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Claricia
Virgin and Child enthroned
Fugitive V
I actually wrote this awhile ago, I just held off on posting it because I’m an anxious little shit about posting things.
Extra thank yous to @fadedforyou for soothing that for me.
Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy.
“These truths the Maker has revealed to me: As there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one God, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods,” A small smile lit her face, the warmth of pride blooming in her chest as she began her recitations from memory.
Sister Avenia smiled warmly, “Well done, for an elf-blooded brat.”
A sharp, cold pain stabbed her chest, wide, childlike eyes suddenly prickling with confused tears, “Wha-what?”
“You did well, for an abandoned child,” The sister replied simply, like it was a fact, “In fact, you’ve surpassed most of your class, but you’re only half as worthy as the worst of them.”
“I’m as worthy as any of them,” Claricia retorted, though her voice was quiet, a slight tremble betraying her confidence.
“Sounds like you’re trying to convince you, child,” The sister smiled cooly, like a snake, “you know your parents didn’t find you worthy of their love, so they dropped you here,” Avenia paused to gesture around the chantry chapel, “in the hopes that the Maker and the Chant would find some way of fixing you.”
“You don’t know that,” Claricia barely whispered, hands clenched at her sides.
“Why else would a mother drop a mewling babe on the doorstep of a chantry in winter?” The cool, factual tone Avenia used only made every word cut just the smallest bit deeper, chipping the gaping hole she felt gnawing away at the center of her chest, “You grew and you worked so hard to be good, to be loved by the sisters and Templars who raised you.”
Out the corners of her eyes Claricia could see the figures of her mentors, the closest thing she ever even had to parents. She closed her eyes with a quiet, shuddering breath. Tears she couldn’t stop leaked from her tightly shut eyes, hands clenched so tightly she could feel her nails biting into her skin.
“Strong, for an elf-blooded child.”
“Something’s off about her. Maybe it’s the knife-ear in her.”
“You are the farthest thing from.”
“Don’t struggle and we’ll take you to the circle, where you belong.”
“She’s here! The apostate is here!”
Dissonant voices rang in her ears, rattling in her head with all the gentility of rusty butcher’s knives. Claricia choked back a sob and sank to the floor, knees drawn up to her chest.
“You were worthy, for one, shining moment,” Sister Avenia said, her voice seeming to float around Claricia’s head, sharp whispers that cut at her ears, “finally, your vigil, take your vows, take your first draught of lyrium.”
Suddenly, Claricia could smell it, the pungent odor that followed lightning after it struck.
“And the Maker turned his gaze to you, only to spit,” The sister murmured in a tone that was meant to be comforting, “behold, the elf-blooded mongrel is a mage, cursed by the Maker to be endlessly harried by demons in exchange for a pale imitation of His gifts.”
Claricia curled tighter on herself, gritting her teeth against the ragged cry she felt tearing up her throat, “I’m not cursed. I do have worth,” the words sounded broken, like shattered glass.
“No, child, you don’t,” Arms meant to be comforting wrapped around her shoulders but they felt cold, colder than she’d ever been in her life, “you’ve been trying your whole life, as long as you can remember to be worthy, to prove to everyone that you’re more than just an elf-blooded orphan, as if they could ever see you as anything else,” Sister Avenia paused, icy lips pressed to Claricia’s temple, “aren’t you tired of all this pointless work?”
Cold fingers brushed the hair away from her face. Claricia shivered, her chest ached with the bitter not-pain of the void growing there. She felt the darkness of it tugging at her heart, her spirit as it crept up around her, ready to swallow her, smother her in the frigid numbness of it. She clenched her fists. Something in her chest cracked, like dried, ancient wood finally splintering apart.
“I-”
“Claricia!”
She shook her head, frowning a little, “What was that?”
“Nothing, child-”
“Claricia!” A dim voice, a voice that felt like it should be louder, Claricia raised her head, squinting her eyes as the walls of the chantry shuddered, warped.
“Am I... Am I dreaming?” She scowled, wiping tears from her eyes, tears which had frozen into opaque drops of ice on her skin, she turned to the sister, fear coiling in her belly, “You- you aren’t Sister Avenia.”
Sister Avenia’s form flickered, just for a moment. A gray cloak with a deep hood pulled over the face, arms and legs that were too long, too thin with long, grasping, scabby hands; then she was Sister Avenia again, gentle, cold smile, arm too tight around her shoulders.
“Away from me, demon!” Claricia hissed, shoving Sister Avenia and scrambling back before she stood, hands held out.
As she stood the not-air warped around her, settling comfortably around her body in a gleaming shell of armor, the armor of a Templar. A spear and shield settled in her grasp and she gripped them tightly, frost creeping in sharp, spiraling lacework over the steel of her armor.
“You will not wake from this, child,” Sister Avenia’s voice changed to something quiet and cutting with the bite of an icy wind, “You are weak, you will always be weak.”
“Claricia!” That other voice rang through again, louder, more insistent.
“They don’t care for you, they never will. You-”
“Silence, creature,” Claricia snarled, dropping behind her shield, spear poised at Sister Avenia’s chest, “I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light-”
“Your Maker abandoned you, he cares not for you or for this world-”
“And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost. I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed-” She pressed the spear more firmly against the creature, ignoring the numbing cold that bit into her fingers, “Release me, fiend, or I will tear through you with my bare hands.”
Brilliant light peeled off of her in radiant arcs, licking across the brightness of her armor. The ground hardened beneath her feet, the hard-packed dirt of the sparring ring suddenly snapping into focus. Sister Avenia’s form flickered again, like a candle flame sputtering in the wind.
“I will be here, every time you sleep, in that gaping void under your ribs,” The creature hissed, “every night I will shadow your footsteps until you succumb, mageling.”
Claricia’s throat tightened, fear making her stomach turn, she licked her lips and forced a smile full of confidence she didn’t feel, “That night is not tonight, demon, now begone!”
The sister gave her a cold glare before she let the disguise melt from her body. Red and white faded to dull, ragged gray, the icy blue of frost creeping up the hem and the sleeves of the robe. Beneath the hood, Claricia caught a glimpse of rows upon rows of narrow, flat teeth, yellow and cracked.
Then it was gone, only the bite of a chilly breeze remained of its presence. Claricia looked around the sparring ring for a moment before she swayed on her feet. The world around her trembled, fading into black-green whorls of mist.
“Claricia!”
She groaned, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. She needed to wake up, she knew she needed to wake up-
She gasped, pulling air into her lungs like she hadn’t breathed in days. She bolted upright, hands twining in her hair, chest heaving. Her throat was dry, the air felt so warm in her lungs that it hurt. Her eyes were opened as wide as they could go. Her muscles quivered under her skin, from cold or from the shock she didn’t know. When she finally managed to breathe without the pain of it stabbing through her chest she cleared her throat, grimacing softly at the dry rasp of it.
“How long?” She croaked, eyes staring far beyond the wooden wall of the aravel.
“It’s been two days, da’len,” The Keeper’s voice was soft, cautious.
“We’ve been trying to wake you,” Nanin continued, he sounded exhausted but she didn’t look at them, “what happened?”
“I wasn’t careful enough,” Claricia admitted softly, licking her chapped lips, “I did not expect the creature that came for me. It won’t happen again,” she shook herself a little, frowning as she looked around, “where are the blankets?”
“We had to remove them. You were freezing, so we piled more on, only to have you freeze them,” She glanced to her left, at Nanin, who showed her his hands, wrapped in thick, fur-lined gloves; he offered a small smile, “it could’ve been worse. You could’ve burned the aravel down instead. I almost did the first time.”
Claricia chuckled, only to have the sound catch in her throat. She coughed so hard that it hurt all the way down into her chest. The keeper offered her a waterskin which she accepted gratefully, nearly draining it before she took another breath.
“Thank you, Keeper, Nanin, I-” She broke off as her stomach rumbled loudly, hunger suddenly gnawing a hole in her belly; she blushed, teeth worrying at her chapped lips.
Keeper Ellas laughed, gently thumping her on the back with an open hand, “Get dressed, da’len, we’ll get you something to eat.”
The keeper rose, leaning heavily on her staff. Claricia frowned as she noted the slight tremble in the keeper’s knees, she shot a glance at Nanin who softly shook his head.
“We both spent a lot of energy to keep you alive, to try and wake you,” His voice was soft, pensive, “you were deep in the Beyond. I don’t know what held you so tightly and if you don’t want to talk you don’t have to,” he paused, ears flicking as he glanced down at the floor, “If you do want to talk you know where to find me,” he stood quickly, grabbing his staff as he headed for the door, “Hahren Belavhan’s cooking today, stay away from the potatoes.”
He slid the door shut behind him, leaving her in warm, dim quiet. Claricia swallowed, standing on shaky legs.
“I will be here, every time you sleep, in that gaping void under your ribs. Every night I will shadow your footsteps until you succumb, mageling.”
Lightly, she touched the center of her chest. It was still there, though for now, it ached less. She let herself take a long, shuddering breath before dressing. The dalish clothes felt more like her own, warm and comfortable. She smiled softly before she stepped out of the aravel.
The smell of cooking meat and potatoes made her stomach growl loudly, drawing the attention of the small circle of children gathered around Hahren Belavhan. Tentatively, she gave them a little wave, beaming when most of the children raised their arms at her enthusiastically. Hahren Belavhan smiled softly, though it quickly hardened into a slight glare before turning her attention back towards the gaggle of children. Claricia ducked her head, scurrying over to the large pot and stack of bowls beside it. After she ladled a generous portion into the bowl she wandered until she found Nanin, near the edge of the camp overlooking the wide expanse of rocky plains.
As she approached she cleared her throat, stifling a small giggle when he jumped, “May I join you?”
In the dark, she barely saw his ears flick before he scooted a little to the side on the flat rock he sat on, a steaming bowl in each hand. Claricia took a seat next to him, elbows accidentally brushing.
“That all you’re eating?” He asked before tucking into his first bowl.
Claricia chuckled softly, “Should I eat more?”
“Magic and shrugging off demonic possession take a lot of strength,” He mumbled, “just make sure you’re eating enough.”
“Thank- ah, ma serannas,” She raised her eyes to look at the moon, a bright silver disk that painted the plains in soft, white light.
The quiet stretched heavily, pricking her skin like an itch. Dimly she heard the nighttime insects, the call of unfamiliar birds.
“Did you want to talk?” He suddenly asked, setting aside his first empty bowl and starting on the second.
She smiled softly, though she didn’t feel it and stirred the hearty stew in her bowl, “I think so, I just don’t know what to say.”
“Mm,” He paused, setting his bowl down to run a hand through his hair, she noticed he hadn’t bound it back in his usual tail, “Would it be easier if I asked questions?”
“Maybe. You could try,” She managed to take a small bite of her food, her stomach rumbled loudly.
“What was it? Your demon,” He asked, ears pricking forward with curiosity.
“That blunt?” Claricia chuckled to hide the sharp stab of insecurity that pierced her empty stomach, “Despair.”
His ears flicked, eyes narrowing a little, then widening with something that looked like understanding, “Really?”
She bristled, clenching her jaw as she shot him a scowl, “Yes, really.”
“Ir abelas,” He said almost immediately, raising his hands in what looked like a surrender, “I just- it wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“You don’t know me,” She snapped, taking an angry bite of her food.
“No, but I’d like to.”
Claricia spluttered, a sudden heat flaming in her cheeks. She thought she heard him curse and she waved him off, thumping her chest a couple times before she managed to swallow, her throat left feeling scraped and raw.
“Fenedhis, I- ah,” He looked away from her, suddenly standing and running a hand through his hair, it fell into his face and the moonlight turned it silver, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Before she could say anything he’d stalked back towards the camp, staff in a white-knuckled grip. Claricia blinked, once, twice before shaking her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she looked down at the half empty bowl cradled in her lap.
“No, but I’d like to.”
What exactly did that mean, she wondered idly, stirring her stew which had started to grow cold. She sat there for a time, mechanically finishing her stew, mind buzzing with the slightest suggestion of thoughts, not unlike the slow hum in her veins which waxed steadily as she ate. When she finished eating her stomach still grumbled and she laughed softly, shaking her head a little as she went back to refill her bowl. Nanin seemed to have disappeared and she allowed a devious grin to creep up her face before retreating back to the boulder she’d been sitting on.
“No, but I’d like to.”
Claricia giggled softly to herself, “I think I’d like to, too.”
Fugitive IV
Finally managed to get this done, I’ve been struggling with it for awhile.
I hope you like it.
“Nanin! Claricia!” Their heads snapped up at the sound of the keeper’s voice carrying down the train of aravels.
The two of them shared a nervous glance before scuttling up to the aravel she sat on, staff resting across her knees. The keeper smiled scooting to the edge of her seat and leaning down to speak.
“How go the lessons?” She asked.
Claricia gave Nanin a quick look, then glanced up at the keeper, “Me?”
“Both of you, though if you’d like to go first you may,” Keeper Ellas gave her a conspiratorial grin, large eyes glittering with a kind of playfulness that made her look much younger.
“Nanin has been a good teacher,” Claricia inclined her head a little before raising her bruised arm, “If a little more hands on than I expected.”
The keeper laughed loud enough to startle the halla, the animals tossed their heads nervously before the keeper managed to quiet her laughter, “How do you find your student, Nanin?”
“She learns quickly, Keeper, with time I’m sure she’ll be exceptional,” He smiled a little, tapping his staff on the ground, “will we have Lahalaan craft her a staff?”
“Do you think she needs one so soon, da’len?” The keeper’s ears pricked forward, head cocking a little, like a cat.
“I think that by the time he is finished crafting it for her she will be ready for it, Keeper,” Claricia blinked, narrowing her eyes at him, he sounded confident, though his ears twitched.
“I see,” The keeper nodded, leaning back up against the aravel, “I will consider your suggestion, Nanin, ma serannas.”
“Would it be rude of me to ask what ‘ma serannas’ means?” Claricia asked before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat a little to hide her embarrassment.
“Essentially it means ‘thank you’,” The keeper replied, only a hint of amusement on her face, “much of our language has been lost, but you are elf-blooded, would you like to learn it?”
“Oh! I’d be honored- I mean, if it’s not too much trouble,” Clarcia managed, flexing her fingers nervously.
“It’s no trouble, da’len, we can start when we stop,” The keeper gave her a reassuring smile, “that being said, we won’t stop until tomorrow evening. We plan on traveling through the night. You two should get something to eat and rest.”
“Are you sure, Keeper? I can-”
“Peace, Nanin. We are journeying to Dirthavaren and you will need your strength when we arrive,” The keeper paused, pursing her lips, “As will you, Claricia.”
“Why? What’s Dirthavaren?” She frowned, pressing her lips together in a thin line.
“Humans call it the Exalted Plains, and it has been a place of war and death for centuries, such-”
“Such places attract demons and thin the veil,” Claricia didn’t mean to interrupt, she cleared her throat a little, a blush creeping on her cheeks, “Er, how do I apologize in elven?”
“That would be ‘Ir abelas’ if it was needed, but you don’t need to apologize, da’len. It is good that you know these things,” The keeper replied with a wider smile, still gentle at the edges, “You may be in the most danger, da’len, spirits of the fade always flock to new mages and they will get worse as we near Dirthavaren. Be wary and be in control, both of you.”
She nodded solemnly, trying to ignore the slow seeping of fear in the core of her belly. She couldn’t help but suddenly remember the harsh illustrations in dusty tomes, detailing the hunts of valiant Templars of ages past, triumphant over demons and abominations alike. Now she vividly recalled how they looked, bodies twisted and morphed around the shape of the demon. The many eyes and winding horns of Pride, the heavy, gelatinous fire of Rage, the sharp, piercing legs of Fear corrupting a mage’s body, flesh rent and remade into a grotesque medley of man and spirit. She swallowed hard, nodding again, more firmly this time.
“Now, enough of that,” The keeper’s voice cut through her reverie, Claricia looked up at her, “Go to Filduine, she’ll give you something to eat, Claricia, see Athras for something for your feet. If they don’t hurt now they certainly will later. Nanin, tomorrow I’d like you to continue teaching her, is that acceptable?”
“Yes, Keeper,” Nanin bowed his head, “how long before we reach Dirthavaren?”
“Not tomorrow, though by the evening you should notice a change in the veil, and in your dreams that night, we should enter the Dirth by the day afterward.”
Claricia nodded before she followed Nanin back along the aravels. Her feet had started to ache, especially after the keeper mentioned that they would be.
“It frightens you,” He said simply, not meeting her eyes.
“What?” She frowned a little, hoping to hide the fact that she knew exactly what he meant.
“The idea that from now on, every day of your life, demons will come after you and seek to take your body away. That there are some places which are more dangerous for you simply because of who you are, some paths which normal people may walk with ease will be like walking along a mere thread,” His tone was cool, matter-of-fact, somehow that made it worse.
“Of course it does!” She snapped, baring her teeth, “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not anymore,” His voice was steady, she felt herself believing him, “I know myself and I know the Beyond. I know that I won’t succumb to a demon’s wishes.”
Claricia scoffed, the fear in her stomach souring into something like anger, “Well you have the advantage of years of training. I don’t.”
“Something Clan Nathari is generously trying to fix,” He spat, a spark of anger flashing in his eyes, or maybe it was the moonlight, “The more afraid you are the easier prey you make. Do what you must but you cannot fear them, that is a weakness and if you’re going to live anything like a long life you cannot be weak.”
“Then teach me to be strong. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” She snarled, feeling the easy hum in her veins, roughly, she yanked it back into her control.
“Tell me, did you earn the strength of your body inside of a few days? Did you learn to swing a sword or use a shield after one lesson? I cannot teach you to be strong enough on your own inside of a few days!” He’d started waving his hands in wide arcs again, lips pulled back in a feline snarl.
“Then what should I do? Lie down and wait?” She rounded on him, blocking his path, ignoring the attention she was drawing from the elves, “To the Void with that! I’ll never give into a demon.”
His lips quirked into a smirk, something devious flashing in his copper eyes, “Good.”
Claricia balked, shock temporarily cooling her rage before it flared anew, “You bastard,” she hissed and shoved him, he stepped back a little, still grinning, “Fuck you.”
She stormed off, magic crackled off of her in prickly heat that shimmered. With a little effort, she reigned it in, boarding the aravel she woke up in without stopping to grab something to eat. Once inside she paced, hands balled into fists, jaw clenched as she ground her teeth. He manipulated her and it was easy. She snarled, throwing a punch into the empty air. She desperately wanted to feel something give under the strength of her fist. Nanin’s stupid smirk preferably.
She shook her hands out, willing some of the stiffness from them. It didn’t work. She wanted to clench them again, to hit something and feel the satisfying sound of delicate bones cracking under her fist, more than making up for the pain in her hand. Claricia shook her head, forcing herself to stop pacing, forcing her hands open at her sides. She closed her eyes, taking a long, slow breath through her nose. She still trembled under her skin, she held that breath before slowly letting it out.
“O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me,” The words sounded bitter, angry in her mouth; she took another breath to steady herself, fingers twitching, “Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat.”
Claricia allowed herself to breathe again, feeling the hard edges of her anger fade a little, replaced with the soft warmth of faith that warmed and pained her heart.
“My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride,” The verses sounded smoother now, spoken with the proper reverence, she cast her eyes to her bedroll which suddenly looked all too inviting, “My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”
She paused in her recitations to undress, putting on the large, baggy shirt to cover herself before she crawled into the bedroll, closing her eyes.
“O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor,” She more mouthed the words than spoke them but they still soothed her, the angry tangle in her chest loosened, it wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t so sharp as it was before, “For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give.”
It didn’t take her long to drift off, tired as she was. She barely remembered even falling asleep...
She felt... Awake, aware. Claricia cast her eyes about, finding herself in the chantry, the vague shapes of sisters and Templars moving just out of the corner of her eyes. She touched her chest, finding it covered with gleaming armor, the armor of the Templars. She smiled, warmth blooming in her chest.
She made it.
Ser Ardouin approached her, a smile on his worn face, “Claricia, how do you fare?”
“Well, Ser Knight,” She gave him an eager grin, “Ready.”
Something in the back of her mind asked her what exactly she was ready for but she dismissed it. It didn’t matter. She was home and they would not betray her.
“That’s a shame,” Something curled his lips, the grin of a snake before it eats, “because you are not worthy.”
She felt like something pierced her chest. She looked down, finding that her armor had suddenly lost all its shine, dull and cracked, faint light leaking from it. She passed her hand over the breastplate.
“No...” She blinked the tears from her eyes before she drew herself up, “I am more than worthy. I will be a Templar.”
“No, you won’t,” Ardouin’s smile curled into a syrupy mockery of comfort, metal-clothed hand resting on her shoulder, “The Maker has cursed you, denied you the honor of joining the Order, you are a mage and an elf-blooded mongrel that your parents left on our doorstep,” his voice hissed, each traitorous word planting a deep-seated cold in her heart that hurt, “Try, try, and try, Claricia, you cannot ever be good enough to outlive the fact that your parents hated you enough to dump you in a tiny chantry on this frozen mountain, that on the day of your Vigil, the day you finally knew you were worth something, you’re suddenly a mage, an apostate, a traitor.”
Ser Ardouin circled her, his voice a vicious mockery of comfort.
“The Templars don’t want you, the Maker has cursed you, your parents didn’t want you. Did they know? When you were born did your mother look into your stupid, wailing face and know that something was wrong with you? Did they drop you at a chantry in the vain hope that the faithful could fix your wrongness?”
Claricia trembled, razor needles piercing her chest, her lungs. Every hole they left seemed to grow in her, leaving nothing but cold emptiness. She sobbed and sank to her knees, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like if she squeezed hard enough she could put herself back together.
“No,” She whispered, more a plea than a rebuke.
“No?” Ser Ardouin tilted his head, raising his eyebrows, “Do you not think that the day you were born the Maker spat on you, a mewling babe, never worthy of love?” He crouched down to her level, face compassionate yet twisted, “If not the Maker’s doing, then why are you so alone? Why have you never been loved? Not by your peers, your mentors, not even by your parents. If it’s not the Maker, then it must just be you, Claricia,” a hand firmly gripped her chin, tilting her head to look him in the eye, “You are what’s wrong.”
She woke with a gasp, shivering. Her skin almost ached with how cold she felt. She threw the blankets away, frantically rubbing her arms as she hurried to dress. Her eyes ached, her head pounded. She felt a crust at the corners of her eyes and she wiped it away with a grimace. Dimly, she was aware of her stomach rumbled, yet she didn’t want to eat. Claricia sighed, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she shuffled out of the aravel, hopping out and closing the door quickly. Pain shot through her legs as her feet hit the ground and she hissed, hobbling back along the aravels to see if she could find Athras.
The sun had scarcely begun to light the sky, not even streaks of gray on the eastern horizon yet, just the slightest lighting at the edge of the sky. She frowned, scratching irritably at an itch on the back of her head. She spotted his wispy white hair and shuffled around the aravel, gritting her teeth against the deep hurt that made the bones of her feet feel like thick, cracking ice.
“Ser Halen?” She asked her voice heavy with sleep.
He turned to face her, a smile deepening the wrinkles on his face, “Da’len, you’re awake early.”
“Couldn’t sleep. Not used to the aravels yet,” She tried not to grumble but didn’t succeed, she yawned, the ache behind her eyes intensified, “Keeper Ellas said I should come to you if my feet troubled me.”
“Ah, yes,” He nodded a little, mostly to himself before he clambered up onto the aravel seat more nimbly than she thought he could move; he gestured for her to climb up, patting the seat next to him, “come up, da’len.”
Claricia grimaced before she managed to haul herself up on the aravel, her shoulders ached, like she slept on them wrong. She grumbled under her breath as she took a seat next to him.
“May I see your feet?” He asked, large, knobbly hands outstretched.
She nodded and swung one of her legs up for examination. He tugged the wraps away from her foot, baring angry blisters. He clicked his tongue softly and opened the clay jar, the air suddenly filled with a sharp, medicinal scent that made her wrinkle her nose. Carefully, he dabbed a little bit of the paste on the bottom of her foot. When his fingers touched a blister she hissed but held still. He finished quickly and bandaged her foot tightly, but not too tightly with thick strips of cloth. He did the same with her other foot, letting her tug the leggings back down over her heels.
“Ma serannas,” She didn’t quite mumble, blushing softly at the twitch of surprise on his face, “how often do I need to change the bandages?”
“Take them off before bed, da’len, fresh ones in the morning. Just see me when you wake, I do not sleep much, I’ll be awake,” He smiled, then gestured towards the front of the aravel, “Hahren Belavhan retired but Thalia should have something for you to eat. You went to sleep without food last night, are you alright?”
Claricia gave him a sharp nod, “Was just tired.”
He didn’t look convinced but he didn’t push, turning to put away the salve. She hopped off the aravel, pleased to find that the ache in her feet was nearly gone, only lingering in the joints of her toes. She jogged a little further up the aravel, ignoring the open glares from some of the elves that she passed. Her temples throbbed with a dull pain that seemed to leak from her eyes. Thalia turned to greet her as she approached, slinging her bag off her shoulder and pulling out a few strips of dried, smoked meat and a small hunk of cheese.
“What happened with Nanin yesterday?” Claricia glowered, pointedly taking a bite of the tough meat, “Nanin has only said that he provoked you and that he will attempt not to do so again.”
She snorted, “He did. He needed a result from me and had to poke me to get it. I don’t like it but I’m more angry at me than him now.”
“Why?”
“Because I let him manipulate me and it was easy for him,” Claricia grumbled rolling a shoulder to work some of the stiffness out, “I’ve always had a bit of a short temper, I’m sorry for disturbing the clan.”
To her surprise, Thalia laughed, loud enough to make the halla flinch. Claricia clicked her tongue on the back of her teeth with a little frown.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are, da’len,” Thalia chuckled, clapping her on the back, “such things happen, especially when you’re young. The only one who was ‘disturbed’ was Manhen because he bet me a lovely pair of gloves that you’d punch Nanin,” Thalia showed her the gloves, dark, supple leather, lined with what looked like fennec fur.
Claricia felt a little smile tugging at her lips through a headache, “He can be difficult but I understand. I don’t learn well enough, fast enough I will die, or worse. I could hurt people.”
“That can be said of anyone learning to swing a sword, or shoot a bow,” Thalia waved a hand dismissively, “if you never had the gift you would still be in that danger every day. The only thing which changes is where that danger comes from.”
“Maybe,” Claricia shrugged noncommittally, stifling a yawn, “is the Keeper awake?”
“She is. Shortly after you retired for the evening she and Isenama had a fight, not sure what about,” Thalia shrugged, “Isenama’s taken most of the hunters to replenish our supplies, they’ll catch up with us by the evening.”
“Ma serranas,” Claricia bowed her head a little and shuffled ahead, catching up to the keeper’s aravel, “Good morning, Keeper Ellas.”
The keeper gave her a tired smile and patted the wooden seat of the aravel, “Good morning, da’len, how were your dreams?”
Claricia grimaced, tearing off a chunk of the cheese, “Not good. Don’t remember much.”
“Be careful, da’len,” The keeper warned with a tight frown, “until you are stronger trust nothing in the Beyond. Assume anything you see is a trick or a lure.”
Claricia nodded tightly, “Thank you, Keeper.”
A warm arm wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her into a gentle hug that made her chest ache, “I know it’s hard, da’len, you’re doing very well, especially considering what you’ve been through. I cannot promise that it’ll get any easier for you but I am here, even if you just need to talk.”
Claricia swallowed the tightness in her throat, blinking rapidly as she disentangled herself from the keeper, clearing her throat like it’d relieve the hollow pain nestled in the center of her chest. She wanted desperately to let the keeper comfort her, just for a little while.
You are not worthy... You are what’s wrong.
She took a deep breath and shoved those thoughts away, straightening her back and flexing her jaw, “Thank you, Keeper Ellas, but I’m alright.”
The keeper’s eyes creased, with worry or disbelief she wasn’t sure, “Ma nuvenin, da’len. Today I’d like you and Nanin to continue your lessons, don’t be afraid to bite back if he provokes you, that’s the only way he’ll learn, just expect the same treatment in turn.”
“I’ll keep my temper, Keeper,” Claricia smiled a little, finishing the last couple of bites of dried meat, “what should I do until he wakes?”
“Sit with me, enjoy the sunrise, ask me whatever you wish, da’len. You’ve woken early enough to enjoy a brief respite,” The keeper smiled a warmer smile, leaning her back against the aravel.
“I don’t think I have any questions at the moment, Keeper. Could I just share your company?” Claricia flexed her fingers nervously, tongue tapping on the back of her teeth.
“Of course, da’len, at least until Nanin finds you.”
Claricia giggled a little, leaning back against the aravel, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the light of the rising sun that peeked through the trees. The sun gleamed a brilliant orange, gold and pink staining the sky before it faded to dapples of clear blue, what little she could see through the heavy boughs of the fir trees. Her head still ached and the light made her eyes feel like they were burning but it was beautiful anyways.
Fugitive II
And I broke and wrote another one. Claricia meets Clan Nathari, I’ll put a master post with all things relating to Claricia and Clan Nathari in one space. It should be noted that Claricia is also Yara Ethelan Nathari, which is how I usually refer to her.
@fadedforyou I want you to know especially that this is entirely your fault that I’m continuing the write all this out.
Now I need to draw Nanin.
“Keeper Ellas!”
The keeper looked up from the gaggle of children that swarmed around her knees as they walked, narrowing her eyes, “What is it, Isenama?”
The Huntmaster had drawn her bow, the arrow knocked, heavy brows knotted together over her nose, “A Templar approaches the aravels, with no weapons, and they don’t smell of lyrium.”
“Hahren,” Ellas beckoned Hahren Fulduine over, ushering the children over to her, “hide them in the aravels, Isenama, gather your best hunters and come with me,” she snatched her staff from the seat of the aravel she walked beside, holding up a hand to stop her First, “Not you, Nanin, stay here, guard the aravels with Thalia and the other hunters. Templars are seldom alone.”
Nanin’s nostrils flared, a kind of fire sparking in his eyes before he bowed his head in assent, taking his own staff from the aravel as he peered into the dark of the woods. Keeper Ellas smiled softly and shook her head when his back was turned, he would need to learn to quell that rage in time or it would do him more harm than good. Isenama beckoned to three of the other hunters, each one nocking an arrow, slinking up to her back.
“Keeper, what if the Templar isn’t alone?” Isenama asked as they cleared the edges of the aravels, her gruff voice low enough for the other hunters not to catch her words.
“Did you hear any more of them?” She asked with a smile, laying a reassuring hand on the hunt master's shoulder, “Templars do not move through the woods with any less noise than drunken brontos, da’len, if you did not hear any more than this one then they are alone.”
“You always say that Templars are never alone, Keeper,” One of the younger hunters, Rasa.
“And before today, I have always been right,” Ellas gave the young hunter a cat’s smile, easing some of the stiffness from the younger elf’s shoulders, “It is unusual for a Templar to be alone, more so for a Templar who is alone to seek us out.”
Isenama nodded tersely, ears flicking forward. Ellas slowed her breathing, leaning forward to listen. She heard the crashing of armored feet in the soil, the clank of shemlen armor and saw it gleam dimly in the trees. She held out her hands to still the hunter’s too-eager fingers, having already drawn their bowstrings back.
“Do not shoot them, ghi’myelanen, not unless they attack us first,” Her voice was smooth, soothing, the voice she used to ease disputes and the one that brooked no argument.
The keeper narrowed her eyes at the incoming human, ears pricking forward as she felt a tremor in the air. A soft, melodic tingling that made the hairs on her arms stand up. She cocked her head, narrowing her eyes at the figure.
“You said this was a Templar, Isenama?”
“They wear Templar armor and colors, Keeper, I heard them speak one of the verses of the shemlen god,” the Huntmaster shot her a look out the corner of her eyes, “Why?”
“I will tell you when I am sure,” Keeper Ellas said, gripping her staff a little tighter, walking to meet the incoming figure.
“Keeper-!”
“Something is not right, da’len, I will be safe,” She assured the hunters, “Mythal’enaste.”
“Mythal’enaste, Keeper,” Isenama replied, worry pulled her ears tight against her shorn head, lips pressed into a thin line as she gestured sharply to her hunters.
Keeper Ellas smiled softly and turned to continue approaching the human, who’d started to run towards them. The keeper frowned, dropping into a defensive stance, the easy, natural green of magic glowing through the delicately carved ironwood, given to her by Keeper Lahtaras, and someday when he was ready, she’d bequeath it to Nanin.
“Come no closer!” She warned as the human finally came close enough that she was sure they would hear her, “Who are you, why do you seek Clan Nathari?”
The human froze, eyes going wide with fear, flicking from the staff to her face, obviously tracing the winding lines of her vallaslin.
“I have no weapons,” She said with a heavy Orlesian accent, running a gauntlet through messy curls, revealing slightly pointed ears.
“Elvhath,” Keeper Ellas interrupted her, dimming the glow of her magic.
“What?”
“One of your parents was of the People,” Ellas remarked, still, she frowned, “Why do you wear Templar armor?”
Something sharp and hot sparked in the girl’s eyes, a wet gleam flooding the corners of them. The prickling on her arms waxed stronger, a thrumming heat she felt crawling over her skin, like a bonfire.
“I’m- I was a Templar in training,” The girl seemed to choke on the words, like they brought her unbearable pain, “I was to undertake my vigil today when,” she stopped, throwing her gauntlet to the ground.
The sharp whistle of an arrow rang in her ears, followed by the hard thudding sound of it meeting wood. The girl stiffened, dropping low as the humming grew, like the thready song of a child just learning to sing.
“Atisha!” Keeper Ellas barked into the trees, eyes searching the shadows for the offending hunter, she turned back to the girl who had sunk low against the trunk of a tree, eyes wide and her breath coming too fast.
The keeper knelt, laying her staff on the ground with a low sigh. The girl shot her a wary glance, an angry curl to her lips and her eyes caught the dim forest light, shimmering dull silver-yellow.
“You have elven eyes, da’len,” She kept her voice low, soothing, like she would when she helped Oruvun tend the halla, “what were you going to show me?”
The girl swallowed hard, eyes darting to the darkness of the forest, then back to the keeper.
“They won’t shoot unless you try to harm me. You won’t do that, will you?” She tilted her head a little, ears pricking forward in what she hoped looked friendly.
The girl took a long, shaking breath, looking down at her bare hand before she gestured slightly, fingertips trailing small trails of yellow lights. The thready song came a little louder in Keeper Ellas’s ears, her eyes going wide as the yellow light slowly dispersed, like blood in the water.
“You have the gift,” She gave the girl a warm smile, then frowned a little, “how old are you, da’len?”
“About sixteen? The sisters tell me I was found on the Chantry steps as a toddler, I could be fifteen or seventeen as far as they know,” The girl turned her eyes towards the empty air, wiggling her fingers again, little blots of sunlight blooming in the dark, almost like too-bright fireflies, “Most mages manifest around the age of nine through eleven. I thought I was safe.”
Keeper Ellas nodded a little, hiding her confusion, “So you’re several years late, did your mentors throw you out?”
The girl gave a sharp, bitter laugh, like well-rusted blades, “They tried to arrest me as an apostate, I was confused and scared, so I attacked them and I ran,” she gave a heavy sigh that seemed to catch in her throat, “I saw the sails of your land ships. I’ve never been outside the Chantry before, not for longer than a day. I- I was hoping you might help.”
Ellas took a deep breath, a quiet one as she glanced out at the woods. Her heart ached for the girl, and the clan only had her and Nanin for mages. Left unattended, this girl would surely die or fall to possession. Ellas stood, shaking her head a little at the lecture she knew would come from Isenama when she heard of her decision.
“Come, da’len,” She held her hand out to the girl, who met her gaze with hopeful, teary eyes, “I cannot promise much, not until I’ve spoken with the rest of the Clan, but for at least a few days you might find shelter among us.”
The girl positively beamed, the gentle song of magic straining louder until it made her skin pucker with goosebumps.
“Da’len, still your magic, it is new and bright and will manifest in unexpected ways if you don’t learn to hold it,” She smiled as she pulled the girl to her feet, gently patting her armored shoulder, “Do you know how?”
“I- I think so,” The girl’s nose wrinkled and her brows furrowed in concentration and the humming dimmed, it wasn’t gone, but it was much, much softer, “Like that?”
“Yes, da’len,” The keeper wrapped an arm around her shoulders, toeing her foot under her staff and kicking it up to her spare hand, “Ghi’myelanen! Back to the aravels!”
She didn’t hear them but she knew they departed, save Isenama, who seemed materialize from the forest of her own accord, startling the girl. Isenama gave the girl a dark look, like a hawk staring down prey before turning to look at the keeper, raising her eyebrows.
“If the Clan will have her I would give her shelter, Isenama,” Ellas’s voice was firm as she subtly clenched her jaw, “I would speak with Filduine and Thalia about the matter.”
“And me.”
Ellas smiled, giving the girl’s shoulders a reassuring squeeze, “Huntmaster Vunora, even if you weren’t the Huntmaster I don’t think I could keep you from the discussion.”
Isenama scowled darkly at her before running ahead to the aravels, she hardly heard her leave save for the soft wind she left behind.
“What was that about?” The girl asked, frowning after the grouchy Huntmaster.
“The Huntmaster is exceptionally protective of the Clan, and myself. Likely she worries you will bring the rest of the Templars down on us,” She replied, ears twitching a little.
“Then I shouldn’t stay,” The iron in the girl’s voice surprised her, even as she pulled away, taking a quick step away from the keeper, “If my being here endangers you then I shouldn’t stay.”
“Where will you go? How will you survive? Do you know how to ward off possession? Do you know which spirits are safe and which are not?” The keeper drew herself up, using the edge in her tone that demanded obedience, “What will you do if you wake and you’ve set the forest on fire in your dreams?”
The girl faltered, eyes widening with fear before she looked down to her shaking hands. The keeper tucked her staff under her arm, gently taking the girl’s hands in her own.
“You have a gift, da’len, but it is a difficult one and one you must master if you are to survive,” Unconsciously, she tucked some of the wild curls behind her ear, “You can leave to learn in one of the shem circles, or, if the Clan allows it, Nanin and I will teach you.”
“And if they don’t?” There was a hardness in her eyes now like she was steeling herself against the future rejection, “what then?”
“We will see if that time comes, da’len,” Ellas replied, eyes darting towards the growing crowd at the edge of the aravels, deciding that perhaps she should invite Oruvun and Athras to the talks as well.
She curled her arm around the girl’s shoulders protectively, narrowing her eyes at Isenama, who had already taken it upon herself to talk with Thalia and Filduine. She led the girl to the aravel where Nanin stood. He tilted his head, ears flicking forward sharply as he gripped his staff a little tighter.
“Keeper, what’s going on?” He had that cautious waver in his voice, not unlike the one he had when he first came into their clan.
“I’m not sure yet, Nanin, I need to speak with the others before I can tell you for sure,” She turned to the girl, cocking her head a little, “Can you wait here while I speak with the Clan elders?”
She nodded cautiously, arms folded tightly against her chest. The keeper sighed a little and turned back to Nanin.
“Stay with her, make sure the hunters don’t bother her, or the children until we’ve finished talking,” She smiled a little when Nanin nodded without argument and turned back to the clan, beginning her hunt for Athras and Oruvun.
...
Claricia shuffled her feet a little, ears straining to catch any words she might understand but it was too quiet. The few words she did catch she didn’t understand. Idly, she cast a glance at who she guessed was her guard. Another mage, if she was going to judge by the staff in his hands. He was a little shorter than her but not by much, his face covered in twining, thorny vines colored a deep red. He looked at her then, narrow, suspicious eyes that made her look away, then back again.
“I,” She stopped, frowning as words died on her tongue, “I’m Claricia, can I ask your name?”
He was quiet, cocking his head like a curious cat, his ears pricked forward, “Nanin, I’m the Keeper’s First.”
“Ah,” She was silent for a time before the curiosity and confusion ate at her, “I don’t know what that means. What’s a Keeper? And a Keeper’s first what?”
His ears flicked sharply before he started to laugh, a big, loud belly laugh. Claricia glowered at him, clenching her hands a little against the embarrassment that coiled in her belly.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry-” He managed through his laughter, leaning his staff against the land ship, “I’m sorry. Ahem,” he finally stopped laughing, though amusement still danced in his coppery eyes, “A Keeper is the leader of the clan, our keeper of lore and magic, she also settles disputes, if we can’t and generally keeps the peace with the clan,” he gestured behind the land ship, “That was who brought you over here. A first is the Keeper’s apprentice, she teaches me magic, our history, and some other things.”
“Oh, okay,” Claricia worried her bottom lip with her teeth, brows knitting together before she looked back at him, “what happens if the keeper takes on another apprentice? Can she?”
“She can, that would be the keeper’s second. Most clans only allow three mages, maybe four for bigger clans,” Nanin frowned a little, pursing his lips, “we don’t have Templars, so there can’t be too many with the gift.”
Claricia’s stomach soured a little at the word ‘Templars’ and she leaned a little on the land ship, ducking her head into her shoulders. The elf cocked his head again, ears twitching a little.
“Are you... Are you a Templar?” He asked, caution edging his tone as he grasped his staff again.
“No,” She said, too quickly, too sharply, the admission seared her throat and pricked in the corners of her eyes, “farthest thing from.”
She spread her fingers a little, trying to will some of the little songs she felt in her blood out to her palm. There were small yellow sparks before a tiny globe, gold and warm, like sunshine in the spring grew in the palm of her hand. Nanin’s eyes went a little wide, something glinting in them, like metal as he took a few hasty steps closer, dropping his staff against the land ship again. Claricia quickly stepped back, quenching the light in her hand, holding it out in front of her as a warning. The elf held his hands up in a gesture of surrender, stepping back a little with a rueful grin, points of pink appearing in his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“Sorry, sorry,” He cleared his throat a little, the pink covered most of his face and down his neck, “May I see? I’ve never seen she- uh, human magic before.”
Claricia narrowed her eyes, then tucked her hair behind her ears, “Not all the way human, but you can look if you want,” she took off her other gauntlet, tucking it under her arm as she held out her hands.
“Can you cast again?” He asked softly, taking a few steps back to her, blush faded a little as his eyes took on that metallic glint again.
Claricia took a deep breath, finding the hum and willing it out of her palms, just a little bit. Warm, yellow light blooming from her hands, this time in several little motes rather than a single orb. Nanin cocked his head again, ears flicking forward as he grabbed one of her hands in two of his own, lifting her palm closer to his face until she felt his breath on her palm. She felt herself blushing a little and swallowed, clenching her jaw a little.
“What’re you looking for?” She asked, looking up to his hair, long and dark, loosely tied back with a leather cord.
“Looking at,” He replied with a little smile, reaching as though to stir the little motes of light with his finger, “does all human magic look like this?”
“I don’t know,” She admitted with a little frown, “I’ve never met a mage before today. Is it different from yours?”
“I mean, not really but also yes, it is?” He scratched the back of his head, loosening the ponytail more, “All mages draw on and channel the same kind of power, a lot of it comes from how we use it, and how we’re taught to use it, I suppose,” he paused, looking up at her, the blush suddenly flamed in his cheeks and ears again and he hurriedly stepped back, letting go of her hands, “Ahh, how long have you been practicing?”
“A few hours,” She said, closing her fists and letting the lights wink out.
“A few what?” He frowned, ears pinning close to his skull.
“I only just realized I could cast a few hours ago. This morning,” She repeated with a little more bite than she intended.
“And you’re how old?”
She gave him a sharp shrug, “About seventeen? I don’t exactly know my birthdate.”
“I realized I could cast when I was nine,” He frowned a little deeper, lips pressing to a thin line, “Did nothing happen to you around that time? Anything at all?”
“Nothing spectacular, no,” She snapped, feeling her lips curl back to bare her teeth a little, “and before you ask, no, I don’t know why it took this long. I only know that because it did I’m out here instead of in a Circle.”
“Count yourself lucky then,” He scoffed a little, folding his arms defensively, “nothing good can come of locking people up because of a whim of fate.”
She felt the thrumming in her veins grow and forced it back down, “Lucky? Wait until you have to look in the eyes of your family when they tell you they don’t love you anymore because ‘of a whim of fate’!”
She froze when she realized that she’d started to shout. Hot tears pricked at her eyes and threatened to spill over. Claricia turned away, throat closing tightly as she grit her teeth against the overwhelming, stabbing pain of loss that burned in her chest. She growled as she felt the tears roll down her cheeks, angrily wiping them away.
“Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, an ocean of sorrow does nobody drown,” She managed, feeling just the smallest bit of comfort in the words, “Within My creation, none are alone.”
The silence was deafening and heavy, she felt she could pierce it with a sword. She didn’t even hear the sounds of the other elves talking with one another, not for several long moments that seemed to stretch for an eternity. A heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder and she jerked away, hands curling in to protect her chest.
An elderly elf took his hand back, a soft, sad smile made long, deep lines on his face. He held out his hand again, tilting his head to the side a little.
“My name is Athras, da’len, I’m the healer for Clan Nathari,” His voice was like gravel, yet somehow comforting, “If you will it, the Clan will take you in, will you let us?”
Claricia swallowed the lump in her throat, only to feel a new one take its place. She sniffled a little and nodded, letting Athras gently wrap in a warm embrace. Hands like hardened leather stroked her hair lightly.
“Andaran atish’an, da’len,” He said quietly, letting her go and tilting her chin up with a little smile, “Come, you should meet the rest of the clan, they’d like to say hello.”
Fugitive
Thanks to @fadedforyou I managed to write the first section of Yara Ethelan Nathari’s story, beginning when she was Templar-Recruit Claricia, on the day she begins her Vigil.
She recites pieces of the Chant of Light, first the Canticle of Threnodies: 5, which details the Maker’s first creations, then the Canticle of Trials, 1:1-1:16, also called prayers for the despairing.
I honestly don’t know what else to say about it but I hope you enjoy.
Claricia couldn’t help the soft, giddy smile as she clasped the Templar’s breastplate over her brigandine. Years of training, memorization, education, and now, finally she could take her vigil. She was younger than many of the other recruits who had just taken their vigil, adding a cocky bounce to her step as she left the barracks. Years of whispered ‘mongrel’ and ‘half-breed’, a thorny spite that fueled her climb to the top of her class, memorizing the entirety of the Chant, word for bleeding word.
It was worth it now.
An uneasy, restless thrumming filled her body, like ants crawling under her armor, it was like she could nearly feel the energy crackling around her, at her fingertips and her toes. Upon approaching the small, secluded room she cleared her throat and stood a little straighter, trying to swallow her excitement. She knew it didn’t work, the knight at the door returned her grin easily, tapping the side of his armored first on her shoulder.
“Are you ready, Claricia?” Ser Vernier gave her a father’s smile, easy warmth in his gruff voice that calmed her a little.
“More ready than I’ve ever been in my whole life, Ser,” She tried not the gush and failed, fidgeting restlessly with her fingers at the tassets of her armor.
He laughed, a hand on her shoulder to guide her inside. She grinned at first, but as she stepped in her face fell to solemn reverence. One other knight stood in the room, Ser Arduoin, she recognized him by the brilliant red flash of his wild beard under the helmet.
Against the wall, there was a small pedestal with a few candles on it, only one of them lit, carved in once-beautiful detail, a stone relief of Andraste, Bride of the Maker. Claricia took a deep, steadying breath as she came to kneel before the pedestal, facing Andraste, her face was serene, the smallest smile on her lips.
Claricia let out a shaky breath, almost blowing out the candle with a sheepish little grin. Ser Arduoin gave her a small, encouraging nod. She took another breath and closed her eyes against the soft light, clasping her hands together and bowing her head in supplication to Andraste and the Maker. The room felt a little cold to her, the peculiar scent that wafted off of the Templar knights stung her nose a little, mixing oddly with the smell of hot wax, leather, and metal. She shook her head a little, beginning to recite the Chant.
“There was no word, for heaven or for earth, for sea or sky. All that existed was silence,” She began to chant softly, the words easy and familiar on her tongue, “Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, The first Word, and His Word became all that might be: dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities. And from it made his first born,” She felt a steady growing warmth in her body she was unfamiliar with, a kind of song that flowed with her blood, it hummed and sang with a glorious kind of power; was this what it was like to feel as though the Maker had touched your soul? Was this true faith? “And he said to them: ‘In My image, I forge you, to you I give dominion over all that exists. By your will may all things be done,’”
She paused for a little while, taking a long, deep breath. The words of the Chant wrapped her in a tight, secure kind of warmth, like a heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a small leaping in her chest that brought a small smile to her lips. A little red grew on the undersides of her eyelids, someone had lit a few more candles, she didn’t recall hearing a match. The melodic drone in her veins faltered for a moment, then grew again, like a tide that would sweep her away if she didn’t keep her footing.
“Then, in the center of heaven, He called forth a city with towers of gold, streets with music for cobblestones,” Her throat tightened unexpectedly and she coughed a little, trying to clear the sudden dryness.
“Go on, child,” The warm voice of Knight Vernier, standing in the corner, she opened her eyes to give him a grateful smile before turning back to the candlelight.
“And banners which flew without wind. There, He dwelled, waiting to see the wonders His children would create,” She said, jerking her head a little as she felt an uncomfortable kind of warmth on the back of her neck but she ignored it, she would finish her vigil, no matter what, “The children of the Maker gathered before His golden throne and sang hymns of praise unending. But their songs were the songs of the cobblestones. They shone with golden light, reflected from the Maker’s throne. They held forth the banners that flew on their own-”
“Maker’s breath!” She heard Ser Arduoin hiss, the shiny sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards rang in her ears.
Her eyes snapped open and she leaped to her feet, hurriedly grabbing at her hip for a sword she didn’t have. Warm, yellow light suddenly bloomed in the room, bathing them all in a harsh, blinding light. Like something had summoned the sun into the tiny room. Claricia whirled to see its source, only to have it stay on her back. She grabbed for it, finding nothing save a buttery kind of warmth, like sunshine in the spring.
“Stand down!” Ser Vernier snapped, drawing her attention towards him, one hand shielding his eyes from the light, eyes that turned hard and flinty.
“What-”
A force smashed into her skull like an avalanche had landed exclusively on top of her head. Her vision went black, then starry as she felt her body crumble to the floor. The light behind her winked out and she pushed herself up, shaking her head to alleviate the pounding. The mysterious thrumming in her blood was gone and she gave the Knights a grateful smile.
“Thank you, what was-” Claricia stopped cold as she watched them raise their swords to her, taking slow, careful steps closer, “What’re you doing?”
“Silence, girl. Don’t struggle and we’ll take you to the Circle, where you belong,” Ser Vernier hissed, there was an angry, almost disgusted curl to his mouth that made her stomach turn.
“The Circle? What’re you talking about? I’m a Templar,” Her eyes were wide, the singing in her veins slowly starting to rise again, a fluttering drumbeat that matched her heart.
“You are the farthest thing from,” Ser Arduoin nearly snarled, kind, blue eyes turned sharp and cold as steel, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
Her throat tightened, a sharp, stabbing pain piercing her chest with all the kindness of a rusty knife. Her breathing was too hard and too fast, the crackling, prickling aura that smothered her made her want to scratch her skin off.
“I’ve been here since I was small, please. Ser Vernier, you snuck me a sweet during my recitations after I knocked Howell on his ass for calling me names. Ser Arduoin, you recommended me for Templar training when I was six-”
“Silence!” Ser Arduoin snapped, “Your testimony will be taken after your arrest.”
The pounding in her head seemed to fade, replaced only with the light thrumming of energy that sparked at her fingertips, making the Templars stiffen, raising their shields. She backed away from the yellow sparks that tingled through her fingers, fear widening her eyes but that only seemed to make it worse. The yellow fire flared, then died, but it was too late.
Ser Ardouin lunged at her and she raised her hand against the incoming shield bash. Light exploded from her palm, bright and warm, like sunlight, accompanied by the sound of mountains crashing together. The blast threw the knights off their feet, the sharp clanging of armor smashing into the stone walls. Claricia took one horrified glance at her hand before she stood, racing over to Ser Vernier, wrenching his shield from his arm, and picking up the sword he dropped when he flew into the wall.
She heard Ser Arduoin groaning and she took his sword before scurrying out the door. She closed it behind her, bracing it shut with a sword. Claricia took a long, steadying breath before she started to march down the halls. She tried to remain casual, carefree, the way she usually wandered the halls of the Chantry.
She headed for the back doors that led to the gardens, then the unforgiving, mountainous woods that crowded the back of the Chantry. She was lucky that it hadn’t snowed yet, it was getting close to time for the first snows of winter.
“Claricia! There you are!” She stiffened as she heard the voice of Sister Avenia, the sister who claimed to find her on the doorstep of the Chantry, “Where are you going? I thought you had your Vigil today?”
“Knight Vernier informed me that we have to postpone it for one day, said something came up.” Her voice was high and thready, she cleared her throat, “Besides, I might be coming down with something. Not any good at singing the Chant if I can’t talk, right?”
“Oh, poor dear! Come, let’s get you inside, I have just the thing,” Sister Avenia gave her a motherly smile, locking her arm with hers.
“In a moment, I need to return these,” She disentangled herself from the Sister, gesturing lamely with the weapons she held in her hands, “Can’t leave them lying around-”
Claricia was cut off by the sound of the Chantry bells ringing. The Templar’s call to arms. The humming in her blood waxed stronger, the yellow light that had blinded her before flared back to life around her shoulders. She cursed, willing it down but Sister Avenia had already cast a fearful glance at Claricia. The Sister stepped away, like she’d been burned, dark eyes widening with fear and revulsion.
Maker, that look cut her to the bone, “Sister Avenia-”
“Andraste preserve me!” She gasped, taking quick, hurried steps away from her, finally turning to sprint away, waving her arms wildly, “She’s here! The apostate is here!”
Claricia reached as though to go after her, thought better of it, and ran. She barreled through the door and into the gardens. None of the usual tenders were here, the carefully guarded herbs and vegetables crunched beneath her boots, a twinge of regret twisted her heart at every ruined crop. She jumped as she heard the door slam open and sprinted for the fence, leaping over it to flee into the cover of the trees. Arrows whizzed past her head but miraculously, none found their mark. Idly, she noticed one with a red ring painted around the shaft. Dupont’s arrow. He always painted a red ring so he could find them, find where they landed at the end of a fight. Mere hours ago they sparred together, brushing up on his shield work.
And now his arrows flew after her.
Claricia ran further into the woods, the heavy, armored footsteps of the Templars were behind her, she heard the sound of glass shattering, someone had dropped their vial into the earth. The scent of ozone rolled over her like a foul cloud as she raced downhill through the woods. She fervently wished she’d spent more time in them now, instead of inside, learning, studying. Claricia cursed vehemently as she tumbled down the mountainside. She hazarded a glance back, only to immediately regret it.
Her mentors, all of them rushing down the mountains towards her, shields drawn, eyes shimmering lyrium blue. They would be on her if she didn’t do something. What could she do? She was one recruit, unfinished Vigil, no lyrium, she’d never tasted the stuff.
Claricia jumped a small ditch, nearly losing her footing as she scrambled down the sheer slopes. Several of the Templars had begun to run ahead of her, to cut her off or to herd her she wasn’t sure. They shouted at each other but she didn’t hear them. The heavy drone in the air, it hurt her ears and made her skin itch under the armor. Whatever that humming was it was at odds with the drumming flutter in her veins, an uncomfortable clash that made her skin crawl.
The Templars had circled around to the bottom of the slope, just in front of the river. Above her, the rest started to curl in, a small circle, maybe ten Knights and a few more advanced recruits. More than she could ever hope to take on her own. Unless...
Claricia looked at her hands, holding the sword and shield. The high drone in her veins practically sung in her flesh, she could feel it, slithering under her skin, aching with something sweet and overwhelmingly powerful. She met Knight Vernier’s eyes then, they were clear and cold, something dark and awful churning in them when he looked at her. There was none of his fatherly warmth now, just a disgusted curl to his lip that turned her stomach.
“Maker, give me strength,” She muttered, her voice a nearly broken sound as she dropped her sword and shield, each painted with the flaming sword, carved with the verses of the Chant.
“On your knees,” One of the knights barked, she didn’t care which one anymore, she simply lifted her eyes to the sound, gaze turning hard and steely, even as she felt her throat close.
“No,” She growled, gritting her teeth, “I will never kneel again.”
Claricia felt fear clench in her belly as bows were drawn, shields raised. She could die here, she probably would die here, through some cruel twist of fate that had suddenly made her a mage on the day of her Vigil. The sharp, cold aura that surrounded the Templars seemed to choke her, odd that she never had an issue with it before, the discordant hymn that prickled on her skin and over her armor felt more like the legs of beetles than the comforting cloud she’d come accustomed to.
Still a song rang in her veins, clenched in the beating of her small, frightened heart. Arrows were loosed and she threw up her arms to protect her face, fully expecting the sharp pain of an arrowhead piercing her flesh.
None came. She opened her eyes, only to find the arrows at her feet. She didn’t have time to wonder how she’d done it, the knights charged her and she set her feet as firmly as she could on the sheer slope, holding her hands out defensively. There was a great booming sound that rushed through the trees, like a clap of thunder. Blinding white light blasted from her hands and her chest where her heart beat so wildly. The Knights yelped as they were thrown off the mountain, several of them splashed into the icy river below, shields and swords flying out of their hands.
Claricia let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding and straightened. The song in her blood had dimmed but she felt it slowly building again. She hurried down the rest of the slope, nearly losing her footing on the slick, rocky shores of the river. The Templars were already beginning to rise, slowly, shaking their heads. The ones who’d fallen in the river would need to return to the Chantry, they couldn’t pursue her when it risked death from the cold.
“Claricia!” She heard Ser Vernier shout after her.
She shook her head and grit her teeth against the sharp pain that rose like bile in her throat. He didn’t get to use that fathering tone with her again, not after this. Not after looking at her like she was so very other than him. As though her sudden ability to channel magic had created a wholly new person.
She bit back the sob that clenched her throat. She had no time for crying now. She had to move. She didn’t know where, only that following the river would eventually lead her to someone, anyone who might help her. Dimly, she heard Templars barking orders somewhere behind her and she quickened her pace, her breath coming hard and fast as she struggled to control her emotions. Ser Vernier had always said that’d be the death of her.
“Claricia, I know that it hurts, that it makes you angry, but you cannot take that with you onto the field. By all means, take it with you into a sparring ring, or even into a tavern brawl but never into a real fight.”
Claricia grit her teeth against the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes as she followed the narrowing river into the darkness of the wilder portions of the woods. As a child, they always warned her, ‘Never go past where the river is no wider than a single pace. The woods there are wild and unforgiving, and they will swallow you whole,’. She almost chuckled as she lightly touched the trees with the fingers of her gauntlet. The forest seemed dark and foreboding, yet right now, she wouldn’t mind if it swallowed her up, magic and all.
She took a deep breath as she stepped into the woods, the shadows of the trees dimming the gleam of her armor. The shade felt dark and hungry like it clung to her boots and begged her stay, nestled under the pine branches until the cold took her. Claricia shook her head, gritting her teeth against the deep kind of sorrow as she began to recite the Chant again, this time beginning the Canticle of Trials.
“I have heard the sound, a song in the stillness, the echo of Your voice, calling creation to wake from its slumber,” Her voice trembled at every word she uttered, each one summoning a kind of almost unknowable grief, “How can I know You? In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, in the empty space where my heart hungers for a forgotten face?”
She’d stopped walking quite so quickly through the woods, no longer hearing the stomping of armored feet on the earth, orders barked in a harsh voice. She only heard the sounds of the woods, songbirds and a frigid wind that cut through her armor like a knife. She shivered, folding her arms tightly as she wandered, shaking her head softly.
“You have walked beside me, down the paths where a thousand arrows sought my flesh. You have stood with me when all others have forsaken me,” She let out all her breath in a rush, a sharp pain in her throat that made her sob, just a little, “Maker, why have you done this to me?”
There was no answer, just the wind in the trees and the song in her blood that she knew she’d never be rid of again.
“I have learned the Chant, word for word. I believed in the Chantry, the Templars, I dedicated everything I am, everything I was to them, to You,” Her voice turned bitter, scathing as she stomped through the woods, “And my reward? You grant me magic, a faint echo of the wonders which You crafted for us,” she sighed heavily, pounding the side of her fist into a tree so hard it rattled her bones, “Have I been too proud? Too angry? Too bitter? Tell me what I have done, please.”
Nothing. The wind in the trees died a little, nugs hopping along the forest floor, foraging for food. Claricia scoffed, swallowing the lump of iron in her throat, angrily wiping away the tears that ran down her face. Still, she continued the Chant, hoping that somehow it would help, that for just one brief moment she’d feel the healing touch of faith in her heart.
“I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence. When I have lost all else, when my eyes fail me and the taste of blood fills my mouth, then, in the pounding of my heart, I hear the glory of creation.”
Her voice was rough and broken, yet the Chant still offered its own small comfort. The warmth of a blanket over her shoulders, a steady, tender ache in her heart that harmonized with the song she felt that thundered in her blood. She swallowed, hard, squeezing her eyes shut for a few moments, listening to the sound that hummed under her skin.
“You have grieved as I am. You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor, and clay, comforting each other in our art,” She whispered, tentatively waving her hand, smiling when small, golden wisps of light spread from her fingertips with the gentleness of butterfly wings, “Do not grieve for me, Maker of All. Though all others may forget You, Your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake You, even if I forget myself.”
Her voice was stronger, steadier now, the Chant wrapping her in the warmth of a familiar embrace, a deep kind of comfort that helped to mend her shattered soul. She drew a certain kind of strength from His absence, the absence of a sign or a healing hand. Internally, she reminded herself, ‘The Maker’s will is unknowable, even by His greatest servants,’.
“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the Light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What You have created, no one can tear asunder,” She felt that golden light starting to come off of her again and gently muted it, allowing it only to warm her cold fingers and toes, “Who knows me as You do? You have been there since before my first breath. You have seen me when no other would recognize my face. You composed the cadence of my heart.”
Claricia took a long, shuddering breath, realizing that she’d long ago lost the river. She turned a little, the woods were dark and threatening, the sounds of beasts meandering its deepest shadows, ready to swallow her whole. She cleared her throat and kept going.
“Through blinding mist, I climb, a sheer cliff, the summit shrouded in fog, the base endlessly far beneath my feet, The Maker the rock to which I cling,” She steadied her breathing, trying to slow the thundering of her heart as she heard the sounds of feet or paws on the dirt, “I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped. Though all before me is shadow, yet shall The Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in The Maker’s Light and nothing that He had wrought shall be lost.”
In the distance, she saw a flash of color. Patterned red cloth, wood lighter than the bark of the pines, shining white pelts that stood out starkly in the darkness of the forest. She heard the softness of a song, chanted in an unfamiliar tongue, yet it comforted her.
“I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here,” She hurried towards the sails, the sound of people, the last words of her chant tumbling clumsily from her tongue, “Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at The Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven.”
(vía https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIfkOEiN_Ns)
Claricia, self-portrait in a psalter, Walters Art Museum, Baltimore, c.1200