Chapter 49: Eyes of Wolves - Forgotten Gods

Raviathan didn’t dare move.

As soon as he started falling, he curled up tight with his arms covering his head. Loose-bodied might have been better, but his instincts wouldn’t let him fall that way. Stones battered him, roots beat him like clubs, and boulders knocked him to and fro as if being caught in a strong current. At one point he hit a slide that he was sure broke his bones, the chaos being too much to check by magic. Down he went, sliding down rough stone, carried by a wash of pebbles and sand. Finally he felt open air, his heart in his mouth as he went into free fall.

He smashed into a floor, his breath whooshing out. Propelled by those same instincts, he rolled as fast as he could. The boulders that fell after him vibrated through the floor. A second too late would have seen him crushed, his bones snapped and blood splattered across the floor like a beetle under heel.

Raviathan breathed in dusty, chilled air, and for the first time in his life, felt a fear that paralyzed him to immobility. Never before had he been so aware of how far away his home was. So many miles away--hundreds--away from anyone or anything that could protect him.

When he walked through the alienage, in the late night or early morning when an incredible stillness settled to make the moments feel timeless, he had been aware of all the sleeping elves around him. When he traveled to Ostagar, Duncan walked beside him, his presence reassuring even in the first days when Raviathan had been filled with anger and sorrow to be replaced by hope when Raviathan knew they would be reunited by night’s fall.

His companions, filled with disdain, anger, distrust, at least fought by his side. In a crisis, they stood together. Badly, but still together.

Alone, he was terrified.

All his life, with the alienage walls or the walls between him and his friends, walls between him and everyone he loved because of his magic, nothing prepared him for this.

It was like the dream from his Joining. Alone, and faced with the impossible.

He couldn’t move. His existence consisted solely of blinding pain and fear.

The pain at the center of his being drove out thought. He felt black inside, hollow. He kept trying to will himself to move. The more he failed, the more the tidal wave of hopelessness pressed down on him, crushing until he could barely breathe.

Despair turned his insides black, crushed him down until he could feel nothing but the suffocating weight of loneliness. It stole his breath until he couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

Tapping. Claws tapping on stone.

Snuffled breathing.

Raviathan felt his heartbeat speed as if it would pound out of his chest cavity. Even an enemy, just someone there, took away the blackness that crippled him.

Tap, tap, closer.

Raviathan curled up tighter, listening, tensed for action.

Hot breath on the back of his neck.

I don’t want to die!

A lick. A wide, flat tongue on his cheek followed by a little whine.

“Venger?”

A low ruff of acknowledgment.

Relief hit Raviathan like a force. Every muscle went lax. He felt dizzy for a moment, the adrenaline after effects making him weak. He reached out a trembling hand to touch the dog’s warm fur and solid mass.

“I don’t suppose you know if we’re alone.”

The dog made a sound, as close to a yes as a dog could get, Raviathan supposed. A little force of will, and Raviathan had a mage light up. It flared like a candle flame without wick, steady, hovering in a slow revolution above his head.

Raviathan took inventory of his and Venger’s injuries: bruised and cracked bones, bruised tissues, joints jolted from impact, internal bleeding, cuts and lacerations, sprains. Raviathan felt some damage to his brain from being knocked about, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed in a few moments. As his magic worked, his confusion lifted, his mind clearing.

Eyes closed to sharpen his mental senses, Raviathan’s hands roamed over the dog. Venger had a laceration on one side, strained tendons that caused a limp, a cracked shoulder blade, more bruises everywhere.

His second heart flared, the magic flowing out in an arc of purest white light. Warmth filled Raviathan as his power coursed through him, poured into the shapes his discipline had taught, paths of healing runes that changed his fire, tinted it green, worked to repair the damage he felt. Blood vessels eased, shrank as blood flow restored to its natural rivers. Flesh knit together, fibers and delicate nerves attaching.

Maker, his magic was a glory to feel. Raviathan pitied those who would never know this warmth, this infusing light, how it eased the soul and brought the world to rights. One benefit of all the damage the party had taken over the last months was that Raviathan was becoming an expert in trauma healing.

Healed to a few remaining aches, Raviathan stood and took stock. He stood in a hallway, one long-abandoned by the sight of things. The air felt stale, and no animal detritus marred the area. This place hadn’t been touched by any in Maker knew how long.

The boulders that had crashed after him blocked off the hole he had fallen through. Two boulders, twice as large as he was tall, sat at the base. Sand and rocks plugged the rest. Though digging out that way may have been possible, Raviathan thought that destabilizing the debris would cause a slide that would more likely kill him.

A tiny trickle of energy, and the light floating around his head turned into four, all revolving in a lazy circle.

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we? And warn me if you sense one of the others near.”

Woof.

Raviathan headed right from the rock pile. Now that he had Venger, light, and his injuries tended to, he was in much better spirits. In his backpack he had food and water for three days. No, Raviathan needed to recalculate considering his hunger of late. Two days, but that should be enough. With ingenuity and a bit of luck, they would find their way out.

As he walked, Raviathan studied the carvings on the walls. Never before had he seen their like. They were stylized representations, haunting and beautiful, like no art he had ever seen. His fingers grazed over one, the sleek lines of a halla’s nose as it led to the elegantly twining horns. Some designs were easily recognizable, others puzzled him as the shapes and lines made no form he could understand. Still, they were beautiful, harmonious in their style, complex yet never cluttered. Amazing how the artist rendered a flock of birds with precision and clarity.

Maker, what Ness would make of this place! He could see her in his mind’s eye, the way she would light up at this discovery, the furious scratchings of her pens to take down every detail. How would she incorporate this into her art? If she could see this with him, his Ness would be the herald of a new generation of artists. He thought of her ink-stained fingers with a fondness that bordered on pain. How she would have cried at this discovery, and he thought of the sweet little frown line between her brows when she concentrated on her work. Why she hated her hands so he would never understand.

Struck anew with the fact that he may be the first person to see these ruins in decades, maybe centuries, Raviathan took out one of the two journals he carried, both of Dalish make. One of the Brecillian trees produced a thin bark that peeled away, its consistency like rough paper, but it took ink beautifully. In one notebook he logged the events of the days, a bare bones account to start then a paragraph on his personal thoughts of events.

In the other notebook he kept records of all the creatures they had seen: darkspawn, the various types of undead, unusual forest creatures, blighted animals, the demons the hermit summoned, and so on. These included sketches and occasional samples, like pressed leaves from the sylvan or a lock of carefully bound werewolf hair. With these entries came a brief story of how he came upon them or the circumstances involved. He couldn’t help but take some flowers for pressings and seeds which were gathered and meticulously labeled in his healer’s kit.

Though he lacked his wife’s artistic training--former wife he reminded his stubborn heart--he could make a passable sketch. Venger napped as Raviathan sketched, time turning meaningless in the sun-forgotten ruin. How old were these? Raviathan’s heart ached to see his lost history.

Remnants of a rock slide cut off the rest of the passage. If nothing was done to protect and research this find, this place would be lost far too soon to the forest. If Raviathan had his way, true artists would be here making proper drawings, studying the lay of stones, working to uncover all this ruin’s mysteries. So much lost, and the idea of losing any more keys to history was a pain that burned inside him at the injustices of the world.

Turning back, Raviathan strode passed the wreck of boulders marking his point of entry. If the passage didn’t lead anywhere, he could probably blast at the boulders from a safe distance away to make a clearing. Any further disturbance to the ruin troubled him, so he kept it in mind as a last resort. While he could spend weeks sketching every line of the murals, Raviathan figured escape needed to be a higher priority. Pity.

Tongue lolling, Venger trotted by his side. Raviathan let his fingers rest on the dog’s neck. So far Venger proved to be his only friend, but what a fine companion the dog made. Raviathan scratched the dog’s scruff in gratitude. He stopped and poured some water into a shallow bowl for the dog to drink, took a few sips from his waterskin, and sat to share a lunch. They had time.

As he munched on dried apple slices, he thought of the others. Were they alive? Morrigan probably flew off at the first sign of danger. Maker, what a useful skill. He just couldn’t get the blasted spell to make sense to him. Instead of a bear, maybe an owl? He liked barn owls. A hawk? Maker, that would be grand, Raviathan thought and smiled to himself. What would it be like to spread his wings? To never fear heights again? To look out over the land, to make the view from atop the cliff a common thing?

Then he thought of Leliana, strange but sweet even if she kept her secrets close to her chest. Raviathan understood that desire well enough. He had been keeping secrets since his earliest memories. Has she survived the rock slide? Maker, he hoped so.

Sten? Sten he could take or leave without much care. While he didn’t wish death on the qunari, if Sten decided to make his own way without them, Raviathan wouldn’t care. They needed the extra muscle desperately, but the rage and disdain he leveled at Raviathan could take a flying leap into the Abyss.

What of Alistair? Raviathan nibbled his lip, troubled. Had he been wrong about the templar? Former templar? The discussion they had kept returning to his mind, unbidden and unwanted but persistent as the tide. Raviathan wasn’t going to feel sorry for templars, not ever. They made their choices unlike his mage-talented kin who were forced away at sword point to be locked up for the rest of their lives without a single word to their families. Learning your child had magic was almost like having them die. You would never see or hear from them again.

However, Alistair hadn’t actually taken vows. Raviathan chewed a slice of venison, the tough meat making his jaw ache before it was worn down enough to swallow. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to Alistair again, find out more. If the man survived the avalanche. Raviathan never expected the small pang of sadness at the idea.

Then there was Morrigan. He wondered, not for the first time, if he should take her up on her offer. Just sex. No tears, no expectations. With a regular partner, maybe he could keep the intrusive thoughts at bay. He pondered the question, again, and came to the same bitter conclusion. He knew relationships. Even when ended on good terms, they were never as clean as the witch would believe, not when they had to travel with each other, and not when he had made a promise to protect her.

Maker, he wished he could stop the constant background of thoughts, the aching need that never seemed satisfied. That longing nearly wrecked his standing in the alienage, had hounded him like a plague during his childhood and again since he left the alienage. If he couldn’t find some relief, he would eventually go to Morrigan.

Would that be so bad?

Yes! Stop it.

For the first time, he wondered why he had never considered Leliana. Attractive, intelligent, and worldly, she had many of the qualities he sought in a lover. Still, there was something strange about her, both a longing and fear that pulled her in two directions, like children holding hands and spinning, pulling apart but unable to separate. Leliana would not be a simple bed partner, he knew, if he desired such a course. The songbird longed for love, a soul deep need, desire beyond sex, yet she didn’t trust herself to love or be loved.

Humans could be such odd creatures, but was that humans in themselves or how they chose to live? That was a distinction he just beginning to understand having now seen a few examples of the vast differences in human culture. While he had chaffed at the rules the alienage enforced on relationships between children, Raviathan thought of how they protected the finer feelings until he and his kin were ready to forge a bond with open hearts. Elves who lived outside the alienage had different feelings, more bruised in his opinion, than those who lived protected by the bonds of kinship.

Raviathan knew he wouldn’t pursue the songbird even though she would be a better match than Morrigan on many levels. Sex didn’t matter—didn’t hurt—but love ... love was everything, and his heart fractured more and more, every time he thought of his sweet Ness. Moreover, as a Grey Warden, that part of his life was over. He couldn’t afford to entertain such thoughts, and he would not be so cruel as to give hope where none existed.

Impatient to get his mind elsewhere, Raviathan packed up and continued down the hallway. The corridor turned this way and that. Some rooms were destroyed by rockfall, others by thick roots that were slowly prying the structure apart. How long would this ruin last? A few doors opened to strange chambers, the purpose of which could sometimes be gleaned, but more often than not, remained in the realm of long dead memories.

A double door that curved up into a high pointed arch contained what looked like an old pyre. The beaten metal disk stretched ten feet across, and while scorch marks stained the disk, no ash remained. Raviathan marveled at the complex geometric patterns on the floor inlaid with semi-precious stones and copper covered in a green patina. The ceiling rose high overhead in a dome covered with more stylized murals.

Awed, Raviathan wandered, turning slowly as he walked, trying to take it all in. The intense stillness of this place stunned him. Perfect silence echoed, ancient whispers lost, with only his crown of light to toss back the shadows.

Grand murals three times his height made of gold tiles framed the room. Raviathan recognized some of the gods, Ghilan’nain from the ornate halla horns that framed an image of a woman, and Andruil by the bow she carried. He reached up to run a hand over the gold tiles of one god, the design framing the figure in a circle. The tiles gleamed warmly, like a living benediction, where he had wiped the dust away. He did not care that his tears flowed. He stood in a holy place. If he could, he would lovingly clean them all, let them shine as they once did for his people. How they would have sparkled with the fire lit in the center of the room, like being at the heart of The Golden City.

The click of Venger’s claws, the only sound in all that impressive silence, followed as Raviathan left to explore further. One room was barred, the doors warped for a reason not to do with age. Using his sword, he pushed it through the crack formed from the wend of wood. Holding the hilt with one hand and pinching the blade with the other, he sawed the blade up and down, gradually pushing the barrier up until it clattered on the ground. Even with the barrier out of the way, the warping required a great deal of force to open. Raviathan wouldn’t have been able to force the door without Venger’s considerable weight.

Inside, the circular room contained statues tucked into alcoves, all facing a giant gold framed mirror on a dais at the center. The mirror must have had some grand purpose as it centered the room like an artifact of power. Raviathan approached, curious. Mirrors were a luxury not often found in the alienage, but he had seen one at Alarith’s shop. Strangely, the mirror was grey, reflecting his countenance only a little better than glass.

Lips pressed, Raviathan thought he looked a right idiot in his ill-fitting clothes and ripped up armor. He fluffed his hair a bit, surprised by how long it had grown. Worse, he could see uneven hunks where his blades had cut off bits when he put them away. Oh, for love of the Maker! He bound his hair up in a thin leather strap then snipped enough off the ends to even up the rest. His hair lay a inches past his shoulders when finished.

His vanity tended to, Raviathan wondered about this room. The mirror was clearly something special, the focus of the room, but for what purpose? He walked around it, examined the statues, touched the mirror, even tested it with a bit of magic, but no hints formed why the ancient elves had created this or revered the mirror as they clearly had. Puzzled, Raviathan continued on.

The hallway opened up into a grand room with a raised platform in the center. So far very little furniture or other pieces remained in the empty rooms, but this area contained clues to its purpose. Wooden benches sat in haphazard rows, cracked with age and what could have been conflict judging by the deep scars. Tapestries hung, darkened with dust, and was that blood? Porcelain vases, some smashed, and statues gave hints to what this room once looked like.

He had to save this place, somehow. This ruin was a fortune in history. He examined one statue set in a recessed arch. The figure had a slender build to the point of emaciation and narrow arms that seemed too long, giving the figure a faintly eerie cast. A shepherd’s staff in one hand, the other outstretched, Raviathan wondered if this was Falon’Din, the guide for dead souls. The figure wore a robe of odd make and an ornate headpiece, but the details of his face showed only a vague hint of eyes and cheekbones.

Strange.

A door to the side opened into a library. Raviathan gasped at the books then began to cough furiously from inhaling so much dust. After taking a few sips of water, he took inventory. Did he dare disturb any of it? If a book crumbled in his hands, he would never forgive himself. A few books lay scattered on the ground. Those he felt he could touch with a minimum of fuss. With the slow deliberate care he gave when sewing up a patient, he righted one with the most minimal shifts he could manage. Even so, brittle pages cracked from the movement.