literature

Sine Tranquillus ch. 25

Deviation Actions

The-Arkadian's avatar
By
Published:
375 Views

Literature Text

It was the thrum of lyrium’s call and the answering stir of his blood that drew Anders slowly back to consciousness. He could feel warm hands resting against his collarbones, fingers splayed against his skin, beneath the thin worn shirt he wore under the heavy feather-pauldroned coat; feel warm breath upon his face. He opened his good eye slowly and stared up at Fenris, blinking in confusion.

Fenris’ face was lit up subtly from beneath, and Anders realised he was lying with his head in Fenris’ lap as the elf crouched over him. The white-haired warrior had slipped off his gauntlets then slid his bare hands into the wide collar of Anders’ coat, dipping down beneath the neck hem of his shirt to press lyrium-lined fingers to his skin before lighting the brands.

“Love?” he husked quietly, and Fenris stared down at him then let the silvery light die away.

“How do you feel?” asked the elf quietly, letting his hands rest against Anders’ chest for a moment longer before beginning to slip them free.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” asked Anders as he caught Fenris’ wrists briefly. He held Fenris’ gaze for a moment, then closed his eyes and kissed Fenris’ palms, each in turn, before releasing him.

“I am quite well,” rumbled the warrior. “Your healing restored me, though I think you exhausted yourself in the process.”

“I don’t have the reserves of strength I used to have,” sighed Anders. “The magic never lasts long enough; the lyrium just doesn’t last.”

“I do not think it was only the lyrium you were drawing on,” said Fenris slowly. “Just before you fainted, the light from your magic... it was... different.”

“Different? How so?” asked Anders slowly, frowning.

“It was... more silver in colour. A pure white rather than the blue your healing magic customarily is.”

“Silver?” exclaimed Anders. “Are you sure?” He remembered the voices of the healing spirits around him, and himself reaching deeper for the magic. His good eye widened; he pushed himself upright as Fenris straightened. Anders lifted a hand and stared at it. The effects of Fenris’ lyrium had died as swiftly as the light, the power draining away like water but maybe....

He reached inside and felt nothing.

No - wait. Not nothing. There was something... was that... a tiny spark? A faint glimmer, deep within?

He closed his eyes and reached. He was distantly aware of Fenris speaking his name in a questioning tone, but he was too intent on reaching into that place deep inside himself where he could feel the merest glimmer of power. He could feel sweat bead upon his brow; a droplet rolled down his face as his body trembled slightly with the effort, but he ignored the discomfort as he strained to reach that tantalising glimpse of power.

He heard Bethany exclaim, and opened his eyes to see a faint wisp of light dancing upon his upturned palm. It died even as he stared at it, what meagre resources of energy he had already  drained by that small effort; but though he was left feeling empty and weak, it was not like before. He could still feel that place inside where his magic resided; it was merely drained of power - but it was there. Even without lyrium, he could still feel it.

“Maker. It’s come back. My magic finally came back. It’s weak, but - oh Maker, it’s really there!” he said, his voice shaking with heartfelt relief. He laughed - almost an hysterical giggle, and then suddenly he was crying. He felt Fenris’ arms close around him, and then Bethany was kneeling down beside him, catching one of his hands in hers and squeezing it sympathetically and that was okay too because she knew, she understood in a way Fenris couldn’t, even though Fenris loved him, and oh Maker but he was still a mage, he was still him, even if just that small act of pulling magefire from nothing had left him wiped out and exhausted.

It took some time before Anders was able to pull himself back together enough for them to consider breaking camp and moving on. His breath still caught in little hitches periodically as they broke their fast before packing and stowing away bedrolls and gear, but once the initial storm of emotion had passed he was calmer and happier. He had no mana to speak of, but he could at least still feel his connection to the Fade; he kept catching himself reaching subconsciously for it, over and over, just to feel it was there, that it hadn’t slipped away from him once more. Maybe it would just take a little time for the energy to build up again, and in the meantime at least he could use lyrium to top it up. He no longer needed the glowing blue liquid just to feel alive and normal again - he could just take it when he needed that extra bit of power.

Except it seemed his body didn’t quite see it that way; after an hour or two, he found his hands had started trembling, and nausea was welling up inside. He tried to ignore it, but as they headed on deeper into the Deep Roads it became harder and harder; his head had started to ache again as well, making it harder to concentrate. He kept finding himself somehow drifting over towards the veins of lyrium in the walls.

In his current state, it took him a while to figure it out. Of course, he’d been taking the lyrium daily for months now. He couldn’t just stop it dead; by this point, his body practically needed it just to function. He was a healer; he should have realised this. He should have known better.

“Anders,” murmured Bethany as she paused beside him when they stopped to check Anders’ maps. “You’re trembling. Have you... run out?”

“No,” he answered quietly, though he found himself automatically patting his belt pouch as though to reassure himself. “I just didn’t take any this morning. Well, whatever time it was that I woke up,” he amended. “I’m not entirely sure what day this is or whether it’s day or night any more. Bloody Deep Roads.”

“Is that wise?” she asked, looking worried. “Not taking it, I mean.”

“No,” he admitted ruefully. She stared at him and slowly raised one eyebrow, then wordlessly held out a vial.

“Beth, I can’t keep taking your lyrium! You don’t have that much left yourself - what if you need it?”

“Right now, it’s fairly obvious that you need it more,” she said firmly. “Go on, take it - Maker knows it’s not as though having you at full power is going to be a bad thing, now is it? Particularly if there are more dragons around here.” She glanced around nervously.

“Point,” conceded Anders as he knocked back the lyrium.

He hadn’t realised just how the symptoms had crept up on him until they started to receded - the headache dulling to a background throb, his hands growing steady, the ache in his joints easing, his stomach no longer feeling rebellious. He felt less jittery and on edge, too, though that damnable scratching in the back of his mind was still enough to keep him alert and nervous.

“Anders?” asked Fenris quietly as he moved closer, voice pitched low. Even though Anders was well aware that Fenris knew of his addiction, he couldn’t quell the surge of embarrassed guilt he felt as the elf eyed the empty vial still clutched in his hand. Hastily he thrust it into a pocket and turned away, but Fenris’ hand upon his wrist checked him.

“Anders?” repeated Fenris quietly.

“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” said Anders tersely, not lifting his eyes. He could feel Fenris’ gaze upon him but refused to meet it. “Look, the others are waiting; we should go.” He pulled away, and Fenris let his hand fall.

Somehow, the elven warrior’s failure to press the point made Anders’ guilt only the more worse.

“Oh, now this is more like it!” called Varric from somewhere ahead. “Anders, can I have a look at that map again? I think we’ve found our way round at last!”

“Not before time,” muttered Anders as he made his way over towards the dwarf, pulling out the much-creased and folded maps once more.

***

They had indeed found their detour around the rockfall; just beyond the broken rock arch, they found the entrance to what appeared to be some immense, abandoned dwarven thaig, abandoned for centuries. Retracing their footsteps to where they had left Bartrand and his mercenaries took far less time than finding their way around the detour in the first place, and it was only a matter of a few hours before Varric and his brother led the way into the primeval thaig, Hawke and his small band only a few paces behind as the rest of the crew brought up the rear. There had been a joyous reunion between Bodahn and his son Sandal; they now made their way with their small donkey laden with supplies just a short distance behind Anders and Fenris.

As they emerged into a vast hall lit dimly by veins of lyrium in the walls and an indistinct red glow of luminescent mosses, Bartrand let out a long, low whistle. “Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Is this what you were expecting?” asked Varric as they stared up at the lofty vaulting arches and high walkways, the ancient carvings from an age long gone that seemed somehow strange and alien even by comparison to dwarven carving.

“I thought... an abandoned thaig, something old, but... what is this?” said Bartrand in a hushed whisper.

“How did you even know it was here?” asked Hawke, his voice lacking its usual confidence as he stared in awed amazement at the feat of ancient engineering and building that dwarfed them in the looming darkness.

“Old scavenger tales,” replied Bartrand slowly. “After the Blight. A week below the surface, they said, but nobody believed them....”

“Looks like they were right,” replied Varric.

“Make camp here!” ordered Bartrand. “We need to look around.”

They set camp swiftly, and Bodahn set to work with Sandal to prepare the evening meal. The rest of the group spread out slowly in twos and threes to explore the nearest parts of the thaig before returning for the meal.

“I don’t get it. Nothing in this thaig makes any sense,” Bartrand remarked to Varric and Hawke as they ate. “We’re well below the Deep Roads. Whatever dwarves lived here, they came long before the First Blight. But where are the statues of Paragons? I don’t recognise these markings on the walls or anything in the rubble.”

Hawke shrugged. “Who knows how old these ruins are?” he said, mopping up stew with a hunk of dark bread. “Maybe your people were different back then.”

Bartrand snorted as he tore into a chicken leg then waved the bone at Hawke, shreds of meat still clinging to it. “I know enough about our history to know we haven’t changed much. Dwarves have been mired in tradition for many ages. These dwarves may have been unique. If so, I hope they kept their valuables close at hand.” He laughed, a mirthless bark, before sinking his teeth into the chicken leg again.

Talk turned to musings of what they might find then slowly wound down. Watches were set, and gradually people retreated to bedrolls to seek what sleep they may.

Anders found Fenris had laid their bedrolls together, and as the blond apostate stretched himself out to rest, he felt Fenris spoon up against him, one arm draping comfortingly across his hip. He smiled drowsily, and was soon fast asleep.

It seemed only a short while later that Fenris was gently shaking him awake.

“Morning,” rumbled the elf quietly in explanation as Anders sat up slowly. He handed a mug of tea and a bowl of porridge to the still-sleepy mage with a small smile before rising to go seek his own breakfast.

The camp was gripped by an expectant air that morning; no-one dawdled over their breakfast, and in no time at all it seemed bed rolls had been stowed away and the scouting parties were ready to set out to reconnoitre the primeval thaig and uncover its mysterious secrets - and, hopefully, its treasures.

Hawke led their small group off down one of the narrow side routes, away from Bartrand’s other  sellswords and hirelings. They made their way past broken masonry through what might once have been a street; it was hard to tell for certain. The faint red glow of ancient lanterns lit by the Maker only knew what arcane technology or magic beckoned them on.

“Hmm, whatever’s through there seems mostly still intact,” mused Varric as he gestured towards an archway, lit by the crimson glow from beyond. “Think we’ll find anything?” His tone was one of boredom; for a dwarf, he seemed entirely unimpressed with a thaig that must have been ancient even in the early days of Orzammar.

“Bartrand is far more enthralled with this place than you are,” joked Hawke.

“Unlike him, I wasn’t born in Orzammar,” replied Varric. “Believe me, I wouldn’t even be down here if there weren’t likely to be a profit in it. The entire place gives me the chills.”

“You’re not the only one,” murmured Anders quietly.

“I just hope this is going to be worth it,” continued Varric, glancing at the archway ahead.

They descended down a long flight of steps that led to yet another hall, then another, and then a third. A flight of stairs led up from that one into a larger cavern. The entrance was blocked by two immense iron-bound doors; one stood slightly ajar, and they were able to squeeze through one after the other.

A tall flight of stairs in this chamber led up to a high dais; the moment Anders stepped through the doorway he could feel something somehow calling to him from that dais. Something up there was singing silently, and he could feel his blood surge in answer.

“There’s... something up there,” he said slowly. “Listen! Can you feel it?”

Hawke paused and stared at him, then raised an eyebrow at Bethany, who was frowning and shaking her head, distracted.

“Beth?”

“I... don’t know,” she said slowly. “I feel something, but....”

“What do you feel, Anders?” asked Fenris quietly.

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly. “Something that feels almost familiar and yet....”

He led the way up the stairs.

Atop the dais they found a large block of golden stone - perhaps an altar, though to what god they could not have said. Some sort of idol stood in the centre, and the moment Anders set eyes upon it he knew that this was what had been calling him.

“Is that... lyrium?” asked Hawke as Anders drew nearer, drawn inexorably towards it. His blood was singing in counterpart to the haunting, hypnotic threnody that seemed to resonate all through his body, right down to his bones. As one in a dream, he reached a hand slowly out towards the idol.

Red lyrium. He knew it the moment his fingertips brushed the metal; cool and yet somehow alive. “Definitely magic,” he murmured. “Not the good kind either.” He could feel waves of palpable malevolence radiating off the metal even as it sang alluringly to him; he shuddered, enthralled in spite of himself.

“Doesn’t look like any kind of lyrium I’ve ever seen,” remarked Varric.

“What have you found?” called Bartrand from the bottom of the stairs.

“Come and see this, Bartrand!” Varric called back. “An idol made out of pure lyrium, I think. Could be worth a fortune,” he added, as his brother climbed the stairs to the dais.

Bartrand let out a low whistle as he stared at the idol. “You could be right. Excellent find.” He hefted it up with one hand, and Anders had to bite his lip against the urge to cry out, to grasp the idol to himself. It sang to him, maddeningly; he could barely think straight.

He was barely aware of Varric remarking that they should look around further and see what else they might find. He was having to fight the urge to lunge after Bartrand and snatch back the idol; he deliberately turned away, clenching his fists hard around the haft of his staff to still the violent trembling that seemed to have come over him.

A loud, screeching sound caught their attention, and they all spun around to stare at the door as it closed behind Bartrand.

NO!!” screamed Anders. He threw himself down the stairs and pelted at full speed after the retreating form of Bartrand and the narrowing slit as the door swung closed. He flung himself at it as it slammed shut with a dreadfully final clang.

He screamed as he pounded at the door. They were locked in. Trapped.
Comments0
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In