Disclaimer: I don't Dragon Age or A Song of Ice and Fire
Daylen seeks out his specialisation and learns of a greater mystery, Bran gains new sight
The Phoenix and the Griffin
Chapter 31: The arcane warrior and the green seer
The wind was blowing that day as a man in brown leather and furs stood looking over the land. His hair was fair and his beard well styled, but there was something in his face that reminded Bran of Alistair. Then he saw behind the man an elf woman with dark hair, robes and a staff on her back. She soothingly sang to a baby in her arms.
"And he doesn't have the taint?" the blonde haired man asked.
"No, neither do I," she said.
"Are you saying there is a means to cure the taint?" he asked.
"I cannot tell you more, I am sorry, but I cannot raise him, without the order's protection I must submit to the circle again," the elf woman stated and the man scoffed.
"Stay with me," he said.
"You know why I can't do that," she seethed, almost squeezing the child and drawing a cry from him.
She rocked the child back and forth, cooing to soothe him and pressing his head against her cheek.
"I didn't love her," the blonde haired man said.
"Your wife or the serving girl?" she asked without concealing her contempt for him.
He lowered his head and did nothing to hide the regret he had in his eyes.
"People wanted a perfect king, but I am an imperfect man, I tried to look after the girl," he said.
"Take him, and if he ever asks about his mother, tell him that she was the serving girl," she said.
He raised his head, eyes wide in shock, his fists shaking in fury as he approached her. The man only stopped when he looked at the child in her arms.
"You want me to lie to this child, to use the death of another child, to take advantage of that poor girl and her son's death, my son's death? Rather than his mother being a coward, you want me to tell him that his very birth had killed her instead, you'd rather he'd hate himself than you?" he demanded.
She shook as she offered the child to him.
"Sometimes the truth isn't good enough, he'll always carry the stigma of being a bastard, do not add the stigma of elf blood or magic to it. If I ever meant anything to you for more than just one night, then please, please protect him this way," she explained.
He almost snatched the child from her, unable to look at her. Instead he turned away, not giving her a second thought. Minutes passed with the man holding the crying child, looking out at the land of Redcliffe. His cloak fluttered in the wind and Bran could see the Fereldan coat of arms emblazed on it, he could see the gold sword strapped to the man's hilt. And when the man finally turned, he could see the tears in his eyes.
"Bran," Bethany's voice broke Bran's concentration and he opened his eyes.
He was in the shade of a tree, wondering if he had been sleeping. The younger Hawke twin ruffled his hair and offered him a hand to stand up.
"I think I was dreaming," he said.
"But you weren't asleep," Bethany said.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"Your eyes were open Bran," she said.
He looked away in shock and confusion. His hand shook slightly at the realisation and he looked back at the tree, realising that the man with the blonde hair had been by that tree when it was younger. It wasn't night, and Bran's training with Garret hadn't left him that tired. The older Hawke twin sat in the village where Margaery and her hand maidens were sitting. Mira Forrester was with Marian, laughing as the archer said something. It was a contrast to see the fancifully dressed Reach women speaking with the rougher dressed villagers and actually enjoying their company. Samwell had spent most of his time in Redcliffe castle's library, enjoying the books but genuinely learning about history.
"You are a smart lad Samwell Tarly, your father must be quite proud," Teagan said.
"Oh my father, well not really, I'm not much good for hunting, in fact I'm downright terrible and seven hells he'll be angry when I'll get back instead of Dickon," the Tarly boy explained.
Teagan rubbed his shoulder and put another book on the table.
"Tell me Samwell do you consider yourself to be a bad son?" he asked the boy.
"Well I've never been rude to father, I've never been embarrassing I don't think um," Samwell hesitated, smacking his lips as if they had gone dry, his eyes going slightly red as he took a deep breath in his pause.
"I can't say I've ever liked the term craven, especially if it's applied to war. If there exists a man who is eager to go to war and consider that courage, well there's a word I will not speak in the presence of ladies," Teagan said.
He briefly looked over his shoulder, Kaitlyn was with some of the servants, blushing as they watched Teagan speak with the Westerosi boy. She and others from the village had begun working more at the castle. Many of the servants had managed to escape and hide when the demon spread madness throughout the castle, some did not. The master at arms had been killed, as had some of the castle engineers. It prompted the villagers and surviving staff to move some of the equipment to Owen's house in order to improve his forge. Teagan and Sam had been helping with this, though Sam complained about carrying heavy objects, with patience he was able to make himself useful.
"My father is an honourable man," Sam said.
"There is honour as a form of decency, and there is the honour that we use to mask our ill qualities, I'm not saying your father isn't a good lord in terms of his duty but as a parent he strikes me as extremely poor and for that opinion I am sorry," Teagan explained.
"With Dickon now…oh gods, he might actually kill me now," Samwell shook, quivering to Teagan's shock. "I didn't even recover his body, it's just buried, he might think I killed him or just say I did to send me to the wall," his teeth chattered, the blood draining from his face.
Teagan gripped the boy's shoulders.
"I will write your father, my brother will write, Daylen will write," he said.
"It doesn't matter if every lord in Thedas and the Seven Kingdoms speaks well of me, he will never believe in me," Samwell said.
"Not if you don't believe in yourself, Sam when the dead were at the doors of the Chantry, I was frightened. I was no stranger to bloodshed but the thought of losing more of my people, of failing to protect them, of becoming what would kill them it terrified me and then I saw a young man, a year younger than Alistair leading him, leading others and I could see in him the same fear and uncertainty I saw in myself. But do you know why he was able to convince the people of Redcliffe of their strengths?" he asked and Sam shook his head. "He believed in himself first, not perfectly, and perhaps not always but if he went into the fighting thinking he would fail then it was over before it began. You have your own strength Sam, you'll find it, and I'm sure then your father will see that you are just as worthy as he is, if not more."
"And if he doesn't?" Samwell asked.
"Then he really is a cunt," Teagan said, putting his hand to his mouth when he heard Kaitlyn and her friends laugh behind him.
Despite the slur to his father, Samwell find himself smiling. Awe filled the faces of Sera, Alla and Megga as they watched Garrett roll a sovereign between his fingers. He seemed to make a fist before revealing his palm to the three girls, and no coin.
"Is it magic?" Megga asked.
"Simple optical trick, you're so focused on one hand you don't see what the other one does," Garrett said.
"We have similar teachings, the Tyrell women," Margaery said, standing away with a bunch of Andraste's grace in her hand.
"Would it be ignorant of me to assume the focus would be your body, to hide your wits?" Garrett asked.
"Our wits, oh I am no scholar," Margaery said bashfully, and Garrett spotted the tell of her brushing her bangs out of her field of vision.
"Neither am I, my sister read's better than I do, my handwriting is apparently better than Daylen's, and he had a circle education," Garrett said.
"Have you ever heard from your other family members?" she asked.
"My mother's brother Gamlen is apparently head of the house in Kirkwall, but we haven't had so much as a letter from him since my younger siblings were born. We didn't exactly get letters to Lothering all the way from Westeros, though cousin Revka had her ways of getting small news to us. What are my cousins like from your perspective Lady Margaery?" Garrett asked.
Margaery thought for a moment, looking away from Garrett and the eyes she could see were quite perceptive. He didn't act like other men did around her, but he gave nothing away of what he fancied. Woman, man, he seemed to treat both with equal but extremely brief physical admiration, like someone appreciating art. She could see very clearly the relations between the Hawkes and Amells, there was a gentler shape to the faces of Dayk and Revion, whilst Carver and Garrett had a rugged charm to them both making all four handsome in Margaery's eyes and certainly the eyes of her handmaidens. Dayla looked as different from the other Amells as Daylen did, what with her fairer hair. She was brighter in her beauty too, but more closed off than Bethany and Marian. Margaery saw the Hawke matriarch and could immediately see the mirror image of Marian, clearly the eldest twin took after her the most and she could confidently say Leandra was a greater beauty than Revka.
"Revion is…" she paused, knowing the least about the eldest of the Amell children. "Quiet, and dutiful, the opposite I would say of his twin Dayla, she's loud but not obnoxious and she flits about a bit, she seems to be searching for her place in a manner that doesn't conform to our societal norms, and Dayk," she smiled, inwardly chiding herself when Garrett smirked. "He is an earnest lad, eager to prove himself, but he is lost I would say, perhaps that's why he has a reputation as the worst Amell," she explained.
She walked away from the exchange, her handmaidens hesitantly following after her. Garrett looked over his shoulder when he heard the crunching of an apple. Carver was leaning against the windmill, lazily eating the fruit and watching the woman leave.
"She fucked cousin Dayk didn't she?" he asked abruptly.
"Oh she definitely fucked him," Garrett huffed.
"Can we trust the people of Westeros not to fuck our family over?" Carver asked, spitting the seeds out as Garrett walked over to him.
"Revka's arm, Damion's life, you ask me brother they've already fucked them over," Garrett said, looking over his shoulder at the Tyrells, a glare replacing his once charmed gaze.
Brecilian Forest
"Face it, we are lost," Zevran said.
"Must you point out the obvious every step we take elf?" Sten asked.
"Easy you two, we'll find a way out," Alistair said.
Daylen looked over his shoulder, smiling at the bickering between elf and Qunari. They had killed a few rising corpses, slain some demons, and cut through the forest where an old tree asked them to find his branch. Even Sten wasn't bothered by the fact they essentially negotiated with a spirit/demon possessed tree, probably because of how well spoken he was. That led them to a very mad demon, followed by what amounted to Sten complaining about the side quests. Luckily Daylen's persuade skill was enough to appease him. They were once again in elven ruins, a pathway that according to the old oak was leading them to the lair of the beasts.
"So Zathrian, anyone else think he's a bit iffy?" Alistair asked, hoping for conversation in the silence of walking.
"Even the Arl has his secrets," Daylen said.
"But he isn't against us in anyway," Alistair retorted.
"There is definitely more to the story than Zathrian lets on, I only hope that it isn't to the detriment of his clan or their commitment to us," Daylen said.
Whilst the group continued their trek, another group of adventurers was on the surface, awaiting the arrival of a faceless man. The supposed leader shook her head, making a tutting sound and faking a look of grief. She wore a white dress with chainmail over her chest and a leather tunic. The dark haired woman also wore a pair of fingerless grey gloves with gold bands and gold circlet. She carried on her back a quiver of arrows and a curved bow. The slender woman wiped the false tears from her eyes.
"Poor Jagen, so dedicated to his cause, only to fail," she said.
Behind her stood a white skinned Kossith man, his horns curved and adorned with blue string linked to a gold forehead crest and parts of his skin painted red. He had a sword and axe strapped to his back. Next to him stood a man in blue robes, reinforced with armoured pads, his face was covered by a black mask with a veil over his mouth. He carried a clear black staff with an orb on the top of it. His eyes were cast to the floor as he hummed.
"Nobody can achieve anything," he said.
"Nothing can achieve anything," the Kossith said.
"I see you are in as philosophical a mood as Salit often is, just what is wrong with you Nox?" the woman asked.
"Nobody can achieve anything Marjolaine," the mage said, looking over his shoulder at the woman.
Nox raised his hand, mana coursing through it, his eyes rolling back into his head before he slammed them into the ground. There was a rumble beneath them and Marjolaine smiled as the mage walked off.
"You know I'm after the girl, I have no interest in the boy mage," she said.
"I do," Nox said.
Underneath them, the group paused, before the ceiling began to shake. A single rock came down and from then on they knew what needed to be done. All five of them began to run as the ceiling began to cave in behind them. Zevran was running the fastest with Alistair, Oghren and Sten just falling behind. Daylen looked over his shoulder, seeing some of the rubble getting dangerously close to Oghren and Sten. He turned, creating pillars of ice, and then he released a blast of ice, effectively repairing areas of the ceiling. Or so he thought, as Oghren and Sten got clear and ran past him, parts of the ceiling came down between him and his companions.
"DAYLEN!" Alistair yelled.
"GO!" Daylen yelled.
There was a tunnel behind him, he'd meet them again. Breaking off into a run he moved down the tunnel, throwing the elven staff aside, it was slowing him down. He ran as fast as he could through the tunnel, coming to a clearing and diving just as the rubble came down. Finally he was safe, rolling down a slope until he had landed in a heap in another level of the ruin. There was some grass growing on the stone floor, a circular layout of elven runes. Tree roots were on the ceiling, making for naturally good reinforcements to the chamber. Daylen got off of the floor, brushing the dust off of his shoulder. He walked further until he heard something, like a voice echoing out. A thin veil, so meeting demons and possessed corpses was likely. Daylen slid the knife out of his belt and moved cautiously forward. Once he was out of the chamber he came into a room, a library not unlike the one at the tower. Shelves for books were built into the wall on the left, going across the room, with two more shelves of books in the middle of it.
Hello, hello!
Daylen blinked, rubbing his face and looking around again. He had heard a voice yet there was no one there.
Is anyone there? Will anyone help?
It wasn't a distant voice and the more Daylen focused the more he realised he wasn't so much as hearing a voice, but feeling it. He looked to the ground, following that echo in his heart to the bottles on the floor. They were not unlike the phylacteries the circle made, though finer in their little details and like Jowan's they were shattered save for one. The full difference between this phylactery and the circle ones was revealed; the bottle had a gem where the cork should be. Filled with blood, preserved after all this time, Daylen was drawn to it and he approached with caution.
Trapped, alone…
Daylen felt his hip shake; he looked to the sword spellweaver and saw it vibrate in conjunction with the phylactery. When checking over the sword, he saw between the bookcases a half broken stone altar. The phylactery continued to shake and the gem seemed to glow when Daylen reached out to it.
Please…please help.
Finally he touched the gem, feeling a warm sensation in his hand before images began to swim through his mind.
Armour clinking over her body, she knelt in front of the alter, paying tribute before glorious battle. The Evanuris would be pleased, and she would reap the rewards befitting a servant of the gods.
Dragons roared over her head, the beasts had gone berserk, what was this magic the humans commanded. She moved through the enemy forces, with grace, a dancer on the battlefield. Light glowed from the hilts of her spirit blades and she became a torrent of white cleaving through her enemies, the enemies of her gods.
An eternal reward awaited, that was what was promised her, they promised her. So what if they were not gods, they still had power, power to give her back what she had lost. But they had betrayed her as they had been betrayed; the eternal reward was just a joke.
Daylen nearly dropped the phylactery, breathing heavily at the experience of witnessing a life not his own. But beyond the memories he also gleamed through pages of a manual, at least that's what he compared the new knowledge to. He had gained incomplete teachings of an art, a form of fighting that he saw on display in the memories of the elf mage's phylactery. Again Daylen felt the presence, saw the memories and felt the loneliness.
"Don't be afraid, I heard your call," Daylen said.
Human, a human here, but wait, you are different.
"I am a mage, a Grey Warden too, if that's what you mean, what about you, who are you?" Daylen asked.
How long have I fallen to false hope? But you do not seem to be a fiction of my mind, for what is left of it.
She screamed again and again, the light of the life gem flashing as it had hundreds, no thousands of years ago. Just how much time had passed? She slept and hoped to never wake up, slept again and hoped to never wake up and screamed, clawing at her eyes, ripping at her ears only to wake up again trapped every time. Trapped in endless light, trapped in the void where all memory resides.
"The void where all memory resides, is that what was beyond the Fade?" Daylen asked.
You saw beyond? So that is why you seem different, your body reeks of shadow.
"I'll try not to take offence to that," Daylen muttered.
No, you misunderstand, light is not always good, for things can be as obscured as much by light as they are by darkness. Like my name, my name, lost to the void, to the light.
"You were a mage, but I saw you in armour," he said.
She ignited the spirit blades, throwing back her hood and revealing her armour, mage and warrior both she lashed out at her enemies. They all fell to the prowess and strength of the arcane warrior.
"What is an arcane warrior?"
She closed her eyes, light glowing through her veins, seeping into her muscles. When she opened her eyes, she blocked the attack of a man twice her size, protecting her charge.
"So they're like Knight-Enchanters, but the focus is on the body and not just spells that make it easier for a mage to traverse a battlefield," Daylen stated and the glitter of the gem seemed to indicate an agreement.
Not all knowledge is lost, the knowledge can be yours, the teachings, the techniques and the means to become an arcane warrior can be yours. In exchange for a favour, a small and tiny thing, which is often all an act of kindness is.
"What do I need to do?" Daylen asked.
I seek oblivion, but not for another, for myself, an end to my pain.
The dishonoured were placed upon the altar, their time and punishment finally served. The gem glowed and shook until finally it blew up. Good, the arcane warriors would not be dishonoured, the price of such a thing was high.
Daylen looked to the altar and nodded his head, taking the phylactery and walking towards the podium. He was about to place it on the podium, lifting it up to look at the gem one last time. That's when he saw it reflected in the gem, someone standing behind him, swinging their staff back. Daylen ducked, avoiding the bladed staff by a hairsbreadth. He drew his knife from his belt and struck out, missing his attacker who leant back. Nox released lighting from his staff, catching the small mana shield Daylen conjured. The force of the spell threw Daylen across the room, slamming into a tree root sticking out of the wall.
Bran was sitting by the tree again, just losing himself in the magic of Thedas. Theon once boldly said there was apparently no feeling like your first kill (of course he was talking out of his arse) but Bran had found a feeling. He was a mage, magic flowed through him, and simply being a mage was the feeling he could lose himself in. The display Garret showed him of haste was one thing, but when Bran sat down he could feel the fire within him, the fire of rage that could take form in a righteous blaze, the shiver of his fears, the nightmares he could turn into a freezing wind, the earth beneath him represented by whatever will he had. All of these things could collide, into the perfect storm but what drew Bran more to his magic was not the ice or the earth, but the roots.
Sitting in the shelter of the tree, he seemed to be asleep, but he could see the great memories of the roots. He saw the dead rise when the demon of desire corrupted Connor's urge to save his father. Then he would see the dead return to the Earth through fire or sword. Beyond the battle of Redcliffe he could see every first kiss shared under the tree, very nap, every child climbing it and beyond the tree itself, through the crossing roots of the trees of Ferelden he could see the great fight for freedom raged against Orlais, and the joy of freedom as people worked the fields for themselves.
Margaery Tyrell was doing something she never had done in Highgarden, she took up a commoner's practical garb and worked the field. She ploughed, cut, planted and looked at the blisters on her hands not in horror, but pride for she had planted seeds that would grow into grain. Teagan was teaching Samwell how to wield a sword, how to hold it, how to parry and defend oneself, he was a patient man who didn't immediately resort to beating the craven to force him to be tough, he never would. Bevin, a boy older than Bran and Arya watched them and repeated the moves with a stick, he carried out the moves better than Sam did, better than Bran did when Rodrick would teach him.
Beyond Redcliffe though there was evil marching, destroying the roots, corrupting them with a sickness akin to the stories old Nan told. This blight did not just wither at the roots, but twisted them into grotesque forms, and the whispers of their songs echoed through Bran's mind. 'Spread, twist, corrupt, tear and burn, kill, consume with fire and blood,' Bran wanted to scream until he went away from the darkspawn, until he moved through the roots again into the time of elves, only he found more war and more expansion, empires falling to betrayals like the great game his mother only gave him a small hint of. So he tried to get away, and found a battle, a battle between two mages in the remnants of the elf empire.
'Daylen,' Bran saw the grey warden and his determination in play.
He ducked and weaved, shaped his spells just barely to deflect whatever the assassin threw at him. Nox swung his staff, releasing something Daylen had not seen in a spell before, a wave of water. The mage had mixed fire and ice together so effectively that he was able to form a blade of intense high pressurised water. It left a mark in the wall behind Daylen, and cut a few strands of his hair too. Then the mage drew the sword handle from his belt, and ignited the spirit blade. He rushed towards Daylen like a jet of water, a variation of the fade step but with his custom element applied to it. Daylen countered with the ice generating benefits of the frost step. The mages passed one another, Daylen receiving a cut on the arm and Nox a cut to the side of his head, inches from his left eye.
'Damn,' he thought, looking to Daylen with rage.
But through all this, Daylen still held tightly and safely the gem. Like a charge that he had sworn to protect, he did so, enduring the flurry of slashes that Nox swung with his spirit blade. Daylen used parrying moves Leliana and Zevran taught him, he even used counter moves but they were useless. Nox appeared like a ghost, for the briefest moment passing through Daylen. There was even a barrier present, stinging Daylen's arm when he struck out.
'Fade cloak and veiled riposte,' he summarised internally.
Nox backed him against the wall and Daylen pushed off with his foot, running fire through his dagger blade. He swung just as Nox's cloak became active, but at the same time as he used his fire, he added a mana drain to the strike. The blade passed through Nox, but drew from him a wisp of blue, his mana became Daylen's for the briefest moment, but then Nox countered, swinging his sword and catching Daylen's dagger. His swing was so strong that Daylen's blade shattered, and when Nox brought up a cone of cold, Daylen shielded the gem, suffering from the brunt of the ice.
'Stupid fool,' Nox thought as Daylen was slammed against the wall, skin blue from the ice, lips quivering.
'Damn it, damn it,' Daylen thought.
Why protect me?
'Because I said I would help you, my word has to mean something,' the young man thought, watching Nox begin to summon lightning from his fingertips.
Time seemed to slow and instead of Nox, Daylen saw an elf woman. She was beautiful, golden hair, blue eyes that seemed to shine and a smile that shined even brighter.
Honour, something I had not seen amongst my own kin. But it's also pride I sense, careful human, pride can come before the fall.
He widened his eyes as Nox threw his hand forward, releasing the lightning.
I give you my knowledge and my faith.
The bolt slammed into the wall, shattering it and releasing a cloud of dust. Nox rushed through the dust with cold step, his sword at the ready. But Daylen wasn't there, the mage seemed to have slipped away. Nox walked through the hole he had made into the next room, scanning for his target. There was a footstep behind him and he swung around, his spirit blade meeting another sword. Nox gasped in shock when he saw the curved elven blade in Daylen's hand, the blade that rejected him before. Spellweaver let out the briefest shine as Daylen drew it; the runes across it representing mana, will and honour were prevalent on the blade. Nox used frost step to draw distance between himself and Daylen, so that he could properly analyse how different Daylen was.
And he was different, the subtle glow of his skin, the ice was gone and that shimmer around the grey warden wasn't unlike Nox's fade shroud. It was a lower version of the technique, but the aura itself seemed to represent an inward focus of Daylen's magic. It seemed subtle too but Daylen's muscles even appeared to be slightly bigger, sparks of blue glowing briefly in his veins. Daylen rushed forward with a step, not of ice, but lightning. He swung his sword into Nox's, making his bones shake from the impact. Nox regained his footing and swung for Daylen again, the lightning step became one of fire that singed Nox's wrist when he nearly hit Daylen.
You Daylen Amell, are not the last arcane warrior, pass on what you learn to the worthy.
"Damn you, how, how the hell is a human besides the boss capable of becoming that strong?" Nox asked.
"Strong?" Daylen raised his eyebrow as he sheathed spellweaver, holding the blade to the side and shuffling his feet. "Maintaining this actually takes effort, but I'm not tired, just annoyed really…like I have a constant headache, which is okay, I've already been in bad pain for many years now," he explained.
Nox's eyes grew even wider in fury; he held his sword up, the blade growing bigger as lightning crackled around him. But when he moved to take a step forward, he saw something else happen to Daylen. Some kind of aura subtly covered the outline of his body, making his shadow appear darker. Nox thrust his staff forward and Daylen raised his hand, catching the lightning bolt that Nox threw at him. It grinded against his hand, bolts splitting and hitting the walls and ceiling around them. The darkness around Daylen looked as if it had formed a claw around his arm. Smoke came out of his hand when he lowered it, his eyes narrowing into slits when Nox rushed forward, leaving icicles behind him.
Ice magic poured off of Nox's body as he instantly crossed the distance between himself and Daylen. He caught Daylen's cheek with his sword whilst Daylen gripped the handle of his sword. With another flash of ice Nox cut Daylen across the top of his shoulder when he adjusted his knees and crouched. Nox yelled and swung his sword, just as Daylen drew his.
The arcane warrior's draw became a slash, swinging at Nox, stepping to his side as he did. Nox held out his sword, believing he had delivered a blow. Suddenly his hilt and staff fell apart and he looked at his hand in horror. Daylen had left a cut across it from a slash so fast Nox didn't even feel it go through his weapons.
"No, impossible, no human could use those techniques, even if they were passed down," Nox said.
"But I had been using them before anyway," Daylen said as he slowly sheathed his sword.
"What?" Nox looked over his shoulder at him in shock.
Daylen out his hand to his face and his body suddenly became dark like a shadow.
"Focusing my magic inwards, it was like instinct for me, first time I did it was with this interfering, scheming three eyed crow…I really wanted to smash his face in, so I did, then in that void when I was trying to save Connor, I really, truly wanted to save him, to save everyone, so I focused inwards…unconsciously doing so with my magic too. You see I had the most basic premise of it down, but I still needed to master the finer techniques, there's more than one way to learn, sometimes people inevitably end up copying one another with their new discoveries," he explained.
"Damn you, you're so smart aren't you, so powerful, so wise," Nox's shoulders shook. "So why does my master want to kill you so badly? Why does he hate you so much?" he asked.
"There are plenty of people who hate me, I hate myself when I look in the mirror," Daylen said.
Nox screamed, fire glowing in his hands. Daylen thrust the pommel of spellweaver into Nox's nose, breaking it. He grabbed Nox's hand, freezing the ice and the flesh across Nox's palm. Nox brought his other hand around, only for Daylen to pass fire too through the scabbard of spellweaver, using it as a staff. He met Nox's flame, and proved to be the hotter, burning Nox's hand. Daylen struck Nox across the side of the face with his sheath, knocking off Nox's mask. The assassin went to his knees, hearing Daylen draw his sword.
"One chance to surrender, one chance to tell me who hired you," he said, holding the sword over his shoulder.
"I will never betray my master, the best man I know, the man who will create a better world, killing one bastard is the least I can do for him," Nox said.
He looked up at Daylen, seeing the coldness in his eyes, whilst Daylen saw his elven features, ears cut from racist abuse, eyes firm and determined.
"I believe you," he said before swinging his sword down.
Nox's head dropped to the floor as Daylen snapped his sword back into the sheath. He walked away from the body and back into the ruins. There was something else he had to do that was more important.
"Mother, mother," Bran could hear that voice through the roots.
Then he saw, saw the elven child weeping, yearning for the mother he had lost, wandering ruins for any sign of her. Bran felt sympathy for the child, but he was powerless, ultimately he could do nothing but watch.
"Mother, where are you, where?" the ghostly figure wandering the ruins asked.
Bran looked through the roots at a great battle, a great warrior fighting it. She was good, Bran imagined she was to the elves what Arthur Dayne was to his people. Or perhaps she was more along the lines of Duncan the Tall or Aemon the dragon knight, Bran had heard stories of a warrior from Orlais, a woman called Aveline he had no doubt Arya would enjoy hearing the story of when he got back. That thought made him think of his own mother, his home, and where he would be a boy just searching for his family, if one day for all his father and brother's strength, they too would fail and fall.
"You're looking for someone?"
He was nearly ripped from his visions by the shock he experienced. The ghost was sitting on the ruined floor, looking up as Bran did as Daylen Amell, his clothes partly torn, holding the sheathed spellweaver and a gem in his hand.
"You both are," he said, holding up the gem, letting it shine.
The child was suddenly embraced by strong arms.
"My child," she whispered.
Her armour fell apart, her sword left abandoned, she embraced her child.
"Mother," he whispered.
Tears welled in Bran's eyes.
Malcolm lifted Marian onto his shoulders and neighed like a horse, his daughter giggling whilst Garret laughed and Revka stroked her pregnant belly with a smile.
"Lift your shield higher Alistair," Eamon said, practicing with the blonde haired boy.
"Come on Alistair, don't give up," Teagan called out to his nephew.
"Your grandfather was a great slayer of dragons, this sword was his, but we are his legacy," Bevin nodded, amazed by his mother's story.
"Father, please, don't lose yourself to hatred!"
Daylen put the gem to his chest, seeing the ghostly figures and for a moment seeing in his imagination the embrace he could have shared with Revka Amell.
"Mother," he whispered.
He returned to the alter and gently placed the gem on it. There was a bright light before the glow of the gem died down, and it became no more unique than any rock in the ruins.
'Thank you,' he heard the gentle and grateful voice in his mind.
'Being a hero is about more than just slaying evil, evil can be relative, unless you can save others, then you can't really call yourself a hero,' he mused, half drawing the sword and looking at the symbols on the blade.
'Zathrian, whatever you have done, I will save your clan, and if need be save you too,' he vowed before slamming the sword fully into the sheath.
When he bowed in respect to the fallen elf warrior, he noticed something about the alter, it was on top of something. Shifting it aside he found a chest with a lock that easily broke. Inside of it was something that made him smile, he already had the sword, now he was complete.
The green seer awoke, knowing that he would make it home. Because there was an arcane warrior whom would see to it, and Brandon Stark would ensure that the North remembered the arcane warrior Daylen Amell.
Next Chapter 32: The end of the beast
I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter, next time will see the end of the beast arc and the beginning of the final arc in this story.
The inspiration of Daylen's quick drawing techniques with spellweaver are from Samurai anime and games, the techniques of Iaijutsu.