Long time no update, for which I apologize. This fic will get finished, but with college starting again in a little while, it might take some time. Hopefully, the next chapter will be quicker in coming. The romance poll is still open to your votes, so feel free to chime in who you'd like to win the little contest. Of course, I might decide on something else entirely, but I promise to take the votes into account when I decide on the outcome. This chapter borrows from Fracture a bit, plus focuses on the so far neglected characters. The betters will return in the next chapter, since Rabbit is with Nimue and Oghren is currently passed out.
Also, check out Samsara, my other DA fic, which deals with the lives of Anders and Surana (possibly Nimue, haven't decided yet) before the Grey Wardens. Contains hijinks, rivalries, friendships and a healthy amount of snarking.
o.O.o
Ever After Out Of Ruin
o.O.o
Of course, even with a guide, it took them several hours to actually get to the place where Nimue and the others were supposedly to be found. It was neither a pleasant nor worthwhile trek, as the others seemed to not grasp the crucial point of the situation – that, very likely, any assistance they could provide was going to come far, far too late to make any sort of difference. Still, Morrigan went along, if only to observe the misguided attempts at leadership their other Warden was going to try.
It had to be better than anything that she could watch or do at the Dalish camp. Her expectations for the elves hadn't been really high, but their truly decrepit state hadn't served to assuage her doubts in any way. Despite disapproving of the various things people like Wynne and Leliana encouraged their Wardens to do in order to kiss up to their potential troops, Morrigan was quite aware that gathering an army was necessary to break through the horde. After all, it served no one's purpose if any semi-strong ogre killed either of the current Wardens, not even hers. Still, part of her couldn't help but wonder why those they sought aid for always had to be pathetic shadows in need of much more aid that they actually requested.
The witch wouldn't shed any tears if the majority of them gave their lives against the Blight and wished to be gone from their presence as soon as possible. And she didn't much doubt that underneath her pretty façade of acceptance and hope, Nimue too had lost her illusion of actually belonging among any of these pathetic creatures. Were it at all possible, she might have considered asking the woman for company on her long journey – partly to give her an alternative to the foolish options she had been presented with, as she owed her that much. And partly because the swamp witch herself had discovered that the proper kind of companionship need not be cause for disgust or boredom.
Of course these things would never be. But it was a shame that this alternative couldn't even be considered.
Perhaps it was arrogance, but the witch honestly believed that she knew Nimue best, out of all the misfits the elf had managed to gather on her quest. Even upon first being forced into her company by her own mother, the elf had seemed much more interesting and formidable than that fool of a templar clinging to her. Morrigan had wondered not once why Flemeth had chosen to spare the woman as well, despite knowing that she could never be used for their ritual. But as time passed, she came to understand that her mother could read more from a few sentences than she from entire conversations. Flemeth had seen through both of these creatures during their first encounter and made certain that the ritual would happen, eventually.
Because there had been no answer to her question what Alistair would do if faced with the choice of stopping the Blight or saving Nimue.
The elf had little idea of that, of course. That was beside the point. But it was a useful thing to know that the one Warden who could serve as the vessel through which the Old God would be reborn was so weak. This was but one reason why Leliana's petty machinations were an irritation. Morrigan herself had done her part to keep the question of who their leader would perhaps commit to open, if only through small vilifications. But maintaining the trust and even the unrequited feelings between her and Alistair was something only Nimue herself could do.
She was succeeding admirably on that account, if only pure to small kindnesses, so Morrigan was willing to bear with Nimue's insufferable unwillingness to use her power to gain her goals more easily. She did see the potential for hardening the other woman somewhere along the way. How surprised had the others been when she had lost her temper with the Knight-Commander of the templars. When she had refused to speak with Alistiar afterwards for suggesting they annul the Circle. When she treated the Urn of Sacred Ashes like an ordinary pot and sighed irritably when others showed reverence.
She would suffer if she ever managed to find it in her heart what any of her suitors sought from her.
The ruins they finally reached appeared Tevinter, though the thick foliage covering every other inch of it made it difficult to judge. Had such things interested Morrigan, she might have been excited about finding something of Tevinter make within the building. However, she was no naïve child to think anything of value wouldn't have been carried away by scavangers or destroyed by these werewolves the Dalish so feared. With a quick glance she determined easily that Alistair now looked grimmer than ever, yet there was a strange keenness in him – most likely to prove himself and manage to save Nimue this time.
Given the loud crackling of magic in the air she sensed the moment they entered the place, that might not have been entirely as foolish as one supposed. Blood magic hung in the air, a coppery scent that most predators would easily recognize, coupled with the stink of wolf and ugly desperation. Something ancient that had long festered, clinging to life much beyond its natural longevity.
It wasn't that surprising when it turned out to be a bunch of haggard, filthy humans. The surprise came in the form of a cry from Leliana, and the bard rushing immediately to the side of a seated Nimue, who looked a little green. Given that there were corpses of various creatures littering the place (though, curiously, barely any werewolves) this wasn't entirely surprising.
"So we came all this way through the rubble for naught?" the witch crossed her arms, glancing at the dead elf on the ground as she stepped over the remains of a sylvan. Hopefully, the remaining elves wouldn't want to keep their own as a new shepherd. "Brilliant plan as always."
"I didn't see you questioning it too much, you know." Wynne and Zevran were giving some brief explanation to those that would listen, but Alistair saw only one thing. "Nimue, you're injured!"
"Your uncanny skills of observation never cease to amaze me, templar." Morrigan wasn't entirely certain if she said it out loud or if that was Sten, given the timing. In any case, she was forced to idly wonder if there was yet any chance of making the qunari into a Warden and what the chance of his survival might be… but she put that idea out of her mind. She was by now resigned to the idea of having her child share some part of the dim-witted fool.
She could only hope that her kind of upbringing would wipe any visible trace of it.
Nimue's robes were torn in various places, with splotches of blood decorating it in various inconvenient places. What really drew the eyes, though, was the darkening swelling on her now-bare calf. No wonder the elf was clinging to the wall as if it might come down without her support. She looked ready to either sink to the ground or be involuntarily relieved of her last meal – either was possible at this point.
Immediately, Leliana and Alistair were by her side, with the same nonsense, attempting to support her weight by her arms and help her to a seat. One would expect that the bard, at least, would be quick enough to notice that the mage went a little cross-eyed, stumbled out of their would-be-embraces, winced when she used her injured leg and ended up kneeling on the floor. Then, the pain overriding her senses, she finally abandoned her lunch in the remains of a broken-down sarcophagus.
It was positively the lowest point of Nimue's rickety Warden career.
The enormous mabari warhound whimpered at her side, attempting to lick her face or provide comfort by some other means, but for once, the elf ignored it completely. The very effort of turning around to sit normally apparently cost her far more strength than the rapid dive for the rubble had done.
By that time, however, Wynne was at her side, looking somewhat worse for the wear herself. Out of the three of them (four, if they counted the dog), Zevran was paradoxly the one who looked more or less unharmed. He was also taking near meticulous care in wiping off is blades on the late Keeper's robes without staining his armor too much. Given the amount of blood in need of removing, this was not the easy task it sounded like.
"Let me see that, dear." Whatever her manipulativeness, the old woman could pull off a reassuring grandmotherly voice when the situation called for it. She also did her best to steadfastly ignore the rapid color changes of Nimue's face. "Straighten your leg, if you can."
"That kind of hurts. Ow!" the elf added, wincing to illustrate her point. The nearby dog whimpered and nuzzled her arm as gently as such a creature could.
Painkillers or any kind of numbing drugs were not part of a healer's arsenal, though, as the elf looked ready to rid her body of more contents, possibly even a few vital organs.
Out of misguided sentiment, Leliana dropped her bow nearby and went to take the elf's cooling hand in her own.
Wynne pursed her lips, scowling at the injury. "Your calf bone is fractured." she announced, not even glancing away from her target, as if a glare alone could make the injury go away. "The other minor injuries, I can easily heal, but you will need rest. It would be preferable to return to the elven encampment as soon as possible."
"We're hours away from the Dalish camp." Alistair pointed out uselessly as the blue light of healing surrounded Wynne's palms and the injury. "Won't it be more difficult if you wait?"
"A few hours won't make it heal wrongly. Leliana, please see if we can get something to bind the leg properly." The spirit healer continued her careful attempts to bring Nimue close to hurling once more without giving her such release. "Try cutting off some of those branches." Wynne added, nodding towards the deceased tree spirits.
The bard drew one of her daggers to cut the wood, but Sten was way ahead of her. He managed to tear off an appropriate length of wood without chipping his sword in the progress and cut a long stream of fabric from Zathrian's robe. Morrigan supposed correctly that he was murmuring something unflattering about magic in the language of his land. Still, whatever his distrust towards magic, he didn't shove Wynne away or demand that she stop her healing.
The qunari himself was apparently relatively skilled in in-the-field improvised healing. The Warden grimaced more than a few times, but the magic was apparently enough to keep her mostly quiet. The makeshift bandage was tight. Wynne looked just a little disapproving and yet glad for the distraction. Leliana watched the proceedings curiously and then shooed Alistair over to help her raise Nimue to her feet. Like an afterthought, the bard fetched Zathrian's discarded staff to temporarily serve as what it was to any person not endowed with the singular gift of magic; a walking stick.
After a mere moment, it became obvious that this was no more than a temporary solution. The mage's hands were sliding down the staff, sweaty and uncertain. "I don't think I can manage those stairs very well." she said, wobbling a little on the spot.
Sickeningly, Alistair was at her side in an instant, and Morrigan had to hide a sneer at the way the woman who was a few bad days away from agreeing that sometimes the threat of a fireball to the face was the best way of negotiating was being treated like a breakable doll by the very man who knew so little about her actual thoughts.
Nimue shrugged off the hold gently, holding onto the staff.
"Nimue, you are in no shape to walk through the forest." Alistair noted gently, but there was a little fear in him, a little fear that if he touched her again, she would continue rejecting the offer of comfort, of strength, of him. The Witch of the Wilds found it hilariously pathetic, reminiscent of the many men who had showered her with empty words of what they called love.
"It isn't that bad now." The decidedly greenish tinge to her pallid complexion said otherwise, but few tried to argue. "We need to tell the clan about… this." Nimue added lamely, gesturing all around her. "That the wolves are cured and Zathrian… thanks to Zathrian." she amended.
So the haggard creatures had taken a less fierce form and made their getaway, like rats, leaving their rescuer in such a state as if they themselves hadn't restrained their former claws. How fitting.
"A transformation might help now-"
Morrigan understood that these words were to be directed at her, so she saved the elf some breath. "'Twould be ill-advised to re-open your wound by transforming into an animal form. I would not advise it until your bones mend at least partially."
The elf looked ready to object and it seemed that Wynne, Alistair and even Leliana had counter-arguments ready for whatever she could come up with. Then, the Warden yelped and Morrigan found herself a touch surprised yet very grateful to the only other adult in the room for chasing off her impending migraine.
"Parshaara. We have wasted enough time on this foolishness already." The elf looked quite petite when Sten lifted her up like a box filled with glass products, though a touch more wide-eyed. The qunari had once more effortlessly taken the mantle of leadership away from Alistair, which wasn't nearly as impressive a feat as one might think. Nevertheless, it was getting them somewhere, apparently, because even Zevran finished his morbid task. "If these elves are as slow in battle as they are to solve their problems, we have only wasted our time."
The magic staff had long-since clunked to the ground, but Morrigan decided to take and keep it, for the time being. They had scavenged enough dead bodies to make a market of their new findings, and this thing actually showed some promise of either wealth or spellpower. The qunari was already moving towards the door with his only slightly protesting cargo, with Wynne trying to keep up with a put-upon sigh. That might have been due to the resumed proximity of the hound, though, relieved that his mistress was going to survive.
As there was clearly no being or item of worth left in the chamber, Morrigan resolutely turned away, doing her best to ignore the beginnings of a fool attempt to make an even bigger fool out of their resident holder of that title.
"I believe one of those sylvans has given me a splinter. You will have to carry me, Alistair."
A double-take from the templar. "What? No!"
"Such coldness! You will have to kiss it better, or I might take it personally."
Far ahead on the stairs, away from the scurrying templar, Wynne and Leliana were already forging a further step in their plots, petty or not.
"So what will we do now? With Zathrian dead, I imagine the clan will not be entirely happy with us."
"Lanaya seems reasonable enough, so we should be able to get along somehow." The old woman sighed heavily. "It might be better not to mention that we were the ones who battled the Keeper, or the true nature of the curse."
"But you weren't the one to kill him; he took his own life, no? That means you can speak to the Dalish with a clear conscience."
Morrigan ignored the needless, useless chatter. What was done was done, and it meant Nimue had chosen the elves. She caught up to the qunari and his cargo most easily, having a few words of her own. Aenerin waited for them outside to lead them back safely, so there was no need to wait or gather or debate. But one thing bothered the witch, and she felt it was her duty to mention it to Nimue.
"T'would have been more useful to utilize the might of the werewolves against the darkspawn." she remarked when Nimue was near enough to hear, without any interference from the people behind them. Sten she treated like part of the furniture this time, but the qunari likely preferred it that way, given how he was always trying to stop her questions with monosyllabic answers.
She offered no sympathy to Nimue's condition, which the elf seemed to secretly appreciate. Not forced to walk on her own anymore, she had regained most of her composure, though she still looked less than her best.
"I would prefer those we recruit to know which side we will be slaughtering." Nimue noted, sounding a little drowsy. "We have enough to contend with without cursed beasts."
"'Tis true, but you could have saved yourself that injury by simply slaughtering the lot." Morrigan noted dispassionately. She knew the markings of blood magic when she saw them, even half-healed as they were. This penchant for do-goodery would be the ruin of the woman, for certain. It was also one of the reasons she was certain she would opt to take her offer, however, so the witch wasn't going to complain too loudly.
"Think about it this way; without weapons, armor or guidance, their chances of escaping the forest spirits are rather slim." Nimue gave a tired smile at the witch's quiet laugh, assuaging the momentary disapproval she had earned.
o.O.o
Wynne's prediction of Lanaya being understanding to their predicament proved to be surprisingly true, and the Dalish actually began preparing for battle. She had then spent a good hour fixing Nimue's leg, and while the injury was now tied more tidily, it still ached a little. But their purpose had been achieved; the elves pledged their support more quickly than even the mages, and everyone gladly accepted the suggestion that they head back to Redcliffe to regroup. The morose atmosphere was starting to get to them all, apparently.
Nimue, forbidden from intruding in the packing, pored over Jowan's legacy – the small volume Connor had so quickly brought her. The journal contained old writings from the time in the Circle, notes and entries about much, including the ill-fated romance and his friendship with her. She and her oldest friend had long-since realized that in order to keep some degree of privacy, a code was necessary for their mutual notes, so that only they could read them. Even so, no actual names were used in the odd jumble of words that could implicate anyone or anything.
She realized quickly that she was the otter in the writings, and could easily guess who this precious red-haired butterfly that kept appearing later on was. Well, each to his own, she supposed, pitying the last few entries earnestly. She had loved Jowan in her own way, created in him a vision of a family she believed she could never, would never have. And then, when he had chosen to flee with his Chantry girl, she had agreed, not only because of his pleading, or because she thought it would be easy, but because she knew she would never gather the courage to do this on her own.
And she wanted to; she had dreamed of such a thing for years. Nimue abhorred the Chantry, not for its vigilance, but for its contempt. That they believed that magic made you less of a person than you could ever be… and, despite your power, you should be afraid of your every breath. That those that survived were merely lucky.
But Nimue didn't want to survive; she wanted to live in earnest, according to her own rules and principles. Hers was a somewhat distorted and naïve view of the world in many ways, but she was also pragmatic, aware of her own possibilities for survival in a world that wasn't too kind to mages. She dreamed of leaving Ferelden, avoiding Orlais and moving to a place that had a different attitude towards magic. Tevinter fascinated and repulsed her at the same time, but she was willing to travel there to see with her own eyes. This was why she eagerly spoke to Sten and Zevran and even Leliana, despite her demure reformed self; the travelled foreigners, those that could be her surrogate eyes.
Nimue hummed quietly to herself as she flipped through the pages, remembering some events, her memory refreshed about others. The rest told quite a lot about what Jowan had been up to in the last few months, his thoughts and regrets and feelings. Some of it was about her, but the majority involved Lily and his hopes about her forgiveness right alongside his misery about what had happened.
The elf hadn't spared a thought to the unfortunate initiate in the past months, but the entries reminded her that more lives had been ruined during this bad attempt at an escape. Still, at least the girl had been given to something she believed in, rather than a literal prison.
Well, neither of them could be saved from their fates any further. And this book gave her some closure, if nothing else, getting the regret out of her system. She hadn't dwelled on the event before entering the Gauntlet, but the Guardian had stirred up some old regrets. It was time to move on completely and leave the Tower entirely behind.
"We will be returning to Redcliffe soon; there isn't any need to pine for your cavalier any longer."
Nimue looked up from her reading to see more red hair and a smile hovering above her. She closed her book so that Leliana couldn't have too much of a look at it. She seriously doubted that the bard would be able to read too much of it, but one could never tell with these inconspicuous Chantry sisters that turned out to be able to wipe the floor with a bunch of armed guards.
"What? Oh…I'm just a little tired." the elf said, trying to appear nonchalant. She liked Leliana well enough after these many months of enforced company. But she still didn't know what to think of her firm belief in visions from a higher power and the love of a god who had allegedly left his people twice.
She didn't truly understand the worship of the Dalish either, but at least it apparently had a much different attitude towards magic and its wielders.
Leliana smiled warmly. "It's quite understandable, given what you have to deal with every day. You haven't forgotten entirely, though… have you?"
"It's a little difficult if you keep repeating it to me." The bard giggled a little as she sat down on the ground near Nimue's current chair. "You sound rather excited about our return. Or at least this aspect of our return."
"Guilty as charged. What can I say? You're doing so much for a country that you barely knew a year ago… I think it's high time Ferelden gives you something back. And I must say, you could do much worse than a handsome man who proposes to you." Leliana finished with a grin, the innocent shrug vanishing in an instant.
"I'm not in this out of altruism, Leliana. It's easier to avoid templars if you have a legitimate agenda aside from simply running away." The bard laughed, but she didn't. This was something she meant honestly, at least in part. If not for a few very clear indicators that there was no way to avoid this whole Blight business, she would have second-guessed her involvement in such a potentially lethal quest. "Anything is better than the Tower. Anything."
"I can't say that I understand completely, but what we saw there… well, I find the castle much more welcoming."
"Walking corpses notwithstanding?"
"It isn't as though they are there still around." Leliana retorted, disregarding the joke for a moment or two. Properly decorated and cleaned… but, well, Fereldan castles were more like fortresses than Orlesian palaces. "I hardly envy the poor cleaners, though."
Nimue managed a brief laugh, but didn't find it humorous when a small surge of pain pierced her leg again. "Yes, I imagine they aren't quite so well compensated here as they would be in Orlais for cleaning away guts and bodies."
This, however, triggered a brief surge of shame in the bard. "You made me see the error of viewing things from such a perspective. I wish others could be persuaded of such things with just words of wisdom." Leliana admitted. "Your actions may help to serve where words would fail, though."
The elf remembered that particular conversation well and her brow darkened a little as she set her book aside for good. There wouldn't be any avoiding this moment now.
"Acceptance takes time in any situation. Besides, it's my magic that enhances the persuasiveness of my actions." Nimue added, having no illusion on that point. After all, even Alistair earned more respect in armor fit for either a templar or a knight, with a matching sword and shield. She wore mage's robes partly for this reason, even if she could have switched to lighter armor by now. "When you're already seen as a threat, it's much easier to intimidate people into submission than reason with them."
"Such as you tried with Zathrian?" Leliana was quite curious about that particular affair. She had heard much about the Keeper's age and might from the others, so the battle couldn't have been easy.
"He was an elf; it didn't count. But I'm tempted at times, certainly. It would make many things easier."
"You choose correctly." The bard spoke with conviction, but it might be an idea born out of lack of information. "If you are merely feared, then your allies might be quick to desert you. Besides, most of the time, they need your help to be able to help in turn, so their contribution to our battle is merely gratitude."
"It sounds much simpler when you put it that way."
"Unlike choosing an answer for Bann Teagan, you mean?" Leliana had a cheeky way of steering the conversation towards her true intent with subtlety.
The elf tried to appear more indifferent than ever, but the moment she looked away a little to hide her blush betrayed her. "That's different."
"It's a very different level for decisions since it affects you personally. I think the best way to deal with this would be to think about what you see yourself doing after the Blight."
"We haven't survived it yet, Leliana." the mage retorted, still not really believing it. Or perhaps she just didn't want to rush her decision, despite their impending return to Redcliffe.
"Ah, Nimue, with the way you somehow manage to solve impossible problems, I have faith you will succeed on this occasion as well. We've killed one full-grown dragon already, if you remember, and many smaller ones. I think victory isn't as far-fetched a notion as you might think. The Maker is on our side."
"Well, there's obviously no chance of failure then."
If Leliana saw the sarcasm – and she very likely did – then she ignored it in favor of easy optimism. "Exactly, and you do have reasons to be cheerful over. And perhaps you don't yet see how this could benefit you, even should you care for another."
"What do you mean?" Nimue blinked, confused.
"Marriage among nobles is often pure politics." And that was the easiest and shortest way of putting things. Even without bards, Ferelden wasn't exactly devoid of machinations and schemes. "Love must at times be found outside its confines."
"This coming from a devout Andrastian."
The jab, Leliana ignored; it was made in good humor. "I might have spent much time around the pure and chaste, but I remember well how the world on whose threshold you stand works. It would be an insurance policy, of sorts."
"As a Grey Warden, I already stand above allegiances." Nimue retorted; and this, indeed, was the one true reason why she proclaimed her membership in the Wardens whenever possible and up front. It was highly persuasive, convenient and often more useful than words, spells or swords. "So, in the end, it all comes down to free will."
Marry Teagan or not. No one was forcing her to either of those alternatives, but she could only choose one. And Nimue believed she was getting closer to making this decision, even if she was likely to make it only upon coming face to face with the nobleman.
"And have you decided yet?" Leliana asked tentatively.
"You seem awfully interested in my personal affairs all of a sudden."
"I'm always interested in your well-being, just as a good friend should." the bard explained effortlessly, still smiling all the brighter. "Surely that isn't so surprising?"
"After the time you tried to get Morrigan to go shopping with you, nothing you do can surprise me any longer." After all, she had promised no more secrets, this one, and hopefully would keep that promise. Leliana was like Alistair in that aspect, trying to appear more innocent than she was before confronted with evidence to the contrary.
"And you managed to weasel your way out of it, too! Sneaky mages, the lot of you." She already had an outfit visualized for the both of them and wasn't yet ready to give up on the effort of getting them to the wear them. "Now I understand the true reason why everyone fears you. I don't. Well, I might if you were my enemy, but not as a friend."
"I'll go ahead and see if I can thwart the crisis before it starts." In what the mage hoped was a clear sign that she wished for the conversation to be ended now, she reached for her book once more.
But the bard placed a hand on her shoulder carefully, as if anything more might invite a bad reaction.
"Nimue, I didn't mean to press you - I'd like to help you, if I can."
"It's a different level of decision-making, as you said. I'll decide this on my own." Finally, it would be a decision that was entirely up to her, without anything forcing her into it. In this single matter, she wouldn't be swayed… hopefully. "I'm not expecting a happy ending, Leliana. I'm mostly hoping for one where we survive."
"The Maker would not have created the Blight if we could not test ourselves against it and succeed in bettering ourselves through this ordeal." Leliana noted, distrustful of nihilism in their leader. She sincerely hoped that the mage eventually accepted the offer, so that she would have tangible evidence of having something to live and fight for.
The elf shook her head a little, but gave only the smallest of her arguments against conversion to this religion. "Any god that considers this a learning experience should consider handing out much better benefits for worship, if you ask me."
