Dragon Age: Between Verses

Merrick had chosen a strange moment to go into shock, Leliana mused.

It was her second favourite time of the night, when she and the Warden sat in the doorway of their tent and talked of things both past and future. All those in the small camp had retired, leaving them to their own devices. To the west the giant figure of Sten stood on first watch with Soris the Mabari hound at his side. Sten seemed to feel a kinship with the intelligent animal, feeling that the wardog could understand him where the rest of Ferelden could not. Leliana knew that they shared something else too – both were big softies when they thought no-one was watching. Perhaps Soris would be a good influence and bring out the man's playful side in time.
In front of the next tent along she could hear the newcomer, Oghren, getting fiercely drunk again. Given what Merrick had told her about the recent events of his life it was hardly surprising. The higher voice of Zevran laughed along with him, jesting about sex or violence – the pair seemed to have similar perspectives on both. Zevran could drink plenty when he wished – Merrick had once got him smashed on Antivan brandy to cement the assassin's loyalty – but he surely had more sense that to compete with the berserker. He was simply whiling away some hours with dwarf until it was time for his own watch. Perhaps he would also sneak a look into their tent, as she suspected him of having done in the past. It didn't really bother her – such a thing was hardly scandalous by her standards, and what Merrick didn't know wouldn't trouble him. It was the talking that was truly private.
Wynne sat inside her tent next to the drunks, her form clearly illuminated by a tiny ball of magic in her hand. She seemed untroubled by the noise, intent upon reading a large book. Probably it was 'The Rose of Orlais', a volume Merrick had acquired some time ago. He had given it to Leliana - probably as a sweet comment about herself - but she had 'loaned' the imposing tome to the older woman as soon as possible.
The fire at the centre of the camp had been vacated by everyone else, but Alistair remained silhouetted against the dying glow. The senior Grey Warden never took a watch, though not because of his unclaimed authority. Awake or asleep, he was always on duty. Should the darkspawn actually find the group at night, Alistair would sense it far in advance of the others even if his mind was deep in the Fade dreaming. Regrettably however, he was also a beacon. The Templar radiated an aura that the enemy could sense like a Mabari following fresh blood. Alistair never strayed to the fringe of the camp if he could help it, although the minute distance was unlikely to make any genuine difference.
In the dark beyond the fire, the glow of Shale's crystals played across her immobile form. The nights passed slowly for a golem with no need of sleep, but Shale was nothing if not patient. She made no secret of the fact that she watched the others for amusement. Thankfully, the return of her memories had softened her a bit, and being scrutinised by Shale no longer felt quite so much like being a bug in a scholar's jar.
Eastwards the emissaries from their growing list of allies had retired to bed, but the sound of crafting could be heard from Bodahn and Sandal's cart. Merrick had found himself an even better sword during his latest excursion, and had requested the transfer of his runes to the new blade whilst doubling the amount of Silverite laced into the metal. His blade and Leliana's had once been twins, identically enchanted in one of his early gestures of affection. He was accelerating away from her now, striving for ever greater heights in preparation for fighting the archdemon itself. It saddened her, for she knew he had not yet chosen whether to take her into that fight. She was a dragon-slayer in her own right now, but it would not have escaped his notice that she had sustained more serious wounds than anyone else  in his elite force – an even dozen at last count. He might yet decide that she was too precious not to let go, and that was a terrible prospect.
Some distance away in the north, the small fire of Morrigan's camp flickered in the night. Thanks to her extremely isolated upbringing, the witch could not tolerate the ceaseless company of others both day and night. She kept her distance in the evening, casting only a few glances their way in which Leliana's bardic eyes could easily read sadness and envy. Morrigan's icy demeanour had melted far too slowly, and Merrick had long been in Leliana's bed by the time the shapeshifter had confessed her true feelings for him. Even now Leliana's mischievous mind could think of an obvious solution to the gorgeous woman's problems, but in truth neither she nor Merrick would share themselves with another. Hopefully it was something that Morrigan understood – it was remarkable that she had stayed after what Merrick had told them and an obsession could turn dangerous. Leliana preferred to think that honour and courage had caused the other woman to remain in spite of the grim tales that the Warden had told.


It was the fifth night since they had put Orzammar to their backs. Leliana had missed the Warden terribly during his long foray into the Deep Roads, and had even worried a little. Yet it had not been a great surprise when he had returned unscathed, bearing almost everything he had been seeking and having accounted for the rest. She had come to expect such feats from the man. What had been surprising was when he had summoned not just her, but all three of the human women to his tent for a private audience.
Once he had gathered them, he had calmly and clinically described all that he had found in the Dead Trenches. The strain on his face had been plain to see. His voice carried a bitter hatred he had never previously held for the darkspawn, his feelings finally beyond deadly duty and into personal wrath. The tale itself had born a clear offer to each of them that they could leave the group if they wished to – indeed he had hardly stopped short of asking them to do so in light of the  danger to themselves. She would have laughed at that if she had not been so horror-struck – there was surely no safer place while the Blight continued its spread.
The grimness had not left him since that night. He had been civil to Oghren, but the charm he would normally have used upon a new member was absent. Although his focus was clear, his distraction had become intolerable for Leliana. And so on the third evening she had dug out the master-worked leathers that she had kept since before she joined the Chantry, the ones that she had worn during her time of vengeance. Especially made to provoke and protect in equal measure, she had hoped to draw a reaction from her lover by surprising him with them. In this the battledress had succeeded – although his good humour had not returned he had certainly renewed his interest. But she could not produce such fine armour without explaining why it had lain hidden in her pack for so long, unused in their more vulnerable early days. Thus she had begun to tell him in detail of the events of her past life, to sing in full each verse of her personal song.

He had listened last night in quiet solemnity, accepting what she told him without judgement or condemnation. He had borne her descriptions of the last heady days of her lesbian romance with neither leering nor distaste marring his features. He had absorbed her tale of the many men of Denerim that had died upon her blade without reproach or horror. Of course, he was in no position to criticise others for massacring a watch of guards, but the disparity between the motives for their past fights filled her with shame. As an elf it might have been considered unremarkable if human death had left him cold, but Merrick was not one to be unmoved by the sufferings of his race's oppressors.     
Tonight she had spoken of even harder things, of her own betrayal and eventual escape. She had omitted nothing of the suffering her companions had endured, feeling that they deserved no less. Yet of her own torture she had said nothing, passing over the week she had spent alone with only a few words. Even so she had seen the rage grow within Merrick's heart, seen the small lines around his eyes tighten in a way only she had learned to notice. Although a warrior at heart, Merrick had a silver tongue and often preferred to resolve an issue with words rather than blades. He had endured a procession of loathsome and contemptible people during their travels, saying exactly what they needed to hear in order to reach the conclusions he wanted. But every act of cruelty and prejudice was felt somewhere, adding to the burden of anger left by a life within an Alienage. There it stayed until Merrick saw fit to release it. On the battlefield he would enter an oddly constrained fury, craving his wrath into the enemy until all lay dead before him. One day some darkspawn – or more likely some human in Loghain's service – would suffer for every crime that she recounted in his hearing.  
She had concluded with the rescue of the other prisoners she had found, unwilling to leave anyone behind in such a place. It had been the first time anyone had called her a hero and their kind words had stuck with her ever since. As she had finished, she had noticed that he had frozen in place, his eyes widening as he sat in silence before her. She waited, but for a long time he did not speak.

"Tell me the last part again" he finally whispered, his voice seeming choked. For a moment she was unable to respond, but the intensity in his eyes left no room for questions. She took in a deep breath, falling into the comfort of the story-teller's familiar role.
"I wasn't going to leave anyone in a place like that when I had the power to free them, so I broke into every room I found. In the last chamber there were three prisoners, two women and one man. I don't really remember the other two very well, except for their kind words. But the elf woman I remember clearly. She had brown skin, and brown hair partly done into braids. I modelled mine on hers, actually."
"She said that I was wonderful, a 'light in a dark place'. She promised that she'd tell her child about me. I think her name was Adaia? Anyway, she made me feel like people really did need me, just like the voice had said. So then we -" but Merrick raised his hand, and she fell silent.
He paused again before leaning into the tent and digging a pair of thin leather boots out of his pack. They were lovingly crafted with decorative vine patterns winding around each foot. He'd had them since before she'd met him, but wore only fully armoured footwear these days. His pack contained many items that were nostalgic rather than useful, often to the point of inconvenience when travelling. Yet it was a reassuring contrast to Marjolaine, who had never borne anything sentimental from one town to the next. Besides, you could never have too many shoes.
"Do you remember that I told you these were all I had left of my mother?" She nodded. "She taught me to fight when I was a child, until my father forbade it. He was afraid I'd bring trouble upon myself if I thought I could just fight my way out again. She was never popular with the humans, and when she disappeared we were frantic. She was missing for days... then one night she returned and told us that the local mercenaries had snatched her off the street without any reason. Apparently an Orlesian human had broken her out."
He shook his head. "After that she wouldn't be stopped from training me. She said that it wasn't possible to keep out of trouble, not when the law was being ignored. We weren't allowed real swords, of course – just sticks and a washboard for a shield." His lips curled into a slight smile at the memory. "She trained me for over a year. She was good, too. And always she taught me that some humans were decent people – even Orlesian she-devils."
He looked up at her, tears misting in his eyes. "After the humans killed her, I almost wanted to ignore that lesson. But it seemed no way to honour her memory. If she hadn't taught me to see them better, I'd never have trusted Duncan when he offered me a sword. Even if I had, there's no way I could have fought my way through that many guards without her training, even with my cousin along." He reached out and gently took her hand in his own. "Her name was Adaia, and she looked just as you describe her."
For a few moments Leliana could only stare, tears welling in her own eyes. Then she broke into a bright, joyful smile. "Do you know, the sisters of the Chantry always taught me that all things are as the Maker wills them? I wanted to believe that, but I'd seen so much wrong I've always doubted how it could be! But to think, that what happened to me gave you more time with her – set you on the path to becoming a Warden, with all that that has meant since the Blight began..." She shook her head in wonder. "It almost makes that week seem worthwhile."
Merrick smiled and nodded, warmth filling his face for the first time in far too long. "I'd never dreamed I had so much to thank you for! Perhaps you are right..." He pondered, and a flash of doubt crossed his features.
Leliana pulled on his hand and drew him closer. "What happened below brought you Oghren. Who knows what the Maker has in store for him? Perhaps he has a great destiny, one that will bring victory and change Ferelden forever?" They contemplated the matter in solemnity for a couple of seconds. Then a loud belch and a chortle of "asschabs!" echoed across the camp-site and they both burst into laughter.
"That truly would be a miracle from the Maker..." Merrick chuckled. His face was bright, the cares of the war banished by his amusement.
She met his gaze. "Promise me you'll talk to him. Tomorrow. He doesn't blame you for what happened and you'll need his loyalty for what's ahead." He nodded in agreement. She smiled coyly. "As for tonight..." She pulled him into the tent and dropped the door flap shut behind them. Within the white canvas walls, fate was not cruel and the world knew no Blight.