Into the Woods (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

I'll Stand By You

Despite the long familiarity of everyone in the company with combat, their return to activity once Flemeth had been vanquished was slow. The wounds, both small and large, were many, and Bethany and Morrigan were healers of limited ability. Wulfric had taken it upon himself to go looking for Oghren and Arthur, and Anders, immediately, assuming they couldn't have gone far, and Zev, as the freshest of them, chose to go along to help with the tracking.

"Although, given our dwarven friend's proclivities, all one truly needs is an adequate sense of smell," he said, flashing a grin around at the assembled company. Tired chuckles were his best response, but better than no laughter at all. Lightening the mood would be a necessity, Zev could see. Once there had been healing, and bathing, and reuniting the child with his parents. Behind him, people were beginning to move, getting up off the ground with groans as aching muscles stretched and wounds stung.

Ahead, there was bracken bent and folded and broken by the progress of the large, clunky dwarf. Teaching Oghren anything about moving subtly had always been a lost cause. Something seemed off to Zev, though. Oghren should have been looking for a hiding place, but instead he had kept moving forward. And surprisingly fast, too. He said as much to Wulfric, who shrugged with a weary grin. "With Oghren, who can tell?" He didn't seem concerned. Zev speculated that perhaps something in Arthur's abilities led Wulfric to a greater level of confidence. Or perhaps having defeated Flemeth, the great threat to his son's life and soul, made Wulfric uncharacteristically complacent about other threats.

Zev notched his own wariness up a bit, however. The only thing he'd ever known Oghren to run for was a really fine ale, and there was none of that to be had within several days' ride of where they were.

Several Driazi were crouching in a clearing up ahead; one of them looked up as Zev and Wulfric approached. To Zev's eyes, his face looked very solemn, but then, the Driazi appeared to be a solemn race overall, and with their elongated wide faces and the thick gleaming hide that covered them, it was difficult to read their expressions as closely as Zev would have liked.

Wulfric held up a hand in greeting. "Have you seen Arthur?" he asked.

Zev watched the Driazi closely. They shook their heads, but there was something more there ... "Are you certain?" he asked. "Did you see something else that you connected with Arthur?"

One of the men, with skin of a startlingly vivid shade of orange, stood, unfolding to a tremendous height. He spoke in their sibilant tongue. Zev tried to focus on his face to glean whatever extra information he could, since he was not familiar enough with the language to follow this man's rapid speech. From what he could tell, they had seen something with feathers. Feathers at the shoulder? They had seen Anders, then. Following in Oghren's path. He mentioned as much to Wulfric, who nodded.

"Good. If Anders is with them, they should be safe from anything."

Possibly. But Zev was not so certain as his old friend was. The Anders he had journeyed to the Tirashan with was not the same as the Anders he had met on his visits to Vigil's Keep in Ferelden so long ago. He would not have put his life in this new Anders's hands, much less that of a vulnerable and significant child. Of course, he reminded himself, Oghren knew Anders wasn't quite himself, also. He would know to be careful. But careful of what? Zev couldn't put a name to the sense of foreboding he felt; he just knew that his instincts screamed for caution.

Wulfric had gone on past the Driazi, farther into the forest. Zev gave the tribesmen a nod of thanks and hurried after his old friend. The aftermath of battle had dulled Wulfric's senses, exhaustion and relief deadening his instincts. Zev felt neither of those emotions to the extent Wulfric did, and he resolved to be sharper than ever to compensate for his old friend's debility.

The trail of broken branches and trampled vegetation continued farther into the jungle, leaving Zev to wish very much that he was more familiar with the Tirashan and its geography. A glance at Wulfric said that the other man at least knew where they were, even if he wasn't able to follow each of Oghren's steps the way Zev could. As he often did, Zev wondered what it would be like to be skilled in swordsmanship and lack the ability to slip into shadows and lay traps for the unsuspecting. It sounded dull to him, and he blessed his fate that he had been granted the skills he had. And more—thinking of Varric and the agonies of adjustment that lay ahead of the dwarf, Zev couldn't help feeling grateful that none of his battles thus far had caused any permanent damage that would dim the use of his skills ... or his enjoyment of them. He blinked away the image of the dwarf's acid-scarred face; he couldn't afford the distraction. Not right now. Later, once they had found Oghren and the child and returned to the camp, then he could indulge himself in sorrow for the dwarf's lost sight and relief that the damage had been no worse than it was.

"Zev."

Wulfric's hoarse voice stopped him in his tracks, and he realized that he had allowed himself to be distracted despite all his best attempts to avoid it. "What is it?"

He followed Wulfric's pointing finger to a motionless figure in familiarly filthy armor lying in the long grass. The lack of snores, gas, or other noxious emissions immediately gave Zev cause for concern as he rushed over to Oghren's side, Wulfric close behind him. Zev knelt next to the dwarf, searching for a pulse in the thick neck under the bristly red bush of his beard.

"Well?" Wulfric asked impatiently. Zev held up a finger for silence, concentrating on trying to feel the dwarf's pulse through the thick, hard skin.

Hard? Ah. "It appears to be the remnants of a petrification spell. His body is ... thawing, for lack of a better term."

"Who could have done this to him?"

"Flemeth is dead. Morrigan and Bethany were with us. Need I say more?"

"Anders? Why would Anders—Arthur! He must have taken Arthur." Wulfric's voice broke on the last word, and the powerful warrior fell to his hands and knees, his tears falling into the tall grass. After the injury and the battle and the narrow defeat of Flemeth, this latest loss was too much. Zev rested a hand on the center of Wulfric's back in silent support; no words of his were adequate to the moment. He swiftly tried to think through Anders's next course of action. The mage was alone in an unexplored forest, far from any familiar locales. Alone, but for a spirit of Justice, Zev reminded himself. Who could tell what corruption that altered spirit had been whispering into the mage's ears?

"My friend, we must go back. We need the others," he said gently.

"Go back?" Wulfric practically shouted the words, looking up at Zev incredulously. "And lose all the time it would take to backtrack? Take the chance of losing their tracks altogether?"

"Do you see any tracks?"

Wulfric's jaw set stubbornly as he looked around them. It was clear to Zev that his friend did not wish to admit the truth.

"Nor do I," he said. "Hawke may be able to see things I cannot—she is more familiar with Anders ... in his current guise." He wished for Varric, in truth, and thought in anguish of the dwarf's permanently darkened eyes. "We have no choice," he said at last. Wulfric didn't respond, and he repeated the words, more forcefully.

"My son, Zev," Wulfric whispered.

He had never seen his friend give way in such a manner, and it disturbed him. This was why the Crows so discouraged relationships and the formation of bonds that mimicked familial ties in any way. It was too late for Zev to go back to that way of life, however—his life was bound up with that of this man next to him, and Wulfric's pain was his pain.

"We will find him, my friend. I promise you that."