...fic?
Title: Anaan
Fandom: DA:O (and DA:OA)
Characters: Sten, f!Surana
Rating: T?
Warnings: Spoilers through Awakenings. Sword fighting.
Summary: Sten made the Warden a promise once. He has trouble keeping it.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It feels as though Sten spoke those words in another life, and perhaps he did. Surely the year that he spent in a foreign land, fighting beside humans, seems sometimes little more than a half-remembered fever dream. When he had finally returned to his people and given his report at last to the Arishok the experience had been vivid, memories alive and vicious in a way he had not expected. There had been a part of him that wished to hold onto them.
There is no place in the Qun for feelings of understanding or companionship with the bas. Sten’s time with them is accepted as necessary and the decision is reached that he acted properly. He is welcomed back, but none wish to hear too much of his time in the uncivilized southern lands. And he was never foolish enough to tell them that he had been led by a female saarebas. It is, to his remembrance, the only lie he has ever told his people, even if it is only of omission. They would not understand. Sometimes in the quiet moments, when he remembers the Warden’s face as he told her that he would return to his people, he believes that he understands no more than the rest of his people.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
That day was nearly two years ago. Sten intended to keep his word when he gave it, but perhaps his time among the bas did contaminate him and the antaam were mistaken when they declared him still Qunari. In any case, a lie the words have become, one that turns to ash in his mouth and fire in his gut.
Six months ago the Qunari set out to conquer Ferelden. Sten understands why they must, but feels even as he hears the orders that it is an exercise in futility. The Fereldens will never accept their places in the Qun. It is not in them to even comprehend the order of things. They are a troublesome, impossible people, from their nobles to their warriors to their farmers and merchants. Surely they would be happier if they would yield and accept the proper way,, but he thinks they would all die before they relented.
The Arishoks believe the Fereldens to be little more than errant children, needing to be brought to heel. Sten knows them to be more akin to the filthy hounds they hold in such high esteem: stubborn, wild, loyal, almost fiercely proud of their freedom though it comes at the cost of happiness and safety.
It is not Sten’s place to say such things, so he did not and he does not still. The smells of Ferelden come back as he steps onto the country again. Dog and refuse and cold. Perhaps it is no wonder the people here are so headstrong and very nearly feral. Their land offers them little but hardship and trials. It is designed to breed a people who yield to nothing, even when they should.
The cries of seabirds follow them for days after they land, and recall to him memories of lost companions. Sten does not permit himself to think of her whom kinship had come easy and quick with. He does not permit himself to think of any of those he defeated a Blight with. It is...easier that way.There is always shame at taking the easier way, and there is shame now, hidden as he marches with his people. He is doing the right thing, the only thing. It is proper.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
They encounter resistance nearly immediately. At first it is little more than farmers and fishermen rushing into the field of battle with pitiful weapons and barely a hint what to do with them. They should not be fighting. They should know it is not their place, they should-- But they are Ferelden, and they know nothing and even if they did, they would accept none of it.
Sten wipes Asala off with a handful of rough snow, accursed cold land, his armor flecked with blood. The boy at his feet cannot have seen more than fourteen summers. He died bravely, outnumbered and with no hope. Sten does not bend to close the boy’s eyes, as he so often saw Wynne do. He whispers no benedictions to the heathen god of this land. When the call comes to move on, he does, organizing his men into formation and tending to his duties. The ache low in his chest he does not give consideration. It deserves none.
Real soldiers are quick to rally. The whelp that the Warden put on the throne is not a complete fool, then. They are clad in shining silver armor and they fight well. Other units report loses and triumphs in the tents of the Arishok and Sten listens with his shoulders held straight and his chin up. War continues as wars do. There is talk of the other fronts of attack, against Denerim and Highever. There are pirate bands siding with the Fereldens and murmurs of the Free Marches rallying to their aid as well.The Arishok looks neither surprised nor concerned.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
Another platoon stumbles upon a mage. By the time Sten and his men arrive the killing field is stinking with blood and fire. It is a familiar smell, comforting in its own way. Above them the sky is gray and roiling, the rumble of thunder low and continuous. Qunari lie where they fell, others moving to tend to the wounded that might be saved or deal the final mercy to those that will not. The fighting is over, then. He has arrived too late and does not waste time on the tight feeling in his gut that could be regret or relief.
The mage is an old human man, his robes soaked with blood, his right arm severed at the elbow. There are flies crawling across his cheeks already, faded blue eyes clouding over. Sten stares for a moment, before duty calls him away. There are children in the tower, and old women, faces twisted with rage and grief as they thrash and fight ineffectually. They will not be calm, they will not listen. Sten goes deep into his mind, reciting the Qun, the words a litany behind his eyes.
When it is over there is blood on his hands, his fingers sticky with it. The mage they stake upright in warning. The rest they leave where they fell.There is work to do, making sure the men stay focused and Sten is grateful. He finds that sleep has lost much of its appeal.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
Amaranthine rises before them in the early morning. It is of the thick, squat walls that all cities in Ferelden seem to be. Flags fly high and proud over it, and there is a conspicuous absence of peasants and workers around the front of the city. Their arrival is not a surprise, then. Orders are given to bring up the canons, even as the gates open and soldiers file out, rank and form perfect though they are probably little more than the city guard, more used to taking thieves than defending against an army. Rain is beginning to fall, and because it is Ferelden it is a cold, clammy event. And then there is nothing but the fight.
The Ferelden’s fight well, but they are nothing in the face of a Qunari assault. They have bravery but not size, weapons but not the skill of his people, the upper ground but not the numbers to keep it. By the time the sun begins to set, an event barely noticeable because of the overcast, the defenders are retreating into their city’s walls, dragging the injured behind them.
The Qunari burn their dead in great bonfires around the city, out of bow shot of the archers on the walls, and wait for morning. Sten stands vigil with Asala, the flames warming his back, his gaze turned not towards the city but the dark night, the stars distant and cold. He tries to focus his thoughts on the Qun but there is no comfort to be found there.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It seems that it is to be a siege, though not a long one, Sten thinks. Their cannons turn the morning into a cacophony of noise and slowly rising smoke. There is a fog and the noises carry through it like ghosts, screams from the city, crumbling stone, weeping. Sten stands with his men, calm, controlled, waiting. He does not pace or tighten his hands into fists. This is not the time for such indulgences.
At mid-morning there are sharp whistles from the rear scouts.
Sten’s unit is at the front, guarding the cannons, and at the front they remain. The noise of fighting rises long and gruesome behind him, but he does not turn. The Arishok will tell them if they are needed. Until then they will focus on their task. There is an itch on the back of his neck, but he suppresses it. Is he not of the Beresaad?
When the order comes to turn and fight the attack behind them, he finds himself surprised. Surely they cannot be needed. But he does not hesitate or think to disobey, simply relays the orders. It is easy to move through the well ordered camp, and easy to see what they move towards.
Calvary, all armored in silver, and above them flying the Griffin crest of the Grey Wardens, moving through the Qunari ranks like wildfire and retribution. As he watches a lance catches one of his kinsmen in the chest, bearing the man to the ground even as two more Qunari drag the rider from his mount. The battle surges, blocking Sten’s view of the death that surely follows. Above the din of steel on steel and screams someone shouts, “For Ferelden!”
Now Sten’s hand does tighten around Asala, unbelieving frustration rising inside him for a moment. Why would they come? They are sworn to fight the dark spawn, not march against foreign armies. They are not part of Ferelden’s defense. And yet he is not surprised. Once he had been frustrated by the Warden’s willingness to charge into any battle that came her way, later he had admired her for it. Perhaps their entire order is full of the same foolhardy determination to right every perceived wrong they encounter.
His men barely wait for him to order them forward. This is easier to understand than guarding the cannons bombarding the city. Sten wades into the fray after them. Dodging a swing from a rider, catching the beast a blow to the right foreleg. The horse makes a terrible sound as it goes down, trumpeting its hurt and distress so loudly that Sten feels momentarily deafened.The rider swings desperately out of the saddle, parrying Sten’s next blow with a finely carved bow and striking out with a dagger.
Another Qunari steps up behind the man and cleanly beheads him. Sten’s next strike falls across the horse’s throat, if only to stop it’s thrashing and bellowing.
Around him there is madness. The ground is slick with last night’s ice and newly spilt blood. Horses and men churn together, even as he watches a Qunari is pummeled by the hoofs of a rearing stallion, crushed while the beast tosses it’s head wildly, eyes rolling in it’s huge head. There is no sense to be made of this, and so Sten lets his consciousness slide out of focus, gives in to the fight in his blood and trusts himself to it.
Time must pass but he does not feel it. The burn that will consume his shoulders and arms later is numbed now. A slice across his cheek goes unheeded, as does the crunch of a mace against his quickly raised arm. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, even in the face of the cool damp surrounding him. He drifts, moving from one attack to the next without thought, the battle shifting him as one piece among many.
It is the smell of lightning that brings him back, sharp and sudden in his nostrils.
To his left there are screams, sudden and cut off, and harsh guttural cries, a sudden surge of movement. Sten pushes his way through, only now realizing that the ebb and flow of battle have pushed him to the Warden’s flank, cut off from the rest of his unit. Sten slams Asala’s pommel into the face of a man that had been trying to impede him, forcing his way at last into an open space.
The Wardens have nearly pushed their way to the front of the Qunari lines. It is shocking to see them so close to the Arishok and the cannons, to see the dead strewn across the field, to see the gates of Amaranthine opening as the defenders gather their courage and surge to join the fray. Neat columns have all dissolved in the face of the onslaught. Men lock together and wheel apart, the entire battlefield a melee. And barely a dozen yards away from Sten, pressing the Wardens ever forward, wreathed in white lightning...
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It is impossible not to see her. The robes she wears are different, and she now wields a staff in one hand and a sword in the other. As he watches she shoves her staff into the air and the Qunari soldier that had been charging her is encased in ice. When one of the Wardens strikes the Qunari, he shatters to a thousand pieces. Saarebas. Mage. Surana.
Sten starts towards her, propelled beyond any effort of will that might stop him. Ahead of him the Arishok is roaring a challenge, half again as large as Surana, and armored from head to toe. If the Arishok is effected by the fire ball Surana hurls at him it does not show. The Arishok cuts down one of the silver suited warriors, drops of blood arching like scattered rubies across the air before they fall. He is steps now from Surana. There is shouting but Sten can hear nothing over the pound of blood in his ears.
A dwarf throws himself between the Arishok and Surana, the broad-axe he wields nearly as large as he is. The Arishok grabs him and hurls him, a smooth movement of indomitable strength.. An archer lets loose a flight of arrows faster than Sten can track, but the Arishok bats them aside with his shield with barely a pause. Another mage wraps Surana in a shield that the Arishok dissolves with a single word.
And then they are on each other. Surana’s mouth is open around a shout and she catches the first fall of the Arishok’s sword with her staff. The second and third, as well, and then the staff is dropping out of her fingers, tumbling to the earth as she tries to cradle her arm to her chest. Her blade barely catches the next blow. The Arishok lashes out with a hand, above her guard, and there is a crack when his gauntlet strikes her jaw.
Surana goes to the ground, barely catching herself with one hand,, blood streaming from her mouth as she glares up at the Arishok’s raised sword. Sten seizes the shield from a fallen Qunari, shoving his forearm roughly through the brace, the leather giving against his armor. He takes one step, another, as the Arishok’s sword cuts down with enough force to carve Surana in two.
The blow strikes in the center of Sten’s borrowed shield, strong enough that it drives his heels deeper into the soft mud where he kneels. Sten’s arm aches with the contact, a throb up to his shoulder. The Arishok stares at Sten from within his helm, voice disbelieving when he says, “What is this you do?” Sten has no explanation, no words to ease the sting of his sin. Still, he does not raise Asala, merely remains, crouched over Surana.
It does not matter that he does not strike the blow. His actions kill the Arishok. The blade has bitten too deep into Sten’s shield, and though the Arishok wrenches with all his strength, it does not tear free. An arrow punches through the Arishok’s armor at his collarbone, jarring him back. The dwarf, somehow still alive, is charging up, battle cry ripping through the air, axe poised for a mighty blow. The dwarf takes the Arishok out at the knees, knocking him sideways and towards the earth.
The Arishok catches the shaft of the axe in one hand, stripping the weapon off of the dwarf. Surana whispers a word, one hand extending towards the Arishok and he freezes in place, held tight by magic. The air around the Arishok shimmers, and for just a moment he makes a terrible sound, half-gurgle half-curse. It ends as abruptly as the fight draining from his body, leaving him little more than an empty husk.Sten shudders. Surana is pulling herself to her feet, her small hands bracing on Sten’s shoulders, asking him something, but he can only shake his head. Around them the battle still rages, but he can no longer interest himself in it. Inside him something great and terrible stretches to fill his chest.
I will not...
It is not hard to disappear after the fighting is done. Surana and the others she brought with her--not, he understands now, all Grey Wardens--have much to do and not enough hands to do it with. She makes it clear that Sten is not to be troubled. No one even questions him when he walks out of Amaranthine and heads north. Sten walks without stopping to eat or sleep, barely drinking. Somewhere in front of him there is a ship that will take him back home.
Sten finds a dock, and the promise of a boat inside the week. It is enough.
She finds him on a gray, foggy morning. He is watching the waves breaking on the shore, the surf wild and choppy. It is a bad day for sailing. Surana is quiet when she steps up beside him, the way that only those not wearing a hundred pounds of heavy armor can be. He does not turn to look at her, merely states, “I will return to my people and face the consequences of my actions.”
“No.” Her rebuttal is calm, easy. Her sword hangs across her back and she leans on her staff, the base digging into the wet sand. Still he does not look at her, but he can see the wind blowing her short black hair, and feels the brush of her robes against his leg. The cold sends a chill up his spine.
Sten says, “I would rather die Qunari than live as a Tal’Vashoth.”
Her reply is immediate, “Take the Joining, became a Warden.”
“There is no Blight, kadan.”
Surana moves now, quick as the strike of a snake, grabbing his arm and trying to twist him. When he does not budge she steps in front of him, hand white-knuckled around her staff, eyes as wild as the sea. There is no fear in her, no doubt. She was born on the wrong continent, in the wrong body. Behind her the Qunari would have conquered all of Thedas twice over. “If that is what it takes then I will find you the next Archdemon myself.”
Sten sighs, and shakes his head.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
The words are a lie a thousand times over. Always he is scanning for her, aware when enemies swarm too close or when her magical reserves falter. It is not difficult, when she fights by his side.
Fandom: DA:O (and DA:OA)
Characters: Sten, f!Surana
Rating: T?
Warnings: Spoilers through Awakenings. Sword fighting.
Summary: Sten made the Warden a promise once. He has trouble keeping it.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It feels as though Sten spoke those words in another life, and perhaps he did. Surely the year that he spent in a foreign land, fighting beside humans, seems sometimes little more than a half-remembered fever dream. When he had finally returned to his people and given his report at last to the Arishok the experience had been vivid, memories alive and vicious in a way he had not expected. There had been a part of him that wished to hold onto them.
There is no place in the Qun for feelings of understanding or companionship with the bas. Sten’s time with them is accepted as necessary and the decision is reached that he acted properly. He is welcomed back, but none wish to hear too much of his time in the uncivilized southern lands. And he was never foolish enough to tell them that he had been led by a female saarebas. It is, to his remembrance, the only lie he has ever told his people, even if it is only of omission. They would not understand. Sometimes in the quiet moments, when he remembers the Warden’s face as he told her that he would return to his people, he believes that he understands no more than the rest of his people.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
That day was nearly two years ago. Sten intended to keep his word when he gave it, but perhaps his time among the bas did contaminate him and the antaam were mistaken when they declared him still Qunari. In any case, a lie the words have become, one that turns to ash in his mouth and fire in his gut.
Six months ago the Qunari set out to conquer Ferelden. Sten understands why they must, but feels even as he hears the orders that it is an exercise in futility. The Fereldens will never accept their places in the Qun. It is not in them to even comprehend the order of things. They are a troublesome, impossible people, from their nobles to their warriors to their farmers and merchants. Surely they would be happier if they would yield and accept the proper way,, but he thinks they would all die before they relented.
The Arishoks believe the Fereldens to be little more than errant children, needing to be brought to heel. Sten knows them to be more akin to the filthy hounds they hold in such high esteem: stubborn, wild, loyal, almost fiercely proud of their freedom though it comes at the cost of happiness and safety.
It is not Sten’s place to say such things, so he did not and he does not still. The smells of Ferelden come back as he steps onto the country again. Dog and refuse and cold. Perhaps it is no wonder the people here are so headstrong and very nearly feral. Their land offers them little but hardship and trials. It is designed to breed a people who yield to nothing, even when they should.
The cries of seabirds follow them for days after they land, and recall to him memories of lost companions. Sten does not permit himself to think of her whom kinship had come easy and quick with. He does not permit himself to think of any of those he defeated a Blight with. It is...easier that way.There is always shame at taking the easier way, and there is shame now, hidden as he marches with his people. He is doing the right thing, the only thing. It is proper.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
They encounter resistance nearly immediately. At first it is little more than farmers and fishermen rushing into the field of battle with pitiful weapons and barely a hint what to do with them. They should not be fighting. They should know it is not their place, they should-- But they are Ferelden, and they know nothing and even if they did, they would accept none of it.
Sten wipes Asala off with a handful of rough snow, accursed cold land, his armor flecked with blood. The boy at his feet cannot have seen more than fourteen summers. He died bravely, outnumbered and with no hope. Sten does not bend to close the boy’s eyes, as he so often saw Wynne do. He whispers no benedictions to the heathen god of this land. When the call comes to move on, he does, organizing his men into formation and tending to his duties. The ache low in his chest he does not give consideration. It deserves none.
Real soldiers are quick to rally. The whelp that the Warden put on the throne is not a complete fool, then. They are clad in shining silver armor and they fight well. Other units report loses and triumphs in the tents of the Arishok and Sten listens with his shoulders held straight and his chin up. War continues as wars do. There is talk of the other fronts of attack, against Denerim and Highever. There are pirate bands siding with the Fereldens and murmurs of the Free Marches rallying to their aid as well.The Arishok looks neither surprised nor concerned.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
Another platoon stumbles upon a mage. By the time Sten and his men arrive the killing field is stinking with blood and fire. It is a familiar smell, comforting in its own way. Above them the sky is gray and roiling, the rumble of thunder low and continuous. Qunari lie where they fell, others moving to tend to the wounded that might be saved or deal the final mercy to those that will not. The fighting is over, then. He has arrived too late and does not waste time on the tight feeling in his gut that could be regret or relief.
The mage is an old human man, his robes soaked with blood, his right arm severed at the elbow. There are flies crawling across his cheeks already, faded blue eyes clouding over. Sten stares for a moment, before duty calls him away. There are children in the tower, and old women, faces twisted with rage and grief as they thrash and fight ineffectually. They will not be calm, they will not listen. Sten goes deep into his mind, reciting the Qun, the words a litany behind his eyes.
When it is over there is blood on his hands, his fingers sticky with it. The mage they stake upright in warning. The rest they leave where they fell.There is work to do, making sure the men stay focused and Sten is grateful. He finds that sleep has lost much of its appeal.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
Amaranthine rises before them in the early morning. It is of the thick, squat walls that all cities in Ferelden seem to be. Flags fly high and proud over it, and there is a conspicuous absence of peasants and workers around the front of the city. Their arrival is not a surprise, then. Orders are given to bring up the canons, even as the gates open and soldiers file out, rank and form perfect though they are probably little more than the city guard, more used to taking thieves than defending against an army. Rain is beginning to fall, and because it is Ferelden it is a cold, clammy event. And then there is nothing but the fight.
The Ferelden’s fight well, but they are nothing in the face of a Qunari assault. They have bravery but not size, weapons but not the skill of his people, the upper ground but not the numbers to keep it. By the time the sun begins to set, an event barely noticeable because of the overcast, the defenders are retreating into their city’s walls, dragging the injured behind them.
The Qunari burn their dead in great bonfires around the city, out of bow shot of the archers on the walls, and wait for morning. Sten stands vigil with Asala, the flames warming his back, his gaze turned not towards the city but the dark night, the stars distant and cold. He tries to focus his thoughts on the Qun but there is no comfort to be found there.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It seems that it is to be a siege, though not a long one, Sten thinks. Their cannons turn the morning into a cacophony of noise and slowly rising smoke. There is a fog and the noises carry through it like ghosts, screams from the city, crumbling stone, weeping. Sten stands with his men, calm, controlled, waiting. He does not pace or tighten his hands into fists. This is not the time for such indulgences.
At mid-morning there are sharp whistles from the rear scouts.
Sten’s unit is at the front, guarding the cannons, and at the front they remain. The noise of fighting rises long and gruesome behind him, but he does not turn. The Arishok will tell them if they are needed. Until then they will focus on their task. There is an itch on the back of his neck, but he suppresses it. Is he not of the Beresaad?
When the order comes to turn and fight the attack behind them, he finds himself surprised. Surely they cannot be needed. But he does not hesitate or think to disobey, simply relays the orders. It is easy to move through the well ordered camp, and easy to see what they move towards.
Calvary, all armored in silver, and above them flying the Griffin crest of the Grey Wardens, moving through the Qunari ranks like wildfire and retribution. As he watches a lance catches one of his kinsmen in the chest, bearing the man to the ground even as two more Qunari drag the rider from his mount. The battle surges, blocking Sten’s view of the death that surely follows. Above the din of steel on steel and screams someone shouts, “For Ferelden!”
Now Sten’s hand does tighten around Asala, unbelieving frustration rising inside him for a moment. Why would they come? They are sworn to fight the dark spawn, not march against foreign armies. They are not part of Ferelden’s defense. And yet he is not surprised. Once he had been frustrated by the Warden’s willingness to charge into any battle that came her way, later he had admired her for it. Perhaps their entire order is full of the same foolhardy determination to right every perceived wrong they encounter.
His men barely wait for him to order them forward. This is easier to understand than guarding the cannons bombarding the city. Sten wades into the fray after them. Dodging a swing from a rider, catching the beast a blow to the right foreleg. The horse makes a terrible sound as it goes down, trumpeting its hurt and distress so loudly that Sten feels momentarily deafened.The rider swings desperately out of the saddle, parrying Sten’s next blow with a finely carved bow and striking out with a dagger.
Another Qunari steps up behind the man and cleanly beheads him. Sten’s next strike falls across the horse’s throat, if only to stop it’s thrashing and bellowing.
Around him there is madness. The ground is slick with last night’s ice and newly spilt blood. Horses and men churn together, even as he watches a Qunari is pummeled by the hoofs of a rearing stallion, crushed while the beast tosses it’s head wildly, eyes rolling in it’s huge head. There is no sense to be made of this, and so Sten lets his consciousness slide out of focus, gives in to the fight in his blood and trusts himself to it.
Time must pass but he does not feel it. The burn that will consume his shoulders and arms later is numbed now. A slice across his cheek goes unheeded, as does the crunch of a mace against his quickly raised arm. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, even in the face of the cool damp surrounding him. He drifts, moving from one attack to the next without thought, the battle shifting him as one piece among many.
It is the smell of lightning that brings him back, sharp and sudden in his nostrils.
To his left there are screams, sudden and cut off, and harsh guttural cries, a sudden surge of movement. Sten pushes his way through, only now realizing that the ebb and flow of battle have pushed him to the Warden’s flank, cut off from the rest of his unit. Sten slams Asala’s pommel into the face of a man that had been trying to impede him, forcing his way at last into an open space.
The Wardens have nearly pushed their way to the front of the Qunari lines. It is shocking to see them so close to the Arishok and the cannons, to see the dead strewn across the field, to see the gates of Amaranthine opening as the defenders gather their courage and surge to join the fray. Neat columns have all dissolved in the face of the onslaught. Men lock together and wheel apart, the entire battlefield a melee. And barely a dozen yards away from Sten, pressing the Wardens ever forward, wreathed in white lightning...
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
It is impossible not to see her. The robes she wears are different, and she now wields a staff in one hand and a sword in the other. As he watches she shoves her staff into the air and the Qunari soldier that had been charging her is encased in ice. When one of the Wardens strikes the Qunari, he shatters to a thousand pieces. Saarebas. Mage. Surana.
Sten starts towards her, propelled beyond any effort of will that might stop him. Ahead of him the Arishok is roaring a challenge, half again as large as Surana, and armored from head to toe. If the Arishok is effected by the fire ball Surana hurls at him it does not show. The Arishok cuts down one of the silver suited warriors, drops of blood arching like scattered rubies across the air before they fall. He is steps now from Surana. There is shouting but Sten can hear nothing over the pound of blood in his ears.
A dwarf throws himself between the Arishok and Surana, the broad-axe he wields nearly as large as he is. The Arishok grabs him and hurls him, a smooth movement of indomitable strength.. An archer lets loose a flight of arrows faster than Sten can track, but the Arishok bats them aside with his shield with barely a pause. Another mage wraps Surana in a shield that the Arishok dissolves with a single word.
And then they are on each other. Surana’s mouth is open around a shout and she catches the first fall of the Arishok’s sword with her staff. The second and third, as well, and then the staff is dropping out of her fingers, tumbling to the earth as she tries to cradle her arm to her chest. Her blade barely catches the next blow. The Arishok lashes out with a hand, above her guard, and there is a crack when his gauntlet strikes her jaw.
Surana goes to the ground, barely catching herself with one hand,, blood streaming from her mouth as she glares up at the Arishok’s raised sword. Sten seizes the shield from a fallen Qunari, shoving his forearm roughly through the brace, the leather giving against his armor. He takes one step, another, as the Arishok’s sword cuts down with enough force to carve Surana in two.
The blow strikes in the center of Sten’s borrowed shield, strong enough that it drives his heels deeper into the soft mud where he kneels. Sten’s arm aches with the contact, a throb up to his shoulder. The Arishok stares at Sten from within his helm, voice disbelieving when he says, “What is this you do?” Sten has no explanation, no words to ease the sting of his sin. Still, he does not raise Asala, merely remains, crouched over Surana.
It does not matter that he does not strike the blow. His actions kill the Arishok. The blade has bitten too deep into Sten’s shield, and though the Arishok wrenches with all his strength, it does not tear free. An arrow punches through the Arishok’s armor at his collarbone, jarring him back. The dwarf, somehow still alive, is charging up, battle cry ripping through the air, axe poised for a mighty blow. The dwarf takes the Arishok out at the knees, knocking him sideways and towards the earth.
The Arishok catches the shaft of the axe in one hand, stripping the weapon off of the dwarf. Surana whispers a word, one hand extending towards the Arishok and he freezes in place, held tight by magic. The air around the Arishok shimmers, and for just a moment he makes a terrible sound, half-gurgle half-curse. It ends as abruptly as the fight draining from his body, leaving him little more than an empty husk.Sten shudders. Surana is pulling herself to her feet, her small hands bracing on Sten’s shoulders, asking him something, but he can only shake his head. Around them the battle still rages, but he can no longer interest himself in it. Inside him something great and terrible stretches to fill his chest.
I will not...
It is not hard to disappear after the fighting is done. Surana and the others she brought with her--not, he understands now, all Grey Wardens--have much to do and not enough hands to do it with. She makes it clear that Sten is not to be troubled. No one even questions him when he walks out of Amaranthine and heads north. Sten walks without stopping to eat or sleep, barely drinking. Somewhere in front of him there is a ship that will take him back home.
Sten finds a dock, and the promise of a boat inside the week. It is enough.
She finds him on a gray, foggy morning. He is watching the waves breaking on the shore, the surf wild and choppy. It is a bad day for sailing. Surana is quiet when she steps up beside him, the way that only those not wearing a hundred pounds of heavy armor can be. He does not turn to look at her, merely states, “I will return to my people and face the consequences of my actions.”
“No.” Her rebuttal is calm, easy. Her sword hangs across her back and she leans on her staff, the base digging into the wet sand. Still he does not look at her, but he can see the wind blowing her short black hair, and feels the brush of her robes against his leg. The cold sends a chill up his spine.
Sten says, “I would rather die Qunari than live as a Tal’Vashoth.”
Her reply is immediate, “Take the Joining, became a Warden.”
“There is no Blight, kadan.”
Surana moves now, quick as the strike of a snake, grabbing his arm and trying to twist him. When he does not budge she steps in front of him, hand white-knuckled around her staff, eyes as wild as the sea. There is no fear in her, no doubt. She was born on the wrong continent, in the wrong body. Behind her the Qunari would have conquered all of Thedas twice over. “If that is what it takes then I will find you the next Archdemon myself.”
Sten sighs, and shakes his head.
I will not look to find you on the battlefield.
The words are a lie a thousand times over. Always he is scanning for her, aware when enemies swarm too close or when her magical reserves falter. It is not difficult, when she fights by his side.