Chapter 51: Eyes of Wolves - Descent

Raviathan eyed the back of Alistair’s head. The templar rolled up his tent, oblivious to the scrutiny he received.

While Raviathan had decades of practice hiding his magic, this misadventure into the wilderness tested him far beyond anything that he had experienced in the alienage. Back home he could work in secret as long as he kept his head down and a watchful eye out for rumors. Nobody outside his family knew of his abilities, and Valendrian as well as many of the adults protected him for his skills in healing, which also kept him safe from templars.

Now? All he had was a fellow apostate to take the fall for him, and with the light of revelation, Raviathan could no longer justify that particular cowardice. Just because she was willing to accept all the risk didn’t mean he was right in exploiting her unwillingness--inability even--to hide.

That still left the question: what to do about Alistair? Leaving him behind or sending him on another mission wouldn’t do anymore, and Raviathan could no longer continue as he had been.

If anyone had seen him yesterday ... Maker’s blood, that would be a disaster. Raviathan hadn’t even told Morrigan about his breakthrough. He didn’t know why he kept the change a secret. After all her work to teach him, she deserved to know. Certainly Raviathan felt pride at the accomplishment. In the past he couldn’t wait to tell Solyn when he had discovered a new ability, to preen at his accomplishments. Having to keep his learning quiet around his father chafed horribly during the last few years. Like Morrigan, he would never be ashamed of his magic.

Yet something about the change felt too intimate to share. Becoming wolf changed him in ways he was still trying to unravel. He was wolf. After a lifetime of hating wolves for attacking the elves who traveled between alienages, of thinking of wolves as no different from bandits in that respect, or driving up the price of food because of slaughtered livestock, on seeing how they bonded with the taint more than any other animal ... after all that, and now his perception could never be the same again.

The consequences of that spell reached far beyond a change in form, for the wolf inside did not flinch from the truth he had gleaned. His view of the world shifted as well, beyond animal, beyond elf, he had become a creature of Fade creation.

Strange how one word, wolf, meant each individual wolf and all wolves at once. From the distilled memory of all beings from all the ages, the reality of experience, along with all the collective histories, stories, and fables, all became bound in an ever-shifting and ever eternal concept more powerful than any one animal.

In a single moment, the wolf of the Dalish, the wolf of the Tevinter, the wolf from ancient elves to modern humans, an ideal blended with the perspectives of hunters, farmers, travelers, and vagabonds, came into focus and Raviathan had known. Raviathan had become the Fade ideal as filtered through his own identity, two things combined to form more than the whole of individual parts.

No wonder Morrigan couldn’t articulate how the spell worked. She learned in the bud of her youth, full of feeling and wonder before the discipline of magic took over her later training. She had been like a child prodigy who could mimic music but not understand the complexities of composition or depth of feeling that took true mastery. Such a spell required intuition and concepts of idealization that words could not accomplish, only lead to.

For far too long, Raviathan had been fooling himself. He hadn’t wanted to be the leader of this pack, and whining about not having a choice in who ran with him or how he ended up in this position could no longer hold. He wasn’t sure what he should do, but denying responsibility was childish beyond reproach. With injuries and dangers that had hounded them daily, his secret was crippling all of their chances for survival. His long ingrained habits chaining him for fear of a templar.

Nibbling his lower lip, Raviathan finished packing his equipment. Alistair kept surprising him. He thought back to the Tower of Ishal and how Alistair treated the nameless mage who died that night. Alistair had been sympathetic and not said one harsh word to the man. No one could be that good an actor for so long, nor had he reason to lie, and Alistair couldn’t be both incompetent and a master liar. Maker’s blood, how Raviathan had wanted to believe the worst beyond all evidence and reason.

He deserved this shame. The first time on his own, with real responsibility, and Raviathan had chosen cowardliness and paranoid fantasies when he had a real enemy to face.

And those stupid jokes of Alistair’s! Most of the time Raviathan wanted to roll his eyes or scowl, but more often than not, he was having a harder time not cracking a smile.

Yet ... yet if Raviathan was wrong and misjudged Alistair’s tolerance of apostates, the consequences would be life stuck in the mage prison. If those templars didn’t kill him outright, that is. What would they do to Morrigan? She could possibly escape in animal form, but Alistair knew of those abilities and could warn the others. Raviathan never had asked Alistair what the templars did with apostates. Children could be molded easily, had little knowledge of the ways of magic, but templars were not so forgiving of adults.

Solyn.

Dried blood staining her legs. Rotting in garbage. She never practiced blood magic. Her life had been dedicated to healing magic so that she could help her kin. True, she knew some defensive spells.

And more.

Raviathan thought back to his lessons, most of which focused on spirit magic when he was first learning, then in the creative field. That spell to turn one’s energy against them—it was a grisly spell, but not because the magic itself was evil or dark. The effects were extreme, but the spell did not torture a person or use blood magic. Indeed, a fire spell could leave a person with lifelong scars or in agony for days before dying. The spirit inversion spell killed the person outright, messily, but not with added pain.

None of the magic Solyn knew warranted what the templars had done to her. As evil as that shit lord Vaughan had been, Raviathan didn’t torture on principle, even the bastards who deserved it, and knew that Solyn didn’t torture either. That was for lords and templars.

Still, what to do about Alistair?

Well, maybe Raviathan would be able to continue to hide his magic until he had other Wardens to secure his position. Just because the elf treaty had unexpected entanglements didn’t mean the other treaties would be as difficult.

“Into the belly of the beast, then.” Alistair had his hands on his hips as he stared at the crumbling ruins that led under a hillock.

“There is no other way?” Leliana asked.

“Venger and I searched last night,” Raviathan said. “The wolves have another entrance they use as their main, through a plateau of ruins not far from here, but they’ve bound the door tight. This still has their scent and is probably a back door for emergencies.”

“Their scent?” Sten watched Raviathan from the side of his eyes.

“According to Venger and Morrigan, yes.” Raviathan ignored the qunari’s dark glare. Did the qunari suspect him or was this distaste for Morrigan’s magic? Raviathan may be paranoid, but not without cause. Years of hiding, further sharpened by the death of his aunt, made him watchful. All this time he had worried about Alistair, but he never considered what the qunari view of magic would be, only that the giant did not seem to care for it.

Grit crumbled from the cracked roof above. A tightness constricted around Raviathan’s chest, like he couldn’t get enough air. Fear of the ruins that appeared to crumble before their eyes and trap them all in a suffocating death, or fear of discovery? New insight didn’t change years of ingrained terrors. Still, whatever qunaris thought, it couldn’t be worse than how mages were treated in the rest of Thedas.

Picking his way with care lest he break an ankle, Raviathan led the rest down the loose rubble embankment and across the grand entrance fit for a palace. He and Venger hadn’t spent much time in here last night, just enough to know the passage led deeper into the den.

Dust hung heavily in the air, making the sunlight that shone through the exposed roof seem solid enough to touch. Thick webbing and animal leavings covered the cavernous chamber. Though Raviathan hadn’t thought too much of the state of the elven ruins he fell into a fortnight before, the debris here gave him pause. Why hadn’t the other ruins had more dust and grime? Old magic kept animals out, but insects as well? What magics did the ancient elves wield? And how had those magics stayed true for so many centuries without anyone to look after them?

A thickened system of centuries-old roots allowed them access to the lower chamber with relative ease. Sten and Alistair both slipped before catching themselves, the armor covering their boots scoring long, pale wounds into the roots.

“Will this structure hold?” asked Sten.

“I wish you hadn’t said that,” Alistair replied as he glanced about nervously, but he sounded resigned rather than actually fearful.

Raviathan shrugged. “The wolves live here and have for decades. Many buildings of old survive. Why shouldn’t this?”

Sten let out a low grumble. “Dwarven made structures, maybe.”

Raviathan cast a questioning look at the others. He had no experience in this field other than the few ruins that dotted the Ferelden countryside, and they seemed common enough.

“There’s Ostagar and the Tower of Ishal,” Alistair said.

“And do they have tons of earth and stone weighing them down, or roots prying them apart?” Sten asked.

“Er ... well, no. I suppose not.” Alistair pushed at a large chunk that had once been a pillar with his foot. “Doesn’t...” Alistair trailed off.

“Does not what, Alistair?” Leliana asked.

“Well. I’m no expert, of course. This doesn’t seem Tevinter made, does it?”

Leliana tilted her head as she examined the large chamber.

“Quite a few ruins are still strong in the Korcari Wilds,” Morrigan said. “There have been many who have wandered this land, including the ancient elves, or so the poet spirits say.”

Raviathan ran a hand over the crumbled pillar. What did he know of buildings? The alienage consisted of ramshackle structures piled anywhere an elf could find a space. He’d seen a few human inns and houses on the journey with Duncan, but they were nothing grand. Ostagar looked big. That’s all he remembered as far as architectural details were concerned. The ruin he had fallen into held the lovingly-rendered details of the ancient elves, with graceful arches, which lent an airy feeling even though it was buried inside a mountain. This? He wouldn’t even know what to compare it to.

“Time is wasting.” With that, Raviathan strode to the double door at the opposite side of the chamber.

Dust, dust, and more dust coated the labyrinthine passages as the group made their way further down into the depths of the ruin. After a sneezing fit, Alistair tied a cloth over his nose and mouth, an idea Leliana and Raviathan adopted. Alistair and Raviathan held torches while Morrigan kept a steady magelight to illuminate their path. Scuttling insects scrambled for cover under piles of rubble that blocked off some passages or cleared a wall that lead to more winding rooms. Raviathan wondered why this ruin didn’t have that claustrophobic feel that other buildings held for him.

In fact, Raviathan couldn’t help but admire the designs that remained even over the years of neglect. Scrub the floors and walls and this place would shine, become a beacon of lost elven history. Truly, the ruin was a marvel.

The sweeping staircase led to a large, round room with a domed ceiling and raised dais inscribed with star-like patterns visible around heaps of rags. Corridors lead out in multiple directions, most cut short with rubble or breakages, but a few passages remained.

A gasp from Leliana sharpened their attention. A shift of light, pale with a touch of silvery blue, moved along a far wall. Obscured at first by Morrigan’s magelight, the figure revealed the form of a young elven boy.

“Maker’s breath.” Raviathan’s heart beat faster at this faint remnant of history. He moved as fast as he dared, unsure of this telltale magic. To his surprise, the ghost’s eyes locked on him. Not like in the forest with the ghost soldiers, Raviathan thought. Not a repeat of an event, trapped by emotional impressions left on the Fade. No, this boy was ... alive, in some way. He reacted to this world, something of the ghost’s mind lingering to the spirit.

Amazing.

“Mamae? Mamae na mara san.”

The boy looked about, clearly terrified. Silvery tracks on his face marked a trail of tears. He hunched down, hugging as tightly to the wall as he could.

Raviathan cocked his head at the words. Well, shit.

Did mamae mean mother? Sounded close enough, and that would make sense from a frightened child. The rest? Raviathan glanced back at Leliana to see if she had any clue, but she shrugged helplessly.

Raviathan tried to approach, slowly and with as little threat as possible. “Um. Lethallan?” No, that wasn’t right. What words had he learned from the Dalish? “Len? F-falon?”

“Ma halani! Inna em le’fal’leon!”

Oh Maker, what was the word for danger? Or help? Or anything that would be useful? Never mind Raviathan felt a fool for being an elf who had no clue about the elven language. He held out a hand in hopes that this silent communication could achieve what words could not.

The boy looked about, uttered a heartrending cry of despair and fear, and fled down a corridor. His ghostly form raced through the boulders that now blocked the way for corporeal bodies.

“Wonder what that was about,” Alistair said.

Groans wrenched from the Fade echoed around the cavernous hall.

“On guard!” Raviathan had his blades out in an instant.

The rags around the room twitched of their own accord. Maker, they were everywhere! Their path back to the door was blocked by five skeletons, all with hateful white lights pinned on them. Raviathan spun around to get an estimation of their foes. They had a chance to barrel their way through the forming skeletons by the stairs and form a choke point with the doorway, but with more rising about, Raviathan didn’t want to chance fighting on two fronts.

“Quick, form a circle!” That they had practiced, at least. Morrigan moved to the center where she could cast her magic uninterrupted. Alistair and Venger moved to Raviathan’s left and right, respectively, with Sten and Leliana closing the circle. While Leliana’s skills with blades was rudimentary, arrows were next to useless in these close quarters and against half-formed beings.

The hissing of the skeletons set Raviathan’s hair on edge. No tongues or vocal cords existed anymore. The spirits screeched, a sound carrying across the Veil, making the sounds echo and vibrate through Raviathan like a sour violin chord. He felt them in two realms, the sound piercing and haunting at once.

His main sword swept out in an upward arc to crack the skeleton’s ribs while his dagger caught the monster’s claw-like hand. His dagger slipped through bones instead of catching on flesh as Raviathan had trained. Adrenaline-sharpened reflexes took over as Raviathan’s mind went blank. He lunged with his left shoulder, smashing into the bones, and pulling his sword away to ready another attack. Teeth snapped at his neck, just getting a pinching hold when Raviathan pushed out with his hip and bent to evade the still sharp jaws.

Claws raked along the armor protecting his side, and Raviathan fell in a tangle of leg bones. He kicked up at the looming monster, the cold lights bearing down on him.

Fire! Burn these creatures!

The templars will get you!

Raviathan gritted his teeth as he dropped his dagger to hold his sword by the hilt and one gauntleted hand, anything to keep those too wide jaws from biting off his face. He felt bony hands grasping his legs, knew he would feel pain any second when the skeletons bore down on him. He kicked, struggled, anything to get them off.

Venger grasped the skeleton by the neck, shook the animated bones in a death rattle, wrenching the blasted thing apart. Raviathan scooted back, away from danger, enough to get to his feet. He whipped his sword to cut off the arm of a skeleton set on Venger, kicked its breastbone as the thing screeched at him, and followed with a foot smashing down on the brittle skull.

Wave after wave continued to gather around them. Raviathan didn’t remember retrieving his dagger, but his defensive blade was in his hand as he hacked and hacked at the false visages of death. He felt heavy, barely able to raise his arms in time to fend off attack after attack. Maker, let it end.

Alistair cried out in pain and staggered back into the circle. He clutched at his side, his sword clattering on the stone floor but kept his shield up. A great swipe of Sten’s sword broke the skeleton apart, bones flying in an arc. Breathing heavily, the group stopped to assess the situation. No more crawling bones. No more ghostly lights glinting in the desiccated skulls.

“Burn the bones.” Raviathan panted out the order. He needed a moment, his hands shaking from the battle. All he wanted to do was collapse and rest. Give him an hour or three, some water and decent food, a little rest from all this death.

The others moved to comply with his orders. Though Raviathan wanted to drop his blades, he slid them back into place. The effort to pick them up later would be worse, he knew, but oh how he wanted to rest.

“Here,” Raviathan said, a hand at Alistair’s back to guide him to the crumbled half wall formation that bisected the altar-like space from the rest of the room. “Easy. Have a seat.”

A groan escaped from Alistair as he gingerly sank down. He remained doubled over as Raviathan undid part of his armor to reach the wounded area. Alistair hissed as Raviathan palpated the bruised skin. Raviathan sighed. “Broken.”

He sat in front of Alistair, frowning to himself as he thought. “Armor’s no good anymore. Even if we could get it repaired, I don’t know that it’s going to be any use. You also need time to heal.”

“Trying to get rid of me again?”

The bitterness in Alistair’s tone slapped Raviathan. He straightened, looking at Alistair as if for the first time. “No. If I was trying to get rid of you, I wouldn’t care about your armor, now would I?”

Alistair scoffed, winced as the movement sent fresh pain into his side. He mumbled something that Raviathan couldn’t make out.

“What?”

Bent over, arm protectively covering his ribs, Alistair glared up. “Why won’t you bind my ribs?”

Raviathan tilted his head. “Why would I do that? I’ve told you before, binding will only keep you from breathing deeply, and in these wet conditions, you’ll be likely to get pneumonia.”

“When I trained with the templars, the healer would bind our ribs.”

“Bah.” Annoyed, Raviathan waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “Then they were idiots.”

A pout greeted that statement.

“Alistair, I promise you. I’ve treated your injuries as I would my own kin.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

Raviathan half rose, a dismissal forming on his lips, when he stopped. He sat back down and gave Alistair a hard look. Alistair wasn’t sure what that look meant, but the hostility he expected wasn’t there, not really. More like ... distrust? Whatever. Pain throbbed in his side, a persistent ache that sharpened like a knitting needle being stabbed into his side each time he breathed. Tired and hurt, he was done playing games, done trying to guess the elf’s intentions.

The silence between them grew uncomfortable enough that Alastair was about to leave when Raviathan bit his lips, his expression turning inward. “Alistair, I know I’ve been unfair to you.”

That caught him off guard. Alistair sat, waiting.

Raviathan let out a long breath, a hand raking his hair. “I ... I have reasons.” He finally met Alistair’s gaze, and the look in those large, strange eyes struck something in Alistair. Vulnerable and sad and wary, and Alistair couldn’t fathom what he’d done to cause that look. The fire from the bones added new layers of refracted light, cool sea and burning flames.

Instead of continuing, Raviathan gestured at the burning pile. “I don’t suppose this is the place to talk. Not with dead things attacking us. Or ghosts wandering around.”

“At least the ghost didn’t attack. Wonder what he was saying.”

A sad half-smile tugged at one side of Raviathan’s mouth. “Almost seemed like he was warning us.”

“Friendly ghosts?” Or should I be more surprised that the boy was a friendly elf?

The fire dimmed, and Raviathan stared at the pile. The bones popped and cracked, shuffling as they resettled. “I will explain, Alistair, when there’s time. Best we get going for now.”

In a strange way, Alistair didn’t want to end the conversation. The moment had been brief, but he felt as if something had passed between the two of them. He loathed to go back to indifferent or hostile.

“How are you feeling? Do you want to remain at the cave entrance, or do you think you can fight?”

Maker, no more fighting, not until he had a chance to heal. Funny thing was, when he was fighting, he didn’t notice his ribs as much. The pain remained but was dulled somehow. It was only after the fighting that the aching came back with a vengeance. “Not in top condition, but I think I can hold my own.”

Raviathan gave his shoulder a light pat as he left to join the others. Alistair turned away to hide his grimace of pain as he refastened his armor. How much more would they have to face in this tomb? What made this wolf so special, anyway? Something fishy was going on, that’s for sure.

Fishy. Wolves. Did wolves eat fish? They would, wouldn’t they, but then how did they catch fish? Not like they could hold fishing poles in their paws or anything. Could werewolves?

Alistair gave himself a mental shake. Need to focus. So far this ruin had proved just as difficult as the forest. The light-headed feeling that had been creeping in on him wasn’t helping. Not at all. At least he wasn’t getting one of those headaches again. Maker, he hated those, the way they felt like nails driving into his skull.

He could hold his own. Alistair finished with his armor but left his shield buckled to his pack. The treaties. That’s what mattered, and he’d do his all to do right by Duncan and the Wardens.

The ruins. He could do this. Steeling himself with renewed purpose, Alistair joined the others. The wolves couldn’t live that far underground, right? Probably just a passage or two and they’d be facing wolf-breath himself. No problem.

Leliana screamed as a blast of fire shot up in front of her. She jumped back, tripped over the depressed floor trigger and fell on her backside. The arrow aimed at her head sailed over to clatter against the stone wall. She didn’t slow but continued her retreat, scrambling backwards using her hands and feet.

“Fuck!” Raviathan yelled as another trap triggered. “Get out of the room! Everyone! Back up and get out of here!” He grabbed Leliana’s arm, hauling her with him as they raced to the corridor, Sten’s broad back blocking the way as he dashed out. Raviathan itched with nerves to have his enemies behind him. He was sure, any second now, an arrow would thud into his back, pierce his lung, and that would be his end. He hated Leliana for the instant she blocked his escape and left him open to that dreaded arrow. Fucking move!

“There!” Raviathan started for the side passage that ended in a pile of rubble and thick roots. Weren’t they several floors down by now? How deep did roots grow? “Let them come to us. They won’t be able to pick us off with bows here.”

They heard the dry click of bones on stone, tap tap tap, when the skeletons closed in. As Raviathan predicted, the skeletons’ bows were useless in the tight confines. Snarling, he lashed out with his sword and dagger. Rib bones cracked, spines snapped as he vented his frustration and helplessness on the long-dead bodies before him.

The skeletons were smaller than human-sized, and he knew he was hacking at the bones of ancient elves. A part of him sickened at the idea. These cursed spirits used the bodies of his kin, violated their remains, robbed these bones of any last dignity owed to the dead. His own kin, turned to horrors.

Not allowed to scream!

Curse all these damned spirits and send them back into the Fade!

Raviathan’s lungs beat for air as he stared at the bones scattered before him. He tried to work out his feelings, the swirling chaos of hate and rage and frustration and the worst kind of sorrow. He hated these dead things, the bones that attacked him, and knew the bones themselves were nothing without some spirit to animate them, that his rage should go to the spirits. The cold, white lights no longer gleamed from the skulls, and without their presence, Raviathan couldn’t focus his anger on the spirits, only the physical vestiges, the poor, long dead bones that should have been given the final peace of fire.

Hadn’t his people suffered enough?

His first kill entered his mind, that blubbery cook of Vaughn’s. The man’s bowels had loosened at death leaving the stench of shit in the air. He and Soris had to push the body under the table with their feet as the man was too heavy to shove.

There was no dignity in death.

A few times Solyn had taken Raviathan out of the alienage past the curfew. They had stayed hidden in a storage room in a warehouse, waiting in silence as the hours passed. The sun slowly set as they read, Raviathan with a sinking stone in his stomach and Solyn impassive as a statue in her meditations. He knew what her stoicism meant. It was the same walling away of emotions she used when she operated, whenever something difficult needed to be done.

His mother taught him to hide his expressions behind a mask, but Solyn was teaching him to become a stone.

When the last shuffling of humans ended for the day, and the warehouse left empty, they crept into the hallway. Solyn relied on Raviathan’s training to get them through the building undetected by any stray human who might have remained. They ended up in a back room secured by a number of locks. Raviathan worked them open, the stone in his stomach a heavy weight, revolting at him for what they were about to do.

In the room bodies lay, three of them, two shems and a dwarf. In the morning, the bodies would be taken to the pyre for those who left this mortal coil without family to speak for them. Their blood had been drained in preparation to make their burning easier.

Solyn pulled back the shroud of the dwarf. The man lay naked and cold, skin slightly blue even in the warm torchlight. Hair covered his face, his arms and legs, his chest. Long, crinkled hairs as long as Raviathan’s pinky finger scattered over his rounded belly leading to a curly knotted line that marked a path to a thick mat of rust fuzz over his genitals. Solyn handed Raviathan the sharpened blade, and with no words spoken between them, he started a careful cut down the man’s torso.

A thick layer of fat ballooned the man’s stomach. The fat required multiple cuts before the organs showed themselves. He hated cutting into the body. Though he knew the man was dead, it felt as if he was hurting him. Stupid, but Raviathan couldn’t shake the feeling that each cut caused more pain. The stone in Raviathan’s stomach turned to dead weight, a pressure that seemed to chill him at the core. That coldness started to take over, becoming numb as he continued. His hands stopped their tiny tremors as the numbness leached into his mind, making his as cold and numb as the body before him.

Whoever you are, I’m sorry.

What he and Solyn did was forbidden. If caught, they would be considered ghouls, pariahs, yet another story of sick, depraved elves. They would be hanged as an example, a warning to humans not to trust those disgusting elves, fear and hate growing a greater distance between their races. Elves were beneath humans, reviled as weak, untrustworthy, and yet there would be a hint of fear to sharpen a human’s lash against their servant’s hand, a sharper pinch to their delicate elven ears. Solyn and Raviathan’s bodies would hang for days, maybe weeks, as hateful human eyes passed over them.

Solyn pointed at the chest wall.

Rote memory took over as Raviathan started to rattle off the names of bones, muscles and organs. So much to remember. “And the sternum divides the ends of the costal cartilages. The parietal pleura covers the pleura cavity, and the visceral pleura covers the lungs.” He hurried through the review as they only had one night to explore as much as possible. “First rib,” he pointed, “the manubrium, trachea,” his finger traced down the body, “the mediastinum.”

Would the humans be wrong? Here he was, cutting into a dead body. It was monstrous. Numbness made his fear--a voice that screamed like each cut was flaying him open instead of the body before him--a distant thing. Distant but persistent, a frightened child crying in the night.