VII: Ema'elan

Carver cursed.

He'd been cursing all morning, now that he thought on it. Damn that blasted Witch, damn the bleeding cold, damn his bloody hangover, damn his now mud-filled boot, damn any elf who thought these woods were habitable, and damn the tevinters for the damned awful highway that managed to not only be indispensable for finding their way up through the foothills outside Kirkwall, but to also drive him mad as seemingly every other Maker-damned stone seemed to either come loose or sink down into the sludge under Carver's ironshod boots.

It only got worse when they found themselves leaving the road at Martin's say so, as the blighter knelt down and looked at some old hoofprints in the mud. He eyed them carefully before gesturing at a trail heading westwards around the base of the mountain. "Halla," he'd said. "Either that or their twin."

"What, you Dalish now under that plate?" Carver had sneered. "Frolic much when you were out pasting Darkspawn did you?"

Martin had shot up and tackled Carver bodily without reply. Carver had been all too eager to fight the man, finally having found an outlet for his damnation, before Nell had stuck her bloody nose in their midst. "Stop. Next one throws a punch gets three from me."

Carver had been only mildly surprised when Martin had pulled short at the same time he did. Course he would. Sister's got him all around her little finger, just like everybody. He shoved that thought down even as he shoved his fellow fereldan off him.

They continued without incident for some time, though the path was even harder than the highway had been, all the while the (maker-damned) clouds in the (maker-damned) sky finally saw fit to spew their (maker-damned) contents down on the party as they dug their way through the wooded wilderness.

Aveline, Martin, and Nell all ignored the sudden downpour, only pulling their cloaks over their heads to show they even noticed the rain. Varric cursed nearly as loudly as Carver, though only half as often as the dwarf found himself knee deep in muck.

"Andraste piss on it all," Carver barked angrily as he was shaken out of his reverie by stumbling nearly face first into the muddy earth before him. His boot, which had sunk a handspan down into a particularly deep mudhole, refused to raise with his leg as he tried to step. Feeling down with his hands, he cursed again as he found the root his foot had gotten tangled up under. As he pulled it up, he heard Varric cackle through the downpour.

"Hey Junior, just be grateful that we aren't back in Darktown," he called from a few paces behind. "Least you're digging through mud, not shit."

"Shut your bloody damned hole, Varric!"

Rather than seem irritated at yet another fight breaking out in their midst, Nell actually seemed to enjoy it. Probably enjoying me with my hands in muck. "You two are loud enough to wake the dead," she observed, raising her voice to dwarf even them. "I sure hope there aren't any brigands around to ambush us!"

"Keep your voice down, Hawke," Martin hushed emphatically. "Though I have no hope of our passage going completely unnoticed, perhaps we might not advertise our exact location?"

"At least we could ask bandits for directions," muttered Aveline dryly.

"In your case," Varric replied, "More like 'beat into them a sense of right and wrong' for directions."

"Well," Nell mused. "I sure hope they'd have the sense of right and left before the beating at least."

Carver flicked his hands forward, throwing mud and grime both downwards and, admittedly, towards Nell. She stuck her tongue out at him and turned on her heel.

She only made two steps before a bow emerged from behind a tree ten paces in front of her. Carver saw it just as she did and made to draw his sword.

"Do not attempt it, Shemlen," A voice called from behind, back and to his left. Its sound was musical through the rain, though its tone disdainful. Carver couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. Half the time you can't with elves. "Even without your shouting, the forest has noted your passage."

They had all frozen in place – Carver tried as casually as possible to look about for more archers but couldn't see anything through rain-soaked trees. Only the bow before them was visible, though it's wielder remained shrouded in branches.

Nell clapped her hands together in as much excitement as frustration. "Wonderful. We were looking for a clan of Dalish rumored to be up in these hills. Would you be so kind as to provide us with directions to their camp?"

The voice behind them spoke again. This time Carver was pretty sure it was a woman. "We have only arrows for your kind. Go back to your city. We shall not warn you again if you continue down this path."

"Path?" Varric cracked loudly. "This? A Path? Could've fooled me."

A different voice, similarly musical, spoke from Carver's right. He squinted, trying to make out its owner but couldn't. "But Variel, could these not be -"

Before the new voice could finish, an arrow loosed from behind and embedded itself into the earth painfully close to Carver's still sunken leg.

"Telahna Terath!" Barked the voice behind. "Leave this place, Shem, and never return. The next arrow will strike true."

Carver was just working out how quickly he could draw his blade when Martin of all people spoke up.

"Sul'ema Atish'an," he called over his shoulder to the angry leader behind them. He shoved one hand into a pocket on his thigh, withdrawing what looked like a small hunk of wood. "We would speak with your Keeper - "

"Telahna!" the voice barked again and Martin immediately stilled, his hand still holding whatever it was. "Stolen words or stolen trinkets mean nothing to us. We - "

The bow in front of them suddenly lowered, and a lithe form moved with it into sight. It was a small elf, with close shorn dark hair and a domineering face tattoo that cut across his forehead and down both sides of his face. "Peace, Variel. You have always judged too quickly." The male elf (or so Carver guessed) stepped forward towards Martin, unmindful of Aveline or Nell. The elf held out his hand to the man, who gave him the thing. Some kind of carving, looks like.

The elf turned it over in his hands, muttering softly to himself. "It couldn't be..."

He looked up to Martin. "Where did you get this, human?"

Martin, though not a tall man, positively towered over the elf. "It was given to me. I was told other Dalish would recognize it for what it was."

The elf nodded, looking back to the wood before handing it back. "Those words would have been gift enough. There are not many humans to have been honored by one of the People as you have."

"Sileal!" Shouted the voice behind. "You cannot accept this, they – "

The elf merely glanced back over Carver's shoulder, towards the voice. The protest immediately died out, and the elf looked back to Martin. "What do you seek amongst the Dalish? Friend or not to one of the People, rare is the human to visit where our aravels rest."

This time it was Nell who spoke. "We have a delivery. We were told to bring this," she dug in her shirt for the strangely preserved wormwood amulet that Flemeth had given them… nearly two years ago now. Not long after Bethany…

'Mother!' She cried, stepping forward and pushing her back. Carver was on his back foot, parrying a strike from a particularly twisted blade. He knew, with that cry, heard the stomping and felt the sheer presence of the Ogre.

He tried to turn, kicked forward desperately to dislodge his own attacker. Bethany!

Carver sank deeper into that horrible moment, and so missed the elf gasp, and his hurried step back as he took at the sight of Flemeth's trinket.

The younger Hawke was snapped back to the world by the elf's words. "I understand. The Keeper told us of your coming. Come, we will guide you to our camp."

All dissension from the other elves seemed to completely die then. Carver could feel the bows lowering as the Dalish apparently decided to follow the lead of the male elf, Sileal. Well, they're listening at least. I'd feel a lot better if they showed themselves.

Their march through the wilds eased up after that – the Dalish stoically lead them over the worst of the terrain at a speed that made their trek up the Highway seem a snail's crawl.

It wasn't long before the trees opened before them into a basin nudged up right against the foot of Sundermount. Several wheeled wagons with sails edged the clearing, the fabric furled against the now dying rain. Several dozen elves of all ages meandered about – a cluster of children surrounded an older elf as he instructed, a couple elves busied themselves cleaning a deer carcass; many more moved about in hushed groups of twos and threes, casting wary looks towards the strangers that now graced their camp.

Carver could feel their wariness down to his bones.

Martin mumbled something unintelligible before moving up alongside Sileal. "Hunter, where are your halla?"

Sileal's gaze whipped to Martin, though Carver couldn't tell if it was in surprise or anger. "They are gone," he answered levelly.

Martin hummed in response, now taking in the rest of the camp.

Varric bundled up to Martin and Carver turned away, looking to the center of the camp. The direction they were headed.

A canopy hung from another land-ship, no bigger but more brightly painted than the rest. Carver could make out a female elf reclined beneath it. Her fur robes, though not finery, seemed as such compared to their guide's more utilitarian garb. She looked up to them, then beckoned to them as they approached.

Contrarily Sileal held his arm before them, blocking their path. "You, ema'elan," he said, gesturing to Nell. He then looked pointedly to Martin. "And you, share your gifts. Though I did not ask, you can expect the Keeper to question how you received them."

Martin inclined his head stiffly, and both he and Nell moved to the woman Carver presumed was the Keeper. She stood as they approached.

"And what are we supposed to bloody do," Carver muttered under his breath, squatting in the grass. Even the Dalish deferred to Nell, and now even Martin. At least the rain's stopped. For all the good that does me, soaked as I am.

He nearly fell over when a voice answered him. Sileal, the hunter. "I suppose it's too much to ask for a quickling to have patience?"

Varric laughed, Aveline crouched, and Carver fumed.

[=]

The elderly Keeper stood as they approached, ancient sea-green eyes scrutinizing them from within her lined face.

Lined by age, and by tattoos, Hawke mused nervously. At least hers are lighter than most of the Dalish. Almost pretty. She looked to be in her forties, but Hawke had the nagging suspicion she was much, much older. In her hands she grasped a staff, and though she stood as a thin reed in the wind she held a gravitas of years of experience and strength.

For one brief moment, if Hawke closed her eyes, she could almost picture her father standing before them – and not the wizened elf.

The Keeper only spared Martin a glance before turning her full gaze to Hawke.

"Andaran atish'an ema'elan," the music of her voice tickled Hawke's ears. "I am Keeper Marethari. I have seen your coming in my dreams."

"You have?" Hawke asked, unable to control herself.

Marethari nodded. "Asha'bellanar told of your coming. Tasked Clan Sabrae to await your arrival. And your gift."

Hawke floundered a moment, nervous beyond belief, struggling to retrieve Flemeth's wormwood. Before she could, Martin interrupted.

"Yours is Clan Sabrae, Keeper?"

The Keeper turned now to Martin, eyes narrowing. "It is, child. What of it?"

Hawke managed to withdraw Flemeth's talisman even as Martin struggled to retrieve his own. He held his carved relief to the Keeper, and she took it gingerly in her hands.

She passed it between her fingers, eyes widening noticeably. "Sylaise. Strange..." she looked up at Martin again, still running her fingers reverently over the wooden detail. "You claim this was given to you."

Martin nodded, strangely timid. "I was given words to say as well. Sul'ema Atish'an."

The Keeper's face turned impassive. "Could you name who gave this to you?"

"Mahariel, of Clan Sabrae."

The Keeper closed her eyes and clutched the relief to her chest tightly. "Word had carried of her death, then triumph despite. Is our daughter well?"

"I left her side not two months past. She was hale and whole."

The Keeper exhaled sharply through her nose, handing back the talisman before opening her eyes. "I thank you for the news, child. I was told you bore a gift. I did not imagine you held one so precious. You have eased my heart."

Martin inclined his head, seemingly at a loss for words as the Keeper handed the carving back to him.

The Keeper turned to Hawke. "We have a task before us, ema'elan," gestured pointedly at the wormwood talisman Hawke now clutched in her hands. "Asha'bellanar should not be kept waiting further. First I would know your name." She seemed to consider for half a heartbeat. "Both of your names."

"I am Nell Hawke," Hawke answered, emboldened by the apparent warmth Martin's gift had inspired. She whispered a silent prayer to the Maker in thanks for his apparent friendship with the Dalish. Hawke had long been dreading this day, ever since she first grasped Flemeth's damn talisman. Never thought a stranger would make it easier.

"Martin," Martin intoned quietly.

"Of Highever," Hawke added cheekily, earning a glare from Martin.

"I am glad to meet you both," the Keeper replied. "Let me look upon you, ema'elan," she said before suddenly leaning in, taking Hawke's shoulders in her hands and locking eyes with her.

Hawke lowered her eyes in the scrutiny, disconcerted. Her face flushed. She felt supremely small under Marethari's intense gaze.

The Keeper released her shoulders and stepped back, a look of appreciation on her face. "There is truth in your face. A rare thing for a human." Her eyes flashed with an emotion Hawke couldn't identify before she continued. "Tell me, how did this burden fall to you, child?"

Bethany's form, crushed below her. Wesley, choking on his own blighted blood. A witch, moments ago a dragon, speaking with unfeigned sympathy.

She shook off the memory as bile built in her throat. She swallowed heavily. "The owner of this token saved us from the Blight. In return, she demanded we deliver it to you here." Nervousness ate at her suddenly. "We are a bit late, I suppose."

The Keeper shook her head gravely. "You will do as was bid. You are neither late nor early. However, I wish you had come sooner," her eyes crinkled slightly at that.

Maker above, is she joking? "Yes, well, indentured servitude tends to keep one from fulfilling any obligations – save one, of course."

The Keeper nodded sadly at that. "I honor you for coming despite your hardship. However, your debt is not yet fulfilled. The talisman must be taken to an altar, here near the peak of Sundermount, and be given a Dalish rite for the departed."

Hawke felt trepidation building in her gut. "And how am I supposed to do that? I don't know Dalish rituals."

"I offer you my First both to guide you to the altar and to perform the ritual."

"'First?'" Hawke asked, confused.

"Her apprentice." Martin explained.

"Oh, well that makes sense," Hawke replied, embarrassed.

"However," the Keeper interrupted gravely. "I have one condition for her assistance."

The trepidation surged up her gut and into the back of her throat. Hawke barely managed to choke it back down. "And what might that be?" She asked.

"That you – " she looked pointedly towards Martin, "both of you, shall take her back with you to Kirkwall. I have already been in contact with the Hahren of the Alienage – she but needs to be escorted to her new home."

"Well that's confusing," Hawke mumbled. "Isn't she your apprentice? Don't you need her?"

The Keeper's expression remained stoic, save for a quick glance at her hands. "Yes. But she has chosen a different path. If you wish to know more, speak with her. I would prefer not to discuss any more of our clan's affairs."

Probably just stepped in it. "I didn't mean to pry," Hawke assured Maretheri, hands placating. "Just point us to her and we'll get it done."

The Keeper nodded once more, finally. "Ma nuvenin." She gestured to the westernmost gap in the land-ships, where a small trail led upwards and out of sight through the trees, towards the mountain. "She is camped a short ways up the path. She is expecting you. May the Dread Wolf never catch your scent." The Keeper clasped her hands together, bowed slightly, then turned and headed into her land-ship.

They stood a moment in silence, thinking.

"So..." Hawke asked, trailing off.

"Yes?" Martin answered gruffly.

"Friends with a Dalish?"

"Once."

Hawke turned to look at him, saw the fingers of his right hand still in his pocket. Undoubtedly still clutching the carving. He didn't look back at her, glazed eyes still turned to where the Keeper had stood.

Whatever she was, it pains him.

Instead of interrogating him further, Hawke slapped his shoulder hard. "Appreciate you coming out with us, Martin. When we get back, I'll buy you a pint."

Martin snapped back to reality at the contact and turned a tired smile at her. "Thank you."

The sound of her name behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin. Hawke instead managed to turn to see the rest of their group stepping up – Aveline in the lead.

"So, is that it then?" The guardswoman asked. "Did she happen to know where our thief might be?"

What? Hawke's confusion must have shown on her face because Varric laughed. "I don't think she remembered to ask, Aveline."

Aveline let loose a long-suffering sigh. "I don't suppose we could knock on her carriage?"

"Disturbing the Keeper again would be unwise," Martin interjected, glancing around.

"It may not be wise, but it must be done. The thief must be found."

"I do not think the Clan will allow it."

Strangely enough it was Carver who spoke next, his eyes darting across the camp filled with equal parts irritation and nervousness. Every so often his hand twitched ever so slightly towards the blade at his back. "Let's just get us gone. They're only glaring now, but we do anything they don't like and its arrows for the lot of us – " he shot an irritated glance to Aveline. "Guard or no."

Strange, Hawke thought, noting an underlying ire in that look. "Besides," Hawke said helpfully, ignoring whatever lay between Aveline and Carver right then (When's Carver not fighting with someone). "We have to help out the Keeper's First with some rite with the… thing."

"You and your 'helping,'" Carver snarled. He tensed at his outburst, checked the area about him as if angry elves were about to tear him limb from limb. "You volunteer us for this too? These elves don't want our help. We need to go now."

Even Varric seemed hesitant. "I'm getting that vibe too, Hawke. I really think we should - "

Hawke silenced him with a look. Her eyes then turned to Carver, drilling into him, only flicking to Aveline for a moment.

"No," she ordered with all the iron she could bear. "This is part of the deal. End of discussion."

Carver blanched, nodded meekly and looked at his boots. Even Aveline paled.

"To the First then," answered Aveline after a moment.

She wouldn't – couldn't – admit it out loud, but Hawke shared her brother's reservations. These elves are a twitch away from turning us into pin cushions. But none of them can turn into a dragon. She shivered at the thought of Flemeth's wrath. She bore it and lead the way to the path up the mountain, enduring the dark looks from the clan about them. Most disturbing to Hawke were the looks of utter contemptuous hate the children directed their way. They lanced at Hawke's already tender, too recently broken heart.

The packed earth of the narrow trail loamed pleasantly beneath her boots as they hiked up the hill, turning with the path behind several boulders. As soon as the camp was out of sight, Hawke released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

And immediately bit back her next one. What lay before them drew a shocked intake of breath from Varric and stunned silence from everyone else.

Gone was the desolate landscape of browned forest filled with muck and stubby shrubbery. The mountainside before them was practically verdant, pale grass wisping beneath lines of emerald trees. There was an order to them, a pattern of placement that belied any thought of natural growth. It was as if they had stepped into another world, into the royal forest of some ancient king.

Varric's awed "Shit" drew Hawke from her wonder. She pushed on, leading their merry procession underneath the cover of the trees. There was a wondrous sense of permanence to the place that slowed their earlier hurried hike. Now, they stepped with unconscious reverence.

I wonder why the Dalish don't camp here? It's a far cry from the gloom of the Southern March. A sudden realization came to her as the trees bowed and bent in the breeze above her. They're guarding this. What is this place?

They marched on, Hawke's thoughts seeming to wisp through the trees ahead.