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: This is more of a reflective chapter. I think it was a bit needed. Or I just wanted to write it, even if it wasn't needed~ Bit slower on replies and such but work is kicking me around.
In this chapter: To be human is to wish to fly.
032.
Denerim doesn't feel like a home anymore. The Gates which conduce to her house are closed and barred, all her kindred – the people she truly knows and loves – are trapped behind wooden gates. The rest of the city doesn't belong to the elves. The Alienage, as bad as it can be considered, it's a little like an island – barren and broken – but her little paradise. People make a home, her family makes her home. Without them, Denerim is an empty shell, a parody of what she misses.
Sometimes, she is unsure if she can return.
Wynne tells her she cannot and repeats it with enough certainty for both of them. Tasha likes the older woman, sees her a little like a guide and counselor but sometimes she forces herself to keep in mind that the older mage doesn't know everything about her. The mage assumes that the elf would never be able to have a normal life even if she had not been a Grey Warden, speaks of her as if she's this fated warrior whose sole wish and purpose in life is to look after others. Says it as if she should wish nothing else, as if she is not a woman of flesh and blood but an iron golem whose control lies on the entire country's hands. Wynne is wrong, very wrong and Tasha doesn't bother to correct her.
Sometimes, when she's alone and everyone's asleep, when she doesn't feel like dealing with the corrupted dragon which destroys her rest, the elf remains awake and dreams of a life where she is free. Wynne doesn't know, thinking the Warden has already bowed down to her so-called Fate and forgot dreams of her own. Defeating the Archdemon is not hers, it is necessity. So is defeating the Blight, rebuilding the Wardens, bringing peace to Ferelden once more. All of these were other people's dreams, not hers. Wynne definitely doesn't know that she keeps her little dreams in a corner, wakes them up during the night and turns them around, over and over, builds her castles on sand every night, loses them every morning and rebuilds them again. Because every night she can add one more tower, one more house, a dog, a child.
Sometimes, she prays. Sometimes, she curses and rages, rarely does she cry. Sometimes, she dreams a little bit too much, a little bit too further until she knows she's asking far too much and some things are too much of a vision even for her dreams. But it is her time and her time alone.
At night, Tasha finds herself following her routine while the whole Castle sleeps. Her friends snore lightly – or not so lightly in some cases – and she leaves them behind, sits on the balcony, her legs embracing the stony wall and cliffs and houses rest underneath her feet. The air is so fresh, it truly feels like Autumn, all sunny skies and colder nights. On nights like these, her father would grasp her hand, pull her behind him and then up, up through the branches of the Alienage tree to sit by her side. She can see him still, watching her as she regained her balance and the stars seemed so close and perfect. Dream away, daughter. Your dreams are precious and no one can take those from you. The sky will keep them safe.
Twists and turns, until it feels more like a whim than a true dream because a dream has to have some truth underneath. This is fantasy, it will never be more than fantasy. Still, Tasha brings it to the front of her mind, wonders, dreams and leaves everything else behind.
He is kindness. Noble, caring, honest, protective, handsome. She has seen him battle, look after those around him, defend them from nightmares both real and imaginary. She has seen the man stare at his nephew wonderingly, wanting and praying at the same time. Will he have that? When, where, with whom? He will be a good father, of that she is certain. And she feels a little jealous without a reason. Or maybe she does have one but her dream doesn't need that knowledge - because in reality, her future is certain and locked, unchangeable.
In her dream, she wants his future for her too. Not the Alienage because she has tasted the winds, wandered through mountains and cannot love the walls as much when other places brought her closer to the stars. She wants the hills, the forests, a brick house and the waterfall where he meets her. She wants him to stare at her back from a shadowed refuge – or perhaps, just maybe sit by her side for once. Equals, not human or elf, nothing bar a man and a woman. What a ridiculous dream to nurture. That is rationality speaking, the part of her which remains the Warden at all times. She has no future, she flies no more, Wynne explained it countless times. Someone like her has no future without a sword at hand.
He is bright. Around them, people converge, try to touch the courage which he displays effortlessly, strive to take his strength for themselves. And he gives and gives and gives, everything he can and cannot, because his brother is strong but not as giving and his nephew was taken away so he is their only hope now. She cannot wish this. She does not wish this. Only that is an outright lie – and grey wardens do not lie. In her dream, she wishes, imagines brown hair and large hands dwarfing hers, heavy arms covering her shoulders. She is just a normal woman, a normal girl then, dear Maker, she had barely reached majority a year before.
Thirty years, the clock ticks on the background, the clock yells in her ears, trying to kill her dreams before they sprout.
But oh, damn that man – never a name, to name is to turn it real and it must not be real. He should be like his brother, Tasha thinks viciously. Easy to hate, demanding what he has no right to, forcing decisions he holds no power to make. But he is water not stone. He pushes softly, he protects, he does not attempt to break and crack others around him. And dear Maker, sometimes she wishes she could hate him.
My wings are clipped, she tells her foolish dream. I have no wish to fly, she repeats again and again. I cannot fly, she reasons. But dreams are dreams, they do not care if the dreamer is unwilling. They are the Fade's touch and she has seen the Fade, it takes no prisoners, it cares not for the opinions of others. This is nothing more than its game and her heart cannot be a prisoner. Only her selfishness is.
She admires him, that is the problem. She wishes his strength, she wants his hope, she wants protection even though others need it and she does not. There are questions where none can hear them and this is her personal little fight, her little pain, her little joy, her one crime. She is not a woman anymore, she repeats to herself, she is a Warden. Her little mantra, screamed to the dream when it tries to push her a little further, a little closer, a little more. She is not allowed to feel anymore, love – the kind which belongs solely to stories – was never a part of her life, it was never needed, why now of all times, when everything is dark and nothing flourishes? No more selfishness, she attempts to convince herself, a sure nod ending her long tirade.
A little closer, a little further and her dreams are again filled with light eyes and lighter hair, tresses the wind touches when it could be her fingers, her skin, her touch. Forbidden, she whispers to herself, all forbidden and she is not a child to entertain such thoughts.
Dreaming is a sin, to care is a nightmare. It is so much easier to hate.
"Kadan." Too close, too real. Tasha jumps startled, her balance failing and it is his hand on his shoulder which stops her from toppling into the abysm. It does not leave until she can breathe, heart thundering in her ears and she's not very sure this is not her overactive imagination still. Not enough light, too much steel, more than enough fear, wrong man. In her dreams, it is always sunny and no armor is needed. She is awake.
Sten walks forward, and stops right behind her, tall and proud but only once he's sure she's not about to fall. He did not sleep. Eyes are wide open, marred by lines of tiredness here and there where their lifestyle drew its mark. It reminds her of tomorrow and path they will take, everything that will change their world. "What do you dwell on?"
Kind blue eyes and light hair, skin no sun can tarnish and a gentle smile which touches all. She likes to think she has no choice but to dream of him, just as everyone else fails to have when around him. There are things that cannot be confessed. Aren't meant to be.
"A dream," Tasha answers knowing her friend expects a decent reply, plans of battle and words of war. She has none so she says nothing as her thoughts are safely stored away and her eyes find the sky once more. Until some other night. "I dreamt I could fly."