81. Unrest at the Alienage

Fin was nervous, but determined. As the Alienage elves had begun gathering around the hospice that morning, Meila and Leliana had taken to the alleys to try to break in through the back. But Fin… no, he wanted to see these people who dared to kidnap his father. Face-to-face. He was going to get inside in the best way he knew how.

So, there he was, in plainclothes, leaning on Zevran as Shianni led the way through the morning crowd. He could hear people start whispering as they noticed him, but he refused to look away from the human figures up ahead. Zevran's presence at his elbow helped keep him from turning into a gibbering child who just wanted his father back, especially as he heard words of blame and suspicion bandied among the people he'd grown up among.

"Easy now," one of the healers was calling to the crowd. "Everyone stay calm, and we'll help everyone we can."

As the humans loomed closer, Finian's mind was racing with the many doubts surrounding their plan. By the time they were in the front, he could feel the eyes of the crowd on the back of his head.

But then, one of the Tevinter healers turned to him and exclaimed, "Oh, you poor man! I've never seen someone so sick!"

Finian froze, not expecting quite so strong a reaction. Could they see through him?

"Come forward, come forward!"

This was better than could perhaps be believed; it made him suspicious. He scrounged up the most convincing stumble he could manage, letting Zevran keep him upright. Then, he coughed, and Zevran half-carried him before the healers. They were conferring among themselves, looking at him with genuinely worried expressions.

"Tread carefully, Warden," an Antivan accent whispered in his ear.

Finian pretended to stumble away from Zevran, toward the healers. "I heard you…"—a cough—"…could heal the—" He finished this one with a hacking cough.

"You were smart to come to us. It's… it's quite advanced. Come, come. Hurry."

The healer grabbed him and helped him up onto the porch in front of the hospice. They really thought he was sick… could they sense the Taint in his blood? Was that what this plague was?

The man helped him through the door into the hospice... which proved to be wide open and distinctly not filled with sick people. Once they were out of sight of the crowd outdoors, the healer shoved him toward a desk dominating one corner of the room and left, returning to his post outside.

Guards crawled all over the interior, a good half dozen in all. One of them stood behind the desk, "Ah, a new one. Come closer, elf." Finian was all too aware of his lack of armor, but at least his daggers were a familiar weight in his sleeves.

Fin stumbled forward, pretending to cover another cough, but someone behind him had sharp eyes.

"Wait a minute… something's wrong." A gauntleted hand grabbed his arm. "He's not sick, he's-"

Finian spun around, his daggers popping out of his sleeve with a flash of steel. A moment later, the man that had grabbed him slumped to the ground, his face with a new hole in it.

Hissing steel surrounded Finian as the other guards drew their weapons. The one behind the desk vaulted it to meet him.

Finian burst into motion, spinning under the first guard's arms to punch a dagger into his gut. He felt a blade bite into his collar and skittered out of his range. He ducked between two as they tried to circle him, slashing both daggers across one guard's back as he passed. There was an advantage, he found, to his lack of proper armor: never had he been able to move so smoothly in battle, ducking and weaving like a performer of the most deadly dance ever.

This hardly offset the obvious disadvantage, as he felt a mace graze his back, and a sword bit into his knee.

One guard stabbed low, but Fin spun to the attacker's side and got a jab into his armpit as he passed. Then, the elf was twisting out of the way of a maul, hopping over the weapon to punch both daggers into another guard's eye sockets. A greatsword swiped in from the side, seeking to bisect him,and he dropped to the ground fast enough to bruise his elbows. The air of the sword passing above him ruffled his hair, and then that maul came down at him again. He rolled sideways, and a broadsword that had been waiting for him sliced open his side.

He needed to get off the ground now. With a hiss, he kicked out at the arm holding the broadsword, knocking it aside. He then launched himself into the knees of that guard, sending them both to the ground and granting him a path out of the guards surrounding him. He sliced open that guard's throat on his way back to his feet.

The maul-wielder sideswiped him, and he was knocked aside with a new very painful bruise in the ribs. He stumbled into the desk, but decided to go with it, and rolled up onto it so that he was kneeling on the stacks of papers and ledgers. His hand found something round and hard... an inkwell.

There were three guards remaining: one with a maul, one with a mace, and one with a greatsword. They circled him in a leisurely manner, and Finian was alarmed to find himself feeling a little woozy.

Gee, maybe fighting six armed men without armor hadn't been the best of plans. Wynne was going to give him such a disapproving grandmother look if he survived this.

He wasn't about to make this easy for them, of course. He palmed the inkwell, and when the maul-wielder came in at him, Finian threw it full-force into the man's face, and it burst. The guard reeled back, clutching his eyes, and the other two burst into motion. By the time they reached the table, however, Finian had already flipped clear over the blinded guard and landed on the other side of him.

The one with the greatsword reached him first, and Finian used the stumbling maul-wielder to his advantage, keeping the incapacitated guard between himself and the not-so-incapacitated one. When the great-sword user hissed what Fin assumed was a Tevinter curse and just shoved is comrade aside to charge, Fin stepped to the side and tripped him. The charging guard went down, and Fin stabbed his daggers low into the man's back, aiming for the kidneys.

The last guard got a good hit in with his mace for that, smashing a blow into Finian's back that had him gasping for breath and pretty sure he had a cracked rib now. The elf toppled forward, a bit more theatrically than was perhaps necessary, and fought to draw breath around a sharp pain in the back of his chest.

The single remaining guard chuckled and worked his way calmly around Fin's limp form. "I think the boss will understand if we don't keep you alive," he said, coming to a stop right above Fin. The elf was on his stomach, so couldn't see above the guard's knee, but he could tell by the shifting of the man's weight that the guard was drawing back for a killing blow.

He burst into motion, twisting to land a two-legged kick right on the guard's kneecaps. He toppled on top of Fin, who had been expecting him, and had his daggers up to meet him right through the chest. He had a horrifying view of the man shuddering his last breaths, and shoved the man off of him.

Finian sat up, wincing at the pain in his side, chest, knee, shoulder... and now that the rush of battle was wearing off, he was feeling a little more light-headed than was probably good, considering at least two of the guards were still groaning and rolling around. No, he probably shouldn't pass out until he was the last thing alive in the room.

With a shaking hand, he fumbled at his belt, where Meila had insisted he carry a healing poultice (On the rare chance he got into trouble, she'd deadpanned. And the others thought she didn't have a sense of humor.) His fingers weren't really working all that well, tingles of cold crawling up his limbs. But he managed to get the poultice out and pressed it clumsily to the worst gash: the one at his side. He felt the healing herbs working in it almost immediately, warmth spreading from the point of contact, soothing the sharp pain in his chest and the stings of his myriad new cuts.

Wynne had apparently been teaching Meila some things. Fin didn't remember Meila's concoctions being so potent before. That was probably fortunate. After a semi-suicidal stunt like that, just needing to have his clothes restitched could probably be counted as a victory.

After a couple minutes of breathing, the wooziness faded, and Finian felt fit to stand without fainting. He glanced over at where the guy who'd taken the inkpot to the face was still groaning, but the man likely wouldn't be getting up any time soon. That was good enough for him.

Still, it felt strange to stand over a bunch of bodies and realize that he had put them there. No one else. Maybe his mother, and Aeden, and Duncan, and all those others had seen this in him, and that was what made him worthy of wielding his daggers. Or maybe he was just as crazy as people kept accusing him of being. More likely the latter, really.

Carefully, he wiped his blades off on one of his attackers' clean shirts, then slid them back into their sheaths. They weren't hidden now, since his shirt was hopelessly torn.

Finian made his way back over to the desk and, wiping the blood off his hands, he carefully handled the contents. He blanched as he discovered an order for 'eight males and six females.' It confirmed their suspicions about what was really going on.

There were two other doors in the place. One went out through the back wall, so Finian carefully peeked into the other.

Cages. They had the elves in teeny cages, like dogs.

The Warden stumbled back to the bodies, his fingers trembling from something other than weakness as he untied a keyring from a guard's belt. Then, he returned to the door and entered into the room, dropping to the floor in front of the nearest cage. The rectangular kennel was too small for one person, yet somehow it was holding three.

"Finian?" It was Caria, the woman who had once tailored his wedding outfit. She was trapped in one of the glorified birdcages against the opposite wall. "Finian Tabris? You're here? Did you… kill them?"

Finian nodded, watching his hands as he tried each key in turn.

"Good. I hope you made those horrible people hurt."

That… was not the sort of thing he'd ever expected the tailor to say. The lock clicked open, and he moved to her cage. "Where's my father?"

"He's gone." This was Alim, one of the Alienage men a few years older than Fin. "They took him out the back. We don't know where."

Fin nodded and moved to the next lock, unlocking each cage in turn. Once done, he stepped back, and the trapped elves climbed out.

"Is it true you killed the king?" That was Matihl, a fifteen-year-old girl, and Fin paled to think what would have happened to her in Tevinter.

"Matihl, hush!" Caria scolded.

"I didn't," Finian said anyway, glancing through the doorway to make sure the way out was clear.

"The shems are all saying you did," the girl went on. "You and the Wardens. There are posters."

Fin froze. "Posters?"

"Wanted posters. After the king died, they came into the Alienage and asked a bunch questions to draw you for them."

Fin suddenly felt dizzy. They had posters. Drawings. He hadn't thought of that possibility while crafting their disguises. Oh Maker… he'd erred in showing his and Alistair's faces in Denerim. They needed to move inns, now.

"Tabris?" Alim prodded, watching him anxiously. "Something wrong?"

Fin took a deep breath, then made himself turn back to the elves with a reassuring smile. "No. Come on, let's get all of you out of here." He beckoned them to follow and stepped out of the room. He heard gasps as they each spotted the pile of bodies, but no one commented on the mess; Fin gave them a wide berth even so. Recalling the two mages and small squad of guards out front, he led them toward the back door.

Once he reached the door, he checked the elves behind him. They clustered together, still shaken but hopeful. He motioned them to silence, then crept up to the door; he could hear voices on the other side. He placed his right hand on the knob and twisted his left wrist, making one dagger spring out of its sheath into his left palm (Someone, probably Matihl, yelped at that).

Carefully, Fin cracked the door open, and was instantly relieved to see two familiar redheads on the stoop outside. They were talking to a male elf that Fin didn't recognize… from the looks of it, the elf was the back door guard. As Fin watched, Leliana tried to sidle up to him with a playful smile, only to be rebuffed and told to leave. It may have been funny in any other circumstance, but they couldn't afford to waste time when a ship could leave port with Fin's father at any minute.

Finian caught Meila's eye and bobbed his head in suggestion, and the Dalish elf nodded. Looking relieved, she stepped up and slammed the guard elf back against the doorjamb, then executed a rolling move that flipped him over her shoulder, landing flat on the ground. When he tried to stand, Fin's dagger was there to greet him, and Fin lowered his free hand to muffle the guard's shout of alarm.

The guard well in hand, Fin called back quietly, "You can come out now." The prisoners filed out silently. "Go home and lay low… and don't let the healers out front see you."

All of them nodded, and someone (probably Matihl) muttered, "Duh." One by one, the elves dispersed, leaving the trio with their prisoner.

When Finian turned his attention back to the guard, the Warden noted that the other elf's eyes were rather fixated on the gore-encrusted sleeve now dangling directly above his face. Good: that would make his point quite nicely.

"Listen, I don't know who you are or why you work for slavers against your own people, and I don't care. Your employers kidnapped my father and are trying to enslave everyone I've ever cared about, and I'm armed, highly trained, and rather short on mercy at the moment." He paused, waiting until the elf looked up to meet his gaze. "Now, I'm going to offer you a generous bribe to walk away from Denerim and never come back, and I suggest you take it." His smile was part honey, part steel. "What do you say? Nod or shake your head."

Eyes wide, the guard nodded. Finian deftly sheathed his dagger and reached into his purse and dropped six sovereigns onto the man's chest, never losing eye contact. Then, he slowly removed his hand from the man's mouth and stood.

The guard finally broke eye contact when he fumbled with the money and scrambled to his feet. He bobbed his head once—part intimidation and part gratitude—and then skittered off, disappearing into an alley.

Fin sighed, rubbing his face. He didn't really like intimidating people, but it was awfully effective for certain purposes, wasn't it?

"Are you all right, lethallin? You are covered in blood."

Fin dropped his hand. "Some of it is theirs." Meila thrust a potion into his hand, and Fin gladly gulped it down. More healing was good.

Leliana peeked inside the hospice. "You took out all those guards on your own? …I would have liked to see that." The bard gave him a pouting look. "I'm never around when you do interesting things."

Finian let himself smile. "I was just on the other side of the door. Maybe if you were more effective at seducing guards…"

She smiled back. "Why, I am a sister of the Chantry… I would never try such a thing!"

"Good, because you're apparently bad at it."

"I think you would be surprised," she said with a wink.

"That can't have been all the prisoners," Meila interrupted, giving them both quelling looks for having gotten off track. "I was under the impression a great deal more than that had been taken in."

Fin deflated immediately. "There had. The other prisoners said that my father had been taken out this way at some point. They must be storing the majority of the elves in a different spot."

"It would have to be large, and probably have good access to the bay," Leliana said thoughtfully. "And abandoned, of course. Finian, can you think of any place like that?"

He shook his head, at a loss. "After a massacre and a plague? There are probably more abandoned buildings here than not… and Maker's spit, that's a depressing thought."

Meila's hand fell hard and firm on his shoulder. "We will find them, lethallin."

"Come on," Leliana said. "Let us get Zevran and begin the search."

Finian nodded. "I'll need my armor, I think, but first…" He glanced back at the hospice. "Meila, could you search for tracks? Carting that many elves has got to leave marks. Leliana… would you mind heading back to my pl… my father's and grabbing my leathers?"

Leliana shook her head vehemently, grinning. "Oh no. You're about to do something interesting again. It is my duty as a bard to watch you do it. I'm covering you."

Fin nodded to that, part amused and part glad to have the support. Then, he disengaged from the women and headed back into the hospice. He skittered around the downed Tevinters, his fingers twitching as he spotted purses and jewels, but he couldn't take the time to loot. Not when his father needed him.

That thought steeled him as he paused at the front door. He released his daggers once then resheathed them, checking that all the gore from the previous fight hadn't clogged the spring mechanism. No, still as fast as ever. Good.

He waited a minute, to give Leliana a good vantage point. Then, he calmly reached out and opened the front door.

The healers were still talking to the crowd. Finian didn't pause long enough for anyone to register his presence before he'd sidled up to the nearest guard and punched a dagger into his throat above the gorget with his left hand while simultaneously stealing the guard's sword out of its scabbard with his right. The guard slumped, and Finian had a new sword, all in one swift motion.

The elves who had seen this had gone deathly silent, staring at him. The healers noticed and began to turn, but not before Finian had thrown his left-hand dagger into one mage's chest—more than the injury, the dagger's paralyze rune activating stopped the mage from reacting. The other started casting, only to be interrupted by a timely arrow from somewhere on the nearby rooftops.

Finian tried swinging the sword once, just out of curiosity, and wrinkled his nose at how slow and unwieldy even a longsword was. He immediately tossed it in Zevran's direction. The Crow caught it deftly, having just left his previous sword in the body of a guard. Zev flashed Finian a grin, then dove gleefully into the slaughter.

The healer that Fin had thrown the dagger at removed the offending weapon and tossed it aside, his face twisted in anger. "Treacherous elf!" he cried, then raised a hand and fire burst at him.

Fin had known testy mages long enough by now to anticipate the spell, and so he rolled to the side, most of the fire bouncing off his back in his roll.

He bounced to his feet brandishing his remaining dagger, which he swiftly put to use in the healer's side. The mage send a burst of ice in his direction, and Finian cried out as his limbs stiffened in reaction. He was too slow to dodge the pulse of pure force the mage sent out, and he went tumbling to the ground.

The mage started firing up a larger spell, but stuttered to a stop as a sword came through his back, followed swiftly by an arm reaching around to run a dagger across his throat. The mage toppled, revealing a smiling Zev behind him.

"And so the dashing hero swoops in to save the day. I do believe, my dear, that makes you the damsel in distress." The rest of the battle was dying down—only two guards remained, and the Alienage elves seemed to be happy enough to take care of them themselves.

"Still kicked your butt, though. Some hero." Finian smirked and climbed to his feet.

"The strength of the hero is always in the one telling the tale, my Warden."

Finian raised an eyebrow to that, but they were interrupted by approaching steps. Meila appeared from behind the hospice, her bow slung across her back.

"I believe I have found the tracks you spoke of. We should go after these shemlen immediately."

"Not just humans, Meila," Leliana said gently, appearing from the opposite end of the square. "There was an elf, too, remember? No matter what race, they are evil and must be stopped."

Meila gave Leliana a long, stony look, but then slowly nodded.

"As soon as I'm properly armed and armored, we'll go," Fin said.

"I've got your armor." Shianni appeared from the chaos, a familiar bundle of leather in her arms and her face hard-set.

He didn't like that look on her face. "You're not coming with."

"They're my people too, cousin," she said, handing Finian his leathers. "All of us want to figure out what's going on. This was never a hospice, was it?"

"No." Fin took his armor and begain strapping it on over the ruined linens. "It never was."

"Let us help! Valendrian went in there, Fin!" This was echoed by other elves around the Alienage. Finian looked around and noticed that the last of the guards had gone down, and many of the elves looked raring for a fight. Several of the hospice prisoners had rejoined their family and friends. Faces all around were bleak.

Finian didn't answer right way, silent as he and Zev put his armor on. Once he was properly dressed for a fight, he walked to his lost dagger and snapped it back into its sheath. He straightened and turned to the crowd. These were his old friends and neighbors; now they looked at him with mixed apprehension and awe. He couldn't let anyone else be hurt for this.

He chuckled. "You know, the elven spirit is an amazing thing sometimes. When I left, you were all complacent, living meekly in this… cage, happy just not to be bothered. Then, I messed it all up. I called the nobles' attention to us, and that led to all this, and I wasn't even around for it.

"I can't change what happened, and I can't fix it, and I'm not going to apologize for it. But I can sure as the Fade fight for you in your time of greatest need. You were strong enough to come this far. I'll do the rest."

One by one, they nodded their approval, until Shianni stepped up and hugged him. "Good luck."

Murmurs, nearby. The rest of the elves echoing the sentiment. Fin could only nod his thanks and let Meila lead him off.