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How to Adopt a Warden and Other Tales	By : Royality Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 2658 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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A campsite was made just outside of the snowy fortress due to Izarre’s injuries. Despite all of the magic used in an attempt to heal the wounds, Alistair still insisted on waiting for a full recovery. The younger warden was too tired to argue against the idea and relieved himself of command. It wasn’t as if he had asked to be in charge in the first place and found it surprisingly comforting to see Alistair step up when a leader was needed. If the Dalish, Mage, or Redcliff representatives had any questions, he would give a prompt answer. He even made schedules for guard duty, gathering supplies, and scouting. When not on watch himself, he would return to Izarre’s tent to curl up against his lover and slip into a deep sleep.
On the third day, he awoke alone sometime in the early morning just after dawn. The cloth bandages that were used to hold broken ribs in place had been left behind in a small, bloody pile off to the side. Crawling out, the half-asleep leader yawned and squinted at the rising sun as he saw nothing but glints of shining light to the melody of clanging metal. His brown eyes focused just enough to make out what appeared to be Zevran and Izarre sparring around the dormant fire pit.
“Oh ho, I see now see why you were bested by that ogre! You’re getting slow, my friend!” The assassin mocked his frustrated opponent as he deflected nearly every hit Izarre attempted to land with simple dagger twirls. The warden growled at every failed lunge and swipe made by Duncan’s sword as Zevran easily danced around them. The stab to his back was barely parried by his family’s sword, but the knives were flicked around to cut off a small piece of loose long white hair from the tip of his ponytail. “And my trophy!” It was picked up after the duel was over by the brown-skinned Ativan who gave it a playful sniff. Izarre just grumbled as he stabbed the ground with both of his weapons. “Something tells me you know what’s wrong with you. You are holding back and…”
“Izzy,” Alistair interrupted as he walked up. He was turned to be looked at by both men, but while he smiled to his mate, the other got a disapproving glare.
“We can schedule a rematch later,” Zevran bowed, but kept his eyes to Alistair. They had a gentlemen’s agreement when it came to being within ten meters of each other. The gesture was returned before Alistair looked to Izarre.
“You shouldn’t be up fighting like this. You should…”
“I’m fine now,” Izarre snapped, still frustrated over losing the fight.
“You’re not fine. Look at how you’re fighting. You’re…”
“That’s…not because of my wounds. Those are healed.”
“It’s not?” Alistair questioned, not believing a word of it. “What is it then?” But he didn’t get an answer as Izarre plucked the two swords up as Morrigan walked over.
“If you’re quite done with your contest, I would speak to you on an important matter,” she said as she clutched her mother’s black book closely to her chest. “Tis better without prying eyes.”
“Anything you have to say, you can say it to the both of us,” said Alistair as he crossed his arms. While Morrigan furrowed her eyebrows in annoyance, she needed help badly enough as to put up with his nonsense.
“Fine, I need you… to kill my mother.” Such a bold statement shocked both wardens enough to drop whatever built-up tension was there.
“You…want us to what now?”
“Are you deaf as well as stupid? I need you to dispose of my mother…before does to me what she has done to her other daughters.” Holding up the book, she tapped the aged cover with an index finger and explained in detail how Flemeth repeatedly defied the aging process. Morrigan, in fear of her body being taken over, needed someone else to get rid of the old woman on her behalf. Izarre reluctantly agreed to her terms, if only to speak to Flemeth in private about the accusation. There was some admittance on her part, but neither warden found it very convincing. Whatever Flemeth truly was, she had saved them for reasons they didn’t understand and, at this point, didn’t really care to. A favor for a favor, they thought. Her life was spared and in return, they were given a book to satisfy her daughter’s curiosity. It was enough to convince Morrigan that her mother was gone, for now at least.
That evening, Izarre also pulled some strings of his own, finally convincing Alistair to pack up camp and move for Orzammar. Getting inside was only a matter of showing their credentials by means of the treaty, but obtaining any sort of cooperation once past the city’s walls was an entirely different matter. Orzammar stood on the brink of a civil war that divided the citizens between a traditionalist noble and a driven prince. If not for Bhelen’s brutal methods, Izarre may have taken the young royal’s side with new ideas involving open trade and a casteless system, but unfortunately killing guards in the street for only trying to keep the peace meant that the wardens turned their favored to Lord Harrowmont instead. He was a weak man, comfortable in tradition to be sure, but at least he wasn’t someone who insinuated riots.
Still, it miffed the party to be turned away from an audience with him unless they showed proof of their loyalty in the gladiatorial arena. The Proving Grounds held a sacred meaning to the Dwarves. It was where scores were settled when words and coin weren’t enough to repay a debt or mend an insult, but not everyone was happy when Izarre volunteered himself to be Harrowmont’s champion. “Wait,” Alistair whispered as he pulled his lover aside in the common waiting room just outside of the fighting zone. “Are you sure about this?”
“About Harrowmont?” Izarre asked and shrugged. “He seems less of a psychotic killer than Bhelen is; an old fool who lives in luxury and fear. We can use that to take control of his army for the Blight,” he answered as he adjusted his gloves straps, but was surprised as he was taken by the shoulders.
“That’s not what I meant. You’re about to go fight some of the fiercest warriors this place has to offer. Alone, mind you, and I saw you with Zevran. You’re not…”
“How dare you!” Alistair’s face fell as he was pulled away from as he knew he had crossed a line, but it didn’t stop him from being worried. He had every bit of Izarre’s body converted to memory and was first to notice its ongoing deterioration. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t place as to what it was. “Do not confuse me for some helpless flower. I’m not some delicate thing in need of your constant protection. I never was and I never will be. I never asked for your help in the first place.”
“Warden? Are you ready to go?” the Proving Master interrupted their tense conversation. Turning, Izarre gave a nod. “Great.” He moved to head towards the exit with the irate white-haired combatant following, but Izarre’s arm was grabbed by Alistair once again. They stared at each other briefly, yet said nothing. Yanking the his limb away, Izarre continued to walk out of the arena. Alistair was hurt, putting his hand to his mouth trying not to scream profanities, and went to the balcony with the rest of his friends to watch the fight. Below, Izarre emerged from the double doors and looked up to his audience. Seeing how Alistair looked down at him was disheartening, but he needed to focus on the enemies in ahead.
The first few rounds were won without much difficulty. He played his role as champion, never calling for aid even when it was allowed. The final match was intended to be a group expedition, but as he faced them on his own, it proved to be more than he handle. After taking out the archer, Izarre was blindsided by a shield bash to the still wounded shoulder that never healed properly from Ostagar. Despite Wynne using several different healing spells, his body had begun to reject the beneficial magic. The Cousland sword dropped from his hand, only to be kicked to the edge of the arena by a stout Dwarven warrior before it could be retaken. A blind slash with Duncan’s sword only clashed against the iron-plated armor he wore as a stealthed rogue sliced the warden’s remaining sword arm. The second weapon fell to the ground and was kicked away as well. Bhelen’s fighters circled the warden’s crumbled and bleeding body, taunting him with kicks of dust and bravado for the crowd.
From the balcony, Alistair was being held back from jumping over the rail by Zevran as Wynne and Morrigan watched with stoic eyes. “Why does he hold back?” the younger mage snapped. “Tis a fool who limits their power such as this.” Wynne sighed in disapproval, but felt herself in agreement.
“He struggles with his nature, but I fear if he does not relinquish some control, it will be the end of him far too soon.”
“What are you talking about? What’s wrong with him?!” Alistair demanded to know as he finally broke free.
“Mages are…conduits. We are not vessels,” the elderly woman attempted to explain. “Magic flows through us like a river and is not meant to be contained. It you dam it up, it will eventually overflow and…”
“And destroy the dam,” Morrigan smiled as she watched the fight with some interest now. “Taking the village with it.”
“What?” Even though Alistair had no idea what any of that really meant, he still didn’t like the sound of it. “What do you mean by destroy the dam?”
“My, such the slow one,” Morrigan teased as she rolled her eyes. “Your little friend down there refuses to use the magic building up inside. Tis turning against him.” Oh, now he understood.
“IZZY!” Alistair yelled as he practically hung off the ledge. “Cast a spell!” but he couldn’t be heard with over the chanting crowd. The reluctant mage crotched on the ground, panting as he watched a puddle of his own blood grow larger beneath his feet. He could hear his heartbeat slowing down as if his time was nearly up. The cheers grew louder, but began to deafen as his eyes grew dark. With clenched fists, he forced himself to stand. The rogue tiptoed behind to put in a finishing blow in his back, but something happened. As the Dwarf swung the daggers, they hit nothing by air. The warden had ducked down and slashed at the leather-covered mid-section with nothing but an empty fist, so why did it hurt? Looking down, the fighter saw a large gash in his chest piece that was dangerously close to spilling his innards. The white-haired human was still posed with an extended arm, but fresh blood dripped from thin air in front of his hand.
“How?” the rogue muttered before falling to the ground. It was only from that angle when he could see the blades of a nearly invisible wing-shaped weapon. The sharp edges where made entirely out of ice and spanned in both directions nearly the length of the dwarf himself. The mage’s body erupted in a blue blaze as he moved to attack the warrior next. His other hand also had the same manifested weapon attached, but they pinged off the heavy armor and shield. Every deflected blow caused the ice to chip, bu ta snowy white cloud of magic puffed to instantly repair the edges every time. Unable to land a critical hit to turn the fight in his favor, Izarre jumped away instead and used both hands to punch the ground. The dirt rapidly crackled and froze over with no escape in sight. The ice captured the wounded archer, rouge, and finally the warrior in its web. It even crept halfway up the arena’s walls before the warden stopped himself. Panting, he looked around as his flames dispelled. The stunned crowd fell silent and with no remaining champions to fight on Bhelen’s behalf, a winner was declared.
(AN: *Izarre's name is pronounced differently, depending on racial accents.
Dwarves/Dalish: 'E-czar-ree'

Fereldin humans: 'Izz-ah-ree' (as in 'misery' without the m).

Orlesians: 'E-zah-ray'

Antivans: 'Izz-are-ree'

Alistair is the only one who says 'Izzy'.
*Izarre's name is based on Izar, meaning star, as explained in the first chapter because his hair is white (although he's not albino).
*While a fanfiction, this story still follows my heavily modded gameplay in Dragon Age: Origins pretty closely. Izarre is an elf mage model with many cosmetic changes that follows the human noble storyline. The weapons he creates in this chapter are based on a World of Warcraft warglaive dagger mod.)
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- 14
- 15
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How to Adopt a Warden and Other Tales