Work Text:
They sent him to the Anderfels. Tevinter and Orlais were the closest, most important allies as the Fourth Blight dug its talons into the Free Marches, but the Wardens sent him and Isseya to the Anderfels.
Garahel would not forget.
Oh, they had reason for it. The Order always maximized efficiency and efficacy; wasn’t that why there were more corpses than citizens in Antiva City now? And sending a pair of elves to the Imperium or the Empire would gain them nothing but contempt. It would be an insult, as Warden-Commander Senaste said.
He understood the logic. He would even go along with it. That did not mean he would forget the bitter taste it left in his mouth.
For all the Wardens’ talk of shedding their histories at the Joining, it seemed the stink of the Alienage had followed him just the same.
From Wycome to Starkhaven to the Anderfels and back again. Garahel rode Crookytail to all the far corners of Thedas, bearing messages and pleas of help that carried greater weight for being delivered by a charming face on griffon wing. The force of his personality and the novelty of his mount seemed enough for people to overlook his ears, particularly as the Blight wore on, and nations grew more and more desperate for the relief the Wardens represented.
It wasn’t until he was back in the Anderfels, seven years later, that he realized overlooked really meant erased.
He hardly minded that they’d scrabbled together scarce resources to erect a statue in his honor—technically in honor of all the Wardens who had kept the worst of the Blight from taking Hossberg, but it was his name on the placard. And it was his pointed ears covered by the stone helmet.
It wasn’t that he didn’t wear one. And they had chosen the correct style, which did cover both his ears and large, round eyes. But the fact of the matter was that the sculptors had never seen him mid-battle, and he never wore the helmet when he met with the monarchs or came into town.
He ground his teeth and went to prepare Crookytail for Isseya’s latest long shot. History would broaden his shoulders and shear off his ears and hide his Alienage origins behind a shiny silverite griffon. Oh, the good he was doing would be remembered. People did not forget such charisma and presence and roguish charm, but their prejudices would blunt the memories until he was just some unnamed human in Warden armor.
He tightened the straps of Crookytail’s saddle and took just a moment to press his forehead into the silky soft fur at the juncture of his neck. The griffon crooned, low and mournful, attuned to his rider’s sorrow.
It mattered, but it couldn’t matter, because he was a Warden and there was a Blight on. Whatever his legacy, whatever these people he saved remembered of him—it mattered not. Wardens gave everything to stop the Blight. Whatever it takes.
He pulled his helmet over his ears and swung himself into Crookytail’s saddle. He leaned low over the griffon’s neck and whispered in his ear.
“Fly.”
“Dive.”
Garahel laid flat against Crookytail’s neck, blood and sweat from his skin mingling with the ichor and muck matted in the griffon’s fur. They hurtled as one toward the archdemon’s writhing form.
Despite the ache in his limbs, the openly bleeding wounds and burns that marred his skin, he felt oddly at peace.
Another seven years lost to the Blight. The battles and the bodies blurred together, moments stolen with Amadis lost to the thundering rage of the Taint in his chest. While his superiors at Weisshaupt worried over the nobles who swore aid to the cause, Garahel honed in on those who would be forgotten when the Blight ebbed away. Former slaves, casteless and surface dwarves, and apostate mages—they flocked to him, not for his charm and good looks alone, but because they recognized themselves in him.
They would all be cast aside when they were no longer a convenient shield between those in power, and death.
Garahel had been all across Thedas at this point, forced into arrangements and interactions with an array of unsavory types, all in the name of stopping the Blight. So he was no longer surprised when he saw monuments like the one from Hossberg, all those years ago. Only resignation, and secret bitterness, curled around the Taint in his soul.
But he put on a face, for those who would follow him. A future of hope might be beyond his grasp—but if he could make them believe, it might be within theirs.
The wind was whipping past as he and Crookytail barreled toward their fate. Miles below, Ayesleigh waited with bated breath; he had sworn this would be the end, in more ways than one. He intended to keep that promise—to them and to himself.
A decade and a half of backhanded compliments, swallowed retorts, and condescension culminated here: he no longer wanted to endure. Here was a way out.
He beat Isseya to the punch. With the toll the corruption and blood magic had taken on her, she was ready to let go. But the Taint would claim her far sooner than it would take him, should he outlive the archdemon. Selfishly, he bade her live just a bit longer, so that he could have this escape.
He no longer wanted to be the shining beacon of hope. He wanted to be the hero who died.
Maybe it would be sacrifice enough that history would remember. He doubted, but in his final moments, he chose hope.
Crookytail’s support fell away between his legs and Garahel landed on the archdemon’s back. Using the dragon’s spikes for purchase, he clawed his way to the gaping wound Isseya’s Tainted griffons had torn at the base of its neck.
There was a moment where time seemed to pause. The archdemon’s furious hissing, the roar of the storm above—it slowed to nothing for a beat, then two, his heart thudding in his ears.
Ba-bum.
His free hand found the clasp of his helmet and he tore it from his head and let it fall into the depths of the battle below. There were few here to bear witness, but those who did would see. As would those who found his body, and those who gathered to watch it burn. The vortex of wind around them whipped his hair into a frenzy, but as if the gods knew his intent, it blew straight back and left his pointed ears unmistakably exposed.
Ba-bum.
He turned his face to the sky. Remember, he mouthed, as though he could imbue his longing and pain into the world as he passed. No sacrifice is greater. So remember.
Ba-bum.
He lifted his curved knife, and drove it home.