#cdhurricane

He bites the inside of his cheek long enough until the tightness in his throat passes and resumes the work of the knife in his hand. Cut apart the skin from meat, then from bones. There’s almost no fat. Neatly slice the meat in long strips. Rinse it in water until the blood isn’t there anymore. Dry it, add some herbs, and put it into a pot over the fire. Wait. His pouch with herbs is getting lighter by the day. Special blend, picked in the forest. His cooking won’t taste the same when he runs out of it.

Another small thing that adds to his silent misery. Because he’ll miss it like he misses that distinct air and noises of the clan. 

No one bothers him when he sits alone by the fire, curled over with his knees up, chin on crossed arms. He’s glad. He needs a moment to think.

Last week felt like a fever dream. 

Mad dash through the forest so full of magic his skin itched with it. Stepping into a Dalish camp, the only thing that brightened his mood even for a little while. Meeting creatures that he only heard about in passing stories. Stumbling upon a curse. Finding a way to the lair of werewolves through levels of ancient ruins full of animated corpses and spirits. Sentient and talking werewolves. Lady of the Forest and Zathrian. 

Frey presses his forehead over his arm, breathing slowly through his mouth. 

Zathrian. 

He felt his pain when the Keeper talked about the origins of the curse. He felt his anger, an old wound that never really closes over to turn into a scar. Zathrian hadn’t let go of his sorrow of lives lost and he wonders if this was what kept him alive for so long. Because the Keeper was old, very old. And Frey knows that what he did was right, that ending the curse with Zathrian’s life intertwined with the spirit he once summoned in his grief was the wise solution.

But he forced it.

He forced the Keeper to give up on his revenge. For the good of his people. For the clan. For their future.

But why does it feel like he killed any bright future they had?

The Keeper is the clan's heart and he had a hand in demanding a sacrifice of life. It was right but why does it feel wrong? 

Zathrian’s First is eager but so young.

No, not the First anymore. 

Lanaya became the Keeper the moment Zathrian’s life ended. Still, it is a bitter thought. To lead a clan when being inexperienced with the position could be a disaster. He hopes it won’t.

He didn't notice when Zevran sat beside him. Humming quietly under his breath as he stirs bubbling stew so it doesn’t stick to the pot’s bottom.

“You seemed far away.”

Frey’s aware of the opening without Zevran asking him straight about his thoughts. He can easily change the subject if he wishes so. Or say what’s on his mind. He chooses something in between.

“I wish for Keeper Marethari’s wisdom. She’d know what to do.”

“Your clan leader?” 

Frey nods. 

“Is she like the one we had a pleasure to meet?” 

The curiosity in Zevran’s voice makes him look at him properly. He hasn’t talked much about his Keeper or the clan. That Zevran wants to know more about him, even if tentative about his words, uncoils the tightness in his chest.

So, slowly he starts to tell him about his Keeper. Former Keeper, his mind oh so helpfully supplies, but he ignores the bitter pang of longing and focuses on other details. He’s speaking quietly enough that Zevran shifts to sit closer to him, their arms almost brushing while they breathe. 

Frey tells him a story about one harsh winter, when the food was scarce, people weakened by the cold and illness and how Marethari’s leadership and magic kept them from losing more than they would lose if not for her decisions. He respects her and it must be clear to Zevran with how he speaks about her. 

But Frey doesn't tell him the most recent miracle she performed, how she saved his life from the Blight, how she fought for him when he wanted the pain to just end. Not now, he can’t tell him about it now. Not when it’s still fresh, months later. The flesh wounds can scar over but the one in his heart is still bleeding and the memory of his friend, his vhenan lost, abandoned, is just too much. So he keeps silent about that, masking the sudden sorrow with another little story, just to keep himself away from thinking.

If Zevran notices the wistfulness that keeps sneaking into his voice when Frey talks about his past life, he doesn’t say anything.

Meanwhile, the stew is ready and the camp’s alive with voices when the party gathers around the fire to eat. 

He listens to them talking, Zevran a warm presence at his side when he joins the conversation. Frey sees how Alistair keeps sneaking the pieces of carrot bread to the dog and grins at him sheepishly when he notices Frey watching. Leliana’s gentle lilt mixes with Morrigan’s sharper voice and it’s a background noise he’s used to by now. He stares at the fire, spoon scraping at the remains of his meal in the bowl.

Closing his eyes briefly he lets himself be lulled by the atmosphere - warmth of the fire and body next to him, smells of the food long gone, sounds of his companions.

It isn’t the same as what he’d known all his life. It’s different. But it isn’t as bad as the silence of his own mind that he sometimes finds himself in.

He still isn’t sure what he should do with different. 

In one simple, misunderstood word, Adrius would think of the snowfields as breathtaking.

Described in such a way, as they cannot seem to pick up their feet high enough to wade through snow. Conversely used, when they reach the forward camp, and from the peak at where he stands, Adrius can see the spread of a frozen lake, trees caught in time, before him. Of course he had seen snow before, such as the lighter, fluffier stuff in Haven only months before. 

But there was something different, with how the Emprise du Lion seemed to lay before him. No, not  in the way red lyrium jutted out, bleeding red over pure white, no matter what Dorian would argue. Adrius could say, with a certain amount of confidence, that the snow seemed otherworldly. Sparkling, even with the sun gone for another day.

Like there was something wound beneath the ground, as they settle in the camp for the night. It wouldn’t be the first time to consider that veins of lyrium were not six feet below them, making for a show. Or even that the rifts created some phenomenon that others could not quite realise. Whilst he was not blessed with magic, Adrius could feel the thrum of it in his arm, where the mark lay. But here? Amongst the snow and the cold and the fallen towns? His anchor was positively alive.

Idle curiosity has him shove his entire arm into one particular lump of snow, just outside his tent. It melts upon contact. Fascinating.

Sleep does not greet Adrius for some time, as the wind picks up, as soldiers march. From what he picks up from the voices outside, their arrival had not gone unnoticed, scouts seen along the path. Dorian sniffs in his sleep, rolling over. Adrius soon forgets about the soldiers trudging through snow, as he follows Dorian with a smile, curled up against his back. Warmer there, and the cold just disappears into an idle thought. 

When dawn breaks, Adrius is up, ready, hands raised to cover his eyes. Incredible, the first word that passes through his mind, as he’s suddenly hyper aware of heat. Sun reflecting off the snow, throwing light where it wasn’t necessarily needed, and the soldiers were sweating. Not a cloud in the sky to break the incessant pressing. 

Almost like the Breach was just another figment of his imagination, as Adrius couldn’t quite see it. Too much light, burning his eyes, his skin. Where they were, there was no true cover, ruins of abandoned towns giving little break. In Haven, the sun hadn’t quite touched the land like this, and they had been high in the mountains. Perhaps, that was just Ferelden as a whole, where the clouds offered protection. Adrius hadn’t realised how much he missed Ferelden, until he stumbled down the path laid out before them. 

Sticking to trees and shadows, their way forward was slow and careful. Eyes scan the skies, looking for something, anything, that would suggest breaking the incessant sun. He’s almost tempted to ask if magic would be enough to change the weather, but has to catch himself. That would’ve likely only inflamed the situation, in all likelihood. Dorian was none too pleased with the weather, likening it to a summer in Qarinus, whatever that meant. 

Eventually, they reach the great frozen lake. Glitters in the sunlight; oddly enchanting. Adrius doesn’t deny himself a chance to crouch by the edge, reach forward, fingers brushing along the ice. There’s cracks threaded through layers, and he swears he sees something beneath the surface, that flashes and disappears. But it continues to dance, just out of sight. A trick of the light, having him try to keep up.

“Elfsblood River.” At the voice, Adrius looks up in confusion. Cassandra looks remarkably awkward, then, shifting from foot to foot. “The Orlesians are far from subtle.”

Adrius sniffs, rubbing a hand under his nose. “This is the Dales, too. Perhaps they had a warped sense of humour.” His comment didn’t seem to ease Cassandra by much, but she nodded regardless. And he wasn’t wrong, truthfully. After spending weeks trudging through the Emerald Graves, Adrius had long come to expect something twisted underneath what looked like perfectly safe ruins.

Such as a tower, in the middle of a frozen lake, sitting haphazardly in snow. The sun doesn’t shine, when Adrius takes the first step forward over the ice. As if he should expect something. Eyes carefully level the tower, trying to see what it held. Until,

“There,” he says, pointing just right, where the air shimmered. A shame the locals had forgone mentioning the presence of demons so close. Adrius could forgive such a critical lack of information when considering the resident Red Templars, of course. Removing the rift would at least allow for Sahrnia to not be strung up for some time.

Behind him, he can hear grumbling. Complaints. The tender sounds of feet on ice, trying to keep balance, to not fall face first. Around the tower was the smallest amount of land, and Adrius waves Cassandra and Dorian over. Cole, for his part, hovered ever closer. There’s only a passing thought, as Adrius raises his hand towards the rift. 

Could spirits slip on ice, with their newfound corporeal forms? 

When the rift throws itself open, howling screams in the dead of the lake, it was a habit by this point. Arrows released, hand held towards the sky, a few shouts about watch your left or right flank, that disappear with the demons’ screeching. Long nails claw at the ice below their feet, vivid green crawls across the crystal blue surface. Adrius doesn’t have time to linger on the differences between that world and this one, as another arrow catches a despair demon in the forehead, quelling it with a lingering whine that rattles in his head. Louder than usual. 

There was no red lyrium this far from the Keep. It grew towards the sky, haphazard and dangerous, on the trail they did not take. Only in the pass they settled, along Elfsblood River, did it seem the corruption didn’t quite reach. But Adrius was not above considering the possibilities, as the rift takes a fraction longer to close than usual. Almost like it was fighting back, wanting to stay, to continue to spill over the frozen river long until summer broke. Sad that wasn’t feasible to even consider, Adrius thinks with a passing twitch in his nose. Sneezes, despite himself. 

It’s the trek back along the ice that was more sure, more certain, with their feet following one after another. Once they had cased the Tower, settled pleasantly in the middle, in which they found nothing of note, Adrius ushered them back. With the rift gone, unsettling silence had fallen over them. Not even their shoes crunched on the ice, the snow. Adrius breathes deeply through his mouth, clouds of white threatening to interrupt his vision. Was there to be another attack? They could handle it, surely. 

Just a patrol, only slightly more startled to stumble upon his merry little band. As if it had been only them, in the great expanse of white. Adrius understood the feeling, as they try to keep a conversation going, to fill the droning silence. The rest of the way back to the camp was awkward laughter, slight agreements, and a simple wonder when Adrius realised something. 

It had already started to turn. As if the sun had simply had enough, running away until tomorrow. Blinking up at the sky, he could scarcely believe it. Incredible to compare to the Hissing Wastes, which had seemed to never quite see sun, and the Western Approach, which was bathed in the dullest of light. Even Crestwood, once they had ended the storm, was still cloudy, overcast. And the Mire, sunk so far that nothing seemed to touch. Or better yet, the Graves, so thoroughly covered in green, it was hard to believe that life managed to thrive.

Adrius couldn’t remember seeing the weather turn, the way it did just now. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. No longer did his skin burn, or did the reflection along the snow have him cower. Everything had turned… blue. For lack of a better word. As he blinks, once, twice, there is no longer just the thick blankets of white snow. Everything was tinged, from the sky to the trees — to the buildings, as Sahrnia approached — just that subtle shade of blue.

He doesn’t point it out to Dorian, not yet. Just drops to a crouch, fingers wavering over one particular pile, that had been pushed away to make room for another tent. The anchor doesn’t melt the snow, not quite, but where the magic in his hand thrums, breathes, it’s like the world sings back. Blue, green, yellow, back to green, back to blue. Adrius watches as the colour changes when he wiggles his fingers, oddly fascinated. 

Only then does he notice the shadow, just to his left. “Dorian,” he greets, not needing to look up to tell who it was. Even in his shadow, was Dorian’s hair perfectly angled. As if they had not trekked through snow, over ice, nor fought demons with their backs against a tower. Adrius was always impressed by such willpower Dorian could extend towards his outward appearance remaining intact.

Dorian must have seen the changing colour, with how he too drops to a crouch. Fingers tender, careful, as they turn Adrius’ hand over in his own. Where his mark throbbed, on any other sort of day, Adrius was not above saying how he could not focus on such a thing, when Dorian simply held him like this. The anchor just faded into some part of his mind, and Adrius levelled Dorian with a warm gaze. 

“I’m fine,” he says, trying for reassuring. Actually, it was the best he had felt in a while. Perhaps the mysticism of the Emprise du Lion was keeping everything at bay. “It doesn’t hurt.”

There’s a twinge in Dorian’s cheek, that tells Adrius he wasn’t convinced. “But you’re reacting to the area?” Ends in a question, open and inviting. As if Adrius wouldn’t talk to him about every little thing later. There’s a book, that Adrius knows all too well, small and quite easily overlooked, tucked inside Dorian’s pouch. From the look on Dorian’s face, he wished to pull it out, write down whatever he was thinking.

“Vhenan,” Adrius whispers, just the two of them, no one else. Just them, the snow, his hand on Dorian’s cheek. “I am fine.” And, as if to prove a point, Adrius does not break eye contact, not once, as he nooks an arrow, fires through the trees. Only when Dorian looks away first, to see a neat end for one particularly low hanging flower, crystallised and glinting despite itself, does he sigh.

Stands, hand extended towards Adrius, pulling him up with ease. “Tell me if something changes. Please.” Afterthought. So many afterthoughts. Adrius smiles quietly, nods his agreement away. Kicks up powdered snow when the continue their walk. 

Only when he’s away from the camp once more, not so far that he would be an easy target, but enough for some privacy, does Adrius pull his glove off his hand once more. His anchor seems to almost breathe, the vicious green extending between his fingers. Stretching, reaching. Adrius would not say it was alive, not entirely. There was no pain, not this time anyway, but that doesn’t stop him from dragging a finger along the outline, from trying to take hold of the ends of the light. 

He lands in the snow with an oof, distracted now. Overlooking the other end of the river, with the tower hidden behind the trees. Still so quiet, clean, as if not a few hours earlier, had a great rift sat in the middle of the water. Adrius lies back, hand raised towards the sky. The snow was warm, strangely so, like a comforting blanket on a frosty night. Holding his hand higher, until his anchor and the Breach were side by side. What have you done to me? he asks it.