FanFic: "Hindsight"
A face full of darkspawn spit was hardly a winning way for the start the morning, especially one’s last morning alive. Equally disagreeable was the putrid stench of rotting darkspawn corpse, but, as a Grey Warden, one learned to get used to such sights and smells.
Vivienne’s eyes stung in spite of her fully lowered helm, sweat rolling in rivulets over her forehead, running in streams down her cheeks like tears as she slashed and hacked and ripped through the crowd of filthy brutes surrounding her. They were drawn by her presence like locusts to the field, but one by one she eliminated them until there were only a handful left.
There were four clustered around her, their bodies pressing oppressively close as they tried to flank her, but their efforts were in vain. She crouched low behind the protective barrier of her shield, her sword arm swinging in expert arcs and parries. Her shoulder ached with the effort, each blow shaking her to the bone.
The hurlock to her right held his rusty blade aloft, leaning in close enough for her to smell his rank breath; his head was taken clean from his shoulders before he even had a chance to blink. The severed head went rolling carelessly down the dark tunnel, and his body fell into the genlock standing beside him, giving Vivienne an opening to strike her longsword through his chest. She pulled the weapon free in a shower of blood and repeated the steps with the remaining two: stab, slash, chop, again and again until they had fallen.
It was a long moment before the berserker rage cleared from her eyes and she realized with a mixture of regret and relief that she was alone, standing amongst the bodies of two dozen slain darkspawn. She had earned herself a reprieve of a few minutes from inevitable death; whether it was a blessing or a curse, she couldn’t be sure.
Staggering away from the pile of bodies, she crouched down on a dusty, discarded crate and pulled the helm from her head. She could be ambushed at any moment and the helm was a crucial defense, but she had come to the Deep Roads to die. Whether that moment came with or without the protection of her helm seemed the least of her worries.
She opened her small leather pack and peered within. She had emptied it of bandages and health poultices before venturing into the Roads, wanting nothing that could tempt her to prolong her life longer than necessary. Her death, she hoped, would be swift rather than an agonizingly drawn-out affair, but she couldn’t deny herself a little water and a small loaf of bread, enough to last a day. She took a greedy sip from the waterskin, wetting her chapped lips eagerly, moistening her parched tongue and throat.
“If I’m so eager to die,” she murmured wryly, her voice hoarse in the dusty air, “then why does it seem so hard to let go?”
There was no response in the oppressive silence of the caverns, tucked away deep from all civilized life. With a sigh, she stowed the waterskin in her pack and ran a hand through her limp bedraggled locks, short-shorn and flecked with gray. Her hair had once been her glory, a lustrous mane of midnight silk that cascaded well to her waist when not bound back in an intricate crown of braids. She had only worn it short one other time in her life, during the turbulent period of the Blight. She cut it herself in a fit of misery and raging the night her family had been murdered by Arl Howe. Then, her hair had been a reminder of her thirst for vengeance, her grief for all that she had lost, her single-minded purpose to do what she could to end the Blight and bring Howe to justice. She had kept it short throughout the campaign to save Ferelden, and later during her time as Commander of the Grey; it had been especially hard justify feminine fripperies during those years. It was only when she realized that she was pregnant and returned to court that she began to grow it again.
Her heart ached with a pang as she remembered her twin babes tugging merrily at her locks, grown to shoulder-length during her pregnancy, gurgling happily as they nursed at her breast, and her lips quirked in a small smile as she recalled how her daughter Rhianwyn had spent the morning of her fifth nameday weaving ribbons into her mother’s hair, now long enough to reach the small of her back. Nothing, though, could compare to the ache that clenched her chest when she thought of Alistair, eyes gentle with love, gathering the mane in his hands as he drew her close for a kiss.
As a Grey Warden, everyone had told her that it would be impossible for her to get pregnant; that impossibility was doubled by the fact that Alistair was also a Warden. Still, five years after their marriage her monthly bleeding had stopped and her stomach began to grow, swelling with not one but two babies. No one, not even Wynne, could explain how or why, but she had cherished the gift, even when the complications threatened her life and the babies’. Somehow, by the Maker’s blessing, she gave birth to a healthy set of twins. Ronan, the eldest by three minutes, would inherit his father’s throne, securing the Theirin kingship and peace in Ferelden for at least another generation.
Vivienne’s eyes watered with tears as she thought of the family she was never supposed to have, and she fought hard to swallow over the lump in her throat. Life had held so many blessings for her, had granted her so many beautiful gifts that made the pain and loss she experienced pale in comparison. How could she leave it?
She had struggled against memory and remembrance in the weeks before her departure for Orzammar, focusing her mind instead on the necessary preparations, readying her final will, making provisions for the dispensation of her wealth and lands, writing the letters to her closest friends and comrades that would not be sent out until after her disappearance was discovered. If anyone thought her behavior strange, they hadn’t confronted her about it, and for that she was grateful. She had thought that it would make this last battle easier to bear, so much so that she hadn’t even been able to stand the thought of saying a final goodbye to Alistair. Instead, she slipped from their bed in the dead of night, leaving only a note and a dried, perfectly preserved rose behind her.
She had planned to die within her first plunge into the fray that awaited in the Deep Roads, but she should have known herself better. For all her strengths, Vivienne was stubborn, obstinate and persistent. She would not relinquish life easily. There was only one option left to her: fight, and until she found her death, remember all that had come before this moment.
With a final dispassionate glance at the scene of carnage behind her, she stood, shouldered her pack, and replaced her helm. When she met the next band of darkspawn she would kill them, and the next, and the next until they overwhelmed her.
Her heavy chainmail boots crunched on the gravel as she continued through the narrow tunnels. With resolute steps, she marched to find an end befitting a Grey Warden.
Vivienne’s eyes stung in spite of her fully lowered helm, sweat rolling in rivulets over her forehead, running in streams down her cheeks like tears as she slashed and hacked and ripped through the crowd of filthy brutes surrounding her. They were drawn by her presence like locusts to the field, but one by one she eliminated them until there were only a handful left.
There were four clustered around her, their bodies pressing oppressively close as they tried to flank her, but their efforts were in vain. She crouched low behind the protective barrier of her shield, her sword arm swinging in expert arcs and parries. Her shoulder ached with the effort, each blow shaking her to the bone.
The hurlock to her right held his rusty blade aloft, leaning in close enough for her to smell his rank breath; his head was taken clean from his shoulders before he even had a chance to blink. The severed head went rolling carelessly down the dark tunnel, and his body fell into the genlock standing beside him, giving Vivienne an opening to strike her longsword through his chest. She pulled the weapon free in a shower of blood and repeated the steps with the remaining two: stab, slash, chop, again and again until they had fallen.
It was a long moment before the berserker rage cleared from her eyes and she realized with a mixture of regret and relief that she was alone, standing amongst the bodies of two dozen slain darkspawn. She had earned herself a reprieve of a few minutes from inevitable death; whether it was a blessing or a curse, she couldn’t be sure.
Staggering away from the pile of bodies, she crouched down on a dusty, discarded crate and pulled the helm from her head. She could be ambushed at any moment and the helm was a crucial defense, but she had come to the Deep Roads to die. Whether that moment came with or without the protection of her helm seemed the least of her worries.
She opened her small leather pack and peered within. She had emptied it of bandages and health poultices before venturing into the Roads, wanting nothing that could tempt her to prolong her life longer than necessary. Her death, she hoped, would be swift rather than an agonizingly drawn-out affair, but she couldn’t deny herself a little water and a small loaf of bread, enough to last a day. She took a greedy sip from the waterskin, wetting her chapped lips eagerly, moistening her parched tongue and throat.
“If I’m so eager to die,” she murmured wryly, her voice hoarse in the dusty air, “then why does it seem so hard to let go?”
There was no response in the oppressive silence of the caverns, tucked away deep from all civilized life. With a sigh, she stowed the waterskin in her pack and ran a hand through her limp bedraggled locks, short-shorn and flecked with gray. Her hair had once been her glory, a lustrous mane of midnight silk that cascaded well to her waist when not bound back in an intricate crown of braids. She had only worn it short one other time in her life, during the turbulent period of the Blight. She cut it herself in a fit of misery and raging the night her family had been murdered by Arl Howe. Then, her hair had been a reminder of her thirst for vengeance, her grief for all that she had lost, her single-minded purpose to do what she could to end the Blight and bring Howe to justice. She had kept it short throughout the campaign to save Ferelden, and later during her time as Commander of the Grey; it had been especially hard justify feminine fripperies during those years. It was only when she realized that she was pregnant and returned to court that she began to grow it again.
Her heart ached with a pang as she remembered her twin babes tugging merrily at her locks, grown to shoulder-length during her pregnancy, gurgling happily as they nursed at her breast, and her lips quirked in a small smile as she recalled how her daughter Rhianwyn had spent the morning of her fifth nameday weaving ribbons into her mother’s hair, now long enough to reach the small of her back. Nothing, though, could compare to the ache that clenched her chest when she thought of Alistair, eyes gentle with love, gathering the mane in his hands as he drew her close for a kiss.
As a Grey Warden, everyone had told her that it would be impossible for her to get pregnant; that impossibility was doubled by the fact that Alistair was also a Warden. Still, five years after their marriage her monthly bleeding had stopped and her stomach began to grow, swelling with not one but two babies. No one, not even Wynne, could explain how or why, but she had cherished the gift, even when the complications threatened her life and the babies’. Somehow, by the Maker’s blessing, she gave birth to a healthy set of twins. Ronan, the eldest by three minutes, would inherit his father’s throne, securing the Theirin kingship and peace in Ferelden for at least another generation.
Vivienne’s eyes watered with tears as she thought of the family she was never supposed to have, and she fought hard to swallow over the lump in her throat. Life had held so many blessings for her, had granted her so many beautiful gifts that made the pain and loss she experienced pale in comparison. How could she leave it?
She had struggled against memory and remembrance in the weeks before her departure for Orzammar, focusing her mind instead on the necessary preparations, readying her final will, making provisions for the dispensation of her wealth and lands, writing the letters to her closest friends and comrades that would not be sent out until after her disappearance was discovered. If anyone thought her behavior strange, they hadn’t confronted her about it, and for that she was grateful. She had thought that it would make this last battle easier to bear, so much so that she hadn’t even been able to stand the thought of saying a final goodbye to Alistair. Instead, she slipped from their bed in the dead of night, leaving only a note and a dried, perfectly preserved rose behind her.
She had planned to die within her first plunge into the fray that awaited in the Deep Roads, but she should have known herself better. For all her strengths, Vivienne was stubborn, obstinate and persistent. She would not relinquish life easily. There was only one option left to her: fight, and until she found her death, remember all that had come before this moment.
With a final dispassionate glance at the scene of carnage behind her, she stood, shouldered her pack, and replaced her helm. When she met the next band of darkspawn she would kill them, and the next, and the next until they overwhelmed her.
Her heavy chainmail boots crunched on the gravel as she continued through the narrow tunnels. With resolute steps, she marched to find an end befitting a Grey Warden.