Adult-FanFiction.org : Games

The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 19
- 20
- 21
Just as the toe of Solona's boot landed on a large patch of dirt at the bottom of the stairway, she heard a familiar voice call her name. It was not a welcome sound. Since arriving at Ostagar, she had made it a point to avoid the mages stationed there. She really didn't want to be forced to explain why the First Enchanter's prized student was now a Grey Warden. As far as she was concerned, she didn't owe any explanation to anyone, especially not her former teachers. And most especially not that one.

She turned her head to behold the form of an older woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun at her crown. She wore red and gold robes, designating her as a senior enchanter and instructor in the Circle. She approached the Warden with her usual purposeful gait. A low groan escaped the young mage's lips at the sight

"Solona, my dear," the older woman greeted with a cordial grin. "I didn't expect to see you here. I take it your Harrowing went well, then?"

"Good afternoon, Senior Enchanter," the young mage replied wearing her usual detached expression. "And yes, I passed my Harrowing nearly two weeks ago."

"I'm surprised Irving allowed you to leave the tower so soon," she confessed with a sense of mild disbelief.

"He didn't exactly allow it, Senior Enchanter," Solona explained. "I have been conscripted by the Wardens."

The older woman scowled as she folded her arms over her chest. "Is that so?" she questioned. "I must confess, I would have thought the Grey Wardens would choose someone older and more experienced if they were to use the Right of Conscription."

Please don't bring him up. Please don't.

"When it comes to mages, they typically reserve the Right for the exceptionally gifted." She flashed a feigned apologetic smile. "I'm not saying you aren't exceptional, dear, but considering you just passed your Harrowing. With the Blight looming over us, and given the amount of injuries the Wardens sustain during such a time, I naturally assumed they would rather conscript a healer."

For the Maker's sake, you old crone. Just spit it out. I know exactly what you're implying.

Solona reached for the amulet at her chest and began thumbing the sword and flames etched on its surface. Anders was always Wynne's favorite student. Through careful study and a passion for not only healing magic but medicine in general, his skills eventually surpassed that of his teacher's. Like most of the instructors at Kinloch, Wynne was prone to take credit for Anders' accomplishments, citing her own carefully crafted lessons as the reason for his exceptional talent.

Most saw the enchanter as a benevolent, grandmotherly type, a façade Wynne liked to maintain. Solona, however, knew better. The older woman exhibited a sense of false humility, pretending to pish-tosh away any accolades she received from her fellows regarding her students' achievements. In truth, she reveled in it.

To make matters worse, Wynne had a tendency to take male apprentices under her tutelage into her bed. Anders was probably the only exception to that rule, but it was not for lack of trying on the enchanter's part. Though the younger healer would bed nearly every female mage in the tower between the ages of seventeen and thirty, he simply never cared for the company of older women. Since Solona had become Anders' favored lover over the preceding six years, it created a definitive rift between the two women.

Solona exhaled a perturbed sigh. "Anders is still in the dungeons, Senior Enchanter," she reminded the elder mage. "I doubt the Grey Warden commander even knew he was there."

Wynne's brow creased. "Yes, I suppose you're right. That would certainly be the only reason you would have been chosen over him." She paused to gauge the younger woman's expression, which had evolved into an icy glare. A self-satisfied smirk played at the corners of the older mage's lips. "As I said, you are very talented, dear, but you are far too young and inexperienced in the use of practical magic."

"I've managed so far," Solona informed her.

"Yes, I'm sure you have," Wynne retorted. She shifted her weight onto her left hip. "So you are a Grey Warden now? Pledged to fight alongside the king. Quite the feat for someone just out of her apprenticeship. I only hope you remember to maintain the ideals and propriety of a mage of the Circle."

Yes. Backstabbing. Dishonesty. Disloyalty. Promiscuity. We are a pious and enviable lot.

The young woman presented the elder mage with a tilt of her head and a painted on smile. "Of course, Senior Enchanter. I could never forget the lessons a lifetime in the Circle has taught me."

"We could probably do without the formalities, however," the other woman offered. "Now that you are no longer my student, you may call me Wynne."

"That's very kind of you, Wynne," Solona said with another bow of her head, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

The enchanter's eyes fell upon the amulet the younger woman was still clutching in her hand. She took a step forward and ran her fingers down the chain. "May I?" she requested.

"Of course," Solona replied as she let go of the trinket and dropped it into the other woman's palm.

Wynne's eyes narrowed as she studied the tiny shield bearing the templar insignia. Her thumb grazed across the small sword and flames. The younger woman thought she denoted a glimmer of sadness reflecting in the elder enchanter's blue-grey eyes. The older mage drew a long, uneven breath.

"I had one of these myself, once," she confessed. "A very long time ago." She released the amulet and took a step back. The expression she wore was no longer condescending, but one of general concern. "I urge you to use caution, Solona." She pointed to the tiny shield and her tired eyes began to glisten. "That carries a heartbreak with it unlike any you have ever known. Some affairs are never meant to be."

Solona's brow creased. She was aware of the rumors about Wynne carrying on with a templar in her youth. It was even said a child was produced from the liaison. There was also speculation about who the Chantry knight had been, but Solona scarcely believed that story. Knight Commander Greagoir hated everything about mages. There was no chance he was the one involved with the enchanter.

"Anyway," Wynne said with a small sniffle as she straightened her posture. "I am sure you have your Grey Warden duties you must attend to, and I have my own tasks to mind." She offered a terse nod. "If you will excuse me."

With that, the enchanter spun on her heel and strode away. Solona tucked Cullen's amulet into her shirt and blinked back the tears trying to form in her eyes. As stalwart as the young mage felt while descending the great stone staircase, she was left vulnerable and forlorn after speaking with Wynne.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this. I've certainly made a mess of everything else in my life.

She turned to resume her progression to the central fire where Duncan was waiting, only to see Alistair coming from the area of the royal encampment. Her breath hitched in her throat, and her stomach was filled with the sensation of a hundred butterflies flittering around inside. A small smile curled her lips. Then she heard his voice in her head. Four words. Four simple words were all it took to shut out every doubt and every fear.

Hey, you've got this.

Alistair wasn't sure if he was more angry, tired, or distraught when he exited Cailan's tent. The news of Jenna's death hit him harder than he let on. In his entire life, up until Duncan conscripted him anyway, there were only two people he considered friends. Jenna Cousland happened to be one of them. Although he hadn't seen her in years, her memory remained one of the bright spots in his dismal existence. Now she was gone.

If that weren't bad enough, speaking to Cailan forced him to consider a possible future he wanted absolutely no part of. Alistair was content with a life of service to the Grey Wardens. He had finally found a place where he felt he belonged. He was raised a stable boy, little better than a slave. How could anyone expect him to go from that to being a king?

Alistair had no knowledge of governance or politics outside the fact that every nobleman he ever met was a complete and utter prat. For the Maker's sake, he didn't even learn to read until he was eleven. Not only that, but he didn't have the ability to lead a small squad, let alone an entire country. The two times Duncan put him in charge of anything, he mucked it up completely and even got a man killed in the process. Surely there was a way out of the mess he would find himself in if Cailan's fears became reality.

He supposed he could run. Slip away while no one was looking. No, he couldn't. Even if he could get past all the darkspawn surrounding the old fortress, Alistair would never forsake Duncan's faith in him in that manner. Maybe he could just keep his existence a secret, at least that one little detail about it. Only a handful of people knew about his lineage-Duncan, Cailan, Eamon, the arl's younger brother Teagan. He wasn't even sure Loghain was aware Maric had a second son.

Of course he knows, jackass. Maric was his best friend.

But if those who knew couldn't find him...He could disappear into the Grey Warden ranks and be just another soldier. Duncan would never tell anyone. Would he? The nobles could just name someone else as king. That was probably a better option, anyhow.

We must ensure Calenhad's line doesn't end with me. With us.

Cailan's words echoed in Alistair's head. How could he turn his back on a responsibility handed down to him from over four hundred years ago? Then again, how could someone like him be expected to rule Ferelden?

Alistair's head was throbbing from all the thoughts swirling around in his mind. He felt completely drained from the tremendous weight that was sinking onto his shoulders. The reality of his potential future was too much for the young Warden to bear. His chest felt heavier with every labored breath as he drown in despair and involuntary obligation.

As he walked toward the central fire, he turned his glistening eyes toward the steps leading to the Grey Warden encampment, and the hope he considered lost shined from the darkness once more. He found his faith, his strength in the lapis blue eyes staring back into his. Though his heart still pounded, the sensation was no longer one of pain, but joy upon seeing the one person who could brighten his whole world with a smile and turn his bones to jelly with a glare. The embodiment of beauty and conviction. The one who had captivated his senses and captured his soul.

Damn! I guess I really am in love with her after all.

Solona bore an expression of utter disgust as she peered down at her wet boots. The muck from the marsh water surrounding her feet was overly warm and slimy. As much as she had despised the notion of breaking in another pair, she was grateful a dry new set would be waiting for her when they returned to the main fortress. If they ever returned.

It had been at least two hours since Duncan sent her, Alistair, and Sithig out into the Wilds to retrieve some documents from a chest in an abandoned tower. They fought their way through several bands of darkspawn until they came to several tall, crumbling columns arranged in a circle with a set of stone steps leading to nowhere near the back. It hardly resembled a tower at all, but Alistair swore it was the right place.

When they stepped through a large gap between the columns that appeared to be the remnants of an arched doorway, they found the chest the commander spoke of. There was only one problem. The chest looked like a band of ogres used it as a ball in a spirited game of wallop. It was utterly dilapidated and completely empty.

"Dammit!" Alistair bellowed as he landed the sole of his boot to the side of the metal box, toppling it over. "Doesn't anything ever go right when that man puts me in charge?"

"Alistair," Sithig interjected in a low, even voice. "Calm yourself, my friend. The night-gangers are still lurking."

The younger warrior licked his lips, ran his hand over his sandy blonde hair, and then proceeded to stomp on the chest three more times. It was obvious there was something a lot more than missing documents vexing him. Solona surmised it had something to do with King Cailan, but she couldn't hazard a guess to what it might be. When he turned to face her, his hazel eyes were dark and glistening.

"Do you feel better now?" the mage asked in her typical haughty tone.

He limped forward a step. "Not really," he confessed. "My whole leg hurts like a bitch."

"'Tis what happens when a fool chooses to batter a large metal object with his foot," echoed a voice from above.

A moment later, an ebony haired woman appeared at the top of the stairway. As she made her descent, the strips of her skirt, fashioned from varying lengths of black leather belts, swished around a pair of high boots covered with silver buckles. On top, she wore what appeared to be nothing more than a silk, crimson scarf draped low across her abdomen exposing a great deal of her ample breasts. Those were barely covered by triangular pieces of cloth held together with a series of long strings. A black leather sleeve on her left arm extending from her wrist to her shoulder ended in a pauldron of long raven feathers. Her right bicep sported a wide leather band, and a fingerless glove graced her hand up to the lower half of her forearm.

Fringes of pin straight dark hair curtained her face, while the remainder of her locks were kept bound in a bun at the back of her head with several wild strands escaping its coil. Her eyes were heavily shadowed with rust colored powder, and thick kohl lined her eyes. The odd woman's full lips curled into a cat like smirk as she looked down on the strangers in her midst.

"Well, well," she said, a hint of arrogant amusement in her voice. "What have we here?"

Solona folded her arms over her chest and rested her weight on her right hip as she donned a bored expression. "Quite an entrance. Very dramatic. Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"Use caution, my friend," Sithig warned. "Witches are trouble, and we have that enough in dealing with the night-gangers."

Solona had read stories of the witches of the Wilds. Legends of dark women stealing children for their suppers abounded among the Chasind peoples. It was hogwash, of course, at least as far as the young mage was concerned.

"She's probably just a Chasind," Alistair said with a shrug. "Nothing to worry about."

The peculiar woman took a step toward him. "Chasind, hmm? And are you not afraid a horde of barbarians will swoop down upon you?"

When she said the word, "swoop," she raised her arms high in the air and lurched the top half of her body toward Alistair, like a bird preparing to attack its prey. He flinched at the gesture then wiped his hand across his face before arching a sardonic brow.

"Yes," he said. "Swooping is bad, but would you mind not spitting on me next time? It kind of takes away from the whole crazy, weird talking witch thing you're going for. Quite disgusting, to be honest."

The woman harrumphed and turned her attention to Solona. "Your pets are boring, but you…I have watched your progress for some time. 'Tis not often I see a woman leading men about. A most welcome sight."

"What can I say?" Solona retorted in an acerbic tone. "I live to impress."

The witch donned a smirk. "I like you. Shall I guess your purpose, then? You sought something in that chest? Something that is here no longer?"

"Let me guess," Alistair interjected. "You stole the contents and now you plan to hold them for ransom. I hate to break it to you, but we're all tapped out."

"Tell me," she queried. "How does one steal from dead men? This place is no better than a desiccated corpse, long since picked clean."

Alistair heaved a sigh and shook his head. "She's just toying with us. We should go."

Sithig clapped a large hand over the smaller warrior's shoulder before Alistair could take a step then addressed the witch. "I cannot say what else was in that chest. But there were papers important to the Grey Wardens. You would do us a great service in returning them."

She glowered at the large man. "I will not. For 'twas not I who removed them. Invoke a name that means nothing here any longer if you wish. I am not swayed."

Solona's eyes narrowed as she weighed the other woman's words. "But you know who did."

The witch's smile returned. "My, but you are the intelligent one. 'Twas my mother, in fact."

"Then take us to her," Alistair demanded. His tone was flat and even, but the threat in his eyes was unmistakable.

"I do not take orders from you," she scoffed then spun on her heel to leave.

"Please," Sithig beseeched. "We need those papers before we can return to the fortress. Your aid would be most welcome."

The witch peered up at him over her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed in contemplation for a long moment before she presented the Avvar with a smile.

"Now there is a sensible request," she said before addressing Alistair. "You would do well to learn from your friend." She took a few strides forward. "Follow me, then, if it pleases you."

As they fell in step behind her, the witch addressed them once more, her attentions never straying from the road ahead. "I am Morrigan, if you were inclined to ask, and I advise you to employ prudence when dealing with my mother. She is not nearly as patient as I."

That first meeting between Morrigan and Alistair began a rivalry that would last a lifetime. I personally never thought she was that bad, but Alistair loathed her. Even in later years, when they both had a chance to grow up a bit, it didn't change his complete dislike for her. It was something difficult for the rest of us to understand, considering how alike Morrigan and Solona were. For some reason, Alistair just never saw it. Either that, or he simply chose to ignore it.

Ostagar was the first time Solona got a glimpse into how bad Alistair's temper really was. He was kind to a fault, but when his hackles were raised, Alistair Theirin was definitely a force to be reckoned with. In all the years I knew him, there were only three times when we had it out, but those three times were more than enough.

-G
- 19
- 20
- 21
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight