Ω spellwoven

Nathaniel furiously squashed down the urge to snap back at his commander, if only because he knew that conversation was a terrible distraction in combat. (And not because he knew that Wystan intended to ignore his advice anyways, the stubborn idiot). If the man would not yield then all the rogue had to do was eviscerate their enemies more quickly, such that Wystan did not have to fight for very much longer. It was a task that was easier said than done, however; Darkspawn were disgustingly persistent creatures, especially when they drew blood. Where one fell, another seemed to take its place, as vile as its predecessor and just as dangerous.

While Justice and Anders battled on – an unusual pair but a surprisingly effective one – Nathaniel focused on swiftly ending any Darkspawn that got within dagger range. He could easily handle any of the grunts, leaving Wystan to get rid of the magic-wielding types, which was plenty in the rogue’s eyes. He would have rather the man fallen back so they could properly defend him, but this would have to do until they were victorious or he could think up an exit strategy. Despite all his combat training, Nathaniel was regrettably not as well versed in escaping combat as he was in starting it, and doubly so when facing an enemy that would chase them down if they ran.

His planning was cut short when Wystan pulled him in, launching a barrage of elemental magic against the forces surrounding them. Not for the first time, he was grateful that the Warden Commander was on their side. He had heard tales of mages allowed outside their Circles to do battle, of course, but experiencing it first hand was something entirely different. Maker help them if the mages ever revolted.

Nathaniel’s awe was short-lived, though, as Wystan’s spell came to an end and the noise he made keenly reminded the rogue how irritated he was with the whole situation. “That was reckless,” he all but snarled, sheathing his weapons so he could sling one of Wystan’s arms over his shoulder, choosing to ignore the man’s question. “I have half a mind to let you walk back in this state. Can you walk with my assistance? We best make haste.” They needed to get him back to Anders and Justice before anything else decided to crawl out of a hole and try to kill them.

“It was necessary,” Wystan shot back, voice made unwontedly terse by the pain radiating out from the crossbow bolt still embedded in his thigh. “We were outnumbered, cut off from our reinforcements... another few minutes of that and we’d have been overwhelmed.”

He grunted as he forced himself back to his feet, trying not to lean on Nathaniel’s assistance too much and failing miserably to do so; as it turned out, he needed the added strength of the wiry, broad-shouldered rogue just to totter back upright. Damn and blast; that last spell had sapped more of his energy than he’d thought. Even the touch of Nathaniel’s arm, pleasant as it was on one level -- Howe was a decidedly pretty man, at least in his Warden Commander’s opinion -- was quite literally painful to him at the moment, a sensation like rough wool dragged across sunburnt skin. That was a symptom of the mana depletion; and it was a minor complaint compared to the other pains. He decided not to mention it, especially in light of the fact that without Nathaniel’s arm, he wouldn’t be able to actually stand.

“And another few minutes of that, and I’d not have had the mana left to light a candle, anyway,” he said, perhaps a shade petulant -- he had saved Nathaniel’s life, after all, not once but twice in the last five minutes. “I had to use what I had, while I still could.”

Honestly, Nathaniel was so growly sometimes; Wystan liked the man, quite a lot, but the constant questioning of all of Wystan’s decisions was wearing. It wasn’t so very unlike the Fifth Blight days in some respects, anyway; back then, everyone had been questioning his decisions, and for different reasons. Wystan hadn’t ever been able to please everyone with anything he did. Eventually, he’d stopped trying.

Well, mostly.

“I can walk,” he asserted, hoping it was true. “Or limp, at least. Might not be graceful or pretty, but it’ll get the job done,” he added, trying for humor. Nathaniel just looked so very good when he was wearing one of those rare smiles... arguably the more precious for their rarity, perhaps, like diamonds or enchanted blades or crystal grace blossoms, and yet Wystan could never resist trying to elicit more of them. 

“It should at least serve a purpose,” Natanael argued, not sure why he had to explain himself. “Doing something because it’s ‘nice’ or ‘fun’ is all well and good, but it doesn’t get you very far. It’s better to do it to improve your skills, or to do your duty.” Or to do as you’re told, was what he didn’t say, if only because the words tasted bitter on the back of his tongue. It was easier to let them go unspoken and unheard amidst the repetitive sounds of falling axes and splitting wood.

The offer came as somewhat of a surprise, Natanael pausing in the middle of setting up his newest log so he could turn and look at Col properly, scrutinizing. Was this some sort of trap? Did Col intend to lure him out into the woods so the other boys could have their fun without being interrupted by their elders? No, that was unlikely. It wasn’t as though the wolfmen had made any effort to protect him when he’d first arrived at the heall, and of all the boys who might try such a deception Col was the one Natanael would suspect the least. He genuinely enjoyed picking snowdrops for no other reason than it reminded him of spring. Not the kind of boy to be trying to catch Natanael unawares with kindness.

It takes him longer than he’d like to answer properly, still rolling the idea around in his head as he reaches for his axe once more. “I… would like that.” The admission is a quiet one, but Natanael’s gaze is certain as he looks back at Col. “I do not see much point in picking snowdrops but I certainly don’t intend to stop you from doing so.” There. A compromise. (And, truthfully, Natanael could think of worse people to go out into the woods alone with. At least Col’s company was tolerable, these days.)

The openness in his expression didn’t last long as talked turned to favourites, Natanael’s brow furrowing once more as he merely shook his head, not seeing the point in debating such a thing but not willing to budge from his position. He had no need for favourites; was it not easier just to eat whatever was put in front of you? What he did not expect, however, was the frankness of Col’s answer to his question, the boy offering up more information that Natanael had expected him to. Shifting awkwardly, he ran his thumb along the grain lines of his axe handle as he parsed the information, considering several answers before settling on, “I understand that’s… common practice, for children born of wolfcarls. Are you forbidden from seeing her again?”

“Not at all!” Col said, in some surprise. Forbidden? What a strange idea! Why on earth would he be forbidden from seeing his mother? It was fairly common, actually, that the boys in the healls would visit family in town. Merely because Col himself never did was no reason to think... his surprise turned to something sadder as he looked at Natanael, taking in the deep furrow of the other lad’s brow and the confusedly truculent set of his mouth. Or maybe it was reason to think so, Col realized slowly.

“No,” he said again, big hands fidgeting with one another in front of him. He’d have preferred to still be splitting the wood, but their chore was nearly finished, the split logs stacked and ready. They’d have to fell more trees if there was to be more wood to cut. “I could go, if I wanted. Or if she wanted.” He shrugged, his face soft and open. Maybe he was making an offering to the other lad. Telling Natanael he wasn’t the only one dragging around a weight of pain, but that there was more than one way to deal with that weight. Or maybe Col was just like that. “She has her life there and I have mine here. It doesn’t seem... like either of us needs that.”

There’d been a time, when Col was younger, that he’d felt differently. He’d wanted to know his mother, to really be her son the way the other children were. He’d had some hazy notion of a sort of warm domesticity, hearth and home, a mother’s arms and a family all sitting down to a dinner together, jostling and laughing. He’d even gone so far, once, as making that trek into the village with the intent of seeking her out. But when he’d gotten there and seen her, he’d been struck all at once by the realization that the harried, tired looking woman was a stranger to him.

Later that night, sitting in the heall surrounded by the other boys and the older wolfbrothers, all of them laughing and jostling as they’d dined, Col had smiled. And he’d never sought out his mother again, nor wanted to.

It wasn’t such a problem – might even be termed a pleasure, in fact – when one’s eager, enthusiastic lover was close at hand. But when he wasn’t… Wystan groaned in frustration, staring up at the interlocking grey stones of his chamber ceiling, trying, without much success, to ignore the throbbing ache of arousal in his groin and just go back to sleep. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t exhausted, after all; they’d had a long day of it, fighting bandits in Amaranthine before making the long trek back to the Vigil. He’d barely taken the time to wash the road dust from his face and hands before falling into his very lonely, very empty bed.

Wystan, Nathaniel had learned, was a man full of surprises.

When he had heard the Hero of Ferelden was a mage he’d been expecting… well, he certainly hadn’t been expecting a man of Wystan’s stature. The mage seemed twice as tall as he was broad, more muscled than many of the soldiers Nathaniel had served with and armed with both steel and magic. Yet despite his imposing appearance, off the battle he was as gentle and patient as an old mabari, nothing about his smile or his booming laugh suggesting he was a force to be reckoned with. Smart enemies knew better than to provoke one Wystan Amell. Sadly, Darkspawn were not Thedas’ most intelligent creatures.

Nathaniel was deeper in the battle than he would have liked, forced to abandon his perch when an Emissary began lobbing nasty spells in his direction. It was becoming more and more difficult to draw his arrows fast enough, their enemies pressing in on them despite Wystan and Justice’s best efforts to keep them away. Even Anders seemed to be struggling, if the lack of complaining was anything to go by, and it was all the archer could do to keep the ranged enemies on their toes.

He was just thinking about shouldering his bow for more melee-friendly weapons when Wystan’s roar startled him, reflexively stepping backward as the battlemage suddenly leapt between him and some sort of unseen danger. Nathaniel heard more than saw the arrow shatter, blocked by Wystan’s shield, and the ‘thank you’ had barely enough time to shape his lips before the crossbow bolt followed its whistling cousin. To his credit, Wystan barely so much as flinched, but that did not stop the flutter of anxiety that clenched at the archer’s chest. This was not good. If Wystan’s mobility was hindered, blood loss and deadly effects of poisoned crossbow bolts notwithstanding, the risk of him being unable to protect himself from a fatal blow increased dramatically.

Naturally, Wystan decided that this was the perfect time to charge forward rather than play it safe and take up a defensive stance. Bloody fool.

“You should fall back! You’ll be no use to anyone if we have to carry you back to camp!”

The sharpness in his tone was belied by the tightness of his expression, worry smothered by a mask of irritation as Nathaniel switched tactics, bow shouldered in favour of a twin set of daggers. Things were about to get messy, but the sooner they cleaned this up the sooner they could all get off the battlefield. “Anders!” He wasn’t sure the mage could hear him but it was worth a try as he charged in after Wystan, united, at least, in the goal of finishing the fight as quickly as possible.

“I’ll be no use to you now if I fall back!” Wystan shot back, not pausing in his forward charge. That arrow had come far, far too close to hitting Nathaniel – and even through the throbbing, white-fire pain in his thigh, Wystan felt the red-fire rage of it. How dared these creatures? How dared they come so close to taking Nathaniel from him? A quiet, rational voice whispered that Nathaniel wasn’t his, not really; but there was precisely nothing rational in charge of the big mage’s actions right now. He was all righteous fury and battle-rage, sheathed in ancient magics.

Distantly, he was aware of Anders elsewhere on the battlefield, casting spells of healing and rejuvenation; the idiosyncratic ‘taste’ of the other mage’s spellcraft was familiar. Distantly, he was aware of Nathaniel close behind him and the fact that the archer had traded in his arrows for daggers, dogging his heels as closely as Jack might. Distantly, too, he was aware of Justice; despite the flesh he wore, the spirit warped the Fade around him just slightly, tangible to a mage’s otherwise senses.

And he was aware, far more viscerally, of the enemies which surrounded them. To one side, he felt a spell being woven; the magic had a slick, greasy feel, foul and corrupted. Blighted. His eyes narrowed and his free hand wove in a complicated pattern as he channeled forth his own mana through the pulsing metal of the sword which served him in place of a staff. A burst of mana draining force lanced out; somewhere nearby, the Emissary screamed horribly and the spell it had begun stuttered and died.

Wystan growled in fierce triumph and pressed his advantage. The enchantments he wore and the mana he had just stolen helped to balance out his own flagging strength, at least enough for one final effort.

“To me!” he shouted, pulling Nate into the close, safe circle of space in his own immediate vicinity. Anders would feel what was happening and back off; Justice, Wystan would have to trust to find his own safety.

The spell which was unleashed was a wild torrent, the culmination of everything he had learned from the bound spirit in the Brecilian and everything he had learned since. A chaotic vortex of elemental fury raged and swirled around the field of battle with Wystan – and Nate, close to his side – at the tempest’s churning eye. Fire, ice, lightning, spirit… all of it was in this spell, unpredictable, random, arcing and spitting and striking each of the enemies remaining, burning them and freezing them.

In the spell’s aftermath, Wystan sagged to his knees, a pained sound wrenched out of him as the crossbow bolt still in his leg sent fresh agony through him with the movement. But the spell, with its heavy cost in mana, had left him scoured out and emptied. His very skin felt raw and flayed and he recognized the signs; he’d overdone it, pushed himself too hard, too far. But he’d had to.

“Is that the only reason to look for snowdrops?”

His confusion made itself plain on his face in his scrunched nose and wrinkled brow, the only real answers he gave to his work companion’s explanation. Did Col really think Natanael was the type of boy to pick flowers? He supposed, begrudgingly, that it made sense if he was looking to court a girl but to what end? The boy must have been a fool if he thought there was any girl in the heall who would give him the time of day, much less accept flowers from him as a gift. (And if he thought Natanael was the type of boy to do something as filthy as try and court other boys then this conversation – and any like it – was done.)

Blessedly, Col did not linger on the topic of his potential love interests, instead commenting rather sentimentally on the significance of the snowdrop’s arrival. As much as he disliked admitting it, it was moments like these where Natanael actually found himself a little curious about the boy who was trying very hard to become his friend. For all his chattering he would, occasionally, slip in something like this which made him wonder what sorts of other thoughts Col had that he was more reserved about admitting. Surely, if he thought as fast as he spoke, he wouldn’t have the time to sit and really consider the things that he seemed to. Such a strange boy, especially for a heall-bred savage.  

Natanael’s soft hum was noncommittal, prepared to accept that the sight of the flowers made Col feel hopeful but not about to add any thoughts of his own about the subject. If the sight of natural order made him feel anything akin to hope he would have had himself checked for a fever. There was nothing to feel hopeful about in this place, except perhaps that today he could enjoy lengthy and satisfying solitude.

But they were off the topic of flowers and onto berries, Col assuring him that the girl wouldn’t mind him sharing her gift with Natanael of all people (to which he couldn’t help but snort aloud). Was Col really that dense? Perhaps that was why he was trying so hard to be Natanael’s friend. Nonetheless, he felt as though he owed Col an answer, as involved in conversation as they were, and so he admitted, “It’s more proper to eat what’s in front of you and not have favourites, I’ve been told. Pickiness is frowned upon.” He bit back the ‘where I come from’, frown reappearing as he grabbed another piece of wood to cut. Searching around for a new topic, he asked, “You said you were born and raised at this heall, correct?”

Col laughed aloud, straightening from his work and pressing a balled-up fist to the small of his back for a moment, stretching backward; his back creaked audibly and he grinned a bit self-consciously. “Do you always need a reason for doing something?” he said by way of answer, winking sidelong. “Sometimes the only reason to do something, I figure, is that you want to and it’s a nice thing to do.”

He put another log in place and was silent for the moments it took to heave the axe overhand and around, thunking solidly into the wood and splitting it handily. There was a reason he often volunteered for this task, even beyond today’s excuse to spend more time with Natanael; he was good at it, and his overlarge, over-strong body was actually an asset. He liked feeling useful. It was very satisfying, and helpful to the heall, too.

He glanced over at Natanael. “If you ever just want to go walking, just because it would be nice to get away for a little while, let me know. I know all the paths around the forest here. We don’t even have to look for snowdrops.” It was a little offering, delicately placed. He knew Natanael likely wanted nothing more than to walk away from the heall and never come back – not that the other boy had anywhere to go if he did leave. But maybe just getting a little distance sometimes would help… and Col knew they wouldn’t let Natanael get out of sight of the heall without someone watching him.

But now it was his turn to crease his brow into an expression of confusion. Not proper to have favorites? Col knew that one couldn’t be too choosy in the coldest depths of winter when there wasn’t a lot of fresh food to be had, only the same stores they’d been eating every day for months, but that didn’t mean one couldn’t still have preferences! What kind of foolishness was this? “Well, that’s just silly,” he decided, shaking his head. “Of course it’s ‘proper’ to have favorites! I mean, you always have to share, and might not always be able to get your favorites, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have favorites!”

Apparently it was going to be one of those mornings.

Natanael could barely keep up with Col’s words, his work partner eager to tell him all the things that had transpired since they’d last seen each other as though if he did not speak them quickly they would leave his mind forever. Once, he had thought the young man to be rather stupid, a savage son of a wolfman possessing nothing but muscle between his ears. As much as he would have enjoyed his initial assessment he’d found that Col was actually quite knowledgeable in many areas, and was just comfortable talking about all of them. At once. It was almost difficult to parse at times, but Natanael was determined to prevail.

(Ignoring him, after all, seemed to only make it worse, so it was better just to participate as little as possible. Also, Col looked like he would snap Natanael in half like a twig if he wanted to.)

“Will we be required to pick the snowdrops?” He had taken a liking to the forests around the heall, making time to learn then as he had once known the forests near his father’s holdings. One day he fancied they might even allow him to hunt in them, once they were confident enough in his skills (and comfortable enough handing him a bow and arrow). Col, though, may be allowed more freedom than he, and it might be worth the boy’s company to venture out into the woods a little further than usual.

Natanael left the comments about food mostly untouched, but was unable to help but sigh at Col’s final words, arching an eyebrow at his companion as he reached for another piece of his own wood to chop.  

“If the girl in the kitchen smiles at you then I believe her gifts are intended just for you. I would not share them if you wish to keep her favour.”

“Only if you want to pick them,” Col answered, grinning. “Sometimes the girls weave them into little crowns or tuck them into the braids of the lads they fancy. If there’s a girl who caught your eye -- or a boy -- you could pick one to give them, I suppose!”

He plopped another log into place in front of him and gave a heave of the axe, splitting the wood in twain. It was good, honest labor; despite the chill which still hung in the morning air, he was beginning to sweat already. Pausing, he rolled the sleeves of his rough-spun tunic up to the elbows. If the sun got much hotter when it hefted itself all the way up above the tree line, perhaps he’d take the tunic off altogether. 

“I always just find it a bit of comfort to see them,” he added. “There’s something nice about knowing spring really is coming back. The days are longer and warmer and everything feels... sort of hopeful, I guess.” His smile was a little sheepish; he knew no one would look at him and expect thoughtfulness lurking in such a big frame, let alone sentiment.  But Natanael was actually talking back this time, which was also somehow hopeful. At first, the other lad had maintained a sullen silence no matter what Col tried... or he’d responded snappishly, when he did. It hadn’t bothered Col, though; he’d just kept smiling and kept talking.

“Rendanson.”

It was hardly the first time his heritage had been wielded like an insult, nor was it going to be the last.  But where Natanael had once sneered at his antagonists because he - unlike them - was going to inherit sizeable and well-managed holdings, now all he could do was scowl and hope that the savage wolfmen didn’t let their trellwolves rip his limbs off. He told himself that he did not fear their retribution, that he only held his tongue as often as he could manage for Rahaf and Thomas’ sakes, but the reality was he had no proof of his father’s innocence to answer the unspoken accusations. Rendan the liar, Rendan the thief, Rendan the torturer, Rendan the conspirator, Rendan the trellwolf murderer. Until he could clear his family’s name he did not have a snowball’s chance in summer of ever being able to walk with his head high once more.

Still, that didn’t stop him from wearing his family’s crest on a pendant around his neck, the snarling bear head a fitting match for his usual thundercloud of an expression. Rahaf sighed every time she saw it, but she’d since given up trying to convince him to take it off. Discarding his family heirloom did not make him any less Rendanson, Natanael had pointed out coldly, and it wasn’t as though the wolfmen would welcome him with open arms if he cast it aside. Moreover, it wasn’t like they were here for pleasure; they were here to work off their father’s debt to the heall, paid for with their sweat and tears because Rendan’s holdings had gone to his greedy neighbours.  

If Natanael was being honest with himself – a rarity, sadly – he did not altogether mind the work. While he was no burly wolfman he was not without his own muscle, and the chores (while mindless) were helpful in clearing his mind. Even more importantly, he could often do them alone or in limited company, which made them somewhat of a respite. Unlike his siblings, Natanael had yet to make himself any friends at the heall, a by-product of his pride in his heritage and his unpleasant demeanour. As far as Natanael was concerned, however, his lack of companions suited him just fine. He didn’t need to “play nice” with the wolfmen, or the gaggle of boys they kept around in the hopes of pairing them up with wolves one day. Natanael’s obvious disinterest in trellwolves only further separated him from his peers, which suited him just fine.  

There was, however, one young man who didn’t seem to take the hint. He was the only person that Natanael had had to actually go out of his way to avoid, his determination to befriend Rendan’s eldest son so strong that Natanael was finding it difficult to resist him. But while Natanael could steer clear of him at meal times and other gatherings there was no getting around it when they were partnered to do chores together, as they were that morning. Natanael tried not to grimace as he adjusted his axe over his shoulder, stepping past his chore partner with a stiff, “Good morning,” that was purely out of ingrained politeness.

Perhaps this time they could chop wood without engaging in mindless chatter.

@spellwoven

Col had traded chores with Isbeorn for this. His size made him well-suited to chopping wood, anyway; and he was too big and too broad to move around the kitchens without feeling like a lumbering bear. Isbeorn, a much more normal-sized lad, wouldn’t be nearly so in the way in the kitchens as Col knew he’d be.

And anyway, Isbeorn had fairly leapt at the chance to trade, even though the menial scullion work to be found in the kitchens was hardly enjoyable for a growing boy with aspirations to be a warrior. Col knew why.

Rendanson.

Natanael was something of an anomaly in the heall. Col had been born to this life; his father, dead these ten years, had been a wolfcarl, his mother a widowed weaver in the nearest town. She’d given him to the heall to be raised among the other boys, raised among the pups, rough and tumble as they were. He wondered sometimes if she missed him; but she’d had other children by her dead husband before him and had remarried since. Her life was full, he was sure. And his had been, too. The heall was a family. The pack was a home.

But Natanael had yet to find his place in it. He wasn’t heall-born. He wasn’t a tithe-boy… or not really one. He hadn’t been given to the heall in hope of making a partnership with a trellwolf, as the others had. He was… well, wergeld, living wergeld. A prize. A payment, not in gold or in blood, but in life.

And it was clear enough to Col, if not to anyone else in the heall, that Natanael was miserable with it. They said he bore his father’s guilt. They said he was his father’s son, Rendanson, and they said his dour manners and sharp tongue were only proof of it. But Col looked at him and thought differently. What reason had Natanael for kindness when he received none? What reason had he for soft words when all he was given were sharp ones? There was no reason for smiles, for warmth, when all the heall had given the young man was scowling and coldly turned shoulders.

So Col had taken it upon his very broad back the weight of everything the heall should have been for the other young man. He was strong. He could bear it all, and would do so joyfully if only it meant that Natanael knew that there was a place for him here.

Grinning broadly now, Col set a new log out before him and hoisted up his axe. A muscular heave and a resonant thunk and the wood fell split, the fresh scent of piney resin flavoring the chill morning air with its bright tang.