“I know him,” Noah whispers, his voice ragged from intermittent hyperventilating. “He Who Walks the Glowing Sea. The father of entropy. I know him. The Dark Man is Atom. Atom is the Dark Man. I know him--”
Preston looks helplessly at Nick, who lifts his spindly right hand in an equally helpless gesture.
Noah won’t leave the shrine. His eyes are wide and wild, his hair even wilder with its recently-gained streak of white -- a relic of his last encounter with the Dark Man -- and his hands roaming the walls, the periodic table with its code, the shelves with their relics, skulls and vials and books scribbled full of dark promise.
“We might have to wait until the spring water wears off,” Nick remarks uncertainly, but Preston doesn’t know how long that will be, and he’s not ready to watch this disturbing display for what could potentially be hours.
Still, they can’t leave him. The radiation trip would just have to take its course.
“Leave me alone,” Noah weeps, his hands clenched around one of the skulls, cracking its dome. “Leave me alone! I don’t want this. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know...”
Nick fishes a flask out of the inner breast pocket of his coat, and offers it to Preston. With a heavy sigh, Preston accepts it.
There was magic, and then there was magic. All of them had seen Anansi vanquish hordes with the power of the tempest, or the scalding sun, or the riven earth before. All of them had felt his boons wash over them in controlled waves that could have crushed them all with their intensity.
But this was no mere skirmish, no sortie against a gaggle of darkspawn. Urthemiel rose mighty and terrible over Fort Drakon, an adversary beyond measure, beyond understanding. Not a dragon, not an abomination, an archdemon, something even the Maker, should he have existed, would not wish to behold.
They fought as valiantly as they could, but soon all of them were wearier than they’d ever been, and it seemed they would lose.
In that moment Anansi Surana stood in the fray, whipped ragged by the winds that Urthemiel’s wings stirred up, but refusing to buckle. And for that moment, all was still.
Later, they would all avoid the question that nagged them-- did you hear it, too?
Anansi brought his hands together in front of his chest, and he closed his eyes, and he sang but a few bars -- enough to focus, enough to touch, enough to fill him to the brim.
Urthemiel was circling, and when Anansi began to sing, the archdemon saw an opening and began to dive.
Alistair, Ali Bear-boy, was staggering to his feet when he heard the song in his mind. It was a question, and he answered. I am a Grey Warden. I give this shield, this power of mine, for Anansi. I haven’t always believed in myself, but I have always believed in Anansi Surana.
Briar Heart, Vashoth, was yanking the bladed end of eir staff out of a genlock when ey heard the song in eir mind. It was a question, and ey answered. I am a Grey Warden. I give this magic, this power of mine, for the sake of my mate, for the sake of the child ey carry, for the sake of us all.
Loghain mac Tir, newly Joined, was hastily wrapping a wound with a scrap ripped from a fallen mage’s robes when he heard the song in his mind. It was a question, and he answered. I am a Grey Warden. I give this sword, this power of mine, for the land I love and the queen who will rule it. I am not afraid to die, but maybe I will be glad to live.
So this, then, is the power of Wardens, Morrigan thought to herself as she stood on the rampart, feeding Anansi’s growing spell through the bond their Ritual had created. This magic, her last gift; her last silent expression of faith in a young Warden she’d begrudgingly nursed back to health in a ramshackle hut what seems like ages ago.
The battle is not yet done, many more soldiers in this Battle for Denerim thought to themselves as they felt Anansi’s song wash over them, lifting them to their feet, drawing their combined energy to the core of the song -- to Anansi’s loosely clasped hands, in front of his chest.
Anansi opened his eyes. The archdemon dove. Anansi raised his eyes to Urthemiel’s, raised his hands, and pushed.
“It was like... like a light, right? A giant ball of flamin’ sunlight, but all outta that one little body,” someone would marvel in a tavern later, but someone else would argue, “Nah, you’ve got it all wrong, son, it was like... like a scream, like the loudest scream you’d ever heard, like someone was just splittin’ you apart with it.” Still another would claim that Anansi’s final spell was like another dragon rising to meet Urthemiel and ripping him open, and yet another would insist that no one could have seen anything, because surely they’d gotten instantly knocked out by the force of blast just like he had, so they must all be making it up.
“Just a little Creation magic, a little hedge magic, some help from my friends,” Anansi would shrug, when pressed about how he’d ended the Fifth Blight. It was an unsatisfying answer, but you just had to have been there.
They'd managed to keep him out of the operating room, but they let him accompany Noah back to his quarters. Preston always felt conspicuously dark here -- with everything so bright and white, so clean and spartan, and him dark-skinned and clad in navy blues and dark browns and forest greens, with the dirt of the Commonwealth ground into the soles of his boots and the weave of his coat. Noah didn't look so out-of-place -- they'd dressed him in Institute blue, offsetting the rich darkness of his skin and hair, and Preston supposed they'd bathed him some, too.
He imagined them curling their lips with high-bred disgust as they gingerly removed his clothing, and felt his blood pressure rise. Hurriedly he turned his attention back to Noah, who slept quietly under the watchful monitors, his chest rising and falling in relaxed rhythms.
Preston couldn't relax. He'd only believe Noah was okay when Noah woke up and told him so. He supposed Noah would just laugh at the depth of his distrust of the Institute, but Preston couldn't understand how he trusted them so implicitly.
Sighing, Preston pulled up a seat and vowed to keep vigil until Noah opened his eyes. But biology obeyed its own prime directive, and after such an adrenaline spike and so much anxiety he could not stave off sleep for long.
"You'll get a stiff neck like that," are the words that snap him awake, and he sits up quickly although his body groans in protest.
He was right. Preston did have a stiff neck. Noah, sitting up at the edge of the bed, laughs as he surreptitiously massages it.
"You okay?" Noah asks, and Preston doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
"Me? Am I okay? Do you have any idea--"
"Yes, mother," Noah interrupts, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips. "I remember what happened. But you got me here, just like I asked. And didn't I tell you they'd fix me right up?"
"Noah, you have got to be more careful! They almost killed you!" Preston stands, closing the distance between them. "I honestly don't know how they didn't!"
"Well, the important thing is that they didn't, isn't it?" Noah peers at him, seemingly confused. "Come on, babe. Be happy. I'm okay. It's all right."
"This time it was! Because I was right there! And because... I don't know, luck, or something!"
"Preston--"
"I just got to the point where maybe I’m okay with thinking about the future, and not about how hard getting through one day is! Maybe I shouldn't hinge my entire life on you, but I did! It's done! I would never want to die and leave you alone, but you--!"
Preston presses the back of his hand against his mouth, hard, cutting himself off, shaking his head. He can't cut off the tears, though, no matter how tightly he squeezes his eyes shut, nor can he shut his ears against Noah, who he foolishly expects to either say nothing or laugh it off.
"Shit, Preston, I'm sorry," Noah says instead, stricken and hushed, and when he touches Preston's arm, hesitantly, Preston doesn't even bother stopping himself from throwing his arms around Noah's neck and burrowing his face into the clean-smelling garment, underneath which he can still smell Noah, warm and earthy and slightly metallic. It's easier to cry like this, especially with Noah's hand cradling his skull, especially when Noah hooks a leg around Preston's legs and uses the leverage to scoot closer to the edge of the bed, so their bodies are flush against each other, close, warm, loving...
my daily word count was getting kinda weak so then I decided to do some “how did Meresino become Meresino” because I could write them going back and forth for hours. here’s some fresh hot-off-the-press unedited dialogue from that experiment
... She pushes Orsino's door open, not even bothering to knock. Knight-Commander's presumption, she's sure someone would call it, but it isn't her intention to be rude or domineering, not this time. Orsino looks up from his paperwork in surprise, then in concern when he sees the pallor in her cheeks.
"What's the matter?" he asks, setting the quill down.
"No, no, don't look at me like that," she grouses, grimacing. "Yell at me for barging in without knocking. Call me a-- what is it you call me? A hard-headed, hard-hearted harpy--"
Orsino grimaces, this time. "That... wasn't a proud moment of mine. Why would you want me to repeat it?"
"I just--" Meredith shoves her hand in her hair, exhaling in frustration. "Sorry. I just... wanted you to be you, for a moment. I--"
"And 'being me' means getting hot-headed and yelling at you because I unfairly blame you for every ill every mage has ever suffered, right," Orsino says ruefully.
Meredith waves a hand irritably. "We'll get to that later. I... listen, Orsino, I've got templars who are leaving proposals on my desk insisting that the best thing to do is Tranquilise all mages. All of them. Every single one. And I just... I don't think about Tranquillity in detail much, Elsa's a sweet girl and that's all I think about, but... I've only known Elsa the way she is. What kind of personality did she have before we branded her? I imagined how different you'd be and... I hated it. It pissed me off. Maker, I want to strangle Ser Alrik!"
Orsino is trying not to smile, his mouth twitching as he leans back in his chair and listens to her tirade. "You'd miss me if I were gone."
Meredith exhales gustily, glaring at him. "Of course that's what you'd get out of this."
"And yet, you don’t deny it," he reminds her, cheekily, but sobers. "Now imagine how many young apprentices I've had to witness lose everything they are to the brand. How many children I've adored, despite all my intentions not to, that grew up to become, not mages, but... something that most people can't even recognise as another person.
I know your Ser Alrik. I've run afoul of him several times and each time it took every ounce of willpower in me not to do something horrible to him, to give him a good reason to be so hateful. I know what he does to mages. Do you hear me? I know what he does to them, and I can't do anything about it. I could tell you, but what would you do about it? Would you have him expelled from the Order? Or would you censure him and release him? Censure means nothing to a black-hearted whoreson like him. He doesn't care what you think. He doesn't care what I think. He doesn't care about anything except how much power he can have over the powerless. And being a templar will always give him a place to indulge that."
Orsino almost wishes he isn't so easily worked up, because everything becomes a speech with him. He knows it, and it embarrasses him, but passion and pain burns hot in him at all times, and all it needed was a gentle nudge to spill forth in a torrent.
Meredith watches him guardedly, and he knows she's shielding herself from the emotional weight of his words -- she has to, because to feel the fullness of it would be a distraction, and her job is difficult. --Not the Knight-Commander part, but the part where she must continue to be Knight-Commander although even her faith in the institution that she represents is being shaken to the core.
"You make this so fucking hard for me," she says quietly, and Orsino nods.
"I know."
"I would miss you if you were gone," she affirms. They gaze at each other for a long moment, but before Orsino could get up and go to her, she leaves.
"So, what happens, then?” Adrian asks the Catalyst, who calls emself Ana-Dimitri Shepard. “If I don't use you to destroy the Reapers?"
"Join me. Ascend with me. Become with me. You'll think you're disintegrating, being taken apart by a Reaper, and you'll be forgiven for thinking that. It's only scary for a short while, trust me. And you're not alone. London will think she's becoming a Reaper and taking you apart. Imagine that, right? Anyway, neither of those things is the whole truth, it's just the way it'll feel for a minute. And then the interface will be complete. And everyone, all sentient life, will be hybridised."
"What?" Adrian steps back, shaking his head. "You've got to be kidding me. How?"
"My code, your code, London's code. The Shepard Code. It's a hybrid DNA, and it'll be synthesised from all of us, and installed into the genetic memory of the galaxy. Everyone will be rewritten, but... not their minds, Adrian. Not that unique combination of memory and sentiment. They'll still be them. If that's what you're worried about."
"And I'll be dead."
"Well, by everyone’s reckoning, yeah. But you'll be with us. We'll be the Three-in-One...”
"You tricked me!" Solas exclaims in what could only be described as amazement.
Zaarilek laughs. "Did you forget who I was? That is your fault, not mine."
"Did you send em to thwart me? A Qunari?"
"A Vashoth," Zaarilek corrects, its deep and jagged voice underscored with the lilt of amusement. "And yes, I sent em. But not to thwart you. You thwart yourself, as you've always done, as you ever will. I simply sought entertainment. A dash to sweeten the pot, as they'd say."
"I can't use the Anchor like this," Solas grouses, looking down at Kasaanda as ey appeared in the Fade, shrouded and flickering, a dim and uncertain presence. A green light blooms from eir hand and snakes up eir arm. "It's ruined."
"Oh, don't be so melodramatic." Zaarilek saunters around Kasaanda's prone astral form, smiling. The creation of the kossith had been the loveliest of mistakes. Had the corruption not come to the Old Gods, it believes they would have tried again. But perhaps this flawed creation was all that was granted to the Great Ones, and if that were so, Zaarilek would make the best of them now. "Join em."
"What?" Solas frowns.
"Join em. Befriend em. Befriend those ey befriend. Join a pack, Dread Wolf. Be patient and observant. You're good at that, aren't you?"
"I am not that sort of wolf," Solas growls.
Zaarilek laughs again, mockingly. "The only other kind of wolf is a dead one. Or a sleeping one, if you must split hairs...”
Noah Kingfisher III coughs, coughs harder, tries to force his gluey eyelids open. Vision does return to him, but not the vision of his eyes.
“Remember me?”
Noah stops trying to move his body, stops struggling against what felt like an icy shell, and sighs. Oh, he remembers. “Dark Man.”
“Good, cully. What’s the last thing you remember?”
“The bombs fell.”
“After that.”
Pushing, crowding, a loud and grinding elevator, smell of metal and machine, strangers prodding at him, inspecting him. Shaun crying in Zora’s arms, Shaun being passed into his arms, Shaun heavy and warm and familiar, smelling of powder and Zora’s perfume, and then Zora taking him again as strangers ushered them into... “The pods. What were they for again?”
“Doesn’t matter, Dead Man. And before you go telling me how you’re obviously not dead, that doesn’t matter, either. Because to the world you knew, you might as well be -- and this might as well be your drawer in the morgue.
But never mind that. I’ve something to show you, old friend.”
Noah’s eyes pry open.
“Is it over?” Zora’s voice is muffled through the thick glass. Noah starts to smile, seeing her, seeing Shaun, but then his perspective widens, and he sees the men around her. He feels cold in a way that has little to do with the cryogenic pod.
“Everything’s fine. Just give us the child, and...” Their first mistake, Noah thinks pityingly. She loathed strange hands on their child.
There is a struggle. Noah raises his hands to the glass, tapping at first, then slapping, then pounding. “Hey! Hey! What’s going on out there? Don’t grab him like-- don’t grab her like that! Stop! Let me... out...”
He subsides as the coldness spreads through his veins, into his lungs, into his heart. One man, the bald one with the scar, raises a gun.
“Oh,” Noah sighs, “oh, why, god,” and Zora jerks back against her pod, blood blooming from the center of her jumpsuit.
He watches without seeing as the men take Shaun and exit his line of sight. He feels in flashes-- feels lancing pain at the sunlight glancing off a mobile, at impossibly tiny fingers curling around his thumb, feels bleak emptiness at the peek of Zora’s laughing eyes under a gauzy veil, at her body tight against his. Feels nothing, eventually, as he closes his eyes and falls back into the blackness.
“Sure, Dead Man. Sleep a little longer.
It’ll still hurt in sixty years. And I will still be here.
See, I... I never change. But, heh... maybe you will.”
lol ok so @fleshwerks I know you challenged me to write two characters with her and I still might add more pieces to this later, once I figure out who the hell else I want sharing the spotlight with my favourite Chasind champion
but for now I do have this! it reads like a prologue to future events on purpose because I’m hoping that’ll make me want to write the rest. baby steps or something.
i.
The first time they meet, Elijah Hawk-child is tracking the path of missing templars. He enters the Blooming Rose alone, plucky after a few drinks at the Hanged Man and spoiling for a challenge.
He thinks, pausing uncertainly just inside the foyer, waving away an invisible cloud of perfume, that perhaps his idea of brothel is woefully Fereldan.
He has his challenge. The Rose is ostentatious, spacious, dusky carpeting plush under his booted feet. Elijah feels big, brawny, itchy under his rough linen and worn leather.
Some eyes linger upon him. He is a novelty; rough, brutish, thick-featured. An exotic breed of Fereldan, one hardly seen this far north.
He rolls his shoulders irritably and moves to speak with the Madam, who doesn’t give him the courtesy of eye contact, who keeps her body half-turned as if leaving herself available for more worthy attention. She doesn’t take him seriously.
Intrusively, he thinks, She’d take this seriously, blackened fingertips drifting over the stock of his whip, but he didn’t come here for that, nor was he a common thug, using weapons to make up for the failings of his tongue.
“You’re hired,” a throaty voice interrupts from behind him with a thick undertone of amusement. He starts to turn, but she is already circling him, much to the Madam’s annoyance. “If Lusine is giving you the third degree, it’s only because she doesn’t recognise a coin-maker when she sees one. Look, sweetie, he even comes with his own toys.”
Nonplussed, Eli’s tongue does fail him then, and she smiles knowingly at him even as Madam Lusine tries to shoo her away. She ignores the other woman with a casual air that suggests well-earned job security. “I’m Serendipity. Who might you be?”
“Not looking for a job,” Elijah immediately responds, and Serendipity laughs. “What sort of name is Serendipity?”
“A whore’s name, of course,” she says, her wide, slanted eyes blinking slowly at him as she lifts a shoulder in an affect of carelessness. “What sort of name is ‘not looking for a job’?”
“Well, I’m not. I’m looking for some missing templars, actually. Maybe you can help me.” Lusine scoffs and abandons the conversation completely, muttering under her breath.
Serendipity regards him for a long moment, and in his restlessness, his eyes drift over her face and down her body, over corset-augmented curves and unmistakably elven litheness, and Serendipity hums her amusement. “All right, then. Tell me about these templars.”
ii.
The second time they meet, Suri is bored. Bran Cavin -- Seneschal Bran, she sneers inwardly -- had just come and gone. He didn’t like her. She was a novelty, and he was a man who could afford novelties. He wanted to bring her to a gala, or something, in Orlais. He wanted to turn people’s heads and make people gossip about him.
Suri wanted him to choke on an olive stuffed with rancid goat’s cheese, but only one of them would be getting what they wanted.
She twines her hair around her finger as her eyes habitually roam the floor, affecting a pout that would make men think she was a bad girl, a filly who needed to be broken. She’d done away with the blasted nugtails -- she needed no more help looking young -- and her pitch-dark hair frames her face in an elegant bob. It is a tempting contrast, her bratty expression and the sophisticated bob. She knows. It made the Rose a great deal of coin on good nights.
Inwardly, she daydreams about being fed red-skinned grapes under an Antivan sun.
The Fereldan... mm, not quite Fereldan, something else, something forbidding... strides in. Suri drops her affect like the wrong end of a hot poker, straightening, her shoulders curling back and her eyes darkening. She changes faces like clothing, a worthy professional skill... but this face wasn’t for coin.
Lusine is at him in a flash. Time has passed since the situation with Idunna. People knew him now. Called him Hawk, or something like that. Suri heard it in whispers, in snatches of gossip as she sauntered past card tables, in Lowtown alleys as dice clattered on the damp stone and cooling blood dripped desultorily like rainwater off a ledge.
He didn’t wear rough linen anymore -- at least, not in public. He wears the jerkin and crest pin of a Hightown aristocrat. His eyes are dark with kohl, his neck and fingers adorned with gold. Even from here, a faint ozone-like smell tickles her nose -- lyrium, embedded in his garments, or in his weapons, or in his jewellery.
He turns his head and catches her eye, and Suri exhales in a resigned sigh. She’d been right about him. He is unstoppable. And he is painfully, painfully hot.
“Serendipity,” he greets her, giving only a cursory glance to those who almost dared to get in his way. Maker, had his voice always been that rich? That sweetly dark, like molasses straight from the jar?
She almost corrects him. Instead, she asks, “Looking for more missing templars, mysterious stranger?” Her voice is coy, light, and only a little breathless.
“Elijah,” he clarifies, his hand on his chest. His name.
“Elijah,” she repeats, slowly, like a tasting, and he smiles, and she can hardly wait to get him to her room.
