Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.

Summary: A City-Elf/Bann Teagan collection of drabbles and one-shots based on a prompt table from an LJ-community. These will be more or less in chronological order with the faintest traces of added plot here and there. Will vary from drabble length to one-shot.

Author's note: The views on life explained in this chapter are how I think Alienage elves live. They are tough people who keep smiling and trying to do the best they can. What can I say? Between them and mages, they have enough trouble for several other races. Cookie for the one who manages to find Teagan. He's around~

In this chapter: Fear is natural, sorrow is expected, to leave it behind means living.

008.

This night is different. It might be the smell of flowers in the air, might be the spring arriving, might even be the fact, for the first time in a week, no one in Redcliffe is staring at the setting Sun in horror for what it will bring. Instead, they wander around, almost dancing if one notices the exuberance of movements, hands busy while preparing Maker knows exactly what. If the boy didn't know better, he'd say everyone's preparing for a party. A great fire is already lit, small wearied carpets thrown in a circle for people to sit down. Though now they are mainly being used by the children who seem to enjoy rolling around too much while their mothers work, Connor can imagine this whole – small – crowd sitting by the fire later at night.

And he scowls.

The scowl stays and grows as the preparations continue. Chickens begin being roasted, a large stew being prepared. By the side, even Ser Perth has been drafted away by giggling maidens to help carrying vegetables. He doesn't seem to wince with their high pitched laughter so the young mage makes sure to do it for him. It is politeness keeping that kind of smile on his face, poor knight, the noble boy has no such problems from his position. Away and far from the fire, his features so contorted that they start to hurt after a while. But he doesn't get this and no seems inclined to explain anything. They are preparing a party!

"You know. I could joke and say your face will freeze like that. Problem is that you're a mage so who's to say it cannot happen?"

His frown drops away so quickly as if someone has pushed him directly into the lake. Not one knows he's a mage. No one's supposed to know he's a mage yet. Mother talked with everyone, Uncle kept them from whispering and carrying too much information from the Castle. He looks around, almost frantically and the idea of being just someone from the Castle doesn't settle quite yet. He doesn't remember this elf from the castle anyway.

Brown hair, freshly washed and still dripping, tied on the back of her hair to keep it from slipping too much. Tattoos. They weave in and out on her skin, strange patterns which might have a meaning but he's too ignorant – young, too young – to understand. Nothing else is worthy of notice for his expert eyes. Her face is not that different, long and too pale, her ears are pointy but so is every servant's. In a way, she doesn't look like a servant either and not just because she just scolded him. She scolded him! Maybe because she doesn't carry herself like one? That doesn't make much sense after he thinks it. It is the clothes, he adds as an afterthought. She dresses in a simple dress but one slightly better than the servants. Perhaps she is paid more, sort of like an Orlesian elf.

A brown eyebrow is raised, a small twist of her lips which can be either a smile or scorn. Or joking. She could be mocking him right then! "I trust my apparel is to your grace's taste." She is! Not that the apparel isn't. It is just a dress and it sort of suits her, simple and pretty. But the way she says his title – his father's – feels like someone is telling a joke and calling the village's drunk of king. It makes his skin – pride – itch a little.

"That bad, is it?" She continues, walking closer to him, closer enough for him to notice she is not that tall either, thin and lithe, muscles rippling gently with her movements. The kitchen elves tend to be stronger, always having to carry things all around the Castle; she has to be one of them. "Shem won't care though. They can stack their daughters against me tonight and they will all win. Maybe I should have come with my armor instead and make them pit against me in strength? Wouldn't that be a sight for this party? If nothing else I might hurt some egos."

The way she says that, so simply as if stating an obvious fact, as if a small woman can beat anything, is one more sign she is mocking him outright now. And since when kitchen elves get to use armor? The shock of his person being mocked is surpassed for a moment because she has just confirmed his suspicions. This is a party. A party made during the night when everyone should know the night is dangerous, a party done while there are people who died just yesterday, a party done when his father is still bedridden with a strange disease no one can treat.

"How can they do this?"

Connor doesn't realize he made the question out loud until the elf moves. He can hear her clothing shift and rustle when she kneels by his side, seemingly with her head on the clouds. But she's not smiling anymore, not even a little and he can see her face is set in an expression which is too serious for any party, a nail being bitten carelessly. All the light-hearted good mood the elf had carried seems to have disappeared into thin air, dying with the last wisps of natural light.

"Why did you tell your mother you don't remember?" The party is pushed out of his mind like their previous discussion had been. In a moment, because of simple words this elf – an elf of all things – utters. "I guess we both have our own share of fair questions. Ah. But if I want an answer, I should give one, shouldn't I?"

Instead of actually replying, the woman stops her impersonation of an airhead long enough to reach out to his arm, grab a bit of flesh between deft fingers and pinch him. Hard!

"Hurts, doesn't it?" The elf continues dryly as he gasps, running a hand over his abused flesh and not even remembering he can yell at her. Because he can yell at her! He can! "You can see pain as anguish solely, complain, yell and drag your feet if it makes you happy. It is your choice. That does not matter it cannot be seen as they are doing." She points in front of them where the children are still playing, now being shushed because the food is fuming in brown cups and dinner is beginning. Someone sings. "Pain means you are alive, that you can keep walking. Suffering means you had something you hold dear, even if it's just yourself or something material, and lost it. Both are a part of life. Both mean you still breathe and exist. You can choose to just dwell on how hard that is, like you are doing, or you can celebrate the mere fact that you can feel both, like they do."

"Sometimes, you just need to pretend." And her hands are grasping his, pushing them away – his arm doesn't hurt anymore so it's alright if he doesn't stop her - and then passing through his face as if to will his frown away. The words the elf speaks sound like a spell. "Tonight is out of time. There is no death, no sorrow. The morning will come when it comes. Bad things are somewhere away and they don't matter. We are out of time. No one is waiting, no one needs us. And we?" There. There's that small twitch of her lips again. Connor wonders if she's mocking him again though something just seems off with that idea. He wants to believe her. "We need food, drink and to be merry."

She pushes herself to her full height – which is really not saying that much – and places both hands on his shoulders, turning him towards the fires. "This night is out of time," says her voice, very light into his ears. "Let them have it before the morning brings everything back. You, of all people, understand what is waiting for us."

He remembers. The demon whispering on his ears, the mage who taught him, his father falling ill, surrendering. He remembers everything that was done and all of those who were killed. And it's his guilt also making an appearance because he was supposed to be strong enough to save his father, not weak enough to fail in this manner. He killed these people's parents. He killed sons and daughters and he remembers doing it. Saying so, however, is to agree he is guilty and that scares him more than anything. Mages are hated, he will be hated even more. Connor's not sure he can bear having his mother's – his father's – hatred.

The elf leaves him alone with his thoughts eventually, disappearing between the crowd and he doesn't see her for a while. Someone around him whispers about a hero and tales are told, they sing of a name which sounds off and alien and then eat and are merry. Just as the elf said. When Connor notices her form again, it is already twirling and laughing in the arms of some farmer, of a soldier, of a noble, dancing around the fire which is the only light for miles and miles around them.

This night doesn't belong in time. Here, none fears the dark or death. No one remembers the fallen. This night is for celebration. So, he thinks, squaring his shoulders and straightening as he has seen his father do countless times, there is no real reason for him to be afraid tonight. Everyone else isn't. And he can be stronger, he really can.

Connor runs closer to the swirling couples, pushes in between them to reach the door of the Chantry – open and inviting – and sees his mother sitting in front. She looks lovely, feels even more when he hugs her, forgetting that half of Redcliffe army can see their Lord's son grasping his mother like a new born babe. But it doesn't matter, the boy repeats to himself. This night is out of time so no one will care, no one will pay it any importance; he can be a kid again.

"I remember," he whispers in her ear swiftly – bravely.

And before her fear can take over and stop him, he's already running away into the crowd, joining them, eating and drinking and being merry just for one night. Tomorrow won't come just yet, there is no hatred nor fear and the fire is warm on his skin just as the elven woman's dress when she pulls at his arms, forcing him to dance with her, with everyone in that circle. Connor can swear he reads something like pride in her eyes.

That's sort of funny, having an unknown woman display this feeling. But it's alright, Connor concludes. He's quite proud of himself too.

Note: Prompt 008 (Kid) from Troyed community table of prompts.