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Dis lay awake, unsure of what had woken her. She could smell a hint of smoke from the campfire; it smelled of the very early morning, as if the fire was winding down with its embers glowing deep within the circle of stones.
She rolled over, propping herself up onto her elbow. She could just make out the outline of Alistair beneath the blankets, the curve of his back and his shoulders a comfort to her.
Perhaps that was why she had woken. It still bothered her, days later, seeing in her mind’s eye Goldanna’s angry face and the crestfallen expression on Alistair’s. But the depth of the ache she had felt for Alistair had startled her. She had grown up expecting little from her family; while Rica had always done her best to protect her, her mother’s alcoholic rages and even more distressing absences and deep depressions had done their damage. Dis would do anything for her older sister, but she felt that Rica was the exception, not the norm, when it came to family.
But Alistair… had he expected some tearful reunion with smiles of joy and delight? Was his optimism something humans, as a rule, tended towards, or was it one of those things she was quickly learning belonged to him alone? She still wasn’t quite sure.
“Ungh,” Alistair mumbled. Dis felt slightly guilty. Her tossing and turning must have awoken him.
She reached out and traced a line along his bare shoulder, enjoying the feel of his skin beneath her fingers. It was a game Rica used to play with her; they would write words on the other’s back with their fingers, seeing if the other could guess the writing on their skin. They never could, of course; it was impossible to guess the words without seeing them, but it was a nice way to fall asleep when wrapped in the blankets on their too-small, shared bed.
Alistair yawned. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly.
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“It’s all right,” he said, rolling towards her. He reached out one long arm, pulling her back down to the bedclothes with him. She found herself curled up against him, her breasts against his chest. She let out a long breath. He did feel right, his skin against hers. “Miss me?” he asked in that playful tone.
“Of course,” Dis said, breathing into his ear, her cheek pressed to his. “After all, it’s been hours since I saw you last.”
He chuckled. “Quite right you are,” he said sleepily. He yawned again. “Sorry. It was a long day.”
She pulled away from him, trying to look at his face in the darkness of the tent. She suspected dwarves saw rather better in the dark than humans; perhaps it was due to long millennia underground. He was staring slightly to the left of her, but she could see him clearly, his eyes glimmering in the dim light, the curve of his cheek pressed against the pillow.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I know I keep asking you, but… I feel I need to, after Denerim.”
He closed his eyes. “No, I’m not really. It gets better, sometimes. Then worse again. I’m a bit mixed up about it all, honestly.”
Dis leaned over to press a quick kiss to his lips. It seemed the proper thing to do. It still surprised her, how quickly she found herself becoming affectionate with him. Back in Orzammar, she had had brief flings with other brands, but always they were nothing more than physical. There had been no closeness to be shared. Yet it felt quite natural for her to find occasions to touch Alistair; when he was sitting by the fire talking with one of the others, she might smooth his hair as she passed by him, or lay a hand on his shoulder for just a moment. She liked it. It felt comfortable, somehow.
“For what it’s worth, Alistair, I worried that you would be disappointed,” Dis said quietly. “I thought I was being pessimistic. I’m sorry. I did not want to be right.”
“I could tell you were worried. I just… I thought families looked after each other. Growing up in the castle, seeing the way the other children were treated… I think I wanted that too,” Alistair said. He laughed a little. “Though if I never had it growing up, I’m not sure why I thought that would change.”
“Because you hope,” said Dis softly. “That’s who you are, Alistair. You search for the best in people, and even if it’s not there… I find that admirable. It’s one of the things I love about you.”
He kissed her, soft and searching, his mouth warm and familiar. “I love everything about you, you know.”
Dis sighed. “You’re too much sometimes,” she said. “It’s rather amazing, isn’t it? You and me coming from where we did. It’s a miracle we’ve turned out halfway decent, let alone that we’ve figured out this whole love thing as well as we have.”
“I do think we’ve figured it out quite well. But you never talk about Orzammar, now that you mention it,” said Alistair carefully. “Why not? What was it like?”
Dis pulled away from him, sitting up and wrapping her arms around her knees. The light was slowly increasing in the tent through the thin cloth trappings over the opening; she could tell the night outside was shifting into the pre-dawn stage. She shivered a little, feeling the early morning air on her bare shoulders.
“You’re changing the subject,” she said. “You just don’t want to talk about Goldanna anymore.”
“Maybe… and maybe you’re doing the same thing, dear.”
He had her there.
What was she to say to him? How could she sum up the crushing weight of dwarven society, the years of disappointment, the anger and hatred? She considered.
She said, “You’ve never asked me about my brand.”
Alistair was silent. She was worried for a moment he had fallen asleep again. Just as she was about to nudge him, he said, “I never really knew any dwarves before you. They weren’t exactly knocking down the doors of the Chantry to join up with the templars. I assumed it was something similar to how the Dalish tattoo their faces. I meant to ask you about it, but I didn’t know how to without seeming rude. ‘Hallo there, fellow Warden, did you know you’ve got ink on you?’ didn’t seem quite right.”
“It’s not like the Dalish,” Dis said shortly. She rubbed at her cheek and her eye unconsciously. She could not feel the mark; it had been placed there years ago. Yet sometimes she imagined she felt it flaring against her cheek, her eyelid, her brow, a signal hailing to the world that she was less-than. “In Orzammar, everyone belongs to a caste. You’re a warrior, or a merchant, or a smith, or a shaper – you have a role. You’re born to it, and that’s where you stay.”
“So does your brand stand for a certain caste?”
Dis grimaced. “No. It means I’m casteless. Some ancestor of mine hundreds of years ago was a criminal, or a beggar, or a failure in some terrible way, or that’s what they tell us, anyway. They removed her caste, and doomed the rest of her daughters and granddaughters to a worthless existence. We don’t know what she was before. The Shapers erased whatever she was, and if you don’t exist to the Shaperate, you don’t exist.”
“How can you be blamed for something your ancestor did?” asked Alistair indignantly. “It’s got nothing to do with you!”
“You think that makes a difference?” Dis said, her voice sharp. “I was never one to go in for Paragons and ancestors and castes. But the rest of Orzammar does. They believe what they believe, and they treat us dusters the way their ancestors would. So my sister’s a noble hunter, trying to bed a noble and bear his child so she won’t go hungry. If she has a son, it’ll be a noble, like his father. But if it’s a daughter she’s doomed to raise her up in dust. I might have gotten out, but Rica’s still trapped there.” Dis let out a harsh laugh. “Though at least Rica and I care about each other. My mother’s a drunkard, begging for mosswine in the alleys. I stopped calling her Mama years ago, because she sure as dust wasn’t one. And I had to lie and cheat and steal and kill to put food on the table for the both of them.” She glared at the darkness. “Whatever my ancestor did? It’s got everythingto do with me.”
She felt Alistair’s hand against her cheek, a soft caress. He smoothed a lock of hair back behind her ear, and she realized she was trembling.
“I’m sorry,” he said huskily. “I didn’t know. I should’ve asked.”
She shrugged, trying to ignore the tightness in her chest. “Well, I guess that makes us even,” she said. “You didn’t tell me you were a bastard prince. I didn’t tell you I was born another piece of trash in Dust Town. I suppose no one likes thinking about where they came from, if it wasn’t happy.”
“You aren’t trash,” Alistair breathed. His breath was warm on her cheek and ear. He kissed her at the curve of her neck. “You’re a Grey Warden. You’re an incredible warrior. And somehow, you love me. You’re amazing, you are.”
She sighed, leaning against him. “We’ll see how amazing I am tomorrow. Once the sun has risen, it’s time we head to Orzammar. I can’t put it off any longer.”
“It’ll be all right,” Alistair said. “Even if it’s awful. I’ll be there with you. You can be proud of everything you’ve accomplished.”
“I… I said, we’ll see,” she whispered. She did not want to fight. Not with memories of dust and hollow places ringing in her head.
Orzammar.
She stood among the Hall of Heroes, a strange emptiness welling up inside her. The only time she had come here before was with Duncan, traveling out of Orzammar as fast at their boots could take them. She had not had the time before to glance at the stone carvings of the Paragons, to breathe the cleaner air of the Commons. Leliana, Wynne and Alistair looked around them with obvious expressions of delight and awe.
Part of her was grateful to feel the confines of stone walls again. Weather and the open air were interesting phenomena but part of her would always yearn for the deep places; she could not help it. But aside from the gratitude she felt at having stone under her feet, she felt only cold.
She saw a noble standing near the doorway into the Commons, engrossed in study of the one of the statues of the Paragons. She did not know which one. There was no training for the casteless, no imparting of the dwarven history and lexicon. They could only pick up knowledge by listening to others on the sly. She decided to ask him who the carved Paragon was; by the Stone, she was a Warden now. Perhaps things would be a little different, she thought, bolstered by the trio of humans at her back.
Before she had gotten out three words, though, the man’s eyes had finished scanning her bright armor and landed on her face. She caught the change in his expression as if it was happening slowly, so slowly - the shift in his brows, the curl to his lip, the narrowing of his eyes.
“What are you doing here, brand?” the man spat. “Your kind isn’t supposed to be here. Leave me be or I’ll report you to the guards for carrying weapons. Go back to Dust Town.”
She turned away, abashed. It was easier than starting a fight.
Alistair’s voice cut through the silence. “Excuse me,” he said, “but you are talking to a Grey Warden. How dare you!”
Dis turned back to see Alistair looming over the noble dwarf, drawing himself up to his full height. He seemed even taller than normal, surrounded by things of dwarven make. She recognized that look – it was the one he tended to wear five seconds before the nearest Darkspawn lost its head. The dwarf shrank, his hands trembling, eyes darting wildly as he searched for an escape.
Before Alistair could reach for a weapon Dis grabbed his arm. “Leave him,” Dis bit out. In a low voice only Alistair could hear, she said, “We’re here to get allies. You’ll have to fight off half of Orzammar if you start trouble over this, and we need them for the Blight.” Behind him she saw Wynne and Leliana, their hands hovering at their sides, waiting for her word.
Alistair’s cheeks were blotchy red, and his mouth was narrowed in a harsh line she’d never seen before. “I can’t let him insult you like this,” he gritted.
“Then you’ll start an incident and we’ll never be able to use the Warden treaties,” she hissed. “I’ve heard worse, believe me. Let it go.”
Alistair gave the dwarf a withering glare. “I’m afraid I don’t think much of your manners, ser dwarf,” he said in a mockingly lofty tone. He bowed, an exaggerated gesture that looked all the more ridiculous given the two-foot-shorter dwarf in front of him. “But as you were.”
The dwarf stared at him in bafflement, then snorted, “Surfacers,” and beat a hasty retreat.
“I can’t believe they’d treat you so shabbily,” said Wynne, crossing her arms. “You’re a Warden! Surely they’re respected in Orzammar.”
“You’re a mage, do the other humans treat you any differently?” asked Dis, sighing. “It’s just… how it is.”
“Be that as it may, it is revolting,” said Leliana. “Well, if they do not see your worth, we do.” Wynne nodded.
Alistair was still settling down. The color in his cheeks began to fade. Dis led them forward through the hall, towards the heart of the city. Beside her Alistair asked, “So it’s really like this, all the time?” She had tried to prepare him, but apparently she had not done as well as she’d hoped.
“Yes, and worse.” She glanced over to Wynne and Leliana. “Look, I know this might be difficult for you all, but this… this is how Orzammar is. I’m casteless. I’m less than nothing to the people here. I had to deal with it all my life, and I can deal with it a little longer. We’ll just have to ignore it if we want to get anything done.”
She could tell the others chafed at her instructions, that they were angry on her behalf. It felt good to think that these, at least, knew her worth and value; these and the others back at camp believed she was striving for something true. She walked a little taller through the hall with them at her side.
Still, though, it was difficult to leave behind old memories. She ignored the comments about her brand in the Commons, but when she walked into Dust Town she felt physically ill, seeing the familiar, crumbling stone and the worn-down faces of the damned. Before they could get too far, she backed away, muttering that they needed to go to the Diamond Quarter instead.
She was not ready for dust to coat her boots again.
Even seeing Rica clad as a noble, her face warm and joyful, her embrace genuinely happy, was not enough.
It helped, of course. Dis was so relieved that her sister had gotten out of Dust Town, and if she admitted it, she was also relieved that her sister bore her no will ill for leaving first. The Guardian’s questions during the hunt for the Sacred Urn still prickled uncomfortably in the back of her mind. Her guilt, she suspected, would never be lessened.
Especially now, as she let a bloodied and bruised thug crawl out of her mother’s house. The man’s words echoed in her ears, accusing Leske of leading her into a trap. Leske, who was Jarvia’s second-in-command.
She stood in the ruined shambles of her home – though she knew it was no more ruined now that it had been while she lived there. It seemed so small, now. Cracked stone, empty wine bottles, shreds of dirty clothing strewn everywhere. There were ghosts here that had nothing to do with the blood spilled on the floor. She heard again the fellow brand saying Leske’s name, and she shivered. How could this have happened? How could he have fallen in with them?
She knew the answer. There were no other options but the surface and she had been the one to take that route, leaving Leske no choice. Of course it made sense. After all, she had been in the Carta too; anything to keep food on the table, anything to keep Rica in Beraht’s favor.
She had left Leske here to survive, and he had done it. Just like she had left her sister and mother. They at least had made it; she felt a brief pang of relief, thinking of her nephew’s face. But she wished she could have been the one to get Rica out, or that she could have helped Leske. The bloodied axes in her hands trembled for just a moment before she slung them onto her back.
She stood looking at the bed that she and Rica used to share. There were still bottles on the floor from where their mother had left them. Strange to think this place had held so much power over her. Strange to think that it could still hurt her now, in ways she did not understand.
She looked up and saw Leliana watching her. The other woman dipped her head, just slightly, and Dis knew that she was thinking of Orlais and Marjolaine, of bitter betrayal. Dis closed her eyes. She could not let this place get to her. Not while… not while there was hunting yet to do.
In the end it was Alistair who got her on her feet again.
But it was a long time – she did not know how long – before she noticed him kneeling next to her. Before that, she was alone, kneeling over Leske where he lay on the ground.
His face – familiar, always cocky, always a friend’s, until now – was pushed into the floor, the skin of his cheek scraped raw against the rough surface. She could just see the whites of his eyes. They were already changing, the slick surface of the eyes going gummy and dull. A small trickle of blood came from his open mouth, clinging to his hair. His daggers lay harmlessly at his side, his hands open and loose.
Her axe was buried in his back.
She felt a perverse urge to laugh. He was the rogue among the two of them; she was the warrior, charging in headfirst without an ounce of finesse. Yet somehow things had gotten turned around, she’d been panting, wounded, adrenaline electrifying her muscles, and when he’d stumbled, she’d been there in the only opening he left. She’d backstabbed him. It was only fitting.
She reached out, gingerly, laid her hand on the haft of her axe. It felt foreign. She wished it wasn’t hers, but there was the rune that Sandal had lovingly enchanted for her. She’d know it anywhere.
“Dis,” Alistair whispered. She whirled, saw he was there beside her, kneeling and bending forward so he was only a little taller than her. He could look directly into her eyes that way. She averted her gaze, staring at the blood and dirt coating her hands instead.
“Dis, we need to go,” he said. “There could be more. You’re wounded.”
Dis nodded, letting go of the axe. She carefully got to her feet, avoiding looking at Alistair or Leske.
“Do you – d’you want me to get your axe?”
She shook her head. Her voice was rusty, when she tried to use it. “Leave it. It’ll fetch some duster a good price if she can find a buyer.”
You would never leave your weapon, she imagined him saying, but he was silent. Instead the hand he laid on her shoulder spoke more than she could bear.
*****
Dis couldn’t sleep.
The foothills of the Frostbacks were a cold, cold place to make camp, but they’d all been too exhausted to continue after the events in Orzammar. Dis had been determined to get out of the city that night, but she had not been able to get as far away as she had hoped.
Despite her exhaustion, though, sleep did not find her. She had retired to bed early, leaving the others around the campfire. Now she sat amongst her furs, hoping Alistair would come to warm her up, but dreading his arrival, too, because it would mean that he would want to talk about what happened.
She did not have long to wait. It was only a few minutes before she saw his hand slip through the cloth of the tent, holding it open so he could climb in. He joined her, greeting her with a kiss and pulling off his armor.
She let out a soft sound of appreciation at the feel of his skin against hers as he slid under the covers with her. “That’s better,” she said.
“Most certainly,” said Alistair, wrapping one arm around her. By the Stone but she would never stop marveling at how lovely it was, curling up against this man. She breathed in his scent, trying to distract herself from her feelings.
“You’re in bed early,” she said. “You didn’t want to hear Leliana’s songs?”
“It wasn’t that,” he said. “I may have wanted to check up on you.”
“The ulterior motive revealed,” she said, but it was without any real bite. Of course he wanted to check up on her. Anyone who had known Alistair for half a second would have been surprised he’d waited this long.
“Are you all right?” Alistair asked.
Dis looked up at him, taking in his hazel eyes, his slightly mussed hair, the soft, worried look he wore. She slipped her arms around him and hugged him tightly to her, pressing her cheek against his chest.
“No, I’m not really,” she said. She wouldn’t be for… a while. She knew herself well enough for that.
He kissed the top of her head. “I know,” he said gently. “But you do what you need to do, dear. If that’s talk my ear off, I’ll stay up all night with you if need be. If it’s kick me out to my own tent and have me call in the dog to keep you company, fair enough. If it’s staying quiet and thinking it through until you’ve got it sorted – you do whatever you need to do, and I’m here, if you need me for any of it.”
Dis couldn’t speak. This – this – was what family was supposed to do for each other, she thought. Family wasn’t in bottles of mosswine or an ungrateful plea for sovereigns; it was in embraces and concern, in the way Alistair always held her, in the way her fingers wove in his hair. It was beyond them, too, in Leliana’s voice faint and beautiful outside the tent, in Zevran’s jokes, in Wynne’s warm magic and one of Morrigan’s rare, genuine smiles.
Maybe Orzammar was filled with dust and hollow spaces, but she wasn’t.
And maybe that was enough.