User:GabrielleduVent/Amarina 1

Fate, apparently, really did not like her.

That really was the only reason Amarina Surana could come up with. Either that or someone thought it was hilarious to yank her out of her comfortable hole and drag her around the world. Well, if that was the case, she wasn’t appreciating it one bit. And whoever was getting the laugh out of this was going to pay.

People were hastily moving out of the way as an irate elf marched through, an irritated look on her face. An alert mabari hound trotted behind her, his eyes intelligent and his ears perked. Perhaps it was the coldness with which she held herself, or perhaps it was simply that there was a very long sword on her back, that made people move out of her way. Her facial expression clearly said that the elf was not in a good mood, and the way she walked told them that if people did not get out of her way, she’d simply walk over them. People simply judged – perhaps wisely – that it was better to just hop out of the way rather than demand her to walk with a little more decorum. If Amarina had been in a normal mood, she may have noticed; but as she was in an extremely foul one, she simply had not paid attention.

It was bad enough with all the fame hoohah that had trailed her around like a bad smell post-blight. She had politely declined to become the Warden-Commander and had promptly returned to the Tower as soon as she could, only giving short farewells to her cousin and her friend. She had smiled awkwardly at Zevran’s lurid promise to visit her, and then came back to her home as fast as her legs carried her. All she wanted was to finally sleep in her own bed, in her own room – she never got around to actually living in her room, and she vowed that she’d be damned if she left the Tower again before she spent a good month doing nothing but sleeping in her own chambers – and go back to her life with books and pens. Honestly, was that too much to ask? She didn’t think so.

But apparently some cosmic forces did. It had been six, seven years after the blight, and she had been summoned to Amaranthine a few times to train the new recruits, but otherwise she was left to her own devices. Unencumbered by duties that entailed a Senior Enchanter, she happily became the hermit, rarely leaving the Tower (if ever) and staying in her room most of the time. People left her alone, some out of respect, some out of fear, some out of awe. It suited her, either way. Eyzrian would come visit once in a few years, when his job as a bann allowed him, and sometimes Zevran would pop his head in out of the blue to say hello. And that was that.

Until a month ago, when Solaryn and Eyzrian came to the Tower, armed to the teeth, and yanked her out of her hidey hole into the wide open world that she really wasn’t interested in. She had been less than pleased when the two showed up at her bedroom door, shoved her sword in her face, and cajoled her into coming. When Eyzrian handed her Spellweaver, she had stared at him as if he had grown an extra set of head and three pairs of arms.

“What is this?”

“That is a sword.”

“I know that. Why are you giving me this?” She placed her blade on her desk, then sat down on the bed, arms crossed defensively. Her Enchanter’s Robes rustled gently about her legs as she sat down. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“We have a mission in Kirkwall. We want you to come along.”

She nearly jumped. “Absolutely not!” She nearly yelled. “Are you two out of your mind? I’m done. I’ve done my duty.”

“You’re a Grey Warden. You swore an oath.”

“And I fulfilled my oath! We defeated the Blight. I restored the Tower. I even headed out to Amaranthine to train new mage recruits! I’ve done enough, you two. Leave me alone.”

“We can’t. We need you.”

“No, you don’t. You’re perfectly capable of taking care of any mess you deign to tackle, even just by yourselves. Leave me out of this, Ez.”

“We can’t. It should concern you the most. Remember Anders?”

Amarina sat back down again, looking pained. “That apostate mage? Of course I do. He once tried to swim across Lake Calenhad by himself. Much good that did.”

“He blew up the Kirkwall Chantry. The Knight-Commander tried to annul the…”

“I know what happened there. Wait.” She frowned. “Are you trying to tell me Anders started all this?”

“We aren’t trying. We’re just telling.”

“I… see.” Amarina swallowed. “And what does that have to do with me?”

“You’re a mage.”

“I didn’t recruit him,” she retorted. “We’re all under the same treatment, Laryn. It’s not like Anders was discriminated, you know. But he just went ahead and blew stuff up. That’s not the Circle’s fault. Andraste’s holy flames, I’ve felt the same. But I didn’t go blow the Chantry up, did I?”

It was no use, in the end. Laryn was silent, but Eyzrian was fairly persistent when he had his mind set on something, and well, he had his mind set on pulling her out of her hole. So she had pulled out her armour, strapped on her sword – everything needed new holes, apparently sitting and doing nothing but reading had done wonders to make her thin frame even thinner – and then she was yanked out of the Circle Tower before she could make another protest. Thankfully she had remembered Jasper before she had departed the hold.

She made her way to the Gallows, careful to hide her training. She didn’t really look a mage anyway, with light elven armour and her sword on her back. Anyone who saw her would have thought her a warrior or perhaps a rogue, although she was a little too heavy-footed for rogue work. Her dark hair danced about her ears, and she might have been beautiful, if not for the scowl on her face. This entire trip had been nothing but one annoyance to the next, which had been topped off with an old acquaintance drinking in the bar instead of doing his duties.

Amarina squeezed her fist, releasing her frustration before she took it out on someone. What in the name of the Maker was Alistair doing in the Hanged Man? They had spent so much time and energy setting that blond fool on the throne, and what does he do? Run off and drink his misbegotten sorrows into the bottom of the ale barrel. As if he had it so badly that everyone else’s problems looked trivial. As if he was the most pitiful, miserable man on Thedas. She shook her head. She was thanking all the deities that may or may not exist for allowing fate to at least not see through with that little mishap. She shivered. What had possessed her to think Alistair as possibly a romantic interest? She clearly had no taste back then.

The Gallows came into the view, still menacing and still daunting, flanked by what seemed to be an excessive number of Templars. A strawberry-blond-haired Templar – knight-captain? Perhaps? – stood, clearly in charge, but he wasn’t the one questioning. He was looking through the sheaf of parchment, and just as he rolled the parchment up with a crinkle, Amarina stopped her feet.

Oh Maker. Was this ‘pick-on-Amarina’ day? Why, on why didn’t she bring her helmet?

Cursing her stupidity, she went forward anyway, doing what she only could do; go forward. Her head was buzzing. What was she supposed to do? Pretend that she didn’t know him? Say hello? No, that won’t be a good option, they didn’t exactly part as good friends. Keep a cold countenance? That might work… She also needed an excuse to be here. Saying that she was trying to bring Anders to the headman’s block might garner some favour from the Templars, but that would surely scare the apostate away like a rabbit.

She came up to the gates before she preferred to. “State your business!” boomed the young Templar who stood in front of her. She wondered if she’d be cut down if she told him that she was a mage. Maybe. He really didn’t look the type that could be reasoned. Rhyme and reason had long fled before they had even seen this man.

“I’m a Senior Warden from the Fereldan Order of the Grey Wardens,” she said coolly. “I am on a mission to investigate the effects of the raw lyrium that the Champion of Kirkwall brought back from the primeval thaig. Let me pass.”

“Where’s the proof that you’re a Grey Warden?” The Templar shouted. Amarina looked up at him, and was about to reply, when the older Templar stepped forward.

“I know her, Joris. You can leave this to me.”

“But, ser…! We-“

“I said, I’ll take care of this.” With that, the older man effectively blocked any protest Joris could make. He stepped forward. “Warden.”

“Hello, Knight…” She paused. What was he now? Knight-Captain? Knight-Commander? Whatever he was, he was no longer that whimpering man at the bottom of the stairs. He seemed calmer than the last time she had seen him, but she could still see that his gaze lingered on her. Well, now she could see it, after seeing Alistair go goo-goo eyed at Solaryn for a good year and more. She could tell when a man wanted a woman, and she was seeing it right now. She had no idea how to respond to it, though. It was rather obvious that Cullen hoped she would not notice it, but there was such a pain in his eyes, as if he was secretly hoping that she’d notice it and then berating himself for hoping. She had no idea what to do, so she gently touched his arm with her gloved hand. He flinched.

Yep. It was officially “Pick on Amarina” day.

Cullen, as it turned out, was a Knight-Captain. He escorted her into the Gallows, wordless, walking beside her as if he was her shield. She had not changed much, he noted wearily. Time had been kind to her, and she was just as he had remembered, with her dark hair and her silver eyes and a small pale face. He could tell she was in a bad mood, from the way her mouth was set, but could not tell why; but it wasn’t directed at him, so that was, at least, a relief.

Amarina walked, looking around at the mess Anders had managed to create. There were large pieces of bronze everywhere, and a curious looking red statue in the middle. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.

“That was the late Knight-Commander Meredith. She-“ he had to stop speaking, for the elfmaid next to him had made a sharp turn to the left and began to walk toward it. “I suggest staying away from it, Surana. It’s pure lyrium.” The mabari barked, but ran after his mistress. She extended her hand slowly as she got near it.

Nothing happened.

She turned. “It’s a stable form, Knight-Captain. I think Knight-Commander’s body stabilised it.” She walked past it, and up the stairs into the Gallows itself. Cullen followed. It was always like this, back in Ferelden; Amarina would run off to do something new, and he would always be worrying after her. When other mages shunned him, she did not, and when other Templars thought him a fool – perhaps he was – she had simply shrugged it off. She really was the only one who had not given any concern for the animosity between Templars and the mages and had treated him for who he was, not what he was.

“You aren’t here about the lyrium, are you?”

Amarina stopped. So did Cullen. She looked up at him; no guilt in those eyes, just simple curiosity. “As a matter of fact, no,” she said slowly. “I just didn’t think it wise to state my true purpose there. I don’t think Ser Joris would have taken it lightly.”

“And what is your true purpose?” What was this deceit? Why was she doing this? Was she an apostate too? Oh Maker, he really didn’t want to bring her in on those charges.

“My Order is searching for Anders the Apostate.”

“Why?”

“He murdered several Wardens before fleeing Ferelden. We have our own brand of justice, Knight-Captain.” That, they probably did. Perhaps far harsher than what society deemed necessary. Grey Wardens were respected throughout the land for their sacrifice and prowess. They were prideful people; they would not let their fellows’ lapses go that easily.

They continued to walk in, the mabari hound trotting behind them. “You have a dog?” Cullen asked, feeling like a novice Templar again.

“I don’t have him, exactly. He has me.” Despite the foul mood, she smiled. “I found him when the Blight first started. He’s been with me ever since. He’s been a good friend. I certainly get into enough scruples.”

That, she probably did. She really lacked what people called common sense. Which was probably why she had no qualms talking to him. He led her to Meredith’s room, where she riffled through documents, pulling out anything that had to do with the apostate. After shutting the last cabinet, she looked at the pile on the desk. It was not an amount that could easily be copied. “May I borrow this?”

“Borrow?”

“It’s not exactly an amount that I can copy in one sitting, Cullen. I’ll just read through it then bring it back.” She pulled off a silver ring that adorned her finger. “I’ll leave this in exchange. Will that work?”

“I… suppose.” What was going to be the harm if she was going to bring it back? And he knew she would. He nodded, wanting to touch her slender neck as she bent her head, trying to find something to bind the documents together. Her hair parted as she looked around, showing a very pale nape. Andraste’s sword, why did she have to come here? She was refreshing all the memories, all the temptations…

“Where’s First Enchanter Orsino’s office?” She was oblivious to his discomfort. She usually was oblivious to others’ reactions to her. She seemed aware now that he had affections for her, but he had a feeling she still would not know if he had not blurted it out on that terrible night, back in Ferelden. And even then, she had looked utterly baffled, as if he had just confessed that Uldred had turned into a giraffe.

Cullen led the elfmaid to Orsino’s office, where she again riffled through the stacks of papers. After picking out the pertinent ones, she bound that stack with a large clip, then turned around.

“I think I’m done.” A smile. “Thank you, Cullen.”

Argh.

“I’ll bring them back within a week. I promise.”

Of course she would. Cullen decided that he’d make sure he’ll never see her again. She was far too much of a temptation for him still now, like a glass of finest Antivan brandy for a recovering drunk. Eight years and still pining after a mage. He shook his head as he followed her out of the Gallows, watching her go. Her gait was quick, and she walked with purpose, as always. She soon disappeared in the throng of people, swallowed by the taller humans going here and there. Cullen stood, feeling as if an old, old wound had been ripped open again.