RP Archive - Maerwyn and Emrys, Pt. 11
--M--
Scout Harding placed the report she had been writing on the requisition table to approach the nearing group. “Welcome to the Fallow Mire, Inquisitor,” she said, the edge of her mouth quirking upwards. “As the spymaster has probably told you, some of our scouts have been taken by the Avaar, They have a hold at the far end of the swamp.”
Maerwyn couldn’t prevent a scowl. “Lovely. Anything else I should know about this place?”
Her eyes scanned across the foggy surroundings. The air was hot and heavy, sticking to her skin like glue and casting a shimmering glow across her leathers. It had the heavenly scent of rotting flesh and mud, with a hint of something far more disgusting Maerwyn couldn’t identify. Movement in the shallow water caught her eye. A finger? An arm? It was hard to make out with the eerie darkness.
“I’d stay out of the water if I were you. The dead don’t seem to like it,” Scout Harding warned, backing away toward the camp and toward her unfinished report. “Good luck, Inquisitor.”
Maerwyn’s head cocked toward Emrys, eyebrows raised. “Good luck? That worries me.”
--E--
The swamp was dead, in more ways than one. It smelled of decay and pestilence, light was scarce and muted, and the fog was too heavy and pushed too close. It clung to their skin like dew to grass and there was something uncomfortable about breathing it in. The water was dark, from within as much as from the gloom, and rippled without being touched.
Emrys shivered and couldn’t flatten the disgusted curl of lip no matter how hard he tried. Beside him, the rim of Cole’s hat was drooping comically low and beside Cole, Blackwall’s beard was in a state of stringy, bedraggled distress. Emrys was certain he fared no better; when he shivered, he could feel his undershirt sticking to his skin.
His only comfort was that of the four of them, he was the only one who didn’t have bangs dripping in his eyes. “I’m more worried about the dead not liking things,” he said. “That implies that they don’t stay dead. What do we know of these Avvar?”
--M--
Maerwyn’s boots sunk half an inch as she walked, and made an undesirable ploop sound with each lift of her leg upon breaking the suction. Wiping the sweaty bangs from her eyes Maerwyn said, “Very little. They are large, usually secluded, and are rather hostile toward the Inquisition.”
The slightly more stable pathway led to a rickety wooden bridge. Maerwyn tested it with her foot, half the rotting board dipping into the gloomy water. “If anyone happens to fall in, be ready to attack.”
Maerwyn stepped on the bridge, holding out her arms to balance her weight. The boards creaked with each step. The breath stuck in her throat as she hurried across, lacking a significant amount of grace. With a small gasp, Maerwyn leaped from the edge and onto the grass on the other side.
“I did it!” A smile spread from ear to ear, laughter escaping her mouth. The sound seemed to be swallowed up by the over-abundance of trees and the buzzing of bugs against their ears. “I was not expecting such success.”
“Is that a fade rift?” Blackwell squinted against the heaviness of the fog, pulling his iron shield protectively in front of him–just in case. “And an Avaar?”
--E--
Cole followed after Maerwyn, sure-footed and hardly bending the wood at all. Emrys was surprised he could see; his hair was slicked all the way to his cheekbones and hit hat sagged even further. With just the two of the them left, Emrys and Blackwall looked at one another, and Emrys inclined his head in invitation. Blackwall hesitated.
“You sure?” he said. “If anyone’s likely to break it, it’s me.” He clanged an armoured fist against his breastplate to illustrate his point, but Emrys waved him across with an assured nod.
The board held miraculously under Blackwall’s bulk, but his trip was its last. No sooner had Blackwall set his feet on solid ground, the board splintered and buckled slowly, falling piece-meal into the water with hardly a ripple. Emrys was engulfed in smoke as the ripples spread along the shoreline and swooped out of it again as a small, brown and white songbird. He fluttered across the gap, within an inch of Blackwall’s astonished expression, and alighted on Maerwyn’s shoulder with a soft whistle.
He shook himself dry and huddled under Maerwyn’s ear, puffing out his feathers to ward off the chill, which was much sharper when he was this small.“You like being a bird,” Cole said, sounding serene. “But you like being a bear better. You like when her scent stays in your fur and you can take it with you.”Emrys ruffled himself all over and peeped indignantly from under Maerwyn’s hair.
--M--
Maerwyn grinned, stroking her finger along the puffed up feathers on the back of Emrys’ neck. “You do, huh?”
“She likes it, too.” Cole’s gaze flicked to Maerwyn, icy eyes peeking at her from behind thick bangs. Her heart sank into her stomach. “Smiling masks hide the hurt. Fear shut behind doors. Waiting, watching, wanting to surface. Must be strong. For the clan. For him.”
Oh no. The tips of Maerwyn’s ears quickly grew hot. She cleared her throat to disrupt the silence that weighed heavily upon her chest. “There is no need to dig inside my head, Cole. I’m fine.”
--E--
Emrys nuzzled the top of his head against the point of Maerwyn’s jaw, twitching anxiously from side to side on her shoulder. What did he mean by masks? He hopped in a half circle to look behind them; Cole’s attention had drifted away to the rotting carts dotted alongside the path and he looked as bereft for the carts themselves as he did for what they implied. Blackwall had distanced himself a little from Cole and something deeper than simple unease came over his face whenever he glanced Cole’s way.
Emrys was intrigued – and still worried – but as if sensing the mark’s proximity, the Rift ahead of them surged brighter, crackling and pulsing, before materialising demons throughout the grass. Emrys dropped from Maerwyn’s shoulder and took his elven shape again, readying his staff.
“What are the odds he uses that on us next?” He jerked his chin at the lone Avvar, who was swinging a great hammer at a terror’s head with what could only have been described as a growl.
--M--
Maerwyn whipped her arm back, the fade rift collapsing in a ripple of green. The mark against her hand shook and spat a burst of light before dimming. With a wince, Maerwyn cradled the marked hand against her chest, a hot pain searing up her arm. Each rift caused more pain than the last.
“Avvar, lower your weapon,” Maerwyn demanded, voice stern and mouth taut. Heavy breathing interrupted her words and lessened the intimidating effect.
the man–who, arguably, appeared to be more beast than human–hung the bloody warhammer over his shoulder. He turned his masked face toward her. “I have no reason to fight you.”
Despite his claims of peace, Maerwyn remained guarded, buzzing staff tight in her grasp. “Some of your kin wish to. They have my scouts.”
The edges of his mouth quirked downward. Maerwyn imagined a sadness to his expression, but could not see it. “The foolish son of our clan chief. I hold no allegiance to him. My duty is to collect the dead bodies, nothing more.”
Blackwall stepped forward, a low grumbling to his voice. “And we’re to believe that?”
Maerwyn lifted her hand. “He isn’t attacking us, Blackwall. There is no need to cause more bloodshed.” The electricity around her staff head calmed. “I wish you luck, Avvar.”
--E--
Emrys elbowed Blackwall companionably on the arm. “Collect dead bodies, not make them.” Blackwall snorted, unimpressed.
Sky Watcher had his task set out for him; the dead were everywhere. In the water, both floating and upright, easily mistaken for the trunks of trees in the distant fog, but they were moving. On the shores of the inlets, which were getting thinner and thinner, half submerged and decomposing. Charred in great bonfires, clawing out of the grass if the party strayed too close.
And the dead were only the start. Beacons, bright and an eerie green uncomfortably reminiscent of the rifts, dotted the walkways like milestones. They were active but untended, and marked with symbols that lit up when exposed to magic. Demons sometimes followed.
They followed the dead through the mire to the town most of them likely occupied in life, and to which most of them had returned. The fog parted for what could only be called a horde and for every one they killed, two more arose from the water to take its place. The ran for the stronghold instead, and the dead followed.
Blackwall ran ahead, bashing through alarmed Avvar to the portcullis lever, Cole flashing along behind him to finish any stragglers. Emrys and Maerwyn were barely across the threshold when the gate dropped. For one breathless second they had relief, then the glint of armour caught his eye, the scrape of a sword in its sheath filled his ears, too close. He couldn’t reach his staff in time.
He was knocked to the side a split second before the Avvar’s shield made contact and Maerwyn took his place. He heard the impact, the yell, the wet tear of a blade through skin even through the ring of panic in his ears. He looked up; Cole was sitting on the avvar’s back, both blades stuck hilt deep in his back, and Maerwyn was some feet away, prone but stirring. He raced to her side and turned her over, hands shaking in relief as her eyes opened.
“No, not here, not like this,” came Cole’s voice, distant and with the echo of Emrys’s desperation. “You will be the end of her. Watching, worrying, wilting, slow her down until she stops. I can’t prove her right.”
“Not now, Cole,” Emrys said quietly, wiping at his eyes. “Please.”
--M--
Darkness. Pain. White hot and demanding attention. Hands fumbled against her. A voice calling, drawing her from unconsciousness. Maerwyn gasped, reaching with shaking fingers toward her injured shoulder. Ermys’ tear-stained face came into focus.
Maerwyn pulled Emrys into a sudden, tight embrace, letting the warmth of his body calm her jittering heart. “Don’t fret, emma lath.” Goosebumps rose along his skin where she kissed, lips brushing softy against his neck. Her voice was low and hoarse, the wind still absent from her lungs. “I’m fine, I promise.”
The battle continued around her, screams of death echoing off the old stone walls. One Avvar fell. Then two. Then three. An almost endless supply of Avvar continued to fight, as if disposable by their leader. The idea sat heavy in Maerwyn’s gut, an uneasy feeling settling over her.
“There is something I need to do.” Maerwyn pulled away enough to gaze into Emrys’ glossy eyes, fresh tears still threatening to fall. “You won’t particularly like it.”
His voice rang behind her, but Maerwyn refused to listen. She simply stood to her feet and bellowed across the abandoned courtyard. “This is enough!” Heads of both enemy and companion alike turned to face the Inquisitor, swords motionless in their hands. “We need to end this before more lives are lost. Take me to your leader. We will fight. One on one.”
--E--
Emrys tucked his face against her neck, pulling her close with trembling arms, the pulse he could feel against the tip of his nose calming his own clamouring heart beat. He forgot their surroundings for a moment, the mud under his knees, the dead outside the gates and on the cobblestones beside them. He felt her lips pressed to his neck, felt the vibrations of her assurances against his cheek, and sighed.
His arms fell to his sides as she pulled back and he lifted his head, eyes red and lips pressed tremulously together. He sniffed and nodded absently, then looked up as her parting words finally sunk in, but she had already stood up.
He could feel his pulse in his fingertips and in his ears and he stood too, his panic making him unsteady on his feet. “No,” he said, voice breaking. “Maerwyn, what are you doing!”
A hand closed on his elbow, holding him back, and whiskers tickled against the shell of his ear. Blackwall’s voice rumbled next to him. “She doesn’t have a choice, lad, she has to end this.”
“And we’re supposed to what?” Emrys snarled. “Sit back and hope they play fair?” He yanked hard against Blackwall’s grip, but Blackwall’s hand stayed firm. Ahead of them, Maerwyn moved away in the center of the remaining Avvar, head held high and shoulders squared.
“She can’t go in there alone, Blackwall,” he said desperately. “She’ll never come back out and I can’t let that happen.” Blackwall was wavering, Emrys could see it. “Please.”
Blackwall sighed and fingers loosened on Emrys’s forearm, but he didn’t let go. “Alright. We go in behind them and kill anybody who tries to flank her, but we can’t interfere with her fight. Understood?”
Emrys nodded, because that’s what Blackwall was expecting.
“Good. Come on, before they close the gates.”
--M--
Maerwyn kept her eyes trained in front of her, struggling to avoid glancing at the (((hella))) intimidating Avvar on either side of her, acting as a prison. The stone walls were crumbling, vines with monstrous thorns invading through the cracks. Torches periodically illuminated the hallway, worsening the ominous atmosphere.
The Avvar halted. Maerwyn’s feet tapped against the first step of many, ascending to a fur-coated throne. The man who occupied the seat met her gaze with fiery eyes.
“It appears you and I have an issue to settle.” Maerwyn tightened her muscles, fearful that the tremor in her legs would show. “There is no need to bring our men into this.”
The leader remained silent save for an incoherent grumble as he stood to his feet. Fire from the torches reflected off the greatsword tight in the Avvar’s grasp. The distance between Maerwyn and the beast who would surely be her end lessened. The suspense quickened her heart. Maerwyn stole a glance at Emrys, unable to resist. For a quick moment the mask of strength disappeared, eyes wide with fear. It vanished the minute the Avvar spoke.
“Ready your weapon, Inquisitor.”
With a gulp, Maerwyn grabbed the staff from her back, praying to the Creators that her magical abilities were powerful enough. The Avvar was beastly, in body and in voice. His width was twice that of hers, and Maerwyn did not doubt his ability to crush every bone between his hands.
Electricity buzzed around the branches at the tip of the staff, magic or nervousness–Maerwyn could not tell–tingling in the bottom of her gut. The Avvar lashed out, sweeping his greatsword toward her with a grunt. Emrys gasped, stealing her attention from the weapon. Maerwyn leaped backward. It was too late to avoid injury. The metal sliced into the skin of her abdomen.
The pain didn’t register, allowing Maerwyn to throw a ball of electricity at her enemy. Blood dripped down her thigh, pooling on the shiny stone below. The Avvar recoiled backwards, strips of burns covering his exposed arms. His reaction awarded Maerwyn a moment to shut her eyes and to channel the Keeper’s magic. The vines along the wall bent to her will, wrapping around the arms and neck of the Avvar, squeezing tight.
Cries of outrage erupted around her and interrupted Maerwyn’s focus. The warrior Avvar became increasingly hostile, unsheathing their weapons with the threat of their leaders’ death.
--E--
Emrys would have jumped in immediately if Blackwall, who was more observant than Emrys had given him credit for, hadn’t kept a hold on his arm the entire time. His stomach dropped at Maerwyn’s flinch of pain and he nearly pulled from Blackwall’s grip.
“Not yet,” Blackwall said. “Cole, do your disappearing act and see if you can find the scouts.” Emrys assumed Cole did as told; he didn’t dare look away from Maerwyn to find out.
The Avvar didn’t seem concerned with – or even aware of – their presence. They were circling the squall like carrion birds, looking between Maerwyn and their leading as if awaiting an invitation to join in. And their circle was getting tighter the longer the fight dragged on.
“Just don’t hit me with that magic of yours,” Blackwall whispered and let Emrys go.
Emrys didn’t bother responding, or reaching for his staff. Frost dusted his hands and the ground around his feet, his breath and Blackwall’s misted in front of them, and he pushed his magic outwards. The dampness in the air and on the ground made it easy; ice crept from the floor to the Avvar’s legs, through their soggy clothing to their skin. He readied his staff then, slammed the blade into the mortar, and his summoned ice shattered inwards, piercing skin and snapping bones.
Blackwall rushed the panicked Avvar from the side, sword already mid-swing and shield at the ready. In a cloud of smoke, Cole appeared atop a ruined pillar, daggers in his hands, and from a doorway off to the side came the Inquisition scouts, weapons in hand.
--M--
The ice shattered. Shards the length of Maerwyn’s arm tore through the Avvar’s armour. Many fell to their injuries, but few remained. Maerwyn regained her focus, taking control of the vines once again. They slithered along the ground, wrapping around the Avvar like a snake. Silence settled over the remaining survivors.
Pain. A sharp stinging radiated through her abdomen. Maerwyn shrugged off her leather coat and tore open the front of her shirt. A horizontal gash ran the length of her abdomen, a steady stream of blood spilling down her clothing. The surrounding skin was inflamed and hot to the touch.
Her faced drained of colour. “I think I might need more stitches.”
Maerwyn grabbed at Emrys’ robes as the room began to twirl. She wavered, stumbling backward into Emrys’ arms. She let out a rather inappropriate puff of laughter. “Another scar, huh?”
--E--
Emrys wiped the blood slowly off his fingers into a shallow bowl of water. The water was already pink, the linen rag draped on its rim almost completely red with Maerwyn’s blood. He could hear her breathing steadily in the tent behind him, almost inaudible over the crackle of the fire. Her cut – and sewing it closed – had been his only focus since they’d returned to camp, but now all they could do was wait and his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since he set down his needle.
Someone sat down beside him on the rock he was using as a seat. He didn’t look around to see who it was; the scrape of armour and the gruff sigh told him it was Blackwall.
“All the lost scouts are accounted for,” said Blackwall. “None of them were hurt, as that Sky Watcher fella said.”
“That’s good,” Emrys replied woodenly, still passing the linen over his fingers, though there was no blood left on them. Across the fire he could see the stretcher they’d made to carry her. It was leaning upright against a stone, stained a deep red in the center.
“Why…” Blackwall sounded hesitant, as though he wasn’t entirely sure his question would be welcome. Emrys could guess what it was going to be. “Why didn’t you just use magic to heal her?”
The annoyance he usually felt at the question didn’t spark. He was too exhausted. “Magic isn’t always delicate. Sometimes it… doesn’t get things right.” He rubbed wearily at his eyes and sighed. “I couldn’t risk… not with her.”
--M--
Maerwyn’s eyes fluttered open. Her heartbeat pounded against her skull, mouth sticky and dry. There was no water in sight, and every attempt to sit up only ended in pain and discouragement. She ran her fingers along the bandage on her abdomen with a sigh. It would leave a scar, too.
Whispers and two silhouettes outside the tent caught her attention. Maerwyn knew immediately from the shape of the bodies that it was Blackwall and Emrys.
I couldn't risk…not with her.
Much of their relationship consisted of one risking their own life–and, arguably, the welfare of Thedas–to protect the other. It was perilous and unpredictable, and threatened not only herself and Emrys, but everything Maerwyn had strived for. It was a luxury she shouldn’t have indulged in. Now Maerwyn couldn’t erase her feelings or their history–didn’t want to.
The tent opened and interrupted her thoughts. Emrys gazed at her in surprise and relief. Maerwyn grinned with droopy eyes, a hoarseness to her voice as she spoke, “Good evening. I imagine it’s evening by now, yes?”
--E--
Emrys pushed aside the tent flap with one arm, the other curled under a fresh bowl of water, which he nearly dropped in his surprise at finding her awake. He smiled wearily at her, relieved beyond words that she was recovered enough to smile back, but the heaviness in his chest didn’t ease as much as he was expecting it to. He set the bowl down carefully next to her pallet, then sat beside it and touched gentle fingertips to her cheek.
“Was it all the snoring from the other tents that gave it away?” he said, the humour in his voice as weak as him smile. “How are you feeling?”
--M--
Emrys’ fingertips caressed her cheek, his touch gentle and soft, as if in fear Maerwyn was going to crumble. She leaned into his hand, noticing the worry on his face refused to fade. The laugh that escaped his lips was half-hearted. Maeryn smiled, hoping to east Emrys’ anxiety.
Mirroring his movements, Maerwyn touched her fingers along his cheek and jaw. “You look ill, emma lath.”
--E--
Emrys sighed and tilted his head until the curve of his cheek fit into her palm. In truth, he felt numb still, despite his spell in front of the fire. Twice in one day he’d been certain he’d lost her, and the thought still brought him perilously close to tears.
He closed his eyes and took a moment to recover himself, then sighed. “You scared me,” he said, so quietly he could barely hear it himself. “I thought… I was sure if those doors closed behind you, I would never see you again. And there was nothing I could do about it.”
End Part 11
