fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

[bellaknoti]

An AU to Wings of the Storm Crow

Title: Hazy Shade of Winter (Chapter Thirty-Eight)
Rating: AO
Pairing: Alistair/Lily
Summary: Okay, the supernatural stuff can just stop any time now, thanks. There are times when I still dream of home, when I actually want to go back there and leave all this behind. I never thought I'd grow to hate magic, not like this.


scarylady is very awesome, and fixes all the injustices and horrible liberties I take with the language without even meaning to.






When I wake up, I’m standing outside with my dog sitting patiently by my foot. I’m dressed in breeches and tunic, wrapped in a cloak, not quite facing the dawn. My fingers are frozen where they’ve been exposed to the chill wind, my cheeks cold, and... wet. I’ve been crying. Looking toward Antiva.

Oh gods.

I hurry inside, a dark foreboding in my stomach. Back in the bedroom, I find Alistair sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking defeated. He looks up at me, not able to cover the storm of fury and despair for a moment, and I blink, fearing with sinking heart what could have happened. “What do you need?” he asks, voice and eyes becoming harder than I’ve ever seen them, making me take half a step back.

“Alistair?” I ask, my voice thin and quavery with the sudden fear that is trying to choke me. “What-- What happened? Why was I outside?” He stares at me for a long moment, and I wrap my arms around my waist, feeling sick. “I’m so tired of being afraid all the time,” I confess, bowing my head. I lean against the wall next to the door, and there is a long pause; at last I feel his hand at my shoulder and turn to him immediately, throwing my arms about his waist. “Don’t let go!” I beg, my voice a high-pitched whisper, and he finally - finally! - puts his arms around me, holding me close.

“You were... gone again, Lily, and I couldn’t call you back. She didn’t recognise the words; nothing happened,” he says, and oh the agony in his voice. “You fell asleep in my arms, but she’s the one who woke up, and... she wasn’t happy. Not at all.” He buries his face in my hair, breathing deeply, holding as tightly to me as I am to him. “The things she said... Lily... Maker...” He can’t even finish, and I shudder.

“She doesn’t speak for me anymore. She doesn’t. Whatever she said to put that look on your face, Alistair, she’s wrong. She’s wrong.”

“Do you... still... love him?” he asks, sounding as though the question is dragged from him. Of course, it must have been the crux of their argument.

I choke on a sob, shaking my head in denial, even though I know I can’t lie to him. “I can’t help it... but that doesn’t make us a lie. My life with you is beautiful, and it makes sense, and I want to keep it.” I can still feel the tension in him, and the dam within me just bursts, making me speak very quickly and all in one breath. “You make me laugh, and you hold me when I cry, and you protect me, and you understand me, and you don’t judge me, and I don’t have to try so hard to be good enough for you, because I already am, and I love you for it, I do, and I don’t take it for granted, not for a second. Oh gods, please-- Please don’t give up on me.”

A shudder runs through him as he squeezes me, and he shakes his head, though it takes him a moment to respond, and I wonder whether that was a hesitation. “Never, love, not as long as I draw breath... but this can’t go on.” He pulls me toward the bed, sitting down and dragging me into his lap; I cling to him, curling up and resting my head against his shoulder.

“I know. Nolan says we’re running out of time, too.”

“What did he ask of you?” Alistair asks darkly, but I shake my head.

“Nothing. He said that the difference between him and a demon is that he prefers to not be stupid or evil, so he hasn’t got any desire to be on this side, with us. He’s never asked anything of me but that I try to keep myself safe. He said I’m glowing more brightly, so I either need to finish whatever it is I’m going to do, or figure out how to stop doing it.”

Alistair exhales slowly, as though he’s reluctant to speak. “That’s... what woke me, I think... There was magic in the air, and I could smell it.”

“I hate magic!” I cry in a fit of pique. “I wish it didn’t exist! Everything stops making sense when magic is involved!”

Alistair shrugs. “And yet, without magic, we’d both have been dead long ago, and never have even met. So... We need to figure out what to do, because I want to keep you, too.”

Right. Focus.

“Uh-- Well... The only thing I can think is--” I shudder at the thought, but I know we have to go in search of Mahariel’s clan. “We’d better go to the Brecilian right away, because clearly things are getting worse.”

“It’s the middle of winter,” he says, not so much a protest as a warning.

I close my eyes, and put my trembling flame of total faith in his hands. “I’ve never travelled overland during winter, but... I know we were two winters on the road, so... I trust you.”

He presses his cheek to my hair, breathing deeply. “We’ll need to travel much lighter. The trunks will have to be sent back to Nate.”

“Most of it isn’t necessary,” I agree, nodding. And just like that, we’ve already begun to plan.

It doesn’t take us two hours to gather the supplies we need; Alistair already had most of it. Travel cross-country means wearing armour, too, so for the first time since That Night, I put on Shadow of the Empire, and all the accessories that go with it.

Oh, and I feel lighter, faster, stronger, smarter, everything.

I shake my head, shivering and trying to adjust. It makes me dizzy, and I have to sit down for a moment. I cover it by going through my pack again, not wanting anything to delay us leaving. It passes in a few moments, and I find that it’s a good thing I thought to, because I’ve almost forgot my carving kit.

“You’re bringing that?” Alistair asks doubtfully, and I nod once.

“I can always ditch it on the way if it proves to be necessary, but as long as I can have it with me, I will. It’s a way I can make us coin if it ever becomes critical.”

We need to get some more food before we go, so I seek out Bella, finding her just waking and feeding Seria in the nursery. She looks up when I come in, and her face falls. “You’re leaving,” she says, and it isn’t a question. “It’s the middle of winter,” she protests, and I shrug.

“I know. But... we have to. Something’s come up, and... it can’t wait. So... I was wondering if you could spare us some provisions. We’ve got most of what we need, but some dried fruit or nuts would be welcome. And cheese. There’s never enough cheese, seems like.”

She nods, rising, baby still at her breast, and throws a blanket over her shoulder as she simply leaves the room, toting Seria along serenely. I follow after her, keenly aware of the weight of my armour, the pack over my shoulder, and the helm under my arm. In the kitchen, Bella sees to it that I have as much food as I’m capable of carrying. Seria is done eating by the time Bella’s finished ordering the cook, waving at me excitedly over Bella’s shoulder as I follow her to the great hall, where Alistair is still talking with Teagan, Ponka waiting patiently at his side.

Alistair picks up his pack when we come in, slinging it over his shoulder as Teagan clasps forearms with him. Bella and Teagan both hug me, and I plant a kiss on sweet Seria’s little cheek, because I know I’ll never see her again. If I ever come back this way, she’ll be much bigger, and completely different.

“Come visit us in Antiva sometime,” I murmur, and Bella beams at me, promising to try as soon as Seria is out of nappies.

Yeah... I can’t imagine what a pain in the ass it’d be to travel with a baby who needs constant feeding and changing. I wouldn’t choose it.

They follow Alistair and me outside, bidding us farewell from the top of the stairs. I put my helm on, adjusting my cloak, and when I look back up at Teagan, I see that look, the one people get when they see me in it for the first time. I suddenly look exactly like her, because it covers where the tattoo would have been. I look at him for a long moment, then nod.

Seeing is believing.

It’s still early morning when we leave Redcliffe; this is the first time I’ve travelled with Alistair, just the two of us alone with Ponka.

Watching him that night as he sets up our tent and I sit by the fire, unpacking a few of the perishables Bella sent with us, I realise with staggering clarity how dangerous all of this is. Not that I didn’t know it before, but I try so hard not to look at it. Sure, we still have a stash of kits and poultices, but I know there are some things that only direct healing will fix. If he falls, I’m very likely to get dead in short order. There’s no one else around for miles and miles.

What’s even more scary is the idea that his life could depend on me.

To that end, I pull out my version of the journal and begin to brush up on Elvish... just in case.

The nights are frigid now, cold enough to rattle bones, but with Ponka and Alistair on either side of me, I hardly feel it. Alistair wraps himself around me, as though if he could just hold me tightly enough, some echo of Mahariel’s memory won’t reassert itself.

I dream, but it’s fragmented. I remember being at Gran’s, lining up dominoes on her kitchen floor, but I can’t tell if it’s a memory or if I was just being held there. Either way, I’m just grateful for every morning I wake up right where I expect to be.

Days become more treacherous as the mornings turn icy and the afternoons prone to sleet. It slows us, which is bad news.

“I wish it would just make up its mind and snow already,” Alistair grouses on the fifth day. The sleet is an insistent battering against the lean-to he hastily constructed in the lee of a rock just as the clouds burst; despite its hammering and my freezing toes, I’m uncommonly exhausted by all the walking, and drift off against his shoulder. I’ve been so tired, I just pass out as soon as I lay my head, in the evenings, and despite my nightly focus on Elvish, haven’t been dreaming more than snatches and scraps, which is a blessing. I hope it lasts.

That night, I’m crouched over the fire making journey-cakes when Alistair stops pacing, across from me. I glance up to see what he’s looking at, and the moon is a pale, cold disk, hanging fat in the middle of a halo that means ice high in the atmosphere, and the probability of a decidedly less friendly turn to the weather.

“Snow,” I say, and he looks over his shoulder at me.

“Probably,” he agrees.

“Hmm... Careful what you wish for.” Then something else occurs to me. “Alistair... what day is it?”

He blinks at me, brow furrowed. “Ah... It’s the last night of Haring. Tomorrow is First Day. I was just thinking about it...” he says, rambling on for a moment. I don’t hear him; I’m too busy feeling my scalp prickling as I mentally count the days and still come up empty-handed. Then a pattern emerges.

Nausea. Easily tired. Dizziness and hot flashes. Emotional roller coaster.

Missing period.

Oh shit.

Alistair breaks off abruptly. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

My mouth drops open, but nothing comes out. He turns around and looks behind him, then glances at Ponka, but nothing is actually amiss, no. It’s just me.

“Uh-- Buh-- It’s-- The-- What--” I swallow. I don’t want to tell him. What if I miscarry? What if he tries to keep me from doing what I need to do because of it? That’s a far more sobering question, and I blink, shaking my head. Looking back down at the cakes, I realise they need to be flipped. Not looking him in the eye makes it a little easier. “I had no idea the time had passed so quickly,” I say, which is completely true. “I guess with so much going on, I just... didn’t think to mark the days.” Feeling a little steadier, I smile, glancing up at him. “Happy New Year.”

That night, I have a nightmare of running through endless, shadowy corridors, doors slamming around me and grasped at by nebulous hands, never able to find a place to hide that didn’t begin to fill with shadows in moments. I wake up to Alistair shaking me at dawn, looking worried. “You were whispering and whimpering,” he says, and I can’t tell him why. It just evaporates like smoke, leaving me feeling uneasy, because I’m sure there’s something important I’m forgetting.

Mid-morning, it starts snowing, big, fat flakes floating down from the sky, slowly blanketing everything, softening the edges and silencing the world. Because sound doesn’t travel well, if it weren’t for Ponka, we would never have noticed the giant dire wolves coming up on us from behind.

Hunting must still be lean, after the Blight.

There are six of them, and the first thing Ponka does is howl so loudly it makes a couple of them shake their heads, then he tears off after one of them, immediately going for the kill. The wolf is ready, though, and they tangle.

The others close in on me and Alistair, not hesitating; they are big and infernally fast: low-slung, powerful, and hungry. Alistair shouts, making my ears ring, the sound of his sword clearing the sheath, and an impact on his shield reaching me, but I don’t have time to focus on it.

I pull the blades off my back with a quickness, feeling them thrum as they activate into flame and snow, immediately before one of them leaps on me, knocking me flat on my back. I get the daggers up in time to scorch its face, the fire right next to its eye. It leaps backward, but there’s already one on my right arm, and I twist over to stab at it with my ice. The burnt one chomps down on my leg, dragging me.

Oh gods, I can feel how powerful its neck is. If it shakes me, it’ll break my leg.

Frantically, I kick it in the face, the magic in my boots lending me a little extra stomp, and it yelps. The one at my shoulder has recovered somewhat and lunges in again just as I’m scrabbling backward, trying to get my feet under me in the damp, snow-covered grass. It’s on me before I’m up, catching me still crouched, and it’s all I can do to just point my flame at it before its jaws are snapping in my face. I hold on tight to my daggers as I’m bowling over backward again, and I feel a hot flood over my hand as the wolf howls.

I’m pinned under it, the other one latching onto my leg again, a crushing grip on my ankle, jerking at it and slowly dragging me further under the wolf on top of me. I kick wildly, twisting the dagger in my hand as hard as I can, screaming at the top of my lungs. Whatever has hold of my ankle lets go as I connect with my foot again. The wolf on top of me clamps my shoulder in its jaws. I barely have time to take a breath before he shakes me viciously, and my entire left arm goes dead with a sickening crunch, making me reel with a wave of shock.

I pull my flame out of its side, plunging it in again and again, nothing else I can do until it drops me. I scramble backward away from it as it collapses, pushing myself along on my back with my feet, but the moment I’m clear of it, the one that had been worrying at my leg notices me again and attacks.

Athena!

Time slows down on the wings of an adrenaline rush as my fingers flex around the hilt of my flame. Unable to sit up enough to actually attack, I just brace myself and wait for my moment. If I have anything to say about it, I’m going to shove it down his throat. He knows better than to grab my legs now, and just goes for my face. He’s not expecting that I can still move, and as his jaws come close enough for me to smell his foetid breath, I whip my flame into the side of his neck, carving his throat open and showering myself with a stinking rain of blood. All of his legs give out at once, and the heavy weight across my chest, crushing my shoulder, is so blindingly painful--

There’s something wet and warm dragging across my face, and I open my eyes to see Ponka crouched next to me. He sits up immediately and barks, practically dancing back and forth. “Ponka--” My shoulder reasserts the fact that it’s broken, and I scream--

“--just don’t move, Lily, I’ve got it--” The wolf shifts toward my broken shoulder, crushing it worse, and I scream--

“--balls I’m so sorry, hang on...” The wolf finally lifts off me, and I can take a full breath. The sudden rush of agony is incandescent, blinding me. Distantly, I hear Alistair’s voice, but can’t make out what he’s saying. His motions are swift and effective, but completely brutal, as he mercilessly strips me from my armour and sets my shoulder. I don’t have anywhere near enough breath left for screaming as I feel the bones grind together.

It takes hours, it takes years, and a handful of heartbeats later it’s receding, shivering down with every throb, less and less painful, until I can’t feel much more than the warmth of the cloth magically knitting my flesh and bone back together between his hands.

As my vision clears and I catch my breath, I blink up at Alistair, and the pearl grey sky above. “That--” I swallow hard. “That hurt,” I say, and then I do the most curious thing: I cry and laugh at the same time, startling and alarming him, but there’s nothing I can really say to reassure him. I’m calm again by the time the kit has finished with me, and Alistair helps me get cleaned up and back into my armour, which is hardly the worse for wear. Not its fault that the wolf yanked on me so hard.

The echo of that memory is loud and sickening, and my stomach turns. Suddenly the wet-dog, blood, and feces stench of the dead wolves overwhelms me, and I stumble off to the side to throw up in the snow.

A few moments later, Alistair is hauling me to my feet. “Got to get moving,” he says, “Before the blood brings other curious parties.” I stagger after him, hastily pulling myself together, following him as quickly as I can. When he finally stops, letting me catch my breath and get a little water into my mouth, I sit down on a rock and hang my head between my knees, willing away the vertigo that is terrible injury followed by healing magic and immediate running.

I can taste the black waters of nausea rising again, and drop my pack, digging around inside until I find the dried apples. Tucking a slice into my mouth, I suck on it and pray. After a couple of breaths, my stomach settles, and I hum with relief. I grab a few more slices to eat on the way before tucking everything back in my bag.

It occurs to me that Alistair’s been quiet all this time, and I look up. He’s eyeing me doubtfully, and I blink. “What?”

“Are you sick?”

Oops.

Well... I can’t lie to him. He’d find out later, anyway, and then I’d have to admit to the fact that, yes honey, a couple of months ago, I lied.

I shift uncomfortably. “No.” He just stands there, motionless, staring at me, and I give him a weak smile.

His eyes widen and he points at me. “Wait, you-- Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Surprise,” I say, spreading my hands. “Wasn’t how I’d intended the conversation to go, but... yeah.”

“You’re serious?” he asks, though his voice is flat enough for it to have been a statement. I nod, and he runs his hands through his hair, turning away abruptly, pacing a few steps back and forth like he’s got a million things going on in his head and can’t keep track of them all. In the next moment, he’s closing in on me quickly. I gasp, startling as he reaches for me, pulling me to my feet and into his arms; he holds me tightly as he buries his face in my neck. “Maker, no wonder you’ve been crying so much.” He pulls back, searching my face, then presses a tremblingly soft kiss to the centre of my forehead, thumb stroking over my cheekbone.

The crushing fact that it’s just him and me with a dog against the whole bloody planet gnaws at the edges of my mind, but I try to find peace, just for one, precious moment.

“We have to go,” he says, pulling back regretfully, and I nod.

Much to my relief, Alistair doesn’t smother me, he just gets... more determined. Woe betide anyone or anything that even considers looking at me funny. He doesn’t change anything about what we’re doing, but that night, he overwhelms me with the intensity of his desire; our tent is well heated by stuttering breath and shaking hands, and he takes to sleeping with his shield hand parked firmly over my lower belly.

Not that it keeps away the nightmares. When I dream, I’m running. Always running. Sometimes with Tamlen or Nolan, but mostly alone, and wherever I turn, the shadows are there. I’m just glad there hasn’t been a repeat of Mahariel’s visit. I’d put up with nightmares for the rest of my life if it meant that would never happen again.

It’s just passing midday when the trees of the Brecilian emerge from the snowy haze in front of us, three days later. I stop, staring at them, and my stomach clenches.

“Well... here we go,” I say, full of nerves.

“I’m really not looking forward to this,” he remarks, and I snort.

“Yeah, well, join the club.”

“Ooh, we have a club now? Do we have a secret handshake?” he asks, startling a laugh from me as we continue toward whatever the Dalish will have in mind for us.

We travel a fair distance into the wood, looking for a piece of high ground, then set camp a few hours before sundown.

“All right, Ponka,” I say, settling down with a bowl of stew. “We’re here to speak with these people, so if it becomes necessary for you to attack someone, don’t kill them. Okay?” He barks an affirmative, then looks out into the woods a few times.

“Someone there?” I ask, turning around, and he whimper-growls softly in negation. “Oh, you’re going out for a bit?” He barks affirmative again, and I ruffle his ears. “Okay. Be good, and if you find something interesting, bring it back.” I kiss his forehead, and he barks happily, dancing backward and wiggling his whole butt before he dashes out of the camp.

Alistair and I huddle together next to the fire, and after eating, I’m practically comatose, dozing against his shoulder. Just after sundown, I wake again, the sound of Ponka’s barking faint, but close enough to have pulled me from sleep.

“He’s been getting closer,” Alistair murmurs, noticing when I lift my head.

“I wonder what he’s doing...” I muse, but I don’t have long to wait. Within ten minutes, he’s back in camp, barking all the way. “What are you doing?” I ask him, completely mystified. “Did you find something interesting after all?”

What I’m not expecting is that the ‘something interesting’ Ponka found is a couple of Dalish hunters, who warily stalk into the edge of our firelight with bows drawn, though the arrows point downward for the moment.

I catch myself staring at their tattooed faces, mentally matching the patterns to the gods they’re meant to honour, and the woman sneers at me. “Put your eyes back in your head, shem,” she says, voice hard, and I swallow. “What are you doing in our woods? I thought by now all the shemlen would know better than to come through here.”

Taking a deep breath, I’m careful to keep my movements slow and deliberate as I sit up. “We’re looking for a particular clan,” I say, trying to keep my voice level and unintimidated, despite how I’m actually feeling. “Will you let us speak to your Keeper?”

The male actually raises his bow, aiming at me, as soon as I ask this, and my hands lift in surrender without conscious direction on my part. “We’re not taking shems to our camp. The last time we let that happen, we lost three men.”

I close my eyes for a moment, remembering Tamlen and Mahariel’s suggestion that we kill one of them so the others would tell the rest of the shems not to come back to the wood. This is not going well.

Alistair reaches down and flips his shield over, showing the gryphons on it. “I can’t speak for anyone else’s actions, but I was the Warden who stood with Mahariel during the Blight, and there are those among the Dalish who would recognise me. Please; we’re not here to disturb anyone, but we do need to speak with your Keeper.”

The archers exchange glances, then begin whistling. The invisible rustling I hear in the forest is undoubtedly specifically designed to tell us that we’re surrounded, and it raises my small hairs. The male lowers his bow, exchanging another look with the woman, whistling something else. There’s an answer from the darkness, and she nods. He turns and runs off, and she backs up, leaning against a tree to watch us.

“We’ll just sit right here and wait for word.”

It doesn’t take long, maybe twenty minutes, before a small army of Dalish come out of the woods and surround the camp, all with weapons drawn. I can feel the tension thrumming through Alistair, and Ponka rises, putting himself between me and some of them, but they won’t be able to protect me, or themselves, against so many. After a few moments of silence, a very elderly elf comes from the path that led all the Dalish here. He moves slowly, but his eyes are brilliant and keen, missing nothing. He stands near the fire, facing us, eying us, taking our measure.

“I am told you wished to speak with me,” he says without preamble, and Alistair nods.

“Yes,” he says, bowing his head respectfully. “We’ve come in search of Mahariel’s clan.”

The Keeper is silent, studying us, and I see his eyes flick down to the shield at Alistair’s side. He whistles a few bird calls, answered by several other whistlers in the darkness. “You are recognised by some of our hunters,” he says, at length. “They tell me that you do not lie about who you are. Because you were with her, we will grant you this one trespass. Use it wisely. Other clans may not be so welcoming, but there are those among us who remember you.” He whistles again, and there is more rustling in the trees. “Go east, and when you come to the river, cross, then follow it north. You will be watched. If her clan is not pleased to see you, it will be on your own heads.” He whistles again, and most of the Dalish turn away, back toward where they came from. “Leave now.”

“You want us to travel in the dark?” Alistair asks, and the Keeper grins wolfishly.

“I said I would allow you trespass, for her sake, but we do not have to play host. Our hunters have better things to do than look after intruding shemlen all night. Let that be for her clan, if they choose.” With that, he turns away, disappearing into the darkness with the rest of the Dalish.

After a few moments, Alistair lets out his breath in an exasperated puff. “Well. That could have gone better,” he says, and I snort, rising and stretching.

“We’re still alive. I’d say it went very well, all things considered. Hopefully they’ll be... uh... possibly more happy to see us? I don’t even know. But I guess we’ll find out tonight, whatever we’ve got to say about it. Gods, I’m tired.” I yawn, stretching again, then trudge through cleaning up the camp with him. Within the hour, we’re headed east once more.

I really, really do not like walking around in the woods at night.

“This is madness,” Alistair mutters, helping me over a fallen tree. I can’t help but agree.

It takes us at least three hours to find the river, and another to find a place to cross. After that, I’m completely exhausted, and have to sit down for a minute. Alistair sits next to me, stretching out his legs. When I lean against his shoulder, I fall asleep instantly, only to be woken what seems like moments later by the whistle and thump of an arrow burying itself in the tree about three feet above my head. I shriek like a little girl, practically jumping into Alistair’s lap, as he shouts, “Maker’s breath!” Ponka leaps to his feet, not fooled in the slightest, staring at a particular place in the canopy; his bark is both threatening and reproachful.

“Keep moving, shemlen,” a male voice calls from the darkness, sounding bored and put-upon.

The Keeper wasn’t kidding.

We drag ourselves to our feet, though if I’m being honest, I’m dragging ass a lot more than Alistair and Ponka are. Or maybe they’re just better at hiding it.

Following the river is treacherous footing at best, but we don’t dare stray too far from it into the darkness beneath the trees for fear of losing it, and really, because I don’t want to piss off the Dalish any more than we already have, just by being here.

The river grows swifter, louder, as we continue north over at least two hours, and then I hear the thunder of a waterfall, telling me we’re closing in on the place we’re meant to be.

Oh gods.

Oh gods, Mahariel’s clan.

“What’s your plan?” Alistair murmurs, low enough that he couldn’t be overheard by anyone else, and I stare up at him.

“I don’t have one,” I admit.

He stops, right in the middle of a step, and looks down at me, incredulous. “What?”

“Last time I had one of those, I got captured and tortured instead. This all hinges on my face, and whether anyone believes me. And honestly? It’s going to depend on who we talk to first, and how we’re met. So... no. No plan. Just... let’s go. This is going to be finished before the dawn, one way or another.”

There is a moment of silence while he just stares at me, then shakes his head. “Maker’s breath, Lily, you’re dangerous,” he says, sounding resigned and making me feel about two inches high. “And so bad at chess.” Without another word, he turns away, resuming our road, and I hang my head, trudging after him.

Is it stupid that I don’t know what I’m going to do? How do you tell a group of people who were sort of your family that you came back from the dead? This is going to be the hardest test... and probably the most dangerous.

And I am so weary, I might collapse. I wish I had some kind of caffeine or something, gods, my kingdom for a cola. Just one.

I hear whistling in the trees about twenty minutes later, and stop. “I think we’re here,” I whisper, my stomach clenching, and Alistair stops beside me, looking around.

Oh gods.

I see movement out of the corner of my eye and jump, turning to face it; two archers resolve themselves out of the darkness under the trees.

“State your business,” one of them says, as they come out into the uncertain light of waning moon reflected on snow. They stalk toward us, bows at the ready but pointed at the ground.

I don’t know the second man, but I know the speaker. Oh gods, I know him, though his hair’s grown out a lot since I saw him last. The top half is pulled back in a topknot, his mouth set in a hard line that it’s not used to holding. He’s easy-going, laid back, a man used to smiles.

I swallow hard, holding up my hands, not taking my eyes off him.

“Junar?” I ask, my voice as unsteady as I feel, and both of them freeze, shocked.

He blinks, then raises his bow, though he doesn’t quite aim it at me. “Name yourself,” he says harshly, and I swallow again. I don’t want to do this. My casual vanity in a videogame has become a heavy burden of lack of anonymity that makes me sick. I don’t want everyone to know my name.

And yet here I am, and what choice do I have?

All in the name of just trying to live a life I can be healthy and productive in.

Here we go again.

“Lily,” I say, and there is another moment of shock, followed by him taking several steps back, and now his arrow is brought to bear.

“No, you’re not,” he says flatly. “She’s dead.”

Why, why... every time... Gods save me from this endless justifying of my existence...

“I know... and I’m sorry about that. Things didn’t quite go the way I intended. I’m... going to take off my helmet...” Slowly, I raise my hands to my head, and he watches me carefully as I pull my helm off, then takes another step back, eyes widening hugely.

“No,” he breathes, the string of his bow going slack as he stares at me. Long moments tick by as he struggles with the fact of my presence, finally covering his mouth with one hand, shaking his head. “No, no that’s not possible,” he says, almost to himself, and the other hunter, not so staggered as Junar, looks at him askance.

“Asha el’falon?” he asks, and Junar blinks. Am I a friend?

“Ah... I... don’t know...” he says slowly, unable to take his eyes off me.

The silence stretches for a few more moments as Junar clearly has no idea what to do, and I finally decide to break it, taking a deep breath. Maybe if I just... throw down some Elvish. “Ar en’an dirth’era Marethari emma halam. El souveri, el aravel, Junar... please.”

I’ve come here tonight to speak with Marethari about how I died. We’re exhausted, and travelled a long way...

His jaw drops. “Creators...” he breathes.

“Falon’din,” I say, mouth twisting wryly as I name the god of death, and he blinks, speechless for another moment.

“Triss... We need Airadan,” he says, glancing at the other archer out of the corner of his eye.

“Ashalle?” he asks, but Junar shakes his head.

“Not yet.”

I shake my head, too. “I’d rather keep this pretty quiet, if it’s all the same to you, actually. The last thing she needs is to mourn me twice,” I say quietly, getting Junar’s attention in an instant.

Triss looks between me and Junar a couple of times before turning away, heading back toward their camp, presumably. Slowly, Junar paces toward me, and I keep still, watching him. He circles, finally standing in front of me, examining my face.

“Vallaslin’din,” he says, eyes narrowing, and I nod.

“I know.” The ink. Of course it’ll be a big deal to the Dalish, and might be the thing that makes them not believe me. “I did die. When Zevran brought me here to bury, that really was me.” This rocks him back on his heels, and he covers his mouth again as I shrug. “I still have the sketch, but... it would be wrong... without...”

Tamlen. Oh, my sweet, irreverent Tamlen...

Oh gods, please don’t let them make me get the vallaslin. Surely they won’t. I’m not even an elf. It’ll be fine. I’m worrying over nothing. Right.

Junar’s face falls with the echo of hard mourning, and he reaches up hesitantly to touch my cheek bone, the roughened fingertip of his shooting hand rasping a gentle line from the corner of my eye toward my mouth, tracing a tattoo that isn’t there. He snatches his hand back as though burned when there is a whistle from toward the waterfall, and steps away.

Tamlen was an archer, too.

A sudden sense-memory of roughened hands, like Junar’s, tracing my curves and splaying across my skin, makes me gasp with the strength of it, and I close my eyes, staggering a bit and putting a hand to my head. Someone steadies me from behind, and I know just from the breadth of the palm that it’s Alistair. That brief contact grounds me, and I shake my head, trying to stay present.

Triss comes back with another man, who must be Airadan. Dark-haired, short, and burly, he is clearly not a man to be crossed.

This man... I made him up.

All that we see or seem, is but a dream within a dream.

It’s very weird and hair-raising to be standing in front of a man who only existed in my own head.

Things exist whether you know about them or not.

Airadan is standing right in front of me now, and I blink, having missed the part where he came up to me.

“I’m sorry, I’m incredibly exhausted, and I think I missed what you just said,” I tell him.

He looks at me for a long time, studying me like Junar did, eyes hard and critical as they roam over my face. “You claim to be Lily,” he says, and I nod.

“I am.”

He reaches up, quick as a striking snake, and lifts my hair away from the side of my head, revealing one very rounded ear. He is decidedly unamused, taking a step back from me as his lip curls. “You might be a good mimic, but you’re a shemlen. Lily’s dead.” A dagger rises from his hand out of nowhere, the point resting under my chin before anyone else can make a move. I freeze in place, tipping my head back a little out of instinct. “You disgrace yourself, and worse, you disgrace her--” I know. Oh, believe me, I know.

“Rabbit run,” I interrupt, closing my eyes. If this doesn’t work, I’m dead.

He pauses as I take a shaking breath. “What did you say?” he asks, voice quiet and deadly.

“Rabbit run,” I repeat. “That’s what I had to do, before you’d make me hunter. I had to snare three rabbits out of the run, and bring down a deer with my bow. I always thought Tamlen was better, though. He didn’t need snares; his fingers were quick enough to pin them to the ground through the eye. Creators, he was fast. I was never any good with the bow, though. We never told anyone, but Tamlen helped me--”

“Enough,” he says, interrupting, and I swallow, still not daring to open my eyes. “How can you possibly know such things?”

Oh gods, the point is so sharp where it rests against my neck.

Keep your voice steady. Show no fear. Stand up straight and look him in the eye.

Good advice. Okay. Thanks, me.

“Because I’m not lying,” I say, doing my level best to seem unintimidated. “Look at me, Airadan. You knew me before I earned my ink. Ignore my ears, and look at my face. Get a torch and look at my eyes. Close your eyes and listen to my voice.” What can I say that will convince him, that will let me get to Marethari?

Fourteen gathered to watch us leave. Six must have been guarding our exit.

“There were twenty-two of us, and half a dozen da’lenen,” I say, getting Airadan’s keen attention. Oh gods, can I name them all?

Just breathe. Ignore the dagger point and think.

Not only do I have to remember the names of the people from in game, but also those I only made up from broken bits of Tolkien. I felt compelled to name everyone in the clan, not happy with ‘elven female’ and ‘hunter’ as designations. Oh gods.

Breathe. Start with Merrill.

“Let’s see... the adults were...” I count on my fingers: “Merrill, Marethari, Pol, Junar, Airadan, Rafflin, Caraje, Traleia, Eranor, Maren, Fenarel, Ilen, Ashalle, me and Tamlen, Belari, Pravain, Aldelir, Namori, Keltin, Jephyr...”

Oh shit, I’m forgetting someone. Someone canon.

Paivel.

“...and Paivel. And the da’lenen... uh... Garathea, Chor... Birgyne...” Oh gods, the children are hard to remember. Why did I have to go and name them all? “Lessali, Deswin, and... ah... Sorry. I forget. It started with a ‘u’, though. Pol had just joined us; Junar was training him in the bow... did he ever make hunter?”

“You forgot Triss,” Airadan says, not answering my question, and my brow furrows.

“Uh... no...? I never met him before tonight. He must be new.”

There is a moment of silence, then Airadan lowers his knife; I draw a shaking breath, trying not to show how freaked out I am, still holding his gaze. He whistles, looking at me expectantly, but I have to shake my head.

“I don’t remember the hunter’s speak, sorry. I was never any good at it anyway,” I admit. Mahariel couldn’t whistle to save her life. I can, but I’m not about to tell them that.

There’s another pause, then Airadan takes a breath, tipping his head back and scanning the trees. He whistles several times, getting responses from different places, then looks back at me, sizing me up.

“We’ll go to the camp, but you don’t speak to anyone. Put your helm back on.”

Triss turns back before we leave, looking at Alistair, and arches an eyebrow at Airadan, whistling softly. Airadan shakes his head, then looks back over his shoulder at us.

“The shemlen stays,” Airadan says.

“He’s the Warden who was with me through the entire Blight, and my best friend. There’s no-one I trust more,” I say, lifting my chin.

Zevran.

Shit.

Too late to call it back; the statement is a mistake that stops them all, and they look at me doubtfully, Airadan’s eyes narrowing. I take a deep breath, bowing my head.

“I’m sorry - I know what you’re thinking, but Zevran is another matter entirely.” I swallow, shaking my head. “Please... you saw the state of him when he was here. It’s not-- not easy, for either of us. I don’t want to...” The piece of me that will never forget that golden-eyed rogue wails in agony, and I have to steel myself to keep from crying, clapping my hands over my face, because my emotions run so close to the surface these days. “I can’t,” I say, shaking my head and trying to swallow the thick knot in my throat. A hand rests on my shoulder, too small to be Alistair’s, and I look up.

Junar’s eyes are sympathetic, something I somehow did not quite expect, even though he was Mahariel and Tamlen’s best friend, as I wrote him. He hesitates for a long moment, clearly struggling with something, then his face softens a bit around the edges. “Melava Zevran an; ir abelas na’din,” he murmurs, and I nod, feeling my mouth twist. I know. I remember when Zev told me about it, how torn up he was, how beaten. “Ar melava an.” And of course, Junar was here to see it.

“Ir abelas, lethallin... Ma serranas,” I murmur, not trusting my voice. I am so grateful to him for looking out for Zev during that harsh time in his life.

A time that I caused.

And now look what you’ve done to him, you heartless, faithless cow. You think his life is any less harsh now?

“Abelas, abelas, ar bel’aravel en’an. Ar nuvenin’din numin,” I whisper to Junar, trying to master myself. It’s been a long night, I’ve travelled a long time, and I really, really don’t want to cry.

“Shhh... hamin, lethallan,” he murmurs back, telling me that he actually believes me. “El’ven el aravelen, el’dirth Marethari.” I nod, a little jerky, but I’m so grateful for his comfort. We’ll just go to camp and talk to Marethari. All will be well.

I hope.

Junar is convinced, but Airadan isn’t, and he shoots Junar a warning look, which is completely ignored. I’m not sure what else I can do to convince Airadan. I’ve got more information than I ought to, if I were a pretender, and I even speak Elvish. Junar has apparently decided to work under the assumption that I’m me, and I’m back, falling into step beside me.

The Dalish camp is small but well-organised, with at least a dozen aravels loosely surrounding a large fire pit, off to the side of the pool at the base of the falls. The clan has expanded quite a bit, apparently. Most of the aravels are dark, the occupants presumably asleep. Airadan leads us to one that is still lit and raps on the door.

Oh, oh gods, and there she is. Keeper Marethari, standing framed by the doorway, much shorter than I thought she would be. She motions us forward, and I enter her aravel right behind Junar. Behind me, Airadan whistles, and Alistair says, “Hey...”

Triss is blocking him from entering the aravel, and I bite my lip. I can’t stand up to the Dalish on this... it’s pretty much their prerogative. “I’ll be right back,” I assure him. I wish I felt as sure of the situation as I’m pretending to be.

The inside of the aravel reminds me of Romany wagons crossed with a wigwam and decorated like Ireland meets Art Nouveau. Oh gods, I’m on my own, here.

Oh, wily and silver-tongued Hermes, lend me a touch of your clever wit.

Marethari sits down in a chair, gesturing to a low couch across from her. I sit, feeling odd about it, and Junar crouches next to me. Airadan elects to stand in front of the door.

“I am told that you have come here to speak to me,” she says, and I nod.

“Yes. I... have a problem that I think only you can help me solve,” I say, hesitating, then take off my helm.

The blood drains from her face as she stares at me, much as the others who recognised me have done. I take a slow breath, waiting for whatever will come next.

“L-- Lily?” she asks, confused, frightened, surprised.

I nod, but Airadan grumbles under his breath before saying, “So she says, but she’s a shemlen.”

“And yet she speaks Elvish, knew me by sight, and named everyone in the clan except Uthia,” Junar adds quietly. Oh yeah! That was her name!

“Is he correct? You are human?” Marethari asks, and I grimace.

“Yeahhh... sorry about that. Couldn’t be helped.”

She blinks, then her brow furrows. “I do not understand.”

“I know. I barely understand it, myself, but... I’ll tell you what I do know. I’ve managed to piece together what might have happened, but where magic is involved, things can get hazy. I’m from someplace beyond the Fade, another world like this one, but where there was no magic, and every person on the planet was human. I recently learned that before I was born, my soul was accidentally torn in half.” I take a deep breath. Steady now. Everything depends on this.

“I was born here, also, and ended up living in two places at once because of this. It was confusing, but it wasn’t a problem until I ended up going against the archdemon and died. That’s when things went a little... strange. I felt such a powerful pull toward the part of my soul that’s here that I was actually dragged across the veil because of it. From what I understand, it should have joined me, but that’s not what happened. I shouldn’t be here, but... that’s magic, I suppose. It was never my intention to come here, because I have no wish to visit grief on everyone again, but...” Another breath. All of them are staring at me, and the combined weight of their gaze is so, so heavy.

“Having my soul fragmented and then coming here has attracted a demon to me.” They all look alarmed, and Junar’s hand goes to his dagger. I hold up my hands, eyes widening. “Hamin, hamin!” Relax! “It hasn’t got me yet. I’m having a lot of nightmares, though, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold it off. It’s been suggested that if I can repair the rift, reclaim the piece that died here when I killed the archdemon, the demon won’t have a trail to follow, and I’ll be okay again. Well, that’s the theory, anyway. I’ve been advised to visit my grave.”

There is a long silence, and I try really hard not to squirm. I suddenly understand the term ‘sitting in the hot seat’.

“What do you expect to find there?” Marethari asks, at length.

I shrug uncomfortably. “I don’t know, honestly. I think one of three things will happen: one, nothing, which would be completely unhelpful; two, I somehow manage to find the lost piece of myself and then I don’t know what will happen; or three...” I swallow. I’ve been trying so hard not to think about this possibility. “...The piece of my soul that I currently have hold of will... join the piece that’s already dead. In which case... I-- I suppose... I’ll need you to... bury me... next to my other set of bones, please.”

Another silence.

“Why does this sound like blood magic?” Airadan asks, and I bite my lip.

“I know; it’s not, though. I have no way of knowing what’s the right thing to do, here. Really, what I would like is to be able to sleep at night without fearing that I’ll be devoured from within.”

“Why did you not come back to us right away?” Marethari asks, and I bow my head.

“Because I ended up in Antiva, directly after arriving here, and... Things became difficult. Very complicated. I didn’t want to disturb anyone, didn’t want to come here and make everything confusing and painful again, for anyone. Everyone has already mourned me. I’m buried, I’ve got my tree, I didn’t see any point in coming out here and dragging up the dead. But... that was before I knew I was fragmented, something I only recently discovered. I knew I had no choice but to come here, after that.”

I sigh, a sudden wave of fatigue washing over me and narrowing the world down to a fine point, nearly blacking out. I hold my head as I sway, nearly falling into Junar, having to put a hand out in the next moment to right myself, and shake my head, trying to clear it. Junar puts his hand on my shoulder, steadying me as I shake my head again.

“Sorry-- It’s been a really long road; we started travelling at dawn, and never stopped for more than an hour or two until we got here. I think I’m nearing the limit of my ability to stay awake.”

“Junar...” Marethari begins, then hesitates. “You spent more time with Lily and Tamlen than anyone else. What do you think?”

He chews at his lip for a moment, then gives me a lopsided smile. “She can’t be anyone else. She knows a story that only she could know, and I happen to know it’s true.” He glances up at Airadan, and I feel my eyebrows rise. Junar grins. “You may not have said anything to anyone, but Tamlen told me.”

I blink, trying to figure out what he’s on about, then my sluggish brain catches up and I feel my lips twist into a wry smile. “Of course he did.”

Airadan and Marethari are looking at us expectantly, and I colour, embarrassed. “Ah... It was... Uhm. The deer that I had to kill, to be a hunter... It... I was never any good with a bow. So... Tamlen took an arrow out of my quiver. We thought...” I feel my face fall, and look at my hands. “Of course. You always think there will be plenty of time... We thought it was just something we could keep working on... after we were Bonded...”

Marethari and Airadan wear matching scowls. “You participated in this deception, Junar?” Marethari asks, and I cut a glance at him, feeling bad.

He nods and shrugs with one shoulder, completely unrepentant. “They wanted to Bond. I didn’t see how her knowing the bow better was going to change anything between them, so I just left it. It didn’t matter in the long run, anyway,” he says, then catches himself and winces, glancing at me guiltily.

I shrug. To these people, my death has been a fact for more than two years.

“Airadan?” Marethari asks, and he looks at me for a long moment before just shaking his head.

“I have no idea, Keeper. She seems to be... herself... I don’t understand this at all.”

“Me either,” I say, reeling again, and Junar catches me, pushing me back upright. “I think I’m going to collapse,” I tell them in an almost conversational tone, blinking.

“I believe that we should find her a place to r...” Whatever else Marethari says fades away as I close my eyes for just a second to alleviate their burning.

When I open them again, not a second later, I’m outside in the dark, draped over Junar’s shoulder like a sack of grain. I see Ponka’s legs trotting along next to Junar’s, and let my lids sink closed.

When I open them next, it’s daylight, and Alistair is leaning over me, shaking my shoulder.

“Lily, wake up,” he says, looking worried, but trying to cover it. “We’ll need to be moving soon. They want to take us out to the tree.”

I don’t have to ask what tree. I know. I sit up, finding that I’m sleeping on a pallet at the back of an aravel. Alistair puts a small handful of dried apples in my hand before I can even say anything, and I pop one in my mouth, laying down again as my stomach rolls, hoping that it stays put. Reaching out, he runs his hand over my belly, and the heat of his palm soothes the angry beast.

As I go through my morning ritual of trying not to throw up while I get dressed, I watch Alistair from the corner of my eye.

One thing about this... I never actually mentioned to him my suspicion that I could just drop dead.

“Uhm... Alistair...?” I say slowly, and he looks up, suddenly wary. “I...”

I can’t say that. It’ll only freak him out, particularly since I don’t really have any idea whether it’s even a possibility. “I’m really, really scared. I don’t know what’s going to happen,” I confess. His face softens and he rises, coming to me and kneeling in front of me. Wrapping his arms around my waist, he nuzzles his cheek against my belly, where I’m starting to be able to detect a hardness under the surface that wasn’t there before. His hands splay across my upper back as he kisses my stomach, and I run my fingers through his hair.

“I love you, Lily,” he whispers. “More than you’ll ever know. Please... don’t disappear on me.”

“That’s not the plan, I promise.”

But, uh... we just won’t mention how things never seem to go according to plan for me.

Right.

“Time to go,” I murmur, and he nods, hugging me tightly before turning me loose. I reach up as he rises to his full height, head almost touching the ceiling, and run my thumb over his lower lip. “Whatever happens, I want you to know... this is real.” I take his hand, pressing it to my belly, covering the growing roundness inside. “And it’s what I wanted.” I take a deep breath. “Don’t let go.”

He kisses me fiercely then, pulling me tightly against him, and I sway, but he’s drawing back before I can properly respond. “Never, love. Not as long as I draw breath,” he promises, the backs of his fingers trailing down my cheek.

No more delay.

I pick up my pack, then open the aravel door and step out into the cold sunlight of mid-morning to find Junar, Airadan, Marethari, and Merrill standing there waiting for us, Ponka slouching insolently in front of the door. He looks up and grins as I notice him, and I can’t help but smile back.

“Let’s go,” Airadan says gruffly, and I nod, falling in next to Junar as we all move into the woods.

We follow a winding route that clearly takes into account landmarks rather than definite direction, and finally come to a clearing where a sapling grows in a circle of large, white stones. Large enough to be crushingly heavy for a strong man, but just small enough that it could be carried. And probably by one, in particular.

I stop at the edge, staring in abject terror at the small mound not fifty feet away, and the little tree planted on it.

He built this here. A monument to my loss.

No, please, I can’t look at that right now. That’s not why I’m here.

Moment of truth. Time to see what comes.

Gods help me.


[Next Chapter]