Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I all alone beweep my outcast state”

Rand

As our caravan slowly inches its way through the main road, the distance between Ostagar and Gwaren feels larger than it actually is. My patched cloak billows with the spring wind as I ride down the length of the caravan, making sure that everything is complete. The outlying farms in the city promised all the crops they had available to support the army in Ostagar, and my father tasked me to overlook their delivery to the king’s army.

We didn’t exactly have much, but we pooled together everything we stored for the winter, and any that we harvested this season. We were paid generously, and that is enough for us.

I mount my horse, bow at the ready as we begin to move to the southeast. It is supposed to be a two week ride to Ostagar from Gwaren, but with the weight of the supplies we bring, it might take at least three, four if we are unlucky.

I hear rumors from the other men hired to protect the caravan – rumors about darkspawn attacking travelers, well away from the bulk of their forces.

“I wouldn’t mind shooting one or two for target practice.” My cousin, Maudin, is the best archer in our village, and he doesn’t mind flaunting it.

I shake my head. “They’d probably kill me before I even nock an arrow,” I tell him. “Andraste’s dancing shoes, we country bumpkins probably won’t stand a chance against a couple of hurlocks.”

We laugh again, and I’m struck once more about the fact that he looks more like my sibling than my actual ones do. We share the same hair the color of rust, and blue-gray eyes like stones.

It begins to rain after noon. I pull up my hood to shield most of my face, but I am sure that we will end up being miserable by nightfall. The talk turns to news of unrest from the north. Apparently some lord or another and most of his household were slaughtered for conspiring with Orlesians. According to one of the older men, Wiscot, believing such conspiracies bring nothing but chaos. The noble was most likely innocent.

But hey, why do we care? We’re all commoners here.

The caravan stops as the rain does. Our camp is damp and muddy, but we make the best out of it. We eat little of our rations, making sure that it will last all the way to Ostagar and back to Gwaren. The fires dance weakly to the cold winds, as another torrent of rain threatens to wash our camp away.

Some of the guards leave to hunt for food to bolster our rations, but only one of them returns.

“D-darkspawn, to the north!” Ulfred screams before collapsing.

Maudin and I rise to our feet. Darkspawn! So the rumors were true, after all. We exchange dark looks. “We have to make sure that they don’t find the camp,” he says, stringing his bow. “Even if we manage to pack up on time, I’m sure we can’t outrun them.”

“What can we do?” I ask. “There aren’t any warriors here. No knights. No Grey Wardens that your father talks about so much. What if we’re outnumbered?”

“You think too much,” he says.

He organizes a hunting party that comprises of me, him, our best swordsman Clayve, Glaidor our trapper, and Wiscot, whose hunting knives would probably be useful in close quarters combat.

We stumble away from the camp and into an area with sparse plant life. Thunder peals above us, like a promise of rain to come much later. I grip my bow in terror, afraid that darkspawn will jump at us from any direction. Glaidor begins to pray some litany to the Maker.

If he had any mercy in the first place, there won’t be any darkspawn. No distinct lines between social rankings. My mother would still be alive.

We stumble in the darkness. No one bothers to light a torch, in case it actually draws the darkspawn to us.

I keep my bow drawn, ready to fire in case of attack. Maudin leads the way, back straight, confidence emanating from him. We all keep close together as we stalk through the semidarkness. We hear a rustling before us and a loud shriek. Wiscot cries out and stumbles against me, sending us crashing down as creatures which can only be darkspawn descend upon our group.

Clayve rushes forward with his two-handed sword, only to be struck down by a tall, muscular creature wielding a massive ax. The smell of his blood and innards permeates the air, and it takes all of my power not to gag. We retreat as Maudin and I begin to shoot arrows. The enemies we faced were unrelenting, and they continued to push forward. Arrows rain down from the darkspawn forces’ rear, and one of them strike Glaidor in the eye before he could plunge a knife into an enemy’s skull.

I could not stop myself screaming in terror as a number of darkspawn converge upon him with a roar.

Fea                                                                                                                                                                      

I’ve never been to Denerim before. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been somewhere so populated before. My master brought me to small towns and villages to buy supplies as we traveled around Ferelden, but never somewhere as big as a city. And Denerim isn’t just a city. It’s the city.

I lost my staff in the mountains surrounding Dragon’s Peak, so all I had to do to blend in was to borrow some clothes from Elinore, which were a little too masculine and hung loose on my slight frame.

We stay in the Gnawed Noble Tavern, which is loud and chaotic. Dinner is a loud, communal affair where we share the table with a number of well-to-do men. Some of them recognize Duncan and make small talk.

By morning, Duncan leaves early to visit an old friend’s family, leaving us to explore Denerim by ourselves. I find myself walking beside Elinore, who asked me last night to accompany her in the market.

The sights and smells of the market district are close to overwhelming me when we stop in front of a small stall displaying lovely and expensive-looking bolts of cloth. Elinore grins at me. “Duncan asked me to buy some clothes for you,” she explains. “We can’t have you in ill-fitting clothes all the time. We’ll get a few robes that you might be more comfortable with, and some regular clothes if ever we need to blend in.”

“Is that really necessary?” I ask, embarassed that they should spend money on me. “I can wait until we actually get funds as Wardens.”

Her grin widens infuriatingly, and I wonder whether I could get away with burning her trousers off. Maybe not, but it might be worth trying.

“As you can see, I prefer men’s clothing when I can get away with it, especially since they go together better with armor,” she continues, as if not noticing my threatening thoughts.  “I might not find something you’d like, so feel free to look around. Just try them out, and if you think they fit you well and you like them, then I’ll pay. Not as good as getting something from seamstresses, but these are faster and cheaper. We need to do everything fast.”

I stare at her, barely comprehending half of what she is trying to tell me. “I can sew,” I mutter. “You can just buy some bolts of cloth. I’ve got sewing materials in my pack.”

She laughs. “That’d take longer.” She points at a few plain but expensive-looking tunics, and a number of soft cloaks best suited for the warmer months. “See? These will help. You might want to look at a few mage robes for official Warden business too – or so, that’s what Duncan told me.”

I sigh. She does have a point. I just hate having them spend money for me when I could do most of the sewing myself. Getting clothes from a big city like Denerim would not ever be a part of my wildest dreams, but here I am, blending in with the crowd, an apostate mage shopping for clothes with a fellow Warden recruit.

Elinore nods appreciatively as I pick out a few clothes in shades of blues and greens. “My sister would probably tell you that you have good taste, but all I might end up saying is that you are, most definitely, as girly as her.”

I sigh and pick out a few other colors as she stares sadly at some clothes labelled as “Highever’s Finest.”

“Were you from this Highever, then?” I ask. I’ve heard my master talk about Wardens taken away against their wills.

Elinore stares at me for a while, and I was afraid that I might have stepped on some unknown line. “I was,” she agrees. “I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

I get the feeling that she might end up bawling if we talk about her past, so I keep my mouth shut and we finish our shopping.

We find Alistair hanging around a food shop, a big bag full of cheese in hand. He grins as we approach, and my stomach does an odd flip. “Denerim really has the best cheese in all of Ferelden,” he says as a greeting. “That isn’t saying something though, as Redcliffe has pretty limited choices and we barely have any to savor in the Chantry.”

“You should’ve tried some in Highever,” Elinore says, a flash of pain in her eyes. She grabs a small ball of goat cheese from Alistair’s bag and pops it in her mouth with an appreciative grin. “This ain’t so bad, though.”

“Of course! You just ate the best in the bag,” Alistair said. “Though I guess it would d well better in your pretty mouth.” He pauses, as if realizing what he just said. “Okay, I’ll just stand here. Shutting up now.”

I laugh, though I feel a small pang of envy. But then again, no one, not even a man as kind as Alistair, would probably dare call a mage – especially an apostate – pretty.

“There you are!” Evain jogs toward us, dressed in armor like the other two. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Duncan wants us to accompany him to a wedding.”