10.

Author's Note: I'm such a dummy. Tamlen is a hunter, not a scout. I've got to go to the past chapters of Ferro and fix this post-haste. I'm really starting to think I could use a punctilious, detail-oriented editor- any volunteers? :x Anyway, sorry about that, and for any other inconsistencies- I will fix them as I find them! Also: the story Paivel tell is adapted from the Japanese ghost story "The Dream of Akinosuke," and you can read the original at http(colon, slash, slash)ghost DOT new-age-spirituality DOT com(slash)japan(slash)kwaidan_15_1(dot html)

xOxOx

The fire burned bright and tall, flinging its orangey light all round in defiance of the early evening. Alistair shifted on the low bench and swatted at some of the gnats hovering round his head. He'd never felt so tall and leggy before, and the Dalish weren't exactly friendly, though Helahui in her gratitude was perfectly kind. Only the children seemed open, like the little guy next to him who kept eying his armor with undisguised awe.

It reminded Alistair, painfully, of Cailan at that age. He smiled at the boy.

"Tal's not bothering you, is he?" asked Zevran in a low voice, poking his head out to speak across his brother, blond hair swinging with the motion. "Sometimes he doesn't know about boundaries when it comes to other people's shiny stuff."

"I do too," the younger boy responded with an impressive pout.

"Hush when Paivel's talking," Zevran scolded, placing a hand on his younger brother's head and pressing down as if to physically quash any future outbursts. Taliesin crossed his arms, looking used to it. At their feet, little Rinna sat paying no attention to her elder siblings. Her eyes were huge with wonder, chubby fists gathered in her skirt as she leaned forward and listened.

Alistair could hardly blame her. When a seasoned Orlesian Bard and an experienced Dalish storyteller began a duel of tales, surely even the Maker perked His ears up to have a listen. Drawn by the spectacle of a genuine Bard from distant Orlais come to ply her trade here in the heart of the clan, even some of the adults had gathered round the fire in anticipation. Helahui's eyes shone just like her daughter's, her fingers linked with her husband's on a nearby bench.

After the Keeper had led Jacinta and Tamlen away, the rest of Zevran's family came pouring from Maker-knew-what corner of this impossible forest to greet the young elf and his mother. Leliana had tactfully stepped back to give them space, and Alistair awkwardly followed suit as young Taliesin, a robust lad of nine, slammed Zevran with an embrace forceful enough to send them both staggering back a few steps. Helahui's husband, Durante, followed with a slight limp, bearing their squirming daughter in his arms. Little Rinna shrieked and wriggled until Zevran obliged her by giving her a good fierce cuddle and a kiss on each cheek.

Leliana's bright blue eyes were suspiciously shiny as she watched the family's reunion, and for all his Templar training in standing around looking as expressionless as a brick in a bucket, Alistair had to admit he'd gotten a little teary-eyed himself. He'd found it hard enough to leave bloody Redcliffe, and certainly no one there had loved him even half so well. As a child Alistair had starved for affection, gulped down even the crumbs of fondness shown him by serving women or laundry ladies, and here, Zevran had turned his back on a banquet — out of offense and outrage on his family's behalf, but still. Kids these days.

The old ache burned in Alistair's chest, the same way his left ankle had always been a little weak after a childhood tumble. Idiotic and low, he thought to himself, ashamed.

Zevran grinned with pride, hoisting Rinna on his hip as he turned to Leliana (who'd hurriedly wiped away her tears) and Alistair to introduce everyone. Zevran and his father shared a boisterous Antivan accent and a wry grin. Taliesin took most after his father with that thick dark hair and those great dark eyes, and two-year-old Rinna had a head of brassy curls and a mouth of pearly teeth which she bared to indicate glee or aggression in equal measure. Helahui in her musical voice had suggested that they retire to the family home for a nice dinner while their friend and Tamlen were occupied with the Keeper, but Alistair had moved to demur, uncomfortable leaving without Jacinta.

Then a tremendous voice had sounded, loud enough to shake ladybugs from their leaves: "Gather, children of the Dales, and hear a story of your people! A story of the Dalish! Hear the story of Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf and Lord of Tricksters. Hear how he betrayed the gods..."

As though compelled, Leliana had veered off, her eyes a-lit with bardic fire. Perforce the whole party followed, and Alistair tried to take an unobtrusive seat in the back of the storytelling circle, shaded beneath an old tree's broad canopy. But Taliesin insisted on sitting next to Alistair, so of course it would not do but that Zevran crammed himself onto the bench next to Tal, and then Rinna clamored to sit with her brothers, and Helahui and Durante sat by their children and held hands even though more than one passing Dalish cast them a disapproving glance. But those that passed slowed, then stopped, then took a seat as Paivel went through the Tale of Fen'harel's Triumph.

He was a gifted storyteller, his voice strong and measured, rising and falling as he evoked the depth of Fen'harel's treacherous wit. Alistair's imagination ignited with the storyteller's words till he could almost feel the sorrow of the gods of good as they were locked away and severed from their chosen people. In thunderous tones Paivel summoned the dreadful rage of the gods of evil, calling curses upon the name of Fen'harel and the race of the elves. Though his hair was snowy white, nothing in the elder's carriage or bearing indicated anything but a man at the apex of his maturity, wisdom, and power.

As Paivel echoed their empty cries, he fixed Alistair with a challenging look. Now, Alistair scarcely considered himself a religious man, despite – well, honestly, because of – everything the Chantry had tried to shove down his throat. And he was aware that Paivel was technically a heretic, like all the rest of the Dalish, and that this tale was, by Templar standards, direst blasphemy. But he wasn't a Templar anymore, damnit, and he bridled beneath that look. He half wanted to get to his feet and proclaim, with a sweeping gesture encompassing his Templar armor, "What, this? This is just my Friday night drag. You should see me on Saturdays!"

Their party's welcome was tenuous enough as it was without Alistair causing a diplomatic incident over a dirty look, though, so he merely looked away. Paivel brought his story to an end with the collapse of Arlathan and the rape and ruin of the elven people, and there were murmurs and nods all round as Paivel spoke the Dalish credo: "And never again will we submit."

Charming. Really. Alistair got the point. But he had to own, Paivel had related Fen'harel's legend with skill and style. Alistair found himself wondering how Leliana would match Paivel's story as Paivel ceded center stage with an impeccable bow in the bard's direction. He could feel the interest of the audience sharpen as Leliana rose, beaming, and clasped her hands together, thanking Paivel prettily. She'd likely choose a story of Andraste and the Maker, maybe the one of her betrayal and execution at her husband's hands, Alistair thought, preparing himself to hear a story he'd heard umpteenth-plus-one times before.

Instead, Leliana began, "There once lived in Orlais a very wealthy merchant, with six daughters and six sons." Alistair had never heard this story before, and from the healthy tension in the air, neither had any of the Dalish. Even Paivel, despite himself, looked a wary sort of intrigued. "And the youngest, who was the most beautiful, was called Beauty..."

Halfway through the story, Alistair caught sight of Jacinta drawing near the storytelling circle like a hooded, bedraggled shadow, still accompanied by Tamlen. Her meeting with the Keeper and that intimidating hunter must have taken forever, he thought, sympathizing as he remembered how long even the most cursory meeting with the Revered Mother could take. The memory was bitter in hindsight, as he also remembered that it was her fault he was driven to seek shelter among people who hated him without even knowing him. Not like they'd hate him less if they knew him better, anyway. At least their hatred was honest and understandable. If mighty uncomfortable.

Quietly-he-hoped, he got to his feet to meet her. His young benchmates didn't stir, enraptured by Leliana's descriptions of the many magical rooms in the Beast's palace. "I want a monkey pet," he heard Tal whisper to Zevran as he left.

The kids were cute. He was smiling again as he approached her, and he felt a sudden great relief when he met her eyes and saw that she was smiling as well. Jacinta had looked miserable at even the concept of being turned away from the Dalish camp, and Alistair readily admitted that he was out of ideas should they have been rejected at the gates. "Welcome back," he said.

"Thanks." Jacinta glanced over curiously at the storytelling circle. "Is Leliana really doing what I think she's doing?"

"Telling a roaring good story? You bet. By the time she's done, the storyteller will be eating out of her dainty Orlesian hand."

"Paivel? I doubt it," Tamlen put in, crossing his arms. The hunter seemed lanky next to Jacinta, though Alistair knew he was himself a full head taller than Tamlen. That Dalish confidence rendered the difference trivial, though. "He knows a bit too much of our history to fall for a pretty face and a nice story."

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair drawled, stung by the hunter's apparent need to jump in and contradict him right off the bat. "It is a very pretty face. And a really nice story."

"Our own stories are sufficient," Tamlen said coldly.

Before Alistair could summon a suitably scathing response, Jacinta interrupted with a sharp, "Please." Tamlen shrugged. Alistair blinked. This wasn't Jacinta's clan, and the hunter scarcely seemed the most charitably disposed elf in the camp, so why did Tamlen in his own stuffy way look... abashed?

"Dare I ask what happened in the meeting with the Keeper?" Alistair said after an awkward silence.

"We have three days of asylum here," Jacinta replied, waving a hand in front of her face to scatter the gnats. "Then I have to meet the Keeper again to hear her final decision." She expelled an impatient breath and added fretfully, "If I weren't a Circle mage, there wouldn't even be a question."

"What if she decides to let you stay?"

Was it a part of his destiny, Alistair wondered, to cause grimaces in fair young ladies? But if the Keeper offered Jacinta a place among this clan after all, and she accepted, Alistair would understand. A home was a powerful concept. "I don't know." She crossed her arms, regarding him in a way that made him stand up straighter. "I promised to help with your situation. You've been more than patient the whole trip here, and you didn't have to be." Alistair tilted his head; was the firelight making her cheeks rosy, or was she actually blushing? "You were better than I'd have ever expected. I told the Keeper as much, too."

Alistair laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, which felt a bit hot. Tamlen was looking far too interested in this discussion for Alistair's comfort. "I tried to pull my own weight, that's all. I mean, it made sense that you wouldn't exactly have been thrilled, um... Listen. Please. You don't have to think about me when you make your decision. I'll figure something out. I mean, hell, they've got no phylactery for me, either. If apostates can spend years on the run —"

"Well, there's also Leliana — " Jacinta began to argue, but Alistair shook his head.

"She's a big girl. She's got more figured out than either of us do, that's for sure. Either way, Leliana has a home in Orlais to go back to if it doesn't work out for her here, so she'll be fine." He gestured towards the bard. The whole circle was leaning forward in their seats as she spoke. Some of the children looked about to fall off their benches, mouths gaping with wonder. "Look at her, the crowd's completely captivated. She could support herself simply telling stories for pay."

"Humans do that?" Tamlen asked, with an expression on his face as though he'd gotten a faint whiff of something unpleasant and was too polite to mention it directly. "Charge to hear their own history?"

"You pay coin for what you value," Alistair snapped. "That's hardly a revelation."

"Everyone should have access to their own past. That's basic," Tamlen protested. Great, was the exchange of sovereigns for services rendered an offensive concept to the bloody Dalish too? "There is nothing more priceless. Something so valuable should be shared equally among members of a clan."

"Not all humans have clans," Jacinta pointed out.

"That is a travesty. What of children who are orphaned, or whose parents cannot support them? Are they simply left to fend for themselves?" Tamlen demanded.

"Well, they're given to the Chantry. We're human, not inhuman," Alistair sighed. "The Chantry provides for them, educates them. Most become Templars or initiates and remain within the system."

"I wouldn't know much about that," Jacinta admitted. "The Templars in the Tower preferred to keep themselves apart from the mages whenever possible, and they certainly never spoke much about their training or history, though I'm sure some of them were foundlings or orphans."

"The Tower," Tamlen muttered, as though the very concept merited no further comment than that.

She shrugged, not exactly disagreeing with Tamlen's disgust, not exactly agreeing, and continued. "All I know is that mages of any sort, orphaned or not, are given to the Chantry to be passed on to the Tower. And the children of Circle mages," Jacinta added, her generous lips narrowing with a flare of fury, "are given to the Chantry at birth, will or no, as we are neither permitted to breed, nor considered fit to raise our own children."

Alistair stared. "I didn't know that."

"Some of the Templars are probably the children of Senior Enchanters. Old scandals. Who'd be able to tell, after all?" she continued, her tone falsely airy, girded with disconcerting rage. "They take the child from their mother while she's still reeling with shock and pain, before she can so much as beg for her own baby..."

"Please stop." Alistair felt sick. "Look, I know the Chantry isn't perfect – how could I not know! – but it does good work." His voice sounded pleading even to him. "It's not just an instrument of torture from the Maker to mages!"

Tamlen gave him a contemptuous look, but Jacinta looked him level in the eyes, raising her chin. "Tell that to my mentor," she said, her voice quiet and clear. "The father of her babe is disgraced, and she is forbidden from practicing any magic, confined in one room under Templar guard until the babe is born. Her only crime was to love someone and wish to bear his child! She's a Healer, she could have prevented..." She breathed out, raking a hand through her ragged locks. "For whatever reason, she did not. Wynne pays a heavy price for her defiance."

"I don't..." His words came out choked, each stumbling over the last. "That is wrong. That is unequivocally wrong," Alistair finally said. "I can't – I won't – defend that. Maker..."

Silence fell again, grim and heavy. Surprisingly, it was Tamlen who changed the topic. "The Bard has finished her tale. It looks like Hahren Paivel's getting up again," he said. "Let us join the circle and listen."

Alistair turned away and took his seat next to the Arainai children once more. Tal immediately began to fill Alistair in on the parts he'd missed, though Alistair scarcely caught a word in ten, they came so fast, until Zevran hushed the boy as Paivel stood. The storyteller spread his arms grandly. "To thank our visitor for sharing a story of her people," he announced, "I share with our guests this humble tale, one told me by my grandfather when I was yet a da'len in arms. It begins with the dream of the elf Garahel as he lay sleeping in his garden..."

Alistair closed his eyes and tried not to see heartbroken mage mothers in the blackness there, nor squalling babes in the arms of a faceless knight wearing his armor, nor a young mage woman (pregnant, Maker, why, how could his own brothers keep guard over such a case) kept imprisoned for nothing, for no crime. He tried not to see the fury in Jacinta's eyes when she'd started out the conversation smiling, nor the disdain of the elven hunter. Alistair let Paivel ignite his imagination once more, and the storyteller threw him into the mind of Garahel, a good-natured laborer in the time of Arlathan who was taking his leisure in his garden with two of his friends, and, sleepy with wine, fell into a daze and had a dream.

Dangerous thing, dreams.

Garahel dreamed that he was summoned by a mighty king of the Elvhenan. The king sent a procession to his very garden to collect him, a procession peopled by the noblest of youths with the purest of bloodlines, scions of legends, children of destiny. They bundled him into a litter reserved for the royal family and bore him upon their own noble shoulders to the king's palace, which Garahel had never before seen. It was a vast and lovely structure, a wonder whose spires shimmered against the clouds, built with secret, long-lost methods the elves of today could never hope to replicate. Paivel sighed.

The highest-ranked courtiers escorted Garahel in his modest laborer's clothes before the king, whose great eyes were so depthless that Garahel caught his breath, whose hair shone white, gracing his pate and chin like flowing water. The king himself said it was his will that Garahel marry his beautiful maiden daughter, his only child the August Princess Merenua, that selfsame day. Garahel, stumbling and stunned, was ushered to an alcove where the courtiers brought out gilded chests. Treating him with every honor, they took fine raiment and regal headdress from the chests and attired him, and when they were done humble Garahel was transformed.

Then the courtiers brought him once more before the king, who declared that he was satisfied, and that the wedding would now begin; and the king having said so, music began, a music of such joy as to uplift the lowest heart. Elves, Paivel commented sadly, had long lost the merry-making songs of the Elvhenan, and for centuries they had had little reason to sing at all. Tamlen, sitting near the storyteller on a bench next to Jacinta, looked wistful.

Ladies of the court, each more radiant than the last, came to bring Garahel before his bride, and the Princess Merenua was the loveliest of all, with eyes like lashed stars and a smile that curved like the moon, dignified and wise. The marriage was performed, and the whole court rejoiced, the elven nobility crowding around the new couple even afterward, pressing them with congratulations and rich gifts.

Seven days later the king proclaimed that he was giving unto the happy couple a large island as their dominion to rule in trust for the kingdom. This island was a new addition to the kingdom, but the people were a calm and docile race separated from the mainland only by a tumultuous sea, and only recently rediscovered. The king urged Garahel and Merenua to rule the islanders kindly and well, and to bring their customs and laws gently into line with those of the mainland. Obedient to their king's hopes and wishes, the newlyweds sailed out in state. They arrived safely, and the good island folk welcomed them in warmth and friendship.

Even the work of governorship was not hard, for Garahel had knowledgeable, honest advisers to guide him at every turn, and the Princess Merenua was skilled at statecraft. The island folk were happy to be reunited with their mainland brothers and sisters, whom they had thought lost after so many years, and the land was so fertile and the people so good that there was neither sickness nor want.

Garahel and his wise princess ruled the land together for thirty years, which passed like a sigh in the long lifetime of an elf of those days. Merenua gave Garahel seven children over those thirty years: four boys and three girls, all of them fierce and brave and wise past their years. The pride of their parents, all the children bore their mother's radiance and their father's good heart, and they were beloved by all they came across.

Then came a frightful day when Merenua grew ill, and though all the kingdom prayed to the Creators for her swift recovery, their prayers were for nothing. The beloved Princess died, her sobbing husband squeezing her hand, surrounded by her children. Garahel saw to it that she was buried with great ceremony and a monument erected over her grave, and he passed the mourning period like a shade, drifting with grief. The storyteller glanced at Tamlen, as did half the clan, everyone trying very hard to look like they weren't looking, but the hunter only looked to his feet. Even Jacinta's grim look thawed somewhat.

When the mourning period was ended, a messenger arrived from the king, delivering condolences and somewhat else beside. The king stated through his messenger that he would be returning Garahel to his own people, and promised him that his children, the granddaughters and grandsons of the king himself, would be well cared for. Garahel prepared for his departure thoroughly, and bid farewell to his small court and his family. With great honor, he was escorted to the ship that would return him to the mainland. The blue ocean swelled and shook with waves, and the island at his back grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared. Then the ocean turned gray, and the ship seemed to fall through the sea – and Garahel awoke in his garden, bewildered.

Alistair felt for the elf, having some experience of late with utterly baffling dreams. Leliana was grinning like a child at an ageday party. Garahel's two friends laughed at the stunned laborer, and Garahel stammered out the story of his dream. But, his friends said, he'd not dozed off for more than a few minutes. One friend did point out that they had seen a small yellow butterfly rest on Garahel's face as he snored, fluttering prettily for a few moments until it alighted on the ground beside him. Out of a hole there at the base of the tree, an enormous ant had snatched it, until a few minutes later when the butterfly had flown back out to flutter on Garahel's forehead again. When the friends looked again, the butterfly was gone, and Garahel had awakened.

Garahel at once fetched a spade and went to excavate the ant colony at the base of the tree. The ants had constructed quite a sprawling underground network of tunnels and caves, by ant standards a tremendous endeavor. In the middle of the ant colony, a tremendous ant was surrounded by a swarm of smaller ones."It is the King," whispered Garahel, and his eyes eagerly roved around. "And here, here is the island, and here would certainly be the mountain where I buried my..." His friends watched curiously as he pointed out a particular mound, with a small round pebble lying atop it. With a finger he excavated the mound, whereupon he found the body of a female ant, embedded in clay.

Alistair brought his hands together to applaud, but froze at the last moment as he looked around. It seemed the Dalish didn't show appreciation for tales that way. Instead, they whispered and murmured among themselves, acknowledging the tale and discussing it thoughtfully, with respectful nods towards the storyteller.

Unexpectedly, Zevran chuckled. Alistair glanced over at the boy to see that Zevran was picking up his little sister, who'd fallen asleep. The little one's head lolled, and Zevran pressed a hand gently to her hair as he glanced about for his parents.

It appeared the duel of tales was over. Leliana was speaking with the storyteller, whose ferocity of expression had thawed somewhat. The tale was... certainly something, Alistair thought. It left him with a feeling of unease he wasn't sure what to do with. He thought of his own dreams, of the children he saw there, of the dark-eyed, urgent man who spoke to him as though his very survival depended on Alistair's comprehension. Alistair had begun to take more of his lyrium, because his dreams only bore meaning when he took it. He kept that to himself, guilty and unsure whether he was right in doing so.

Last night, and every night since they had crossed into the Brecilian Forest, Alistair had dreamed of werewolves, though Leliana had promised Alistair that none were to be found in Ferelden. Most scholars had dismissed the tales as exaggerations, the result of uneducated minds trying to make sense of abominations breaking through the thin Veil in this place, she'd said. But the dreams felt as real as Garahel's thirty years on the island. Alistair had dreamed of creatures that howled like animals but bore themselves with as much pride as any Dalish, dreams that burned all round their edges, searing, crisp, real.

Abruptly, Alistair recalled the name with which Jacinta had commanded Tamlen's immediate assistance: Idris. Damnit, he wasn't the only person who wasn't sharing, he thought. Then: Perhaps if I started first... but no, he protested mentally, swatting away the pernicious gnats that gathered round the sweat on his forehead. They had discussed dreams once before; she'd been kind enough to listen, but hadn't volunteered anything of her own because Leliana'd had to calm him down from a nervous fit over what might or might not have been the appearance of the mysterious Jowan. Maybe if he spoke to the storyteller, learned somewhat of the Dalish tradition of dreams – maybe something in their mystic elven knowledge would shed some light on the matter, maybe...

"Alistair?"

Alistair twitched and spun around. It was Helahui who'd spoken his name, standing with her Antivan husband. Firelight burnished her skin and caught in her golden eyes, shone in her sun-spun hair. Zevran had a look of his mother, all right. "I thought you and your friends might want to retire for the evening," she said. "Durante and I live a little ways from the main camp, so we should get going now."

"Oh! Yes. Of course," Alistair said, thrown off-balance by even the gentle interruption, and feeling rather sheepish for it. "I'll get the ladies, then." Yeah, the day he could 'get the ladies' would be the day he became Grand Cleric of Ferelden. Alistair truly despaired of himself sometimes. "Thanks very much," he added, ducking his head, and went to round up his party for the evening.