Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“You’ve taken plenty from us!”

Tax collector, tax collector, they come around too often. He could hear the honeyed voice from the other side of the door. Mother was too loud, her words overpowered, hinting at the fear that ate away at all of them. Would they have enough to last the week? Would they be able to feed themselves? Would they live?

Would they live?

It was a question that promised all answers could be wrong. No one knew, least of all him.

Tax collector, tax collector, hasn’t enough been taken already? His words twist through the wood: arrogant, spoiled, little thing that can’t possibly defy the Empress’s decree. A twist of his face, strong as the knot of the noose. That would shut him up.

“You’ll live to regret those words.”

Tax collector, tax collector, gone for the moment. He’ll be back tomorrow morn with a shovel and a spade. Regret, regret, regret. They always made promises in the form of threats. As if that would change their mind when all it did was strengthen the resolve.

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Taunt, strike, parry. His mouth curves into a frown. There wasn’t something right about this weapon, the way it felt in his hand. There was a reliance in the way he moved, and his opponent. Unlucky, and well, that would mean defeat.

“Gerod, focus!”

“Right, my bad. Let’s try this again.”

Strike, strike, now a block. That was different than he had anticipated. A disengage, and bam, he’s knocked off his feet. The blooming pain of a blunted edge forming on his abdomen. Another bruise to the collection, he’ll be purple.

His brother promised that practice would make it better. There were always promises, unwelcome and wicked little things.

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Dried blood on his lips. Painful and numb, a reminder of a mistake. There’d be a nasty scar when it finally took the time to heal. A hiss at the front on his tongue. Torn, bleeding once again. The stupid poultice wasn’t doing its job.

“Must be Andraste’s blessing that they didn’t give you a worse beating.” His mother’s words are stern, unforgiving. Her lectures weave through the air nowadays, catching nothing in their trap. Least of all his attention. In one breath, beratement. In another, praises to the Chantry’s gods. “You shouldn’t have run amok.”

No, what he shouldn’t have done was get caught. He knows what to do the next time a lock is broken.

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Vanilla lingers in the air, red locks covering her face. What did it mean for her to be here, to lie there without a care in the world? She stirs, shifting to the other side of the bed. A deep sigh, and she stirs once more. This time, she woke up. Dark eyes watch him carefully. At first he sighs, opening his mouth to speak, but no words leave. What was there to say?

“You look confused.” It was she who broke the silence. Her voice level, careful, not even remotely close to how she sounded just last night.

He nods, shifting his weight to his arm. To be enamored by her was a mistake. It was a trap meant for those who begged for a broken spirit. Or perhaps he sought out pain to be collected in the future. Something emotional, something that could not be touched - not like physical pain, at least. “Shouldn’t your Serault be calling you back by now?”

“She isn’t jealous of who I spend my time with. Even if that someone is a bandit.”

A fitfull of laughter leaves her, and she scrambles to wipe away the stray tears. He pauses, opting to lay flat, listening as her giggling continues, overtaking the silence he was so used to.

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Successful attempts meant another try for later.

Unsuccessful… Well, he had always said pain was an excellent teacher.

The first failure rewarded him with a cut lip and black eye. The second gave him bruises up to his chin and breathing issues for a week. Broken fingers and hands for the third. And the fourth… There was never a fourth. Gerod knew he would not be so lucky. The fourth time would be death, and that was a gift he wasn’t willing to accept just yet.

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"Do you mean anything you say?" He asks her, cautious, careful. She was an uncertain being - ready to flee one moment and be coaxed into a fight with the next breath alone. Whatever emotions and thoughts running through the fog of her mind, it was for no one except her. She would remain there, hidden until she was ready to lash out.

"Of course. I mean everything I say."

"So…" he paused with the hope that she would take that bait, speak her words aloud. Let them be true… let them be lies. He wasn’t sure which would hurt less. With her, he wanted no more pain. Please, let him be free from harm. Let him live a lie, as long as he came out unscathed from all the tricks and games.

A knowing look, she knew what he wanted. But the girl with the crooked smile would not fall for tricks like that. "Arrangements must be made, it seems."

"Arrangements must be made." He mimed her words, his tone solemn and unsure. A part of him wanted her to want, just like he did. But she was the girl made of broken glass, and those pieces would cut him if he tried to get too close. He has already bled enough.

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An arrow is knocked back in her bow. It’s a weapon that stretches out at the top, and he had seen nothing like it before. A question in the air, and she did not hesitate to answer by showcasing her abilities. The narrow target was hit, precisely and with power.

“Incredible! Even with obstacles, you’ve hit every target.”

The tattoos around her face furrow and she shrugs. Then there’s a smile on her face - not a grin, but something more akin to a smirk. Small and pleased. He would take it, especially when there was so little she would tell him about herself.

She opens her mouth to speak, and instead does a small shake of her head. Another arrow, followed by two in her hand loaded and ready to fire. This time, there was no surprise when she hit all the marks. He notes the displeasure in her stance. None of them were here for reasons made by choice.

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There it is, that smell of vanilla, familiar as a warm memory that lives in the back of his mind. She's leaning over him, a hand over his cheek and he smiles. It was foolish to fall into her trap again, but he still does. His own hand reaches up, holding hers in place. And for once, she did not move away.

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"You're not exactly Warden material."

The words came from a suspicious looking man with a furrowed brow. The wrinkles on his forehead are permanent, even with a relaxed expression. Something off and something dangerous. He could smell it. Perhaps the trials they would face would dispose of him.

"No. I'm not." He wasn't fit for much of anything. Not even death it seemed.

The man spoke again, his words drowned out by the simple passing of her. She walks by, slowing down enough to show the flash of her teeth. His hands tighten into fists, the spot on his finger feels heavy now. It should have been a relief to wear it but alas. It seemed anything good that came his way would cost a price.

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Fire burned bright. A beacon in the darkness, that could be seen from the tree he perched in. Something was wrong. Something was off. He chose to follow instinct, letting it drag him out of his spot, towards the light, and into a frenzied hellscape.

Screams rang in his ears, the horrors from the void. Animals ran past a chilling sight as melted flesh filled his nostrils. Why did this place feel wrong to him? Nothing woke him from the stupor, nearing the burning house. His childhood home already down to its framework. That should evoke something within him. That should have evoked something within his soul.

"Gerod!!" Another scream, this one felt so close to reality. "You stupid bastard! You've ruined us!"

He turned, faint and nonchalant, eyes faraway at the sight of his mother. And he simply nodded. He supposes he did do something of the sort.

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A boot at his throat, pressing down with the force of a trained chevalier. Yet, staring into her dark eyes, he can see she would never consider herself to be one. Good, he decides, managing a trembling breath. How unfortunate it would have been to die by the hands of Orlais’ most prized hound dogs. This was a much better circumstance.

Pressure lifts and a sudden fit of coughing begins, he finds himself pulling forward, wheezing and gasping for the air that was denied seconds ago. A stare sends him back to the moment. Blood coats the ground around him, all the people he was with... slaughtered. How did he live through it?

“You’re an absolute fool.”

His fingers curl, dirt buries underneath his nails until it hurts. She must have seen the disappointment on his face when she let go. Bitterness coats his thoughts now, but soften at the sound of her voice. “Seraultine. I can hear it.” It's all he can say, her words linger in the air. The way she spoke, and the words she emphasized, he's heard similar while traveling throughout the north, but nothing like hers.

Her eyes widened, fighting a smile that lurked on the edge of her lips. The port town’s name whispered under her breath. There was love for the place, something he could not relate to. His own home was dead to him. And that was decided a long, long time ago.

“And you? Your accent is also Northern.”

“Alyons." A pause. "Just a farmer.”

She smiled, a crooked thing that made him falter. “Just a farmer.”

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Chantry incense filled his nostrils. It reeked of stale herbs packed together with whatever was imported from the capital. Cheaply made, and hastily transported to the north. Fitting, and yet, not. This was the only building that stood beautifully among the strange hills and worn homes. In this part of the country, only the chantry mattered.

Actually. In all of Orlais, only the Chantry mattered. Not the people. Not the country itself. Just the Chantry. And he supposes the Game too, but he wasn’t close to playing their version.

He looked over to his mother, her eyes glazed over with tears as she sang along to one of the hymns. A frown on his features, his ears tuning into the words.

'And those who slept, the ancient ones, awoke. For their dreams have been devoured by a demon that prowled the Fade. As a wolf hunts a herd of deer. Taking first the weakest and frailest of hopes, and when there was nothing left, destroying the bright and bold by subtlety and ambush and cruel arts.'

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Nothing made sense, as thunder bellowed overhead and droplets of rain spattered on his forehead running down his chin. His bones ached, and fog filled his head. How long had he been out? Shivering in the cold, wrapping blankets around a frail body, it was a miracle he was alive. Or perhaps this was the Maker playing a trick on his mind.

His eyes glaze over to a figure huddled nearby, their own blankets wrapped around, protecting their head and clothes. As he stirred they moved closer, and even in the rain and crisp cold he could smell it: vanilla.

"You're awake," she rasped. Her voice sounded different, stale and weak. "I-I… You're awake."

"What happened?" As he asked, moving himself caused a flash of pain to shoot through his side and he fell back into the floor. Agony coursing through him, this was unlike something he'd ever felt before.

"Stop!" She was panicked, scrambling towards him and holding his head still. "Stop moving so much. Please."

He nodded, drifting into the thought that perhaps he was about to die. The smallest of smiles creeping onto his features. She would hate to know his thoughts and she would hate it even more for him to finally have his way.

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An unmarked grave, dusted with the boot prints from those leaving the woods. He watched as she spat once, and then twice. Her gloved hand wiping at her lips before turning to him.

“A good thing he is dead. Maker blessed us with that.” She kicked at the dirt before stepping away to his side. “What of yours?” Those dark eyes looked into his and he paused, recalling a memory that wasn’t quite there anymore.

"My father.. Elven.” Another pause as he thought of the story told to him. “My mother's husband perished in a farming accident while she was in bed with my father. A scandal to her but no one ever properly found out. Just me… In hopes to shame me after… After..."

Her hand reached for his shoulder, at first hesitant, and then a small squeeze. "What ever happened to him?"

"He stuck around for a little while after I was born, never close of course. One day he left for Alyons, went to their woods, cast a spell and was caught. They dragged him to the square and burned him at the stake… or so the story goes."

"Do you believe any of it?"

A light, humorless laugh left him. "I believe I am a bastard with an absent father. My life began in flames and it will end in such a way too."

"There are stories of rising through burning ashes, I don't believe that you're fated for death."

"We're Wardens now… all of us are fated for death. Some more than others."

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He's never worn something like this before. The gilded edges of the seams dig into his neck, making it unbearable, itchy. This was formal wear of a different kind, and felt more akin to a punishment than a gesture of gratitude from the nobility.

Curse the nobility.

And curse their crude customs.

She is there, and much more adapted to their ways than he. It surprises him every time she speaks, each time she bows. Even without that glinted mask, there is something cunning behind that crooked smile. How such a fate was bestowed upon him, there would never be an answer.

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Being a thief came with rules.

Some were obvious things, even to the newest of recruits: One kept to the shadows, and left no trace of one’s presence. Find a fence that’s willing to work with you, don’t trust just anyone with the spoils of your steal.

Other rules took time to learn, and Gerod knew them like the back of his hand. Who to steal from, and what times to strike. When to avoid the guards, and when you could be a little sloppy and take the heat off. He had these brothers and sisters who were just like him. Outcasts of society, outcasts of life. They made a name for themselves. And together, they belonged. When one betrayed the other, there was swift punishment.

For once, Gerod knew what it meant for someone to have his back.

He wasn’t expecting that, one day, their blood would puddle around his feet.