32. The Survivor's Curse

The clashing of steel was all around him, a symphony of pain as he dodged and ran. And the form in his arms was growing so cold and so still. Only the body's occasional whimpering gasps indicated that he was still on this side of the Veil.

He roared out his pain, using the shield still clasped in his hands to both bash through the attackers and defend that delicate, mangled form. Blades slashed into him from behind, but he only used that pain to find the strength he no longer had, to turn around and throw himself at those that sought to cut him down while protecting his new charge.

He was fury. He was vengeance. He was Rage.

And then, at last, the darkness closed in, and even that strength failed him. They closed in around him as he fell to his knees, still curling protectively over the shuddering form in his arms. He couldn't let them take another. No more.

Please, Maker. Don't take another one

And then he woke up.

Percival jerked upright with a gasp, a jolt of remembered pain lancing through him. Where was his sword? He had to fight… had to…

"Oh, do calm down, dear. You're safe enough, for the moment."

He whipped around in his seat at the voice, only to gasp as pain lanced through his back and over his shoulders. They'd slashed through his armor in places, he recalled.

He was sitting on a pallet in a small hut, sunlight filtering in through the windows on each wall. In the distance, birds chirped and frogs croaked, and the air was fresh with subtle herbal scents. The dichotomy was jarring, after the remembered frenzy of the battle; Percival had to breathe deeply to calm his stuttering heart.

Across the room, there was a bed. That was where the voice had come from, for a familiar old woman sat on the edge of it, putting together a poultice in her lap.

In the bed was a familiar elf, very drawn and very still.

"Is he…"

"Alive, for now," Flemeth said, not looking up from her work. "Though it is hard to say what his future holds. Then again, can the same not be said for anyone?"

Carefully, now mindful of the healing cuts along his back, Percival climbed to his feet. He was aware of his knees twingeing, bruises fading on the caps, but he didn't pay it any mind. He'd been stripped down to his trousers, and didn't know how he felt about this strange wild woman being the one to do so. Well, perhaps better her than Morrigan.

Percival cast his gaze around for the younger witch, but it was just the two of them in the hut.

No, three, he told himself firmly, walking carefully over to the bedside. It made his heart sink, seeing the elf like this. Since Percival had first met him, Finian had always been all smiles and motion and brightness. To see him draped in sheets, broken and still, was as good as seeing him put on a pyre.

Just like Daveth. Just like his family. "You… healed us? You? Why?"

"Might I take that as a 'thank you', young man?" The old woman's mouth tipped in a knowing smile. "No matter. In answer to your question, my reasons are my own. Suffice to say that I want the oncoming Blight to succeed no more than you do, and it would certainly be hard to ensure its failure without Grey Wardens."

"Without…" Percival's mind flitted back in time. "The battle. What happened at the battle? Why are we here, and not at Ostagar?"

The witch did not answer right away. She carefully wrapped up the poultice and pulled the sheet off the elf to place it on one splinted leg. Percival looked away, because Finian's body was black and swollen in more places than not, and that thigh-bone had definitely been broken, though at least now it was set and splinted. As Percival was looking at the hut's hearth, he realized that each breath Finian took was accompanied by a soft wheeze. Percy shuddered.

"Ostagar is lost, I'm afraid," Flemeth finally said, and Percival turned back to see her covering the elf again. "By the time I got there, you four were the only ones I could salvage. The rest of them have long since fallen to the darkspawn."

Percival's world rocked. "We… we lost? But certainly, some must have survived!"

"Oh, some certainly did. The forces of that Loghain boy, it seemed, never stepped onto the field at all." She turned and fixed Percival with that too-knowing gaze. "But as for the rest of them—the members of your order, for example—no. There were no others that Morrigan or I could find."

Percival felt it again: that emptiness opening up inside him. Duncan. Cailan. Hugo. The other Wardens. Suddenly, the hut seemed far too small, and far too quiet. He stumbled to the door and burst through it. He barely registered the door banging against the side of the hut, nor the way that made the other Warden standing outside jump.

An ever-growing list of names rattled around in his head as he staggered to the edge of the swamp. Father, Mother, Oren, Oriana, Iona, Mallol, Aldous, Nan, Ser Gilmore, Fergus Daveth Ser Jory Duncan Cailan Hugo Marnan FelicityKazarMeila so many oh Maker there are so many. And if that sight in the hut was anything to go by, Finian's name would soon join that list as well.

Percival's knees buckled, and he landed roughly in the mud, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. It was happening again. Maker, it burned. He could feel it eating him up inside. No one left… once again, no one was left. There would be no Duncan to whisk him away and give him a purpose this time. Because now Duncan was dead too.

"P…Percival?" Alistair's voice was soft and uncertain, thick with a grief that Percival knew very well. The sound of footsteps approached him ponderously.

It burst up in him then. Laughter, harsh and painful. This man… the one who had put a hand on his shoulder after the Joining and pretty much told him he was imagining things… he now knew better, didn't he?

Alistair didn't come any closer, and when Percy looked at him over his shoulder, he saw the other Warden watching him with wide, broken eyes. Suddenly, he couldn't laugh anymore, and his pit emptied of everything but that low burning rage that was his constant companion.

"I told you, didn't I?" Percy said, his voice sounding a great deal steadier than he felt. "I told you. Everyone I know dies. Stay away from me, or you'll be next."

"Percival…" Like he was biting back tears.

How dare he… Percival felt the rage coiling up inside him, wrapping around his heart. "Don't you look at me like that. Like I'm your last connection to what you lost." He stumbled to his feet, whirling on the other Warden. Alistair took a startled step back, but stayed silent. "Don't you get it? They're dead. They're all dead, and you might as well lie down and die too, because you're going to follow them. Just like the rest of them. Just like everyone!"

There were tears in Percy's eyes now… a surprise, since he hadn't been able to dredge up enough feeling for tears for weeks. It was all fresh again… the pain of seeing his father, lying on the floor in his mother's arms. Of Oren's cut-up body. Mother Mallol, friend and spiritual guide, pinned to the pulpit with a sword through her chest. Now the older images were mixed with new ones of cheerful, amiable Daveth, dead and cold on the ground of Ostagar. Of Duncan, bidding them a safe battle as they started across the bridge toward the Tower of Ishal. Of Hugo, curled up in the kennel, trying to sleep off an illness that destroyed everything it touched. Of Finian lying so still, that wheezy little sound coming through his lips.

Everyone he cared for died. Every single one.

He spun away from Alistair, because he couldn't bear to look into those broken eyes anymore—such a mirror to his own now. Rage whirled through him, and raised his head to the clear spring sky and roared out his fury.

"IS THIS ALL PART OF YOUR PLAN?! Shall I befriend the archdemon too? Make nice with him? Then will you strike him down too?!" He threw out his hands, beseeching the Maker. "Or is this some sort of punishment?! Killing others to account for my sins; how is that fair?! Whatever happened to 'Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart'?! Or was Andraste just full of SHITE?!"

Alistair was still standing behind him, far too silent and still looking at him like that. Percival spun back on the other man again, advancing a step with a canine snarl. "You should have died with them. We should have died with them." He took another step, and the other man took a shaky step back. "Doesn't it just burn, knowing that they gave their lives for you, and you're not the least bit worthy of it?" He advanced more quickly, feeling around his person for a sword… a dagger… anything. "That there is nothing you could ever do to make up for that sacrifice?" He growled again, shoving Alistair up against the wall of the hut, and the other Warden was still just looking at him. "You want me to end it for you, Alistair? The pain? Because it doesn't go away. It never. Goes. Away."

"Or for the love of…" a new voice rumbled, and Percy was suddenly yanked off Alistair by someone gripping his ponytail, snapping his head back.

He growled ferally, his world going red, and he whirled on the attacker with a punch. Garott caught the flying fist with his free hand and twisted it. Percival felt the pain as the maneuver strained his shoulder, but he didn't care. He needed to hurt something, because there was so much pain inside him that it could only overflow… if not at Alistair, fine. Garott, then.

Percival kicked out, his bare foot catching the dwarf across the recently reset nose. Garott responded in kind by biting the leg—the dwarf was no stranger to dirty fighting, apparently. Again, Percival felt the pain, but it only added to his compulsion to make someone hurt. He grabbed Garott's throat and squeezed, and the dwarf's jaws loosened enough for him to pull his leg out.

Garott grabbed his arms with both hands, yanking him forward so that they were eye level, Percival snarling into a pair of brown eyes that looked… miffed?

Then, Garott swiftly drew back one hand and delivered an open-palmed slap across Percival's face that sent the noble reeling. His head ringing, he stumbled a step to the side before losing his balance and falling, his rage suddenly fleeing him as his head spun.

For a minute, he lay face-down in the mud, catching his breath and realizing what he'd just been trying to do. "Oh mercy… oh Maker, what have I done?"

"Nothing, yet." Garott bent over him, studying him with a flat expression. "Better now?"

"I…" He swallowed, and shame washed over him. "I was trying to kill you."

"Yeah?" Garott arched an eyebrow. "Not doing a very good job then, were ya?"

Percival turned his face into the dirt, ashamed. Oh Maker, what had come over him? He'd been a bit… off lately, sure. But to try to kill an ally? One of the few allies he had left?

The dwarf nudged his bare back pointedly with one leather boot, then started walking away. "Get over it."

Percival raised his head, watching the dwarf sit down in the shadow of the hut and resume sharpening his weapons. Apparently, he'd been sitting there doing so during Percy's entire scene.

Percival's hands clenched in the dirt, and he felt that awful, destructive anger flicker, still inside him. "It is not that easy."

Garott swiped his hand-axe across his whetstone, dark eyes looking up to meet Percival's. "Didn't say it was."

Slowly, Percival nodded, then lay back down in the dirt, because he didn't trust himself to do anything else.