The last two weeks have been hellish at uni, but the worst is now over, so the updates should resume. I've had the idea for this chapter in my mind for the longest time. I intend to skip through the canon events as much as possible, because no one likes rereading stuff the game gives you on its own.
I've actually formulated a nice reunion scene for Teagan and Nimue in my mind, so that should go over smoothly. Guess who's still winning the poll? Everyone loves Teagan, it seems, and I actually have several endings in mind for all the possible options, along with some random other outcomes I can't yet spoil.
Since Wynne hasn't made an active appearance for a while, this chapter is partly done from her point of view. Also, Morrigan and Leliana were supposed to be back for a brief scene, but the chapter got way too long, so that was moved to the next chapter, possibly. But the true showstopper is the return of Shale – and expect some more "betting" banter in the next few chapters.
o.O.o
Bonfires Ever After
o.O.o
Wynne observed in these recent days that their leader was no longer as immensely fascinated by forests as she used to be weeks prior.
Months ago, the elf would have eagerly stopped at every crook and crevice to examine them up close, be it by touching or merely observing. Now, after seeing more of Ferelden than the casual traveler could claim, her innate curiosity seemed to have faced just the slightest bit. Which didn't mean that she wasted the opportunity to thoroughly question the talking Grand Oak about sylvans and the like, along with the rest of the forest.
Or perhaps it was the combination of werewolves, undead and murderous trees that was getting to her. She kept ending up trapped between sylvan roots whenever a spell hit home and eventually took to burning her way through to get out. Wood and fire didn't mix too well, but perhaps the trees weren't overly bright in that endeavor.
Morrigan was rubbing off on her, at least a bit. The swamp witch wasn't accompanying them today, however. Nimue had anticipated that trying to settle matters without slaughtering every werewolf in sight (if such things were possible) wouldn't be according to her taste. Today was more about reconnaissance than slaughtering, anyway; that could be dealt with later.
"I hate doing this." Their leader muttered to herself as she set another sylvan ablaze. Likely she was referring to both having to burn the sylvan and her irritation at just that.
"We should be getting close to the section of the forest the Oak mentioned." The elves had been quite vague about Aneirin's possible location in the forest, saying only that he preferred to be with animals, among the wild. Wynne pressed on nonetheless, eyes straying through the trees.
He would be about Nimue's age now; no, older by some years. Still a child compared to her, and she couldn't help but think of him as such.
"I think you are getting better at starting campfires, dear Warden." Zevran was remarkably nonchalant when it came to gathering burning sentient branches into a pile. The elderly mage couldn't say that she was too happy to have the assassin along, but acknowledged that they needed to be swift, light on their feet and vigilant. "Perhaps we should make use of it and dine while we have the opportunity?"
After the misadventure with the ash wraith's camp, they were wary of anything that seemed conveniently pre-arranged for travelers, but this was more of a happy coincidence of their own making. No matter what the Chantry may claim, magic was highly useful at all times.
Nimue looked around, for all the good it did; her ability to spot traps and the like was negligible unless there was a big sign saying "EXPECT TRAP HERE" flashing above it. At least she admitted to that. "Are you sure it's safe enough for that?"
"Is it ever, with you around?" Zevran asked, laughing as he made certain that the flames didn't spread beyond their intended place. "Have no fear. I don't think this aroma can overpower your canine friend's nose when it comes to foul stenches."
"What a relief." Nimue noted flatly as Rabbit darted off into the nearby bushes and returned a few minutes later with what appeared to be a surprisingly well-preserved armor codpiece.
o.O.o
Apparently, the bonfire was large enough not only to repulse animals, but also to attract those wishing to put it out. Thus they inadvertently managed to locate Aneirin – by having him come to them.
He wore the markings of the Dalish, but apparently wasn't truly part of the nearby tribe. His magic had grown stronger and he truly looked like a mage out of the old stories, at peace with his gift and in harmony with his surroundings. Wynne was prouder than she could say, even though she had aided in this accomplishment by almost ruining the boy.
Frightened fourteen-year-old Aneirin, with his flame-like hair and jewels for eyes, was now at peace with his place in the world. Offering her forgiveness, after all these years.
The Maker worked in mysterious ways, and sometimes, she wasn't convinced he didn't have a sense of humor.
They spoke a while of the Dalish, of the Circle, but mostly of the young elf's life after his miraculous resurrection from the templars' blades. Somehow, the rest of their companions seemed to have silently acknowledged that now wasn't the time to be nosy and busied themselves about otherwise. Or perhaps it was simply because they were both elves and understood the mind of a kinsman better than her without the need to exchange any words.
For someone of such unconventional past, Zevran was actually a more than passable cook; and with Wynne being occupied and the only alternative being Nimue, this was a very easy decision. Not that much finesse was required when their supplies were limited to whatever animal they might have been forced to slay and herbs from Nimue's non-essential supply.
The mage was digging through her meticulously arranged pack just as Wynne tried to carefully suggest to her former student that returning to the Circle now might be of great help to everyone involved. It was a great request to make, but Maker knew their need matched it.
"I imagine the templars would be rather surprised to see one of their supposed apostates resurrected." Aneirin was as mild-mannered as ever, though no longer twitchy and nervous. His calm actually increased the moment the enormous mabari warhound dashed off into the woods once more, perhaps to look for ingredients. It was hard to tell. "But I have no wish to return to the Tower; I love the forest, the life it teems with. But your Warden; she is a mage, is she not?"
That question was easily answered when Nimue hesitantly accepted a gnarled piece of wood from the recently returned warhound and caused it to shoot sparks through an accidental surge of magic. The dog was gone within a flash, off to search for more "interesting things" as the mage rummaged through her things to find a place to store the new object.
"She is indeed." Wynne took a small sip of her stew to test the waters, survived easily and tried to imagine if the younger woman could even display such tenderness to something other than herbs. "But I don't know if my plea to have her return to us can trump a nobleman's offer of marriage."
While sorting through whatever they had recovered from the many fallen monsters, Nimue had apparently found something that caused her movements to cease. Her full attention was focused on the object for a few moments, pondering what to do with it. From this angle, it was difficult to see what it was.
"A human would take a mage in marriage, and an elf at that?" Aneirin wondered aloud, but didn't allow the calm demeanor to vanish from his countenance. Wynne could honestly admit to being proud of him. "It seems that I may know much of the world I live in, but the thinking of humans continues to escape me."
Elves were strange in many ways to Wynne as well, so she supposed that evened it out. She honestly couldn't understand how Nimue always managed to find an object that might be of interest to one of her companions; it was almost like a whip had cracked, the moment she made her choice. The older mage was of the firm opinion that instigating any kind of conversation with Zevran was just begging for a headache, but for some reason, even the assassin's ever-present grin froze as Nimue said something while handing him the object.
"I am no wiser in such matters than you are, believe me." There were many things she felt too old to be concerned about, let alone understand, and the whole affair of which man might end up with their leader was certainly one of those. In any case, her duty at this point was simply to make certain that no one forgot about the Blight while worrying about Nimue's romance choices. Especially their leader herself. "I am… beyond glad that you are still alive." She smiled, having no better way to express it. "And happy among your people. I was never able to give you that… not that I tried."
"You weren't the abysmal teacher you seem to remember." Aneirin was either far too tolerant or entirely unfazed by whatever was happening about twenty meters away. Then again, he didn't know either of the elves well, nor did he deign Wynne's careful side observance of the proceedings with a remark. "It is simply a matter of belonging somewhere, which cannot be created artificially. I wasn't meant to be a Circle mage. My place is here, amongst the wild. I should thank you for your inexperience back then. Otherwise, I might have never seen the outside of the tower's walls."
The mystery object turned out to be gloves, if the assassin putting them on in place of the blood-stained ones was any indication. Nimue was saying something, but apparently looking at the person she was talking to was too much of a stretch for her conversational capabilities. Of course, being on the verge of having one's personal space invaded tended to do that. Oddly, the assassin had gone very still as she spoke.
"It seems that duty or tragedy always accompany the act of leaving the tower permanently." Wynne tried to finish her food before it got cold and almost succeeded in burning her tongue. Magic could often do the same; it was a suitable metaphor. Sometimes, the desire for freedom could overrule wisdom quite easily. Especially in the young.
Which wasn't to say the Tower or its templars were sensible, but… there were other dangers in the world that magic attracted, not only its prevention.
Aneirin's face remained peaceful, but Wynne could tell that he still held no love for the human customs that ruled over these lands. "As long as your Chantry holds onto its beliefs about magic, there can be no peace between them and us." he said, without malice, but without too much hope as well. "I wish it were different, but that is beyond the ability of any of us to change… even your friend there."
Zevran was saying something this time; judging by the particular width of his grin and the mildly defensive posture the mage had taken, it was likely that Nimue was probably being asked about whether her bust, too, was a result of magic. Or perhaps the true compliment in the Antivan way would be saying that such augmentations were unnecessary for her…
This was most definitely a destructive train of thought, not to mention a highly irrational one. Wynne blamed the assassin just on principle, what with his endless flirtatious tirades. Apparently, Nimue was to be properly thanked for a gift – and Wynne was quite certain that in Antiva, that meant something that was not suitable for children under fifteen to hear.
Wynne decided to intervene by the point when Nimue seemed to be considering backing away just a little. Normally, she met challenges head on, so this was a definite sign that help was required – and the Circle mage felt indebted to her for pointing her in the right direction regarding Aneirin, to say the very least. After so long in a company of misfits, he was actually peacefully normal, only nodding encouragingly when she spared him a brief glance.
Nimue looked part exasperated, part embarrassed, but decidedly nothing like a Grey Warden and fearsome slayer of darkspawn in that moment.
"-can hardly remain unreciprocated." Judging by the wideness of the assassin's not-at-all-innocent smile, any variation of a refusal at this point would be considered merely self-denial that could yet be persuaded otherwise. Acknowledging the physical closeness, Nimue actually visibly moved away this time, inch by inch. Zevran's grin warped into a pout that was about as convincing as Oghren's cranky proclamations of sobriety. "Is it now not permissible to kiss one's own wife?"
Wynne felt her eyebrows rise almost as far as her hairline. "I'm certain this story will have a magnificent explanation." The interjection was effective, no matter its contents, giving Nimue an out from the rather uncomfortable situation.
"First of all, it's a lie I agreed to play along with to dissuade the Dalish girls from forming ill-advised infatuations." Nimue gratefully focused all her attention on the other mage, edging away still from the assassin, though Wynne wasn't imagining the reddish tinge to her complexion. "Apparently, they consider sex marriage." Explaining was a safe ground. Explaining, the elf could handle. "Secondly, gifts require no reward. Leave it at that." she added pointedly to Zevran, who remained the picture of false innocence.
Oh, she would regret agreeing to this, Wynne could see it already. Nimue had no idea what she had allowed by saying this, none at all.
"And thirdly, cake doesn't go too well with the rest of the food." Perhaps she had intended to say something different altogether, but Rabbit had chosen that moment to reenter the scene, with another gift for his mistress – a half-eaten cake, its frosting almost melted off. Where he had gotten it remained a mystery.
Whether they would keep it certainly wasn't.
o.O.o
They made it to the elven ruins just before nightfall and it soon became clear that entering them would have to be their first priority. The werewolves may regroup and try to attack again, or they might simply overwhelm them were they stood. Either way, an element of surprise was crucial, as was the advantage they had now.
As Aneirin wished to have nothing to do with the fighting, he bade them farewell and returned to the forest. Nimue spoke to him briefly and asked him to bring message to the Dalish encampment, if he passed it, that they might need help with this problem, as they were still somewhat short on melee fighters. The healer promised to do so before departing, though he warned them that whatever aid they sought might arrive too late.
Nimue shared that sentiment. They needed a little rest, though, before they once again threw themselves to death's welcoming claws for the sake of Ferelden. Who would have imagined months ago that even throwing oneself into battle and fighting for one's life day after day could become tedious and predictable under the right circumstances?
That was one of the things Nimue feared; boredom. Repetition, with every day being just the same as the last, without any possibility of a variation.
But most of all, the cage that came with that.
Yet she had come to realize something after having given the gloves she had found to Zevran. Her actions, her delay in making a decision, were injustice to others than just herself. She had to purge the memory of each meaningless touch, each simple word that had caused her less than world-wise manners to crack and her determination to falter. Because feelings were so logical and easily dissected, analyzed and catalogued. Suddenly, she wasn't so surprised by Jowan's blunders during their ill-fated escape attempt. Her own judgment was now impaired, it seemed.
Her senses, too, because she didn't even notice that Zevran wasn't at all resting like he should be while she was on watch duty. Only long-term exposure to stealthy thieves prevented her from accidentally cutting her finger with her alchemy knife as the assassin downright materialized at her side.
"Surely you cannot remain cross with me for much longer." Considering that the assassin was giving her one of the more innocently mischievous looks he had in his arsenal, Nimue rather doubted that. Still, she wasn't going to argue just yet. Or let him off the hook that easily, for that matter.
"I am not cross with you… much." she said, making an effort to be capricious as she chopped more elfroot with precision. As long as the object under her knife was immobile, the mage was quite meticulous in her cutting efforts.
Of course, if the person she was speaking to happened to be excellent at cutting up both mobile and motionless targets, this idle action did nothing to dissuade them from approaching further. Or perhaps it was just Zevran being himself; that is, blissfully ignorant of the concept of personal space. Nimue refused to admit having gotten used to the idea over the passing months.
"Honesty, compassion and beauty; how can any man resist such a mixture?" the assassin praised with a wide grin, sitting down just a little too close to her. That wouldn't be altered unless she made a move to either encourage or repel this, of course, which was a little reassuring.
Just a little, though; it did nothing to unravel the knot in Nimue's stomach.
"A werewolf, apparently." Certainly Swiftrunner hadn't been moved by arguments or threats. The only way to get them to talk was to corner them in their lair…. And, right now, this meant killing every werewolf in sight until they were acknowledged as warriors. Nimue sighed at the wastefulness of this. "I grow tired of this chasing around on errands. Just once, I'd like a spokesperson to just say: "Great, we´re going. Right now, no strings attached." There was a certain simplicity to life in the Tower."
"A tedious routine where the slightest deviation could cost you your pretty head?" Zevran suggested, remembering the mage tower all too well. Given the way the Knight-Commander had greeted her and the stony reception she had received from others, it didn't seem that the Warden was on everyone's tea party list. She seemed to bear them no ill will, though, as there was not the slightest hiccup to her knife's movements.
"That too." How long would it be before the life of a trophy wife – a warrior forced to lounge among high-nosed ladies – became the very thing she had escaped? In the Tower, she hadn't smiled once. In his company, the expression usually had to be coaxed out against her will, but Zevran was by now quite apt at doing just that. "But I guess they taught us to be efficient, if little else. From point A to point B."
"That sounds terribly boring, my dear." Of course, it probably explained the public secret of mages being apparently promiscuous; efficiency above all else, indeed, what with the robes… at times, the assassin wished such rumors applied to their own mages, at least one of them. His luck was apparently restricted to surviving if one believed age excluded her from seeking companionship, another seemed intent to thrive on negativity and the last one… well, she was a Grey Warden. To expect a quick surrender would be folly. "Besides, that way, you wouldn't be as gloriously infamous as you are today. And perhaps you wouldn't have the pleasure of my company right now."
Graciously, Nimue humored him, but rolled her eyes nonetheless. "We can't have that, obviously." She even got the right combination of indulgence and sarcasm this time.
Zevran's grin widened, almost touched by the effort. "See? I knew you'd come to care eventually. Truce, then?" he offered magnanimously when Nimue chose not to answer. This… whatever it was they had, or what she was giving him, whichever; it mustn't be allowed to vanish. And it most likely would – most certainly it would upon her marriage to a man who had picked her as his bride with a checklist in tow. "Unless you've acknowledged the golden opportunity the current situation presents you with and intend to make up in a most delicious way…"
This was how it should have happened: She would have smiled, surprised at first, but then, acknowledging things as a distant truth coming back into being; the expression would have descended into certainty. The useless little objects would have fallen out of her hands, away from their grasp as she opened her arms without any further hesitation. And he wouldn't have wasted an instant on contemplating if he was worthy or if this was right – the answers to both were clear and inconsequential.
From the moment of dusk to the first hours of light, their lovemaking wouldn't cease for even an instant, laying the foundations of forever in his mind. And if, in the morning, she chose to set him free, this memory would sustain him on the road through the darkness to come. If she let him go… what was there left, after all? Better to think of suffering than nothingness. He didn't dare imagine seeing that passion reignited in her face the following night and the next one and again as forever passed around them as a brief instant.
This wasn't how it happened, of course.
"Truce." Nimue said, too quickly. She didn't move away (practice, that) and forced her voice to soften in an instant. "Truce."
Fear was good. It meant that doubt yet lingered and didn't allow things to be set in stone.
If there was a single thing Zevran had never imagined himself doing, then it certainly had to be feeling somewhat envious of a vegetable. But with the way Nimue meticulously replaced the elfroot she had been cutting with another one, her fingers moving almost like a caress… well, no one could claim that his life was conventional. Neither were his tastes, for that matter.
"Alas, once more must I comfort myself with dreams of your luscious thighs." Not even all the elfroot in the world could have hidden the almost luminescent rosy sheen highlighting the angles of the mage's cheekbones. This, coupled with the fear, spelled hope. "How else can I get through the cold night, alone?"
"Some of us want more than just one night, Zevran." Nimue said quietly, still keeping her eyes fixed on her knife's movements.
This uncharacteristic lack of acerbic wit of any shade surprised the assassin, but he managed to catch the sentiment and tuck it away safely before anything of it could be revealed. There were many ways of interpreting that truth – because, try as she might, Nimue wasn't too good at lying – and none of them were safe waters to venture into. Were it not she, this would be the moment to press on and seduce with the right words. But this time, the words wouldn't come, the honeyed alterations of reality, the sweet nothings.
Out of hatred for the weakness every scrap of kindness she offered, the easiness with which her every word chipped his defenses just a little bit more and his own inability to stop himself for clinging to this very weapon, the truth came out as easy as breathing.
"Given the opportunity to choose, I, too, would prefer many."
o.O.o
Shale hadn't hoped that the rest of the elves would be nearly as agreeable as the enchantress and, unsurprisingly, she was proven right.
Though some of them were self-proclaimed hunters, none appreciated the finesse of exploding or crushing things. Aside from the bald elf, none of them possessed enough functional magic to count as anything more than pests and their bows would most likely be little more than irritant wasps to her fine stone form. Overall, she was unimpressed.
Worse, however, was the fact that the enchantress had left the most annoying members of its band behind. The drunken dwarf was lying unconscious in the middle of a clearing, its ever-full tankard spilling its contents all over the nearby ground. Every elf made a face upon coming near and avoided it as much as possible; it seemed they doubted that grass would ever grow on that patch of soil again. The dog wasn't present, having been chosen on a scouting expedition, so there was no one to actively gloat to about the sudden gossip about the closeness between the painted elf and the enchantress.
And, of course, the clown knight remained. Now deprived of its one listener, it didn't know what to do with itself. Especially since the sister was trying to make nice with the elves and neither the swamp witch nor the qunari was a particularly potent conversationalist.
"You seem rather twitchy, Shale." And so, it sought small talk in the crudest and most annoying manner possible. How very predictable it was, with its infantile jokes. Why the squishy humans were considering this one as their possible king was a mystery to the golem. "I haven't seen pigeons here in the forest yet."
"The pests are everywhere, so that is hardly reason enough for me to be overly concerned." Crows were unpleasant too, but at least slightly more decent than the fiends. In any case, the elves were cause enough for avian creatures to stay away from the encampment. Shale still rather thought the halla must be irritated by the presence of their horns. "No, I simply don't fancy being left being when heads need squishing. I've never squished a werewolf's head before. Perhaps it will make a remarkable sound. I would very much like to catalogue that."
The clown knight cringed a little bit, but wasn't yet dissuaded from seeking further conversation. "You know, it might do you a world of good to find a new hobby." Hobby? Crushing heads was a lifestyle. "Like, say, collecting flowers. You could talk with Leliana about that, like you did about shoes the other day. I hear she's got a collection."
"Why would it wish to collect dead plant matter?" Humans made very little sense. At least the enchantress used her dead plants to create potions and such for healing the squishy liquid wounds. But collecting reproductive plant matter for no reason at all seemed like a perversion of the highest order. "Crushing heads is a perfectly acceptable hobby. There isn't any need to look after anything other than looking out for a new head to crush."
"Of course, my mistake to think that you would want to do anything even remotely considered socially acceptable." the clown knight muttered with a sigh, running a hand through its hair. It had the utterly opposite effect to what it might have wished, making it looked more like a chicken than ever.
Shale no longer wondered why calling someone a piece of poultry was substituted as an insinuation of cowardice.
"That it seems to consider a society that creates golems a moral standard of some kind gives me a clear picture of its judgment capabilities." she remarked dryly. Once, it had lorded its closeness to the enchantress over her. It seemed that now was as good a time as any to level the playing field. "It wanted to go with the enchantress too. It always gets more annoying when the enchantress leaves it behind."
"I know." the clown knight said, sitting down on a nearby log. That it didn't even argue her point was a clear sign of dejection, at the very least. If Shale were the kind of person who sympathized with the helpless, she would have taken pity on it. But alas, she wasn't. "I wouldn't leave her side if it were up to me." It made a frustrated noise, tensing, its fists clenching for a while. "Maker, even the dog got to go, but not me."
"Its stomping like a rabid boar might have something to do with that decision." Shale suggested, idly examining one of the statues the Dalish had erected. Not the best stonework she had ever seen, but at least these creatures understood that the creation of life from stone had to be frowned upon.
"Oh, very funny, coming from the stone-footed golem."
"I am made entirely of stone; its point is rather labored."
"That doesn't make it any less valid." The clown knight was being childish, but also truthful. That was a rare combination for it. It might have something to do with the leftovers from dinner it was still nursing, but even a bite of its well-beloved dairy products no longer seemed to mellow out its irritated attitude. "And these Dalish couldn't make a proper cheese if they tried… which they don't." With a grimace, it threw the leftover bit of cheese away, only to regret it a moment later when a crow swooped in with expertise and snatched it from under its nose. There had to be some kind of symbolism in that, especially since the bird flew away before Shale could crush it out of boredom. "I'm actually looking forward to coming back to Redcliffe."
Now was as good a time for teasing as any, Shale figured, so she took the bait. "It has come to terms with the enchantress bonding with the other male?" That was a low blow, but the golem allowed herself a snort. "I might just have to watch for pigeons falling out of the sky."
Which would be convenient, mind you. It was so much easier not to chase something when you could crush it under your foot.
The clown knight spared her an irritated but not yet angered glance. "You'll have to wait for that a little while longer. She hasn't agreed. I would like to think she was being polite, but…" Alistair understood much that had eluded him before. The memory of the kiss burned him, as if he had been the one to receive it. "She's the only person I have left in the world that means everything." he spoke more to himself than to the golem, almost formulating the words he would say to Nimue. "I want… I want my family."
Not Arl Eamon, the not-quite-father who had never been able to acknowledge him as anything more than a stray kept out of kindness. Not the Grey Wardens, because none of them was Duncan and a round peg simply couldn't fit into a square-shaped hole. Not even Goldanna, with her flame-like hair and sharp features, preparing tea with children running around her. He didn't have a claim on any of them any longer.
It was Nimue, with her clumsy uncertainty, wary pragmatism and unrelenting drive that formed his family now.
"It wishes to breed with the enchantress?" Shale simplified things most accurately. Judging by the blood rushing to its head, this was a fact. "Disgusting. And a waste of good material." she noted absent-mindedly, wondering how much blood it would take for the clown knight's head to spontaneously burst without any intervention from her. It would certainly be a new record. "The combination would likely be brought down to average once more. Unfortunate."
"I happen to love her." So it did have a spine; its voice was finally laced with righteous anger when its apparent feelings for the enchantress were being cheapened. Certainly the enchantress could do worse (though not by far), but… Shale scoffed at the notion of sentimentality. "Not that you would understand such things, I suppose." the clown knight murmured, idly looking at the nearby food supplies to search for more cheese. Once it found its prize, it struck faster than it ever did in combat.
"Does it matter, if the enchantress doesn't know about its feelings?"
The clown knight's shoulders slumped just for a moment, but the cheese it was stuffing its face with seemed to grant it some foolish courage. "No… but it will." It proclaimed, and Shale actually almost believed the proclamation. "I'll tell her. I'll tell her the moment she comes back."
The golem made a mental note to idly watch for the falling chickens just the same.
