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Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, Chapter 7
10:11 Apr 15 2011
Times Read: 637

My drunk lasted til midday. As the sun reached its zenith the effervescence popped as suddenly as a soap bubble, leaving me with a foul headache and an even fouler temper. My mouth felt as though a small, horridly furry animal with distinctly unclean habits had crawled in there and died. Several weeks ago. With all its friends and relatives.



The sun beat mercilessly down on me and I kicked up dust with every jarring step. Geralt strode ahead of me, his steps firm, resolute; his shoulders squared. He did not once glance back at me. I glared at his back, at his arrogant walk, at his firm backside tightly clad in his witcher's clothes parading blatantly in front of me, and swore loudly as I tripped over a rut in the road.



His shoulders hunched and the distinct sound of a smothered laugh came back to me.



I might have been in love, but I hated him very much at that moment.



A caravan, surrounded by screaming dervishes of guards on wildly snorting horses with hooves that cracked loudly against the road thundered past in a rattling cacophony of jingling pots and other instruments of aural torture. I put my hands to my ears to block out the noise. Ahead, Geralt had paused and was watching the wagons' passing thoughtfully. I stopped next to him.



"They're scared," he remarked.



I muttered something incomprehensible under my breath. I wasn't speaking to him. At least not yet.



He snorted amusedly, the sound driving a ragged spike into my brain, and turned to regard me. "Remind me not to feed you my elixirs again. I think I preferred you when you were skipping and singing and telling the trees that you loved them."



I groaned and pushed past his grinning face. I did not want to be reminded about skipping, singing or declarations of love to inanimate plant life.



He laughed again, the low sound both infuriating me and making me melt, and continued ahead.



A little further down the road the itching started. My skin burnt as if I'd just rolled naked in a patch of nettles. I scratched lightly at my arms, raising red lines, but got no relief. I grit my teeth and scratched harder, raising welts on my skin. The itching continued unabated and I groaned in frustration.



I'd slowed down considerably by this stage, scratching my arms, my legs, my back, contorting and all but writhing on the ground to soothe myself. Then my face started to itch and I reached up with nails that were already reddened slightly at the tips to scratch my cheeks.



A grip like iron stopped me and I looked up, teeth bared in frustration. Geralt had me by the arm, halting my furious scratching. I twisted in his grasp, but could not free myself. The itching was unbearable: I had to scratch, or it would surely drive me insane.



He studied me for a moment, face impassive, then pulled the glove off his free hand with his teeth, drew it back, and slapped me briskly across the face.



My head rang like a gong, my mouth dropped open and I stared at him in astonishment and betrayal as the slap echoed down the road. He turned my face and slapped me across the other cheek. I drew myself up to berate him when I realised that, magically, the itching had stopped.



As the realisation dawned on my face his lips twitched slightly and he released me, then turned and continued down the road. Frantically I started slapping myself: on my arms, on my stomach and legs, on my neck and face. The relief was indescribable, even as my head rang. I moaned softly as I followed him, slapping myself.



After a while the itching ceased and I could continue without the self-flagellation, though my constant slapping had left me with brightly reddened and shining skin and slightly tingly fingers. I had no further ill-effects from Geralt's potion, which was both a relief and a surprise given its supposed toxicity, and the day continued on.



We passed another caravan later that afternoon. By this time my headache had receded somewhat and I had enough presence of mind recovered to note the aura of barely held panic that surrounded it. The merchant driving the wagon had a white, pinched face, eyes staring. His guards roamed ceaselessly about, circling the wagon like ladies-in-waiting attendant upon their mistress. Their eyes flicked from side to side constantly and their horses were lathered, manes and tails tangled.



Geralt paused again and watched them, his frown darker.



"Wyverns?" I asked, forgetting my vow.



He grunted and shook his head.



"Something worse?" My voice was hoarse.



He blinked after the caravan's trail of dust. "Not sure. This type of fear… Monsters also take human form." His face was grim and he reached behind him, stroking the hilts of his swords.



I shivered despite the heat of the afternoon and we continued on.



As night fell he found us a camping spot and lit a fire expertly. I rummaged through my new pack and started making supper for us, taking out the warmly oozing hunk of meat and slicing it into steaks.



"Geralt?"



"Mmm?"



"What's this meat?"



He looked up, eyes shining in the firelight. "Wyvern."



I froze. "Wyvern?"



He grinned tightly, teeth gleaming, and nodded.



I looked at the slab of meat before me and my stomach churned. I swallowed, hard, and continued cutting it, my mouth twisting in distaste. He watched me, saying nothing, his eyes glinting in amusement.



To my surprise, wyvern steaks were decidedly tasty, rich and filling, with a gamy aftertaste. I tried not to think about what – or whom – the wyvern had eaten prior to becoming our own meal.



Comfortably full, I set up our blankets and banked the fire, packing everything away. Geralt rose and paced around the campsite, scrutinising the darkness. I settled back and watched him, my eyes heavy. He was still pacing restively when I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.



The first few trills of larksong filtered through the crystalline air as I woke. I was alone in my blanket, my back cold. I missed Geralt's warmth and presence terribly, more than I imagined I would. I sat up and looked around for him, and sure enough he was kneeling in meditation before the fire. I sighed and got up, stretched, and bent to shake out the blankets. I rolled them back up and fastened them to my back, and we started another day.



We passed more caravans over the succeeding days, each as frantic as before. The frown on Geralt's face deepened with each one. When we set up camp each night he remained aloof from me, staying awake and patrolling while I slept. I went to sleep alone, and woke up alone. I started feeling an aching isolation growing inside me, but had no idea how to broach the subject to him.



The lines on his face grew and the circles under his eyes darkened as we continued. My legs grew stronger and I no longer stumbled at the end of a long day's walk. I couldn't keep up with Geralt, but at least he didn't have to stop and wait for me quite so often. My isolation continued, however, and I felt more alone than I ever had before. I started questioning why I'd willingly gone off with him, why I trusted him. What he saw in me. I feared he'd abandon me at the first available opportunity.



Six days after the burning of my house, we reached the outskirts of Dorian. The smoke and stench of the town reached me first, causing my nostrils to wrinkle. I'd grown accustomed to the clean smell of dirt as we walked. Geralt paused on the road outside the gates, looking the town over.



"You should stay out of the city," he said to me without turning.



I stopped next to him and crossed my arms. "No."



His brow raised and he looked at me, eyes shuttered. "No?"



"No."



His arms crossed, mirroring me. "And why not?"



"Because I won't be left behind. I won't have you avoiding me. We need to talk, and I can't talk to you if you've wandered off somewhere without me."



His eyes bore into me and I looked back at him earnestly. He stared at me for a moment longer, then grunted and started off towards the gates, leaving me to trail behind him.



The air inside the town was close, the press of humanity overwhelming. Voices yelled and blared, echoing in the tight confines of the streets. I grimaced and wondered why I preferred being on the road, after only a few days of travel.



The crowds swirled out of Geralt's way as he strode onwards and I was hard pressed to keep up with him. I pushed past people rudely, ignoring their protests, determined to stay with him. I bumped into the wide back of a merchant, who swore at me and pushed me back several paces. Growling irritably, I walked past him, ignoring his words, and looked around for Geralt.



I couldn't see him anywhere.



My heart started thumping unpleasantly and I spun, searching. I couldn't spot his distinctive white hair, the twin hilts of swords raised above his shoulders. I turned again, feeling dread starting within me, and jumped as a hand settled firmly on my arm.



I whirled around to see him standing there, looking at me. He raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Come."



I swallowed my incipient panic and followed after him, to the doors of a large wooden building.



It was an inn, I saw from the gently swaying sign above the heavy ironbound doors. The building loomed squarely over the street, a steady flow of traffic having worn a faint path to the doors over the years. I pushed through the doors, which moved surprisingly easily at my touch. The place was full, the smell of sweat and stale beer pervasive. A pair of minstrels tinkled tunefully in the corner, and there was a musical clinking of dice from a darkened alcove. Geralt strode up to the innkeeper, who was as rotund as most seemed to be, and started haggling for a room in low tones. The innkeeper stared from him to me distrustfully. I tried to put on my most winsome, weary expression. I think it may have come off as more of a grimace, however, as he quickly averted his eyes and thereafter ignored me.



Geralt handed over a few coins, receiving a key in return, and gesturing to me marched off through the common room and up a set of wooden stairs at the back. I followed tiredly. The stairs were like torture to my tired leg muscles.



Our room was quite close to the top of the stairs, I noted gratefully. I dumped my pack on the floor and arched my back, stretching it. Geralt cleared his throat.



"There's a bathhouse at the back of the hall. You can order food from the waitress." He walked over and pressed some coins into my hand. "I'll be back later."



I reached out to grasp him, too slow as he moved away. "Wait…" But he had already gone, the door closing firmly behind him.



I stared at the door for a while, then sighed and sat on the bed, wanting to scream. I settled for burying my face in my hands instead.



Eventually I sat up, pushed my hair back off my face, and set off to find that bath. A long, hot soak would do me the world of good.



About an hour later, cleaned and refreshed, I padded downstairs to find some food. A harried looking waitress was sweeping the floor by the bar and I went up to her. She looked up as I approached.



"What'll it be, dear?"



I ordered chicken and bread and some pears, and some milk to wash it all down with. I had no desire for alcohol, not after that potion. She nodded and took my coins. I took a seat at the end of a table, looking around me while I waited for my food. When it arrived I tore into it hungrily, washing bites of chicken and bread down with great gulps of milk. The pears I cradled and bit into reverently. Their sweet juice ran down my chin, and I wiped it up with a finger, not wanting to waste any.



Replete, I sat back with a sigh and surveyed the room. Geralt was not here, I'd known that from the moment I came downstairs. The townsfolk seemed almost determinedly merry, as though forcing their laughter. The minstrels played lively music, calculated to keep their listeners happy, but steered clear of inflammatory songs. Both the waitress and the innkeeper scanned the room constantly as they worked. There was a pair of guards at the door who remained vigilant all the time I was there. No one sat near me, and no one talked to me, despite glances my way. It all pointed to a town in some sort of trouble.



I frowned to myself. Trouble I already had. I did not need more.



I lingered downstairs, more out of a hope to see Geralt than a sense of community, but the hours wore on and he didn't appear. I gave up hope and trudged back up the stairs despondently.



Inside the room, I kicked off my boots and sat on the edge of the bed. I let my hair out of its knot, running my fingers through it, while I thought about the situation. My nails caught on snags, making me wince. I wondered what was happening, what had occurred to make this change in how he treated me. Had I done something? Said something?



My mind raced in circles, trying to pinpoint the moment when things had started to go badly, but I came up with nothing. I shrugged. I had to talk to him, to sort this out. We were stuck with each other for the moment. Assuming, of course, he would still see me safely set up in whatever I chose to do.



I shook my head, trying to dispel the fear that I'd be left alone in a strange town with naught to me but a change of clothes and a pack. He wouldn't leave me. Wouldn't.



I swallowed past the sudden, painful lump in my throat, gave up on my hair and slipped my trousers off, draping them over a chair. I crawled into bed, blowing out the lantern, and lay curled up in the darkness trying not to cry and failing miserably.



I woke to a gentle hand stroking my hair, pushing it back from my face and untangling its length. I started and turned. "Shhhh," he whispered.



"I thought you'd left me." My voice was hoarse and wretched.



I felt rather than saw him shake his head. "No, Lynnéa, I'll not leave you." He sighed. "Not yet."



I hunched further into my ball. "I don't want you to go," I whispered.



He heard me anyway. "I have to go, eventually. You know that."



"I know. I don't want it, though."



I thought he might have smiled then, bittersweet in the darkness behind me where I couldn't see. "I know."



I let the tears flow silently down my face and into the pillow while he lay behind me stroking my hair, my hands bunching into fists underneath me. Neither of us said a word while I wept for what couldn't be. Eventually my tears dried and I lay sodden and exhausted, staring through the darkness at the wall.



We lay like that for the rest of the night, mute and motionless save for his slow, rhythmic stroke of my hair. My eyes burned by the time the sun had risen enough for me to make out the wooden panels of the wall. Neither of us made any attempt to move until the sun was well up, slanting through the window onto the bed.



Eventually I sighed wearily and pushed myself up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. He watched me, silently.



"So what do we do now?" I asked without turning around to look at him.



He shifted on the mattress. "What do you want to do?"



"What are my options?"



He paused for a moment. "From Dorian you can go north to Redania. Oxenfurt, where the Academy is. I've no doubt we can find you a sponsor into the Academy, if that is what you wanted. You can go west to Gors Velen, though there's not much there, or further west to Cidaris. Or you can go east to Vizima, though I would not recommend that."



"What would you recommend then?"



A sound like shrugging from behind me, a shifting of cloth and leather. "If you don't want to go to the Academy or find a witch to prentice to… Cidaris is probably a good option for you."



"Cidaris it is, then."



"Are you sure?"



I laughed, a low painful chuckle. "Sure? No. But it's a direction, at least."



I turned and looked at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, face almost naked for once, his expression pained. "You don't have to decide yet," he said.



I shrugged. "The sooner the better. Your money will run out quickly. We can't stay in this inn forever."



He studied me. "No," he said slowly, "but neither should we leave too soon. You should rest."



"I can rest when I'm dead," I replied fatalistically.



His lips thinned. "You're not dead yet, Lynnéa." He reached out and caught my limp wrist. "And neither am I."



He pulled me, unprotesting, into his lap and looked down at me, frowning slightly. I stared back up at him blandly. If it had to be that he would leave, then I resolved to not make it any more difficult than it had to be.



He sighed. "N'ess a tearth, Lynnéa," he whispered. I frowned.



"What does that mean?"



"It means, do not be afraid."



I stiffened. "I'm not afraid."



His lips curved sadly. "Yes, you are." I opened my mouth to protest and he laid his finger across it, silencing me. "You are," he insisted. "Afraid of being alone. Afraid of being with someone. Afraid of living. Afraid of dying. Afraid of change. Afraid of staying the same."



He sighed. "You stayed in that old, worn house for fear of leaving. You stayed in that village because you were afraid of the unknown. You would rather have held onto what you were familiar with, despite its negativity, than move to somewhere more positive, where you could live a full life, not a slow descent into death." He gazed into my eyes, challenging me to dispute him.



I couldn't, of course. I stared up at him, appalled at his accurate summation of my life. I felt the prickle of tears in my eyes, and they welled up, spilling onto my cheeks. His face softened and he wiped one away tenderly.



"Don't be afraid, Lynnéa. You are young. You have yet more life left. Live it. But live it for yourself. Promise me that."



I closed my eyes at the obvious appeal in his face and voice. He shook me slightly. "Promise?"



"I promise," I whispered.



"Good," he said. He shuffled back on the bed and leaned against the headboard. I stretched out with my head still in his lap. "Sleepy?" he asked.



I shook my head. "No, not really. Weary. But not sleepy."



He played with my hair for a bit longer while I lay and thought about what he'd said. It amazed me that this man, who I'd known for less than a fortnight, could breeze into my life and change it so completely. How he could wander in and know me so well in such a short time? How could I trust him with my life after only knowing him for so few days?



I realised it didn't matter. He'd saved me from a death no less real than one threatened by monsters, if one longer, more painful, and more socially acceptable in the accomplishment. I thanked Melitele for him.



"Geralt?"



"Mhm?"



"Do they teach witchers psychoanalysis?"



He laughed, a short bark of amusement. "No. Not as such. But we learn about people."



"Ah." I paused, thinking. "How old are you, Geralt?"



"Older than you, Lynnéa."



"But how old?"



He didn't respond.



"I'm hmmm... 28 this year. At midsummer."



Another pause.



Finally he shifted irritably. "Older than you, Lynnéa. Leave it at that." His tone was flat and discouraging.



Chastened, I lay in silence for a while.



"How did your hair turn white?"



"Are you going to ask me questions all day?"



I grinned. "Probably, yes."



He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "It turned white when I became a witcher."



"Oh." I refrained from asking 'why' to that, as I knew he wouldn't say. "What colour was it before?"



"What... hm. You know, I don't remember."



The pause extended for a long while after that.



"What's it like, being a witcher?"



His hand on my hair stilled. "Why do you want to know?"



"I'm curious about you, Geralt. You're so…" I shrugged.



He grunted.



"You don't have to say anything if you don't want to," I added hurriedly.



His hand resumed its stroking. "No, it's fine. I just… haven't talked to many people about this." He cleared his throat. "It's my life. It's what I do. I don't really think of anything else."



"But what's it like?"



"What's it like being a woman?" he countered.



"I... I just am. I don't know anything else to compare it to. It's just what I am."



He shrugged. "Being a witcher is the same. I've not known anything else."



"Oh." I closed my eyes and tried very hard to imagine a small Geralt, a little boy Geralt without white hair and golden slit-pupilled eyes, a boy without his grace and capabilities and possibilities, a boy who stumbled and went to his knees as he learnt to be a witcher. I failed utterly; even as the concept made me smile with tenderness.



"So what is it like?"



There was a long silence. "Terrifying, at times. Boring at others. Interesting. Lonely. Almost always lonely." He shrugged. "You get used to it."



"Are there other witchers around?"



"Very few. We're a dying breed."



"I'm sorry." And I was. Now that I had met him, I could not imagine a life where I hadn't known him. And there had always been witchers. I felt the world would be a much poorer place without witchers in it, without their strength and grace, without their power and knowledge. Without this witcher in it, in particular.



"No matter," he said.



I opened my eyes and looked up at him. He was staring at the wall absently and looked down as I moved. I reached up and cupped his face in my hand, feeling the roughness of his stubble against my palm. He closed his eyes and quite deliberately nuzzled into my hand, and my heart turned over at his show of vulnerability. I smiled sadly and ran my thumb over his cheek. I remembered wanting him to show his emotions to me, back in the hut. Now that he had, I found them wrenching. It was a moment I would always treasure.



The moment passed, as moments do, and he moved his face away. I let my hand drop back to my side. My stomach growled loudly, making me start, and his lips twitched.



"Shall I get something to eat?"



"Please," I said ruefully. "And then maybe a bath."



His eyes flickered, the spark of desire I hadn't seen in days growing within them. His voice lowered intimately, its deep, rough timbre sending delicious thrills through my being. "A bath you say."



I smiled shyly up at him. "A bath I say. Care to join me?"



"Your wish is my command, m'lady."



And suddenly everything was all right again.

DA2 fic: Wounded Coast Mornings
13:59 Apr 12 2011
Times Read: 641

Being on night shift does funny things to your mind.



This is a collection of drabbles that happen in an area known as the Wounded Coast, hence the name. Set at various points during the game, in roughly chronological order. Anders/fem!Hawke. The drabble titles are from various Two Step From Hell songs, which I've linked to. No, I don't really know why...











Freedom Fighters



As the sun lifted above the horizon another violent wave of blood and muscle strove to overtake them, to push them back off the path to the city they'd come from. He stood steadfast within a surge of the Maker's own fury, energies swirling and coalescing, driving all back before him. He gestured and the elements answered his whim, his enemies screaming as they froze or burnt by turns. The sickly savoury scent of roasted flesh and stench of burnt hair rose in the air, strong enough to displace the coppery tang of blood that was thick in his nostrils. He'd never felt more alive, surrounded by foes who wanted him dead while he wrenched their life from them with his mind and will. He bared his teeth in defiance and wrought their destruction even as he mourned the necessary waste.



She danced around him in a whirling flash of steel and leather, deadly grace incarnate. Her hair streamed behind her as she nimbly avoided another spray of blood, the red fountain newly liberated from its host vein by her dagger. Ruby droplets pooled in the sand beneath her feet as she spun to face the incoming wave. Her blades sliced, singing through the air, parting flesh and sundering bone, shearing muscle and ripping free to sparkle in the clear morning light. She grinned, revelling in the sheer physical exertion, the triumph of her body over theirs, the exult of muscles pulling and flexing cleanly, her body responding flawlessly to her demands.



The assault was over almost as soon as it began, their opponents lying dead and dying at their feet. The first groans of the wounded rose and she knelt to dispatch them mercifully. He looked away, sickened as always at the deed, and ran a hand over his face. He inhaled deeply, flushing the odour of lingering death from his lungs, and turned to scan the path before them.



She finished her task and rose lithely to her feet. She pushed ahead, gripping his shoulder as she passed, and he followed in her wake, stepping within the confines of her shadow into the dawn.







Invincible



The morning was still and the paths shrouded in a cloying fog, the sun somewhere above working far too slowly to burn it away. She'd forged on ahead, leaving them behind, mired in her thoughts and paying less than no attention to her surroundings, so the ambush came by surprise. A hoarse shout, a rush of air, and the fetid smell of unwashed humanity was suddenly upon her. She looked up in shock at the cold slither of steel through her vitals and coughed against the intrusion of metal into her lungs.



It wasn't until her legs gave way that she felt the pain burning through her body, consuming all rational thought before it. Tears welled and blazed a path down her suddenly cold cheeks, while her hands were warmed by the gush of red that spilled from her stomach. She dropped to her knees, brow furrowed as she stared into the darkening face of the man behind the sword, wondering why it was getting dark when she was sure the sun had only recently come up.



When he rounded the corner he saw her slumped to the ground in the midst of a rapidly spreading dark pool, a figure he didn't recognise leaning over her. His heart stuttered and he screamed her name. His eyes flashed blue and pure instinct overtook him, magic flying in an overwhelming wave, knocking the figure away from her fallen form. He let their companions deal with the threat as he hurried to her, kneeling in her blood, and took her into his arms. She was so very cold; ashen and still. His hands suffused with radiance as he cradled her and he lowered his head in concentration, pouring all of his being into rescuing her.



Even before she opened her eyes she knew he was there, could feel his arms around her and the touch of his magic , through her. She sighed, unwilling to return to reality. The darkness was comforting, when she knew he was there. She lifted heavy lids to meet his eyes, full of pain and anguish and regret. As the sun burnt through the fog a tear sparkled on his cheek. She raised a trembling hand to cup his face and brushed the tear away.



He held her tight as he wept and she comforted him, his coat wicking her blood from the sands before it dried with the strengthening sun.







Fragments of Deception



Of late their patrols were conducted in an uncomfortable silence amidst the cool draught of air from the sea at dawn. When she pressed him he wouldn't talk, only muttered some vague platitude that drove her past frustration the more she heard it. His face was closed, shuttered, and he avoided her gaze. After a while she gave up, letting him fall back with the others.



For days they'd danced around his choice. His blackmail. He'd lied to her, used her: to what end she didn't know. He was unrepentant about it, but he knew that what hurt her most was the fact that he didn't trust her with whatever he was planning.



He watched with a heavy heart as she stalked the paths murderously, death to whatever had the misfortune of being in her way.



Shades lurked in the shadows by the cliff and she went joyfully to meet them, her blades singing as she spun them through the air. She twirled between them, moving too fast for them to grasp, blending with the shadows to strike from all directions at once before melting away to avoid retaliation. Her clear, mocking laugh filled the air, seemingly infuriating the shades.



Then he - they - caught up with her and the shades were upon them.



There was no time to pause and he found himself furiously casting spell after spell until he wavered, drained of mana. The shades sensed an easy target and advanced on him, expressionless faces alight with avarice, and he steeled himself.



And then she was there, deflecting the blow meant for him, twisting and intercepting and protecting him in her own inimitable way. Her step left her back to back with him, and they fought together again. He knew her moves, predicted her blows; she swayed with him as he gestured and swung his staff. They were one, a complement; the ease of familiarity making the total greater than the halves.



The last of the shades fell before them and they relaxed, in accord; and shared a glance as the bodies dissolved in the morning light. And he realised he trusted her with his life, his soul, his heart; regret shining golden like the sun in his eyes.







After The Fall



The storm was finally breaking as she woke, dawn's first rays streaming fitfully through scudding clouds that receded with every successive gust of wind. Her back was cold and she missed him, instantly.



Their hurried campsite was bare, a mere scraped patch of ground in the lee of a boulder, protected from the worst of the wind. They'd not been able to build a fire before exhaustion overtook them, and she missed the warmth and cheeriness one would have provided.



The air was cool and she shivered, rubbing her arms. Gulls wheeled on the breeze, their mewls mournful and plaintive, echoes of loneliness and despair and a wild, desperate liberty. The scent of salt and seaweed filled the air, bracing and invigorating, with a faint undercurrent of marine rot and decay. The air around them was pristine, with no trace of the smoke that hung in a heavy pall over the city they'd abandoned.



She was hungry and cold, itchy from an ill-equipped night spent on sand, but she felt freer than she could remember feeling in years.



She knew where he was: three years of living together had taught her body to recognise his, even when it wasn't wholly him. She relaxed imperceptibly, a fear that she hadn't even known she had dissipating. He was still there. He was still with her.



She stepped out of the shadows to the bluff where he stood watching the sunrise. The wind whipped loose strands of hair over his forehead and she brushed them back tenderly. He turned to look at her, and though he was roughened by the events of the preceding night, his face was dear and familiar and cherished and the one point of certainty she could find amidst the upheaval and relocation to their desolate surroundings. He smiled at her, skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes, pooling light from the sunrise and drinking her in.



He reached down and twined his fingers with hers, and they stood together facing into the dawn, watching the remnants of the night's storm pass over the horizon.

DA2 fic: A Place To Sleep
01:19 Apr 09 2011
Times Read: 647

Oh Anders, you're an angstfest.



Inspired by this song:















He was broken, and he was on her doorstep.



Her mouth turned down at the corners and she recoiled ever so slightly before controlling herself, her face smoothing into an impassive mask. "Anders," she said flatly.



His eyes were still the same, still molten brown in the golden light, still hopeful as he turned his face up to her. She fought her memories of them even as she fought her inclination to fall into them.



"Hawke," he rasped, the huskiness of unused vocal cords and illness.



She crossed her arms. "Why are you here." It wasn't a question.



He half shrugged, shoulder bony beneath moulting remnants of feathered pauldrons. "I was in the neighbourhood..."



She took a step back, face twisting in anger and disgust, and he blanched, desperate. "Wait!"



His fingers reached out for her, thin and gnarled and dirty, and she wondered why she no longer found the thought of them on her enticing at all. When had she lost that desire for him that had made her overlook all his deeds? She twitched her robes out of his way defensively and watched as his face fell and his hand retreated.



"Hawke, please... I just need somewhere -" he coughed wetly, a tearing hack that made her wince internally in sympathy "- I just need a place to sleep." He hunched around his lungs protectively, breathing uneven, and looked pleadingly up at her.



Her lips thinned. He always did know just the strings of her heart to tug upon. She could no more turn him away than she could ignore a wounded animal.



Which of course he was. Wounded and rabid and dangerous.



She jerked her head at a low, sprawling outbuilding. "In the barn. You can rest in there."



He inclined his head to her, the remnants of nobility in his bearing that she would not let tear at her composure further.



"Thank you, Hawke," he murmured in that old familiar voice that once upon a time, in a warm, firelit room glowing with kindness and warmth, had told her lies about love and cherishing and freedom.



But her heart was harder now, and his blandishments were only words.



She stepped back inside and started to swing the door shut, fixing him with a hard gaze. "I want you gone by morning, Anders. Sleep well and peacefully."



The latch clicked and he stared at the whorls in the wood for a long moment before turning painfully away. "There can be no peace."

Witcher fic: The Witcher and the Widow, Chapter 6
15:01 Apr 04 2011
Times Read: 657

Away from the fire and the familiarity of the village the night was ominous and black. A cold wind blew through the trees: leaves rustling forebodingly, branches creaking as they rubbed together. The shadows there were deeper, darker than any I'd seen before, thick with portents and regret; while at my back I fancied I could still feel the flare of heat from the flames of my life. I shivered as I walked, instinctively shying away from the shadows, my eyes fixed on Geralt's broad back. He led the way unerringly into the darkness.



On a small rise I turned to view the village for the last time. The flames from my burning hut licked the night sky, a thick column of smoke rising into the air to be shredded by the night winds, dissipating into the darkness. I felt numb. Hollow. Inside that blazing shell, my entire life had just burnt away. The whole past ten years and more of my life: gone in a moment's vindictiveness and hate. My wedding dress, gone. My father's legacy, gone. The fire stole from me the last memories of my husband, the last trappings of our life together, the last reminders I had of an existence that had mattered to me.



There was a creak of leather and Geralt came up behind me, resting his gloved hands on my shoulders. "Come, Lynnéa," he said softly in his deep, gravely voice.



"Mm," I replied absently, intent on the fire.



He squeezed my shoulders gently and made to move away. All at once I was afflicted with a sudden fear: that he'd leave me and I'd be on my own, left with nothing to my name, out in the dark, prey to monsters and bandits. My hands flew up and fastened over his, holding him in place.



"Thank you," I whispered.



He froze behind me, hesitating, and then cleared his throat. "It was my fault this happened. Nothing to thank me for," he replied gruffly. He slid his hands out from under mine and stepped away. "Come. We've a long way to go."



I sighed and turned from the glow of the fire, blinking and blinded with the after-images of flames dancing through the night. Geralt strode off, setting a swift pace along the path, and I followed as best I could.



A bleak, grey dawn saw us walking the road to Dorian. That is, Geralt walked. I stumbled along exhausted and aching behind him. At some point before first light he'd relieved me of my bundle, slinging it over one shoulder. The lessened burden had not made much difference, however. My feet hurt in their boots, for I'd not had time to find socks in my frantic donning. My knees ached abominably from my fall. My thigh muscles trembled as I walked, and the tendons in my groin ached with every step, a small, intimate throbbing. That, at least, was a pain I could weather with a secret smile.



At some point I'd tripped and torn the bodice of my dress. I'd given up hours ago in trying to hold the rent edges together, no longer having the energy to care. The sun burned the tender skin on the rise of my breasts as it lifted higher in the sky. The hem of my dress was tattered from catching on obstacles and hung in shreds, causing me to lurch further. My face itched and tightened under its blood spatters, and the stench of the fire was heavy about me. I hoped we did not come across any guards along the road, for they'd surely take me as a prisoner, with Geralt as my cruel captor.



As the sun rose we started to pass caravans along the road, travelling south to Maribor. Drivers stared at me, and then averted their eyes, cracking their whips to get their beasts to move faster. Merchants watched me closely as they passed, some making warding signs and spitting in the dirt. Boys on the wagons shrieked and pointed, whistling shrilly at me as they went by, making me wince.



After the third such encounter, Geralt started casting irritably about him to find a camping place.



It wasn't until mid morning, though, that he found one to his liking. A small, winding path led off the road to a copse of trees around a well, with an open shelter built to the side. He led the way to it, and I followed in his wake by rote, footsteps dragging, too exhausted to care where I was going. He halted in front of the well, and a few steps later I ran straight into the back of him, bouncing off and wavering on my feet. He spun around and caught me before I could fall flat on my backside, his face impassive as he studied me.



I was too tired to even raise my eyes to meet his. His hands tightened on my arms and then he led me to a shady spot underneath the trees, pressing me down. I sank, groaning quietly in relief. He unfastened the bundle and dropped it next to me, then went to the well. There was a clatter and a splash as he let the bucket down, then he worked at the winch to draw it back up again.



I leaned back against the tree, grateful for the respite from my burning legs and feet, and fought not to close my eyes. I knew that if I did, I would not be able to open them again from sheer exhaustion. Geralt came back with the full bucket, the water sloshing and making deliciously wet noises within. He placed it on the ground and then squatted next to me, taking a corner of the blanket and dipping it into the water. I watched him incuriously as he grasped my face in his hands and dabbed at the dried blood with the wet blanket corner.



The blanket was harsh against my skin but the water was blessedly cool. I looked up at him as he worked, intent on removing the stains from my face. His pupils were narrowed to mere slits in the brightness of the day, his expression still and close. The strong, angular planes of his jaw were belied by the gentleness of his touch.



Gently he swiped the wet cloth over my face, cleansing my forehead and cheeks, brushing over my eyelids and lips, down my chin and neck. His lips thinned as he cleaned my chest, taking in my torn dress. He lifted my arms one by one and wiped them down as well. He pulled off my boots, making me hiss as blisters scraped, and bathed my poor, reddened feet. He pushed my skirt up further, revealing my swollen, bruised knees, and pressed the coolly sodden blanket to them as well. Then he wiped my legs down, washing the road dust away.



All the while I leant against my tree and watched him. The contrast in our roles from less than a week ago amused me in a tired, distant way.



Eventually he finished and dropped the blanket corner. I missed his soothing touch immediately, sighed, and started to struggle up. He shook his head quickly and I sank back down again.



"Stay there," he rumbled. "Rest." I was only too happy to oblige, and succumbed to the heavy pull of my eyelids.



When I woke it was much later, and the afternoon sun was stabbing mercilessly into my eyes, the red glare reminding me uncomfortably of the fire. There was a dim babble of voices from behind me. I sat up, stretching, and winced as sore muscles pulled. Geralt had tucked the blanket behind me as I slept and it fell to the ground.



Getting to my feet was a painful chore. I hobbled over to the well, my throat parched. I was relieved to see that the bucket had already been drawn up, full, and was resting on the well's lip. I dipped my hands into the cool water, splashing it over my face and drinking it down. It was lovely and wet in my dry throat and I felt immediately better.



I looked around for Geralt, missing his presence, and noticed that a caravan had pulled up at the site while I slept. Geralt's tall frame was easily recognisable amidst the softer bodies of the merchants. I did not approach them, however, as they looked to be deep in conversation. Other pressing bodily needs made themselves known to me, and I limped off in search of somewhere to relieve myself.



When I returned Geralt was sitting cross legged by the bundle that held the last remnants of my life. I pursed my lips, angry with myself for leaving it there unattended. He looked up as I approached, face impassive as always. He spoke without preamble.



"Lynnéa, the merchants have a contract for me. It will pay for some necessities for us. I'll fulfil it tonight."



I sank down next to him, drawing my knees up. "Very well."



He blinked, mouth slightly open, obviously taken aback. "No arguments?"



I smiled slightly. "None."



"Huh."



His obvious astonishment suddenly struck me as being incredibly humorous, and I started laughing. I laughed until the tears started flowing down my cheeks, and then I cried, hiding my face awkwardly against my knees. I was acutely embarrassed by my outpouring of emotions, but could no more stop them than I could halt the sun in its path or command the wind to cease blowing.



Geralt reached out and pulled me into him. I huddled by his side until my paroxysms gentled, and then lay there limply, sniffling. He smoothed my hair back and dropped a quick kiss on my temple.



"Feel better?"



"No, not really."



He snorted quietly and gave me a quick squeeze. We sat there for a few minutes in silence, watching the bustle of the merchant's caravan.



Eventually I sighed. "So what is your contract?"



"Wyverns."



"Ah." I cleared my throat, carefully, not wanting to press him. "Do be careful?"



He sounded supremely confident. "Always."



I pushed myself up and wiped my face. His eyes glittered in the afternoon light as he watched me, but I avoided looking at him; instead busying myself with my blanket and its contents. I pulled it over to me, untying the knot and opening it to rummage around in what I had thrown in there.



I shook my head at myself: so unprepared, even with Geralt's warnings. There was no rhyme or reason to what I had brought, it was all random. My husband's trousers and two of his shirts, a clean shift, two loaves of bread, the last of the mutton leg, a knife, the jar of half-steeped white myrtle tincture, a single page torn from one of my father's books, a small pot of suet, my herbs and sewing kit. That was all. Not even any socks.



Sighing, I cut into one of the loaves, sliced the mutton, and offered it to Geralt. He took it and ate, quickly and neatly. I cut myself off a portion and ate more slowly, washing it down with cold well water, and pondered our options. The food would last maybe another day. After that, I had no idea what we would do, save that I would be dependant on Geralt to survive.



The bread stuck in my suddenly dry throat and I coughed. I had not been so reliant on anyone since I was a child. I found I did not enjoy the feeling at all. Melitele, I prayed, I certainly hope you know what you're doing with this.



But of course she did not respond.



Geralt cleared his throat and stood in a swift motion, taking me by surprise. I blinked up at him, and he looked down at me. His face softened imperceptibly and he reached down and cupped my cheek in his hand, brushing the pad of his thumb over my lips.



"You'll be safe here," he said quietly. "I'll be back by dawn."



And then he was gone.



His absence was a physical ache, adding to the rest of me that hurt. I fought down the urge to cry again and instead took the bucket of water behind a screen of bushes and gave myself another wash, patting down tender skin. I dressed myself in my husband's old clothing, hacking into the hem of my dress so that I could use the strip as a belt. The dress was well shortened by the time I'd done this. I had to roll up the legs of the trousers so I did not trip over them, and the shirt's sleeves I pushed back up my arms so I could see my hands. I hoped I did not look too comical.



The sun set in a reddish glare on the horizon and I fought the urge to pace, waiting for him. The merchants gathered around their fire and cooked their evening meal, tantalising scents wafting over on the breeze. My mouth watered and my stomach growled. I resisted the urge to eat more of our meagre supply of food, filling up on water instead.



The night passed slowly. The merchants settled, their fire dwindling to embers, and I lay awake, watching the stars slowly wheel by overhead. My body ached as I spread the blanket out and lay on the hard ground, and I shifted restlessly, trying to find some comfort. Eventually I fell into a restless sleep, dreaming of fire and teeth in the night.



There was a familiar warmth behind me when I woke and a heavy hand upon my hip. His breath was slow and regular on the back of my neck, stirring the tiny hairs there. I reached down and twined my fingers with his, pulling his hand up to my chest, and settled into a deeper sleep with a small smile on my face.



When I woke again the sun was barely a finger's width above the horizon. Geralt's hand was nestled warmly between my breasts. I wiggled slightly, pushing my bottom back into him, and he flexed around me, his arm tightening. His breathing quickened and he nuzzled the back of my neck. I made a soft noise of contentment.



He cupped my breast, squeezing gently, then started undoing the buttons of my shirt dextrously, reaching inside. I shivered as he brushed over my sensitive skin and reached behind me, pulling him into me. I could feel the evidence of his arousal against my back, inflaming me, and I writhed against him, a flick and a rub of my hips. His breath caught and I smiled to myself.



His hand left my breast and roamed lower, fumbling with my makeshift belt. My eyes flew open and I looked around, alarmed. The merchants were already well up and about, and I was not so much of an exhibitionist as Geralt obviously was. I hissed under my breath, and he chuckled, the vibrations travelling through my back and making me shiver. His hand left me momentarily, fumbling with something behind him, and then he threw a heavy measure of cloth over us, obscuring our bodies. Evidently he felt this satisfied any need for privacy.



I opened my mouth to protest but his hand was between my legs, pressing and stroking and effectively silencing me. He rubbed me through the fabric of my trousers, pressing against my nub, while his hips flexed behind me. I groaned, and he chuckled again in my ear.



I reached down and untied the strip of cloth that served as my belt, pushing my trousers down over my hips. His helped pull the fabric down, and then his fingers slid into me, circling and making me gasp. His breath was hot on my neck and he leaned forward, capturing the lobe of my ear between his teeth. I lifted my topmost leg and draped it over his, hooking my foot over his leg for support, and grasped his hips, grinding into him. His quiet groan in my ear was low and deep and fervent.



My fingers found their way to the fastenings of his trousers, busily undoing them. He stilled as I reached inside and grasped his length, squeezing firmly, only his breathing growing more ragged. I stroked him, slowly, running my hand up and down his length, feeling the hint of moisture growing at his tip. He shuddered as I ran my thumb over him and then his hips bucked, making me squeak as he pushed urgently against me.



His hand left me and he lifted himself, working his trousers down over his hips, and then he pressed his hardness against my bare backside. I arched my back and he slid himself down slightly. I shivered as I felt his maleness sliding between my legs. He pulled me up, wrapping me in one strong arm, and then with a quick decisive thrust of his hips he was inside me.



He was sheathed within me deliciously, the pressure of the angle making me bite my lips against a moan. Then he started moving and I did moan, muffling it in the crook of his arm. He moved with slow, shallow thrusts; and I pressed back into him, arching my back even further. He kissed the back of my neck, licking my nape as his movements quickened, his breath a fast, light pant against my skin.



I clutched his hip as he moved, feeling the muscles and sinews play under his skin, scratching with my nails. He groaned at that, so I dug in harder, making him growl under his breath. The sound sent a shiver down my spine and I squeezed around him tightly.



"Lynnéa," he moaned, and he reached down with his free hand and pressed against my nub.



My breath caught and I whimpered and he pressed again, harder and in time with his thrusts. His fingers danced over me, a masterful play that made me quiver and whine. I felt the tension in my loins build quickly to an unbearable level and clenched around him, pulling him hard into me. One last press of his fingers had me bucking and biting at his arm to stifle my moans, and then I felt him burst within me, his own moan buried in my shoulder as he bit into it in his release.



We stilled, panting under our blanket. His hand, still buried between my legs, suddenly became too much for my sensitive flesh to bear. I reached down and pulled it up to my mouth, licking the moisture from his fingers, tasting myself on him: the two flavours inextricably meshed. He rumbled against my back approvingly and licked the bite mark on my shoulder, making me twitch.



Too soon he softened and slid out of me. I sighed with regret at the loss and shifted, carefully turning over to face him. His face was peaceful, eyes closed, and he held me to him. I kissed his chest and snuggled myself against his warm body.



Before too long, however, he'd recovered and started pulling his clothing back up. I protested wordlessly, not wanting to move, despite the hard ground under my hip. He was determined, however, and got himself sorted out and upright, kissing me on the forehead as he stood. I lay in the blanket and pouted up at him, making his lip twitch in amusement. He stretched easily, pulled on his gloves, and ambled over to the merchants, leaving me behind to make myself decent and untangle my reluctant limbs from the blankets.



His low voice rose in salute to the merchants as I gingerly stood up, stretching painfully and wincing at my aches. I padded barefoot on the grass to the bushes to relieve myself and clean my body of his attention. By the time I returned I was still aching, but at least wasn't wincing with every movement.



I knelt down to fold up the blankets, shaking dirt and grass from them. By the time I had completed this task, Geralt had returned, hefting a small leather pack and a bulging sack. I looked at him curiously.



"For you," he said, and handed the pack to me. I blinked at him, taking it by reflex. He avoided my gaze and set the sack down at my feet, then strode back to the merchants again.



I blinked after him in a daze, then opened the pack and peered in. Inside was another set of men's clothing, average quality but clean and strong. Underneath that was a short toughly woven coat of a dark grey wool. Underneath that was a small paper twist which contained salt, a pair of deep tin plates, some wooden spoons and a large, empty water skin. And underneath that was two pair of socks, tightly bundled into small balls.



Sudden tears formed in my eyes and I clutched the socks to me. I was amazed that he'd noticed, let alone cared enough to negotiate his contract payment in looking after me. My heart clenched and I very nearly cursed his thoughtfulness, for it made me love him all the more.



Sniffing, I wiped my eyes, relaxed, and gave the socks a fond pat and set them aside.



The sack contained foodstuffs – flour, grains, dried peas and carrots, nuts and fruit. Sitting in a metal cooking pot was a large sticky packet oozing blood. I sniffed at it – it smelt tangy and rich; a wild, unfamiliar metallic scent. I shrugged and set it down before it dripped on me.



I repacked everything, adding my own few belongings and tying the blankets to the pack, and contemplated putting my boots back on, but even with the promise of socks my blisters dissuaded me.



Geralt was still talking with the merchants, so I took the empty water skin and went to the well to fill it. By the time I'd finished he was back, hefting a small money pouch in his hand. There was a light jingle of coins from within it. He fastened it to his belt securely.



"Ready to go?" he asked.



I sighed. There would be no putting the boots off any longer.



I sat down and reached for the socks, smoothing them out over my knees, then, wincing in anticipation, started pulling one on. He reached out and grabbed my hand, halting me. I looked up at him: he was frowning.



He picked up one of my feet, twisting it to inspect the blisters, which were impressive. Deep gouges from the rough inside of my boots dug into my heels and across the top of my toes, pressure blisters had formed on the balls of my feet, and red streaks had started to radiate across the skin. The raw flesh was slightly oozing a clear liquid and the breath of the wind across it stung mightily. The fact that I'd done nothing to treat them yet didn't assist matters.



Sitting back on his heels, Geralt reached for the loops on his mended leather harness and pulled out one of his two remaining glass potion bottles, handing it to me. "Drink half of it, no more," he instructed.



I looked up at him questioningly. "Aren't witcher potions poisonous?"



He nodded.



"And you want me to drink it anyway?"



"Mhm."



I stared at him a moment longer, then shrugged and pulled the cork out of the bottle and took a swig. The potion burned like fire as it travelled down my throat and I seized up, coughing, my eyes streaming tears.



"Sweet mother Melitele!" I gasped breathlessly. I didn't remember my vodka being that potent! Obviously his brewing process added considerable strength to the base alcohol. I felt it blazing a fiery path down to my stomach and then radiating out to my limbs, making them weak and rubbery.



His lips twitched as he watched my spluttering and hacking. Sadistic male.



I handed the bottle back to him and he corked it carefully, sliding it back into place. My feet tingled and I looked down, watching in fascination as the skin knit itself closed over my wounds. I giggled, wiggling my toes, and he rolled his eyes. This only made me laugh the harder.



The tingling travelled up my legs, washing in a warm wave that sparked coolly within me. I stared as the bruises on my knees faded. The aches in my thighs disappeared, to be replaced by tickling effervescence. Even the new tiny soreness of the bite mark on my shoulder vanished. "Oooh," I whispered, watching scratches disappear from my arms to leave tiny white lines in their place. I held my fingers out in front of me, watching them grow and recede, recede and grow; and giggled when they waved at me.



Geralt pushed me back onto the ground, where I lay tittering helplessly.



I looked up and gasped. "Geralt! The sky! It's... shiny!" He did not respond as I lay holding my stomach, looking up into the shimmering air, absorbed by the gently fluffy clouds racing each other across the blue arch of the sky. I felt… wonderful. Amazing. Light and airy and reborn. I flung my arms out to my sides and wiggled luxuriously in the grass, feeling each blade caressing my back through my clothing.



He rolled the socks onto my feet and then slipped on my boots, tying the laces up firmly. He stood up, looking down at me, and then pulled me up to my feet. I clung to him as the world tilted crazily around me. He was the only solid object I could see. I poked him to be sure, and he grunted. I smiled happily up at him and he sighed.



Lifting my pack, he settled it over my shoulders, adjusting the straps. I hummed cheerfully as he bent over me, and sniffed his hair. He smelt lovely and masculine, and I hummed again in approval. He sighed again, picked up the sack, and taking my hand firmly strode determinedly away from the campsite.



I waved merrily to the merchants as we left, giggling at their vacant expressions, and settled in beside Geralt, attempting unsuccessfully to match my strides to his much longer ones, skipping where I threatened to fall behind. He looked down at me as we walked and as I laughed to myself his normally grim face softened.



"Well," he muttered, "at least I know you're a happy drunk."

DA2 fic: Belonging
06:53 Apr 02 2011
Times Read: 662








He noticed her as soon as she walked into his clinic, of course, even though she moved near silently in that heavy armour of hers. He never ceased to wonder at how she managed that. By all rights she should be clanking and shuffling and creaking as she walked, like every other warrior he'd known, but no. She glided into his clinic with ease and grace and perched delicately on the edge of a crate, that enormous, menacing axe of hers propped close to hand.



She'd been down here often since they'd returned from the Deep Roads. Just dropped in, fresh from Hightown, completely incongruous in these run down and shabby surroundings. Sometimes she'd help, though he almost wished she wouldn't: her large, strong, scarred hands were not used to caring for others, only with dealing their death; and she made his patients nervous. But she was compassionate and selfless and she tried, oh so very hard, to help whomever she could. It was the same caring he saw when she went out of her way to help free fugitive slaves, or shepherd a lost Qunari mage, or find a lone boy out in the wilderness. It was the same consideration that made that awful axe her last resort of choice, despite her skill in wielding it.



She had an open heart, did Mariah Hawke, which made the swathe of blood she left in her wake all the worse to bear.



Today she made no attempt to assist, just watched as he bustled between patients: healing a child with a broken arm, a mother with a severe burn, workers with twisted backs, more children riddled with worms and lice. He revelled in the work even as the hopelessness of their situation depressed him. It occupied him, kept him from thinking, kept him from intruding into his mind, as he was doing all the more frequently of late.



Finally, however, his last patient left. He stretched, knuckled his weary back with a sigh, and walked over to the clinic doors, closing them firmly. He leaned back against them and looked over at his guest.



She'd remained on her crate but had scooted back to rest against the wall, her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them, looking for all the world like a lost little girl. She looked up at him with those big brown eyes of hers, a tiny furrow between her brows, and he was struck again by just how striking she was. Not pretty, not beautiful, but memorable. She had presence. It drew everyone to her, kept them with her, and left her high and remote and alone. Almost, he felt sorry for her. Leadership was a lonely path to walk, even when not supremely suited to it, like she was.



"Anders," she said, and he wrenched himself out of his musings to focus on her, "are the Grey Wardens really so bad?"



Ah. So that was what this was about. Ever since they'd delivered Bethany to the Wardens she'd been distracted. He massaged his forehead, considering, then walked over and seated himself on a nearby crate.



"Bad? I suppose not. Just not good for me."



"Oh." She was silent for a moment, the plates on her armour grating together as she tightened her grasp around her knees.



"No one speaks any good of the Wardens," she whispered. "Everyone seems to hate them. And I handed Bethany over to them... my little sister." She looked up at him, eyes tortured. "I need to know I did the right thing."



He hesitated. "She would be dead now, if you hadn't." Or she could have died in the Joining, he thought blackly. Dead was dead, either way.



She writhed in an agony of indecision and self-loathing on top of her crate. "I know, I know. But... what if that was the better choice? What if dying is better than being a Warden? Than being hated and reviled?"



"You don't truly believe that, do you?" he asked incredulously.



"I have nothing else to believe." She shrugged, then looked at him again, pleading. "Please, Anders. Tell me being a Warden is not all bad."



"Being a Warden is not all bad."



She frowned, smooth brow marred and made ugly by the gesture. "Anders..."



He sighed. "My relationship with the Wardens is... complicated, Mariah."



"I know but... surely you must have some good memories of them?" Her eyes were hopeful, earnest as they met his, and he found he didn't have the heart to tell her 'no'.



"I have some," he replied grudgingly.



"Tell me about them," begged Mariah. "Please, Anders."



He sighed again, heavily. "Very well." He settled himself comfortably cross-legged on his crate, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.



"I told you that I had a cat, right? Ser Pounce-a-lot. I said he was a gift from a friend."



She nodded.



"What I didn't say was that that friend was the Warden-Commander. The Hero of Ferelden."



She gaped at him silently, looking amusingly fish-like for a second. He smiled tightly at her before continuing.



"He was... a very good friend, to an apostate mage. He defended me more than once. Protected me from templars who were hunting me. Went out of his way to make sure I fit in, even though I never really felt I did. I... trusted him. Cared for him." Loved him. "I would have followed him anywhere." He snorted. "And I did. Bloody Deep Roads. Have I mentioned how much I hate them lately?"



"You make it sound like he's dead."



"Dead? No. Very much alive. A king's no good to anyone dead."



She rocked slightly. "What was he like?"



He thought for a moment. "Young. So very young. That was my first impression. I don't think he was more than twenty when he arrived in Amaranthine, but already the Hero and married to the queen. Full of vigour and life. He made me feel old and jaded just looking at him. He had this massive bow he carried with him everywhere and he was absolute death with it. He had a mabari too, you know. Used to tell me about it. Fought the darkspawn with him. He missed that dog," he added quietly.



Mariah nodded. "I can understand that."



"Mm. I'm a cat person, myself. Never understood the slobber and the dog smell."



She dug a spiky elbow into his side and he grunted. "My dog does not smell!"



"All dogs smell, Serah Hawke. It's part of the dog code."



She rolled her eyes at him and he smiled, just a little, and continued.



"He was one of the bravest people I ever knew, but he was so consumed by duty he didn't have room for much else in his life. He was a noble before being a Warden, you know. From Highever. The younger son. I heard that before marrying the queen, he was something of a rake." If one could count anything one heard from a drunken sot of a dwarf as truth, of course.



"He never seemed to have much fun though, not in all the time I was with him. He was lonely, I think. Desperately lonely. I think he truly loved his wife, despite the fact that it was a political marriage. He often spoke of his fellow Warden, who left. The old king's bastard. They were friends, you know. Up until the Landsmeet. He missed him deeply. He had a lot of regrets. He never spoke of them all, though. Of course," he shrugged, "we were kind of busy, what with the Architect and the Mother and all."



She looked at him blankly and he waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind.



"He was strong, and he always tried to do his best, heard out all sides of a story before making a decision. Tried to protect the weak. Hated injustice." Like you, he thought. "He had this uncanny knack of making us all work together. It was weird."



"So what happened?" she asked, quietly. "Why did you leave?"



"He left."



"Why?"



"He was the king. He had kingly things to do."



"So you couldn't stick around after that?"



He shrugged lightly. "I'm a master at wiggling my way out of sticky situations."



"Escaping won't work all the time, you know."



"It's worked for me up til now!"



She frowned. "So far you're not reassuring me that being a Warden isn't all that bad, Anders."



He was silent for a long, drawn out moment. "I had some of the worst times and some of the best times of my life as a Warden. Times when I screamed inside in horror and revulsion, times when I thought I couldn't move from fear and pain. Times when the thought of what we were doing, what was happening to us was so terrible, that all I wanted to do was curl up into a little ball under my blankets and never come out. But then... I had them. They knew what I was going through. They were there for me. They were my family. When we'd sit around a campfire, or around the table at the Vigil, I knew they cared for me. I could feel them, in the back of my head. And they could feel me. We were... one."



She was watching him intently. He averted his eyes self-consciously. "I'd never really had much of a family. The Circle certainly never fostered a sense of family. Or belonging.



"The Wardens cared. He cared. I belonged. And that was enough... while he was there."



The clinic was silent, distant noises echoing from the corridors outside.



"I understand," she whispered. "Family... is important."



He nodded slowly. "Bethany will have a new family in the Wardens. She will belong to them. She will always be your little sister, but she will be a Warden now, first and always." And it will kill her, he thought darkly.



They sat in silence for a time, each consumed in their own thoughts, and then she laid her hand on his and squeezed gently. "Thank you, Anders."



He put his other hand on top of hers and smiled at her. "You're welcome, Mariah." He held her gaze for a moment too long, caught up in her deep brown eyes, before she blushed and got up, dragging her hand away. "Anders..." she said warningly.



"Sorry, I know, strictly professional." He held up his hands and grinned depreciatingly at her.



She grunted sourly and hefted her axe, securing it to her back. It wasn't until she was at the door that he spoke.



"Mariah."



She paused, her back to him, her hand on the doorframe.



"You would have made a good Warden." It was the highest praise he could give her, and she knew it.



"Thank you, Anders," she whispered, and then she was gone.



He sat for a while on his crate, listening to the sounds of Darktown beyond his doors, then got up and went to his cot, sinking down and opening a box stored carefully underneath. He rummaged through it, not looking, until his fingers brushed a familiarly soft woollen bundle. Pulling it out, he laid it on his knees, and carefully unfolded it.



It was a scarf, warm and plush and deep amber in colour, scented with herbs for storage. Here and there small orange cat hairs were caught in the fibres, and he found himself stroking it, soft under his fingertips.



He remembered the Warden-Commander rummaging through the lost and found box in the Chapel, a mischievous glint in his eye. His exclamation of "Aha!" as he'd lifted it out and studied it. How he'd stilled, and looked over at him, then walked over and offered it almost shyly. "Matches your eyes," he'd said. He remembered blushing, and his hands as he wound the scarf around his neck. He remembered his deep blue eyes smiling and his warm, reassuring clasp on his shoulder. Remembered the friendship and trust and acceptance and camaraderie and yes, love he felt emanating from the man.



He sighed, and extinguished the lamps with a thought, laying down in pitch blackness; and missed a friend, two friends, a host of friends lost. And tried very, very hard not to think of escaping.