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: Jowan amuses me, the poor bastard. I am almost afraid to post the next chapters. Big huge amount of emotional messes :\ Anyway, to be continued~
In this chapter: Life isn't supposed to be easy.
016.
They don't like him. They really don't like him. They like him so little that maybe saying that is a horribly huge understatement as few are the times he receives a glance which isn't a glare or a glare that isn't murderous. No, the party really doesn't like him. There's the blood magic – which frightens them all – and there's the fact that he tried killing who most perceive to be their only hope – which wasn't completely his fault but see if he'll be stupid enough to say that out loud. Jowan wishes they'd just accept his presence because the simple fact that they accuse him at every corner and every moment makes it far harder to ignore his own guilt. It's not like he wants to forget – except he kind of does – but it would make his life easier.
Seems obvious why they keep treating him like something incredible disgusting, doesn't it?
It would be easier if he returned to the Tower, the mage thinks. His cheeks are filled with air and he blows it at random intervals, keeping his hair from falling near his eyes. Instead of walking, he stomps, literally bashes against the floor and the dog – Assian? Assin? Azin? – pats the ground by his side, lolling tongue following his rhythm. Which is also amazing. He had Lily, he had… – wait, not her, never think of her – Lily. Friends. A house. Now he has muddy paths, darkspawn and a soggy looking dog whose fur is permanently soaked in blood. It'd be easier if he had been made Tranquil, wouldn't it?
Maker, he is earning himself a migraine with these thoughts. A hand absently rubs his head as he continues to pace forward, following the dog – Aszan? Aslin? Aslan? …what is the damned dog's name? His legs hurt, his head hurts – a lot – and he has the impression he has never walked so much in his life. Dreams about the outside world never included so much walking. A small house, a bunch of kids, Lily in common clothing, his robes deep within a well somewhere. Those were his wishes. He had also thought of something remote like the Korcari Wilds – until he saw such wilds and realized his plans weren't supposed to include bugs and wolves in every corner.
"Would you pay attention?" A hand connects with the back of his neck, the resounding slap lingering in his ears. He has barely managed to regain any of his bearings – really, do people hate him this much for random moments of violence? – when a hand is stuck in front of his eyes, red and dripping. Blood. His eyes follow the trail, follow the arm, follow up the body until the head and find the Warden.
He doesn't get it, a failure that is probably really bad because this woman is The Warden and the only one in the group who seems to care if he'll trip himself into a cliff when one's not looking. One fine day he might annoy her just a little too much, something that seems all too easy to take place, and then there will be Arl Eamon and the Templars and definitely not Aeonar. That one is for those who do not dwell on blood magic. No. For him, it will be emptiness – easy life – or oblivion.
"Aah!"
Tasha's uninjured hand slaps him again while the other comes even closer. It is still bleeding, Jowan realizes, still waiting and still presenting him with the blood. Does she want him to use it? Does she think he'll drink it? He doesn't like that. He just uses his and …
"I'd like not to bleed to death before you heal it," the elf adds slowly, thankfully stopping his mental rambling though implying he's an idiot with each word. "Wynne has no mana. Morrigan leaves scars and I have enough of those to last for a lifetime. I'm hoping you can do better than that." And there goes his calm. The cut suddenly turned into an abysm and his magic flickers and trembles, sweating with him and in him. This is the woman who saved him, the only one who doesn't glare at him even thought she does treat him as a rather stupid worm at times. He cannot ask for a better treatment and he really cannot afford to make her angry. Right?
"Well?" Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. He was never that bad at Healing. Surely, Primal and Entropy were always better, always fun – destroying is always fun, she'd say and smile, a little fireball and no more desk and then someone yelling Amell over her laughter, ignoring the templar. Who cares about them, she'd ask, and the them sounded so above and proud when she said it. - The Warden taps her foot impatiently and he sees the small trails of blood sliding down her skin, down her arm, falling towards the ground where the dog wanders.
Jowan allows his fingers to touch her wound gently, carefully as if she's going to pull away from fear a second after – just joking, Jowan – but she doesn't. Even when the other Warden comes near, she doesn't. Even when they attempt to call her, she doesn't. The elf stares at him calmly – trustingly – and waits for him to work his magic.
Magic is a flow, like the blood on his veins or a river. A mage is the dam where it halts – though maybe that's just the way he sees himself as. He was never too good at stopping it and it rushes out without permission, backwards and then forward, mending and knitting a wound he has no idea where it was done and when. They haven't been in any fights for the past day. It takes a little too much of him for such a small spell. Which makes him think about Amell all over again, she would laugh, ah, you're so bad at control, Jowan. But it knits, mends and Tasha relaxes, stretching the now healed skin with a satisfied grin.
"Guess you are good for something, aren't you?" There's an approving nod in his direction – translated into the observation that the woman is obviously drunk – before she walks towards the rest of the group, Mabari close at her heels, nipping blood coated fingers. "Who would have known? A blood mage can actually be useful without bleeding everyone around. Wonders just keep popping up." Not drunk. Crazy. "And stop stomping. It draws more darkspawn than my taint."
Jowan can bet his life, his blood and magic that the dog – Assan – is barking in disapproval. But he doesn't because Wynne is asking why she didn't ask her for help when she's the healer of the group, doesn't because there has been no fight since the day before and even then he's sure, he's just so sure that the Warden wasn't harmed. Especially not on a palm, a place usually found gripping a sword. Another bark and the dog bumps against his owner's legs, an owner who smiles smugly, pulling a glove into her hand which should have been there all along but wasn't.
Oh.
On the next day, it's the bard who requests his aid when the elder mage is busy. Then the Qunari. Then the dwarf. Then the Warden. And it's not exactly easy to deal with – acceptance never is – but eventually, he finds himself not wishing for tall towers, distant swamps or closed gates.
Although he still thinks the Warden is insane. Manipulative but insane.
Note: Prompt 016 (Wily) from Troyed community table of prompts.