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peopleofthedas2010-12-31 05:24 pm
aithne) wrote in peopleofthedas2010-12-31 05:24 pm
Entry tags:
Fanfiction: Imperfect Creature, perspectives seven through nine
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: 730 these three chapters, about 5500 total.
Summary: Nine people. Nine encounters. Nine different ways of looking at a Grey Warden. Old Roads continuity; a bit AU.
Last three perspectives! You can read it on FF.net, or you can read the rest after the nice cut.
Mods: Could I possibly have an Old Roads series tag? Thank you!
seven: the father
When the Warden-mage tells Matthias that his daughter is dead, she spares no words, does not flinch.
In the world suddenly gone dull and grey, in an unjust world where his daughter, his bright, promising, beautiful Amalia no longer breathes, he finds it easier if he can hate someone.
So he hates the mage who let her die.
It is easier than hating himself.
*****
eight: the general
He sees his own death in her eyes.
Loghain always thought of that as the sort of nonsense a poet would spout, but facing her here in the Chamber of the Landsmeet, he sees something still, dark, and patient in her gaze. It is a cold determination to get her way, no matter what stands between her and her goal. He used to have that, though his burned in his gut like fire.
He is old, and Maric is gone, and he finds that the fire in him has finally burned to ash.
She is guilt made flesh and bone as she grates out a list of his crimes—what he allowed, what he encouraged, and he feels little except a grinding sort of gratitude that she managed to kill Rendon Howe before she stepped foot in this chamber. If Rendon had survived, Anora would never be safe.
So it has come to this: Loghain with his back to the thrones; a Grey Warden facing him. Anora looking on, her hands clenched in the skirt of her dress. Ferelden's nobility surrounding them, waiting in silence to see who will prevail in a test of arms—a warrior who has trained every day for over forty years, or a young mage who is all bone, sinew, and determination.
He draws his blade, as does she.
The last remnants of the man Loghain once was crumble into dust, and are blown away on the wind from a crow's wings.
*****
nine: the immortal
It would be so easy to leave her here, and let her burn with the rest.
Flemeth hesitates. The talons of her free forehand scrape at the stone of the Tower of Ishal, eliciting a scream of protest from where gem-hard claw meets floor. She has the one who is arguably important, unconscious in the talons of her other forehand: the bastard prince, moth to the flame that Morrigan will become.
Still. There is something about the other Grey Warden. She reminds Flemeth of someone. She cranes her neck, brings her narrow head down and flares her nostrils as she breathes deeply the scent of the mage.
Ah.
She will be useful, this one. The possibilities spin out in starbursts in Flemeth's skull, flashes and visions of the future and past all tangled together, clawing at her mind. She makes a low groan; the kenning has never gotten easier to bear, and even in the shape of a dragon the age of her mortal form is weighing on her.
Still, the many voices of the kenning are unanimous: that it would be a mercy to let this one die, but it is a mercy that Flemeth cannot afford.
I could say that I am sorry for what I must do, little one, but I do so hate to lie.
She closes her talons around the mage—gently, gently! She is dying, a crossbow bolt through her lung, a large blood vessel bulging and ready to tear, a cracked skull with bleeding beneath it. She will take mending, it is sure, long mending; but she is young, and stronger than she looks.
And she has one other thing: that simple animal instinct for survival.
Flemeth spreads her wings, and they crack like sails as she crouches and takes to the air. Below her, the darkspawn pay her no attention and the humans are too busy dying to look up. But 'tis always that way, is it not? They are ever too busy dying to look up.
She flies back to her little hut with the two unconscious Wardens in her grip. The weave is coming together, and Flemeth's long-dormant plans are waking, one by one. There is death before her, and death behind her, and in between these two humans who will play all unwittingly in a game that is larger than either of them will ever suspect.
In the back of her mind, the voices of things that never lived laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
And this completes "Imperfect Creature". Yes, I'm planning on doing at least one more of these, probably another nine-parter. (Why nine? I'm actually not sure, it's just the number that seems right.) Votes for who gets to speak up are gladly accepted! (Jowan and Irving are already on the list.) EDIT: Okay, I think I may do two more nine-parters--one all mages, one everyone else. Because I am feeling the mage love. :)
Happy New Year, everyone!
Series: Old Roads (though you don’t have to have read OR to enjoy this one)
Rating: T
Word Count: 730 these three chapters, about 5500 total.
Summary: Nine people. Nine encounters. Nine different ways of looking at a Grey Warden. Old Roads continuity; a bit AU.
Last three perspectives! You can read it on FF.net, or you can read the rest after the nice cut.
Mods: Could I possibly have an Old Roads series tag? Thank you!
seven: the father
When the Warden-mage tells Matthias that his daughter is dead, she spares no words, does not flinch.
In the world suddenly gone dull and grey, in an unjust world where his daughter, his bright, promising, beautiful Amalia no longer breathes, he finds it easier if he can hate someone.
So he hates the mage who let her die.
It is easier than hating himself.
*****
eight: the general
He sees his own death in her eyes.
Loghain always thought of that as the sort of nonsense a poet would spout, but facing her here in the Chamber of the Landsmeet, he sees something still, dark, and patient in her gaze. It is a cold determination to get her way, no matter what stands between her and her goal. He used to have that, though his burned in his gut like fire.
He is old, and Maric is gone, and he finds that the fire in him has finally burned to ash.
She is guilt made flesh and bone as she grates out a list of his crimes—what he allowed, what he encouraged, and he feels little except a grinding sort of gratitude that she managed to kill Rendon Howe before she stepped foot in this chamber. If Rendon had survived, Anora would never be safe.
So it has come to this: Loghain with his back to the thrones; a Grey Warden facing him. Anora looking on, her hands clenched in the skirt of her dress. Ferelden's nobility surrounding them, waiting in silence to see who will prevail in a test of arms—a warrior who has trained every day for over forty years, or a young mage who is all bone, sinew, and determination.
He draws his blade, as does she.
The last remnants of the man Loghain once was crumble into dust, and are blown away on the wind from a crow's wings.
*****
nine: the immortal
It would be so easy to leave her here, and let her burn with the rest.
Flemeth hesitates. The talons of her free forehand scrape at the stone of the Tower of Ishal, eliciting a scream of protest from where gem-hard claw meets floor. She has the one who is arguably important, unconscious in the talons of her other forehand: the bastard prince, moth to the flame that Morrigan will become.
Still. There is something about the other Grey Warden. She reminds Flemeth of someone. She cranes her neck, brings her narrow head down and flares her nostrils as she breathes deeply the scent of the mage.
Ah.
She will be useful, this one. The possibilities spin out in starbursts in Flemeth's skull, flashes and visions of the future and past all tangled together, clawing at her mind. She makes a low groan; the kenning has never gotten easier to bear, and even in the shape of a dragon the age of her mortal form is weighing on her.
Still, the many voices of the kenning are unanimous: that it would be a mercy to let this one die, but it is a mercy that Flemeth cannot afford.
I could say that I am sorry for what I must do, little one, but I do so hate to lie.
She closes her talons around the mage—gently, gently! She is dying, a crossbow bolt through her lung, a large blood vessel bulging and ready to tear, a cracked skull with bleeding beneath it. She will take mending, it is sure, long mending; but she is young, and stronger than she looks.
And she has one other thing: that simple animal instinct for survival.
Flemeth spreads her wings, and they crack like sails as she crouches and takes to the air. Below her, the darkspawn pay her no attention and the humans are too busy dying to look up. But 'tis always that way, is it not? They are ever too busy dying to look up.
She flies back to her little hut with the two unconscious Wardens in her grip. The weave is coming together, and Flemeth's long-dormant plans are waking, one by one. There is death before her, and death behind her, and in between these two humans who will play all unwittingly in a game that is larger than either of them will ever suspect.
In the back of her mind, the voices of things that never lived laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Note:
And this completes "Imperfect Creature". Yes, I'm planning on doing at least one more of these, probably another nine-parter. (Why nine? I'm actually not sure, it's just the number that seems right.) Votes for who gets to speak up are gladly accepted! (Jowan and Irving are already on the list.) EDIT: Okay, I think I may do two more nine-parters--one all mages, one everyone else. Because I am feeling the mage love. :)
Happy New Year, everyone!
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So... I just did it. FOR YOUUU. :D
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