Grey Sky Morning (DARBB Part 2 of 2)
Jul. 22nd, 2013 10:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
brokenhalo89Title: Grey Sky Morning
Word Count: 7663
Rating: M
Warnings: Nudity, sexual content, blood, violence
Fandom: Dragon Age
Pairing: Nathaniel/Anders
Summary: With the disappearance of the Warden-Commander, Nathaniel has more than enough to occupy his thoughts; strangely, the only person he can think of is Anders. More than his lover, Anders was his friend, and Nathaniel finds it difficult to let go of him and move on. Things are only made worse when a missive arrives from Weisshaupt, summoning Nathaniel to the Fortress.
Grey Sky Morning
Part Two
~*~
Resistance had been expected, but nothing could have prepared Nathaniel for what awaited them once they left the port at Cumberland and pressed north towards the Tevinter Imperium.
Their journey, at first, was quiet enough. Fifty or so odd men and women marching through the woodlands with only their footfalls and the clink of their armor making any sound. Suspiciously quiet, Nathaniel had thought, and Bethany had echoed his concern, falling in step beside him with her eyes darting between the trees. “There’s been reports of maleficarum in these parts,” she said, hushed, as though to speak above a whisper was to invite danger. “We should keep our guard up.”
“Look behind me, little girl. We’ve a small army. I did not bring these men for their charm and good looks.”
Bethany smiled. It was small and tired, and it reminded him that she had gotten as little sleep as he had. She was a courageous girl, and a stubborn one, and he could admire those traits. Still, she prattled on about danger as though Nathaniel were truly so dim as to believe they would reach Weisshaupt without incident. He fully expected an attack, but when it came, he was surprised by it. He hadn’t expected such heavy resistance, or such powerful magic, and when they were finally done and the mages that had ambushed them lay dead or dying, nearly half of his force was decimated.
“We should have brought more mages,” Bethany said.
Her pointing out of the obvious did little to improve Nathaniel’s mood.
“Yes, that seems the perfect solution,” Nathaniel snapped. “Add more mages to the mix and let them slaughter one another. I’ve no intention of causing more destruction than your kind already have.”
The way Bethany looked at him reminded Nathaniel of how Anders had once looked at him. Tender, wounded eyes with more than a hint of fire and indignation. He understood he was a difficult man to get close to; Anders had told him it was easier to hold a thorny bramble and not be cut than it was to love Nathaniel Howe.
So be it. He had no desire to be loved, and less desire to be coddled by some mage girl.
Bethany looked away from him and further up the woodland path. She gripped her staff tightly, but Nathaniel could see her fingers were trembling. It was only then that he noticed the blood at her shoulder, the ragged tear in her skin and robes. She noticed his eyes on her and shrugged with her good shoulder. “One of your men was clumsy with his sword,” she said. “I guess that proves that my kind aren’t the only ones capable of hurting.”
“The apothecary---”
“No need,” Bethany interrupted. “I’ll tend to it when we make camp. It might be a curse, but it has its uses.”
“I meant no offense,” Nathaniel said.
“No,” Bethany said. “Of course not. Men like you rarely ever mean offense. I have no desire to be your friend, Nathaniel, but don’t take your pain of losing Anders out on me.”
She left him on the path in stunned silence.
~*~
Weisshaupt was an impressive and imposing sight. It seemed to go on forever, jutting into the sky like broken teeth; teetering on the edge of the cliffs as though it could topple over at any moment. But no, of course it couldn’t. It was the bastion of the Wardens, it was their stronghold and the cornerstone of their Order. It was the most fearsome and awful place Nathaniel had ever seen; and yet it was also the most awe-inspiring, the most beautiful.
The wind was sharp; the snow blinded them. Still, Nathaniel pressed on. They were too near to stop now. He would speak to the First Warden -- if he wasn’t too busy with politicking and filling his pockets with ill-gotten coin. If so, Nathaniel had no doubt the philandering fool had left someone worthy in his stead.
They had set out from The Keep with more than fifty men, and they reached Weisshaupt now with only fifteen. Nathaniel regretted that their losses had been so high, but there was no getting around it. They had known the danger would be terrible, and the odds of them surviving the trip slim to none, and still they had agreed to accompany him. That Nathaniel lived was miraculous in and of itself. As they’d reached the Imperial Highway, they had been ambushed by a band of rogues, and he had taken an arrow to the side. Bethany’s magic and the apothecary’s herbs had managed to save him, but he still couldn’t move without pain, nor could he draw his bow without crying out.
He was useless, essentially. Stripped of his weapon and his claws. Nothing more than a wounded animal searching for some kind of peace. Whether that peace would be found within the cold stone walls of Weisshaupt, or when he met the amber eyes of his lover, Nathaniel had no idea. But it would come, and he would go to it gratefully.
By the time they mounted the steps leading into the fortress, it was well past sunset. They were ushered inside by half a dozen grim-faced men with beards and war axes across their backs.
“The First Warden will meet with you in the morning,” one man explained. He seemed to be the eldest, gray-haired and thick in the middle, with deep lines carved around his mouth and eyes. “We will escort you to your rooms.”
Nathaniel was relieved. The last thing he wanted was to meet with the First Warden when he was so exhausted. He had a feeling he would need to keep his wits about him when meeting with the man; most likely he would bring up his and Anders’ closeness as a way to gauge Nathaniel’s intentions and commitment to the Wardens, and if that were the case, Nathaniel needed rest and time to prepare. It was a difficult thing to render yourself emotionally distant. But he would not be made a fool of; he would not be made a shameful spectre of his former glory like his father had been.
As they walked through the halls, Nathaniel listened to the quiet murmurs of awe and veneration from his men. No doubt they were impressed by the grandiosity of it all; the arched ceilings, the fancy sconces burning on the walls, the lush and ornate rug under their dirty boots the color of wine, the statues of Wardens lining the hall, their stone eyes cold and hard on their backs.
Funny, it was difficult to tell the statues from the men who escorted them. Nathaniel had always been a grim man, but even he had more levity than the old men who shuffled ahead of them.
<i>Sometimes I wonder if you even know how to smile</i>, Anders had said. Teasingly, softly against Nathaniel’s lips. Nathaniel remembered smiling, and having his teeth kissed.
He pushed the memory aside. It did him no good to remember a boy who no longer existed. Whoever Anders was now, he wasn’t the boy who had kissed his teeth and wrapped his thighs around Nathaniel’s hips. . . Though Nathaniel wondered if he wasn’t still there somewhere. Beneath the burn for justice and vengeance, beneath the blood and destruction and the cry for revolution. Perhaps he was, perhaps he was small and frightened and clinging desperately to the same memories Nathaniel shoved away.
It hurt his heart to think of Anders lost and frightened.
Nathaniel couldn’t risk thinking of him that way. The First Warden would want blood, and Maker forgive him, Nathaniel would give him what he wanted..
~*~
<i>Please do not follow me.</i>
Nathaniel stared into the fire, letting his mind drift to a time where he had traced freckles with his tongue and curled his fingers against a warm, pliant, needy body. If Anders hadn’t wished to be pursued, all he had to do was lie low. All he had to do was disappear and make himself into a ghost, a memory that haunted the edges of Nathaniel’s mind. Instead, he had made himself a revolutionary, he had made himself a murderer and a heretic, and all choice had been stripped from Nathaniel. Anders would have to pay for his crimes, one way or another.
If the Templars caught him first, he would be made Tranquil. Nathaniel had no doubt of that. He was a far better tool to them, alive and docile, than he would be dead. Were he executed, his death would only show mages that the Templars feared him, the Templars could be fought and could be <i>beaten</i>. If one man with tired eyes and a tired smile could strike fear into their hearts, what might the mages of Thedas be able to accomplish when united with the same burning desire to be free?
They would make an example of him. A promise to all mages who broke their chains and rose up against their Templar masters that they could be broken.
Nathaniel prayed he got to Anders first.
~*~
The Warden-Commander had once told him about a man by the name of Riordan, who had wounded the Archdemon and given her and Alistair a chance against the dragon. The man, when asked if he had ever been to Weisshaupt Fortress, had replied: “Only once. And I do not hope to return. They are bred by the winters, there. Cold and hard.”
Nathaniel could see that the man had been right. The First Warden was an old man of imperceptible age with a long white beard and thick dark brows that furrowed over his eyes. The eyes themselves were bright, startlingly blue; like someone had pressed ice hard and deep into them. Nathaniel was not a boy, and he had never been one for superstitious dread or childish fright, but he cowered under the old man’s stare. He carried the winter inside of him, and Nathaniel had not been bred for the cold.
“You are the Howe boy,” the First Warden said. His voice, like his eyes, was terribly cold. Nathaniel thought he could almost feel the chill of it against his throat, tightening like a vise. He looked down at the stone floor, pretending to be in reverence when in reality he was only frightened of the old man.
“Yes,” Nathaniel said. He wasn’t sure what title to address the old man with. He settled with a quiet, “Ser”, and kept his head down.
“This apostate boy,” the First Warden continued. “Who destroyed the chantry in Kirkwall and set Thedas to burning. . . You and he were close?”
The word ‘close’ was said with emphasis, cold and sharp like everything else in the Anderfels. Nathaniel didn’t flinch. He promised himself he wouldn’t, that there would be nothing worse than letting the old man see his vulnerability. He would make himself of stone and ice, and he would meet the Warden’s eyes.
Nathaniel looked up. “Yes, Ser,” he said.
“And yet you let him flee,” the First Warden said. “Why is that?”
<i>He wanted to be free</i>, Nathaniel almost said. <i>What right did I have to keep him prisoner?</i>
Instead, Nathaniel said: “We did not know where he fled to. We intended to mount a hunt for him, but our Warden-Commander disappeared shortly after and we were without proper guidance for some months.”
The old man snorted, like Nathaniel had made some kind of joke. “You mean to tell me that your senses were tethered to your Commander? You seem a bright enough lad, surely you could have hunted the boy yourself, or seen your men mounted in earnest and set to purpose. Are the Wardens of Ferelden so helpless?”
“No, Ser,” Nathaniel said. His voice was tight and hard, his jaw jumping as he pressed his teeth together.
“Not much can be done now,” the Warden sighed. “Your foolishness has unleashed an abomination on the land. When it comes to mages, a soft touch is never good enough. You will hunt this apostate, you will find him, and you will do what you should have done when he first ran.”
Nathaniel waited. He counted the heart beats between the First Warden’s words. One, two, three, four. He kept waiting for his heart to stop, for it to be too much; but it kept beating, and Nathaniel kept waiting.
“You will kill him,” the First Warden said. “I trust I’ve made myself clear on this matter?”
“Yes, Ser,” Nathaniel said. The winter was inside of him now, cradled sharp and harsh between his ribs. He never flinched. “Perfectly clear.”
~*~
“You shouldn’t have to hunt him,” Bethany said.
Nathaniel wasn’t sure how she’d gotten into his room. He could’ve sworn he’d bolted the door when he’d come in hours before. It was just another reason why he shouldn’t have gone cheap on the inn; the locks were too lightweight.
“This isn’t about fair,” Nathaniel said. “This is about duty. I took the oath knowing what it meant. Not one of my better moments of judgment, to be sure, but I still made a vow.”
“When does it stop being about duty and honor?” Bethany asked. “When do we actually get the chance to let it be about something more? When can we just love someone?”
He looked at her, and from the way she stepped back and looked away, Nathaniel knew he must have looked harsh in the low light. “Never,” he said. “You should know by now that we’ll never get the chance to be more than what we are.”
“I don’t believe that,” Bethany said.
“Believe what you want,” Nathaniel sighed. “I have a mage to hunt.”
~*~
There was word along the Highway that an apostate fitting Anders’ description had been seen heading towards the Imperium a few weeks prior. Nathaniel didn’t know what Anders hoped to find in Tevinter, but if he’d run there, Nathaniel had every intention of following. He’d never been to the Imperium, and he found it a confusing place with twisting alleys and grim, gothic designs. The buildings seemed sharp enough to tear open the sky. The people were dressed luxuriously, walking about the town with their elven slaves in tow.
Nathaniel wanted to wring their necks.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Bethany whispered. “It’s so... big.”
Nathaniel didn’t fault her for her lack of vocabulary. There honestly wasn’t a better word to describe Tevinter. Big, dark, looming; like a storm cloud had taken the shape of a city and still thundered and towered over the land. He hated the place, felt it on his skin like a heavy cloak, and he wanted to be gone from it. As soon as he found Anders, he would make for the road and do what needed to be done. If the guard of Tevinter had any issues with his particular brand of punishment, he would tell them to take it up with the First Warden.
He doubted they would.
For most of the day they wandered the city, asking after Anders. Nathaniel was met with cold stares and silence. Bethany seemed to receive a warmer reception, if only barely. One woman told her that a man matching Anders’ description had been in the tavern the previous night. “He seemed like a good man,” the woman said. “But troubled. He kept mostly to himself.” She looked at Bethany closely, suddenly suspicious. “You don’t mean to hurt him, do you?”
“No,” Bethany said. “We mean him no harm.”
A necessary lie; perhaps it was one that Bethany needed to tell herself.
After that, they received no more information. The sun was sinking below the buildings, and Nathaniel rented them room at an inn far finer than the ones they’d been forced to take shelter in along the roads.
Two months since he’d met with the First Warden at Weisshaupt, and he had nothing to show for it. Anders eluded him, remaining a ghost that slipped through his fingers. Nathaniel should have been frustrated, but he felt more relieved than anything. He thought of Anders soft and warm under his fingertips, and he wished that he would stay hidden forever. He wished that he would find the freedom he sought, that he would find some town to live in for the remainder of his days in quiet simplicity. He hoped that he would find someone to kiss the lines from his forehead and smooth his hair back behind his ears.
He hoped for it so desperately it ached in his chest.
If nothing else, Anders was exceptionally good at disappearing when he wanted to. Despite what had happened in Kirkwall, he still remained a phantom. No small feat considering how aggressively the templars hunted him.
There were footsteps behind him.
Nathaniel sighed. Bethany had slipped into his room again, most likely to try and reason with him to give up his hunt for Anders as though he had a choice. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from chastising her. She had a good heart, and her intentions were equally as good, but her persistence and willful ignorance were grating on his nerves.
His breath rushed out of him when fingers moved his hair from his neck and lips touched his ear. “Nathaniel,” the stranger whispered, and he was not a stranger at all.
<i>Anders...</i>
His honor and duty were cast off like so much extra weight. He understood he should have grabbed the man, he should have given him a quick, merciful death and carried his body back to Weisshaupt to lay before the First Warden. If not that, then he at least should have demanded Anders explain himself. Why had he run? Why had he not contacted him in all the years he’d been gone? Why had he destroyed the Chantry and pushed Thedas into war?
All Nathaniel could do was find him in the darkness. His body was as he remembered, soft and firm and warm. His mouth tasted the same. He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth the way Nathaniel remembered; which meant he had found a good spot, the <i>right</i> spot. Of his face, Nathaniel couldn’t say. It was too dark to see him clearly. But they had never needed the light before. They were made from the darkness.
Nathaniel kissed the lines from Anders’ forehead and smoothed his hair back behind his ears. Everything inside of him cried out for the man; not for his end, not for <i>an</i> end to what they had been and what they had become, but for <i>him</i>. He needed to be closer, close enough to melt into him, close enough to feel Anders’ pulse on his lips and between his fingers.
They fell back against the bed. There were no words. No apologies, no demands, no whispered promises or sweet lies. There was just the two of them; hot, needing, lips and tongue pressed together, hips aligned, muscles trembling.
Anders whispered his name, and Nathaniel slipped between his thighs. He could remember the dusting of freckles there, and he traced his fingers over them blindly. He did not have to see to know they were there. He did not have to see to know Anders was smiling. He did not have to see to understand this was goodbye; the one he had been denied, the one Anders had been unable or unwilling to give him.
For a time -- a moment or an hour or an eternity -- Nathaniel was inside of him and he lived on the end of Anders’ breath. For a time Anders was the entire world, and Nathaniel was lost.
And later, when their breath was slow and their sweat cool and their bodies twined together, Anders asked him: “What happens now?”
Small, frightened, <i>tired</i>. Nathaniel wondered how long he had been running. How long he had been searching for that distant shore where he could find his freedom. He wondered if that freedom even existed, or if it had been the dream of a boy who no longer existed.
He should have said: <i>Now you pay for everything you’ve done</i>. Or perhaps: <i>Now I give you freedom.</i>
Instead, Nathaniel pressed his lips to Anders’ brow and whispered:
“Now you run.”
