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: And back from vacations, sort of, kind of. I actually don't like this one much :| seems oddish to me. The next one shall be better~
In this chapter: Words can hurt more than blades.
019.
"I'll eventually leave this place, one way or the other." The elf – the Warden – does not bother to raise her head from crossed arms when she enters. Naked back against the wall behind her, it is an innocent way to keep herself from facing the reality. This is a prison. Here there is no dignity, no clothing, not the slightest touch of warmth and decency. There is no pride for someone who is kept behind bars not even fake. Whether the woman knows it or not, Cauthrien cannot be sure. Nevertheless, she tries shroud herself in a parody of them, tries to relax even though her cell is close enough to overhear screams from the torture chambers, a chamber which will soon be hers. Has been, will be. The torturers are rather interested on the resilience the taint can give to an elf. Alistair is their next subject of interest once he's caught.
Howe's men. Disgusting little bunch. The Commander has lost the count of the times she has tried to convince her General that they are – Howe was – not to be trusted. So far, it is quite useless. The Teyrn is nothing but set in his ways.
"Perhaps." Deadpan and dry, she sounds. Emotionless. "Alive is a different matter."
Shivers run up and down the girl's arms, trembling that cannot be avoided or hidden and no proper reply is given to her comment. Thinking, maybe, inventing one or earning herself time before everything restarts. When the elf's head eventually raises – white patches of skin between black –she has a little knowing – annoying – shine to her eyes. As if she knows something others don't, as if there's an answer to her current predicament. A lie. Dreaming and wishing will not make it so. Nothing here will be just fine, turned around and used to her advantage. This is Cauthrien's territory and she wills it to be so.
A shame the Commander has been in Ostagar. Lothering. Brecilian Forest. Even the dwarves carry her stories nowadays, whispering of the one who gave them a King. Half must be exaggerated – this girl is barely twenty, hardly a giant with arms of stone - but still. It makes the Commander doubt her own certainty.
"Will that bring you an advantage?" The elf moves just barely, bare feet avoiding cautiously all the puddles of unknown origin which litter the small cell. "The Teyrn is not Howe. That one delighted in treachery. Did you hear what he did to Highever?" A blank gaze, a surprised start and the knowledge of whom she is speaking with. Stupid girl. "Wait, foolish question," she continues. "Of course you did, you are the Teyrn's second. I'd be surprised if something as big as the murder of an entire noble family was ignored and kept a secret. I wonder…did he feel any remorse for killing his best friend? Did he truly wish to kill the children? The women? The servants? He certainly didn't seem like he regretted it." The body had been stabbed multiple times, again and again, blood staining walls and floor alike. "Murderer, disgusting little wretch. He would have killed me for pleasure alone."
A small pause in her monologue as the Warden frowns at the floor, apparently thoughtful. "Maybe not killed. He did like to play with his food. But that wasn't my original point." Which means she might go back to the actual answer the Commander wanted? Amazing. She chatters like an old woman, this girl. Or this is also another way of playing? Hiding? They know so little about this woman, Cauthrien realizes. There's the basic. Warden, the elf from the Alienage who was conscripted after murdering the Arl of Denerim's son, one of the survivors of Ostagar, dreadfully stubborn and someone who just refuses to die. There are enough bodies on the roads to prove that.
"The Teyrn doesn't need me dead," she continues absently, arms hugging her knees closer and tighter. "In fact, killing me would just prove that he fears the Landsmeet enough to kill one of the advocates for the other side. And even if I do die, then what? I am not the heir of the throne, I am not the only Warden and Eamon is quite alive. The Landsmeet is still happening, Commander. Myself being alive or not, it's not truly a matter of worry. I'm expendable."
Everything said sounds reasonable, stated in an empty tone at odds with both place and situation, one which could have been used to refer to someone else, one that she would have used. It is like the battle has already been fought long ago and not one which will decide the elf's life. She speaks as if detached, as if her death is already accepted and expected.
"Am I wrong?" The elf asks, lifting her head from its refuge. She is not but Cauthrien sees no reason to tell her so. "Dead or alive, I'm leaving. I'm sure you'll be slightly honorable and deliver me to the Alienage? I would like to rest where I was born. Sentimentalism."
"Or we can just let you rot in here," the Commander's voice states, clearly without permission.
A ridiculously small hand waves the feeble comment away. "You could try that. But that would give me time and with enough time I could just find my way out. The Teyrn wouldn't chance that. It'd give the others time to place Alistair on the throne." And there's that certainty again, the one she sees in her Commander at times, though far less grating to her nerves. "Loghain's case is ridiculous without Anora's proper support. And blood can only help so far when we see our own father descend into madness. You did notice she slipped away when you looked elsewhere? Yes. I wish I didn't need her."
Anger. The Commander is so angry she feels like opening that door and running the elf through with her blade, just like she should have done in the Palace. Because the stupid woman is being almost sensible and honest while speaking all the doubts which have crossed Cauthrien's mind since Ostagar. Having doubts is normal. No human can live without doubting things at times. Doubting the right reasons, the right ideas, an action or a feeling. That is normal. She is not normal. Her actions are like arrows, straight and to the target. Her life is straight, her honor spotless and that is exactly how the Commander likes it. No doubts, no questions, just satisfaction.
She likes her life tidy. Where to place things, where to eat, how to work. Her desk in the Castle is immaculate mainly because she hardly touches that room. Her sword is cleaned every two days – the cloth is always passed from top to bottom – and her only two dresses are kept religious to the side – even if they only leave the closet for her Regent's birthday or, if forced, his daughter's. Ostagar was the bump in her ink bottle. The Grey Wardens are the elbows constantly dragging the ink around. The Commander hates it and she hates them.
The elf sighs just barely and finally – dear Maker, finally – stops reflecting out loud.
"I'm wearing out my welcome already. I am sure you didn't drop by just to hear me ramble. Maker knows most of you don't even think I'm worthy to keep inside a cell, never mind pay attention to. Did you need anything?"
Her life back on track would be a good beginning but this woman can hardly help other than turning it upside down for the hundredth time.
"No," Cauthrien forces through her lips. "I was sent to make sure you were alive. You are. I will be leaving now."
"That's good. I prefer their kind of torture to yours. Yours has a purpose." Leaning once more against the wall, Cauthrien wonders whether she feels her skin shivering and shriveling with the cold sweeping through the compartment. "And it's far more effective."
Cauthrien doesn't doubt she will try to leave as soon as possible. She should kill her right now and evade a risk. No more torture, no more dishonor, no more danger. But wouldn't that mean she fears the truth and the battle that comes? She cannot doubt her own reasons to fight.
Anger becomes hatred, hatred becomes disgust, disgust shifts into annoyance once more and tries to evolve further. Respect can still a blade as quickly as care or love and her respect is solely to the man who took her under his wing so long before. Not to a foolish elf who doesn't realize she lays in her tomb. Cauthrien decides to leave before any sort of respect decides to grow in her heart, her steps strong and noisy towards the entrance.
She pretends not to see Tasha sitting on the floor, hiding her head as harsh breaths replace false calm and all bravado fades away. The elf does realize where she stands, sees her tomb all around, a prison which will house her last days. And it was Cauthrien to remind her of this knowledge.
It makes her feels like a torturer.