No More Heroes, Chapter 11
It's a 2-fer!
Title: No More Heroes, Chapter 11
Characters: Anora, Wynne, Shianni, Soris... and a surprise (which has left me giddy and single-handedly reawakened this fic!)
Rating: T
Words: 1,400
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all.
Anora remains with the rebels in Denerim, queen of a fallen kingdom. Templar/mage drama begins. A mysterious stranger has been rescuing survivors.
Previous Chapters
"Your Majesty?"
Anora glanced up from her maps to find Wynne ducking through the end of the tunnel. She could not say how long she had been sitting at this table, lost to the carefully scrawled lines, to the mismatched stones that represented their forces and the forces of the enemy. Beside her father's map tables in the palace, it would be a pale thing indeed. But this cellar was her war room now, this creaking stool her throne.
"You will forgive me if I don't feel particularly majestic."
The old woman chuckled. "Humor serves us well in times such as these." She sank into the opposite chair without invitation.
Resting her elbows on the table, Anora brushed a fallen strand of hair from her eyes. "In times such as these, I would gladly give half the kingdom for a hot bath."
"That, I very much doubt. But we have a kingdom to win before you trade it away."
"Your eagerness is surprising."
"Is it?" Wynne slid a pile of the small, dark stones aside, picking up the large, flat river rock at their center. Someone had taken the time to paint a crude dragon on one side. She turned it round in her hands.
"Most women your age would be practicing their needlework, surrounded by overfed grandchildren."
"A strange sentiment, coming from you."
"I merely meant that you seem to have the temperament."
The old mage smiled, but her eyes grew distant. "Perhaps there are other uses for such a thing."
"Like with the Warden? You were the only one who could make her see reason, as I recall."
Wynne scowled.
"You have no children of your own, I hear. But you and she were close, were you not?"
"The templars grow restless."
Anora blinked at the sudden change of direction, but something in the other woman's expression warned her against forcing the issue. She sighed. "I assume you have not been able to convince them to send to the Tower for aid?"
The delegation had arrived less than a week ago, a spare half dozen men, but rested and well-armed. Any thought of aid had quickly diminished, though. They were here merely to reclaim the surviving mages that had marched with the Warden's army. It made been a miracle that Wynne had convinced them to remain as long as they had, but not a man among them had yet raised a blade to help in their raids.
"The Tower remains sealed, recovering still from problems of its own, they say."
Anora slammed a fist down on the table. She jumped with surprise at herself, but anger numbed the pain. "The realm's problems are more important. What we face here threatens the entire world!"
Still the mage remained calm, nodding slowly. "Zeal may be a powerful weapon, but also a heavy weight. It is Ser Cullen that leads them. He suffered more than most under Uldred's treachery and will be the most difficult to convince."
Anora, rested her head in her hand. "Is there no good news?"
"There is, in fact. Three more survivors arrived last night."
She looked up. "More?"
There had been a steady trickle of them even before she herself had arrived, some discovered by their people, others arriving on their own. Anyone surviving this long within the city walls must be blessed by the Maker indeed. Though, if rumor was to be believed, that was not the only hand at work.
"Your scouts?"
Wynne shook her head. "It is the same as before. One woman claims the aid of a spirit, while her companion names only a man."
"A spirit?" Anora snorted.
Tapping a finger on the table, Wynne smirked. "Do not be so quick to scoff, Your Highness." She paused, sitting back with a troubled expression.
"What is it?"
"Ah, I suppose we cannot call you 'Your Highness' either, seeing that we are underground."
She could not help but laugh. "Then it seems you must make do with calling me Anora."
The mage nodded deeply. "Well then, Anora-"
"Wynne!" There was a crash above them, the trap door to the farmhouse above suddenly thrown wide. A familiar face appeared in the gap, red-cheeked and breathless. At the sight of the mage, Shianni's eyes widened with relief. "Wynne! Come quickly!"
Wynne spared Anora only a brief look, darting for the stairs with a quickness that belied her years. Casting one more solemn glance at the maps, Anora followed.
The farmhouse was empty as it had always been, but there was commotion now near the door, two more elves joining Shianni as she bent over the groaning figure at their center. Another elf, he winced as she grabbed his chin, her expression panicked but insistent as she forced his eyes to focus on her face.
"Soris! Hold on!"
Wynne knelt, shouldering her firmly aside. There was a deep wound in the boy's side, his pale and trembling fingers doing what they could to staunch the flow of his own blood. Wynne forced them away, replacing them with her own. "We are fortunate. The blade struck to the side, it did not tear anything that cannot be replaced." Her hands began to glow and the boy grunted.
Beside her, Shianni sagged with relief. "I... I almost worried that you didn't do healing anymore."
"New abilities do not replace the old."
The girl stared at her for a moment more, watching the wet, red pool spread round her armored knees. It was a strange thing to see a mage so dressed, Anora had to agree. But the boy was quieting now.
"Soris." Shianni leaned close. "How did this happen?"
"There was... a man. I tried to help... but we were discovered. Darkspawn. He stuck me and ran."
"Bloody shems. He gutted you and left you behind!"
He nodded, eyes straying to the door. "But then he came."
There was no one that Anora could see, so she stepped to the window for a closer look. A figure stood some distance beyond the house, a deeper shadow against the night's dark. She could make out little more than broad shoulders and a deep hood, but she had the sudden feeling that the figure was watching her in turn, only her, as if waiting to see what she would do.
Without a glance for the others, she stepped into the night. They were too distracted to call after her.
"You there."
The stranger did not stir at her approach, but still she sensed that each of her steps was being weighed, measured. She should be afraid, but there was hesitance here now that was greater than her own.
"You've been rescuing our people. Why?"
The figure nodded, the only sound a heavy sigh. Anora stopped. The chill had vanished, replaced by some deeper dread. After a moment, it spoke, the voice deep and expressionless.
"It was the elves that woke me. Some weeks ago as you would measure them. They were servants, bound to their master as all servants are, obedience in exchange for protection. But he abandoned them, bound them in the courtyard of his estate, an offering for the darkspawn while he and his family escaped though hidden doors. I could not abide their suffering."
Each word fell upon her ears like cold lead. Anora took a slow step forward but could not bring her tongue to form the words.
"This body lay nearby. It was strong, capable. A darkspawn arrow had robbed it of breath." Its hand strayed to its right breast, fingers playing over the jagged gash just visible in the plate beneath the cloak. "But I need none."
She exhaled in a rush, realized that she had been holding her breath. "...Who are you?"
With stiff and pained motions, the figure lowered its hood. Anora bit back a gasp, her knees threatening to desert her, but she held herself straight and still as he had taught her. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could see that his skin was more pallid, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than she remembered. They narrowed as they watched her, some new confusion overshadowing the unmistakable glint of proud and quiet affection. So strong those features, etched by the deep lines of old accustomed scowls. Only she had ever seen the knowing smiles that they hid.
It was the face of a dead man, the face of her father.
"I am Justice."
Title: No More Heroes, Chapter 11
Characters: Anora, Wynne, Shianni, Soris... and a surprise (which has left me giddy and single-handedly reawakened this fic!)
Rating: T
Words: 1,400
Summary: The Blight has not ended. Alistair departed during the Landsmeet and both Loghain and the Warden perished in the siege of Denerim. In its wake, the scattered companions undertake a search for a wandering drunk and the witch that could save them all.
Anora remains with the rebels in Denerim, queen of a fallen kingdom. Templar/mage drama begins. A mysterious stranger has been rescuing survivors.
Previous Chapters
"Your Majesty?"
Anora glanced up from her maps to find Wynne ducking through the end of the tunnel. She could not say how long she had been sitting at this table, lost to the carefully scrawled lines, to the mismatched stones that represented their forces and the forces of the enemy. Beside her father's map tables in the palace, it would be a pale thing indeed. But this cellar was her war room now, this creaking stool her throne.
"You will forgive me if I don't feel particularly majestic."
The old woman chuckled. "Humor serves us well in times such as these." She sank into the opposite chair without invitation.
Resting her elbows on the table, Anora brushed a fallen strand of hair from her eyes. "In times such as these, I would gladly give half the kingdom for a hot bath."
"That, I very much doubt. But we have a kingdom to win before you trade it away."
"Your eagerness is surprising."
"Is it?" Wynne slid a pile of the small, dark stones aside, picking up the large, flat river rock at their center. Someone had taken the time to paint a crude dragon on one side. She turned it round in her hands.
"Most women your age would be practicing their needlework, surrounded by overfed grandchildren."
"A strange sentiment, coming from you."
"I merely meant that you seem to have the temperament."
The old mage smiled, but her eyes grew distant. "Perhaps there are other uses for such a thing."
"Like with the Warden? You were the only one who could make her see reason, as I recall."
Wynne scowled.
"You have no children of your own, I hear. But you and she were close, were you not?"
"The templars grow restless."
Anora blinked at the sudden change of direction, but something in the other woman's expression warned her against forcing the issue. She sighed. "I assume you have not been able to convince them to send to the Tower for aid?"
The delegation had arrived less than a week ago, a spare half dozen men, but rested and well-armed. Any thought of aid had quickly diminished, though. They were here merely to reclaim the surviving mages that had marched with the Warden's army. It made been a miracle that Wynne had convinced them to remain as long as they had, but not a man among them had yet raised a blade to help in their raids.
"The Tower remains sealed, recovering still from problems of its own, they say."
Anora slammed a fist down on the table. She jumped with surprise at herself, but anger numbed the pain. "The realm's problems are more important. What we face here threatens the entire world!"
Still the mage remained calm, nodding slowly. "Zeal may be a powerful weapon, but also a heavy weight. It is Ser Cullen that leads them. He suffered more than most under Uldred's treachery and will be the most difficult to convince."
Anora, rested her head in her hand. "Is there no good news?"
"There is, in fact. Three more survivors arrived last night."
She looked up. "More?"
There had been a steady trickle of them even before she herself had arrived, some discovered by their people, others arriving on their own. Anyone surviving this long within the city walls must be blessed by the Maker indeed. Though, if rumor was to be believed, that was not the only hand at work.
"Your scouts?"
Wynne shook her head. "It is the same as before. One woman claims the aid of a spirit, while her companion names only a man."
"A spirit?" Anora snorted.
Tapping a finger on the table, Wynne smirked. "Do not be so quick to scoff, Your Highness." She paused, sitting back with a troubled expression.
"What is it?"
"Ah, I suppose we cannot call you 'Your Highness' either, seeing that we are underground."
She could not help but laugh. "Then it seems you must make do with calling me Anora."
The mage nodded deeply. "Well then, Anora-"
"Wynne!" There was a crash above them, the trap door to the farmhouse above suddenly thrown wide. A familiar face appeared in the gap, red-cheeked and breathless. At the sight of the mage, Shianni's eyes widened with relief. "Wynne! Come quickly!"
Wynne spared Anora only a brief look, darting for the stairs with a quickness that belied her years. Casting one more solemn glance at the maps, Anora followed.
The farmhouse was empty as it had always been, but there was commotion now near the door, two more elves joining Shianni as she bent over the groaning figure at their center. Another elf, he winced as she grabbed his chin, her expression panicked but insistent as she forced his eyes to focus on her face.
"Soris! Hold on!"
Wynne knelt, shouldering her firmly aside. There was a deep wound in the boy's side, his pale and trembling fingers doing what they could to staunch the flow of his own blood. Wynne forced them away, replacing them with her own. "We are fortunate. The blade struck to the side, it did not tear anything that cannot be replaced." Her hands began to glow and the boy grunted.
Beside her, Shianni sagged with relief. "I... I almost worried that you didn't do healing anymore."
"New abilities do not replace the old."
The girl stared at her for a moment more, watching the wet, red pool spread round her armored knees. It was a strange thing to see a mage so dressed, Anora had to agree. But the boy was quieting now.
"Soris." Shianni leaned close. "How did this happen?"
"There was... a man. I tried to help... but we were discovered. Darkspawn. He stuck me and ran."
"Bloody shems. He gutted you and left you behind!"
He nodded, eyes straying to the door. "But then he came."
There was no one that Anora could see, so she stepped to the window for a closer look. A figure stood some distance beyond the house, a deeper shadow against the night's dark. She could make out little more than broad shoulders and a deep hood, but she had the sudden feeling that the figure was watching her in turn, only her, as if waiting to see what she would do.
Without a glance for the others, she stepped into the night. They were too distracted to call after her.
"You there."
The stranger did not stir at her approach, but still she sensed that each of her steps was being weighed, measured. She should be afraid, but there was hesitance here now that was greater than her own.
"You've been rescuing our people. Why?"
The figure nodded, the only sound a heavy sigh. Anora stopped. The chill had vanished, replaced by some deeper dread. After a moment, it spoke, the voice deep and expressionless.
"It was the elves that woke me. Some weeks ago as you would measure them. They were servants, bound to their master as all servants are, obedience in exchange for protection. But he abandoned them, bound them in the courtyard of his estate, an offering for the darkspawn while he and his family escaped though hidden doors. I could not abide their suffering."
Each word fell upon her ears like cold lead. Anora took a slow step forward but could not bring her tongue to form the words.
"This body lay nearby. It was strong, capable. A darkspawn arrow had robbed it of breath." Its hand strayed to its right breast, fingers playing over the jagged gash just visible in the plate beneath the cloak. "But I need none."
She exhaled in a rush, realized that she had been holding her breath. "...Who are you?"
With stiff and pained motions, the figure lowered its hood. Anora bit back a gasp, her knees threatening to desert her, but she held herself straight and still as he had taught her. Even in the dim light of the moon, she could see that his skin was more pallid, the shadows beneath his eyes deeper than she remembered. They narrowed as they watched her, some new confusion overshadowing the unmistakable glint of proud and quiet affection. So strong those features, etched by the deep lines of old accustomed scowls. Only she had ever seen the knowing smiles that they hid.
It was the face of a dead man, the face of her father.
"I am Justice."