No Armor Against Fate (a Dragon Age fanfiction)

Broodmother

They were exiting the Dead Trenches, still covered in the gray guts of the Broodmother, when Thora realized she was pregnant. The nausea, the exhaustion, the strange stretchy sensations in her abdomen all mixed with the horror they'd just seen, and a shudder wracked her.

Turning to her party, she said, "We're going to take half an hour. Try and clean up, deal with ... what we just saw ... and maybe have a rest and something to eat." Oghren opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him her most level glare and he shut it again.

Thora didn't do her usual rounds, checking on her team's well-being. She sank down in a corner of the rock, by herself, chewing somewhat unwillingly on a piece of cracker that seemed like dust in her mouth. Pregnant, she thought numbly. Three hours ago, that would have seemed like ... well, still very complicated and very difficult to process news. But now she had seen what had become of Laryn. After being fed darkspawn, after eating her own kin, her own husband, she'd become a gross grey mass, spewing out new darkspawn. Thora dimly remembered Laryn as a pretty dwarf who had liked nice clothes and wanted lots of babies. Well, she got them, Thora thought with a very disturbed giggle.

Alistair heard the sound and his head snapped around. He studied her. She seemed pale and shell-shocked—then again, they all did. But that laugh had sounded nearly hysterical. The chains were up, though. He could tell. If he went and sat next to her in this mood, she'd freeze him solid. He'd content himself with watching for the moment. And looking forward to getting out of these benighted Deep Roads and the sodding hell out of Orzammar. He put his head down on his knees and was asleep in seconds.

Wynne, also, had heard the laugh, but had a much more educated guess at the cause of the younger woman's hysteria. She couldn't go and talk to her about it now, though—this conversation would require privacy. But she could imagine the images Thora's mind must be painting, and she felt a bit nauseous herself in sympathy.

Oghren had downed a mug of ale and was now snoring loudly enough to be heard by every darkspawn between there and Kal'Sharock.

Thora's brain was heading into overload. It was alternating between visions of a beautiful baby boy with his father's nose, and visions of the hideous creature they had left behind. Would carrying a child whose parents both had darkspawn-tainted blood turn her into the same thing Laryn had become? Would the baby be all right? Would she even be able to carry the baby? Would the baby be some kind of hideous darkspawn creature? Questions crowded on top of questions, overwhelming her. A tear rolled down her cheek and she sniffed softly.

Exhausted as he was, Alistair heard that sniff in the midst of one of his most horrific nightmares yet. His head jerked up. "Right," he said, largely to himself, getting up. "No more sleeping in the Deep Roads. And the sooner we get out of here the better." He took a cloth from his pack, moistened it with some of the remaining water, and went over to sit next to his love. His hand reached out, gently tipping up her chin, and he dabbed the cloth gently at the streaks of dirt and guts on her face until it was clean. "Better?" he murmured.

She smiled at him, although her eyes were more heavily shadowed than before. He wished there was more he could offer her. He could only imagine the effect seeing the Broodmother would have to have on any woman, much less one who already carried the darkspawn taint inside herself. Putting an arm around her shoulders—an awkward move, when they were both still in full armor, but it seemed called for—he kissed her gently on the forehead. They sat there for the rest of the break period, lost in their own dark broodings.