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
- 20
- 21
- 22
Morrigan strode with purpose as she led the Wardens across a tree-lined path. It seemed odd to Alistair that the timber was so thick there, considering how sparse it had been everywhere else in the marsh surrounding Ostagar. To make matters worse the coppice grew denser the further down the narrow road they ventured. The wood itself was unsettling enough, but the grey mist that began curling around their legs when they entered the copse gave the entire place a sense of foreboding that they were all advancing to their doom.

A chill winter wind blew through the leaves of the surrounding forest, causing them to quake and quiver. It was odd to see green within the trees at that time of year. As troublesome as that fact was, even more disquieting was the sound of eerie clacking of heavy, hollow sticks being tapped together echoing on the breeze. The young warrior chanced a glimpse into the tops of the tall trees and gasped when he spied skulls of humans and varied animals dangling from long, frayed ropes among the branches. A conglomerate of short, broken twigs and feathers of differing birds decorated the bones, held in place by clumps of mud.

Alistair turned his eyes to the path ahead in an attempt to ignore the macabre embellishments and the rising sense of terror creeping up his chest. At the end of the lane, through the ever thickening fog, he could make out the outline of a small hut, battered by time and the harsh southern Ferelden climate. As they drew nearer, he began to see the heavy brown moss and old branches used for the roof, and the abundant vines of deep green ivy overtaking the outer walls.

The sensation of gooseflesh prickling the Warden’s arms caused the hair to stand on end as the crackling of magic, ancient and unfamiliar, encompassed the very air around them. Alistair shivered against a chill born more of revulsion and fear than the cold.

The clattering grew louder the further they ventured toward the hovel, citing both larger and a greater number of bones hanging from the trees in ever deepening shadows. Against his better judgement, the warrior chanced a glimpse above and his stomach tied in knots at the sight of entire skeletons swinging throughout the branches.

“What the fuck?” Solona muttered, expressing the exact words Alistair was thinking.

Morrigan ignored the young mage as she continued forward. Ahead of her, in the clearing, the fog seemed to settle more to the ground. Standing before a fire pit was the dark figure of an old woman who appeared to be warming her hands. Her hair was the color of cotton with unruly strands projecting out in every direction. The robes she wore were fashioned from dark leather and furs, which were covered by an elegant, skillfully-stitched heavy cloak embellished with brown and rust colored fur at its edges.

When they finally stepped into the glade, the ancient woman looked up from the flame. She regarded the intruders with beady, yellow eyes, which sank deep into her skull. The bridge of her narrow nose and hollow cheeks were mottled with patches of dark red, as if she spent years in the sun resulting in a burn that would never fade. Her thin lips were set in a pursing frown with deep lines etched all around them.

The atmosphere surrounding her pulsed with magic, as if the very air were alive with it. A sharp pain shot through Alistair’s head, forcing him to close his eyes against the anguish it caused him. Once again, the image of dark buildings set on a faraway, sundered mountain accosted his brain. His entire body vibrated with the ebb and flow of the tide of power washing over him. The world around him began to spin and tumble out of control as wisps of shadow began to circulate and envelop him.

No! he screamed into the darkness, but no sound escaped his lips.

The warrior pried his eyes open against the unseen force holding them shut, only to be greeted by the old woman’s raptor-like gaze. Her lids narrowed as she scrutinized the young man, burning a hole into the very core of his being. After a moment, the hint of a wicked smirk curved the rugose corners of her mouth.

“Mother,” Morrigan addressed the crone. “I bring before you three Grey Wardens who…”

“I can see who they are girl,” the old sorceress interrupted, her voice creaking like a rusty hinge. “I have eyes.”

As she shambled around the pit, knocking over a neatly arranged pile of small, moldy bones, Sithig took a step forward, placing his large frame between his fellow Wardens and the old woman. He held his large battleaxe at the ready and glared at her.

“Stand away, witch,” he commanded in a deep, threatening tone.

Alistair was in shock. It was the first time the Avvar had ever raised his voice to anyone in his presence. He didn’t even know the large man was capable of such a thing. He was always so polite, so soft spoken.

Solona reached out and grabbed the Avvar’s oversized forearm and gave it a tug. “Let me handle this,” she told him, her timbre both cool and disapproving.

The behemoth scowled down at the young mage. “Solona, this witch, she is dangerous. The most dangerous of all sorceresses. We call her the Timeless Woman, and in her wake she brings only death and destruction.”

“I said, stand down, Sithig,” she demanded. “I will not repeat myself.”

The Avvar huffed with frustration before taking a reluctant step back. Solona folded her arms over her chest and raised her left brow.

“You are Flemeth, then?” she surmised. “The legendary Witch of the Wilds?”

“My,” the old witch said. “But you are the intelligent one.” She studied Solona’s face for a long moment before continuing. “You hide behind a mask, a carefully woven and crafted disguise designed to conceal your fear and doubt, your longings and pain. There is a man. A man languishing in the darkness, behind cold bars of iron. Your thoughts betray you, smart lass.”

Solona’s face twitched upon hearing the ancient woman’s words. From the angle where Alistair stood, he discerned the same look in her eyes as the one she possessed by the fire the first night they met. Was the witch talking about Anders?

The young mage’s chest rose and fell with a heavy breath before regaining her usual countenance. “I did not come here to discuss my personal life. Morrigan told us that you possess some documents. I would have you return them.”

Ignoring Solona’s request, the witch took a step to the side to stand before Sithig. “And you, large lad. An exiled chief attempting to regain his honor. Such a shame.”

The Avvar glared down at her. “Be gone, witch,” he hissed. “I will not be taken in by your tricks.”

She chuckled, a low, vile, rumbling sound which turned Alistair’s stomach. “No tricks here, giant. Simply truth. The truth is far more entertaining.”

“And what would a witch know about the truth?” Alistair questioned and immediately regretted the words as soon as they left him.

He intended to keep his mouth shut. To keep in the background, praying not to be noticed any further by the ancient woman, but his impulsive nature wouldn’t let it be. She turned her attention to him and locked her golden eyes to his. He gulped, nearly choking on the hard lump that had formed in his throat then held his breath awaiting her analyzation. Solona would know his secret. The entire ugly mess of his heritage and his life.

“Men’s hearts hold truths they do not wish revealed. Secrets in the dark they keep locked away in the hopes no one will see. See them for who they truly are. But remember this, lad. Like a flame, truth can light your way in the darkness as well as set your world afire.”

She then turned and began hobbling back toward the pit, waving her hand in dismissal. “But…what do I know. I am simply an old woman trying to stay out of the darkspawn’s path.”

The crone stopped, stooped over one of the piles of old bones, and began to sort through it. After a few moments, she stood, bearing three scrolls of heavy, yellowed vellum in her hands. She tottered back to Solona then presented the documents to her. As the younger woman went to take the scrolls, the witch tightened her grip on them.

“I have protected these for many years, awaiting this moment,” she said. “Awaiting you, Grey Warden.”

“Awaiting me?” the young mage retorted with a scowl.

“Yes, and you are rather late, you know,” the old hag informed her with a knowing smile. “Interfering with one’s supper shows a complete lack of manners and says a lot about your upbringing. But what can one expect from a mage of the Circle? A frail old woman such as myself can scarcely afford to miss a meal.”

The witch released her hold on the documents, prompting Solona to mumble a quiet, “Thank you.”

The crone cupped her ear with her hand and leaned closer to the Warden. “What was that?” she asked. “I swore I heard you say something. These old ears do not hear as well as they used to.”

Solona straightened her shoulders. “I said, thank you,” she repeated in a clearer voice.

“Ah, manners,” the ancient woman croaked as she presented the mage with an astute grin. “Always in the last place you look. Like stockings.” Her shoulders shook with a hearty laugh at her own joke. “But do not mind me. You have what you came for.”

She turned her back to the intruders and shuffled toward the side of her hut. “Lead them back,” she ordered her daughter, but as Morrigan approached them, her mother stopped and peered at Solona over her shoulder. “Know this, Grey Warden. The threat of this Blight is greater than you realize. Greater than anyone realizes. But, as I said, what do I know?”

By the time the Wardens returned to the expanse of the stone bridge leading into the fortress, dusk had fallen across the marshland. Absent were the many hues of orange, violet and dusky blue typical of a sunset. Instead, they were replaced by varying shades of grey and ebony shifting from the shadows of light smoke to inky black. The battle was coming, and it was coming soon.

The three Wardens had remained silent as they made their way through the swamp, each of them lost in their own dark thoughts. The only sounds escaping their lips were the grunts and cries emitted during altercations with the blighted creatures that had come to claim that part of Ferelden. Alistair seemed especially distraught over the words the witch spoke to him, leaving Solona to wonder exactly what secrets he was attempting to conceal.

She had troubles enough of her own as she clutched the amulet hanging from the chain around her neck. While Flemeth’s mention of Anders and his predicament were distressing, she was most rattled by the witch telling her she had been awaiting her arrival. It wasn’t so much the words the crone used, but more the way she stared into Solona’s eyes, down to her very soul, that was so unnerving. The power the old hag wielded was unmatched, unlike anything Solona ever felt. The young Warden barely managed to maintain her composure in Flemeth’s presence. She only hoped her companions failed to notice.

Once again, the three Wardens found Duncan standing at the central fire, right where he assured them he would be. The first thing he did upon their arrival was direct Solona and Sithig to hurry and don the blue and grey uniforms he retrieved from Senren. Solona gathered hers in her arms and departed for one of the mage’s tents nearby. It took a bit of finagling and time to make sense of the differing pieces of armor and suit up. The leather trousers were a bit tighter around the hips and buttocks than the ones the mage had grown accustomed to, but they didn’t seem to impede her movement at all.

When she was finished and withdrew from the tent, she ran straight into Alistair. He took a step back and scrutinized her for a long moment. He rubbed his thumb and index finger over the scruff on his chin before nodding and presenting her with a smile of approval.

“I like it,” he told her. “It suits you.”

She turned her back to him and lifted the long tails of her tabard then flashed a mischievous grin over her shoulder. “So it doesn’t make my ass look too big?” she asked.

Alistair’s face flushed crimson as his eyes lingered on her behind. He shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and tugged at the front of his scale and leather tunic. Solona knew exactly what that meant. He was attempting to cover the evidence of what her teasing was doing to him.

Maybe he enjoys the company of women, after all. If his interests lay strictly in other men, he certainly wouldn’t be trying to cover up an erection. Would he?

The warrior’s throat constricted with the motion of an arduous gulp before he cleared it. “Maybe a little,” he quipped with an impish smirk. “But the tabard should do a good enough job covering it up.”

Solona pursed her lips, donning a sour expression and dropped the tails of her overdress with a perturbed huff. She supposed it was possible she had been wrong. Perhaps he just liked asses. It made sense if he were same-gendered oriented. Karl had made remarks about her buttocks the few times he caught them bare while she was lying atop Anders’ bed, and he had absolutely no interest in women.

Maybe next time I’ll show him my tits. That should clear everything up.

She nearly jumped from her boots when Duncan cleared his throat behind her. “If the two of you are finished playing, we have important business of to attend.”

Alistair clapped a fist to his heart, prompting Solona to do the same. “Of course, Commander,” the young warrior acknowledged.

“As soon as Sithig returns, I want the three of you to join me at the war table. The king has called a meeting and requests your presence.”

Why in the Maker’s ass would the king want us to be there? He knows we’re new recruits.

She regarded Alistair who stood next to her. His nostrils were flared and his eyes were dark brown once again. Could such an invitation have something to do with him? Something Flemeth said to the warrior resonated with her.

Men’s hearts hold truths they do not wish revealed. Secrets in the dark they keep locked away in the hopes no one will see. See them for who they truly are.

What had the witch meant by that? What secret was he hiding that he didn’t want her to know? Surely it couldn’t have anything to do with King Cailan. Solona frowned as it finally dawned on her that she knew absolutely nothing about Alistair aside from his kind nature and his temper when his hackles were raised. Her curiosity was definitely piqued more than ever, but the sullen expression on her companion’s face told her it was best to leave him alone.

The moment Duncan was out of earshot, her fellow Warden turned to her. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he informed her in a flat tone, already surmising the questions that were swirling around in her head.

She shrugged in a nonchalant fashion. “I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it,” he grumbled.

“Alistair,” she retorted, “You have trouble enough reading the thoughts in your own tiny brain. You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep attempting to peruse mine.”

He grimaced. “Ha Ha. Very funny, Solona.”

Her brow furrowed. He was really upset. He didn’t even make an effort at a comeback or even deign to look in her direction. With arms folded across his chest and tenebrous eyes directed straight, he just stood there, still as a stone. The muscles of his jaw were clenched so tight, Solona half expected his teeth to crack under the pressure. His broad chest rose and fell sharply with every labored breath. He looked as if he were about to explode.

A few minutes later Sithig appeared carrying his large battleaxe across his shoulder. Alistair didn’t even afford the man a glance before stomping away toward the stairway Duncan had ascended earlier. The Avvar peered down at Solona with a questioning frown, and she couldn’t help but think of how out of place he seemed without his usual fur and leather accoutrements. As a Grey Warden, he was intimidating as the void, but to her, at least, it just wasn’t Sithig standing before her.

“Come on,” she told him. “We’re supposed to meet Duncan at the war table.”

“Is that what has Alistair so upset?” asked the large man as the two of them trotted to catch up to their fellow Warden.

“I’m not sure,” replied the mage. “But if I had to hazard a guess…then yes, I believe it is.”

Alistair’s feet moved with purpose as he tramped up the stairway that would lead to the war table. He hadn’t intended to snap at Solona the way he did, but he refused to answer any questions she might think to ask. It may have been wrong, given his feelings for the mage, but he wanted to hold off from telling her about Cailan and his father for as long as possible.

In his entire life, Alistair had only revealed his secret to one person, and he immediately regretted it. His best friend in the monastery called him a liar and refused to talk to him after that beyond their lessons. To make matters worse, he told others. They didn’t believe Alistair any more than his former friend did, but it did make life in the monastery more difficult for the remainder of his time there. Everyone shunned the young initiate, treating him as if he were some sort of leper. He swore then and there, he would never tell anyone again.

The young Warden stopped halfway between the steps and the war table. Standing around the long wooden slab covered in maps and missives was Cailan, Duncan, Loghain, a bald man in mage’s robes, and a Chantry mother. The king and his general were engaged in what looked to be a heated argument while the others stood silently to the side.

Might as well get this over and done with.

As he neared, Alistair began to make out the words being exchanged between the two men.

“I’m sick of this, Loghain. I realize you and my father fought in the war against Orlais, but there is a new ruler there, and we need her help. Don’t you think I’ve asked other countries? Celene is the only one willing to send aid.”

As Loghain shook his head, the bangs of his ebony hair, fashioned into two thin braids, swung like small pendulums against the sides of his battle-scarred face. The abundant lines at the corners of his dark-circled, blue eyes deepened as his lids constricted. He glowered at the king, his indignation in regards to the younger man’s plans apparent.

“It’s fortunate your father isn’t here to see you so readily hand over Ferelden to the nation that enslaved us for nearly an age,” he proclaimed.

Cailan sighed as he crossed his arms over his gold plated chest. “I’m sick of this argument, and it doesn’t really matter for tonight, anyway. So far, Celene hasn’t sent anyone, so we’re on our own.”

Loghain began pacing back and forth like an angry wildcat as Alistair took his place next to Duncan. The young warrior actually found himself feeling sorry for Calian as his brother awaited the old soldier’s next tirade. A moment later, Solona and Sithig lined up at Alistair’s side, and he noticed the mage’s eyes immediately lock on the bald man standing at the corner of the table.

The Hero of River Dane stopped mid stride then turned to face the king. “Don’t you understand? She already has Cailan, and her agents stand in our midst.”

The king pounded his fists on the table. “I’ve had it with your ridiculous conspiracy theories, Loghain,” he bellowed. “Three of the four Wardens standing in front of you are from Ferelden. One’s an Avvar, for the Maker’s sake!”

“That just furthers my point,” the older man argued. “You know as well as I do how the Avvar feel about the rest of us living in Ferelden.”

Cailan straightened his back and his shoulders before lifting his chin proudly in the air. There was an aura of nobility about the man Alistair had not recognized before. He could never command such a presence.

“Avvar or not, this man is Fereldan,” the king said in a calm, yet authoritative voice. “More importantly he is a Grey Warden. And you would do well to remember who among us wears the crown.”

Loghain waggled his head and hunched over the war table. “So what is this grand scheme of yours?” he questioned with an aggravated huff. “Are you still planning for me to flank the enemy?”

“Yes,” the king affirmed as he pointed to a spot on the map. “You will wait here for the signal. As soon as the beacon is lit…” He traced his finger along an imaginary line. “You will bring your men through here and charge the creatures from cover.”

“I will send a few of my men to the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon,” the general said.

“No,” Cailan argued. “We will send our best.” He pointed to Alistair and then Solona. “These two Wardens will light the beacon.” He gave his brother a pensive stare. “I am certain they will see the job done.”

The bald mage stepped in at that point. When he spoke, his voice was high-pitched and creaking, reminding Alistair of that of a villain from a puppet show performed for the keep’s children he watched as a child. “Your Majesty, if I may. We mages can perform this task without even entering that tower.”

“Did anyone ask you, mage?” the Chantry priestess questioned with an acerbic expression. “The King of Ferelden would never risk the lives of his men through the use of your curse. He knows magic is evil. I don’t know whose fool idea it was to bring you and your ilk here, but your job lies on the battlefield.”

Alistair felt Solona shift her weight from one foot to the other as she crossed her arms over her chest. She glared at the old woman. The young mage was furious. Alistair could see it in her eyes as the brilliant blue faded from lapis to grey.

“As I’m sure you hope his body does at the end of this battle,” she seethed.

“I don’t believe anyone asked for your opinion, mage,” the priestess retorted with a sneer.

“Enough,” Loghain interjected before anymore words could be exchanged. “We will stick with your plan Cailan. The two Wardens will send up the signal fire.”

“And what of me?” Sithig asked in his usual polite tone.

The king smiled. It was the first genuine smile Alistair had seen from his brother since his arrival. “You will be with Duncan and I,” he told the larger man. “I would be honored if you would fight at my side, my Avvarian friend.”

Sithig presented Cailan with a low bow of his head. “The honor is mine, son of Maric.”

The king gave an approving nod. “Come then, friend. The battle awaits.”

As the Avvar turned to follow Cailan, Alistair placed his hand on the larger man’s bicep. He couldn’t allow Sithig to leave without saying goodbye. He prayed he was wrong, but he had a feeling the upcoming battle would go exactly as his brother feared.

“Sithig…” he hesitated as those light blue eyes locked on his. “Be careful out there.”

“And you as well, my friend,” the Avvar said with a sad smile.

He felt tears well up in his eyes. Though he hadn’t known the Avvar long, he knew well enough that Sithig was a good man who didn’t deserve the fate that was about to befall him. Being sent to light the beacon could very well save Alistair and Solona’s lives, but Sithig…He would not be so fortunate that evening.

“May the Maker watch over you,” the smaller man told him, nearly choking on the words.

“And may you find Hakkon’s favor in battle,” the other offered with a fist to his heart before pivoting on the balls of his feet and walking away.

It wasn't until Alistair met Flemeth that day that he really began to question certain things about himself. In his previous experiences with the visions, he had thought them to be just that, visions. But with such power coupled with the black tendrils of smoke, he started to realize there may have been something more, beyond just odd imaginings and dreams. Though it still took him a while to admit the truth to anyone, including himself.

He told me that he often questioned how he could negate magic and perform many of his templar duties without the use of lyrium, but chalked it up to being very effective at meditation. I have to laugh at that notion a bit. My husband was brilliant, but his attentions often wandered, especially if given to a task he found tedious. I suppose we all have a tendency to make excuses and give ridiculous explanations for things we don't understand or don't want to see. Alistair Theirin was no exception to that rule.

-G
- 20
- 21
- 22
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