Chapter 7: The Price of Refusal
…Sometimes there's just nothing to say.
The Black Wardens did not break for Denerim, instead they veered to the northwest. They avoided the main roads, keeping to the little-known game trails and hidden paths of the thick Ferelden woodlands. They moved stealthily, constantly doubling back and changing direction to throw off trackers. They paused only long enough for the horses to regain their strength. After three days of hard riding and no sleep, they were finally confident enough they were no longer being pursued to set a proper camp for the night. Five exhausted Wardens collapsed into their bedrolls and drifted immediately to sleep.
Now Feanor was dreaming. It began with a slight humming in the back of his skull, more of a tingling sensation than a sound. Something about it was comforting, and at the same time terrifying. It forced him forward, down a steep and winding path with sheer walls on either side. The farther down the path he went, the louder the humming became. It turned into a song, more beautiful than anything he had ever heard. Feanor stumbled forward, and with each passing step the song became more unearthly, more beautiful, more intoxicating, and with each step he craved it more. Its magnificence was tangible, he could feel it coursing through his veins and filling up his soul.
It was too much. The exquisite pleasure turned to pain, and Feanor writhed in agony as the song built to an impossible crescendo in his mind. He wanted to turn and flee, but there was no going back, the song continued to pull him forward step by grueling step until he found himself at the edge of an abyss, and the song degenerated into a horrible cacophony of screams and snarls. Thousands upon thousands of voices rose up raging with an insatiable hunger. Feanor fell to his knees and his eyes were pulled down against his will to gaze into the abyss, and there he saw them: A monstrous horde that stretched as far as the eye could see. In one awful moment, Feanor felt all their eyes fixate on him, and the entire horde lurched forward like a single gigantic organism.
They are coming…
Feanor sat bolt upright with a scream of panic and practically knocked Brecca head-over-heels. Zevran grabbed Feanor by the shoulders and tried to hold him still as he thrashed about in his bedroll. Quinn helped the startled Brecca to his feet and both watched in alarm as Zevran struggled to calm his friend down.
"Feanor!" Zevran screamed over and over again, but to no avail. Finally Zevran hauled up and slapped Feanor across the face with the back of his hand. "Get ahold of yourself!" Zevran demanded.
The slap seemed to do the trick. Feanor put his fingertips to his lower lip, and they came away with drops of blood on them. Feanor's eyes darted around their campsite, unsure if he was awake or still dreaming.
"What happened?" he asked.
"You were asleep," Brecca said nervously, "Longer than any of us. We tried waking you up, but we couldn't."
"Then about a minute ago you started mumbling, then screaming, then thrashing around like a wolf had ahold of you," Quinn said grimly.
"Are you alright, Feanor?" Zevran asked, resting his hand on Feanor's shoulder. Feanor didn't answer, he got up from his bedroll and walked a few paces with his head tilted back like a hound trying to catch a scent. It was a little bit after dawn and the forest was beginning to come to life. The other three men looked at each other and back to their leader worriedly.
"We have to go," Feanor said, suddenly. He hurried to his kit and strapped on his brace of daggers, leaving his bedroll and rations where they lay. "Take only what you need," he said, struggling to keep the panic in his voice at bay, "We need to ride hard and not stop until we reach Denerim."
"Feanor," Zevran said, walking up and taking his friend by the shoulders, "What is going on? You're acting like a lunatic, there's nothing…"
Feanor grabbed Zevran by the wrist and looked him in the eye with a look Zevran had not seen since… "Darkspawn," Feanor hissed.
Zevran pulled back his hands as if he had touched something hot and stared at Feanor in disbelief. He opened his mouth to protest that darkspawn had not been seen in this area since the Blight, but the look on Feanor's face silenced him. Feanor still carried the Grey Warden taint in his blood, and the blood never lied.
"Where?" asked Zevran, "How many?"
"Many," Feanor said, his voice raspy with fear, "Too many to be a raiding party. And they're close, if we don't leave now they'll be on us in…" Feanor stopped mid-sentence and looked again around the camp. "Where's Alderas?" he asked.
Zevran's eyes went wide. In his own shock he had forgotten the other elf had already left.
"He went hunting," Zevran said in a low voice, "He left just before sunrise, before you…"
Feanor cut him off with a curse and punched the air in frustration. He paced for a moment before crouching down, immediately picking out the footprints leading out of the camp and down into a nearby ravine. Feanor stood and began following the tracks.
"I'm going after him," he said. "If we're not back in ten minutes, ride out of here like hell is on your heels."
"I'm coming with you," Zevran called. He strapped his longsword and his own assortment of daggers around his waist and began to follow Feanor, but the other elf whirled on him and planted a finger firmly in Zevran's chest.
"That was an order, Zevran!" Feanor said coldly, "If Alderas and I don't come back in ten minutes you and the others…"
"Shut up!" Zevran said, brushing Feanor's hand aside. "You know that's not how it works with me." Without another word Zevran pushed past Feanor and began following Aleras' tracks into the ravine. Feanor stared after Zev incredulously. He's right, Feanor thought. That's not how it works with him. Feanor shook his head and turned back to Quinn and Brecca, who both looked as though they were about to follow as well.
"No!" Feanor said with steel in his voice, halting the other two men in their tracks. "Someone needs to make it back to Denerim, tell the network about what happened. Send warning to the other cells. The Black must survive, that's the most important thing here. Ten minutes!" Feanor sprinted after Zev, leaving Quinn and Brecca alone in the camp. The two men looked at each other, and Quinn started to pray.
Alderas exhaled slowly as he drew his bowstring back to his ear, grinning as his sights settled on the small doe grazing a few yards ahead of him. We'll eat good today, he thought with a smile. Suddenly somewhere off to the left above the crest of the ravine wall, a twig snapped and the doe immediately bolted into the foliage. Alderas stood completely still, keeping his bow drawn tight. The woods around him had gone eerily silent, and his hunter's senses were all on edge. Something was very wrong. Slowly he turned to the left, twisting at his midsection, keeping his feet planted and his bow taut. His eyes followed the sloping rise of the ravine up to its crest.
The genlock leapt into the ravine practically right on top of Alderas. Acting on pure instinct, he arced his bow up and let the arrow fly. Head, shaft, and fletching all tore through the creature's neck and exited at the base of its skull. The lifeless body crashed into Alderas, knocking the wind out of him and sending him sprawling to the forest floor. He managed to keep hold of his bow and scrambled to his feet as he drew another arrow, then he froze in horror as his gaze fell upon thing he had just killed. Its scarred and twisted face was frozen in a permanent expression of rage, its black eyes stared lifelessly back at Alderas. He had never seen a darkspawn before, but he had heard enough tales from Zevran, Quinn and Feanor to know one when he saw one. Alderas felt his stomach churn: They never travel alone, he thought. Just then another of the creatures, this time a larger hurlock, came careening into the ravine at a run. Alderas released his arrow and it struck the hurlcok in the chest, but the beast's heavy armor absorbed most of the impact and it kept lurching forward. Alderas loosed again, this time striking it between the eyes, and it slumped lifelessly to the ground. Alderas nocked another arrow, his eyes darting back and forth in a panic. All around him now the air was filled with savage grunts coming from every direction. They always travel in war bands. Another darkspawn crested the ravine. Then another, and another, and another…Alderas picked one at random and shot his arrow, turned and sprinted away without waiting to see if it struck home.
Alderas ran swiftly as a deer, behind him the darkspawn burrowed over everything in their path like a raging storm, and they were gaining on him. Their feral screams grew louder in his ears, and he was sure he felt hot breath on the nape of his neck. Just as Alderas was certain he was about to feel clawed fingers dig into his shoulder, he heard Zevran shout:
"Duck!"
Alderas dropped into a forward roll as a dagger flew over his head and took the genlock closest behind him right off its feet. When Alderas popped back up, Feanor and Zevran were standing on either side of him in fighting stances with blades drawn. Alderas grinned as he drew another arrow.
"Glad to see you fellows," he panted.
The appearance of the other two elves and all three standing their ground seemed to startle the darkspawn and they skidded to a halt. For several tense, drawn out seconds, the three assassins stared down a dozen darkspawn a few feet away. This isn't right, thought Feanor.
"Fall back," Feanor ordered. He turned and saw more darkspawn descending into the ravine behind them from the ledge to the left. They had been flanked, cut off from their path back to the camp. Feanor jerked his head to the right, the only direction available to them. "Go," he shouted, "Move!" The elves quickly bounded up the embankment and sprinted into the woods, and the darkspawn immediately gave chase.
The trio of Wardens engaged in a running battle with the darkspawn for what felt like hours but was only a few minutes. This isn't right, Feanor thought again. These darkspawn were not behaving like the ones he and Zev had faced during the Blight. Those creatures had always charged straight ahead, heedless of numbers or tactics, their one-track minds focused only on the kill. These creatures were thinking. They held together in a relatively tight line, keeping to cover as they ran almost parallel to Feanor and his companions. Only when their quarry tried to veer off to the left or the right did they attack in small groups of five or six. Feanor and Zevran fought them off, fighting in tandem, anticipating each other's moves as their blades whirled and parried in a dizzying display. It was more like a choreographed dance than a melee, and would have been beautiful if not for the carnage it wrought. Alderas stayed a few yards ahead, picking off any darkspawn that broke from cover with precision, but he was already running low on his finite supply of arrows.
The sporadic attacks kept the Wardens running in a straight line, and each one took a small toll on Zevran and Feanor. They were each bleeding from several minor wounds and were breathing heavily. Feanor could feel his legs beginning to burn, and his eyes were stinging from the sweat and blood pouring into them. Throughout it all, the persistent thought remained: This isn't right. Too late to counter it, he realized what was happening: the darkspawn were herding them.
Feanor parried a sword slash with a dagger in one hand and opened the neck of his attacker with the dagger in his other. The hurlock fell backwards gurgling, uselessly clutching at the gash in its neck. Feanor let the momentum of his slash carry him into a crouching twirl, and where his head had been a moment before, Zevran's sword cut a vicious slash across the chest of a genlock. It fell backwards with a scream as another of its comrades about to flank Zevran dropped with one of Alderas' arrows in its chest. The three elves continued their mad dash through the trees, then they saw it: A wall. Twenty feet high and stretching for dozens of yards in either direction, the ruined remains of some forgotten fortress or temple. They stopped running and as one turned their backs to the wall and began slowly backing up. They were cornered.
The line of darkspawn looped in a half circle around the Wardens. They held their positions, one or two of them occasionally lunging forward and gnashing their teeth and roaring before falling back into line. Like dogs on a leash, waiting for their master to let them loose, Alderas thought. An image of his mother being torn to shreds by hounds flashed through his mind. Rage bubbled inside him, restoring some of his sapped strength.
"So," Alderas said with an eerie calm, "How does this end?"
"They kill us, rape us, and eat us," Zevran said darkly, "Hopefully in that order."
"Make them earn it," Feanor rasped. His jaw was set, his knuckles white around the hilts of his daggers. He had to chuckle at the irony: To have lived through Ostagar and fought against the Blight only to be discharged from the Grey Wardens, and now he was going to die fighting darkspawn. Feanor could appreciate a good joke, even if it was made at the expense of his own life. "Make. Them. Earn it."
Back at camp, Quinn stared forlornly into the forest, holding the reigns of the horses in one hand and his sheathed great sword in the other. Brecca crouched on the balls of his feet, his hands folded in front of his face, swaying back and forth.
"They're getting farther away," Brecca mumbled. Quinn nodded grimly in response. The sounds of the fighting that had erupted only a few minutes earlier were indeed getting farther away. Quinn didn't know what to do. Every nerve in his body, every instinct was telling him to charge into the forest, to go to the aid of his brothers. But Feanor had given him an order: Someone needs to get back to Denerim, warn the others, the Black must survive. Quinn knew this to be true, but…
That was his family out there.
The frustration was almost too much to bear. Quinn closed his one eye and exhaled slowly, trying to force himself into a state of calm. Andraste, please guide me, he thought, Maker please send me a sign. I don't know what to do…
"Frack this!" Brecca said suddenly. Quinn watched in surprise as the dwarf picked up his crossbow and slung a quiver of bolts over his back.
"What are you doing?" Quinn asked.
"What does it look like? I'm going to save our friends," Brecca replied. "Are you coming?" Quinn just stared at Brecca in shock for a moment,
"But Feanor said…"
"I know what the frack Feanor said," Brecca fumed, "And if we live through this he can dock me two weeks' pay. Now are you coming or are you going to stand there praying all day?"
Brecca took off at a sprint through the trees, leaving Quinn staring after him, mouth agape. He stood there alone for a moment before breaking into a robust laugh. He looked to the sky with a smile and winked, then he drew his sword and threw the scabbard to the side as he ran after Brecca.
The darkspawn didn't attack. They just stood there growling and raging, blocking the Wardens' escape route but not rushing in to finish them off. The three elves looked from the line back to each other in confusion.
"What the hell are they waiting for?" Alderas asked through clenched teeth.
Neither Feanor nor Zevran answered. Alderas followed their gazes toward the center of the darkspawn line, where the creatures were parting for another one of their kind. It looked like a normal hurlock, but its armor was not the hideous conglomeration of metal and bone of the common rank and file. It was actually ornate in a grotesque sort of way, black as coal and inlaid with strange golden runes across the chest. The creature carried a bladed abomination of a mage's staff, and its dark eyes gleamed with evil intelligence through the red, hand-shaped war paint on its face. Then something happened that Feanor didn't think was possible: It spoke.
"This one has the honor of performing the will of the Red Hand."
Breath caught in Feanor's chest at the sound of the deep, otherworldly voice coming from the thing's mouth.
"It's talking," Zevran mumbled, "Feanor, why is that thing talking?"
Feanor had no answer, he could only stare in disbelief as the blighted creature continued:
"You are alive still only to hear this one's words from the mouth of the Red Hand. Before you die, know this: Everything you have built, everything you love, everything you know in this world shall burn. Your brethren will die screaming. The path of the Maker shall be littered with the corpses of his enemies. Yours shall be the first."
"The Maker…?" Zevran mumbled.
"Tell your Red Hand to go plough himself!" Alderas screamed in defiance
"If you want our lives" Feanor said, his voice dripping with venom, "Come and take them."
"This one needs to come for nothing," it replied. It raised its staff and wreathes of flame began to snake down the shaft. Feanor instinctively got his hands up in front of his face just in time.
The ball of fire took him squarely in the chest. Feanor's drakeskin armor was resistant to anything short of Dragon flame itself, but not against the raw, concussive force of magical energy. The blast sent Alderas and Zevran staggering as Feanor flew backwards. He slammed into the unyielding stone wall and felt his ribs crack on impact as all the air was forced out of his body. Stars exploded behind his eyes as he slumped blindly to the ground.
His vision came back to him in swirling waves that made him gag. Somewhere to his right, Alderas was staggering to his feet like a drunk man. A few yards in front of him was Zevran, still clutching a dagger in one hand, swaying like he was on the deck of a ship. Zevran's back was to the darkspawn, so he did not see when the line charged.
Time slowed down. Feanor tried to get to his feet, but his legs gave out and he fell forward onto his stomach. Pain lanced through his ribs into his spine, and he became aware of a sticky wetness dripping down the back of his neck. Feanor looked past Zevran to the hurlock charging at him, pulling its sword-arm back. Feanor tried to get to his feet again, but now he could not even feel his legs. He tried to cry out, but his mouth couldn't form the words.
"Z-z…Ze…" he croaked. The hurlock was ten paces away.
Zevran finally stopped swaying, he blinked and shook his head, his deep brown eyes focusing on Feanor's bright green ones.
"Ze…Zev…Zevran!" Five paces.
Zevran's eyes widened in realization. He pivoted gracefully on his heel and brought his dagger up to guard just as the hurlock crashed into him. Zevran gasped in surprise as the jagged blade ripped through his tunic, his armor, and into his ribs.
For a moment the two of them just stood there, locked in a deadly embrace. Zevran glanced down at the scimitar jutting from his torso with a look of bemusement. Then with a scream of rage and pain, he jammed his dagger through the bottom of the darkspawn's jaw into its neck. The thing stiffened and fell backward, pulling its blade from Zevran's body with a sickeningly wet tearing sound. Zevran clasped his hands to the wound and blood spurted out from between his fingers. He slumped down to his knees and then collapsed onto his back, his entire body shaking with violent spasms.
An animalistic cry tore from Feanor's throat. He dug his fingers into the earth and pulled with every ounce of strength left in him toward his beloved friend's body. He saw another darkspawn walking almost casually toward Zevran, twirling a double bladed axe in its hands. Feanor pulled harder, trying to get between it and Zevran. He was too late. The darkspawn lifted its axe over its head with a vicious howl.
The cry of triumph turned into one of pain as the darkspawn's back arched violently. It shuddered and slumped to the side, a crossbow bolt buried between its shoulder blades. As it fell, Feanor saw Brecca disappear behind a tree as he reloaded his crossbow. Then the foliage erupted as Quinn burst forth, swinging his massive great sword in wide swooping arcs, cutting down any darkspawn in his path like wheat before the scythe. He reached Zevran and stood astride him with his sword held high, roaring like a mother bear defending its wounded cub.
Quinn stood over Zevran's prone form and took stock of the situation: It was hopeless. Zevran was bleeding to death and Feanor was clinging precariously to consciousness. Quinn turned his head just in time to see Alderas take an arrow to the chest and fall to the ground. Brecca was still running and firing his crossbow, but he only had a dozen bolts, and over a score of darkspawn surrounded them.
This is it, he thought, this is how we die. A dark thought crossed Quinn's mind, of putting Zev and Feanor out of their miseries to spare them the darkspawn, then fleeing to Denerim. Maybe he could get to safety and then…the thought vanished as quickly as it had come. A feeling of calmness and certainty overcame Quinn, the same feeling he had felt in the prison mines so many years ago. He had felt it at Redcliffe, at Denerim, and when Feanor asked him to take the Black. The Maker was with them, they would survive this. He didn't know how, but he knew they would. He looked at the force of darkspawn surging in front of him and smiled. Then he looked over his shoulder at Feanor lying on his stomach a few feet away, trying desperately to pull himself forward.
"The Maker loves you, Feanor," Quinn shouted, "And so do I!"
With that, Quinn charged headlong into the thick of the darkspawn war band, the Chant of Light echoing triumphantly from his lips.
Feanor's entire world had shrunken down to the few feet between him and Zevran. He pulled himself forward, a few agonizing inches at a time, until finally he was at his brother's side. Blood was flowing freely from the wound in Zevran's chest, and his breath came in ragged gasps. Feanor pressed down on the wound with both hands to staunch the flow of blood, but it kept coming out in jets.
"No…no…no…" Feanor mumbled, trying to will the blood to stop pouring out of his friend. Feanor felt a slick, trembling hand reach up and grab him behind the neck, and his head was pulled down a few inches away from Zevran's. Zev's eyes were wide and unfocused, tears streamed down his blood-smeared cheeks
"Feanor…Feanor…?" Zevran quaked. Feanor cradled Zevran's head in his arms, his eyes stopped darting and settled on Feanor's face.
"I'm here Zev, I'm here," Feanor choked out between sobs.
"I'm so sorry Feanor…" Zevran gasped as new tears welled up in his eyes. His trembling hands grasped feebly at Feanor's arms. "Don't let them take me," he said, "Don't let them send me away. I won't…I can't…how will I know where to go without you?"
Feanor opened his mouth, but the reassurances died in his throat. All he could do was hold Zevran close as both their bodies racked with pain and sobs. Then Feanor heard a rasping chuckle over his shoulder. He turned and saw the darkspawn with the red hand war paint standing over them, its face contorted in a look of pure disgust, its staff levelled inches from Feanor's face. Feanor laid his body over Zevran's and pulled a dagger from its sheath on his thigh. He held it up weakly, the blade trembling in his hand.
"You will not touch him," Feanor said through gritted teeth, "I swear by my own cursed blood you will not touch him."
"You have been weighed and measured," the darkspawn snarled, "This one has found you wanting."
Feanor dropped his dagger, pressed his cheek against Zevran's golden hair and closed his eyes tightly as the staff flamed to life.
"I love you Zev," he whispered.
For the second time Feanor was blinded by a flash. This time when his vision returned it was blurry around the edges, and the world had taken on a colorless, surreal quality. Am I dead? He wondered. Is this the Fade?
Time slowed down again. The darkspawn that had been standing over them was lying on its back a few feet away, its chest a smoking ruin. The air above Feanor was hissing, and when he looked up he saw that it was filled with arrows. The savage howls of the darkspawn turned into feral screams of fear. The ground beneath Feanor shook and the sound of thunder filled his ears as dozens of mounted warriors streamed past him and fell upon the remaining darkspawn with fury. It was only when they turned to flight that it dawned on him: He was alive, this was real, but when he looked down at Zevran, his heart sank.
Zevran's hands had fallen limply to his sides, and his eyes stared lifelessly up at the sky. Feanor shook his friend, whispered his name, and cupped his face gently in his hand, but there was no sign of life he could discern.
"No…" Feanor whispered. "No Zevran, no! Don't do this! Zev come back, I need you to come back, Zev!"
Feanor felt the life draining out of him as he stared at Zevran's frozen expression. All the strength seeped from his limbs and blackness began to creep in on the edges of his vision. Feanor slumped forward and rolled off of Zevran's body onto his back. As he lay on the forest floor he found Zevran's hand and took it weakly in his own. Then the darkness took him.
When his eyes fluttered open again, Feanor found himself staring up at the peaked roof of a canvas tent. He was lying on a cot, his head propped up by pillows. He tried to sit up and felt a searing bolt of pain shoot through his head for his efforts. He fell back with a grunt, pressed his palms to his temples and shut his eyes tightly. The sound of clinking chain mail caught his attention, and he looked up to see a human soldier staring down at him. Before Feanor could open his mouth, the man turned briskly on his heel and exited the tent.
Feanor looked at his surroundings and found that there was not much there. Aside from the cot his was laying on, a wooden chest, a stool, and a small wooden table with a flickering lantern were the only things in the tent. He raised one hand gingerly to his forehead and discovered it wrapped in thick bandages. He looked under his covers and saw that his ribs were also bandaged, and both of his legs were in wooden splints. He tried to sit up again, to get a better look at his injuries, and once again the pain overwhelmed him and he collapsed back into the pillows. Feanor wasn't sure how long he laid there alone, the pain that pulsed through his body made the passage of time hazy. Slowly the events of the day crept back into his memory…
Zevran…
The tent flap opened again and hulking qunari stepped inside. Even in his weakened state, Feanor couldn't help but gape at the giant's imposing physical presence. He stood at least seven feet tall, with a set of horns that curled around his ears and were plated with bronze. He was bare to the waist save for a leather harness across his massive chest that clasped firmly onto his right shoulder. His bluish, metallic-tinted skin was crisscrossed with elaborate vitaar designs in red and white that climbed up his torso and arms to his face, framing deep blue eyes that stared intensely down at Feanor. The qunari's expression was unreadable, and for a moment the two just stared at each other. Feanor opened his mouth to speak, but only a croaking sound came out. The qunari nodded and walked to the side of Feanor's cot. He removed a canteen from his belt, opened it, and handed it to Feanor. The water was lukewarm and had a strangely herbal aftertaste, but it felt like heaven going down Feanor's parched throat. He drank greedily until he had to stop and gasp for breath. He realized that he had practically emptied the qunari's canteen and offered it back, but the qunari shook his head and gestured for Feanor to continue drinking. He nodded his thanks and finished off the rest of the water. As he set the canteen down on the ground beside his cot, the qunari pulled up the stool and sat near Feanor's head. Feanor was about to ask his name, but the qunari preempted the question.
"I am Kaaras Adaar, Captain of the Valo Kas Free Company," he said in a stoic, matter-of-fact tone typical of those raised under the Qun. "You are Feanor of Denerim. You and your beresaad are in our camp, four days ride south of Vigils Keep in the arling of Amaranthine. The darkspawn war band that attacked you has been destroyed. None survived. We piled their bodies and burned them."
Kaaras spoke as though he was describing an afternoon trip to the market. Feanor just nodded dumbly and asked the only question on his mind:
"Zevran?"
"The blonde, painted one. He nearly bled to death, but he's alive," Kaaras said, "Our company mage got to him just in time. Had to use up all of her mana to save him. She needs a few hours more rest, then she can heal your wounds, which are extensive. The other two survivors of your beresaad were also wounded, but not seriously. Our healer has attended to them. You and Zevran will need several days to heal properly, there is only so much magic can do with wounds such as yours, but you will survive."
Relief swelled over Feanor, he put his hands to his eyes and let out something that was partially a sob and partially a laugh. Then something Kaaras had said stuck out in his mind.
"Two…the other two survivors?" Feanor asked. Kaaras looked at the ground almost awkwardly before answering.
"The human is dead," he said simply, "Your friend's say his name was Quinn. I am sorry."
"Quinn?" Feanor asked, as if guessing the answer to a trick question. Kaaras just nodded. "Quinn is dead?" he asked again.
"Yes," Kaaras responded, and shifted a bit in the stool, looking as uncomfortable as Feanor had ever seen a qunari look.
Feanor settled back onto the pillows and folded his hands on his chest. He felt blank, the words Kaaras had spoken just would not sink in. Silence stretched between them for several minutes.
"We have his body" Kaaras began slowly, "The others said Quinn was a very devout Andrastian. We lack a priest, but we do have a man who knows the funerary rites. If you believe Quinn would approve, we may lay him to rest in our camp."
"Yes," Feanor answered quietly, "Quinn would approve."
"I will make the arrangements," Kaaras said, and abruptly got up to leave.
"Kaaras," Feanor said, the qunari stopped near the flap of the tent and looked over his shoulder. Feanor swallowed the hard lump in his throat. "Did you see Quinn fall?" he asked.
"From a distance, aye," he answered.
"Was it a good death?"
"Yes," Kaaras said without hesitation, "It was a good death."
Feanor nodded and allowed himself to sink all the way into the pillows.
"Thank you, Kaaras," he said. The Captain looked surprised at the comment, but merely nodded and exited the tent.
The next day they gathered around Quinn's funeral pyre. The four Wardens stood at the front, each of them sporting several bandages. Zevran looked especially pale and had to be supported between Alderas and Feanor, who himself could walk only with effort. None of them said anything to each other, there was nothing they could say. The chaplain performed the funerary rites in front of the pyre. When he asked Quinn's friends if they had anything to say about the departed, none of them could find the right words. Feanor said something half-hearted about him being a good man, a good friend, and a good brother who sacrificed himself so that they could live. It sounded hollow to him, it didn't do Quinn justice.
As the pyre was lit, Kaaras and the rest of his company who had attended out of respect filtered away quietly to go about their duties. The Black Wardens watched the flames in silence for a long time. Eventually Zevran ran out of strength, and as Alderas helped him walk back to his tent, his hand drifted down and gave Feanor's a squeeze. Feanor returned it, but did not take his eyes from the flames. Brecca remained with him awhile longer before he wiped away his tears and rested a hand on Feanor's shoulder for a moment and walked away.
Feanor remained standing alone until the flames burned themselves out and only ashes remained. The numbness in his heart melted and gave way to a grief that defied all words. Feanor buried his face in his hands and wept as the smoke from the pyre curled into the sky and was carried away on the wind.
The Maker loves you, Feanor, and so do I.