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peopleofthedas2010-12-29 09:46 pm
aithne) wrote in peopleofthedas2010-12-29 09:46 pm
Fanfiction: Imperfect Creature, perspectives two through four
Title: Imperfect Creature; or, Nine Ways of Looking at a Warden
Series: Old Roads (though you don’t have to have read OR to enjoy this one)
Rating: T
Word Count: 1400 these three chapters, about 5500 total, will be posted over the next few days.
Summary: Nine people. Nine encounters. Nine different ways of looking at a Grey Warden. Old Roads continuity; a bit AU.
You can read it on FF.net, or you can read the next three installments after the nice cut.
*****
two: the Sten
It is difficult, to be in a strange land.
This is a true thing. But his perception of it has shifted, and he does not know if what he sees is closer to the truth or farther from it. There are no Ben-Hassrath here to ask.
Take, for instance, the Amell.
She is a woman. She is a saarebas. She is a warrior.
Two of these three things cannot be true.
He thought at first that she might be like the Tamrassan, the administrators and judges of the young. But she shows no aptitude for dealing with children, and her decisions are questionable at best. If she were clumsy with her blade, if armor weighed heavily on her shoulders, he would consider her a misguided saarebas and recommend that her tongue be cut out, just to be sure.
But the Amell is good with the blade, and her heart beats with a warrior's rage. So it follows that she cannot be either saarebas or woman, but he has seen her cast spells, and though she is small and sickly-thin, she is in fact female.
He meditates upon the Qun, which has no insight other than those who live in blindness may break themselves upon necessity.
"Tell me more about how children are raised among your people," the Amell says to him one night.
So he does, judging that it falls under the Qun's command to speak the truth when truth must be spoken, even to those who do not follow. He tells her of the Tamrassan, of the constant tests, the education that all are given. All are equal, in the Qun; all have their places, their roles.
The Amell is caring for her mageblade, called Spellweaver. She works at a nick in the edge with a sharpening stone. "In a way, it is like the Tower," she says. "When we show the talent, they remove us from our families and bind our memories of them. Then we are taught obedience, and discipline."
The Sten considers this information gravely. "This is not how it is usually done, here."
"No. It's not." She uses a soft cloth to rub away small spots of dried filth from her blade. The weapon flares and quiets. "It's simply what they do to mages, here. Probably better than cutting out their tongues."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Better for who?"
She looks down at her blade. "A fair question." But she does not answer it. Instead, she raises her blade, and scrutinizes the metal in the flickering light of their campfire. Then she asks, "Does the Qun encompass roles for all thinking beings, or just qunari?"
"All." The response is automatic. "There are no omissions in the Qun."
"And yet it was written for your people." She applies whetstone to metal once more. He watches her, and aches for Asala, his missing soul. "Does the Qun speak about Grey Wardens?"
He has to think about that question for a time. "Not directly."
"I wonder if there have ever been qunari Wardens." She is apparently speaking to her blade, not him. "You are correct. There is no order among humans. We all long to be something we are not. And sometimes, we are made into things we should not be."
She rises then, nods to him, and departs for her tent. Along the way, she stops and speaks briefly to the other Warden. He follows her; doubtless they will mate for a time, as is their habit.
The Sten is left to tend his own blade, a poor substitute for Asala. He considers the Amell, as he considers all of those he travels with.
We are made into things we should not be.
She understands, as much as an unenlightened human can understand. And perhaps she is a bent sword, a hammer of glass, forced into a shape she is not suited to. That, he can understand.
These humans have a word in their tongue, content. As he understands it, it carries a meaning that combines the qunari terms for well-led and properly placed.
As much as he can be with his soul missing, he is content.
*****
three: the King
The mage recruit is next to Duncan when the Warden-Commander walks into Ostagar, a pale thing with a sunburned nose and strikingly dark eyes. She looks a little familiar, but Cailan is more concerned with the coming battle than with wondering whose by-blow this might be. He flirts with her reflexively. Women like to be flirted with; it invariably puts them in good moods. (Except Cauthrien, but does Cauthrien really qualify as a woman?)
He notices her scowl, but doesn't think anything of it.
Later, the mage is a silent, uncomfortable witness (along with Cailan's half-brother, who looks as though he'd much prefer to be anywhere else) to the latest installment of the interminable argument between himself and Loghain. Cailan wins. He always wins. He is the king, and the general can argue but he will never disobey.
The mage trails in Alistair's wake as he leaves the meeting. Alistair will be safely out of harm's way, Cailan notes rather absently as the talk turns to tactics. Not that his bastard brother appreciates it. He never has.
Cailan forgets about the girl entirely, and never thinks of her again.
*****
four: the Knight Commander
He sees them all dragged into the cold bosom of the Tower by Templars, child after child, the occasional sullen adolescent. They blur together in his mind. At first, he tried to remember each of their faces, but after he truly began to appreciate the lonely magnitude of his task, he left the remembering to his mage counterpart and concentrated on identifying those who were most likely to be trouble.
Such as Kathil Amell, who arrives soaking wet from a dunking in Lake Calenhad, her nearly-colorless hair plastered to her scalp. False roses bloom in her cheeks, bitten red by cold. She doesn't look like much, but Greagoir has been fooled before by mages.
She squirms out of Hesiah's grasp and runs away the moment they bring her into the entrance hall. They set the apprentices to searching for her; one of them finds her at the back of a wardrobe. She's brought back, sniffling, still-damp clothes clinging to her bony frame. She can't be more than five years old, and already she's caused several hours of trouble. Clearly, she will need to be watched carefully.
The dark-haired boy hands her over to the First Enchanter. Greagoir stands still, one hand on the hilt of his sword, watching. "Are you the Arl?" the child mage asks Irving, her voice blurred with the accent of northern Ferelden, touched with Orlesian influence. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.
"We have no Arl," Irving says. "Come now, little one. Close your eyes."
The girl bites her lip, then glances at Greagoir as if trying to decide if she should appeal to him for help. "I want my Papa." She backs off a step, then another, coming closer to Greagoir. Then she sprints towards him, fetching up against his knees, gripping his Templar robes in her thin fingers.
It is the instinct of a child raised by a soldier, to see a man wearing armor and bearing a sword as safer than the strange man in the stranger clothing. Greagoir drops to one knee and takes her shoulders in his mailed hands. "Be brave," he tells her, gravely. "The First Enchanter will not harm you."
She doesn't fight him; only looks at his face, searching for something. There is no fear in her expression.
It has been a long time since a child looked at him without fear.
Then she nods, and swallows. Greagoir says, quietly, "Close your eyes." She obeys. Irving is behind her, and the spell is swiftly spoken.
When she opens her eyes again, there is no recognition in her gaze. Her eyes have gone dull, and her shoulders slump in his hands. The first few days are like that; the apprentices take some time to adjust. She does not resist when Irving leads her away.
That moment stays with him, even if the girl doesn't remember it. It is not that he doubts. How could he? It is just that he wonders, sometimes, if those spells of Irving's snuff out something else besides memories. It is easier to wonder about that than about any number of other things buried away under accreted layers of piety.
Be brave, he remembers telling her. Be brave.
That she is trouble in later years comes as no surprise.
None at all.
Series: Old Roads (though you don’t have to have read OR to enjoy this one)
Rating: T
Word Count: 1400 these three chapters, about 5500 total, will be posted over the next few days.
Summary: Nine people. Nine encounters. Nine different ways of looking at a Grey Warden. Old Roads continuity; a bit AU.
You can read it on FF.net, or you can read the next three installments after the nice cut.
*****
two: the Sten
It is difficult, to be in a strange land.
This is a true thing. But his perception of it has shifted, and he does not know if what he sees is closer to the truth or farther from it. There are no Ben-Hassrath here to ask.
Take, for instance, the Amell.
She is a woman. She is a saarebas. She is a warrior.
Two of these three things cannot be true.
He thought at first that she might be like the Tamrassan, the administrators and judges of the young. But she shows no aptitude for dealing with children, and her decisions are questionable at best. If she were clumsy with her blade, if armor weighed heavily on her shoulders, he would consider her a misguided saarebas and recommend that her tongue be cut out, just to be sure.
But the Amell is good with the blade, and her heart beats with a warrior's rage. So it follows that she cannot be either saarebas or woman, but he has seen her cast spells, and though she is small and sickly-thin, she is in fact female.
He meditates upon the Qun, which has no insight other than those who live in blindness may break themselves upon necessity.
"Tell me more about how children are raised among your people," the Amell says to him one night.
So he does, judging that it falls under the Qun's command to speak the truth when truth must be spoken, even to those who do not follow. He tells her of the Tamrassan, of the constant tests, the education that all are given. All are equal, in the Qun; all have their places, their roles.
The Amell is caring for her mageblade, called Spellweaver. She works at a nick in the edge with a sharpening stone. "In a way, it is like the Tower," she says. "When we show the talent, they remove us from our families and bind our memories of them. Then we are taught obedience, and discipline."
The Sten considers this information gravely. "This is not how it is usually done, here."
"No. It's not." She uses a soft cloth to rub away small spots of dried filth from her blade. The weapon flares and quiets. "It's simply what they do to mages, here. Probably better than cutting out their tongues."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Better for who?"
She looks down at her blade. "A fair question." But she does not answer it. Instead, she raises her blade, and scrutinizes the metal in the flickering light of their campfire. Then she asks, "Does the Qun encompass roles for all thinking beings, or just qunari?"
"All." The response is automatic. "There are no omissions in the Qun."
"And yet it was written for your people." She applies whetstone to metal once more. He watches her, and aches for Asala, his missing soul. "Does the Qun speak about Grey Wardens?"
He has to think about that question for a time. "Not directly."
"I wonder if there have ever been qunari Wardens." She is apparently speaking to her blade, not him. "You are correct. There is no order among humans. We all long to be something we are not. And sometimes, we are made into things we should not be."
She rises then, nods to him, and departs for her tent. Along the way, she stops and speaks briefly to the other Warden. He follows her; doubtless they will mate for a time, as is their habit.
The Sten is left to tend his own blade, a poor substitute for Asala. He considers the Amell, as he considers all of those he travels with.
We are made into things we should not be.
She understands, as much as an unenlightened human can understand. And perhaps she is a bent sword, a hammer of glass, forced into a shape she is not suited to. That, he can understand.
These humans have a word in their tongue, content. As he understands it, it carries a meaning that combines the qunari terms for well-led and properly placed.
As much as he can be with his soul missing, he is content.
*****
three: the King
The mage recruit is next to Duncan when the Warden-Commander walks into Ostagar, a pale thing with a sunburned nose and strikingly dark eyes. She looks a little familiar, but Cailan is more concerned with the coming battle than with wondering whose by-blow this might be. He flirts with her reflexively. Women like to be flirted with; it invariably puts them in good moods. (Except Cauthrien, but does Cauthrien really qualify as a woman?)
He notices her scowl, but doesn't think anything of it.
Later, the mage is a silent, uncomfortable witness (along with Cailan's half-brother, who looks as though he'd much prefer to be anywhere else) to the latest installment of the interminable argument between himself and Loghain. Cailan wins. He always wins. He is the king, and the general can argue but he will never disobey.
The mage trails in Alistair's wake as he leaves the meeting. Alistair will be safely out of harm's way, Cailan notes rather absently as the talk turns to tactics. Not that his bastard brother appreciates it. He never has.
Cailan forgets about the girl entirely, and never thinks of her again.
*****
four: the Knight Commander
He sees them all dragged into the cold bosom of the Tower by Templars, child after child, the occasional sullen adolescent. They blur together in his mind. At first, he tried to remember each of their faces, but after he truly began to appreciate the lonely magnitude of his task, he left the remembering to his mage counterpart and concentrated on identifying those who were most likely to be trouble.
Such as Kathil Amell, who arrives soaking wet from a dunking in Lake Calenhad, her nearly-colorless hair plastered to her scalp. False roses bloom in her cheeks, bitten red by cold. She doesn't look like much, but Greagoir has been fooled before by mages.
She squirms out of Hesiah's grasp and runs away the moment they bring her into the entrance hall. They set the apprentices to searching for her; one of them finds her at the back of a wardrobe. She's brought back, sniffling, still-damp clothes clinging to her bony frame. She can't be more than five years old, and already she's caused several hours of trouble. Clearly, she will need to be watched carefully.
The dark-haired boy hands her over to the First Enchanter. Greagoir stands still, one hand on the hilt of his sword, watching. "Are you the Arl?" the child mage asks Irving, her voice blurred with the accent of northern Ferelden, touched with Orlesian influence. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.
"We have no Arl," Irving says. "Come now, little one. Close your eyes."
The girl bites her lip, then glances at Greagoir as if trying to decide if she should appeal to him for help. "I want my Papa." She backs off a step, then another, coming closer to Greagoir. Then she sprints towards him, fetching up against his knees, gripping his Templar robes in her thin fingers.
It is the instinct of a child raised by a soldier, to see a man wearing armor and bearing a sword as safer than the strange man in the stranger clothing. Greagoir drops to one knee and takes her shoulders in his mailed hands. "Be brave," he tells her, gravely. "The First Enchanter will not harm you."
She doesn't fight him; only looks at his face, searching for something. There is no fear in her expression.
It has been a long time since a child looked at him without fear.
Then she nods, and swallows. Greagoir says, quietly, "Close your eyes." She obeys. Irving is behind her, and the spell is swiftly spoken.
When she opens her eyes again, there is no recognition in her gaze. Her eyes have gone dull, and her shoulders slump in his hands. The first few days are like that; the apprentices take some time to adjust. She does not resist when Irving leads her away.
That moment stays with him, even if the girl doesn't remember it. It is not that he doubts. How could he? It is just that he wonders, sometimes, if those spells of Irving's snuff out something else besides memories. It is easier to wonder about that than about any number of other things buried away under accreted layers of piety.
Be brave, he remembers telling her. Be brave.
That she is trouble in later years comes as no surprise.
None at all.
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