"Scars speak more loudly than the sword that caused them." - Paulo Coelho
Trigger warning: Vague mentions of child abuse.
"Blast it! Why did I have to go and open my big mouth?" Alistair groaned from the front of their group.
The rain had not let up for long, it had been an hour of hopeful trekking further towards Orzammar, and then the skies had opened up once more. The little progress they had made in drying out was quickly undone and a sense of despair hung over the party. Even the usually cheery leader, Darcy, looked dejected. His hair clung to his neck in wet tendrils, the tips of his pointed ears were flushed red with cold and they wiggled as he shivered.
As night approached, the sky darkened to a deep shade of gray, with no signs of the weather letting up. Their rations were dwindling, and they had nothing left to cook with. All they had left were some soggy jerky, mouldy cheese, and stale bread that could only sustain them for so long in these harsh conditions.
"Has anyone considered atonement through sacrifice to appease whatever Gods you've clearly angered?" Morrigan's frosty gaze landed on Alistair, looking much like a drowned cat.
"We all know that if anyone here is likely to anger the Gods it is you, Morrigan." Alistair crossed his arms, his lip curling in a sneer, however, it was undermined by the chattering of his teeth as he shivered.
"Ah yes, Maker forbid a woman practice magic of her own accord."
"You are no woman, snake."
Darcy interjected as he always did when they started bickering, his tone icy and scathing, "As entertaining as it is watching you trade insults, I am in a foul mood and I will cuff your ears like the misbehaving children you are should you choose to continue."
Gwen had never heard Darcy so irritated before, his typically cool and aloof demeanour melting away under the unrelenting downpour. They were just a day's journey away from Orzammar, but with the night rapidly approaching and no shelter in sight, their frustration was reaching its boiling point. The landscape around them felt oddly familiar to Gwen - the trees seemed sturdier, the terrain more rugged and mountainous - but she couldn't quite put her finger on why. As she peered through the thick curtain of rain at the looming treeline, a memory suddenly surfaced and everything clicked into place. She had been here before.
A chill seeped into her skin, crawling up her arms and down her spine like icy fingers. It wasn't from the cold, but from the memories that surfaced unbidden, rising to the surface like a dead fish in a murky pond. She'd been raw, feral and young as she ran as fast as her mangled body could take her away from the Chantry that had been her prison. Every leap was a desperate bid for freedom, every breath ragged and strained. The time was a blur, a chaotic whirlwind of fear and adrenaline that had led her to this moment. She'd been trying to put as much space between her and the Mother's disdainful grimace, her tight grip, the harsh lash of her cane - and, well, she'd rather not think about what else she was running from, once she faced that, she would never fully recover.
She'd ended up in the Korcari wilds, and soon after she'd collapsed in a cave somewhere near Orzammar - though she hadn't known either of the location's names at the time - her body finally giving out after days of running and hiding. She lay there, waiting for death to claim her or some wild beast to end her suffering. But no such mercy came from the Maker. Instead, her wounds began to burn and itch as they healed, rain trickling into the dips at the entrance of the cave.
The local squirrels had found her there, their curious eyes peering into the darkness before scurrying off to fetch their kin. Through watching them from a distance, they had shown her which plants were safe to eat and which would bring certain death. And in return, she had preyed upon them, her sharp teeth tearing into their soft flesh with wild hunger. They were a welcome change from the mice and bugs she had resorted to in her dark cell. She had never learned how to make fire, so she ate them raw, blood dripping down her chin as she devoured their warm bodies.
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Yet Broken Still You Breathe
Fanfiction- 'I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break.' - Mary Hornbacher Gwen had spent so long on her own, distanced from the w...
