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It had been months since Nettie had woken to find himself in Clan Alhavenlan, and he was starting to realize that maybe, somehow, he’d managed to find a home.
It hadn’t been an easy start; he’d been angry, distrustful, had sought to isolate himself as quickly as possible. As soon as he was up and moving around enough to be considered recovered he’d asked—well, no it was more of a demand, really—Ethalan for more privacy. And he’d automatically expected the red-haired man to tell him to fuck off, to not be so ungrateful. Imagine his surprise, then, when he’d been directed to a modest tent on the outer edge of the camp, near the halla.
He was left relatively alone, then, left to his own devices. While there was no open hostility directed towards him those few times he’d ventured into the bulk of the clan—and what a clan, their aravels with differently colored sails set up like a small village—he preferred to stick to himself.
Well. Not entirely to himself.
The halla had regarded him with curiosity the first time he’d approached their penned off area. It wasn’t impressive, just a weak fence, more a suggestion than anything else for the creatures, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. There had been a lot of stories about halla in the slave camps, whispers among the elves, past on with an air of reverence, as though describing a mythical creature.
And as he’d gazed upon their stark white fur, he couldn’t help but think there was something hauntingly ethereal about them.
That was, until one of them rather rudely shoved its head into his coat, making away with an apple he’d saved for a snack.
The halla keeper, a young woman—younger than him—by the name of Vera, had come chasing after it, shouting and cursing. And then she’d turned her attention to him and Nettie had expected the brunt of her rage and wrath. His body had instinctively tensed up, shoulders hunching defensively, but all she’d done was spit to the side, hands on her hips as she started complaining about what rude creatures they were.
Friends, yes, and oh how the clan was grateful they were willing to pull their aravels, but oh so rude, and just down right inconsiderate.
Nettie had been so surprised by that reaction that he’d been unable to help the bubbling laughter. It ripped out of him before he realized what was happening, too late to stop it and he’d clapped a hand over his mouth in horror. Imagine then, to his surprise, that she’d thrown him a wink and told him to keep a better eye on his pockets next time.
Other than the occasional visit to the halla pens, Nettie didn’t socialize with the others much, or at all if he could manage. And it worked out well enough, as they were all too busy with their own lives and responsibilities to pay much attention to him. Those that did come over, curious and overtly friendly, usually took a hint after the third or fourth time he snapped at them. He started staying in his tent, drawing his anger and distrust around him like a protective armor, the only regular contact he had with Nero and Ethalan.
Occasionally the Keeper would come to visit—he was always careful to be polite—but those were few and far between. Usually just a general check in, the woman had an entire clan to look after. And it didn’t take long for Ethalan to introduce his fathers, Ishtarylin, a descendant of the Emerald Knights, fierce and sharp, with piercing blue eyes and the lines of a man who saw battle, and Cyrus. Cyrus was… like him, in a lot of ways—escaped from Tevinter, he’d been found half dead and lost in the woods by Alhavenlan scouts and brought to the clan. He worked with the healers, gathering herbs and learning medicine without magic.
Cyrus was different from Ishtarylin in a great many ways, soft spoken and careful where the other was loud and bold. His eyes were a soft, golden shade of brown that carried a kindness that reminded Nettie of… he immediately shied away from the memory, clamping down on the swell of guilt and pain that accompanied it. Cyrus knew what it was like to start with nothing, to be nothing and have to decide how to build yourself up again, but he was tenacious, and determined, and for all the ways he bent there was a rod of Silverite in him that would never break.
It had been what attracted Ethalan’s mother to him in the first place, he’d explained one quiet night—Ethalan and Nero had been indisposed, and so he’d taken it upon himself to make sure that Nettie ate.
That had been the first time he’d met Isenril who, not even eight yet, had taken an intense and curious shine to Nettie. Ethalan’s son seemed to have the patience of his grandfather and all the charm and tact of his father; the boy had immediately bombarded him with questions, and hadn’t at all been put off by his assholish nature. In fact, none of them seemed perturbed at all by his perpetual bad mood.
Did he ask for this? No.
But they were persistent, and determined, and Nero especially seemed to just let the vitriol and shitty behavior roll off his back like water. The qunari had become a constant in his life since that first meeting, bringing him food and checking up on his health. He was chatty, and after that first lifesaving incident had promised not to use magic on him again without his permission—the fact that he stuck through with that promise earned him a few points in his favor.
Not that he wanted to admit it, but Nettie had maybe, possibly, grown to look forward to their visits.
Still for all the little strides forward he’d made with the Isanami family, he still felt like an outsider and what was worse… he was starting to feel like a burden. Not that anybody had said anything, but… it was a thought that kept circling the longer he stayed. Nobody commented on his presence, they were content to let him be, and it all felt… it felt wrong. It was too good to be true—if Nettie couldn’t contribute, then there was no reason to let him stay and eventually someone would catch onto that and he’d be tossed out to die.
Which he was torn about, because it wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t want to help. The clan had been kind to him, had taken him in, but there wasn’t much he could do. He’d been a slave all his life, he didn’t know how to hold a weapon, or craft, and his body limited him from a lot of strenuous activity.
To be honest, he felt useless and as the novelty of being out of Tevinter started to wear off, that fact rubbed him more and more.
“I want to do something.” He said suddenly one night, teeth grit as they made their way along a deer path.
It hurt to move still, though it was easier in the aftermath of the Clan’s cleansing ritual and with Nero’s care. He and Ethalan insisted that he move around every day, stretches and small walks, and though Nettie was loathe to admit it, they helped a lot. He found that he could make it just a little bit farther, and he found that he was having fewer and fewer bad days as his body adjusted.
There was something about the forest that was… invigorating. This last and eldest piece of Elvhen history, Cyrus told him that it was old magic, soft and sympathetic, recognizing its wayward children.
Granted, whether there was any truth to that remained to be seen, as the man hadn’t a lick of magic in his body. But it was a reassuring thought, if not a little romantic.
“You already are, lethallin, I believe they call it walking.” Ethalan offered lightly. “Or hiking, if you want to be particular.”
Nettie scowled over at the other elf, who had the audacity to look patiently amused the bastard. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
“Maybe I do.” He hummed. “But you should enlighten me anyway.”
Nettie let out an annoyed puff of air, dragging in a lungful almost immediately afterwards. “Contribute. I want to contribute, somehow. To do something to help, like a job.”
“Let’s turn around and head back.” The redhead passed over a water skin, quiet for a moment. “What do you have in mind?”
He scoffed, taking a long gulp. “Here I thought I’d go ahead and become a hunter.” As though he even could; Nettie had tried to draw Ethalan’s bow and hadn’t so much as been able to make it budge. “I don’t know. I’m starting to get a head for identifying herbs, I could help your father.”
It wasn’t a terrible idea, he liked Cyrus well enough—he could be surprisingly snarky when need be.
“You know… and this is just a suggestion.” Ethalan offered lightly. “But with foaling season coming on, Vera really could use an extra hand with the halla. And they’ve already taken a shine to you.”
Oh. He did like the halla. Though he wasn’t sure if one could count stealth feeding them as ‘working’ with them. He liked Vera too, she talked a lot but didn’t necessarily expect him to respond which was… her one-sided conversations were amusing.
“Yeah.” Nettie smiled, warming to the idea. “Yeah that sounds like a really good idea.”
“Then we’ll let her know when we get back.”
Of course, life had different plans, and by the time they’d gotten back to the clan Nero and Isenril were waiting for him.
“Papa!” The ten-year-old launched himself at his father, grinning wildly. “Papa we got a letter!”
“I didn’t even think you could send a letter this far into the woods.” Nettie muttered.
Ethalan gave him a look, balancing his son as he looked over at his husband expectantly. “It’s from our wife.”
“Wait you have a wife?” He frowned. “But I thought… didn’t?” Nettie pointed back and forth between the two men. “Explain.”
“We have a wife.” Nero offered. “Her name is Valentina, she’s a professional boxer, and she just finished up her circuit in Afsaana, and she’s on her way to come visit.”
“Why am I just now finding this out?” Nettie protested. “Months, months I’ve known you and now you tell me you have a wife.” There was a brush of fur at his flank, Fox shoving her head between them as her tail swung in slow, lazy arcs. “Can you believe these two, Fox? Keeping secrets from me.”
“We’ve been busy!” Nero protested.
“Too busy to tell me you had a wife?” He lifted an eyebrow in disbelief.
“A wife you’ll get to mean in a few weeks.” Ethalan offered. “Did you tell the Keeper? We’ll need to send a patrol out to meet Val when she gets to the boundary edge.”
“Does she not know how to get to the Clan?” Nettie asked curiously.
They did move around a lot, he supposed, following the herds of deer as they came and went. But he would imagine, their wife—
“Mamae Val is human.” Isenril explained. “Humans aren’t safe in the forest, even if they are allowed.”
There was superstition that clung around Arlathan forest, superstition that he remembered from his time as a slave. Hunters and magisters tended to give the woods a wide berth, travelling along the plains instead. Old folk tales of how the trees were alive, and the Veil so thin that sylvans patrolled the boundaries killing any shem foolish enough to test their luck.
He had never put any stock in those stories before, but after spending time in the forest… Nettie had to admit that some things made sense. The Veil was thin here, something ancient and inherently magical that left a weight in the air, a sense of judgement and being watched. The wildlife was. Bigger. The spiders were huge, the birds, the halla, even Fox, who was apparently rather small for her species, came up to his chest at shoulder height.
“Between that and her busy schedule, she doesn’t come up here often.” Ethalan sighed. “Which sucks.”
Right. Because she was a boxer. “Can’t just marry someone normal, like a baker?”
“Perish the thought.” Nero laughed. “We’d be so fat.”
“No self-control in this family, nope.” The taller elf agreed.
“Then how come I can’t have extra sweets before bed!” Isenril pouted.
His father laughed at that, bouncing the young boy a bit as he settled him into a more comfortable hold. “Because, da’lath’in, you’d be even more hyper before bed, and your mother would kill me.”
“No fun.” He pouted, though Nettie noticed Nero sneaking the boy a wrapped candy, which seemed to brighten his mood.
“I’m telling her you did that.” Ethalan exhaled in a long, exasperated sigh. “You should go get washed up and ready for dinner, anyway. Look at these hands, have you been playing in mud again?”
“Baela was showing me how to harvest ginger!” Isenril huffed, crossing his arms. “But fine, I’m going, fen’shan.”
Ethalan sputtered as he set his son down, ruffling the curly brown hair. “Go on. We’ll meet you at the fire. Have to talk to Vera first.”
Vera had been more than thrilled to have an extra set of hands to help out with the fawning season. Nettie had held some reservations at first, matters of pride; he was older than the woman, and not by an insignificant amount. There was a part of him that rankled at having to be taught by someone his junior. But then the early labors came, and fawns were dropping out left and right—Ashalle, the one who had first approached him gave birth to twins—and there was no time to bother with such things.
Nettie adjusted to the work quickly, late hours and constant watch, found that he had a stomach for the mess when they had to assist, and his increased activity made it easier for him to help. It turned out there was a lot more work than he’d anticipated, caring for the halla. The fawns needed; help with standing, nursing, some took to it naturally and others… not so much.
Which, late bloomers everywhere it seemed.
There were medications to administer, nothing major but just a few little steps to help them develop. That involved a lot of holding, as the fawns were young and not prone to enjoying having nasty potions fed to them.
He found his favorite part to be the need for constant handling. It helped establish trust, Vera explained, and if the fawns were to grow up and help the clan like their parents, it would do well to establish trust early on.
And he was, apparently, a natural at it. Nettie had never really figured himself as someone to have a calling before, but as he handled the halla he couldn’t help the way contentment sort of bloomed in him. It pushed away a lot of things, the paranoia, the incessant dread that this was all going to end soon, and—not to sound like a cliché—it changed his outlook.
He felt more at ease in the clan, and less like a burden. Almost like he belonged, and it reflected in his interactions; he scowled a little less, and greeted people by name. It almost passed like a blur, he thought, in that strange way that dreams managed to last a few minutes, but then you woke up and the sun was already shining. It felt like a dream, maybe, except Cutie told him that you were always supposed to be able to see the Black City in dreams and all Nettie saw was the welcome familiarity of Arlathan forest, and smiling faces of the clan.
Acceptance was a strange thing, security was a strange thing, but as the days came and went he found that it wasn’t quite as strange as it seemed yesterday. He was changing, in more ways than the physical.
Though he was changing physically too—
“No, no, no.” Ethalan scolded, a flip of his wrist and a shing of metal sending the dagger flying clean out of Nettie’s hand.
He caught it with ease, balancing it carefully as he regarded the shorter man. “You’re lunging too far what have I told you? Keep your body—”
“—behind the knife, I know.” Nettie finished for him, frustration dripping from his tone. “Kaffas.”
“It’s a good thing we’re using blunted weapons or else you’d have likely cut your hand off by now.” He shook his head. “You’re still too stiff and jerkish with your movements.”
“Well it’s hard. You move so damn fast all the damn time.” He panted, rolling his shoulder and wincing at the bruise there. “I don’t know how to be smooth and fluid, all of my experience is flinching away from potential attacks.”
Or, standing there and taking them which, silver lining, gave Nettie one hell of a pain tolerance. He had only recently started learning to fight, and at the moment his training shifted between simple self-defense to working with daggers, depending on Ethalan’s mood and the state of his health. There were more good days than bad, he was starting to notice, but his stamina was still weak and sometimes their practice made it hard for him to breathe.
“I know, lethallin, I know. And it’s something that takes more than a season to learn. I’m hard on you, because I want you to succeed, and because… well, better it be me that’s hard on you now in safety than slavers or poachers in the future.” Ethalan frowned, something akin to grief passing across his features.
Nettie knew, though he didn’t have any supporting evidence to back it up, that Clan Alhavenlan was harsher than the Dalish in the south. Nero told him of clans who worked with humans, who traded with them and could share knowledge, or those that seemed to exist in a tense sort of oversight of the local human settlements. But that wasn’t the case here; the forest itself was haunted with the blood of the People spilled by Tevinter, the Veil spread thin and wavering in areas of extreme bloodshed. It was a violent and untamed place, its people even more so considering that normally humans meant slavers.
They were hard because they had no choice—their own home was just as prone to drawing blood as the shemlen.
“Right.” Nettie reached for the water, wiping the sweat off his brow as he drank. “Well. Okay then. Let’s try again?”
Nettie didn’t know what to expect when the forward scouts reported a human woman approaching the forest. Well, he knew what to expect as from the description and lack of alarm from the scouts in question, it could only be the wife, Valentina, who had married Nero first and then they’d met Ethalan.
Rescued, technically, and the redhead embarrassedly admitted that when he saw her for the first time, half drowned and barely conscious, he’d thought he’d been looking at a spirit of beauty.
That admission had made Nettie nearly choke on his soup with laughter, as Nero sat with a sweet, amused expression on his face. Of course, Ethalan had gotten grumpy then, huffing and bristling and telling them to both fuck off, thank you very kindly.
But now, as the group made their way along the now familiar trails—Fox in the lead, with Ethalan close behind and Nero hanging back with Nettie—he couldn’t help a strange thrill of… possessiveness?
It was ridiculous, and he recognized that, but Nero and Ethalan were his friends, and he didn’t know their wife. Their very human wife. Whom he had never met, and while Nettie had to assume that she was fundamentally a good woman to be married to his friends, he didn’t know. He didn’t know what to expect and he hated that because it was the ideal breeding ground for his paranoia.
What if she hated him? What if they met and her eyes were filled with judgement, or worse, pity? He was an interloper, dangerous, an escaped slave with red lyrium pumping through his veins. As an individual he might not be worth much, but Nettie had seen what sorts of things mages could do with red lyrium to buff them and that alone made him worth a fortune. He could attract more slavers, someone high up with actual power, and she would know that.
If something happened, to them, to the clan, it would be on him it would—
“Nettie.” Nero’s voice broke through his stream of thoughts, snapping him out of his tunneling vision and… oh.
He was on the ground. When did that happen? And why were his hands shaking so badly?
“Take a deep breath.” Nero continued, the cadence of his voice slow, and smooth and patient. “Count with me.”
It was surprisingly hard to ignore that voice, and before he really knew what was happening Nettie found himself struggling to match his breathing with the slow counting. On the plus side, it soothed the anxiety to the point where eventually Nettie felt like his heart wasn’t about to leap out of his chest. But then the embarrassment set in, and he dropped his face into his knees.
“Fuck.” He offered eloquently.
“You alright, lethallin?” Ethalan asked at his side. “You were having—“
“I know what I was having, don’t say it.” He snapped.
They were both quiet for a moment, before Nettie felt Nero’s large hand rest on his shoulder, squeezing into the tense muscles. “Want to tell us what set it off?”
He didn’t. He really, honestly, truly didn’t because it was stupid and he’d clearly overreacted.
“She’s going to hate me.” He croaked after a moment, a frown on his face. “I’m a danger to you, to the clan.”
“Who, Val?” Nero asked, surprised.
His expression softened even more at Nettie’s dejected little shrug, if that were even possible. “You’re not a danger to the clan, Nettie.”
He finally lifted his head at that, regarding the qunari with a disbelieving expression. How could he not be, with the toxic lyrium that flowed through him? Even assuming some power-hungry magister didn’t try to capture him, there was no telling what the long-term exposure to the red lyrium could do. And surely, they had to realize that. If not Nero, who was painfully, wonderfully optimistic, then his husband.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Ethalan shrugged, “He’s right. If the Keeper thought you were dangerous, you wouldn’t be here. Especially not near my kid. She seems certain that you’re safe and that we can treat your lung condition, so.” He made a helpless ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Sorry mate, you’re stuck with us now. We’ve already decided, you’re part of the family.”
“Plus, there’s no reason at all for Val to hate you, especially since you’re our friend.” Nero added gently.
Part of the family.
Nobody had ever told him that, not that he could remember. He knew, logically, that he’d had a family before he’d been taken. Cutie had been his family, Andrew the closest thing that he could equate to a father, but this… Nero’s hand hadn’t left Nettie’s shoulder and he found that he didn’t hate the contact. He actually liked it?
They made him feel safe, and comfortable.
Like a family?
“She’s human.” Nettie pointed out, knowing they were right but not ready to admit it.
“And our wife. If she was racist the forest would eat her.” Ethalan pointed out.
“We wouldn’t have married her.” Nero added.
“I’m an asshole and bad at being nice to people.” He added, though it was a weak argument and even he knew it.
“Well now you’re just being difficult.” Nero laughed. “He’s your friend when he gets like this.”
“Oh, my friend? Real mature, Nero, real mature.” Ethalan scoffed, though there was a smile on his face. “You can’t just stop loving our friend because he gets a little contrary.”
“Well of course not darling, if I stopped loving people for being contrary we never would have gotten married.” Nero pointed out with an overly sweet smile.
It was the kind of smile that was horribly exaggerated and utterly insincere. It was also the kind that earned a genuine, hoarse laugh from Nettie. They were really good at that, he realized; talking him out of his own anxiety. And they managed to do it in such a way that he didn’t immediately hate himself afterwards. Nettie was embarrassed that it had gotten so bad, sure, but that was normal and he didn’t feel so self-conscious.
“Ready to push on?” Nero asked gently, moving his hands to brace them on his thighs.
Nettie wondered if it would be in bad taste to say no, that he wanted to go home. He supposed it absolutely would be, and unfortunately it likely wouldn’t work either. They were soft on him, but they wouldn’t let him wallow.
“I guess so.” He sighed, a pout tugging at his lips.
Ethalan clapped a hand on the back of his shoulder. “Look alive, Nettie, we’re almost there.”
The canopy was a little thinner, allowing for a dense and vigorous undergrowth. There was more sunshine too, the trees getting slimmer and younger as they approached the soft edge of the forest.
Fox, who had been sticking close between Ethalan and Nettie, perked up suddenly—tail lifted and ears pricked forward. The wolf let out a bright howl before taking off at a sprint and nearly barreling Nero over as she went.
“Hey!” Nettie stammered, reaching out to try and catch her.
Not that it did any good, but she didn’t go far before barreling into… what had to be the most muscular woman Nettie had ever seen. Possibly the tallest woman Nettie had ever seen as well, if he were being honest. The woman grinned, scooping Fox up in a smooth motion and lifting the wolf like she was a toddler.
“This is Val.” Nero offered. “She doesn’t talk.”
“Is she a boxer, or a Rivaini war goddess?” Nettie muttered, almost to himself.
“Yes.” Ethalan grinned, grabbing his arm and tugging him along. “Come say hi.”
Val carefully set Fox down, giving the wolf one last, affectionate pat as she reached up to push back a wave of kinky black hair. She had a moment’s pause before being folded up into a hug by Nero, a look of abject delight on her face as she laughed, peppering a few kisses against his face.
“Hey! Me too!” Ethalan complained. “Don’t leave me out.”
Nettie hung back at the reunion, unable to help the smile at how happy they all were. It helped stave off his nervousness for a moment, until her dark brown eyes turned to him curiously. He braced himself then, the instinctive response rising to his lips.
“H—Hi. I know it looks bad but I promise I—oh.” Before he could launch into the explanation, no he wasn’t dangerous, the lyrium wasn’t contagious, he wasn’t about to go crazy and attack them all, she offered her hand out.
“This is Nettie.” Nero explained. “We found him in the woods, and he’s been staying with the clan.”
And somehow, there was no pity, no judgement, in her expression. Just a friendly smile, that hand still outstretched.
“I wish I could say I’ve heard a lot about you, but I didn’t find out you existed until recently.” He offered, taking it.
Her grip was firm, but her hand was soft, and Val rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she elbowed her husband.
“Hey! We were going to tell you.” Nero pouted. “I mean, we were.”
“That’s what they all say.” Nettie shook his head, giving her a look.
One that she shared with exasperated fondness, hiding a laugh behind her hand. It broke the tension easily, the way both of the men started complaining at that, falling into familiar conversation as they turned back towards the camp. There was a feeling of prickling awareness that ran along Nettie’s spine as they went, as though the forest was watching them.
There must have been some truth to Cyrus’ stories then…
The clan was in celebration mode by the time they arrived, campfires roaring and Vera’s special brand of home brew already flowing. They all seemed happy to see the human, Ethalan’s parents giving her a fond greeting before Isenril was demanding her time. The child seemed to be talking a mile a minute, and if she could make out all of the things he was saying, then she must have some sort of magical powers.
It was. It was nice. As he watched the others carrying on he didn’t feel like an outsider looking in. Nettie actually joined in on the conversations and not in the way where he felt forced into social interaction. He was laughing and offering his own commentary, sharing stories about his own experiences—the ones that weren’t too painful to talk about.
When they did get to that point, those things that he needed to push down and compartmentalize before he went insane, the conversations moved smoothly. There were so many people here, Nettie realized, who had been in his position. Who had started as a blank slate, needing to rediscover their agency, to find out who they were, and found their own paths. They didn’t look at him in pity, they understood.
And there was something oddly comforting in that, a hope that one day he could be there too.
According to Ethalan, he was family.
Nettie was starting to believe that this place really could be a home.”