Two Sides of the Same Coin
Rating: M (for mature themes)
Genre: Drama/Romance/ and a touch of humor
Summary: Love hurts, literally and metaphorically. That is one lesson every Crow learns early. But there is another side to that particular sovereign. And sometimes, you learn it in the place you least expected. m/m
As our heroes draw closer to Denerim, a certain Crow master discovers during his dreams in the Fade that some information about his past that he'd thought buried has come to light. Just to refresh, Stefan is the Master of the Crow house in Denerim that Zevran had to report to. Misa is the woman who trained Stefan in his seer's gift and then departed. The tale will go a bit AU here and in the next few chapters.
Thanks to bioware for letting me play in their universe. Comments/reviews/ and random thoughts are always welcome.
Enjoy!
Master Stefan
He’d never seen a river like this in all his travels through the Fade, black and boiling, eating away the stone that lined its banks. On either side of it, in this dream forest, desiccated and twisted trees stretched to the horizon. No bird sang. No breeze sifted through the dead ashes piled around the trunks or stirred the withered ends of leafless branches. A wan sun burned in the green sky.
Stefan rose from his crouch by the riverside and considered his position. The soul entered the Fade when someone dreamed, and only mages retained awareness while they were in it. But though he had no mage talent, Misa had taught him how to move through this place in his dreams as he moved through the waking world. He could, because his sight sometimes pierced the veil of time she’d told him. She’d also taught him how to hide in the Fade and shift his form to a mouse and creep through the shadows. He’d asked her why she hadn’t taught him other shapes. Watching from the shadows suited him, she’d said. Besides, without any mage talent, he was easy prey for the demons that roamed here. Of course, no mage gift also meant he was less likely to attract attention.
The wind stirred, and Stefan became a mouse then darted into the charred trunk of a hollow log. A rage demon boiled by him, skimming over the surface of that black river to the other side. Stefan watched till it faded from view then crept out, but stayed in mouse form.
He climbed up the side of the log then scanned the landscape, his whiskers twitching. He could walk forever and never come to the end of this black forest. But there were ways around that, holes that held portals between different places. While the scene around him might be different every time he entered the Fade, those tiny portals never changed their position.
He scampered down to the end of the log and shifted back to human form. One of those portals lay behind him, sunk beneath the black river. But by that distant forked tree that looked as if it had been split by lightning, there should be another close by.
The crunch of ashes beneath his boots as he walked sounded loud. It would surely draw attention, but nothing stirred around him. When he arrived, he crouched down at the base of the split tree and carefully brushed aside the debris. The portal was there, just to the left of a gnarled root, and as far as he could see into it - which wasn’t very far - it looked clear.
He shifted form and slipped inside. While the portals locations never changed, the length of the small tunnels connecting them did. This time the exit lay only a few feet from the entrance. He emerged underneath an over-hanging rock, and a lush plain stretched before him. The sun was brighter here, the sky still green but the pale hue of spring leaves.
He stretched up and peered over the waving tips of grass. The air was sweet, but it was still silent. In the hazy distance, he saw the wavering outline of a city.
A voice sounded above him, rich and resonant, but he couldn’t say if it was male or female. “Well, well, what is this? A mouse looking for crumbs?”
Stefan darted back inside and peered up. He saw only the sky and the grass.
“Come out, little mouse, and play. No harm. No harm, this fine day.” The voice chuckled. “Oh, dear, a rhyme. And a rather bad one, quite unintentional, I assure you.”
The air shimmered above him, and a human seeming form stepped out of the light. No, not human, elven looking, a woman with dusky skin and hair the color of starlight on water. She stepped back, her eyes shifting iridescent.
“I mean no harm, but I do wonder what a mouse is doing here.” The voice was lighter, more feminine. She took another step back, then another, and settled on the grass, resting her hands on her knees.
Stefan debated. She didn’t seem to be a demon, but they weren’t always obvious. Still, he was only a breath away from waking, and once back in the waking world, she couldn’t follow him, since he had no mage abilities.
He slipped forward and shifted, drawing his daggers as he took human shape.
She cocked her head. “A clever man, and a brave one, to come within sight of the Black City.”
He glanced at the wavering outline on the horizon then back at her. “Not intentionally. Did you shift the location of the portal?”
She waved a hand at the apparition of the city behind her. “No, it is the city that moves. An Archdemon has risen. It calls to the darkspawn, and to anything that bears that taint.”
“Do you?”
She laughed, like crystal chimes and breaking glass. “No, I bear no taint. I belong to the Fade.”
“The Chantry says the Darkspawn came from the Fade. Mages, who assaulted the Golden City, turned it black and in their pride were cast back down to earth.”
“The Chantry claims many things,” she said with a shrug. “Some may even be true. Many may be false. Even they suspect that, at least, the ones who think do. Shall I tell you a secret?” She leaned forward. “Even those who think for themselves don’t know which tale is true and which is false.”
“Do you?”
“Assuming I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Mortals need to discover the truth for themselves if it is to have any meaning for them.”
Stefan frowned. While interesting, this conversation seemed pointless. She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, and it seemed she wasn’t a demon. But he wouldn’t call her a benevolent spirit, either, though little was known of them since they seldom showed themselves.
He glanced back at the city. The light seemed to dim around it. It didn’t look any closer, but he felt…something… a cold dark slick across his soul. He shivered, and his hands gripped his daggers more tightly.
Suddenly she was there, standing right in front of him, smelling like roses and sun warmed earth, and gazing into his eyes. Too startled at first to move, he held his ground when his surprise passed. She searched his face. He thought he saw…not pity…compassion?
“They don’t know, do they… the black birds… what you really are. What blood flows through your veins.”
He stepped back, wary and, truth be told, a little frightened. “She’s long dead. Along with the one who fathered me.”
“Oh, Master Stefan, secrets never die. They just find another place to live. Perhaps in an old mid-wife whose wits wander from age and babbles nonsense half the day, not knowing what secrets she tells the world.” She touched his face, and her fingers were light and warm. “Or perhaps an old man, once servant to a lady who chose the wrong lover, and now sits in a cold room with an empty belly. Selling what he promised to keep hidden for a bowl of soup and wood for the fire.”
He backed up, shivering, and her fingers slipped off his face. “Stop it.”
“What you are, half-elf, has come to light. Not by me, I only see the shifting shadows of time here in the Fade. Sometimes, I can send dreams to those who know how to listen and can remember. Since you are here, I can speak directly.”
He raised a dagger, his hand trembling just enough to notice. “Why are you telling me this?”
“To warn you, half-elf. The black birds do not like being deceived. You know that better than any. They want their bones to feast on since they’ve found you out. They will tear your flesh apart if you do not make a path out of their nest.”
He shook his head. “Even if what you say is true, one doesn’t walk away from the Crows.” Then he looked close and hard at her. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Because it is my nature, as it is the nature of demons to covet the world that mortals live in.”
She was a spirit of compassion then. “If that is true, then why not tell me how I may escape. What good is such knowledge if I can do nothing to change my fate?”
She smiled. “Paper burns. Stone crumbles. Even a steel blade can shatter if you know where and how hard to strike. There is always a path, Master Stefan. But it may require others to show you the way.”
He laughed, short and bitter. “No Crow helps another. And if they do, it’s only for their own gain.”
“Not every Crow is black as sin. Not all have hearts as shriveled as an over-dried fig. Look for the man who wears the serpent path of death upon his face.” She started fading, her form melding into the light. “You have what you need. Now I think it best you leave. You have tarried here long enough.”
He woke with a gasp, the cool night breeze drying the sweat on his skin. His hands curled in the light sheet tangled around his legs, and his heart raced.
“Maker’s breath,” he whispered, then sat up, staring into the darkness. She’d found him so easily, to warn him of a death he couldn’t avoid. He rubbed his face, trying to banish the cold, hard knot in his gut. He’d expected death to come calling one day. He’d hoped for something quick, a knife between the ribs, or one of the subtler and kinder poisons. But to be handed over to Jepheth, who presided over the executions of those Masters the Crows thought had betrayed them…
Stefan couldn’t and didn’t even try to suppress the shudder. The spirit was right. His flesh would literally be torn from his bones. And Jepheth would make the dying last a long time. Cursing, he threw back the sheet and slid out of bed.
The floor boards around his bed had been loosened so they squeaked when anyone walked across them. The room was dark, without candle or even moonlight. But three steps to his right took him to a table where a lamp was always set.
Light flared, and he picked up the lamp and carried it over to the small mirror above a washbasin. The child of an elf and a human could easily pass as human since the signs of elven blood were subtle, if present at all.
Stefan stared at his reflection. Just under average height, but his height did nothing to hint at his half-blood, since height varied greatly. His ears were human shaped, and if he was more attractive than most men, with a lithe muscularity, well, not all human men were towering brutes who needed to shave morning and evening. But guild rules were quite clear about only full blooded humans being raised to the rank of a House Master.
He set down the lamp and leaned on the table, his head hanging down and his eyes closed. How much time did he have before death came? Days, weeks? There was no way to tell. And he doubted he would find the spirit on his own. She had been waiting for him and her final words had made it clear she wouldn’t be speaking to him again.
Well, he had a warning, at least, and she had told him of a way out, sort of. Though why she couldn’t speak plainer was a frustrating mystery. It didn’t surprise him, though. Why should she speak plainly when his visions were often like that, clear only in hindsight?
He opened his eyes and padded over to a side table that held a small sealed bottle of wine. He’d bought it today and taken it to his room, tucked inside his shirt. His underlings knew of his fondness for certain vintages, but he never entrusted purchase of them to any member of his house, even if those who served him were less inclined to murder him than others were their masters.
He broke the seal and carried the wine to his small balcony that overlooked the harbor. The moon, a thin silver crescent, was almost down, and he saw only the tiny dots of orange flame from lamps lining the dockside. The tide was going out and the night wind reeked of rotting seaweed.
The wine was really too young to drink, but he welcomed the raw taste of it. He should use a glass, but he wasn’t in the mood to be ‘civilized.’ He took another pull from the bottle as he thought of the spirit’s words. The three clues she had given him were all centered on one Crow. And it had to be someone he knew, or the clues were worse than useless. That narrowed it down somewhat, but he knew many Crows.
He examined the first clue, and snorted in disgust. Considering they were all assassins, they were all as black as sin. But why would she say that one wasn’t? He put it aside and focused on the second. Maybe there were some who still had something of a heart left, but any Crow who survived the guild’s brutal training regimen would certainly have learned to hide it, even from themselves. Which left him with the third - the serpent lines of death. The bottle paused halfway to his lips.
She’d said this Crow wore the serpent lines of death on his face. He knew only one man who bore lines that curved like a serpent.
“Zevran Arainai,” Stefan whispered. The symbols on his face were old, but they didn’t symbolize death, not according to that ancient scholar’s text Stefan had read. Unless…the text was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time a scholar had been mistaken, especially where elven history and lore was concerned. And Arainai did have something of a heart left.
Stefan slipped back into his room to his desk and picked up the report that had arrived that morning. He brought it close to the lamp and scanned it. The report stated that the Wardens still lived, so the agent had assumed that Zevran was dead with the rest. No bodies had been found, only traces of ash. They’d been cremated with mage fire, according to the agent.
The assassin’s death was a very reasonable assumption, so there was no point in punishing the agent for that. Even if Zevran had survived the hit, it made no sense for the marks to spare the one who tried to kill them. Except, they had, in this case. Stefan had lost the vision when he tried to reach too deep into it, but Zevran had clearly been alive, if defeated.
Stefan sank down into a chair, staring at the report, the wine bottle forgotten in his hand. But why would the elf help him? Well, there was only one way to know, wasn’t there? All Stefan had to do was find him.
Previous chapter may be found here: Fanfic: Two Sides
Genre: Drama/Romance/ and a touch of humor
Summary: Love hurts, literally and metaphorically. That is one lesson every Crow learns early. But there is another side to that particular sovereign. And sometimes, you learn it in the place you least expected. m/m
As our heroes draw closer to Denerim, a certain Crow master discovers during his dreams in the Fade that some information about his past that he'd thought buried has come to light. Just to refresh, Stefan is the Master of the Crow house in Denerim that Zevran had to report to. Misa is the woman who trained Stefan in his seer's gift and then departed. The tale will go a bit AU here and in the next few chapters.
Thanks to bioware for letting me play in their universe. Comments/reviews/ and random thoughts are always welcome.
Enjoy!
Master Stefan
He’d never seen a river like this in all his travels through the Fade, black and boiling, eating away the stone that lined its banks. On either side of it, in this dream forest, desiccated and twisted trees stretched to the horizon. No bird sang. No breeze sifted through the dead ashes piled around the trunks or stirred the withered ends of leafless branches. A wan sun burned in the green sky.
Stefan rose from his crouch by the riverside and considered his position. The soul entered the Fade when someone dreamed, and only mages retained awareness while they were in it. But though he had no mage talent, Misa had taught him how to move through this place in his dreams as he moved through the waking world. He could, because his sight sometimes pierced the veil of time she’d told him. She’d also taught him how to hide in the Fade and shift his form to a mouse and creep through the shadows. He’d asked her why she hadn’t taught him other shapes. Watching from the shadows suited him, she’d said. Besides, without any mage talent, he was easy prey for the demons that roamed here. Of course, no mage gift also meant he was less likely to attract attention.
The wind stirred, and Stefan became a mouse then darted into the charred trunk of a hollow log. A rage demon boiled by him, skimming over the surface of that black river to the other side. Stefan watched till it faded from view then crept out, but stayed in mouse form.
He climbed up the side of the log then scanned the landscape, his whiskers twitching. He could walk forever and never come to the end of this black forest. But there were ways around that, holes that held portals between different places. While the scene around him might be different every time he entered the Fade, those tiny portals never changed their position.
He scampered down to the end of the log and shifted back to human form. One of those portals lay behind him, sunk beneath the black river. But by that distant forked tree that looked as if it had been split by lightning, there should be another close by.
The crunch of ashes beneath his boots as he walked sounded loud. It would surely draw attention, but nothing stirred around him. When he arrived, he crouched down at the base of the split tree and carefully brushed aside the debris. The portal was there, just to the left of a gnarled root, and as far as he could see into it - which wasn’t very far - it looked clear.
He shifted form and slipped inside. While the portals locations never changed, the length of the small tunnels connecting them did. This time the exit lay only a few feet from the entrance. He emerged underneath an over-hanging rock, and a lush plain stretched before him. The sun was brighter here, the sky still green but the pale hue of spring leaves.
He stretched up and peered over the waving tips of grass. The air was sweet, but it was still silent. In the hazy distance, he saw the wavering outline of a city.
A voice sounded above him, rich and resonant, but he couldn’t say if it was male or female. “Well, well, what is this? A mouse looking for crumbs?”
Stefan darted back inside and peered up. He saw only the sky and the grass.
“Come out, little mouse, and play. No harm. No harm, this fine day.” The voice chuckled. “Oh, dear, a rhyme. And a rather bad one, quite unintentional, I assure you.”
The air shimmered above him, and a human seeming form stepped out of the light. No, not human, elven looking, a woman with dusky skin and hair the color of starlight on water. She stepped back, her eyes shifting iridescent.
“I mean no harm, but I do wonder what a mouse is doing here.” The voice was lighter, more feminine. She took another step back, then another, and settled on the grass, resting her hands on her knees.
Stefan debated. She didn’t seem to be a demon, but they weren’t always obvious. Still, he was only a breath away from waking, and once back in the waking world, she couldn’t follow him, since he had no mage abilities.
He slipped forward and shifted, drawing his daggers as he took human shape.
She cocked her head. “A clever man, and a brave one, to come within sight of the Black City.”
He glanced at the wavering outline on the horizon then back at her. “Not intentionally. Did you shift the location of the portal?”
She waved a hand at the apparition of the city behind her. “No, it is the city that moves. An Archdemon has risen. It calls to the darkspawn, and to anything that bears that taint.”
“Do you?”
She laughed, like crystal chimes and breaking glass. “No, I bear no taint. I belong to the Fade.”
“The Chantry says the Darkspawn came from the Fade. Mages, who assaulted the Golden City, turned it black and in their pride were cast back down to earth.”
“The Chantry claims many things,” she said with a shrug. “Some may even be true. Many may be false. Even they suspect that, at least, the ones who think do. Shall I tell you a secret?” She leaned forward. “Even those who think for themselves don’t know which tale is true and which is false.”
“Do you?”
“Assuming I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Mortals need to discover the truth for themselves if it is to have any meaning for them.”
Stefan frowned. While interesting, this conversation seemed pointless. She hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know, and it seemed she wasn’t a demon. But he wouldn’t call her a benevolent spirit, either, though little was known of them since they seldom showed themselves.
He glanced back at the city. The light seemed to dim around it. It didn’t look any closer, but he felt…something… a cold dark slick across his soul. He shivered, and his hands gripped his daggers more tightly.
Suddenly she was there, standing right in front of him, smelling like roses and sun warmed earth, and gazing into his eyes. Too startled at first to move, he held his ground when his surprise passed. She searched his face. He thought he saw…not pity…compassion?
“They don’t know, do they… the black birds… what you really are. What blood flows through your veins.”
He stepped back, wary and, truth be told, a little frightened. “She’s long dead. Along with the one who fathered me.”
“Oh, Master Stefan, secrets never die. They just find another place to live. Perhaps in an old mid-wife whose wits wander from age and babbles nonsense half the day, not knowing what secrets she tells the world.” She touched his face, and her fingers were light and warm. “Or perhaps an old man, once servant to a lady who chose the wrong lover, and now sits in a cold room with an empty belly. Selling what he promised to keep hidden for a bowl of soup and wood for the fire.”
He backed up, shivering, and her fingers slipped off his face. “Stop it.”
“What you are, half-elf, has come to light. Not by me, I only see the shifting shadows of time here in the Fade. Sometimes, I can send dreams to those who know how to listen and can remember. Since you are here, I can speak directly.”
He raised a dagger, his hand trembling just enough to notice. “Why are you telling me this?”
“To warn you, half-elf. The black birds do not like being deceived. You know that better than any. They want their bones to feast on since they’ve found you out. They will tear your flesh apart if you do not make a path out of their nest.”
He shook his head. “Even if what you say is true, one doesn’t walk away from the Crows.” Then he looked close and hard at her. “Why do you care, anyway?”
“Because it is my nature, as it is the nature of demons to covet the world that mortals live in.”
She was a spirit of compassion then. “If that is true, then why not tell me how I may escape. What good is such knowledge if I can do nothing to change my fate?”
She smiled. “Paper burns. Stone crumbles. Even a steel blade can shatter if you know where and how hard to strike. There is always a path, Master Stefan. But it may require others to show you the way.”
He laughed, short and bitter. “No Crow helps another. And if they do, it’s only for their own gain.”
“Not every Crow is black as sin. Not all have hearts as shriveled as an over-dried fig. Look for the man who wears the serpent path of death upon his face.” She started fading, her form melding into the light. “You have what you need. Now I think it best you leave. You have tarried here long enough.”
He woke with a gasp, the cool night breeze drying the sweat on his skin. His hands curled in the light sheet tangled around his legs, and his heart raced.
“Maker’s breath,” he whispered, then sat up, staring into the darkness. She’d found him so easily, to warn him of a death he couldn’t avoid. He rubbed his face, trying to banish the cold, hard knot in his gut. He’d expected death to come calling one day. He’d hoped for something quick, a knife between the ribs, or one of the subtler and kinder poisons. But to be handed over to Jepheth, who presided over the executions of those Masters the Crows thought had betrayed them…
Stefan couldn’t and didn’t even try to suppress the shudder. The spirit was right. His flesh would literally be torn from his bones. And Jepheth would make the dying last a long time. Cursing, he threw back the sheet and slid out of bed.
The floor boards around his bed had been loosened so they squeaked when anyone walked across them. The room was dark, without candle or even moonlight. But three steps to his right took him to a table where a lamp was always set.
Light flared, and he picked up the lamp and carried it over to the small mirror above a washbasin. The child of an elf and a human could easily pass as human since the signs of elven blood were subtle, if present at all.
Stefan stared at his reflection. Just under average height, but his height did nothing to hint at his half-blood, since height varied greatly. His ears were human shaped, and if he was more attractive than most men, with a lithe muscularity, well, not all human men were towering brutes who needed to shave morning and evening. But guild rules were quite clear about only full blooded humans being raised to the rank of a House Master.
He set down the lamp and leaned on the table, his head hanging down and his eyes closed. How much time did he have before death came? Days, weeks? There was no way to tell. And he doubted he would find the spirit on his own. She had been waiting for him and her final words had made it clear she wouldn’t be speaking to him again.
Well, he had a warning, at least, and she had told him of a way out, sort of. Though why she couldn’t speak plainer was a frustrating mystery. It didn’t surprise him, though. Why should she speak plainly when his visions were often like that, clear only in hindsight?
He opened his eyes and padded over to a side table that held a small sealed bottle of wine. He’d bought it today and taken it to his room, tucked inside his shirt. His underlings knew of his fondness for certain vintages, but he never entrusted purchase of them to any member of his house, even if those who served him were less inclined to murder him than others were their masters.
He broke the seal and carried the wine to his small balcony that overlooked the harbor. The moon, a thin silver crescent, was almost down, and he saw only the tiny dots of orange flame from lamps lining the dockside. The tide was going out and the night wind reeked of rotting seaweed.
The wine was really too young to drink, but he welcomed the raw taste of it. He should use a glass, but he wasn’t in the mood to be ‘civilized.’ He took another pull from the bottle as he thought of the spirit’s words. The three clues she had given him were all centered on one Crow. And it had to be someone he knew, or the clues were worse than useless. That narrowed it down somewhat, but he knew many Crows.
He examined the first clue, and snorted in disgust. Considering they were all assassins, they were all as black as sin. But why would she say that one wasn’t? He put it aside and focused on the second. Maybe there were some who still had something of a heart left, but any Crow who survived the guild’s brutal training regimen would certainly have learned to hide it, even from themselves. Which left him with the third - the serpent lines of death. The bottle paused halfway to his lips.
She’d said this Crow wore the serpent lines of death on his face. He knew only one man who bore lines that curved like a serpent.
“Zevran Arainai,” Stefan whispered. The symbols on his face were old, but they didn’t symbolize death, not according to that ancient scholar’s text Stefan had read. Unless…the text was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time a scholar had been mistaken, especially where elven history and lore was concerned. And Arainai did have something of a heart left.
Stefan slipped back into his room to his desk and picked up the report that had arrived that morning. He brought it close to the lamp and scanned it. The report stated that the Wardens still lived, so the agent had assumed that Zevran was dead with the rest. No bodies had been found, only traces of ash. They’d been cremated with mage fire, according to the agent.
The assassin’s death was a very reasonable assumption, so there was no point in punishing the agent for that. Even if Zevran had survived the hit, it made no sense for the marks to spare the one who tried to kill them. Except, they had, in this case. Stefan had lost the vision when he tried to reach too deep into it, but Zevran had clearly been alive, if defeated.
Stefan sank down into a chair, staring at the report, the wine bottle forgotten in his hand. But why would the elf help him? Well, there was only one way to know, wasn’t there? All Stefan had to do was find him.
Previous chapter may be found here: Fanfic: Two Sides