Chapter 52: Eyes of Wolves - Unveiled

“Enough!” Swiftrunner bowed in exhaustion. He went to one knee, panting, failure written in every line of his body. The other wolves whined to see his defeat but enough blood had been spilt. The smell remained thick in the air, rusty nails and copper, hot life dripping on cold stone.

Raviathan felt just as tired, but he kept himself hardened. Much of wolven interaction focused on posturing and shows of strength. While tiresome, these feints kept wolves from fighting more often than not, thereby saving needless deaths. Though Raviathan wanted nothing more than to rest, he kept his outward expression impassive and backbone rigid. Can’t fall now. Not yet.

“We will not harm The Lady.” Raviathan’s voice was more growl, low and soft, because he had already won, and they both knew it.

“You will!” Swiftrunner whined. He shook, near tears, and so close to lashing out in a last desperate rage. Maker, how Raviathan understood that feeling.

Raviathan knelt but remained poised to defend if Swiftrunner attacked. “I understand what the Lady is. I swear to you, I will not harm her. She knows this, I think.”

A mewling squeezed out of Swiftrunner’s tight throat. “It is ... as you say,” he panted. He looked up, miserable. “You swear this?”

“Yes.”

A shudder ripped through the werewolf. “Danyla has spoken of you. We will grant passage.”

He gives up everything he values to us, knowing his sanity is at stake as is the health of his pack, Raviathan thought. He stood, a swift swipe of his blades through the air rid them of the blood that remained. Such a waste of life and health. Two months ago, this would have been a victory. A treaty secured, Raviathan connecting with his wild elven kin, and the Blight turned from something that haunted his every moment, both waking and in the Fade, into something that could be defeated. Now? He just felt tired. Raviathan sheathed his weapons, another show of trust. “Lead the way.”

The cavern at the base of the last gateway loomed large. The ruins of the past held even less sway here. Sunlight filtered green through thick branches from trees that rose multiple stories overhead, the trunks of these trees so thick it would take five or more men to circle them. Instead of destroying the floor, the massive roots snaked around the sides of what remained of the room and up into the earthen walls to hold stone and sediment at bay. The marriage of nature and crafted material merged so flawlessly, Raviathan was more in awe of this room than he had been of any other in the ruin.

In dappled sunlight, surrounded by motes of gold, she stood. Ancient and new and strange beyond words, a spirit given form regarded him with the regal air of a queen. Her skin, the color of grey-green moss bleached by sun, radiated the faint but undeniable vibrancy of her forest. She extended a hand made of long, thin twigs to her champion, a gesture of compassion and forgiveness. Swiftrunner knelt by her side, his rage gone, to be replaced by deepest devotion.

Haunting black and gold eyes regarded Raviathan. The breath stolen from him, Raviathan didn’t feel the steps he took as he approach her. Of all the glories of the forest he had beheld, nothing matched the the goddess before him, for surely she was a kind of god, primitive and eternal. She stood naked and proud with the austere strength of a granite mountain.

“Lady.” In his heart, that word became part prayer.

“Too much blood has been spilt,” she said in a voice that echoed in the Fade as much the cool winds of the forest. “On both sides.”

“A sentiment I agree with. But you also speak of the elves then.”

“I do.” Her long fingers of twigs stroked Swiftrunner’s scruff, the werewolf’s eyes at half mast. “Zathrian sent you, but he did not tell you the whole story.”

“How do you know what he did and did not tell me?”

“Because he would not. Did you know this curse of the werewolves is his doing?”

“I’ve suspected for some time now.”

Her eyes narrowed with alien cunning. “When I saw you ... yes.”

“Zathrian trapped you, Forest Spirit, made you into Witherfang, and so started the curse of the werewolves.” A murmur of surprise sounded behind Raviathan, probably Alistair, but Raviathan ignored him for now.

A sad smile touched her lips. “Indeed, yet the reason he did this, he did not share.”

“No.” What Zathrian had done took enormous power, and for all the elder elf’s wisdom, Raviathan was certain the Dalish Keeper had used blood magic. “To use that kind of power...” It could have killed him. Zathrian had to know what he had risked. “He must have had his reasons.”

“This forest is covered in blood, as you’ve well seen in your journeys here. Shadows of the past linger for age after age, the Veil thinned in some places to be almost meaningless. Old hatreds and angers, death and greatest sorrow, so marks the meetings between humans and elves.”

The tiredness Raviathan felt seemed to crash down on him. No, not the Dalish, too. But of course, no elf was free of humans. For all the pains the Dalish took to keep moving constantly, to hide from humans, why had he never seen how they must have been hurt to keep their nomadic life? Not the last of the free elves, please. Not the proud ones. Let there be someplace elves can be free.

“His children,” Swiftrunner said. His growl of a voice sounded harsher with emotion, a counterpoint to The Lady’s own wind song. “Humans captured them. Tortured the boy. Killed him. Raped the girl and left her for dead. The Dalish found what was left.”

Words spoken so plainly, so matter of fact, but Raviathan felt that fire inside start to twist to a whirlwind.

No. No, his mind railed. That isn’t suppose to happen to the Dalish. They’re suppose to be free of all that! The pain he felt from seeing his best friend, his beloved cousin, broken, came back in full force. The image of her, mouth stretched in agony, the trail of that sick shem’s seed as he pulled himself off laughing, the small spatter of blood on her thigh, it cut into his brain like a white hot knife. And that dirty shem had laughed. He laughed at her, at me, he laughed at all of us, every elf to walk Thedas. Nola, even dead, defiled. Blank eyes staring at nothing as her body jerked from the shem using her.

Swiftrunner continued, unaware of the effect his words had. “When she found she was with child, she killed herself.”

Raviathan could feel himself shaking with rage. It’s not right! My family was never safe, but there are suppose to be some of my kin who are free. The Dalish were the only memory of what we were, what we should still be. Why can’t we be allowed to be free? Everything, our language, our faith, our freedom, it keeps getting taken away. Why us? Why always us? Raviathan ground out in a low snarl, “They deserved what they got.”

Dimly, he was aware that all eyes in the room focused on him. “They deserved it!” His voice blasted through the chamber. The magic here, suffused in the wood and earth, it would bend to him or he would crush it. This injustice would not stand.

The fire burned inside, beneath his feet, in the sky, all that fire linked into him, and he could feel the wild strands of it snaking out of his control.

Burn burn burn!

Control. He had to control. His fists shook, his heart ached with the strain, but he kept that fire within him.

The Lady approached him slowly. Her twig fingers caressed his cheek, his angry tears lingering on the twisted wood. The rage he felt drained away like water flowing from a breaking dam as he looked up into her strange black and gold eyes. Her eyes were like night and sunlight, a forest’s spirit made flesh. The Lady said, her voice filled with all the shifting aspects of her nature, “No doubt. Through me, Zathrian found his revenge, whether I willed it or not. The crimes of those men were terrible, but they were committed by people who have been dead for generations.”

He saw the forest again as he had as a wolf. There was a wholeness to the life and death cycle of the forest, compassion and love and violence and death. The forest, life and death and life again, always triumphed. It would break apart the ruins and reclaim what was taken. He had a swimming moment of watching the sun through leaves shivering in the breeze as if the wind were its own living thing. It had become unbalanced when the dead were trapped in living things and not allowed to stay dead. Even the creeping taint in the land matched his own. Her twigged hand caressed his long hair as a mother would a beloved child’s, and Raviathan let her. “We seek an end to the curse. Its effects have spread far beyond its intention.”

“What happened to you, Lady? When Zathrian changed you.”

“I was rage. Little more than a demon trapped in the form of a wolf. I infected others with that rage. I have few memories of that time, snatches of red-tinged images. Time passed, and I felt the sorrow and regret of those who had turned when they attacked their own families. Only when my own rage ebbed was I able to see again.”

Raviathan looked down as he thought. The werewolves had come closer during the exchange. All but Swiftrunner were hunched down looking up at him. They were begging him he realized. They were submitting themselves to him for guidance, acknowledging him as leader as they did the Lady. He and the Lady were the alphas, and it was in their hands the werewolves placed their fate. The wolf inside him regarded the werewolves. The soft snick of sliding metal sounded behind him. “Hold,” he called to his companions who were all looking at the werewolves nervously. He realized from their perspective it looked like the werewolves were reading for an attack. “At ease,” Raviathan told them. He looked back at the Lady. She smelled of pine and rivers, coming snow and summer rain. “The curse is a powerful one.”

“Yes,” she said. “While I do not think his death would end the curse, his life is dependent upon it, and I believe his death would play a role in ending it.”

Raviathan took a long breath. “You would be willing then?”

She looked at him with the full acceptance of her role as well. They both knew she would cease to exist as she did now. “I would.”

Raviathan nodded slowly. “Then I will speak to Zathrian.” Maker, he felt tired. All that rage inside him hissed like a fire in the rain, spiteful at the world that did not let it burn.

Swiftrunner looked from the elf to the Lady. He went to his knees pleading in his rough voice. “No my Lady. Please. This could be a trap. You can not trust the elf. Do not ... do not sacrifice yourself.”

The Lady stroked his head and uttered soft words of comfort. Raviathan looked at his companions and inclined his head toward the stairway that would lead them to the surface. The party watched the werewolves nervously as they left, but Raviathan understood the wolves. They would not attack. In the stairway up Leliana whispered, “You aren’t handing Zathrian over for them to kill, are you?”

Raviathan turned melancholy eyes to her. “No, Leliana. I will not betray him or the other elves.”

“But,” she asked pleading to him as Swiftrunner had to the Lady, “you asked if she was willing?”

He squeezed her arm gently in reassurance. “For the curse to end, she will have to cease to be as she is.”

“Cease to be,” she echoed watching him.

Raviathan turned so all of his companions could see him. “The curse. Zathrian bound his own life energy to create it, but in doing so, trapped the spirit of the forest in a physical form. You’ve seen the trees, how they go mad. So did the spirit, though she has since regained her mind.”

Alistair said, “But I thought Witherfang...”

“Witherfang the wolf and the Lady of the Forest are the same,” Raviathan answered. “When the curse is ended, she will no longer have consciousness. Her memories, her emotions, all that she knows of this life, will be gone. She will go back to simply being the Forest. She and Zathrian are bound. It would mean an end to them both.”

Alistair and Leliana were both dumbstruck. Leliana was the first to regain her wits. “How can you possibly know all this?”

“The Spirit showed me.”

They all had their suspicions though Morrigan’s stemmed for different reasons. He could see it in the thoughtful cock of her head.

“Wait, so we’re going back to the Dalish camp?”

Raviathan continued to climb and wished Alistair would be quiet.

“You don’t think the werewolves would use this time to escape?”

“No, Alistair.”

“Hold on. I think we deserve some answers here.”

Oh for fuck’s sake. Raviathan couldn’t shake this heavy exhaustion that weighed him down like a wet woolen blanket or the host of impotent fury, hate, and deep pain that lingered like poison in his blood. Maker, it was taking all he had not to vent his rage, but on who? The Lady was right. The men who had done that evil died generations ago. Raviathan didn’t hate the werewolves, understood they were just as much victims as any in this travesty.

In Zathrian’s place, Raviathan had found his vengeance. Every human involved on the day of his wedding had either burned or bled.

The exhaustion that weighed on him was the knowledge that these were only drops of rain in the storm. What happened to him, to Zathrian, happened to elves every day across Thedas, for age upon age. There was no end of violence against his people, so what did their revenges matter? Giving up wasn’t an option, either, but Raviathan couldn’t see an end to this bitterness.

“Alistair.” So tired, and I don’t have any patience left for you. “Enough.” He took three more steps before his conscience nagged him into more, but he didn’t turn around. “You have a right to your questions, but I don’t have the energy right now.”

He could practically feel the templar’s annoyance, which yelled at him in its own way.

The way out led to a plateau overlooking the vast forest. From here, Raviathan could see how the ruins molded to the landscape, the cliff side still strong with crags and sheer paths. A star pattern remained in the marble they stood on, just visible under the layers of earth and leaves.

Examining one of those odd astrariums, Zathrian waited. Raviathan caught Morrigan’s side-eyed glance. He gave the tiniest of nods before raising a hand for the others to stay where they stood. He and Morrigan approached.

“Do you have his heart?”

“No, Zathrian.”

While the elder elf had never been patient, Raviathan was still surprised by the rage he saw.

“Then what are you doing here? I need his heart!”

“That didn’t sound ghoulish,” Alistair muttered from the back. Zathrian sneered at the comment, his anger propelling him forward.

Raviathan stepped in front, his hand out to calm the Keeper. “Zathrian. You knew where the werewolves lived. You could have told us.”

Those pale eyes turned on him. “Have you sided with those beasts then?”

“No, and they are not beasts. There are infected elves among them who want to be free.”

“What are you saying?”

Raviathan held his breath. How close was Zathrian to turning on them? “I have talked to the werewolves.”

“Talked,” Zathrian spat the word. “With vicious animals?”

“Yes. Will you listen to them? There is much that needs to be settled.”

“So they asked you to bring me to them? To lure me into a trap?”

“On my word, Zathrian, I will defend any who is attacked, but there must be a mediation. Your clan can’t go on with this threat, and the werewolves want an end to the conflict as well.”

Zathrian stepped in close, his words low so only Raviathan could hear. “You are a child.”

Raviathan returned his gaze, found he could stare back at that hatred and the years of accumulated power with ease. “You think life as a city elf leaves any of us young for long?”

Zathrian grew measuring. “The elf I met only months ago was eager to please.”

Wind caressed Raviathan’s hair, the warmth of summer a promise not yet fulfilled. He turned to face the sun, his vision red through his closed eyes. Clear as hope, Raviathan’s second heart shone with love, his own eternal sun forever bright inside him. “What do you think happens to ideals, Zathrian? When they die, do they still live on in the Fade? Are they reborn in the hearts of children or do we darken both worlds with cynicism?”

The breeze awoke the wolf inside Raviathan. He smelled sap and pine, dust and loaming earth, animals and birds and all the life therein, blood hot in the cool of early spring.

“I misjudged you when we met.”

Raviathan opened his eyes to see Zathrian studying him. Raviathan turned, and Zathrian followed without any further words.

The tension in the chamber below ratcheted up when Zathrian entered. The werewolves growled, the pack gathering around their Lady. Zathrian kept his staff high, a clear threat of retaliation at a second’s notice.

“So here you are, spirit.”

At Zathrian’s words, Swiftrunner rushed forward. He stopped bare inches before Raviathan’s sword. Their eyes met, measuring. A low growl from Swiftrunner was Raviathan’s warning. The werewolf batted away Raviathan’s blade, his bulk bearing down, only to find his momentum twisted around the elf and breath stolen as he landed on his back.

“Enough!” Raviathan yelled.

“They turn on you as quickly as me,” Zathrian said. Anger couldn’t cover the smugness of his tone. “They are as savage as ever. Their monstrous forms mirror their twisted hearts.”

“Zathrian, I know what you did.” Maker, Raviathan felt tired. “You haven’t found the longevity of our ancestors. It’s through the curse you live.”

“You have suffered at the hands of humans. Do you think they have changed? This one attacked you, unprovoked. There is no end to their bestial nature, no matter what their form takes.”

“Do you not recognize Danyla?” At her name, a werewolf in the back mewled. “You are the Keeper of the clan. Their protector. This vendetta is hurting everyone.”

“You would lecture me?” Zathrian’s staff flashed. “You did not see what they did! When ... when I held my daughter’s body ... No!”

“Is pain the only reason you will not end the curse?” The Lady’s brows arched pointedly. “Your death would not end the curse, but your life relies on it’s existence. Is this truly justice you seek?”

“All I need is the heart of Witherfang, and my people will be free! Warden, there is no reason to spare these beasts. With his heart, I can protect my clan. If you will not, then get out of my way.”

“How long will you let this curse go on?” Raviathan asked. “Another century? Two? Five? What is your life worth if all you do is continue pain?”

“I will not end the curse!” Zathrian stepped back, energy flowing from his staff. “They deserve to suffer for what they’ve done!”

Motes of light fell from the staff as he slashed it in a wide arc. Lighting cracked and the hall turned into chaos. The Veil, so fragile already, tore open like fine paper. Spirits seeking a form so they could experience true life entered the trees. Bound in the prison of reality, they ripped up their roots. Bark and branch limbs creaked in a horrid groan of pain. They ached to be free of their prisons, would break themselves to be free again, and in that jealous rage, sought revenge on all living creatures who had what they never would.

Demon shades followed the mad spirits. Little more than shadows given substance, terror and fear made real, they snaked across the floor to claw at anything with a spark of real life. A single malevolent white eye, flat as a dead fish, glared with all the sanity of a nightmare. Long, impossibly thin arms, ended in long talons designed to flay their victims. A wide gaping maw along its torso, complete with row upon row of sharp teeth, looked to swallow its victims whole.

With the shades unleashed, Zathrian ran to the back of the chamber for cover. The werewolves circled around The Lady, desperate to protect their savior. Witherfang stood in the place of the Lady, terrified, vulnerable in the form Zathrian forced her into. A magical binding slivered into existence around the wolves. Witherfang jumped and struggled, but the bonds only flexed to tighten again like a snare.

Raviathan’s heart fell as he stared at the pandemonium.

Sten and Alistair had their swords out, hacking at the possessed trees, but the blades only scratched the thick bark. Pale as a ghost, Leliana had her daggers up against a shade but was losing her fighting composure to terror. Morrigan had frozen one shade, but it only slowed the thing down. Venger howled and leaped on the shade as Morrigan backed away. Fear gripped her, making her unable to focus her spells.