Did she miss her clan? Emra could not say. She had grasped at shadows not so long ago, but her hands met nothing but ashes; she had been compelled to take his life, to end his suffering. She would not allow herself to weep. It was unthinkable that she show such weakness now. She hadn’t returned to them once since the end of the ordeal. She was a changed elf; she carried the threat with her, and she could only imagine there would come a time when the clan would have to exclude her entirely. She would not let them make that choice for her, as they had once before sent her away for her survival.
The Darkspawn would never simply disappear, that much was clear. Even their arrival to Amaranthine was only briefly placid before the place was overrun with the filth that clawed to the surface. Worse than shem’len, if one could believe it. Their numbers were dwindling, as the blow they had suffered was far from inconsequent. Would support truly reach them?
If she were to miss anyone, it would be Fenina, but she had long left them at Falon’din’s discretion. Fenina had been all passion and fire, vicious and alive, whereas Emra had turned cold from the very beginning. It was wrong to say she had always been like this --- she had long suspected the Taint she carried within was something more than foreign blood that likened her to a fiend. She knew one thing: she would never have chosen to do this willingly. She could not say whether she was fortunate that she had no other choice. Had she not, the Blight would have come for them all, and there would be little of the Dalish that remain, of anything at all, if no one came to stop them.
No, the Taint had certainly exacerbated the darkness within her.
“You’ve met him then?” Her curiosity was not an innocent thing, Emra had realised this soon enough.
“Did you put him up to it?” She glowered up at her.
“Not at all, not at all!” She chittered rather enthusiastically. “I thought you’d be pleased. I sent him right up to you. Another by our side should certainly brighten this damp place, shouldn’t it?” She began to pace around extravagantly, as Ean’nislean had always been prone to do, her voice vibrant and her gesticulation abundant. She despised the shem’len every bit as Emra did, but her airs and actions differed drastically. It was often the case between them. Although core beliefs were generally shared, their outward expressions were as different as could be.
“Perhaps it does add some value to the ranks. Someone to trust.” Although she knew she would have to command these men, she did not trust them. At all. She expected that would change over time, but for now, she kept her distances formal and colder than ever. She would never once rely on them to have her back, that was certain. Numbers were important, however. Always would be. And soon they would be returning to the deep roads, for their first expedition. Even if crisis had not struck at the heart of Amaranthine, she would have chosen to do so. These recruits would have to face the brunt of their ongoing war.
Pleased and satisfied were not two words that described her often, and this moment was no different. It had not fully settled with her, and she did not expect it would anytime soon. The order was teetering with shortcomings, and they were forced to make do.
Yet, this was how their order was meant to be rebuilt. Little by little, brick by brick, led by odd and unlikely officers. There were not many of her kind who would choose to shy away from the woods, evidently. Still, a few came. Most survived, thankfully. Was surviving truly the appropriate term? Any outsider would think their actions ludicrous, and that is why it was such a heavily guarded secret. Offer transparency to the broad world and the order would be finished, once and for all.
A Warden’s mind wasn’t entirely its own. Not to speak of influence --- but the chance of quiet and reclusion one might find in their thoughts was long behind them. It was a thing one only knew how to miss when it was gone. It was not to say there was an on-going discussion in their head. There were whispers. Buzzing. The flow ebbed ever faintly at the back of their mind, as they forced it under conundrum after conundrum. The hive --- for that is what it was --- was restless beneath their feet. They were seated atop one of the tunnels into the Deep Roads, and so it was such proximity that made such a lasting battle.
Someone weaker than herself would have given up by now; begged for death and its sweet release. Emra kept clawing her way out of the pit, silencing the terrors within with blood-bathed hands. Did she ever stop? Fighting, that is. She wouldn’t know. And yet, she fled at the opportunity to fight for something more. Inside, she was cringing. Yanking herself out of reach.
Emra didn’t hope. She fought. She didn’t pray to her gods for a miracle, she made one. She didn’t wait around for the inevitable, she seized it with open hands before it could fester and grow. She’d always taken such a brash, crude approach, and yet when it came to this? When it came to enacting change? She was a turtle cowering in her shell.
She was not alone --- at least not really. Of friends, she had few. Of allies? An only mildly larger circle, perhaps. Yet she forgot this. She forgot what she had. She had been raised in a community, but as soon as that community was taken from her, she had taken her independence. It was not so new, after all. There were many occasions when their hunters would leave the camps for more than a couple of days, in which time they’d have to do for themselves what all members would share amongst themselves. All elves were trained to fend for themselves, after all. They could take no risks when it came to the temperance of shem’len.
She was anything but the title they had bestowed upon herself and Ean’nislean. Hero of Ferelden. Of Ferelden, certainly not. She was not bound to shem’len lands. And hero? Who would think her a hero? She cared for little else than herself and her kind, and she did little for those she thought beneath herself. She would have sooner had them all slaughtered, had it gone her way.
There was no wicked, deceiving smile to accompany the ponderings of shem’len foolishness. Her insides were foul, in part due to the sickness that seeped through her veins, in part due to her coarse heart. Smiles of any sort did not come easy to her.
