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Strangers with Cookies	By : pirouette Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 9211 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age/Bioware, its characters, or any content used for the basis of this fanfiction. I am making no money from this work.

Chapter List
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Chapter Two: �No one has a place here. Your farmers wish
to be merchants. The merchants dream of being nobles, and the nobles become
warriors. No one is content to be who they are.�

The elf is insane. There is no other explanation.
Sten paces back and forth beside the fire and listens to the
endless chatter. It is unfathomable that the mage still possesses her tongue. Or
that the other Warden, whom they call a Templar, has not killed her himself.
Someone should silence her and then give her a proper shirt.
Everyone continually discusses the Blight, but though Adhara
takes him along often, thus far they have fought more walking corpses and
wolves than darkspawn. When a band is met on the road, the party slaughters
them, but then continues walking rather than attempting to track their larger
force. When confronted, Adhara told him that the way to end the Blight is to
defeat the archdemon, but no one appears to be looking for it. The
arishok told him that the darkspawn mass in the south of Ferelden, but Adhara
is taking them north. And west.
Grey Wardens kill darkspawn, he has been told. They are the
only foreign soldiers for which the qunari have ever held respect. But these
Wardens seem to prefer to aid the weak and end sieges. The male Warden grows
hostile when Sten speaks out against these actions, asking if he would rather
they let everyone die. But tending to the poor is the only function of their
Chantry that is not useless; if they do the Chantry's work, what is left for
the brothers and sisters? Where are the soldiers that are meant to defend the
cities?
No one does what they are meant to. The Warden who is also a
Templar will not kill the illegal mage, whom the priestess does not seem to be
bothered by, despite the fact that the mage's existence openly contradicts the
tenets of her religion. And amidst this madness, Adhara seems determined to
spread more chaos by undertaking tasks that are not the job of the Wardens.
Based upon the responses of humans and elves alike, the fact that he is a
Warden at all is also an anomaly.
Are they saving this country, or destroying it? How was it
possible that his people had not successfully conquered the mainland a century
ago?
But despite all this, their leader gives at least the
illusion of rational thought. He holds his own in conversation with Sten far
more successfully than the others. The priestess cannot even explain to him why
she is here, but on the whole the elf is clear-spoken.
�Sten.� He is handed a plate, and he realizes by smell that
the elf has cooked. The Dalish appear to have an understanding of spices, at
least, and his meals, though simple, tend to have an actual flavor. They sit
around the fire to eat, and Sten endures their conversation in silence.
�Do I hear water, Adhara?� asks the priestess eventually,
and when the elf nods, continues. �I think that we should all have baths
tonight, yes?�
�An excellent idea,� agrees the mage, setting aside her
plate and stretching. Sten averts his eyes and gives a quiet sigh of relief. He
had already surmised that the human sense of smell is not as strong as that of
his people. Adhara smells strongly of sweat and darkspawn blood, though without
as much musk as his fellow Warden. Sten had never been around many elves;
perhaps they do not stink nearly as much as humans do.
�I will agree on behalf of Alistair,� adds the elf, and
ignores the insulted �Hey!� he receives.
�Will no one bathe the dog?� Sten asks, but is met with
blank stares and an angry growl.
�Why? He's a wardog,� Adhara shrugs. �They stink.�
�Yes, they do.�
Morrigan and Leliana rise. �Come down with us, Adhara.�
�I'll go later. I need to fix my gauntlet. The links are
jammed and I can't bend my wrist.� Adhara sets his plate aside and rummages in
his pack for a set of tools.
�Do that in the morning!�
�And if we're attacked in the night?� Grey eyes meet blue,
and the priestess falls silent. Yet again Sten is left wondering why Adhara has
allowed so many non-soldiers along. They do not think properly and are likely
to endanger the entire party.
�Fine, but don't go alone when you do,� she insists. �That
would not be safe.� Though unlike the mage, the priestess at least has a sense
of self-preservation.
�I'll go with Sten and Alistair,� the elf agrees, �assuming
they don't mind.�
Alistair chokes on a sip of water, and Leliana frowns. �I-is
that the best idea?�
�I'm not modest. Go enjoy the water, girls.� He dismisses
them with a wave of his bare hand.
�What about me?� Alistair groans as the women leave. �What
if I'm modest?�
�I'll keep my eyes closed,� the elf retorts, returning his
attention to his gauntlet.
Sten stares at them both, but decides not to ask for
clarification. Perhaps Fereldan women do not bathe unescorted, and they wanted
the elf along for safety reasons. He has seen stranger things since arriving in
this country. And if they were sensible and segregated themselves properly by
gender instead of traveling with women in tow, it would not be a problem at
all.
When they return, damp-haired and clad in clean clothes,
Sten is horrified to discover that the mage has two of those scraps she
insists are robes.
�Give me your dirty things and I will wash them after the
three of you are done bathing,� Leliana offers, indicating a small pile of
their discarded clothes. Alistair gladly tosses over several pairs of dirty
trousers, socks, and shirts. Sten adds his shirt and a pair of trousers from
his pack to the pile before rising and systematically removing armor. The human
follows his example, and soon they are staring down at Adhara expectantly.
He does not look up, but appears to feel their gaze. �Go
ahead of me. I'm almost done here.�
Sten unties his ponytail and walks toward the water with
Alistair, silently enjoying how poorly the mage's voice carries toward them.
The water is cold, which makes him miss Seheron. He wades in all the same and
catches the soap Alistair tosses his way from the washbucket. First the hair.
The hair always smells the worst, especially after so much time under a helmet.
�I'm coming down,� Adhara calls once while Sten is taking
his nails to his scalp. He glances over his shoulder to see him standing on the
shore in trousers and a loose tunic, unwrapping the long strips of cloth that
serve as his wrist guards. �Ugh. These will need washing.�
Sten dunks his head under the water, then shakes and wrings
his braids so that they may dry while he sees to the rest of himself.
A minute later, he hears the elf curse and splash. �Who has
the soap?�
�Sten does,� Alistair replies.
Adhara wades up behind him as he rinses. �Hand it over, will
you?�
Sten turns, soap in hand, and looks down at Adhara. The
elf's hair is loose, like his, and has mostly covered his ears. He is still not
used to dark hair, and so it draws his eyes downward toward Adhara's shoulders
and pale�
Vashedan.
He hands Adhara the soap and turns away abruptly. The elf
isn't a man at all. They are being led by a woman. The chainmail that
had made her seem like an androgynous boychild had been hiding a distinctly
feminine body.
Sten redresses hurriedly and returns to camp, but is not
granted a reprieve. She and Alistair return together minutes later, and he
looks up to see her now soaking wet and wearing only her smallclothes. When she
steps into the firelight, a large scar across her back is thrown into sharp
relief by the shifting light.
Claws. When Adhara turns to respond to the priestess'
surprised gasp, he sees another network of scars on her shield arm. Fangs.
�What?�
�Do you not have clean clothes?� asks Leliana.
She shakes her head and begins gathering her hair back into
a ponytail. �The only ones I have are dirty. I was actually hoping to borrow a
set from you.�
�I-I don't have any....�
When Adhara turns to Morrigan, the witch crosses her arms.
�Nor do I. And why do you not?�
The elf shrugs. �Never crossed my mind. My hunting partner
and I used to bathe together, and it never bothered him. You shemlen are
so modest.�
�Sten,� Alistair murmurs beside him. �The staring is a
little creepy.�
He curses and turns toward his rucksack. After a moment's
rummaging, he produces his spare clothing and offers it to the elf. �Here.�
�What's that?�
�A shirt.�
�That's a dress,� she frowns.
He presses it toward her hands. �Put it on.�
�It's dirty,� she sniffs, batting it away. �Weren't you wearing
that when we found you?�
�It is preferable to seeing you naked.�
Her scowl deepens to match his. �If I wanted to smell like
you, Sten, I'd sleep in your bedding.�
�'Tis possible that he wouldn't mind,� the mage interjects,
crossing her arms. �I don't think he has blinked since you came into view.�
�Of all the�Adhara, here,� Leliana fumes, wrapping the elf's
blanket around her shoulders. �There, now you are clean and no one's
sensibilities are being offended, now are they?�
�Mine might be,� Alistair replies, and is met with glares
from all three women.
Sten jerks his hair back into its ponytail, seizes the elf
by her upper arm, and pulls her a short distance away from the others. She
allows herself to be dragged away with only slight resistance. �What has gotten
into you?�
�You look like a woman,� he begins, then shakes his head and
falls silent. Too much is wrong to articulate it properly.
She raises an eyebrow. �That's because I am.�
�But I thought you were a man.�
Her grey eyes widen, and she begins to laugh merrily. �By
the Creators! Really? Oh, I'm so sorry.�
�...So you were not attempting to hide it?�
She frowns. �Why would I? I mean, I bound my chest, but that
was to keep the chainmail from being uncomfortable. It was hard to breathe witho�I
just assumed that you would know!�
�I have never worked closely with elven men or women,� he
explains. �Elves cannot be Beresaad, and women are not soldiers.� But now that
she is not coated in darkspawn blood, he can smell her clearly. Had she been this
clean at their first meeting, he never would have confused her for a man.
The blanket ruffles in the breeze, and she draws it more
tightly about her shoulders. �In Ferelden they are.�
He shakes his head. �That is impossible. You are either a
woman or a Grey Warden. You cannot be both.�
Her smile fades. �Yes, I can, and I am.�
�Women are not warriors,� he repeats.
This time her teeth truly do bare. �Female elves have been
warriors since before this continent harbored humans.�
He has heard the tales of the old elves, who were supposedly
immortal, but lived life so slowly that the humans conquered them before their
leaders had agreed that there was a threat. �You have as much in common with
the elves of old as I have with a bear.�
�Sten, you have a great deal in common with a bear.�
She steps closer and smiles up at him again. �You are large, and hairy, and you
growl.�
�I do not�� He cuts himself off when her smile
widens. �You are changing the subject.�
She nods. �Yes, because there is no point in speaking about
this any longer.� And with that she returns to the campfire, but he remains in
the trees until her scent has been overwhelmed by the night air.
They do not speak as they sit watch together that night. She
busies herself with improvements to Leliana's bow, and Sten spends the shift
deep in thought.
It makes sense now. Their lack of direction, her strange
decisions, the inclusion of non-soldiers in the party. Perhaps she is a Grey
Warden, but not a Warden like the soldiers of the tales. They may well have a
branch of their order dedicated to such trivial tasks in the hopes of spreading
their name and encouraging good will and increased recruitment. It might even
be necessary, since children are not being slated to the order from birth.
If true, then she can be a Warden and a woman. A woman with
a sword is not a soldier, as the priestess has proven on multiple occasions
already. She and the Templar have mentioned other Wardens several times before;
perhaps they will cross paths, and Sten will be able to meet true Wardens, who
fight darkspawn and will seek the archdemon.
When their shift ends, he settles onto his bedding and
frowns at Adhara one last time. It is a warm, breezy night; he is downwind from
where she has made up her bed, and she is stretched atop her blanket, scarred
forearm draped across her bare stomach, hair once again loose. After a few
moments, she opens her eyes and returns his stare until he puts his back to
her.
Anaan esaam Qun. He closes his eyes and thinks of
tides until sleep takes him.

�

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