Putting the "dark" back in "dark fantasy"
I wrote a thing for Dragon Age: Origins. After thirty years, the Calling has come for her. Rated M for lots of blood and a graphic death. Alistair/FemCousland. This is written with the (head cannon) assumption that the Dark Ritual with Morrigan removes the taint from Alistair, and before anything from the new comic might influence canon.
Days of wine and roses laugh and run away, like a child at play.
--Johnny Mercer
She didn't tell him when she began to dream again. He knew anyway. The taint had passed from him years ago, a gift from that witch, one he was sure was unintentional. One he was paying for now. He would not dream like that again, but he remembered. Her thrashing at night was panicked, not like the usual way she pulled all the coverlets from him. The frantic motions woke him, and he started awake, reaching for the dagger in his nightstand before his eyes even opened. She sweated and clenched her teeth, her fists groping for weapons that weren't there. He watched her, and he knew.
Still, he allowed her the lies. She was merely tired, dinner disagreed with her. When she did finally admit to nightmares, she claimed they were “Nothing, really.” Her tone was light while she waved his concerns away and turned the conversation to other things. He wanted to believe her; they'd done many things they'd regretted over the years. The faces and names of the dead haunted them both. Beyond that, their children were grown and Eleanor was a Grey Warden herself, now, and there were still those who lusted after the throne-there was plenty to worry over, no need to assume. He listened and brought her roses and said nothing until she began to wake screaming.
He grabbed her, smothering her screams in his chest until they turned to sobs. He was afraid then, afraid because for the first time in years, he did not know what to do. He was afraid because she was afraid and she had always been his strength and guide light and because he knew this meant the end was coming. He was afraid because this was one thing he could not join her in, one place he couldn't follow her and guard her back.
When she quieted and stilled, relaxing her muscles, he hesitantly spoke of the tunnels. He promised to accompany her-Duncan was more than old enough to take the throne, now. He had been effectively ruling for the last several years, anyway.
No, she swore. She tensed again, shivering despite the summer heat. No, she would not return to the Deep Roads. He knew why without asking. Broodmother. Hespith and Branka and Ruke had been in both their nightmares for thirty years, but the broodmother awakened her with a frequency undimmed by the decades. She had dreamed of dark hands molding her the first night they left the tunnels and the fear had only grown each time she was pregnant. No, she would not be returning to the Deep Roads. He did not have the heart to push her.
They sent word to Weisshaupt, asking for a learned warden to come. When one did, months later, her nightmares were such that she refused to sleep. She walked through the halls, read, drilled forms, anything to keep her occupied until she passed out from exhaustion. He could not help but think of the hours in the cold bed as practice. Her tactics had worked for a while, but now she woke screaming more often than not. The entire palace knew. Her screams echoed down the halls-how could they not? Everyone walked with quiet, timid steps and downcast eyes. The days were nearly as dark as those of the blight.
After entertaining the warden as King and Queen, the three of them retired to his rooms and began to discuss more personal matters. He listened gravely as they told him of the nightmares, and of her decision to not travel to the Deep Roads. His face was lined, his hair graying. His own time was not far off, and he watched the older woman with fear in his eyes. He held his voice steady, though, when he spoke of what he'd learned in the dusty tomes of warden knowledge.
“I wish I could give you better tidings. The waiting is terrible, but the end...the end is worse. It's not a pretty sight, watching a warden turn. We do not escape the joining untainted, you know; we just delay the inevitable. Your body and blood are finally rejecting the taint, and it will have out one way or another.” His wife held the warden's level gaze, but he was unable to match her courage and turned his head to stare at the dark roses outside the window. The petals were nearly gone from the vines, leaving the thorns bare.
“Your skin will turn soon, becoming dark and cracked between your fingers and toes. There will large patches on your torso. You will bleed from these spots and it will spread to cover your body. Your joints will ache and swell until your body cannot do as you will it. It will be slow. There will be blood, lots of it. More than you would think a body could hold, even having been on the battlefield. It will not look natural. It will be dark, and thick and clotted. And it will be painful. You have born three children, Commander, but this will be worse. There will be no way to dull the pain of your body fighting itself, not through magic or potion or salve. Your mind will give you no reprieve, as it might with a serious injury. The process will take weeks or months to the first blood, and then it will be impossible to take to the tunnels. No one would think less of you, should you choose a dagger instead. Many who refuse the Deep Roads do.” The warden ended his speech, taking a long drought from his wine glass. His jaw hurt from clenching, his throat ached from choking back sobs or screams, he wasn't sure which. He looked back at his wife, staring into her glass of dark wine.
“I'm not afraid of death, Brother, nor pain. I will not become a vehicle for producing more darkspawn.” She raised the glass to her lips. He set his own aside, unable to stomach the color.
The warden nodded to her. “Perhaps this is why the Grey Wardens of old recruited few women. We have lost much knowledge in the centuries since the previous blights, and the broodmothers were among that lost knowledge. If what you saw in Orzammar is any indication, a single broodmother could produce more darkspawn than one warden could defeat in his entire life. I wish you well in your struggle, Sister.”
The warden left the next day. She would still not be moved. Each night thereafter, his heart broke again with every scream. Her watched her like a man drowning. He cataloged the way she moved, how her hair fell across her shoulders. He memorized anew the curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest, the cadence of her speech. He saw when moving became harder, when her hair began to fall out in handfuls, when she traded sleeping in one of his shirts for a long gown with a high neck and stopped him from wrapping his arms around her at night. He quietly handed over all his duties to their son, who took them somberly. He allowed himself pride at Duncan's calm acceptance of the situation, at how capable he was. They had done right by him, at least. Fereldon would not be plunged into disorder when its king died, for once.
Seeing her waste away before his eyes spawned his own blood-filled nightmares. They were young again, on the road to somewhere they never reached. The day was beautiful, crisp and clear. She bounded ahead of him, laughter ringing out. He grinned and chased after her. Sometimes they played hide and seek among the trees, or ruins. Sometimes she wove through their rose gardens, the petals falling like rain on their heads. The game ended when she let him catch her. He would wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer and closer. He kissed her and the world would fall away around them. Through the logic of dreams, they would be in their bed in the palace, naked and sweating. She smiled at him, and her teeth were bloody. He watched, frozen, as her skin paled, then flooded with black. She raised her hands to his face, and they left bloody hand prints. She continued to smile as blood poured from her mouth, as her face and body twisted in his arms to become something else.
The only mercy, small as it was, given to him was the way he froze. It kept him from screaming and disturbing what little sleep she got. They grew thin and hollow together, twin circles under their eyes, matching war wounds. He was perversely glad to be able to share this part of the ordeal with her. If he did not dream of darkspawn and demons anymore, if he could not join her in expelling the taint, at least he could endure this torment for her. At least he could keep her from going through this part alone.
She continued to prowl the halls at night despite her limited mobility, and he let her. He knew she needed the time alone, needed the time to say goodbye, even though she would never admit to being sentimental. He snorted into his pillow at that thought. It had been her idea to name all three children after the dead. It was touching, but he wondered sometimes if it wouldn't have been better to move on instead. They'd put such expectations on them with those names. Duncan's responsibilities would sit upon him heavily enough without the added weight of the stories of his namesake. Would he have felt so pressured to become so serious so young had he been named Samuel or Henrick? Would Eleanor have defied their wishes and joined the wardens if she hadn't known how fiercely her grandmother protected her family? Would Cailan have pursued everything in life with a passion unknown to any, determined not to make mistakes, not to give anyone reason to find him unworthy? Why had he not laughed more? Why had they all not laughed more, played more, spent more time in the orchards and at the shore? Why had he put so much energy into being king instead of being a husband and father? Why hadn't he given her more roses?
He slammed his pillows around in frustration. He would get nowhere with this line, he knew. Nights were for sleeping, not thinking. He'd learned that in the mud and straw with Eamon's dogs, had learned it again surrounded by other unclaimed and unwanted children in the Chantry, a third time on the road, running from and then to the archdemon. It was a hard-learned lesson, one that was hammered into him again and again. It never took. He slowed his breathing, unclenched his muscles, trying to fool his body into slumber. It didn't work, but it did fool his wife. He heard her quiet footsteps when she came back to the bed. She blew out the candle, slipped beneath the coverlet and, after a moment of hesitation, ghosted a kiss over his lips. He wanted to grab her, throw his arms around her waist and make love to her the way he did a decade ago, before Cailan was thrown from that horse, before his own knee gave out running to him, before she had stopped crying. The dream rose in his mind. Instead, he lay and waited for her screams to start.
It was perhaps a month later that she didn't scream. He jolted awake, knowing before he opened his eyes. There was too much blood; he could smell it in the air. It pooled around her, soaking into the sheets, the mattress, her high-necked gown. It poured from her mouth, her nose, from the cracked skin on her back and chest in thick, dark clots. She convulsed in his arms, her grip on his shoulders still strong. She coughed, spat, vomited blood. It coated her hair, pasted the gown to her body. Between convulsions, she gasped out his name, and a word that might have been “please.” She was crying, her tears making the blood spread even more. He shook his head, but his hand was already moving to the nightstand. He could never refuse her. His hands slipped on the handle, his grip not what it was. He had to try twice. She smiled afterward, placed her hand on his cheek, leaving prints. Her voice was gone, but her lips struggled anyway, spelling out her love.
The maid screamed the next morning, high and clear. He heard as if coming from a long distance off. Footsteps and shouts rang through the halls but he ignored them. Her eyes were still open. He closed them gently, leaving fingerprints blooming on her lids.
I was on the verge of tears when I finished this, so I guess that's a good thing? Please comment!
Days of wine and roses laugh and run away, like a child at play.
--Johnny Mercer
She didn't tell him when she began to dream again. He knew anyway. The taint had passed from him years ago, a gift from that witch, one he was sure was unintentional. One he was paying for now. He would not dream like that again, but he remembered. Her thrashing at night was panicked, not like the usual way she pulled all the coverlets from him. The frantic motions woke him, and he started awake, reaching for the dagger in his nightstand before his eyes even opened. She sweated and clenched her teeth, her fists groping for weapons that weren't there. He watched her, and he knew.
Still, he allowed her the lies. She was merely tired, dinner disagreed with her. When she did finally admit to nightmares, she claimed they were “Nothing, really.” Her tone was light while she waved his concerns away and turned the conversation to other things. He wanted to believe her; they'd done many things they'd regretted over the years. The faces and names of the dead haunted them both. Beyond that, their children were grown and Eleanor was a Grey Warden herself, now, and there were still those who lusted after the throne-there was plenty to worry over, no need to assume. He listened and brought her roses and said nothing until she began to wake screaming.
He grabbed her, smothering her screams in his chest until they turned to sobs. He was afraid then, afraid because for the first time in years, he did not know what to do. He was afraid because she was afraid and she had always been his strength and guide light and because he knew this meant the end was coming. He was afraid because this was one thing he could not join her in, one place he couldn't follow her and guard her back.
When she quieted and stilled, relaxing her muscles, he hesitantly spoke of the tunnels. He promised to accompany her-Duncan was more than old enough to take the throne, now. He had been effectively ruling for the last several years, anyway.
No, she swore. She tensed again, shivering despite the summer heat. No, she would not return to the Deep Roads. He knew why without asking. Broodmother. Hespith and Branka and Ruke had been in both their nightmares for thirty years, but the broodmother awakened her with a frequency undimmed by the decades. She had dreamed of dark hands molding her the first night they left the tunnels and the fear had only grown each time she was pregnant. No, she would not be returning to the Deep Roads. He did not have the heart to push her.
They sent word to Weisshaupt, asking for a learned warden to come. When one did, months later, her nightmares were such that she refused to sleep. She walked through the halls, read, drilled forms, anything to keep her occupied until she passed out from exhaustion. He could not help but think of the hours in the cold bed as practice. Her tactics had worked for a while, but now she woke screaming more often than not. The entire palace knew. Her screams echoed down the halls-how could they not? Everyone walked with quiet, timid steps and downcast eyes. The days were nearly as dark as those of the blight.
After entertaining the warden as King and Queen, the three of them retired to his rooms and began to discuss more personal matters. He listened gravely as they told him of the nightmares, and of her decision to not travel to the Deep Roads. His face was lined, his hair graying. His own time was not far off, and he watched the older woman with fear in his eyes. He held his voice steady, though, when he spoke of what he'd learned in the dusty tomes of warden knowledge.
“I wish I could give you better tidings. The waiting is terrible, but the end...the end is worse. It's not a pretty sight, watching a warden turn. We do not escape the joining untainted, you know; we just delay the inevitable. Your body and blood are finally rejecting the taint, and it will have out one way or another.” His wife held the warden's level gaze, but he was unable to match her courage and turned his head to stare at the dark roses outside the window. The petals were nearly gone from the vines, leaving the thorns bare.
“Your skin will turn soon, becoming dark and cracked between your fingers and toes. There will large patches on your torso. You will bleed from these spots and it will spread to cover your body. Your joints will ache and swell until your body cannot do as you will it. It will be slow. There will be blood, lots of it. More than you would think a body could hold, even having been on the battlefield. It will not look natural. It will be dark, and thick and clotted. And it will be painful. You have born three children, Commander, but this will be worse. There will be no way to dull the pain of your body fighting itself, not through magic or potion or salve. Your mind will give you no reprieve, as it might with a serious injury. The process will take weeks or months to the first blood, and then it will be impossible to take to the tunnels. No one would think less of you, should you choose a dagger instead. Many who refuse the Deep Roads do.” The warden ended his speech, taking a long drought from his wine glass. His jaw hurt from clenching, his throat ached from choking back sobs or screams, he wasn't sure which. He looked back at his wife, staring into her glass of dark wine.
“I'm not afraid of death, Brother, nor pain. I will not become a vehicle for producing more darkspawn.” She raised the glass to her lips. He set his own aside, unable to stomach the color.
The warden nodded to her. “Perhaps this is why the Grey Wardens of old recruited few women. We have lost much knowledge in the centuries since the previous blights, and the broodmothers were among that lost knowledge. If what you saw in Orzammar is any indication, a single broodmother could produce more darkspawn than one warden could defeat in his entire life. I wish you well in your struggle, Sister.”
The warden left the next day. She would still not be moved. Each night thereafter, his heart broke again with every scream. Her watched her like a man drowning. He cataloged the way she moved, how her hair fell across her shoulders. He memorized anew the curve of her lips, the rise and fall of her chest, the cadence of her speech. He saw when moving became harder, when her hair began to fall out in handfuls, when she traded sleeping in one of his shirts for a long gown with a high neck and stopped him from wrapping his arms around her at night. He quietly handed over all his duties to their son, who took them somberly. He allowed himself pride at Duncan's calm acceptance of the situation, at how capable he was. They had done right by him, at least. Fereldon would not be plunged into disorder when its king died, for once.
Seeing her waste away before his eyes spawned his own blood-filled nightmares. They were young again, on the road to somewhere they never reached. The day was beautiful, crisp and clear. She bounded ahead of him, laughter ringing out. He grinned and chased after her. Sometimes they played hide and seek among the trees, or ruins. Sometimes she wove through their rose gardens, the petals falling like rain on their heads. The game ended when she let him catch her. He would wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her closer and closer. He kissed her and the world would fall away around them. Through the logic of dreams, they would be in their bed in the palace, naked and sweating. She smiled at him, and her teeth were bloody. He watched, frozen, as her skin paled, then flooded with black. She raised her hands to his face, and they left bloody hand prints. She continued to smile as blood poured from her mouth, as her face and body twisted in his arms to become something else.
The only mercy, small as it was, given to him was the way he froze. It kept him from screaming and disturbing what little sleep she got. They grew thin and hollow together, twin circles under their eyes, matching war wounds. He was perversely glad to be able to share this part of the ordeal with her. If he did not dream of darkspawn and demons anymore, if he could not join her in expelling the taint, at least he could endure this torment for her. At least he could keep her from going through this part alone.
She continued to prowl the halls at night despite her limited mobility, and he let her. He knew she needed the time alone, needed the time to say goodbye, even though she would never admit to being sentimental. He snorted into his pillow at that thought. It had been her idea to name all three children after the dead. It was touching, but he wondered sometimes if it wouldn't have been better to move on instead. They'd put such expectations on them with those names. Duncan's responsibilities would sit upon him heavily enough without the added weight of the stories of his namesake. Would he have felt so pressured to become so serious so young had he been named Samuel or Henrick? Would Eleanor have defied their wishes and joined the wardens if she hadn't known how fiercely her grandmother protected her family? Would Cailan have pursued everything in life with a passion unknown to any, determined not to make mistakes, not to give anyone reason to find him unworthy? Why had he not laughed more? Why had they all not laughed more, played more, spent more time in the orchards and at the shore? Why had he put so much energy into being king instead of being a husband and father? Why hadn't he given her more roses?
He slammed his pillows around in frustration. He would get nowhere with this line, he knew. Nights were for sleeping, not thinking. He'd learned that in the mud and straw with Eamon's dogs, had learned it again surrounded by other unclaimed and unwanted children in the Chantry, a third time on the road, running from and then to the archdemon. It was a hard-learned lesson, one that was hammered into him again and again. It never took. He slowed his breathing, unclenched his muscles, trying to fool his body into slumber. It didn't work, but it did fool his wife. He heard her quiet footsteps when she came back to the bed. She blew out the candle, slipped beneath the coverlet and, after a moment of hesitation, ghosted a kiss over his lips. He wanted to grab her, throw his arms around her waist and make love to her the way he did a decade ago, before Cailan was thrown from that horse, before his own knee gave out running to him, before she had stopped crying. The dream rose in his mind. Instead, he lay and waited for her screams to start.
It was perhaps a month later that she didn't scream. He jolted awake, knowing before he opened his eyes. There was too much blood; he could smell it in the air. It pooled around her, soaking into the sheets, the mattress, her high-necked gown. It poured from her mouth, her nose, from the cracked skin on her back and chest in thick, dark clots. She convulsed in his arms, her grip on his shoulders still strong. She coughed, spat, vomited blood. It coated her hair, pasted the gown to her body. Between convulsions, she gasped out his name, and a word that might have been “please.” She was crying, her tears making the blood spread even more. He shook his head, but his hand was already moving to the nightstand. He could never refuse her. His hands slipped on the handle, his grip not what it was. He had to try twice. She smiled afterward, placed her hand on his cheek, leaving prints. Her voice was gone, but her lips struggled anyway, spelling out her love.
The maid screamed the next morning, high and clear. He heard as if coming from a long distance off. Footsteps and shouts rang through the halls but he ignored them. Her eyes were still open. He closed them gently, leaving fingerprints blooming on her lids.
I was on the verge of tears when I finished this, so I guess that's a good thing? Please comment!