Temper, Temper (8/9)
Feb. 16th, 2011 12:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
serindranaTitle: Temper, Temper (8/9)
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: T
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 7334
Warnings: Body modification (tattooing)
Summary: The Landsmeet doesn't go well. Fynnea finds out just what it is to be a Grey Warden. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
The Landsmeet isn't going well.
Fynnea's been too caught up reconnecting with the Alienage and helping her family and running on too little sleep between the Archdemon's calls and nightmares of Drakon to sit down the various banns. Alistair and Leliana have done what they could, checking in with the Revered Mother of Denerim about the slaving in the Alienage and stopping in at the Gnawed Noble to check on those banns they've rescued family members of, but it hasn't done much.
They lose the vote.
It's chaos, Loghain calling for their heads and Arl Eamon calling on his troops. She's running and ducking and slamming into the archers she can reach. If they don't get the archers down, there's no way they can close with Loghain and his guards with their heavy armor and live. She runs low and catches them in stomaches and pelvises, knocking them down and falling onto them with quick blades.
Her head spins at the constant run and tumble. The lack of sleep is making her a little bit sluggish, a little bit disoriented, but Zevran is there beside her when she stumbles or takes just a moment too long pulling herself back up. He laughs and steps in front of her, behind her, keeping her moving and protecting her when she leaves herself open. He winks before he slides away into the shadows, then blows a kiss when he reappears across the room when a guard falls. Soon, she's laughing too, taking down guard after guard. It's perverse, how easily they fall. Unnatural. But unnatural blood thrums in her veins.
Nearly a year of constant fighting has honed them to a deadly force.
There's a brief pause and she tumbles out of the mass onto clear floor. When she looks up, she realizes that Loghain Mac Tir is there. And nobody else is.
She shouts and dodges a fast downswing of his sword, surprised and on the defensive. He forces her back and she has a hard time blocking and side-stepping every blow. He has decades of experience; she only took hold of her first wooden practice blade fifteen years ago. But they're both a little more sluggish than normal. He's not moving as fast as Alistair does, and that's all that keeps her alive. He, too, has dark circles under his eyes. There are a few moments when they both stumble and gasp for air, and she wants to laugh, but then he's driving her back again.
Suddenly, the sounds of their breathing and their footsteps are the only sounds in the room. Their eyes meet. She's struck again by how much she wants to hate him but can't, and he swallows hard and stares.
And then it's like the whole of the Bannorn is shouting and two of Arl Eamon's knights step between them, force them apart. Alistair pulls her away from Loghain, asking if she's alright, and Wynne is soaking her in spells that only alleviate a few bruises and the very edges of her exhaustion. Zevran is at her elbow, teasing her about one of the falls she'd almost taken during the battle, breaking whatever magic Loghain has worked. She comes back to herself. She finally takes her eyes off of him, grinning and laughing at Zevran's next ribald joke.
"This is unacceptable!" a female voice is crying. "If this is to be settled by combat, let it be settled properly. A duel." It's one of the banns, a woman with dark, short hair. The sister of the templar they found in Howe's basement, she realizes. Alistair had described her.
Fynnea steps forward, despite Alistair's immediate protest and Zevran's soft suggestion to think of her exhaustion. Wynne follows her, taking hold of her elbow, and Fynnea jerks away with a hiss.
"Fynnea, do not be foolish-"
"I can do this."
"You were barely holding your own just a few moments ago." Wynne's face is creased with worry. "Let Zevran handle this. Or Alistair."
Fynnea looks over at Loghain. Ostagar and the Alienage flash before her. I want to hate you. But I- And she knows she needs to sort this out- and she doesn't know any other way.
"I can do this. I have to do this." She grins, and there's a manic edge to it. Her exhaustion is forgotten. There's enough adrenaline, enough need to push through her unsteadiness. Her face goes from ashen to rosy and she takes another step towards Loghain.
He's watched her this entire time, silent and thoughtful, a sharp change from his anger and accusations.
"I will fight," she says, voice pitched to carry across the hall. Alistair groans and Zevran looks at her, worried. She glances back at him, smiles, and touches her earring. He manages a smile back.
Wynne sighs and casts a few last spells, buoying her up to as close to full mast as she can manage.
Fynnea steps up to Loghain, stretching and loosening up. "Ready?" Her voice and face are fierce, and Loghain hesitates.
But then the duel begins, and it's move step parry retreat. It's more intense and more thoughtful than full on battle. Each move is calculated. Each attack only lasts until the attacker begins to lose control, and then there's a retreat, a resettling. At first, it's slow. They feel each other out. They learn steps and moves and strategy. But it builds until they're dancing over the stone floor and she's ducking beneath his sword and stabbing up underneath his shield. He's knocking her back and trying to pin her down, trying to disarm her, leave one arm useless. She's maneuvering around behind him, a trick she learned from Zevran, and he's twisting to follow, turning in tight circles to keep up. Eventually, he turns too fast and she sees an opening.
He's too tall for her to take a blade to his throat or a pommel to his head, but she can drop low and strike at his knees with her armored boot, forcing them to buckle, taking him down to her level. From there he tries to block with his shield, but she kicks and catches it with her toe, throwing his shield arm up and out. His weight is on his sword-hand, keeping him up on his knees, but it makes him too slow to strike out at her, and she's able to step on his blade, pinning it.
Her swords are at his throat.
He stares up at her, then laughs, weakly. "Maric once said-" he whispers, pitched so only she can hear, "that a fighter should be judged by his enemies. I don't know if that's more a compliment to me, or you." She blinks, tilting her head in response.
"Kill him!" Alistair shouts, running over to them, towering above them both.
"No!" And there's Anora, back from whatever hallway she'd hidden in during the brawl, rushing to her father's side. "You can't! Alistair-"
"Take his head off," he growls. "You can't let him live."
And then, unexpected, another voice: "There is another option."
Fynnea finally looks up, tearing away from Loghain's eyes. Riordan, the Grey Warden she'd rescued from Howe and then nearly forgotten in the aftermath of Drakon, is crossing the room at a jog. "What is it?"
Because this fight has, of course, solved nothing. She half-knew it wouldn't, but it's given her time. If Zevran or Alistair had fought him, Loghain would already be dead.
"Conscript him into the Grey Wardens," Riordan says, and Alistair lets out a string of recently learned Antivan and dwarven curses.
"Absolutely not!"
"You said," Fynnea thinks aloud, slowly, "that we didn't have what we needed. For the Joining. When I asked you, in Arl Howe's dungeon." She hears Loghain's hissing intake of breath, remembering, no doubt, that it was he who sent Riordan there.
"I checked the warehouse again today. I was wrong. Let him take the Joining- if he dies, Alistair and Ferelden has its revenge. If he lives, we have another sword against the Archdemon."
"No." Alistair is right beside her now, and he grips her shoulder hard enough to make her begin to panic. She covers it, gritting her teeth and attempting not to tremble. "No, he killed Cailan. He killed Duncan. He's hunted us and- and- Fynnea, he sold the elves - your family - into slavery."
"I know!" she shouts, and part of her is right back outside of Redcliffe, yelling at him over a boy and a rose. It's just as mixed up, because she knows she should want to kill this man. This man, who is quietly staring up at her, grave and thoughtful and, in what might be his last moments, respectful again. "But Riordan is right- we need all the help we can get."
"And you'd trust him?"
"I trusted Zevran," she reminds him, and he sneers.
"Zevran was paid. He is not."
Fynnea shrugs, trying to dislodge his hand. She can't.
"I want him to take the Joining," she says, voice low and harsh, and Alistair swears again.
"Then I won't- I won't fight. I won't stand by. I- no, as king-"
"As king, you need to survive the battle with the Archdemon," Fynnea points out, the muscles of her throat and neck jumping at his continued firm grip. Zevran is watching Alistair carefully. "And we don't need two out of three Wardens going into battle unable to sleep and screaming at the slightest memory of what's happened to us." Alistair stiffens, then slowly releases her. "Two out of four is better odds," she continues, voice growing softer. "We can't- trust ourselves, right now. What if we panic in that last battle? What if we lose because we don't have one extra hand-"
"I won't fight," he says, then turns away from her. His shoulders are tense, and Fynnea sees Anora lifting a few fingers, as if to reach out, before she hesitates and then lets them fall. "... But I will allow this. If you really think it will work-"
"I do."
He laughs, bitterly. "And you're always right. I don't know how, but-" Alistair shakes his head, then climbs the dais, staring at the draping fabric that falls around the throne, ignoring them all.
Fynnea returns her gaze to Loghain. "The Joining, then. If you will take it?"
He nods after a span of heartbeats, and she lowers her swords.
Riordan steps forward, taking Loghain's arm and hauling him up. "We will return to Arl Eamon's estate, then. When you arrive, we will perform the Joining." He inclines his head, then escorts the Hero of River Dane from the Landsmeet chamber.
Anora whispers her thanks, and then follows Alistair up the dais steps, coming to stand a few feet to his right. Fynnea takes a deep breath, then turns to face the assembled nobles. "I submit that Alistair, son of Maric Theirin, be crowned King of Ferelden, and that Anora Mac Tir remain as Queen as his wife."
And despite the murmur of the crowd, then the shouts, then the cheers, all Fynnea can process is silence. On the shores of Lake Calenhad, she'd nearly driven Alistair away. Now she's finished the job. She hopes that it's worth it, and that her father will forgive her for freeing the man who nearly doomed the Alienage.
--
Loghain survives the Joining.
Alistair didn't come back with them to Eamon's, staying in the palace with Anora (and Bann Teagan, who's stayed to keep an eye on him), and so it's only Riordan and Fynnea in the room when Loghain drinks deep and his eyes roll back in his head. Riordan has the chalice, and so it's Fynnea who rushes forward to catch him, only slowing the fall of the far heavier man.
"Did I do the right thing?" she asks Riordan as trembles beneath the weight of metal, looking up at the other Warden. "Driving Alistair away- I didn't mean to do that."
"Your reasoning was sound, though," Riordan soothes, setting the chalice aside and helping her lift Loghain up and onto one of the low couches in the room. He had refused to shed his armor, and it's hard to carry his weight, but they manage. "Even I have... lingering problems, from my time in Howe's dungeons. They do rear their heads quite nastily, don't they?"
Fynnea nods, looking down at Loghain for a moment before stepping away with a sigh. "And Ferelden will need a king."
"She will," he agrees. "You have acted as befits a Grey Warden. Vengeance should not sway us, only the drive to defeat the Blight."
"You make it sound so easy." And she knows, if she had felt the same as Alistair, that Loghain would be dead. It's only her confusion about the man that's kept him alive.
He laughs. "Do I? It's the most painful thing ever, and historically, we've had comrades, armies. And we haven't been on the run. What you and Alistair have accomplished so far- it is extraordinary."
"Do you really think we'll be able to defeat the Archdemon? Just the three of us?"
"With the allies you've recruited, it is... possible. It will depend on how and where it shows itself."
Fynnea nods, slowly, sighing.
"I intend to go out," Riordan continues. "Draw close to the horde. Get an idea of where the Archdemon will strike. I believe it moves towards Redcliffe, though. You should set out there as soon as you can."
She nods again, then waves him away. "Go tell Eamon, and get ready for whatever you're going to do. I'll wait with him."
Riordan murmurs assent. He doesn't ask if she'll be safe, if he can be trusted, before he leaves. She's thankful for that- she doesn't have answers.
She waits there, alternating between pacing and leaning against the wall, for over an hour. Her thoughts range wide. She feels guilty, that Alistair has left, but she also feels reassured. He'll live, even if the rest of them die- she hopes. And she still feels confused whenever she looks at Loghain. He bows to her will now. He'd walked placidly back to Eamon's, Riordan reported to her, waited quietly. She's afraid to sleep, but not because she fears him. She fears Drakon's return. She fears the Archdemon. She fears the final battle, rushing closer and closer.
She's running her fingers lightly along the curve of the golden hoop in her ear when Zevran slips into the room, stepping quietly. She can't help but smile and he returns it, sliding up next to her and draping an arm lightly around her waist. She leans against his shoulder.
"He's survived?" Zevran murmurs, and she nods. The rise and fall of Loghain's chest is even and obvious; he didn't need to ask. But she's glad to hear his voice. She closes her eyes.
"There is something between you," he comments, voice light but fingers tensing along her waist.
"Something," Fynnea responds. "I don't- know."
"It was interesting to watch the two of you. He could not take his eyes off of you." Zevran chuckles. "As it should be. But- it was not because of hatred, or lust."
"The two you expected?"
"The two that are most common, no matter who's involved. He seemed more... awed, perhaps?"
That's still a surprise to her, but she nods, because she knows it's true.
"When I was assigned to kill you, I met him, you know. Very briefly. He barely acknowledged me. At the time, I thought perhaps he did not... like to associate with lowlives such as myself? But I wonder." His fingers have relaxed and are now drumming a rhythm. "Perhaps he was reserved because he did not enjoy the thought of sending me after you. Or perhaps he knew I would die."
"We talked before Ostagar. For maybe five minutes. At most. It was- an interesting conversation."
"Oh?"
"He said I was pretty for a Grey Warden."
Zevran snorts. "In my experience, Grey Wardens are all quite attractive. Riordan and Alistair could have their pick, if they chose."
Fynnea laughs. "If Alistair knew that..."
"He would no longer have to joke about lampposts in winter," Zevran agrees.
Fynnea's laugh turns into a little snicker, then fades. "But he also told me to never think that I was less, because I was a woman. Or because I was young. It was so unexpected. I mean, I had just horrified King Cailan and he knew I'd killed an Arl's entire household. And I'm an elf. But he- respected me."
Zevran hums, thinking. "And he still does."
"Maybe he hates me because of it? Just like I'm so confused about him. What he did- I should hate him, and yet-"
"You respect him," Zevran finishes with a note of dry humor. "We are all very twisted up, yes? Us, with all of our demons."
Fynnea is about to respond when Loghain groans, shifting on the couch. Zevran moves to leave, but she covers his hand with hers. She wants him here. He's the best at steadying her, just as he's the best at spinning her up.
Loghain opens his eyes, and for a long moment stares up at the ceiling. But then he moves, pushing himself up unsteadily. He sits with his hands braced on his knees, taking deep breath after deep breath before, finally, he looks up at Fynnea.
He seems surprised to see Zevran there. "You keep your assassin close," he comments.
Fynnea just nods.
"... I just saw-"
"The Archdemon," Fynnea supplies. "You'll dream of it. The darkspawn taint means we can sense them- hear them."
Loghain frowns. "... That's how Duncan knew it was a Blight."
Fynnea nods again, silent, watching.
Loghain closes his eyes, jaw tensed. He sits that way, thinking, processing, until finally he shakes his head and stands. "I see," is all he says.
"We're leaving for Redcliffe, probably in the morning. We're going to march fast. You should rest- and eat. We think the horde will be there. If it is..."
He nods. "... I- thank you. For sparing me. I didn't expect it of you."
"I make a habit of requisitioning useful people who try to kill me," Fynnea says with a little laugh, and she feels Zevran straighten, preen a little. Loghain just raises his brows.
"Indeed. All the same-"
"I don't like you," she interrupts. "And I can't forgive you, not with what happened at Drakon. Or in the Alienage. But- I trust you. I make a habit out of that, too- trusting people when I shouldn't. Don't disappoint me, Teyrn."
Loghain nods, a sharp, military gesture, but his voice is soft when he says, "Warden, I see in you a strength I've seen nowhere since Maric died. A perhaps mad, definitely uncontrollable strength, but a strength all the same. I won't let you down."
"Good. I hear I have a wicked temper when I'm disappointed." She grins, Zevran laughing soft at her ear.
--
They leave for Redcliffe before the sun even rises. On the way to the Landsmeet, Fynnea and her companions had stayed apart from what troops had marched with Eamon. Now, they're in the thick of them, planning, hoping, fearing. There are no indolent afternoons where Alistair (who did not see them off) lies in the road unwilling to move and Fynnea climbs trees. There are no quiet nights where she can lie by the fire with only Barkspawn.
When they make camp for the day, Fynnea sits for long hours with Eamon and Loghain, discussing contingencies and strategies. Loghain does most of the work, while Fynnea just listens and chimes in with her wild ideas that, sometimes, the older men even accept. But she's not a soldier. She doesn't know how to command an army. She only knows how to lead a ragtag band of adventurers that somehow now have a chance of saving the world.
The messengers went out from Denerim the night Riordan left to the Dalish, the Circle, Orzammar. They will hopefully meet the army in Redcliffe, but they may be too late, even with the messengers racing across the country on fast Orlesian horses. Ferelden is small, but not crossable in a day. Those fears are what keep her up at night when the nightmares don't. Even Zevran's urgings, his kisses and soft words, his pleasures that relax her utterly, can't soothe her every night, and she grows weaker. Her face is stuck on ashen now; no amount of activity or excitement can bring back her flush.
It takes thirteen days to reach Redcliffe, and they are marching hard. A day out, she stumbles on the road and falls. Wynne demands that they stop the march, but they can't. Eamon argues that they must press on. His people, after all, are the ones in danger. But Fynnea is incapable of fighting, and Loghain and Wynne pull Eamon aside. Soon, the army marches on without them.
Leliana is forcing stale bread into Fynnea, and she's protesting, fighting, saying that she can handle it, it was just a stone in the road. Zevran shakes his head, having none of it. It's the middle of the day, and the darkspawn are near, but they make camp. Wynne is threatening sleep spells, but Fynnea is fighting that, too. She doesn't want to be trapped in her nightmares, and if her sleep is spelled, that's exactly what will happen. Morrigan agrees - it's a technique she's used to great effect in battle.
Sten takes his turn lecturing her, reminding her that an exhausted soldier is a dead soldier, and worth nothing. Barkspawn is whining in agreement. Oghren offers a nightcap, but Fynnea nearly faints at the smell of booze and he has to drink it himself, grumbling only a little. It's Leliana and Zevran that manage to get her to lie down, in a patch of sun with her head on Zevran's lap and Leliana undoing her armor and gently massaging her tense, tired muscles. Fynnea still squirms, protesting that she won't sleep, she can't, Eamon will need them.
Loghain towers above her, blocking out the sun, and scowls. "You're acting like a petulant child."
"I am a petulant child," she shoots back, pouting for effect.
"No, you are a skilled warrior. You're honestly scared of a few nightmares?"
"You don't underst-"
"Yes, I do. Do you think pushing out the Orlesian occupation was all happy dances?" He shakes his head. "Deal with it." And he walks off, making a sound of frustration and- disgust?
It certainly weakens her resolve.
"My Warden," Zevran murmurs, "would it help if I ordered you to sleep?"
Leliana laughs softly, and Fynnea manages a blush through her pallor. Zevran smiles. "Um. M-maybe-"
"Then sleep." That night outside of Haven fills her mind and she smiles and relaxes, and when Leliana begins to sing a soft lullaby, she drifts off.
--
The exhaustion helps. She sleeps through the day and the following night without much more than a few brief feelings of unease in otherwise benign dreams. At some point, she wakes to Zevran lifting her and carrying her into the tent they now share (no pretense of him having his own). He smiles down at her, repeats his order, and settles her down on her bedroll. She remembers vaguely that he joins her, and that his body is warm against hers.
--
She shouldn't have slept.
She feels better, stronger than she has since before the Landsmeet, and her mind is quicker, but when they draw close enough to Redcliffe to smell the flames and the darkspawn, she knows it doesn't matter. There's no sign of Eamon's army. They clear Redcliffe as best they can, then race towards the castle, hoping against hope that they made it behind the walls. There aren't enough dead on the ground to be the army, but the darkspawn could have taken them. There are so many, all around, and yet-
"This doesn't seem like enough to be the horde," Loghain shouts as they run for the castle gates. "Shouldn't there be more?"
"I- probably. I don't know. But- I don't hear the Archdemon." She frowns and runs faster.
They make it into the courtyard and she wants to cry when she sees the guards. They call down that Eamon is safe and that Riordan has rejoined them just a few hours before. And then chaos, again, the darkspawn swarming and Fynnea fighting until they finally drop the portcullis down and seal off the castle- for now.
They rush into the meeting hall, where Eamon is pacing and talking in low tones with Riordan, whose expression is drawn. Both men look up at Fynnea's entrance, and Riordan smiles, stepping down from the dais and bowing to her. She waves him up.
Eamon says, "Are you feeling better, Warden?" Their relationship is strained at best, with his son's blood on her hands, but he's visibly relieved to see her.
"I am." She tries to stop the flush of shame and mostly succeeds. "I apologize, again. If I had been here-"
"We were able to handle the evacuation," he assures, "and Riordan has only just arrived."
"I'm afraid I bring grim news, Fynnea."
Fynnea inclines her head, bracing herself.
"The horde moves not towards Redcliffe, as I had thought- it's striking towards Denerim."
Loghain curses, and Fynnea stiffens. Cyrion- Soris- Shianni- Alistair- "Then we march to Denerim."
"The Archdemon is with them, and they are moving fast," Riordan continues. "When I encountered them, they were only a few days out. If they continue moving at the same pace, I fear their forward bands and scouts reach the capital in just over two days. The whole of the horde will not be far behind."
"Maker's breath," Wynne breathes, leaning heavily on her staff.
"Then-"
"We march tomorrow," Eamon cuts in, before she can rally the troops for a midnight strike. "You may have rested your fill, but our troops have not. And if we wait the night, the chances of our allies arriving is much higher. Take the night to prepare yourself."
"We can't reach the capital in time-" She's shaking in place, tense and fearful and seeing already the darkspawn tearing through the gates to the Alienage, her family barely armed, barely defended. She sees the darkspawn storming the palace and tearing Alistair to pieces, overwhelming him in his father's house.
"But we will," Eamon says, quietly. "Because we must. Denerim's walls should be able to hold them off for a while, but- we will be entering an active battlefield."
Riordan is watching her, and she turns to him. "Are you- okay?" he asks, and he's asking both about the fear and anger in her eyes as well as her collapse on the road.
She can only shrug, though, because while she's rested, she's not okay. This isn't okay.
"Because you will need to be at your best in the final battle. We have our duty."
Fynnea shrugs again. Her voice is bordering on flat when she responds, "I'll do my best. And with my allies-"
He gives her a strange look, and she quiets. "No, it is up to us."
"... Just us?" Her heart falls again, another inch.
He frowns. "I- we must talk. Fynnea, Loghain, accompany me?"
--
Fynnea's world is dropping out from beneath her feet.
She wants to scream No, NOT ME, but she knows that this is her duty. She can't turn from it. If Alistair is already dead when they arrive, there will be only three Wardens in all Ferelden. One of them must die. She has a feeling that it will probably be her. Her throat is tight and her head is spinning. From the moment of her Joining, she's known she has a duty, an obligation, a role, but it's never seemed this close and all-encompassing. It's always given her freedom and wiggle room and adventures before, things she'd craved as a child, but this-
"If you fall, Riordan, I will attempt the final blow," Loghain says, stepping forward. "... As an act of redemption. My time has come, at any rate."
Fynnea turns to him, pulling herself away from the stretch of wall she's been staring at. "Loghain-"
"And you, little firebrand, will stay out of my way when the moment comes." Their relationship is still a strange and strained dance, but somehow, over thirteen days of marching, he's become integrated into the group. He has earned the grudging respect of everybody, save perhaps Morrigan, and has stood at her side. He is sharp with her, sardonic and grim, but that strange awe and respect is there, and his words often border on the affectionate. And she still can't hate him. She still can't really, truly want to punish him. And here he's offering.
"I-"
Riordan sighs. "We will do as we must. If the opportunity presents itself, take it- we may not get another chance."
Fynnea nods, mutely.
"We- will not likely have a chance for reflection on the warpath. Take time to yourselves tonight. Set- things in order." Riordan's gaze is fixed on Fynnea when he speaks, and there it is again, that urge to scream and rail and run. Run to Antiva. Take Zevran and go, because otherwise- she's just found him! And he's just found her. It's not fair.
War isn't fair, she reminds herself, and this is war, not a tale of adventure. She is going to die. So is her family. All she can hope for is that- that they'll win, because that's all there is left.
"Very well," she hears herself saying, and then she's all but running to the room Eamon has given her. Her head is pounding. Everything changed in the Landsmeet chamber, in Denerim, and it's spiraling out of control. A year of adventure, and now this twisting, wrenching climax. Gone are the days, weeks, where she could forget the tragedies of her family, forget the horrors of Ostagar, forget the bad and live in the moment. There is only duty, and her room feels heavy for it, feels filled with it. And there, standing in front of the fire, is-
Morrigan.
"Get out," Fynnea growls. "I don't have time for this right now." She doesn't know what the witch wants, but they haven't interacted much since Lothering. Before things became so complicated, they'd had a perverse glee in making Alistair squirm in common, and a love of battle. But Morrigan's cynicism and bitterness quickly set her apart from the rest of the group.
"Are you so sure?" Morrigan responds, voice light, and she walks to Fynnea with a slight sway of her hips. Fynnea just glares, arms crossed over her chest. "I have- an option for you. That will allow you to live."
"You were listening?"
"I already knew."
Fynnea tenses, keeping herself in check. "I'm not running." No matter how much I want to.
"Of course not. No, I offer-"
"I don't care," Fynnea growls, shouts almost. "I don't- I don't want to hear maybes! I just- get out, Morrigan." She's sure the option won't be a real option, will be something she can't do, and she doesn't want the knowledge that there was an almost in there. Her blood boils at the thought. That she could have done something. She can't afford to know it. Because if she does, she'll take the option, no matter the consequences. She'll abandon her duties. And she- can't. She already ran from her family once.
"All I offer-"
"GET. OUT."
Morrigan holds up her hands, sighing. "Very well, then. Suffer your fate and don't try to change it. 'Tis your choice, I suppose."
And then she's gone.
Her first reaction is to grab something heavy and breakable and throw it into the wall. But she's not feeling anger so much as grief. Fynnea sinks into the seat before the fire, the bones and muscles of her face screaming with the effort of holding back tears that refuse to fall and that she refuses to let fall. She stares at the licking flames, imagining how they'll dance in Denerim. The city will probably be on fire when they arrive. The darkspawn love burning their battlegrounds down. There will be death. Zevran- might not even survive the battle, anyway. They always knew they might die. Why are things different?
Because now there's a one in three chance that she will, without a doubt, have to sacrifice herself. And when she dies, it won't be because she falls in battle. It won't be because she loses.
It will be her reward for winning.
"My Warden?"
Oh. There are the tears.
Zevran comes around the side of the chair, sitting down on the armrest and looking at her with- his lips are pressed together, and it's like he knows. She mumbles something about her family, and he nods gravely. She's going to leave it like that, explain away her tears as only about her father, her cousins, but he doesn't let her.
"I presume Riordan did not draw you and Loghain into the traditional eve-of-battle Warden orgy?"
"There's no such thing," she gets out, unable to help the small, weak laugh. It works its way out past the fear and devastation.
"No? Why is it that all these rumored orgies never happen?" He pouts, then slides into the seat next to her, shifting until, somehow, he has her in his lap. His arms wrap - loosely, of course - around her middle, and he presses a kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers, pulling off her gauntlets to rub at her face, push the tears aside.
"Don't know," she mumbles, words thick with tears and mucous. "'s a shame."
"Indeed." He begins to work at unbuckling her pauldrons. "... Would it make it easier if I said that I had heard everything Riordan told you two?"
She'd almost managed to stop crying, but that undoes it again, and he's forced to leave her armor for the moment to cradle her back against him. He strokes her hair, kisses at her piercing, does everything he knows to make her calm. He's never seen her distraught before, with the anger all melted away. She'd come close in Ostagar, but it had been short lived and nowhere near this intense.
"Or," he whispers, "we could pretend that I did not. I can- I will go along with either, my Warden. Fynnea."
"I'm going to die." It's somewhere between a wail and a whisper, and all he can do, because he can't hold her tight, is return to working at her armor. She helps with fumbling fingers, until she's free and can press against him, curl up against him, bury her face in his neck.
"If I understood it correctly, you might have to die, but you might not."
She whimpers agreement.
"And Morrigan has a proposition."
"Oh, you heard that, too," Fynnea mumbles, weakly, and he nods.
"But of course!" His laugh dies on his lips. "... Why did you turn her away like that?"
"I- because I have a job to complete. Whatever she's offering- it'd be like running away. And I can't."
"Even though you want to?"
"Even though." Fynnea is miserable, a pile of trembling, sobbing child in his lap, and he's being so patient, stroking her hair and her skin, speaking softly. She's both relieved and furious that he's not crying. She couldn't handle it if he was, but- she can't handle the idea that he's unaffected. "And besides- I have to go. For everybody."
"If I could," he says, and his voice is suddenly full of such controlled sadness that she could break, "I would sacrifice myself in place of you."
It would be so easy just to stay lying across his lap all night, a mess of tears and whimpers, but she pulls herself up and out of the chair with a deep breath. "I know," she whispers, kissing him. "I- stay here. Just a moment."
Her pack is by the door, and she fumbles with the straps and buckles holding it closed, and again in its interior. She can feel Zevran watching her, knows he's leaning over the armrest. She pulls out her prize as quickly as she can and returns to him, looking down at him with grave but wondering eyes.
She holds her wedding ring out to him.
She'd already planned on giving it to him on the eve of the battle, but now, when she might never come back, it's heavy with symbolism and need. She'd planned a speech, but the words refuse to come. She just presents it to him and watches, quietly, as he reaches out to take it.
"Fynnea," he says, so softly that she can barely hear. He stares at the roughly shaped iron, then back up to her. She nods. He slips it onto his finger, swallowing hard, and she can see the tears threatening in both their eyes.
She smiles at him to hold them off. "Something to remember me by."
"Does- this mean we're married? In Ferelden?" He's managing a little grin, echoing her words from the back streets of Denerim, and she's laughing.
"Oh, no, I hope not!" she echoes in return, then adds, "Unless you want to be."
That little grin widens, and he stands, holding his hand out between the two of them. "I confess to not liking the word," he says, slowly, "but the sentiment? I believe I can live with it. Quite well, actually."
Her smile is growing in response to his, and she lets out a long, deep breath. She can't forget the sword hanging over her, but right now, there are other things. Other moments. And maybe she won't die. But even if she does-
She leans in and kisses him.
She has this.
He hums against her mouth, then swings her up into his arms, and the movement is so fast that she doesn't have time to panic at the momentary tightness of his grip. He carries her to the bed and deposits her onto it with a laugh. He'd already closed the door when he had snuck in, and so he wastes no time in drawing her sweat-soaked linens from her body. "If," he says, thoughtfully, "we are married, then it follows that we must break in the wedding bed, hm?"
"Tonight?" she asks, shivering at his touch, watching as he leans back to pull off his leathers. They haven't had time enough together since Taliesen's death to relearn each other's bodies, but she's still thrumming with sadness and fear, somewhere in the background.
"When else?" he whispers, pausing to look down at her. That sadness escapes and floods her body for a moment, but then he smiles and purrs, in his best Antivan lothario voice, "We can cry and wail together. It will be romantic, yes? Your mother would approve."
Fynnea grins and laughs at that, and doesn't mind in the slightest when he crawls up along her body, leaving kisses as he goes.
--
Fynnea traces the patterns on his back with light fingers, still languid and happy, thoughts of the coming days quiet. "Mm... that time, when you were talking to Alistair..."
"Which time? There have been many." He props himself up on his elbows, making his back curve and catch the light. She leans over to kiss at one brilliant spot.
"About the tattoos."
"Aah, that long ago. What about it? You've already seen all of mine, I can assure you."
She smirks. "I know." Her fingernails scratch over a few raised scars along one of the inked curves. "You also tried to talk him in to getting one."
"Oh, yes, with the massage. The oil."
"Do you actually have the things to do it?"
"No oil," he says, sadly.
"But the needle? The ink?"
Zevran thinks a moment, then nods. "I do have the ink. The needle would not be hard to fashion. I suppose I could filch it from Wynne's room, if it comes to it. Why?"
Fynnea pulls herself away from his skin enough to look at him. "I want you to add something to the tattoo on my face. I mean- if you want to. But I want you to."
He's already up and pulling on some of his shed clothing. "I'd be honored."
He's away for only ten minutes at the most. When he returns, he pulls her to the floor with him. He mixes a small pot of dark brown ink, humming to himself and stroking the marks on her face as he tries to match the color. "I bought the materials from the Dalish," he admits. "In case Alistair ever did take me up on the offer." He stirs the pigment a few last times to check the consistency, then sets about cleaning her face with gentle strokes of a wet cloth that smells of elfroot and other herbs known only to the Dalish. "I think I like this use better, though."
Fynnea smiles up at him, settling onto the pillow she'd brought down with her. It's like an old story, the warriors adorning themselves before the dawn of the battle, he with metal, she with ink. Her mother would be proud of so many things, it's almost overwhelming, and it's all that's filling her head when Zevran makes the first tap of the needle.
She twitches, but he is hovering above her, fingers only resting lightly on her face between strikes. He's not holding her down, and it keeps the impulse to fight low. They'd inserted sharp needles into her at Drakon, and the memory wars with the softness of Zevran's touches. Her control wins out, but it's hard, and she tenses. Zevran takes a moment to stroke along the curve of her breast and waist to help her relax, then resumes creating the line.
There had been moments that night when he moved above her and inside of her, where she'd come close to panic. Moments where his weight had grown too heavy. But he was and is attentive, responding to the slightest sound or clench of her teeth, working to keep her calm. He doesn't seem to mind it. In fact, he murmurs after stilling a particularly violent thrash that almost drives the needle into her eye, when he has the point set aside and her in his arms, he enjoys it. It keeps him focused. It keeps him from getting caught up by his own demons. Between the two of them, he can hurt her and she can be hurt and their demons are forced to wait on the outside of them.
When they resume, after her heartbeat has slowed, there's a moment where things click over. She still tenses and occasionally has moments of fear, but his care and the intensity even in the softest of his touches start lighting the same responses she used to have. She trusts him, and the trust soon overtakes the memories. Her Reaver blood thrums and makes her float a little outside of herself. Her eyes unfocus as she smiles up at him, shifting and curling her toes.
He laughs, quietly, and it's a welcome sound.
He works methodically, with more skill and less cursing by far than Shianni had so many years ago. It hurts, and it hurts even more when he works over the curve of her cheekbone and the plane of her temple, but he knows from experience how deep to push. He doesn't have to redo marks. He doesn't slip. He works quickly enough that he leaves a throbbing trail but no screaming pain. It feels good, in its own way, just like the strikes from the scabbard had felt amazing even when she'd limped for a day afterwards. It's acceptable pain. It's more than acceptable; it's invigorating, enchanting, wonderful. It's him.
When she goes into what might be the final battle of her life, she'll feel him no matter how far away he is.
9
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Pairing: F!Tabris/Zevran
Chapter Rating: T
Series Rating: M/NC-17
Wordcount: 7334
Warnings: Body modification (tattooing)
Summary: The Landsmeet doesn't go well. Fynnea finds out just what it is to be a Grey Warden. (ff.net & Ao3)
Notes: The world and all characters except for the specifics of Fynnea's characterization are the property of Bioware. ♥ Oh, and Penny Arcade came up with the name Barkspawn.
Chapters: 1 Interlude 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Epilogue
The Landsmeet isn't going well.
Fynnea's been too caught up reconnecting with the Alienage and helping her family and running on too little sleep between the Archdemon's calls and nightmares of Drakon to sit down the various banns. Alistair and Leliana have done what they could, checking in with the Revered Mother of Denerim about the slaving in the Alienage and stopping in at the Gnawed Noble to check on those banns they've rescued family members of, but it hasn't done much.
They lose the vote.
It's chaos, Loghain calling for their heads and Arl Eamon calling on his troops. She's running and ducking and slamming into the archers she can reach. If they don't get the archers down, there's no way they can close with Loghain and his guards with their heavy armor and live. She runs low and catches them in stomaches and pelvises, knocking them down and falling onto them with quick blades.
Her head spins at the constant run and tumble. The lack of sleep is making her a little bit sluggish, a little bit disoriented, but Zevran is there beside her when she stumbles or takes just a moment too long pulling herself back up. He laughs and steps in front of her, behind her, keeping her moving and protecting her when she leaves herself open. He winks before he slides away into the shadows, then blows a kiss when he reappears across the room when a guard falls. Soon, she's laughing too, taking down guard after guard. It's perverse, how easily they fall. Unnatural. But unnatural blood thrums in her veins.
Nearly a year of constant fighting has honed them to a deadly force.
There's a brief pause and she tumbles out of the mass onto clear floor. When she looks up, she realizes that Loghain Mac Tir is there. And nobody else is.
She shouts and dodges a fast downswing of his sword, surprised and on the defensive. He forces her back and she has a hard time blocking and side-stepping every blow. He has decades of experience; she only took hold of her first wooden practice blade fifteen years ago. But they're both a little more sluggish than normal. He's not moving as fast as Alistair does, and that's all that keeps her alive. He, too, has dark circles under his eyes. There are a few moments when they both stumble and gasp for air, and she wants to laugh, but then he's driving her back again.
Suddenly, the sounds of their breathing and their footsteps are the only sounds in the room. Their eyes meet. She's struck again by how much she wants to hate him but can't, and he swallows hard and stares.
And then it's like the whole of the Bannorn is shouting and two of Arl Eamon's knights step between them, force them apart. Alistair pulls her away from Loghain, asking if she's alright, and Wynne is soaking her in spells that only alleviate a few bruises and the very edges of her exhaustion. Zevran is at her elbow, teasing her about one of the falls she'd almost taken during the battle, breaking whatever magic Loghain has worked. She comes back to herself. She finally takes her eyes off of him, grinning and laughing at Zevran's next ribald joke.
"This is unacceptable!" a female voice is crying. "If this is to be settled by combat, let it be settled properly. A duel." It's one of the banns, a woman with dark, short hair. The sister of the templar they found in Howe's basement, she realizes. Alistair had described her.
Fynnea steps forward, despite Alistair's immediate protest and Zevran's soft suggestion to think of her exhaustion. Wynne follows her, taking hold of her elbow, and Fynnea jerks away with a hiss.
"Fynnea, do not be foolish-"
"I can do this."
"You were barely holding your own just a few moments ago." Wynne's face is creased with worry. "Let Zevran handle this. Or Alistair."
Fynnea looks over at Loghain. Ostagar and the Alienage flash before her. I want to hate you. But I- And she knows she needs to sort this out- and she doesn't know any other way.
"I can do this. I have to do this." She grins, and there's a manic edge to it. Her exhaustion is forgotten. There's enough adrenaline, enough need to push through her unsteadiness. Her face goes from ashen to rosy and she takes another step towards Loghain.
He's watched her this entire time, silent and thoughtful, a sharp change from his anger and accusations.
"I will fight," she says, voice pitched to carry across the hall. Alistair groans and Zevran looks at her, worried. She glances back at him, smiles, and touches her earring. He manages a smile back.
Wynne sighs and casts a few last spells, buoying her up to as close to full mast as she can manage.
Fynnea steps up to Loghain, stretching and loosening up. "Ready?" Her voice and face are fierce, and Loghain hesitates.
But then the duel begins, and it's move step parry retreat. It's more intense and more thoughtful than full on battle. Each move is calculated. Each attack only lasts until the attacker begins to lose control, and then there's a retreat, a resettling. At first, it's slow. They feel each other out. They learn steps and moves and strategy. But it builds until they're dancing over the stone floor and she's ducking beneath his sword and stabbing up underneath his shield. He's knocking her back and trying to pin her down, trying to disarm her, leave one arm useless. She's maneuvering around behind him, a trick she learned from Zevran, and he's twisting to follow, turning in tight circles to keep up. Eventually, he turns too fast and she sees an opening.
He's too tall for her to take a blade to his throat or a pommel to his head, but she can drop low and strike at his knees with her armored boot, forcing them to buckle, taking him down to her level. From there he tries to block with his shield, but she kicks and catches it with her toe, throwing his shield arm up and out. His weight is on his sword-hand, keeping him up on his knees, but it makes him too slow to strike out at her, and she's able to step on his blade, pinning it.
Her swords are at his throat.
He stares up at her, then laughs, weakly. "Maric once said-" he whispers, pitched so only she can hear, "that a fighter should be judged by his enemies. I don't know if that's more a compliment to me, or you." She blinks, tilting her head in response.
"Kill him!" Alistair shouts, running over to them, towering above them both.
"No!" And there's Anora, back from whatever hallway she'd hidden in during the brawl, rushing to her father's side. "You can't! Alistair-"
"Take his head off," he growls. "You can't let him live."
And then, unexpected, another voice: "There is another option."
Fynnea finally looks up, tearing away from Loghain's eyes. Riordan, the Grey Warden she'd rescued from Howe and then nearly forgotten in the aftermath of Drakon, is crossing the room at a jog. "What is it?"
Because this fight has, of course, solved nothing. She half-knew it wouldn't, but it's given her time. If Zevran or Alistair had fought him, Loghain would already be dead.
"Conscript him into the Grey Wardens," Riordan says, and Alistair lets out a string of recently learned Antivan and dwarven curses.
"Absolutely not!"
"You said," Fynnea thinks aloud, slowly, "that we didn't have what we needed. For the Joining. When I asked you, in Arl Howe's dungeon." She hears Loghain's hissing intake of breath, remembering, no doubt, that it was he who sent Riordan there.
"I checked the warehouse again today. I was wrong. Let him take the Joining- if he dies, Alistair and Ferelden has its revenge. If he lives, we have another sword against the Archdemon."
"No." Alistair is right beside her now, and he grips her shoulder hard enough to make her begin to panic. She covers it, gritting her teeth and attempting not to tremble. "No, he killed Cailan. He killed Duncan. He's hunted us and- and- Fynnea, he sold the elves - your family - into slavery."
"I know!" she shouts, and part of her is right back outside of Redcliffe, yelling at him over a boy and a rose. It's just as mixed up, because she knows she should want to kill this man. This man, who is quietly staring up at her, grave and thoughtful and, in what might be his last moments, respectful again. "But Riordan is right- we need all the help we can get."
"And you'd trust him?"
"I trusted Zevran," she reminds him, and he sneers.
"Zevran was paid. He is not."
Fynnea shrugs, trying to dislodge his hand. She can't.
"I want him to take the Joining," she says, voice low and harsh, and Alistair swears again.
"Then I won't- I won't fight. I won't stand by. I- no, as king-"
"As king, you need to survive the battle with the Archdemon," Fynnea points out, the muscles of her throat and neck jumping at his continued firm grip. Zevran is watching Alistair carefully. "And we don't need two out of three Wardens going into battle unable to sleep and screaming at the slightest memory of what's happened to us." Alistair stiffens, then slowly releases her. "Two out of four is better odds," she continues, voice growing softer. "We can't- trust ourselves, right now. What if we panic in that last battle? What if we lose because we don't have one extra hand-"
"I won't fight," he says, then turns away from her. His shoulders are tense, and Fynnea sees Anora lifting a few fingers, as if to reach out, before she hesitates and then lets them fall. "... But I will allow this. If you really think it will work-"
"I do."
He laughs, bitterly. "And you're always right. I don't know how, but-" Alistair shakes his head, then climbs the dais, staring at the draping fabric that falls around the throne, ignoring them all.
Fynnea returns her gaze to Loghain. "The Joining, then. If you will take it?"
He nods after a span of heartbeats, and she lowers her swords.
Riordan steps forward, taking Loghain's arm and hauling him up. "We will return to Arl Eamon's estate, then. When you arrive, we will perform the Joining." He inclines his head, then escorts the Hero of River Dane from the Landsmeet chamber.
Anora whispers her thanks, and then follows Alistair up the dais steps, coming to stand a few feet to his right. Fynnea takes a deep breath, then turns to face the assembled nobles. "I submit that Alistair, son of Maric Theirin, be crowned King of Ferelden, and that Anora Mac Tir remain as Queen as his wife."
And despite the murmur of the crowd, then the shouts, then the cheers, all Fynnea can process is silence. On the shores of Lake Calenhad, she'd nearly driven Alistair away. Now she's finished the job. She hopes that it's worth it, and that her father will forgive her for freeing the man who nearly doomed the Alienage.
Loghain survives the Joining.
Alistair didn't come back with them to Eamon's, staying in the palace with Anora (and Bann Teagan, who's stayed to keep an eye on him), and so it's only Riordan and Fynnea in the room when Loghain drinks deep and his eyes roll back in his head. Riordan has the chalice, and so it's Fynnea who rushes forward to catch him, only slowing the fall of the far heavier man.
"Did I do the right thing?" she asks Riordan as trembles beneath the weight of metal, looking up at the other Warden. "Driving Alistair away- I didn't mean to do that."
"Your reasoning was sound, though," Riordan soothes, setting the chalice aside and helping her lift Loghain up and onto one of the low couches in the room. He had refused to shed his armor, and it's hard to carry his weight, but they manage. "Even I have... lingering problems, from my time in Howe's dungeons. They do rear their heads quite nastily, don't they?"
Fynnea nods, looking down at Loghain for a moment before stepping away with a sigh. "And Ferelden will need a king."
"She will," he agrees. "You have acted as befits a Grey Warden. Vengeance should not sway us, only the drive to defeat the Blight."
"You make it sound so easy." And she knows, if she had felt the same as Alistair, that Loghain would be dead. It's only her confusion about the man that's kept him alive.
He laughs. "Do I? It's the most painful thing ever, and historically, we've had comrades, armies. And we haven't been on the run. What you and Alistair have accomplished so far- it is extraordinary."
"Do you really think we'll be able to defeat the Archdemon? Just the three of us?"
"With the allies you've recruited, it is... possible. It will depend on how and where it shows itself."
Fynnea nods, slowly, sighing.
"I intend to go out," Riordan continues. "Draw close to the horde. Get an idea of where the Archdemon will strike. I believe it moves towards Redcliffe, though. You should set out there as soon as you can."
She nods again, then waves him away. "Go tell Eamon, and get ready for whatever you're going to do. I'll wait with him."
Riordan murmurs assent. He doesn't ask if she'll be safe, if he can be trusted, before he leaves. She's thankful for that- she doesn't have answers.
She waits there, alternating between pacing and leaning against the wall, for over an hour. Her thoughts range wide. She feels guilty, that Alistair has left, but she also feels reassured. He'll live, even if the rest of them die- she hopes. And she still feels confused whenever she looks at Loghain. He bows to her will now. He'd walked placidly back to Eamon's, Riordan reported to her, waited quietly. She's afraid to sleep, but not because she fears him. She fears Drakon's return. She fears the Archdemon. She fears the final battle, rushing closer and closer.
She's running her fingers lightly along the curve of the golden hoop in her ear when Zevran slips into the room, stepping quietly. She can't help but smile and he returns it, sliding up next to her and draping an arm lightly around her waist. She leans against his shoulder.
"He's survived?" Zevran murmurs, and she nods. The rise and fall of Loghain's chest is even and obvious; he didn't need to ask. But she's glad to hear his voice. She closes her eyes.
"There is something between you," he comments, voice light but fingers tensing along her waist.
"Something," Fynnea responds. "I don't- know."
"It was interesting to watch the two of you. He could not take his eyes off of you." Zevran chuckles. "As it should be. But- it was not because of hatred, or lust."
"The two you expected?"
"The two that are most common, no matter who's involved. He seemed more... awed, perhaps?"
That's still a surprise to her, but she nods, because she knows it's true.
"When I was assigned to kill you, I met him, you know. Very briefly. He barely acknowledged me. At the time, I thought perhaps he did not... like to associate with lowlives such as myself? But I wonder." His fingers have relaxed and are now drumming a rhythm. "Perhaps he was reserved because he did not enjoy the thought of sending me after you. Or perhaps he knew I would die."
"We talked before Ostagar. For maybe five minutes. At most. It was- an interesting conversation."
"Oh?"
"He said I was pretty for a Grey Warden."
Zevran snorts. "In my experience, Grey Wardens are all quite attractive. Riordan and Alistair could have their pick, if they chose."
Fynnea laughs. "If Alistair knew that..."
"He would no longer have to joke about lampposts in winter," Zevran agrees.
Fynnea's laugh turns into a little snicker, then fades. "But he also told me to never think that I was less, because I was a woman. Or because I was young. It was so unexpected. I mean, I had just horrified King Cailan and he knew I'd killed an Arl's entire household. And I'm an elf. But he- respected me."
Zevran hums, thinking. "And he still does."
"Maybe he hates me because of it? Just like I'm so confused about him. What he did- I should hate him, and yet-"
"You respect him," Zevran finishes with a note of dry humor. "We are all very twisted up, yes? Us, with all of our demons."
Fynnea is about to respond when Loghain groans, shifting on the couch. Zevran moves to leave, but she covers his hand with hers. She wants him here. He's the best at steadying her, just as he's the best at spinning her up.
Loghain opens his eyes, and for a long moment stares up at the ceiling. But then he moves, pushing himself up unsteadily. He sits with his hands braced on his knees, taking deep breath after deep breath before, finally, he looks up at Fynnea.
He seems surprised to see Zevran there. "You keep your assassin close," he comments.
Fynnea just nods.
"... I just saw-"
"The Archdemon," Fynnea supplies. "You'll dream of it. The darkspawn taint means we can sense them- hear them."
Loghain frowns. "... That's how Duncan knew it was a Blight."
Fynnea nods again, silent, watching.
Loghain closes his eyes, jaw tensed. He sits that way, thinking, processing, until finally he shakes his head and stands. "I see," is all he says.
"We're leaving for Redcliffe, probably in the morning. We're going to march fast. You should rest- and eat. We think the horde will be there. If it is..."
He nods. "... I- thank you. For sparing me. I didn't expect it of you."
"I make a habit of requisitioning useful people who try to kill me," Fynnea says with a little laugh, and she feels Zevran straighten, preen a little. Loghain just raises his brows.
"Indeed. All the same-"
"I don't like you," she interrupts. "And I can't forgive you, not with what happened at Drakon. Or in the Alienage. But- I trust you. I make a habit out of that, too- trusting people when I shouldn't. Don't disappoint me, Teyrn."
Loghain nods, a sharp, military gesture, but his voice is soft when he says, "Warden, I see in you a strength I've seen nowhere since Maric died. A perhaps mad, definitely uncontrollable strength, but a strength all the same. I won't let you down."
"Good. I hear I have a wicked temper when I'm disappointed." She grins, Zevran laughing soft at her ear.
They leave for Redcliffe before the sun even rises. On the way to the Landsmeet, Fynnea and her companions had stayed apart from what troops had marched with Eamon. Now, they're in the thick of them, planning, hoping, fearing. There are no indolent afternoons where Alistair (who did not see them off) lies in the road unwilling to move and Fynnea climbs trees. There are no quiet nights where she can lie by the fire with only Barkspawn.
When they make camp for the day, Fynnea sits for long hours with Eamon and Loghain, discussing contingencies and strategies. Loghain does most of the work, while Fynnea just listens and chimes in with her wild ideas that, sometimes, the older men even accept. But she's not a soldier. She doesn't know how to command an army. She only knows how to lead a ragtag band of adventurers that somehow now have a chance of saving the world.
The messengers went out from Denerim the night Riordan left to the Dalish, the Circle, Orzammar. They will hopefully meet the army in Redcliffe, but they may be too late, even with the messengers racing across the country on fast Orlesian horses. Ferelden is small, but not crossable in a day. Those fears are what keep her up at night when the nightmares don't. Even Zevran's urgings, his kisses and soft words, his pleasures that relax her utterly, can't soothe her every night, and she grows weaker. Her face is stuck on ashen now; no amount of activity or excitement can bring back her flush.
It takes thirteen days to reach Redcliffe, and they are marching hard. A day out, she stumbles on the road and falls. Wynne demands that they stop the march, but they can't. Eamon argues that they must press on. His people, after all, are the ones in danger. But Fynnea is incapable of fighting, and Loghain and Wynne pull Eamon aside. Soon, the army marches on without them.
Leliana is forcing stale bread into Fynnea, and she's protesting, fighting, saying that she can handle it, it was just a stone in the road. Zevran shakes his head, having none of it. It's the middle of the day, and the darkspawn are near, but they make camp. Wynne is threatening sleep spells, but Fynnea is fighting that, too. She doesn't want to be trapped in her nightmares, and if her sleep is spelled, that's exactly what will happen. Morrigan agrees - it's a technique she's used to great effect in battle.
Sten takes his turn lecturing her, reminding her that an exhausted soldier is a dead soldier, and worth nothing. Barkspawn is whining in agreement. Oghren offers a nightcap, but Fynnea nearly faints at the smell of booze and he has to drink it himself, grumbling only a little. It's Leliana and Zevran that manage to get her to lie down, in a patch of sun with her head on Zevran's lap and Leliana undoing her armor and gently massaging her tense, tired muscles. Fynnea still squirms, protesting that she won't sleep, she can't, Eamon will need them.
Loghain towers above her, blocking out the sun, and scowls. "You're acting like a petulant child."
"I am a petulant child," she shoots back, pouting for effect.
"No, you are a skilled warrior. You're honestly scared of a few nightmares?"
"You don't underst-"
"Yes, I do. Do you think pushing out the Orlesian occupation was all happy dances?" He shakes his head. "Deal with it." And he walks off, making a sound of frustration and- disgust?
It certainly weakens her resolve.
"My Warden," Zevran murmurs, "would it help if I ordered you to sleep?"
Leliana laughs softly, and Fynnea manages a blush through her pallor. Zevran smiles. "Um. M-maybe-"
"Then sleep." That night outside of Haven fills her mind and she smiles and relaxes, and when Leliana begins to sing a soft lullaby, she drifts off.
The exhaustion helps. She sleeps through the day and the following night without much more than a few brief feelings of unease in otherwise benign dreams. At some point, she wakes to Zevran lifting her and carrying her into the tent they now share (no pretense of him having his own). He smiles down at her, repeats his order, and settles her down on her bedroll. She remembers vaguely that he joins her, and that his body is warm against hers.
She shouldn't have slept.
She feels better, stronger than she has since before the Landsmeet, and her mind is quicker, but when they draw close enough to Redcliffe to smell the flames and the darkspawn, she knows it doesn't matter. There's no sign of Eamon's army. They clear Redcliffe as best they can, then race towards the castle, hoping against hope that they made it behind the walls. There aren't enough dead on the ground to be the army, but the darkspawn could have taken them. There are so many, all around, and yet-
"This doesn't seem like enough to be the horde," Loghain shouts as they run for the castle gates. "Shouldn't there be more?"
"I- probably. I don't know. But- I don't hear the Archdemon." She frowns and runs faster.
They make it into the courtyard and she wants to cry when she sees the guards. They call down that Eamon is safe and that Riordan has rejoined them just a few hours before. And then chaos, again, the darkspawn swarming and Fynnea fighting until they finally drop the portcullis down and seal off the castle- for now.
They rush into the meeting hall, where Eamon is pacing and talking in low tones with Riordan, whose expression is drawn. Both men look up at Fynnea's entrance, and Riordan smiles, stepping down from the dais and bowing to her. She waves him up.
Eamon says, "Are you feeling better, Warden?" Their relationship is strained at best, with his son's blood on her hands, but he's visibly relieved to see her.
"I am." She tries to stop the flush of shame and mostly succeeds. "I apologize, again. If I had been here-"
"We were able to handle the evacuation," he assures, "and Riordan has only just arrived."
"I'm afraid I bring grim news, Fynnea."
Fynnea inclines her head, bracing herself.
"The horde moves not towards Redcliffe, as I had thought- it's striking towards Denerim."
Loghain curses, and Fynnea stiffens. Cyrion- Soris- Shianni- Alistair- "Then we march to Denerim."
"The Archdemon is with them, and they are moving fast," Riordan continues. "When I encountered them, they were only a few days out. If they continue moving at the same pace, I fear their forward bands and scouts reach the capital in just over two days. The whole of the horde will not be far behind."
"Maker's breath," Wynne breathes, leaning heavily on her staff.
"Then-"
"We march tomorrow," Eamon cuts in, before she can rally the troops for a midnight strike. "You may have rested your fill, but our troops have not. And if we wait the night, the chances of our allies arriving is much higher. Take the night to prepare yourself."
"We can't reach the capital in time-" She's shaking in place, tense and fearful and seeing already the darkspawn tearing through the gates to the Alienage, her family barely armed, barely defended. She sees the darkspawn storming the palace and tearing Alistair to pieces, overwhelming him in his father's house.
"But we will," Eamon says, quietly. "Because we must. Denerim's walls should be able to hold them off for a while, but- we will be entering an active battlefield."
Riordan is watching her, and she turns to him. "Are you- okay?" he asks, and he's asking both about the fear and anger in her eyes as well as her collapse on the road.
She can only shrug, though, because while she's rested, she's not okay. This isn't okay.
"Because you will need to be at your best in the final battle. We have our duty."
Fynnea shrugs again. Her voice is bordering on flat when she responds, "I'll do my best. And with my allies-"
He gives her a strange look, and she quiets. "No, it is up to us."
"... Just us?" Her heart falls again, another inch.
He frowns. "I- we must talk. Fynnea, Loghain, accompany me?"
Fynnea's world is dropping out from beneath her feet.
She wants to scream No, NOT ME, but she knows that this is her duty. She can't turn from it. If Alistair is already dead when they arrive, there will be only three Wardens in all Ferelden. One of them must die. She has a feeling that it will probably be her. Her throat is tight and her head is spinning. From the moment of her Joining, she's known she has a duty, an obligation, a role, but it's never seemed this close and all-encompassing. It's always given her freedom and wiggle room and adventures before, things she'd craved as a child, but this-
"If you fall, Riordan, I will attempt the final blow," Loghain says, stepping forward. "... As an act of redemption. My time has come, at any rate."
Fynnea turns to him, pulling herself away from the stretch of wall she's been staring at. "Loghain-"
"And you, little firebrand, will stay out of my way when the moment comes." Their relationship is still a strange and strained dance, but somehow, over thirteen days of marching, he's become integrated into the group. He has earned the grudging respect of everybody, save perhaps Morrigan, and has stood at her side. He is sharp with her, sardonic and grim, but that strange awe and respect is there, and his words often border on the affectionate. And she still can't hate him. She still can't really, truly want to punish him. And here he's offering.
"I-"
Riordan sighs. "We will do as we must. If the opportunity presents itself, take it- we may not get another chance."
Fynnea nods, mutely.
"We- will not likely have a chance for reflection on the warpath. Take time to yourselves tonight. Set- things in order." Riordan's gaze is fixed on Fynnea when he speaks, and there it is again, that urge to scream and rail and run. Run to Antiva. Take Zevran and go, because otherwise- she's just found him! And he's just found her. It's not fair.
War isn't fair, she reminds herself, and this is war, not a tale of adventure. She is going to die. So is her family. All she can hope for is that- that they'll win, because that's all there is left.
"Very well," she hears herself saying, and then she's all but running to the room Eamon has given her. Her head is pounding. Everything changed in the Landsmeet chamber, in Denerim, and it's spiraling out of control. A year of adventure, and now this twisting, wrenching climax. Gone are the days, weeks, where she could forget the tragedies of her family, forget the horrors of Ostagar, forget the bad and live in the moment. There is only duty, and her room feels heavy for it, feels filled with it. And there, standing in front of the fire, is-
Morrigan.
"Get out," Fynnea growls. "I don't have time for this right now." She doesn't know what the witch wants, but they haven't interacted much since Lothering. Before things became so complicated, they'd had a perverse glee in making Alistair squirm in common, and a love of battle. But Morrigan's cynicism and bitterness quickly set her apart from the rest of the group.
"Are you so sure?" Morrigan responds, voice light, and she walks to Fynnea with a slight sway of her hips. Fynnea just glares, arms crossed over her chest. "I have- an option for you. That will allow you to live."
"You were listening?"
"I already knew."
Fynnea tenses, keeping herself in check. "I'm not running." No matter how much I want to.
"Of course not. No, I offer-"
"I don't care," Fynnea growls, shouts almost. "I don't- I don't want to hear maybes! I just- get out, Morrigan." She's sure the option won't be a real option, will be something she can't do, and she doesn't want the knowledge that there was an almost in there. Her blood boils at the thought. That she could have done something. She can't afford to know it. Because if she does, she'll take the option, no matter the consequences. She'll abandon her duties. And she- can't. She already ran from her family once.
"All I offer-"
"GET. OUT."
Morrigan holds up her hands, sighing. "Very well, then. Suffer your fate and don't try to change it. 'Tis your choice, I suppose."
And then she's gone.
Her first reaction is to grab something heavy and breakable and throw it into the wall. But she's not feeling anger so much as grief. Fynnea sinks into the seat before the fire, the bones and muscles of her face screaming with the effort of holding back tears that refuse to fall and that she refuses to let fall. She stares at the licking flames, imagining how they'll dance in Denerim. The city will probably be on fire when they arrive. The darkspawn love burning their battlegrounds down. There will be death. Zevran- might not even survive the battle, anyway. They always knew they might die. Why are things different?
Because now there's a one in three chance that she will, without a doubt, have to sacrifice herself. And when she dies, it won't be because she falls in battle. It won't be because she loses.
It will be her reward for winning.
"My Warden?"
Oh. There are the tears.
Zevran comes around the side of the chair, sitting down on the armrest and looking at her with- his lips are pressed together, and it's like he knows. She mumbles something about her family, and he nods gravely. She's going to leave it like that, explain away her tears as only about her father, her cousins, but he doesn't let her.
"I presume Riordan did not draw you and Loghain into the traditional eve-of-battle Warden orgy?"
"There's no such thing," she gets out, unable to help the small, weak laugh. It works its way out past the fear and devastation.
"No? Why is it that all these rumored orgies never happen?" He pouts, then slides into the seat next to her, shifting until, somehow, he has her in his lap. His arms wrap - loosely, of course - around her middle, and he presses a kiss to the back of her neck. She shivers, pulling off her gauntlets to rub at her face, push the tears aside.
"Don't know," she mumbles, words thick with tears and mucous. "'s a shame."
"Indeed." He begins to work at unbuckling her pauldrons. "... Would it make it easier if I said that I had heard everything Riordan told you two?"
She'd almost managed to stop crying, but that undoes it again, and he's forced to leave her armor for the moment to cradle her back against him. He strokes her hair, kisses at her piercing, does everything he knows to make her calm. He's never seen her distraught before, with the anger all melted away. She'd come close in Ostagar, but it had been short lived and nowhere near this intense.
"Or," he whispers, "we could pretend that I did not. I can- I will go along with either, my Warden. Fynnea."
"I'm going to die." It's somewhere between a wail and a whisper, and all he can do, because he can't hold her tight, is return to working at her armor. She helps with fumbling fingers, until she's free and can press against him, curl up against him, bury her face in his neck.
"If I understood it correctly, you might have to die, but you might not."
She whimpers agreement.
"And Morrigan has a proposition."
"Oh, you heard that, too," Fynnea mumbles, weakly, and he nods.
"But of course!" His laugh dies on his lips. "... Why did you turn her away like that?"
"I- because I have a job to complete. Whatever she's offering- it'd be like running away. And I can't."
"Even though you want to?"
"Even though." Fynnea is miserable, a pile of trembling, sobbing child in his lap, and he's being so patient, stroking her hair and her skin, speaking softly. She's both relieved and furious that he's not crying. She couldn't handle it if he was, but- she can't handle the idea that he's unaffected. "And besides- I have to go. For everybody."
"If I could," he says, and his voice is suddenly full of such controlled sadness that she could break, "I would sacrifice myself in place of you."
It would be so easy just to stay lying across his lap all night, a mess of tears and whimpers, but she pulls herself up and out of the chair with a deep breath. "I know," she whispers, kissing him. "I- stay here. Just a moment."
Her pack is by the door, and she fumbles with the straps and buckles holding it closed, and again in its interior. She can feel Zevran watching her, knows he's leaning over the armrest. She pulls out her prize as quickly as she can and returns to him, looking down at him with grave but wondering eyes.
She holds her wedding ring out to him.
She'd already planned on giving it to him on the eve of the battle, but now, when she might never come back, it's heavy with symbolism and need. She'd planned a speech, but the words refuse to come. She just presents it to him and watches, quietly, as he reaches out to take it.
"Fynnea," he says, so softly that she can barely hear. He stares at the roughly shaped iron, then back up to her. She nods. He slips it onto his finger, swallowing hard, and she can see the tears threatening in both their eyes.
She smiles at him to hold them off. "Something to remember me by."
"Does- this mean we're married? In Ferelden?" He's managing a little grin, echoing her words from the back streets of Denerim, and she's laughing.
"Oh, no, I hope not!" she echoes in return, then adds, "Unless you want to be."
That little grin widens, and he stands, holding his hand out between the two of them. "I confess to not liking the word," he says, slowly, "but the sentiment? I believe I can live with it. Quite well, actually."
Her smile is growing in response to his, and she lets out a long, deep breath. She can't forget the sword hanging over her, but right now, there are other things. Other moments. And maybe she won't die. But even if she does-
She leans in and kisses him.
She has this.
He hums against her mouth, then swings her up into his arms, and the movement is so fast that she doesn't have time to panic at the momentary tightness of his grip. He carries her to the bed and deposits her onto it with a laugh. He'd already closed the door when he had snuck in, and so he wastes no time in drawing her sweat-soaked linens from her body. "If," he says, thoughtfully, "we are married, then it follows that we must break in the wedding bed, hm?"
"Tonight?" she asks, shivering at his touch, watching as he leans back to pull off his leathers. They haven't had time enough together since Taliesen's death to relearn each other's bodies, but she's still thrumming with sadness and fear, somewhere in the background.
"When else?" he whispers, pausing to look down at her. That sadness escapes and floods her body for a moment, but then he smiles and purrs, in his best Antivan lothario voice, "We can cry and wail together. It will be romantic, yes? Your mother would approve."
Fynnea grins and laughs at that, and doesn't mind in the slightest when he crawls up along her body, leaving kisses as he goes.
Fynnea traces the patterns on his back with light fingers, still languid and happy, thoughts of the coming days quiet. "Mm... that time, when you were talking to Alistair..."
"Which time? There have been many." He props himself up on his elbows, making his back curve and catch the light. She leans over to kiss at one brilliant spot.
"About the tattoos."
"Aah, that long ago. What about it? You've already seen all of mine, I can assure you."
She smirks. "I know." Her fingernails scratch over a few raised scars along one of the inked curves. "You also tried to talk him in to getting one."
"Oh, yes, with the massage. The oil."
"Do you actually have the things to do it?"
"No oil," he says, sadly.
"But the needle? The ink?"
Zevran thinks a moment, then nods. "I do have the ink. The needle would not be hard to fashion. I suppose I could filch it from Wynne's room, if it comes to it. Why?"
Fynnea pulls herself away from his skin enough to look at him. "I want you to add something to the tattoo on my face. I mean- if you want to. But I want you to."
He's already up and pulling on some of his shed clothing. "I'd be honored."
He's away for only ten minutes at the most. When he returns, he pulls her to the floor with him. He mixes a small pot of dark brown ink, humming to himself and stroking the marks on her face as he tries to match the color. "I bought the materials from the Dalish," he admits. "In case Alistair ever did take me up on the offer." He stirs the pigment a few last times to check the consistency, then sets about cleaning her face with gentle strokes of a wet cloth that smells of elfroot and other herbs known only to the Dalish. "I think I like this use better, though."
Fynnea smiles up at him, settling onto the pillow she'd brought down with her. It's like an old story, the warriors adorning themselves before the dawn of the battle, he with metal, she with ink. Her mother would be proud of so many things, it's almost overwhelming, and it's all that's filling her head when Zevran makes the first tap of the needle.
She twitches, but he is hovering above her, fingers only resting lightly on her face between strikes. He's not holding her down, and it keeps the impulse to fight low. They'd inserted sharp needles into her at Drakon, and the memory wars with the softness of Zevran's touches. Her control wins out, but it's hard, and she tenses. Zevran takes a moment to stroke along the curve of her breast and waist to help her relax, then resumes creating the line.
There had been moments that night when he moved above her and inside of her, where she'd come close to panic. Moments where his weight had grown too heavy. But he was and is attentive, responding to the slightest sound or clench of her teeth, working to keep her calm. He doesn't seem to mind it. In fact, he murmurs after stilling a particularly violent thrash that almost drives the needle into her eye, when he has the point set aside and her in his arms, he enjoys it. It keeps him focused. It keeps him from getting caught up by his own demons. Between the two of them, he can hurt her and she can be hurt and their demons are forced to wait on the outside of them.
When they resume, after her heartbeat has slowed, there's a moment where things click over. She still tenses and occasionally has moments of fear, but his care and the intensity even in the softest of his touches start lighting the same responses she used to have. She trusts him, and the trust soon overtakes the memories. Her Reaver blood thrums and makes her float a little outside of herself. Her eyes unfocus as she smiles up at him, shifting and curling her toes.
He laughs, quietly, and it's a welcome sound.
He works methodically, with more skill and less cursing by far than Shianni had so many years ago. It hurts, and it hurts even more when he works over the curve of her cheekbone and the plane of her temple, but he knows from experience how deep to push. He doesn't have to redo marks. He doesn't slip. He works quickly enough that he leaves a throbbing trail but no screaming pain. It feels good, in its own way, just like the strikes from the scabbard had felt amazing even when she'd limped for a day afterwards. It's acceptable pain. It's more than acceptable; it's invigorating, enchanting, wonderful. It's him.
When she goes into what might be the final battle of her life, she'll feel him no matter how far away he is.
