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A Murder of Crows

Rosa yelped and Caden spun from the river to see her mabari underneath a heavy net. It was such a strange sight that she froze for a moment before hurrying back from the river, barefoot towards her dog, but someone dropped down before she could reach her. An elf, with long hair and a tattoo on his face. Caden stopped sharply. Her swords. She needed her swords. He drew his own pair, slowly, smiling.

“Someone wants you dead,” he said. His tone was light.

“My dog—” Caden said without thinking.

“I have nothing against it; my target is you.” He replied. “But it would have been unfair to fight you unarmed. Go ahead, get your blades.” She hesitated, not trusting this man with the beautiful, deadly smile. “I’m serious, no tricks. Get your blades and then we shall dance.”

Caden screamed at her feet to move, darting for her weapons, grabbing them and whirling. He had waited for her to take them in hand, but he didn’t wait long. He was upon her within seconds, his swords crossing and slashing in the light. It took everything for Caden to just block his onslaught. She was tired, her arm hurt, her feet were bare, she wasn’t ready. By Andrastes Grace she kept time with him. Her mothers words were useless to her: you have to be faster. He was faster than anyone she had ever fought, wielding a similar pair of swords as she did and damn it, he was better than she was.

A jagged bolt of terror ran all over her skin. Caden couldn’t risk looking away from him as he pressed his advantage. Was Rosa able to get free?

Caden’s thoughts snapped to Alistair at camp. They would hear her if she screamed, wouldn’t they? Better to be saved than dead. Caden opened her mouth. The elf pushed at her swords when she blocked him and drew back one blade over her arm. Her scream fizzled into a guttural groan instead. He closed the brief distance between them, somehow finding a burst of extra speed. His blade whirled and spun, catching hers and flying it out of her hand. Caden’s eyes widened. She was going to die right now. Minutes from camp, by the hand of an elf. Not like this.

“Alis—” she started, but the elf twisted his sword to drive the pommel into her stomach, shunting the breath from her, doubling her over. Caden fumbled for her sword, but he bent his knee and caught her under her chin, snapping her head back up.

Alistair.

Thoughts were all she could manage, a desperate prayer that he would be alright. Caden abandoned all thoughts of blocking with her one sword left and slashed it through the air, carving our inches of space before catching his thigh and drawing blood. Finally. He growled in response and doubled his attack.

Maybe she would die here. Maybe she could at least take him with her.

Her arm protested when he cut her again, but she forced herself to drive him back, her lone blade moving faster than she believed possible. The metal clashed when he caught it and then her hand was empty. The sword caught the sun as it flew and Caden realised she was done. Almost done—she reached for her knife—

The elf was suddenly pressed up close to her. Cadens fingers curled around the hilt of her knife. The elf had a knife. She learned this all at once when the blade sank into her back.

Caden had been stabbed before, her hip, Vaughans estate. This was different. She had felt pain, been close to death. This was different.

Her eyes found his and for a moment he looked almost sorry. Her mouth moved but no sound came out.

“A good dance.” He said softly. “I was better.”

Caden drew her knife. She didn’t need pressure, she just needed a cut. Her arm moved sluggishly up. He saw the moment easily and smiled. Caden raised it up high then dropped her arm, directionless. He caught the blade in his hand, unafraid of the point, so aimless was her move.

“You are too weak to fight me anymore, but I cannot tell a lie; I respect the determination.” He said casually as if they were having a conversation over tea. She was still in his arms. Caden’s thumb found the right place and pressed.

The vial broke quietly, without attention. The elf was looking at the blade curiously, his eyes drawn to the delicate filigree of the hilt.

“What a marvellous knife.” He admired. “This does not look Ferelden. It is Antivan, no? You have very good taste.”

The poison slipped down the indentation in the blade. He started at the sudden wetness and she saw the exact moment he realised this was trouble because the moment before that was when she summoned the last vestige of strength and twisted the knife, slicing his palm and driving it into the heel of his hand and then down across his arm, letting the poison seep into his flesh. The dark sludge seemed eager to find a home inside him, drawing away from the knife into him with ease. His face paled.

Caden tried to pull free from him, her back screaming, but he grabbed for her and her feet couldn’t support her and then they were falling, tumbling together into the cold rushing river.

#dragon age origins #alistair/tabris #tabris #zevran #poisonedknife #assassin #magicpoisonweapon #dragonage #ao3