Sanguinifex

Chapter Text

He lay curled up on the cave floor, humming softly. First he had fought with the Legion, shielding and healing them, and then when they had still fallen, he had coaxed spirits into their bones and fought with those instead, and then when his magic came more and more from the darkness inside him than from the Fade and the good spirits had grown afraid and would not answer, he fought alone. And now the darkspawn did not even realize he was not one of them, and did not come to attack him, and their silent song was dizzying in his ears and the Blight-fever spun his mind, so he gave up fighting and rested.

Alim Surana had all the Deep Roads for his grave, and living dead he lay in them.

“So you have come here at last, then,” said a familiar voice. “I had thought I had gotten the count wrong.”

“You’re dead,” said Alim. “I killed you. Though, I suppose I’m not surprised you didn’t stay dead, given you’re the same thing as Corypheus, probably. Or else we’re both dead, I suppose.”

“Not dead, neither of us, but dead to the world. And yes, I am like Corypheus—I did not lie to you, back then, I simply had no memory. You fixed that, strangely enough; when I reincarnated after that, I remembered. It must have gone wrong, the time before that.”

“And the Old Gods’ song—can you hear that now too?”

“No. Of the Seven, I alone have never been able to. We each changed differently, after we fell. I can control the physical course of the Blight, but never hear it. The priestess of Zazikel became the first broodmother.  Corypheus, he could touch minds within the Blight.”

“I had a firsthand demonstration. Please don’t tell me you’re planning to do that as well.”

“I see no value in becoming a god. It did not go so very well the first time. Nor is the surface mine to take even as an earthly ruler, I have learned. So, my dominion is here.”

“Still awakening darkspawn? Is that what you want me for?”

“You’re too far gone for that, and turning you back is not what I want for you. You alone drank Avernus’ potion—yes, I know about that; I want to see what you can do in the Blight.”

“Control over the physical Blight itself—I still don’t know how you did that to Fiona, or what you did to the others with her.”

“How do you, a mage, light a candle or put it out?”

“By wanting to. But the Blight’s a miasma, not magic, except for sympathetic magic. It’s not the same.”

“Unless one is the Architect of the Blight.”

“What are you doing with me, then? I’m no threat. I’m dying. Even the darkspawn know it, unless you’re actually the one keeping them away.”

“You’re not dying. You are, but you’re not. The Blighted do not die unless killed. Most Wardens are killed, but the rest, they become the Blight.”

“Ghouls? Everyone knows that. What’s to stop me from offing myself, right here?”

“Ghouls are infants. And I will stop you. I know of Avernus, and I know some of your work, more these last few years, as the Blight grew stronger within you, and I will have what you know.”

The Architect scooped up Alim, carrying him in his arms. Whether it was a spell or the sickness, Alim did not know, but he was helpless to resist.

“You are changing now, and you may as well do it somewhere more comfortable. I could speed up the process, but I feel you would want to do it naturally, and will be stronger that way anyway. Sleep now.”

And darkness far blacker than that of the Deep Roads fell on Alim and swallowed him up.

“Hey Zev?” asked Alim. “Can I convince you to work your awesome massage magic once we set up camp? Sleeping on rock is fucking up my neck, and just throwing healing at it doesn’t work.”

“Of course. After all, my skills are ridiculously awesome.”

“Zevran, that line got old the second time you used it after stabbing an ogre,” said Alistair.

“But stabbing ogres is ridiculously awesome!”

“You have to admit, it is,” agreed Alim.

“Yes, you’re definitely thinking about some kind of stabbing,” said Morrigan darkly.

“I promise never to make that much noise again, okay?” Who would have thought that echoing was actually a property of stone, not just weird Circle surveillance architecture? And it had been just once!

There was no way to tell day from night in the Deep Roads, but eventually everyone agreed that it was time for “dinner”—the second meal since “breakfast”—so they made camp; building a fire, unrolling bedrolls, and painting spider repellant on everything around them. As soon as everything was mostly set up, Alim flopped onto his bedroll, facedown. “Ow,” he said, as he realized an instant too late that the bedroll was not padded sufficiently for flopping.

“Are you still in need of my awesome massage magic, my Warden?”

“Yes,” said Alim, into the thin pillow. “That would be double-awesome.”

“You should have your robe and shirt off, to do this properly.”

“Ugh. Sitting up. All right.” Alim sat up and unhooked and set aside his robes, then took off his (rather sweaty) linen shirt.

“Please don’t get naked,” remarked Morrigan, from the fire, as she stirred the stewpot.

“I’m keeping my pants on,” he shot back.

For some reason, a lot of people thought that mages wore their distinctive robes and nothing else. Even in the middle of summer, this was largely untrue; most people wore at least a linen shirt to protect the fabric. When it was not summer-temperature, one actually followed the official dress code, which dictated having under one’s robes not just that shirt but also leggings and smallclothes. Alim had left the Circle, but saw no reason to change his style of underwear, merely changing the externals to be more sensible for fighting. (Circle robes were nigh-impossible to run in. Circle shoes were little more than socks made to be noisy.)

Now wearing only his pants (and the smallclothes underneath), Alim lay facedown on the bedroll again, more carefully this time. Zevran had also partially disrobed, taking off his own armor and shirt. He dug around in his pack and produced a vial of scented oil.

“So, where does it hurt?” he asked.

“Left shoulder. No, higher up. Ow! There.”

“That looks like some adventurous sleeping, no? We’ll have to do something about that knot.”

“Any sleeping I do is adventurous. I’m pretty sure this counts as an adventure. Fighting darkspawn, stopping the Blight, the Warden business. It includes sleeping rough.”

“Well, yes, I suppose. Are you having difficulty sleeping, though?”

“I’m a Warden. I’m also a mage, and the Veil is weird here and there’s traces of lyrium in everything. So, yes. I’ll live.”

“There are herbs that can help with that.”

“I’m aware of that. I also don’t wish to be eaten by deepstalkers or darkspawn in my sleep. I’ll save the valerian for if someone actually needs it.”

A few minutes went by in silence, save for the crackle of the fire and occasional muffled curses and sharp intakes of breath from Alim, as Zevran’s fingers found painful knots. Zevran was putting most of his weight into the massage, working Alim’s back properly now that the worst of the shoulder was done, and his muscles flexed as he worked. (Leliana was looking on appreciatively while pretending to mend clothing. Zevran pretended not to notice, and secretly reveled in the attention.)

“Stew’s ready,” called Morrigan.

“Okay, that’s probably enough for your back,” said Zevran to Alim. “You should eat.”

“I’m not tired enough to skip food,” said Alim.

The stew was deepstalker, deep mushroom, and dried fruit—heavy on the deepstalker. The flavor combination was a bit odd, and a bit bland, but salted well enough. Zevran was strongly considering unpacking his entire mortar and pestle set and grinding part of a dried pepper, from his sadly dwindling supply, but Alim just shoveled the mess into his mouth.

“You actually like this stuff?” Zevran asked.

“It’s not oat porridge or lentils. It has a lot of meat in it. Therefore, I like it. Would be better with boiled walnuts, though. And milk.”

Zevran suspected that Alim would eat nothing but meat, nuts, and dairy, plus the occasional spring salad and seasonal fruit, if he could. The Dalish in the Brecilian Forest had certainly seemed to. Though, the ones who were not Wardens (or running around fighting) seemed to eat fairly small portions, which balanced out the nutritional intensity, he supposed.

Alim had finished eating, and was now leaning on Zevran. “Hey. If you are going to fall asleep, maybe you should be lying down.”

“Can you stay by me?”

Zevran had wanted to sharpen his daggers, but he could do that at breakfast, he supposed. He had cleaned them well enough after the last fight that they would be fine.

“Of course,” he said, curling up around the sleepy mage. They would probably regret not having their shirts on, later, but for now the skin-to-skin contact was nice. Especially for Zevran; despite the chill of the Deep Roads, Alim always ran hot. He said it was a Warden thing.

Alim was asleep in a few minutes, still except for the flickering of his eyelids as he dreamed. Zevran hoped it was not the “darkspawn Templar” nightmare again. He pressed a reassuring kiss to the tip of Alim’s ear, and then simply held him as he fell into sleep himself.

The next morning, the first one up was an unusually chipper Alim.

“So, I take it the massage helped?” Zevran asked, as he tried to choke down the absolutely dreadful Dwarven coffee.

“Wonderfully. I haven’t slept that well since we went into the Deep Roads. You are indeed incredibly awesome.”

“Maker’s sake, please find another word!” grumbled Alistair into his own mug.