, an idea Leliana and Raviathan adopted. Alistair and Raviathan held torches while Morrigan kept a steady magelight to illuminate their path. Scuttling insects scrambled for cover under piles of rubble that blocked off some passages or cleared a wall that lead to more winding rooms. Raviathan wondered why this ruin didn't have that claustrophobic feel that other buildings held for him.
In fact, Raviathan couldn't help but admire the designs that remained even over the years of neglect. Scrub the floors and walls and this place would shine, become a beacon of lost elven history. Truly, the ruin was a marvel.
The sweeping staircase led to a large, round room with a domed ceiling and raised dais inscribed with star-like patterns visible around heaps of rags. Corridors lead out in multiple directions, most cut short with rubble or breakages, but a few passages remained.
A gasp from Leliana sharpened their attention. A shift of light, pale with a touch of silvery blue, moved along a far wall. Obscured at first by Morrigan's magelight, the figure revealed the form of a young elven boy.
"Maker's breath." Raviathan's heart beat faster at this faint remnant of history. He moved as fast as he dared, unsure of this telltale magic. To his surprise, the ghost's eyes locked on him. Not like in the forest with the ghost soldiers, Raviathan thought. Not a repeat of an event, trapped by emotional impressions left on the Fade. No, this boy was… alive, in some way. He reacted to this world, something of the ghost's mind lingering to the spirit.
Amazing.
"Mamae? Mamae na mara san."
The boy looked about, clearly terrified. Silvery tracks on his face marked a trail of tears. He hunched down, hugging as tightly to the wall as he could.
Raviathan cocked his head at the words. Well, shit.
Did mamae mean mother? Sounded close enough, and that would make sense from a frightened child. The rest? Raviathan glanced back at Leliana to see if she had any clue, but she shrugged helplessly.
Raviathan tried to approach, slowly and with as little threat as possible. "Um. Lethallan?" No, that wasn't right. "Len? F-falon?"
"Ma halani! Inna em le'fal'leon!"
Oh Maker, what was the word for danger? Or help? Or anything that would be useful? Never mind Raviathan felt a fool for being an elf who had no clue about the elven language. He held out a hand in hopes that this silent communication could achieve what words could not.
The boy looked about, uttered a heartrending cry of despair and fear, and fled down a corridor. His ghostly form raced through the boulders that now blocked the way for corporeal bodies.
"Wonder what that was about," Alistair said.
Groans wrenched from the Fade echoed around the cavernous hall.
"On guard!" Raviathan had his blades out in an instant.
The rags around the room twitched of their own accord. Maker, they were everywhere! Their path back to the door was blocked by five skeletons, all with hateful white lights pinned on them. Raviathan spun around to get an estimation of their foes. They had a chance to barrel their way through the forming skeletons by the stairs and form a choke point with the doorway, but with more rising about, Raviathan didn't want to chance fighting on two fronts.
"Quick, form a circle!" That they had practiced, at least. Morrigan moved to the center where she could cast her magic uninterrupted. Alistair and Venger moved to Raviathan's left and right, respectively, with Sten and Leliana closing the circle. While Leliana's skills with blades was rudimentary, arrows were next to useless in these close quarters and against half-formed beings.
The hissing of the skeletons set Raviathan's hair on edge. No tongues or vocal cords existed anymore. The spirits screeched, a sound carrying across the Veil, making the sounds echo and vibrate through Raviathan like a sour violin chord. He felt them in two realms, the sound piercing and haunting at once.
His main sword swept out in an upward arc to crack the skeleton's ribs while his dagger caught the monster's claw-like hand. His dagger slipped through bones instead of catching on flesh as Raviathan had trained. Adrenaline-sharpened reflexes took over as Raviathan's mind went blank. He lunged with his left shoulder, smashing into the bones, and pulling his sword away to ready another attack. Teeth snapped at his neck, just getting a pinching hold when Raviathan pushed out with his hip and bent to evade the still sharp jaws.
Claws raked along the armor protecting his side, and Raviathan fell in a tangle of leg bones. He kicked up at the looming monster, the cold lights bearing down on him.
Fire! Burn these creatures!
The templars will get you!
Raviathan gritted his teeth as he dropped his dagger to hold his sword by the hilt and one gauntleted hand, anything to keep those too wide jaws from biting off his face. He felt bony hands grasping his legs, knew he would feel pain any second when the skeletons bore down on him. He kicked, struggled, anything to get them off.
Venger grasped the skeleton by the neck, shook the animated bones in a death rattle, wrenching the blasted thing apart. Raviathan scooted back, away from danger, enough to get to his feet. He whipped his sword to cut off the arm of a skeleton set on Venger, kicked its breastbone as the thing screeched at him, and followed with a foot smashing down on the brittle skull.
Wave after wave continued to gather around them. Raviathan didn't remember retrieving his dagger, but his defensive blade was in his hand as he hacked and hacked at the false visages of death. He felt heavy, barely able to raise his arms in time to fend off attack after attack. Maker, let it end.
Alistair cried out in pain and staggered back into the circle. He clutched at his side, his sword clattering on the stone floor but kept his shield up. A great swipe of Sten's sword broke the skeleton apart, bones flying in an arc. Breathing heavily, the group stopped to assess the situation. No more crawling bones. No more ghostly lights glinting in the desiccated skulls.
"Burn the bones." Raviathan panted out the order. He needed a moment, his hands shaking from the battle. All he wanted to do was collapse and rest. Give him an hour or three, some water and decent food, a little rest from all this death.
The others moved to comply with his orders. Though Raviathan wanted to drop his blades, he slid them back into place. The effort to pick them up later would be worse, he knew, but oh how he wanted to rest.
"Here," Raviathan said, a hand at Alistair's back to guide him to the crumbled half wall formation that bisected a sort of altar-like space from the rest of the room. "Easy. Have a seat."
A groan escaped from Alistair as he gingerly sank down. He remained doubled over as Raviathan undid part of his armor to reach the wounded area. Alistair hissed as Raviathan palpated the bruised skin. Raviathan sighed. "Broken."
He sat in front of Alistair, frowning to himself as he thought. "Armor's no good anymore. Even if we could get it repaired, I don't know that it's going to be any use. You also need time to heal."
"Trying to get rid of me again?"
The bitterness in Alistair's tone slapped Raviathan. He straightened, looking at Alistair as if for the first time. "No. If I was trying to get rid of you, I wouldn't care about your armor, now would I?"
Alistair scoffed, winced as the movement sent fresh pain into his side. He mumbled something that Raviathan couldn't make out.
"What?"
Bent over, arm protectively covering his ribs, Alistair glared up. "Why won't you bind my ribs?"
Raviathan tilted his head. "Why would I do that? I've told you before, binding will only keep you from breathing deeply, and in these wet conditions, you'll be likely to get pneumonia."
"When I trained with the templars, the healer would bind our ribs."
"Bah." Annoyed, Raviathan waved a hand as if shooing a fly. "Then they were idiots."
A pout greeted that statement.
"Alistair, I promise you. I've treated your injuries as I would my own kin."
"Why don't I believe you?"
Raviathan half rose, a dismissal forming on his lips, when he stopped. He sat back down and gave Alistair a hard look. Alistair wasn't sure what that look meant, but the hostility he expected wasn't there, not really. More like… distrust? Whatever. Pain throbbed in his side, a persistent ache that sharpened like a knitting needle being stabbed into his side each time he breathed. Tired and hurt, he was done playing games, done trying to guess the elf's intentions.
The silence between them grew uncomfortable enough that Alastair was about to leave when Raviathan bit his lips, his expression turning inward. "Alistair, I know I've been unfair to you."
That caught him off guard. Alistair sat, waiting.
Raviathan let out a long breath, a hand raking his hair. "I… I have reasons." He finally met Alistair's gaze, and the look in those large, strange eyes struck something in Alistair. Vulnerable and sad and wary, and Alistair couldn't fathom what he'd done to cause that look. The fire from the bones added new layers of refracted light, cool sea and burning flames.
Instead of continuing, Raviathan gestured at the burning pile. "I don't suppose this is the place to talk. Not with dead things attacking us. Or ghosts wandering around."
"At least the ghost didn't attack. Wonder what he was saying."
A sad half-smile tugged at one side of Raviathan's mouth. "Almost seemed like he was warning us."
"Friendly ghosts?" Or should I be more surprised that the boy was a friendly elf?
The fire dimmed, and Raviathan stared at the pile. The bones popped and cracked, shuffling as they resettled. "I will explain, Alistair, when there's time. Best we get going for now."
In a strange way, Alistair didn't want to end the conversation. The moment had been brief, but he felt as if something had passed between the two of them. He loathed to go back to indifferent or hostile.
"How are you feeling? Do you want to remain at the cave entrance, or do you think you can fight?"
Maker, no more fighting, not until he had a chance to heal. Funny thing was, when he was fighting, he didn't notice his ribs as much. The pain remained but was dulled somehow. It was only after the fighting that the aching came back with a vengeance. "Not in top condition, but I think I can hold my own."
Raviathan gave his shoulder a light pat as he left to join the others. Alistair turned away to hide his grimace of pain as he refastened his armor. How much more would they have to face in this tomb? What made this wolf so special, anyway? Something fishy was going on, that's for sure.
Fishy. Wolves. Did wolves eat fish? They would, wouldn't they, but then how did they catch fish? Not like they could hold fishing poles in their paws or anything. Could werewolves?
Alistair gave himself a mental shake. Need to focus. So far this ruin had proved just as difficult as the forest. The light-headed feeling that had been creeping in on him wasn't helping. Not at all. At least he wasn't getting one of those headaches again. Maker, he hated those, the way they felt like nails driving into his skull.
He could hold his own. Alistair finished with his armor but left his shield buckled to his pack. The treaties. That's what mattered, and he'd do his all to do right by Duncan and the Wardens.
The ruins. He could do this. Steeling himself with renewed purpose, Alistair joined the others. The wolves couldn't live that far underground, right? Probably just a passage or two and they'd be facing wolf-breath himself. No problem.
~o~O~o~
Leliana screamed as a blast of fire shot up in front of her. She jumped back, tripped over the depressed floor trigger and fell on her backside. The arrow aimed at her head sailed over to clatter against the stone wall. She didn't slow but continued her retreat, scrambling backwards using her hands and feet.
"Fuck!" Raviathan yelled as another trap triggered. "Get out of the room! Everyone! Back up and get out of here!" He grabbed Leliana's arm, hauling her with him as they raced to the corridor, Sten's broad back blocking the way as he dashed out. Raviathan itched with nerves to have his enemies behind him. He was sure, any second now, an arrow would thud into his back, pierce his lung, and that would be his end. He hated Leliana for the instant she blocked his escape and left him open to that dreaded arrow. Fucking move!
"There!" Raviathan started for the side passage that ended in a pile of rubble and thick roots. Weren't they several floors down by now? How deep did roots grow? "Let them come to us. They won't be able to pick us off with bows here."
They heard the dry click of bones on stone, tap tap tap, when the skeletons closed in. As Raviathan predicted, the skeletons' bows were useless in the tight confines. Snarling, he lashed out with his sword and dagger. Rib bones cracked, spines snapped as he vented his frustration and helplessness on the long-dead bodies before him.
The skeletons were smaller than human-sized, and he knew he was hacking at the bones of ancient elves. A part of him sickened at the idea. These cursed spirits used the bodies of his kin, violated their remains, robbed these bones of any last dignity owed to the dead. His own kin, turned to horrors.
Not allowed to scream!
Curse all these damned spirits and send them back into the Fade!
Raviathan's lungs beat for air as he stared at the bones scattered before him. He tried to work out his feelings, the swirling chaos of hate and rage and frustration and the worst kind of sorrow. He hated these dead things, the bones that attacked him, and knew the bones themselves were nothing without some spirit to animate them, that his rage should go to the spirits. The cold, white lights no longer gleamed from the skulls, and without their presence, Raviathan couldn't focus his anger on the spirits, only the physical vestiges, the poor, long dead bones that should have been given the final peace of fire.
Hadn't his people suffered enough?
His first kill entered his mind, that blubbery cook of Vaughn's. The man's bowels had loosened at death leaving the stench of shit in the air. He and Soris had to push the body under the table with their feet as the man was too heavy to shove.
There was no dignity in death.
A few times Solyn had taken Raviathan out of the alienage past the curfew. They had stayed hidden in a storage room in a warehouse, waiting in silence as the hours passed. The sun slowly set as they read, Raviathan with a sinking stone in his stomach and Solyn impassive as a statue in her meditations. He knew what her stoicism meant. It was the same walling away of emotions she used when she operated, whenever something difficult needed to be done.
His mother taught him to hide his expressions behind a mask, but Solyn was teaching him to become a stone.
When the last shuffling of humans left, and the warehouse left empty, they crept into the hallway. Solyn relied on Raviathan's training to get them through the building undetected by any stray human who might have remained. They ended up in a back room secured by a number of locks. Raviathan worked them open, the stone in his stomach a heavy weight, revolting at him for what they were about to do.
In the room bodies lay, three of them, two shems and a dwarf. In the morning, the bodies would be taken to the pyre for those who left this mortal coil without family to speak for them. Their blood had been drained in preparation to make their burning easier.
Solyn pulled back the shroud of the dwarf. The man lay naked and cold, skin slightly blue even in the warm torchlight. Hair covered his face, his arms and legs, his chest. Long, crinkled hairs as long as Raviathan's pinky finger scattered over his rounded belly leading to a curly knotted line that marked a path to a thick mat of rust fuzz over his genitals. Solyn handed Raviathan the sharpened blade, and with no words spoken between them, he started a careful cut down the man's torso.
A thick layer of fat ballooned the man's stomach. The fat required multiple cuts before the organs showed themselves. He hated cutting into the body. Though he knew the man was dead, it felt as if he was hurting him. Stupid, but Raviathan couldn't shake the feeling that each cut caused more pain. The stone in Raviathan's stomach turned to dead weight, a pressure that seemed to chill him at the core. That coldness started to take over, becoming numb as he continued. His hands stopped their tiny tremors as the numbness leached into his mind, making his as cold and numb as the body before him.
Whoever you are, I'm sorry.
What he and Solyn did was forbidden. If caught, they would be considered ghouls, pariahs, yet another story of sick, depraved elves. They would be hanged as an example, a warning to humans not to trust those disgusting elves, fear and hate growing a greater distance between their races. Elves were beneath humans, reviled as weak, untrustworthy, and yet there would be a hint of fear to sharpen a human's lash against their servant's hand, a sharper pinch to their delicate elven ears. Solyn and Raviathan's bodies would hang for days, maybe weeks, as hateful human eyes passed over them.
Solyn pointed at the chest wall.
Rote memory took over as Raviathan started to rattle off the names of bones, muscles and organs. So much to remember. "And the sternum divides the ends of the costal cartilages. The parietal pleura covers the pleura cavity, and the visceral pleura covers the lungs." He hurried through the review as they only had one night to explore as much as possible. "First rib," he pointed, "the manubrium, trachea," his finger traced down the body, "the mediastinum."
Would the humans be wrong? Here he was, cutting into a dead body. It was monstrous. Numbness made his fear-a voice that screamed like each cut was flaying him open instead of the body before him-a distant thing. Distant but persistent, a frightened child crying in the night.
Maker, he didn't want to be caught. He didn't want to hang, have humans spit on him, call him every disgusting thing they could think of, have hate contort their faces when they looked at him. Even though he would be dead, the knowledge of what would be haunted him.
A small part of him didn't want to prove the shems right, that elves were ghouls. Another part felt he would deserve the punishment. If they were caught, Raviathan had nothing to say in his defense. This would be the third body, hopefully the last, and he could put the nights he turned into a monster behind him. Leave the knowledge but have the memory locked away, like the night he first showed his magic.
Solyn continued to point in her silent test.
"The femoral vein, artery, and nerve pass medially through the gap between the inguinal ligament and underlying bone." Since Solyn learned her arts in Tevinter, they used her native tongue to label the parts of the body. The two naturally slipped into Tevine when together.
Slowly, as he delved further and further into the body, further into the abyss his fear and self-revulsion took him, he learned the story of this man. The dwarf's engorged, hardened liver, discolored by decades of alcohol, showed years of scars and fat. Raviathan wondered if human and elven livers were the same size.
So far they had only worked on dwarves. Rare as dwarves were on the surface, if Solyn and Raviathan were found out, the punishment would be less than if they had cut open a human cadaver. Elves took care of their own for the pyre, even the ones who died with no family. Raviathan never knew if they chose not to practice on an elven body because the risk of being found out was higher or if an elf was too personal. Though Raviathan would only be treating elves in the future, maybe Solyn understood that asking him to cut up someone he knew would slice too deeply into Raviathan's soul.
Burns and scars thickened the man's hands into things that appeared more like paws. The burns indicated he was probably a blacksmith or weaponsmith. Yet, as Raviathan peered, he wondered at the splatter effect of the scars lining the man's forearm. A set of sparks or had molten metal done the damage?
The left hand was missing a pinky finger. That didn't come from typical combat unless the man used sword and dagger rather than the more common sword and shield style. Accident or torture? More likely the second. The thick muscles on the man's arms would be the mark of a warrior, not the lean muscles his own training conferred.
A black, geometric tattoo covered the dwarf's forehead and down the right side of his face. Raviathan had never seen the like among his brethren or humans and guessed it was dwarven in nature, so this man wasn't born on the surface but lived underground with the dwarves for a time. Maybe born there and something drove him to leave his home?
"What else do you see?"
The numbness gave way to growing interest. This body turned from a cold, dead thing into a puzzle. Raviathan examined the layers of muscle that told of the man's years of work, the nerves that once carried electrical signals of burning skin, veins that bulged from blockages, and oversized lymph nodes that spoke of illness in his last weeks. One ear bumped and warped from repeated hematomas, probably from multiple injuries. A warrior's helmet would have protected him, so not from battle, not when these were caused by multiple injuries. A beaten child or did the man wrestle? What did dwarves do for sport?
Signs of frostbite indicated hard winters, probably from his time on the surface. How far did winter extend underground for that matter? Was he exiled or did he choose to leave his home? Would he have been prepared for the cold? Could this come from a long march during winter? Possible, but rare for warriors who mostly fought campaigns in the summer. Was he forced to leave his underground home during winter and caught unprepared?
This is the body of a man without family to care for him. What stories did he have about his life? Was his family left behind? Was the man bitter or angry to drive away any who would care for him? All Raviathan had were parts of a puzzle with pieces missing. The full picture would never be put together though each cut revealed something new. The dwarf's large intestine showed bulges. His anal cavity was worse with distentions the size of a melons. The pressure to evacuate must have caused a strain on the man's enlarged heart.
He died alone. This is what happens when you lose your family, your friends, your kin. Maybe this man wouldn't have cared Raviathan was learning how to heal from the desecration his body, maybe he would be pleased to know that others would stand a better chance based on what he learned now, that their lives could be saved by the dissection of his corpse. Maybe dwarves didn't care about their bodies after death.
But Raviathan would not let himself take comfort from that idea. They were stealing from this man something far more precious than wealth. Here he lay, naked, stark, defenseless against the cruelties of Raviathan's blade. This man's shames, his privacy, they meant nothing. Would the Maker care what had been done to his body? Would He still accept this man's soul? Raviathan heard stories of bodies profaned so the Maker would not take their souls.
The clinical numbness left, washed away as Raviathan stared down at a body torn apart into a mass of opened flesh. The room became too bright, too disjointed. What had he done? Oh Maker, what had he done?
He had turned this man inside out. Cut through layers of fat, sliced apart muscles like a butcher. The levator ani muscle, this man's anus, lay flayed. Raviathan tried, tried to retreat behind words-the artery to the corpus cavernosum between the two fasciae of the urogenital diaphragm-but all he saw was the ruined flesh that had once been this man's penis.
"Kneel. Put your head between your knees." Solyn guided him down, held his forehead in her palm while he struggled not to vomit. He gasped deep breaths. Cold sweat broke out and he shivered at the chill.
"I'm a monster." The words sounded like a sob.
She didn't say anything, just held a hand at his back and one supporting his head.
They didn't have time for this. So much of a body to learn and only one night to practice. Raviathan tried to get himself under control. He's dead. He's dead. He can't feel this. His soul is with the Maker. This is just flesh, not a person.
The man drank. He was born with his kin but left, by choice or force. He had suffered. Been beaten. Lost a finger to a sadist. He worked hard, but his failing body became ill. Had he been humiliated when his body strained to evacuate? Would he be horrified to see his secrets given up to strangers?
No one cared for him in the end. Even if he died in a crowd, he died alone.
Solyn held him until he had calmed enough the nausea left him. She held him, her face pressed against his back.
"It's harder when a person is alive." The harsher syllables of Tevine fitted her clinical coolness yet remained at odds with her deep passions and empathy. "You're seeing into their body, and it's moving. You're responsible. Hold a living heart and it feels like a bag of worms writhing about."
"Oh Maker, Solyn, don't say that."
"It's worse when it's someone you know. Someone you love."
Rhys, married two years ago and already with a bright-eyed babe, worked as labor for the mason's guild. Too much weight carried the wrong way had torn his back muscles. Once carried back to the alienage, Solyn gave the man a sleeping draught, a mixture learned from Adaia, now used for patients rather than enemies. Raviathan helped as Solyn cut Rhys' skin, peeled back flesh to connect torn muscles. Between magic and blade, they performed a miracle.
Never one to shy from the sight of blood, that day Raviathan had been fascinated. Healing Rhys felt like the first step to healing his own heart over his mother's death. He couldn't go back in time to save her, but with these skills, with Solyn's tools, he could keep his kin whole. The ignorance that made him culpable in his mother's death would be redeemed with knowledge. He didn't have to remain in that abyss of sorrow. Save enough lives, and maybe he could forgive himself.
Raviathan got to his feet and took a sip from the waterskin his aunt offered. "Auntie, is it possible to do an evil thing for a good reason? Will the Maker forgive you?"
"You don't ask the easy questions, do you?" Her eyes looked old, sad, but a half smile tugged at one side of her mouth.
"What will happen to us? What if this is unforgivable? Will our souls be cast into the abyss?"
The corpse, every intimacy of his body spread out for inspection, dominated the room. She sighed, her hand taking his. "I wish I could give you certain answers, but I don't know, and I won't lie to you. Maybe the Maker only cares about actions, not intentions. People commit the worst crimes with good intentions. Some of those people I hope won't ever be forgiven."
His uncle, killed by the hunters sent after his family fleeing from slavery, lost his life to the well-intended. Raviathan hadn't heard that story often, but he didn't need to. It lay branded in his heart.
"If I hope not for them, I can't ask forgiveness for myself." Like a mother taking a child's hand, she slipped hers into the the scarred, worn out palm of the dwarf. "I made a choice. If the Maker can't understand that what I do, that the things I've learned here will help many others, then I don't care about his judgment."
"Auntie!" That blasphemy would cost her freedom if the wrong shem heard.
"I don't, Rav. Theft is against the Maker's law, even if it's food to survive. Yet those in power make laws that force people down until they have nothing. The Chantry would say your soul is eternal, and that should be above the concerns of this world, but fuck them."
Raviathan's eyes went wide. His hand tightened around hers, fear mixed with the forbidden, but her words ignited a little thrill of excitement in him.
Calm defiance greeted him. "I choose. Me. Your mother taught me that when we were slaves. You've no idea what slavery is like, really. Stories only tell so much. To fight the hold of masters takes a force of will like fire ripping the earth apart. There are few with the will my sister had, to know what the cost will be and take that path regardless. And we paid. The comforts given favored slaves. The lives of our cousins. My dearest brother. Our parents. We made choices, Rav. I miss them. Everyday. Some think that a price too high, the ones we left behind, but you, son of my heart, live free. If I have children, they will be free. Our choices set a new path for more than us."
She squeezed his hand. "Lords, templars, kings and gods. Power doesn't make them right. They can enforce consequences, and you must make the choice if that's enough to obey or if you require more."
If shems heard her, she would be branded a heretic. She could even face charges of treason if only for lords to make an example. Her words scared him-not in the sharp sense of danger but in the quiet panic of being lost. He had enough years as an apostate to fear authority, to consider them the enemy. This brought on another set of fears that had been growing in the last years as he contemplated the matriarchs of his family.
"How do you know what's right, Auntie? It's simple enough to say stealing food is fine, but when people all think they have righteous intentions, who is right? I understand the benefit of this," he said, gesturing at the body, "but that doesn't mean we haven't sinned. How do you know? How do you choose?"
She ran a hand through his hair, giving it a light tug at the end. "No. Not one for the easy questions. You want black and white, but the world is filled with shades of grey. It's easy for people to accept someone's law, or their word. Then you aren't responsible. You have to make choices, and you will make mistakes. What happens then?"
"People get hurt."
"Yes. Think about the surgery with Rhys, when we cut the L4 root."
"Oh, um, repair the damage to the nerve and keep going."
"That's right, son of my heart. You will make mistakes as everyone does. Such is not the end of the world. Do what you can to fix things and move on." She sighed. "We'll discuss this further, when we've time. There are methods that help to make sense of things."
"Auntie," Raviathan's voice cracked, and he hated his own fears, how fear made him feel smaller. "I don't want to be cast into the abyss."
She kissed his temple. "No one does."
He gestured helplessly at the body. "This is profane."
She shrugged, a gesture that was sad yet carried a sense of inevitability. "Perhaps this is so. I would not have taught you these arts so young but for the necessity of it. Given you time to decide if this path was indeed one for you. Perhaps I have done evil in forcing you. For me, we use this knowledge to help others, that many will benefit. A god who would judge this evil to outweigh further good is not one I care to follow."
By the holy fires! His aunt continued to surprise him tonight. "You… you can't just… not follow the Maker!" Can't you? He… he was the Maker! What would you do? Such thoughts were like disobeying gravity. He knew his aunt to be unconventional, but this? How far did her heresy go?
She laughed at his expression. "Besides, I figure your mother would find an escape for me." She nudged him with her shoulder. "You too."
He couldn't laugh but the idea made him smile. He had too much to think over.
Raviathan picked up the scalpel. They had maybe another hour before they would put the body back together. Like the others, the dwarf's body would resemble a patchwork doll with thick, black stitchings when they finished. As long as the corpse did not fall apart in the heavy shroud when he was carted off to the pyre, no human would be the wiser for what had been done this night.
~o~O~o~
Raviathan helped pile the ancient bones. Bits of armor remained, finely wrought scales that still held a thin shimmer past the pockmarks of rust and damage. Flashes of the archaic elf's memories echoed back to him. These warriors dedicated their lives to protect their kin. A weary anger settled in Raviathan at the violation of these elves' bodies. The spirits that used their bones didn't care about good or protection of those weaker than themselves. Didn't care if they were anathema.
The demons will ride your body! Kill everyone you love!
He shut down the words before they could do more than whisper at him.
Maker's mercy, he missed home with an ache that made his chest feel as if it were caving in on itself. He missed being around other elves. Even if he had been the one to move to another alienage, all elves understood each other, united by their existence under human rule. He missed the stories and songs, the flash of jewel-toned eyes in the evening, the simple comforts of food and laughter.
While he couldn't say he hated the world outside of his alienage, not with all the wonders he'd seen, he felt brittle enough to break.
Raviathan and Leliana carefully made their way into the trap-ridden room. If only they had some means of detecting the traps, but no. They took each step with shaking nerves guided only by the brief glimpses of what they had seen before. What else lay in wait?
They marked a safe path with bits of detritus from the skeletons, relief at the end so sweet Raviathan wanted to fall to his knees.
"Quite terrible, is it not?" Leliana said. They sat together against the wall as the others made their way gingerly through the deadly room.
"Maker's blood, I never expected anything like this when I was recruited. Darkspawn, yes. Crypts with undead? Fire traps?" Raviathan shook his head.
"The Maker will light our way. We are still here after all, yes? Through many hardships, we are still in one piece, a little scuffed up, but that just needs a bit of polish to make shine like new."
Where the woman got her optimism, Raviathan could not guess. He chuckled, more out of stress than humor, but gave her a nudge with his shoulder. For a human and overly devout one at that, Leliana wasn't half bad.
Raviathan handled the bow he had taken from one of the skeletons. The thing wouldn't last. Too bad neither of them could use that fantastic bow they had found in the thrall's cave. Still, he insisted they keep it. Raviathan and Leliana would do push-ups until one of them could claim that bow. "Should I keep this? Feels like it'll snap at first use."
"Couldn't hurt. We will have to find new equipment once we're in a half-decent town."
"Agreed." How were the corpses able to wield these near broken weapons without failure, yet he couldn't keep a sword unbent or bow unbroken for more than a week? More than once, Raviathan felt as if a black raincloud hovered above only his head. He eyed Leliana's brown-stained shoes and thought of Alistair's ribs and told himself to stop feeling sorry for the wretched little city elf. Self pity was becoming a habit.
They got to their feet as the others approached.
"No more dead things or spiders or unexpected gouts of flame to take off my eyebrows, if you please," Alistair said. "Just the werewolves will be fine."
"I'll let them know how dissatisfied you are with their lair." Raviathan's lip twitched involuntarily. "Tell them to make improvements."
Alistair felt his face. "They are still there, aren't they? I'll look like one of those painted Orleasian kings without them."
"King Alomore the Third was quite distinguished in his day," Leliana said. "Lost all of his hair due to a failed assassination attempt. The poison had… unexpected results, one of which was the fashion for nobles to pluck all their hair out during the five decades of his reign."
"Lovely." Morrigan looked bored.
Sten grunted.
Oh, what a fine group they made. Raviathan led the way down more crumbling stairways and tunnels. Shadows retreated from Morrigan's magelight, the cold illumination casting a depressing air over the neglected ruins. The stale air worried Raviathan, but they had little recourse.
The floor let out an alarming creak, a distant mechanism giving a rusty clank buried under stone, and the ground shuddered. Raviathan stood on tip toes, ready to pounce towards safety once he could find the source of danger. The floor shimmied, turned a few inches sideways, then screeched to a halt. Cautiously, he picked his way to solid ground.
Leliana giggled, stress making the sound high. "Well. This ruin certainly has a way of keeping you on your toes."
"Yeah." Raviathan returned the comment with a shaky smile. "Actually, it's kind of amazing so many of the traps still work."
The floor shifted again under Sten's weight. He ran the last half, hands out to clasp Raviathan and Alistair's as the trap groaned and finally gave. Alistair cried out as he helped haul Sten up the side of the wall, his other arm clasped around his ribs. Sten said nothing once he scrabbled up the ledge, but his stoicism had been shaken.
Where the floor once stood, a gaping hole glared out. Raviathan peered over to see a drop of ten feet end with a series of thick spikes. The cruelty of the trap astonished him. This was not meant to capture or kill. The shallow drop would leave an intruder alive to slowly bleed out from mortal wounds. This was meant to torture.
"Maker's breath."
Raviathan glanced at Leliana who shared his comprehension.
The other ruin Raviathan had been in had none of these defenses. Was this built in response to the attack that destroyed the ancient elves' other home? Clearly anger had been a factor into the design of this place. Raviathan might have said paranoia more than rage, but he had glimpsed the memories of what had happened.
"We lead from now on," he said to Leliana. "We've the best chance at evading these."
She nodded, not looking happy about the order but understanding the necessity of it.
They continued, the weight of all the earth piled above them starting to make it's presence felt to Raviathan. So far the ruins hadn't triggered his claustrophobia the way other places had, but the respite seemed to be nearing its end. Was that tightening in his chest from the sense of feeling trapped, from fear, or from air gone toxic?
Trap after trap, each one scraping at his nerves a little more, they came to a corridor that ended in large double doors. The ornate carving of entwining branches did little to alleviate his sense of dread. Nothing in the design of this place reflected evil like the twisted manipulations of the darkspawn. Indeed, all ornamentation emulated the beauty of the forest that once surrounded this dwelling. In the semblance of wings or halla horns, or the graceful turns of a flowering tree, the artists sought to create an air of tranquility and elegance. How that dream of beauty had become tarnished with age and the unforgiven pain of invasion.
Raviathan cast a glance back at the party, the look enough to impart his concerns of the possibility of another ambush. "Let me open the doors. Stay hidden behind the walls until my signal."
How did I get myself into this? Raviathan reached for the doorknob, fear choking him. Was the treaty worth this? Traipsing around the cursed wilds for months? Attacked from all sides by demons and bears and Maker-damned trees? Now deep in the den of their enemy? Why didn't he try to wait out the werewolves outside? Maker, that would have been so much easier. None of this crawling around in the bowels of ruins with death surrounding them.
Why not wait? Because the werewolves could have more than a few escapes that he wouldn't be able to find. Because the elves were suffering from the curse. Because Danyla would rather die than endure the pain indefinitely. Because Raviathan had seen the horde rising from the south, seen the archdemon during his joining, and knew that was not something he could face alone.
Maker save them. Why did Duncan chose an ignorant little elf to do it?
The door opened to an antechamber with staircases leading down on each side. The room beyond loomed with shadows obscuring the extent of its grandeur. Raviathan crept forward. So far only silence greeted him. He motioned for Leliana to follow him as he scoped out the area.
The stairs led to a sort of makeshift workroom a half flight down. Tables laden with instruments and dusty books sat unused for decades, maybe centuries. The same fascination that captured his imagination in the elven ruins he and Venger explored returned now. A globe with odd symbols etched in gold, empty vials stained with the remains of unknown liquids, instruments that Raviathan couldn't name let alone guess the use of covered every surface. A mage's work area? But so disorganized. Had the werewolves picked over these? No, the dust showed no marks of tampering.
With infinite care, he opened a cracked leather book. A few of the bindings snapped, but the book held. Mold stained the upper corner, destroying the art that lined the pages along with a good chunk of writing. Raviathan couldn't decipher the script in any case. It appeared similar to the elven words on their map but with greater flourishes and exactness.
Thank the Maker the werewolves had taken no interest in this area. They might have ruined what little remained.
Morrigan's magelight grew brighter to illuminate the large room beyond a second flight of stairs to the base. What purpose did this area have? The architecture was so odd, a laboratory bisected by stairs, then this massive, empty area?
Roots and packed earth held the domed ceiling together even as the pressure pulled the ruins apart. But… were those windows? Down so many flights of stairs… that didn't make sense. He voiced as much to Leliana as the others shuffled closer.
"Indeed. My guess would be that this ruin has shifted a great deal over the generations. Perhaps this was once located on the side of a mountain, so this room would have opened up to the sky at some point." She pursed her lips as she looked about. "I have seen… not like this, but something similar in Orlais. This globe, and the patterns on the floor, are for people who study the stars."
"Study the stars?" That was… odd. "Seems a waste of time."
"How so?"
"Well, they're there. There are stories and you can track the movement of stars, but that's it, isn't it? What more do you want to know?"
"Oh, there is much scholarship in this area!" Leliana started to rattle off about viewing machines, comets, the tracking of moon phases, eclipses, and some bizarre instrument she called an astrarium.
"But what's the point knowing all this?"
Leliana blinked at him.
"I mean… it's useful to learn patterns so you can plant the right crop at the right time. It's practical. But why bother with all this other stuff? What do you do with that information? And don't get me started on people who see signs or predictions from comets because that old woman's shit is ridiculous."
"You don't think the Maker speaks to us in signs?"
With a start, Raviathan remembered the rose that has spurred Leliana to join them. No, he didn't. He had made that rose bloom, mostly on a whim, not a distant god. The Maker had turned His back on His children, first the children of the Fade because they were imperfect and therefore not worthy of their father's love, then on His second creation because a few shems challenged His throne, thus all His second creation should suffer.
Still, in his own mind, he talked and prayed to the Maker. Did he have a right considering the resentment that had grown over the years? Did he continue to believe the Maker heard their prayers in some distant way or did he retain the habit because the alternative felt like staring into the abyss? Did he still hold on to the hope that the Maker might take his soul even though he had done wrong in his life? Resentful and angry, and yet, and yet… he couldn't give up this desperate need for salvation.
Ugh. Raviathan rubbed his forehead. Too many questions. Maker-and now his thought of his call to the god with a twist of irony-how he longed to be able to talk with Solyn again. He missed her counsel and advice, the way she could clarify his thoughts and see new perspectives. She would have straightened out the Alistair situation months ago for him. Her death by the hands of templars instead added new layers of sorrow, anger, and betrayal upon years of fear.
"I don't know, Leliana." Raviathan said, feeling tired beyond reason. He waved a hand in dismissal. "Ignore me."
They started down the final set of stairs to the lowest level when Alistair grabbed Leliana's pack and hauled her back. "Wait," he hissed. Sten, behind the rest, readied his sword.
Ozone snapped in the air. Raviathan, in the lead, felt the faint stirrings of energy prick at his skin. Venger's low growl hummed with the eerie buzz of electricity.
A pile of old, rotted robes rose from the ground, cold white lights shining out of the dark skull's sockets.
"What is it?" Raviathan whispered as he quietly retreated.
"Arcane horror." Alistair winced as he tried to lift his shield arm. "Um… when a demon possesses a mage's corpse."
A chill ran down Raviathan's spine and stilled his heart. That's what happens to a dead mage? Unlike the other walking corpses, a malicious intelligence radiated from the smiling skull. It hissed, searching for the living souls that awakened it.
Maker's blood!
Is that what Solyn would have become had they not found her body? What he would become if he died alone?
iThe demons will ride your body! Kill everyone you love!/i
An arrow slid through the air, hitting the horror in the chest. The horror screeched. Its inhuman cry echoed in the hollow room, piercing Raviathan's ears like rusty needles driving into his brain. Raviathan unfroze but the cold fear remained. He drew the ancient bow, the wood creaking alarmingly as he shot his first arrow. His hands shook too much for the arrow to hit his target. Morrigan sent blast after blast at the horror to little effect.
Sten raced down the stairs with his sword at the ready.
"No!" Alistair called after him.
When Sten reached the floor, he screamed, body going rigid. The faint electrical impulses flared to life, cracking the air in harsh snaps. Blue light danced across the floor, the whole of the room growing taut with the currents as burst after burst of lightning sparked.
Gritting his teeth, Alistair neared the giant, indecision making him hesitate. Don't touch his armor, Raviathan thought, but kept his focus on shooting the horror. That grinning skull seemed to stare into him as if it knew him for what he was. Looking into that horror's eyes was like looking into the heart of a winter's storm.
Alistair ended up holding his shield awkwardly in his good arm and using that to shove Sten back to the steps. Freed from the current, Sten gasped, dazed, but got to his feet nonetheless.
A flash of pain. Raviathan closed his eyes as liquid gushed into them. No, just his right eye. By the flames, what? He raised his hand to find the cut on his forehead. Blast it, not now. Wiping the blood away, he drew another arrow to shoot only to find the bow string had snapped. Maker damn it all!
"Fuck my life!" Raviathan hurled the bow at the horror. It spun through the air, hitting the horror in the shin. The horror hissed, orbs of cold light gathering around the creature from a spell. They danced and bobbed before entering the skeletons that lay heaped on the ground. Raviathan heard the now familiar groan as the spirits entered the bones, linking their essence to a physical form.
"I think you just made it mad." Alistair had his sword out, his body angled so his wounded shield side was facing away from the oncoming dead. Raviathan joined him at the base of the stairs with his own weapons at the ready. The least they could do is protect Morrigan and Leliana while they kept at the horror.
"I'll tell it a 'your mother' joke next."
"'Your mother' joke?"
Raviathan's dagger intercepted the sword of the first skeleton, his own blade sweeping in from the side to split the monster's spine. "Your mother's so old, she used to change Andraste's dirty nappies." Raviathan kicked at another skeleton's shield, sending the creature back to knock down the one behind him. "Your mother's so old, she remembers when the Tevinter Imperium was only the Tevinter hamlet."
Alistair let out a bark of laughter. Raviathan didn't even know what words he spoke only that he repeated the jeers from his childhood. "Your mother's so old, she predates elves."
"Let me try one!" Alistair swung his sword, the skeleton crumbling before him. "Um… your mother… uh… hmm… Maker, these are harder than I thought."
The electricity fizzled away to leave the room in a shroud of darkness. The light left the skeletons. Their bones stood for a second longer before falling apart into a pile of remains. Raviathan looked around, tried to get his bearings though his overworked mind couldn't seem to make sense of anything.
A quick self-assessment showed his overtaxed adrenal glands were failing. He kept repairing damage and rejuvenating his system with magic, yet he continued to struggle. The others didn't have his benefit of constant magical rejuvenation, only when he could afford to use his spells without detection. Yet they didn't seem to struggle as he did. Maker, Alistair could even joke with that, that thing staring at them.
How can I lead these people and be such a failure?
The scene came to him, bit by bits, as he recognized the horror that lay in a heap on the ground, a dozen arrows making it look like a mangled porcupine.
"Your mother's so old, she thinks dust is new."
His foot nudged the pile. It shifted under his boot, the bones making a dull clacking sound. The skull grinned up at him. Echos of the malice of that spirit remained, only in Raviathan's memory now, as nothing lingered except the sad bones of a once great elf.
He stomped on the skull, the brittle bone crumbling to fragments leaving only those teeth smiling up at him. Raviathan wanted to cry, to scream, to shake and rage and burn everything away.
"Your mother's so old," he whispered at the horror, "she was one of the Maker's first children." An ancient elven mage, left in this desolated tomb for time beyond counting. He could have been one of the first elves, one of the immortals. A desecrated skull, smiling at him from beyond the ages.
The demons will ride your body, kill everyone you love. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.
Burn the world. Burn this whole world away until everything is ash. Make it clean and start again.
This is what happens when you die alone. You will kill everyone you love. Nothing you can do to stop it.