Dragon Age: Progeny Ch. 34

Alistair knew Soraya was alive, but her appearance would give anyone – including him – pause.

The blood soaking her clothes and smeared on her pale skin stood out like ink on snow. Her lids were closed, her limp, crimson-stained hand curled in his. Only the barely perceptible, but steady, rise and fall of her breast reassured him that she still breathed.

Dark bruises colored the sides of Soraya's neck, and Alistair recognized the long shape of fingers. There were other signs of her struggle with the Knight Commander – livid scrapes on her elbows and arms, split and swollen lips. He forced himself to inspect the wound just below her breastbone, and his jaw tightened.

Alistair glared at the lump beneath the bloodstained indigo coverlet three paces away, wishing Cullen were still alive and whole so he could beat him to death with his bare hands.

Perhaps sensing the anger that tightened his muscles, Soraya stirred, murmuring wordlessly. Alistair quieted his rage, soothing her with tender words and running his fingers through the blood-spiked hair at her temple.

"Here."

He looked up at the sound of Morrigan's voice. The witch stood at his side, holding out a dark red templar cloak: Cullen's.

Alistair balked with a small scowl, loathe to wrap Soraya in anything that had belonged to the Knight Commander.

"It will help keep her warm," Morrigan insisted.

He relented, taking the garment from her slim hands.

"She's so cold," he worried, tucking a fold of crimson wool over Soraya's bare legs and covering the bloodstained shift.

"She'll be all right, Alistair." A surprising tenderness paired with her insistence.

"I don't understand," he murmured. "Why isn't she healed?"

Morrigan answered in a low voice. "Soraya is gravely injured, and it took all of Methys' strength to call her back to us."

He lifted his eyes in appeal. "Can't you heal her?"

The witch's face fell in apology. "You know that is not my area of expertise, Alistair," she reminded him softly. "I can mend small hurts, but… not this." She cast her gaze toward the doorway. Worry tightened her lips and hardened her eyes as she murmured, "We need to get her out of here."

"You'll get no argument from me," he muttered, turning his attention back to Soraya.

"Where is Zevran?" Morrigan hissed. She stalked over to the door and leaned out into the corridor, searching for the Antivan. It seemed to Alistair that she welcomed the opportunity to disentangle herself from an uncomfortable conversation, and the rogue was as likely as good an excuse as any other.

A small pair of hands entered Alistair's vision, helping him cover Soraya's shoulders. Slowly, he turned his head, meeting amber-and-moss eyes. They belonged to the tall, slender child who had entered with Morrigan. Her hair fell like ebony blades across her forehead, almost obscuring delicate brows and those unsettling shape-shifter's eyes. Tucked behind delicate, round ears, it fell thick to her shoulders, curving up at the ends.

He realized he was staring when the girl gave him a small, tired smile. He smiled back.

She was the very image of Morrigan, except for that smile; what was rueful or mocking in the witch, was perhaps reserved and slightly impudent, but friendly in the girl.

So, this is my other daughter, the one I made with Morrigan, the one who is a vessel for the captured soul of an Old God, he thought, watching as she tenderly tucked the collar of the cloak up around Soraya's bruised throat. Funny, she seems no different from any other little girl … except for the fact that, only moments ago, her eyes glowed like twin suns and she called Soraya's spirit back from the Fade. No. From Beyond the Fade….

Alistair raised a hand to rub at his eyes, scrubbing down over his jaw and chin as he released a ragged sigh. I had almost forgotten about the existence of magic, its power over life and death. For so long, it has been locked away to rot in prisons like this one.

He held the child's gaze a moment longer. "Thank you," he told her in a voice softened by gratitude and humility.

She tilted her head to the side with a tiny frown. "For what?"

"For bringing Soraya back to us."

The girl's smile broadened, warm, open and friendly, gripping his heart. In that moment, he realized that he didn't want Morrigan to disappear once again into some Maker-forsaken wilderness, not without letting him get to know their daughter at all.

The girl met his remark with a little shrug. "Urthemiel opened the door; it was her choice to walk through it."

"Urthemiel?" he echoed, and then he understood: She had spoken the name of the Old God.

"She must love us very much," the girl said, thoughtful, and Alistair realized that the experience had left her just as awed and astonished as him.

"I do," Soraya responded in a raspy, broken voice, her eyes opening briefly as she reached out to take the child's hand in hers. Methys clasped the mage's pale fingers, holding them tight against her chest.

"Brave Methys," Soraya whispered as her lids closed again.

"Methys?" Alistair echoed.

"I'm named for my grandmother, Flemeth. Well… sort of." The small, thoughtful frown returned.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked softly, wondering if it was possible that she somehow knew, that she felt the same irrepressible tug on her heart that he felt on his.

"No sign of Zevran," Morrigan snapped, having walked up on them on silent feet. Judging by her dark glower, Alistair saw that she did not approve of where this discussion with her daughter was going. "We should go. We'll find a healer downstairs."

"Can you move, darling?" Alistair asked softly in Soraya's ear.

"What do you think?" came the wry, if faint reply.

Alistair gathered the mage into his arms, one arm sliding beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She whimpered once as he lifted her, her forehead resting against the side of his neck, one arm limp against his hip, the other curving against his chest.

"Come on," Morrigan said, gesturing toward the door. "We need to hurry."

As they followed the apostate out of the Knight Commander's chamber, Alistair felt a small hand tug at his sleeve. Methys looked up at him, her eyes bright, if weary.

With a small, shy smile, she whispered, "I know who you are."


Zevran met them as they descended the stairs to Fort Drakon's ground level. He halted abruptly on the landing midway, going rigid at seeing Soraya in Alistair's arms.

"Did you find a healer?" Morrigan asked, stepping down ahead of Alistair and Methys, obvious in her intent to form a buffer between the two men. Alistair didn't see the need, even if Morrigan did.

The Antivan glowered, then grimly shook his head. "If there are healers among the mages here, they are in sore condition to do much about Soraya's. Starved, beaten, neglected. She's only moderately worse off."

Morrigan sighed through her nose, jaw set as she considered their options. She turned to look over her shoulder up at Alistair. "Where do you plan to take her?"

"The palace," he answered. "It's close by."

The witch's glowing gaze was a mixture of disbelief and contempt. "She won't be safe there," Morrigan warned. "How long will Anora wait before she sends someone to finish what the Knight Commander—"

Alistair felt his chest tighten, his face go as rigid as iron. "She wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't she?" the witch drawled, sardonic.

Zevran bristled visibly, glowering. "He's not taking her anywhere, if I have anything to say about it."

"This isn't the time for debate, Zevran," Alistair said, adopting the resolute tone he reserved for the palace, the nobles and his wife. He hoped it would be marginally more effective on the assassin. When they got Soraya to safety, with a healer at her side, then he would gladly take the Antivan on in any place of his choosing – in a battle of words or swords – be it the Deep Roads or hell itself.

"She wants to be free, Alistair," the rogue reminded him quietly. "How many times has she said it?"

"She's in no condition to travel," Alistair countered. "Do you want her to be free, or dead?"

"Morrigan's little waif can resurrect her again," Zevran said, jutting his chin in Methys' direction.

The child shot the elf a withering glare that brought her mother to mind. "It doesn't work like that," she said in a tired voice, frowning. "Besides, I don't think I can cast a single snowflake."

"You're depleted," Morrigan told her daughter softly. She reached out and smoothed her daughter's hair, reassurance in her touch, concern etched in the line of her mouth and drawn down brow. "I'm surprised you're even conscious. What you did was no simple feat."

"So, we'll find some lyrium," the elf interrupted in a sharp tone, revealing his growing frustration. "By the Maker, this place is full of templars. One would think lyrium would be as plentiful as beer in a tavern."

"I'm not giving my daughter lyrium," the witch flung back at him, drawing a line and inviting the Antivan to cross it at his own peril. "She's a child!"

"And you," Zevran scoffed, his lip curled in disdain as he regarded the tall, dark-haired apostate. "What sort of mage are you that you can't heal her yourself?"

Morrigan's dark brows knit over narrowed eyes, and it appeared to Alistair as though the perturbed witch was contemplating two options: strangling Zevran with her bare hands or making him explode into a thousand gory pieces. She usually reserved that particular spell for darkspawn, but Alistair had a feeling she'd make an exception in Zevran's case.

For a moment, Alistair debated egging her on.

"Hey!" a voice piped up from Alistair's elbow. Methys' small, freckled nose was wrinkled like a growling mabari's as she gave the Antivan a glare of pure loathing. "You leave my mother alone!"

Soraya added her gravelly, uneven voice to the argument. "Will you just shut up and get me out of here?"

Methys' face crumpled, and Alistair thought that, like overtired children sometimes do, that the girl might begin to cry. He saw Soraya's features twist with immediate regret.

"Oh, lovey, I didn't mean you," Soraya rasped in apology.

Morrigan placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder and assuaged her concerns. "She wasn't telling you to shut up, darling," she soothed, then spared a glower for man and elf. "That was for His Royal Stubborn Highness and the Antivan Menace."

Shaking his head, Alistair took the lead, witch, rogue and child following him down the stairs.

Behind him, he heard Zevran mutter in rueful admiration. "She still knows how to shut us up."



Just as the storm had slowed from a violent downpour to an incessant, heavy mist, the mages' exodus from Fort Drakon had slowed from a river to a trickle. Halos of light formed around torches, lanterns or the glowing orbs mages used to see by, revealing the most bedraggled of refugees.

They moved slowly, some physically supported by Zevran's rogue forces or Alistair's palace guards. The able-bodied had already left, and were on their way to the ferries that would carry them to the Amaranthine Ocean. What remained were the weakest among them and those who aided them.

Guardsmen had started removing the dead from the fort, mages and templars, and Alistair regretted their poor timing. Hushed whispers rose into murmurs, and then an ominous rumbling, like the thunder that still rolled across the hills, distant and sullen.

Angry shouts preceded the brilliant blaze of an immolation spell as it sailed across the hazy, dark courtyard to strike at the feet of the templars as they stood braced against the wall. Palace guards and rogues ducked, crouching in the mud and throwing up their arms to shield their eyes. Despite the impressive roar and light show, the flames quickly dissipating in the dampness.

A sudden fear that they might not be able to leave, or that they might have to fight their way out of Fort Drakon, gripped Alistair.

"Please! Stop!" Alistair called out. Seeing a tall man carrying what appeared to be a dead woman through the crowd, people stepped back, giving Alistair a clear path. But the angry mutter continued to grow.

"They're not so beaten down that they can't cast spells," Morrigan said, smirking. Her fingers tightened around her stave, as though fighting the temptation to set the templars aflame herself.

"This is going to turn into a riot if we don't do something quickly," Zevran warned.

"Let them exact their revenge; the templars deserve it," Morrigan snarled, then appeared startled when a small hand tugged on hers in protest: Methys'.

"We are not templars," the girl bit out. "We're better. We have to show them, so they know it. So they'll always know it."

Morrigan seemed startled a moment by her daughter's unexpected sentiment, then she rolled her eyes, relenting with a sigh. In a voice more proud than exasperated, she told Methys, "Oh, hellfire. You're beginning to sound like Soraya."

His palace guard had never gone up against a mob of irate magi, and looked to Alistair for guidance. Judging by the dark looks they wore as they glanced from the abused mages to the sullen templars, they shared Morrigan's stance on the matter.

Alistair expelled a sigh. He didn't want a bloodbath; he wanted to get out of here. Now.

He needed a diplomat, one who could calm the building furor. Preferably, one who knew how to talk to these mages.

"Raya," Alistair said in the mage's ear. "Can you help us?"

Her eyes opened, and she pulled in a deep breath, as though she had just wakened from a deep sleep. She blinked, looking up at him, reacting to the angry voices around them. Apprehension wrinkled her brow as her eyes cast about, assessing their situation.

"Alistair, help me to stand." She pointed to an upraised platform several paces away, a site used to discipline prisoners as an example to the others.

He bit his lip, hesitating. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Just for a moment."

He acquiesced, climbing up a set of wooden stairs onto the platform, gently setting her on her feet and helping her to stay that way. She sagged against him, as though she had no strength in her limbs.

Slowly, Soraya raised her hands, palms out, fingers spread in a gesture beseeching calm.


"Say something," Zevran prodded.

Soraya's heart faltered. What should she say? What could she say? So many had suffered, died. What words would not seem hollow? There was no comfort for those who lost someone they loved, for dignities stolen by brutality.

She took in a deep breath, and every hurt revealed itself with painful clarity. Words could barely escape her bruised throat, and every joint and muscle ached as though an ogre had twisted her like a rag doll. The wound just below the base of her breastbone throbbed and bit. Her burned wrists offered a counter melody to the dirge of pain her body sang. The Cuffs of Andraste no longer clung to her, binding her magic; upraised, burned and suppurating skin now encircled each of her narrow wrists. She also knew the drumming, incessant headache of depletion; there wasn't enough magic left in her to summon a healing spell. That must explain the disconcerting void within her.

"Raya?" Alistair's voice was edged with concern, drawing her out of her misery as he pulled her closer. His arms braced hers, lending her support, helping her to remain upright.

Soraya rallied what little strength she had, willing herself to stand, to speak.

"Brothers and sisters," she croaked, every muscle rigid as she struggled to raise her voice. She could not be heard over the din, and turned pleading eyes to Morrigan. "Will you speak for me, Morrigan? I can't…"

The witch nodded, and then slammed the end of her stave into the sandy, wet soil at the edge of the cobblestone pathway. A long, low rumble of thunder echoed throughout the valley, shaking the ground beneath their feet. Soraya nodded at her friend in approval, who offered a faint smirk in reply.

"Hear me!" Morrigan commanded, giving everyone a moment for their searching eyes to find and follow the tall, dark-haired apostate as she ascended the stair to join Soraya and Alistair on the platform.  

"I speak for Soraya Amell, Magi, Grey Warden and Champion of Ferelden!" She pointed at Soraya with a long, slim arm, her face fierce in the glow of the gem that capped her stave.

"Magi!" someone sneered, audibly spitting his opinion onto the ground. "Where was she while our kind were being rounded up and slaughtered by templars?"

"In hiding, like any mage with half a brain!" Morrigan snarled back. There were grumbles, and Soraya suddenly worried that things had gone from bad to worse.

Morrigan extended her hands, appealing for calm, for quiet. After a moment, enough mages had acquiesced for her to continue. "For too long, mages have been valued only when it is convenient for those who are not magi. They are content to keep you imprisoned, 'in storage' until the time when you are needed, and hunt you like animals if you dare seek freedom."

Soraya felt a smile spread across her face, and Morrigan caught her gaze, offering an acknowledging nod. With a smirk and a wicked glint in her raptor's eyes, she purred, "And you thought I didn't learn a thing about oratory from our bard friend, did you?"

Murmurs of assent rippled across the crowd. "We fight their battles, heal their wounds, and yet they still fear and hate us!" one woman shouted in a voice both bitter and wounded.

"They have forgotten that without your aid," the witch continued, lip curled in disdain, "the Blight would have overrun Thedas and destroyed all they deem precious."

"And so we will leave Ferelden and find a home of our own, never again to be chained or manipulated by those who seek to use our powers for their own gain!" a man bellowed as he strode through the crowd, all heads turning toward that clear, rousing voice.

Soraya slid slowly to the wooden planks at her feet, Alistair's careful arms around her as he sank along with her.

Shouts of agreement now resounded throughout the courtyard. Soraya watched as people parted to admit a tall, broad-shouldered man in mage robes. A gold hoop glinted from one ear, his wet hair bound at his nape.

"We will leave them in peace, so long as they leave us in peace," the man continued as he swung up the stair to stand in front of Soraya and her companions. "And if one day they seek our aid, we will grant it … on our terms."

"And if the templars come for us again?" someone shouted from the crowd.

"If they dare seek to bind us in chains or imprison us behind stone walls, we will answer…" The mage's tone was laced with implicit warning as his hands cupped the air. Without a single word, a tiny flame coalesced, swelling to a churning, writhing ball of fire. He flung it at a heavy cart left near the gate, and the cart exploded, bits of burning wood raining back down to sizzle on the sodden earth. "… with fire!"

"Not only is he a gifted speaker, he's a gifted mage, as well," Morrigan said, struggling to be heard over the roars of approval.

"Go now," the man urged, pointing toward the gate. "The boats that will carry you away from Denerim await you. Freedom awaits you!"



The crowd slowly began to disperse again, heading down the ramp toward the gate. Alistair's palace guard began rounding up the templars, herding them back into to the keep.

"They'll be held in their own dungeon until I figure out what to do with them," Alistair told Soraya as they watched them file past, his arms firm and warm around her shoulders. She felt a strange commingling of alertness and numbness to her surroundings; she smelled the rain-soaked earth, torch smoke, Alistair's unique scent paired with battered leather armor. But she barely felt her fingertips, her legs. It was as though they were as heavy as iron ingots, immoveable.

The blond mage with an earring grunted, then turned to face Alistair, looking down to where he sat, holding Soraya. "If nothing else, make sure they remain there until the mages are safely out of Ferelden. It will take several days to find out if they escaped the Circle Tower."

Soraya heard the grin in Alistair's voice. "I think that can be arranged."

"Sorry for buggering up your speech," the mage told Morrigan. He smiled broadly, and Soraya saw flashing teeth even in the dim torchlight.

"That's all I wanted to say, anyway," Morrigan responded. "I'm no orator, obviously."

"I think you did well," the mage assured her.

"Anders, what are you doing here?" she heard Alistair say, his voice conducted through the back of her head where it rested against his chest.

"A beautiful redhead came to the estate to fetch us," the mage replied. "I've always had a soft spot for redheads. And brunettes. And blondes." He winked at Soraya.

"Maker!" Alistair hissed in disapproval, no doubt finding levity and flirtation, no matter that it was merely meant to put Soraya at ease, inappropriate. She felt Alistair stiffen, and knew that if he were a mabari, his hackles would have risen.

The mage got down on one knee, dark eyes calm, the corner of his mouth upturned as he joked to Soraya, "And what happened to you?"

"You should see the other guy," she replied. By all the Spirits of the Fade, how she hurt. "Do you have lyrium?" The voices around her were becoming as fuzzy as her vision. She saw the mage's face clearly, but all else was a blurred nimbus. She had summoned strength she did not have, and every fiber of her body was in open rebellion now, demanding rest.

Anders wrinkled his nose at her. "You don't need lyrium, love. You need a healer. Luckily, I just happen to be one."

Soraya released a shuddering sigh of relief. "The Maker smiles."

"What are you waiting for?" Alistair snapped. "Get on with it!"

"I know you hurt and are very tired, dear lady," Anders told her gently. "But can you wait a moment? I want you to be awake for something rather important."

"What's that?" she asked him as he carefully tucked the cloak around her shoulders, obviously hiding her bloodstained garment as best as he could.

"I don't think I can make Alissa wait a single moment longer than I already have, do you?" He jutted his chin over his shoulder, smiling. "She's just over there, waiting for me to call her over."

Alissa?

Soraya struggled to sit up so she could see where the mage was pointing. Just a glimpse, she told herself, to convince herself that this was not a Fade dream and a demon was not tricking her. The days that had passed since her separation from her child seemed more like months. No. Years. She felt as though she, too, could not wait a heartbeat longer to see her daughter, to hold her and know that she was unharmed

Several paces away, she saw figures walking against the tide of evacuating mages. She recognized Deynah first, tall and straight-backed, flanked by Leliana and a dark-haired, somber-faced mage she had not seen in a decade. Jowan?  

The gladness that lifted her heart at seeing her old friend surged higher when she saw the small, cloaked form walking at his side, a tiny hand lost in his.

My siluer!

Soraya's mouth opened, her lips moved, but no sound passed over them save for a whimper of longing. She turned her face back to the blond healer, and only then realized she had reached up to clutch his sleeve.

"Somehow, I knew you'd feel that way," Anders grinned, patting her hand. She released him, and he rose, motioning for his companions to approach.

Leliana came forward first, a look of relief and joy washing over the bard's face at seeing Soraya. The small, slim form holding the bard's left hand pulled slightly ahead, tugging the hood from her cape to reveal tousled, honey-colored hair.

"Mamae!"

Hearing her daughter's voice, Soraya felt her eyes sting with tears. All she could do was stifle a sob in answer, willing them to hurry; each step that carried them across the courtyard seemed to take a lifetime.

The girl broke free from Leliana's grip, a large shadow coming to trot at her side.

Rontu?! Soraya began to weep. Surely, this must be a Fade dream, even though Alistair's arms felt real and warm enough, his voice urging her that it was all right, not to cry.

Jowan, still clutching Alissa's hand, took the lead. When they finally reached the foot of the platform, he scooped the girl up into his arms and lifted her into the air, planting her feet on the wooden planks a few steps away from her mother.

The child stopped as though halted by some unseen barrier, wide-eyed and gulping at her mother's startling appearance.

"Mamae?"

Soraya's lip quivered as she beheld her daughter. Had she really grown taller? Her silver eyes – so like her own – were anguished, her lower lip trembling. The mage glanced down, saw that the cloak had slipped from her shoulders to reveal her bloodstained garment, her hands bathed in it, her arms streaked in crimson up to her elbows. "It's all right, siluer," she insisted in her broken voice.

Anders bent to speak softly in the child's ear. "Go to her, pup, but be gentle."

"She's all bloody," the girl squeaked in a small, frightened voice at the edge of sobs. "Is she dying?"

"No, no lovey," Anders answered, low and soothing as he put his arm around her shoulders. "She's going to be all right. I promise."

Alissa walked forward a step, then two, then sank to her knees in front of her mother. Silver eyes met in silence. Soraya reached out to smooth her daughter's damp hair away from her face, Alissa giving a small gasp and pulling away, startled by fingers stained with blood.

"Shh," Soraya murmured, smiling as she felt smooth, soft skin beneath her fingertips, and her lip trembled. This was no Fade dream. This was her daughter, her Alissa. And she was safe and free. The Knight Commander would never hunt them or hurt them again. "It's all right, siluer, my little fawn."

Alissa leaned forward, her thin arms sliding around Soraya's neck and capturing her in a tight embrace. "I missed you, Mamae," the girl whispered, and her little body quaked as she began to cry.

Soraya rocked her, back and forth, gently, slowly, wordless, enveloped in the warmth and scent of her daughter. Pain faded to a dull ache, unimportant. She wasn't even aware when Anders began to chant softly beneath his breath, sending her to sleep as he coaxed magic to mend her wounds.


"I've done what I can," Anders announced almost a half hour later, withdrawing his hands as the light of healing magic faded. He rubbed absently at the stubble on his lower jaw, staring down at Soraya as though wondering what to do next.

"What do you mean?" Alistair asked sharply, watching as Morrigan folded the cloak around the unconscious Soraya's shoulders again. Alissa, wide-eyed and fearful, clung to Methys – and Alistair wondered if the pair knew they were sisters – who leaned her head against Alissa's, offering her comfort and reassurance.

"The wound is closed, her organs mended, but it will take time for her to recover," Anders answered with a shrug, nonplussed; a King's anger would not change hard facts. "Even I cannot replace blood loss, Majesty; her body must do that on its own."

"But she'll live?" Zevran asked. Alistair had almost forgotten about the Antivan.

Anders nodded, but his frown was puzzled. "She's got the will, that's for certain. I've never seen anything like this before. She should be dead."

Morrigan gave Alistair a circumspect look, her lips curved in a small, knowing smile.

The elf turned to Alistair. "Put her on the damned boat," Zevran demanded, scowling.  

"There is no way she can survive the journey in this condition, your majesty," Anders warned, protective of his new charge. "She needs rest, and medicine to restore the blood she has lost."

"But all of the mages are leaving," Alistair reminded him, surprised by the desperation in his voice. He didn't think he could bear to lose her again, whether to injury or a ship that would carry her away from Ferelden.

The blond mage was quiet for a moment, his eyes moving between Soraya's still form and Alissa's worried eyes, then sighed. "I'll stay," Anders volunteered.

"You will?" Jowan asked, his voice rising a full octave in his astonishment. "Of all the mages I have ever known, you want freedom above all else!"

Anders offered an exaggerated shrug. "Like you said: A fortnight in a cramped hold with fifty grumpy mages? Thank you, no," the mage chuckled. "Besides, I think I'll wait until all the moronic infighting is over and they figure out how to run this paradise of theirs."

"I'm going," Jowan affirmed softly. "To build this paradise of ours."

Anders' shoulders shook in silent laughter. "Maker, help us all!"