Chapter Text
He was born in the ash among the Velothi, anon Chimer, before the war with the northern men. Ayem came first to the village of the netchimen, and her shadow was that of Boethiah, who was the Prince of Plots, and things unknown and known would fold themselves around her until they were like stars or the messages of stars. Ayem took a netchiman's wife and said:
'I am the Face-Snaked Queen of the Three in One. In you is an image and a seven-syllable spell, AYEM AE SEHTI AE VEHK, which you will repeat to it until mystery comes.'
Then Ayem threw the netchiman's wife into the ocean water where dreughs took her into castles of glass and coral. They gifted the netchiman's wife with gills and milk fingers, changing her sex so that she might give birth to the image as an egg. There she stayed for seven or eight months.
— 36 Lessons of Vivec, Sermon 1
Despite their best efforts, barely a week past the turning of the year, Clan Lavellan’s winter stores lie bare. The last of what people had left over has been given over to the possession of the Keeper, and from what Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel had told him, it would not last the week.
Which is why Mahanon, First of Clan Lavellan and by no ones’ measure a great hunter, is out in the forest just after dawn, looking for grouse or deer or rabbit.
He isn’t alone, and that is the only consolation he has when the cold creeps through his clothes and sinks into his bones, leaving him shivering and wishing desperately to be home, where a warm fire awaits their return.
A hand on his shoulder breaks him from his contemplation, and his companion speaks softly to not disturb the hunt, “You doing alright?”
Ellana looks comfortable in the cold, wrapped in furs, a bow in her hand and a quiver at her hip. She is a head shorter than him, born a year after, and he loves his sister dearly despite her continued attempts to smother him in aggressive caring.
Mahanon nods, and forces a smile. He’s never done well with the cold, and they both know it, but he put on as many layers as he could stand that morning, and he’s in no danger of actually freezing. His fingers ache as he clenches the haft of his staff.
Ellana doesn’t seem to buy it, but she doesn’t have a better solution either. She squeezes his shoulder, “Just one deer or a handful of rabbits and we’ll be done,” she whispers, “And then you’ll show me what you’ve been working on since we went to Arlathvhen, right?”
Mahanon inclines his head with a smile. The meeting of the Dalish clans had been less than two months back, and it had been a dangerous journey north, crossing the border into Antiva, all the way to Arlathan Forest. It would be a decade to the next one unless some truly exceptional events would force the Keepers’ hands.
It had been spectacular to meet so many other mages, and Mahanon had been delighted to speak to them and to learn. There are no other mages in their clan, barring the Keeper herself, and he often wishes he had someone to talk to about magic the way Ellana did with the other hunters.
But the travel had worn out their supplies, and kept them from gathering enough to restock, and an unfortunate encounter with the tax collectors of Ansburg had robbed them of what little they had left. They were able to keep going without injury or death, but the lack of resources might still result in one or the other.
The snow crunches softly beneath their feet, Ellana stalking ahead of him, and Mahanon following behind. He is no great hunter, but there are worse things in the woods than deer or elves, and a wolf or spider is more frightened of fire than a sharp arrowhead.
It’s too quiet, Mahanon thinks, but there is nothing wrong that he can see, and Ellana, whose senses are sharper than Mahanon’s own, is walking along the track with no sign of having noticed anything off.
They’re not alone in the woods. Three more of their hunters are spread around the area, close enough that a shout would call them, but far away that they stand more of a chance to find anything. But the feeling Mahanon gets isn’t anything like the comfortable familiarity between clan members.
There’s a heavy thrum in the world, like forest itself is holding its breath.
A sudden sucked-in breath breaks the silence, his sister’s tall frame freezing solid for the briefest of moments, and he looks ahead of her and shoves his hand over his mouth to cover his own gasp.
In the shadow of the trees, stark against the white snow-cover, stands a twisted creature, eyes dark and shadowed, its mouth twisted into a wicked grin with sharp, broken teeth. The armor it is wearing is rotting off of it, torn and mended with what looks like entrails and sinew, darkened leather hides and sharp metal spikes jutting sharply from its limbs.
His hands shift to grasp his staff more tightly, and he pushes his mana out through his staff, casting a barrier spell on himself and his sister. It feels fragile even when he casts it, and he knows it won’t hold up to more than a single strike.
The darkspawn roars, a deep and hungry sound. Dread shivers down his spine, and his stomach turns from fear.
Mahanon has no armor, and only a short hunting knife at his belt, and his staff, and looking at the monstrosity in front of him, he’s not sure it’s going to be enough.
Ellana isn’t as easily frightened, and she drops into a combat stance, pulling an arrow from her quiver, notching and firing in one smooth motion as she backs away. The arrow strikes into its shoulder, but it doesn’t flinch.
The darkspawn moves forward, faster than Mahanon had thought it could move, heaving its heavy mace over its head, and Ellana nearly trips over her feet as she dodges backwards, falling into formation next to him.
He knows his sister, fierce and brave, and the fear on her face is more than he can bear. He draws on his magic and pushes out a wave of fire, more intense than he’s ever managed before. It saps his strength, but the darkspawn hesitates for a moment, and that is all they need to break rank and flee.
Mahanon hears Ellana call out for the other hunters, and sees her quick strides take her further away from him—she’s faster, and Mahanon is hindered by his staff. He’s unwilling to let his best defense slip away, and refuses to drop it.
He feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and in a burst of movement he wasn’t aware he had in him, lets himself drop to the ground, pushing with his feet to dodge to the side, and a heavy blow washes over the top of his head, the force of it enough to make his hair dance.
The snow is cold as ice and bites into his skin as he pushes himself back up with his arms, getting on his knees. He looks up, and there is no time for reflection—he grips his staff as strongly as he can and blocks the attack coming at him, gathering up his mana in a desperate move.
His barrier shatters like crystal, and he releases the spell just in time as the force of the blow lands onto his staff, sending splinters and broken wood flying.
The darkspawn burns with the power contained within the spell, and for a moment Mahanon feels relief. The flames clear, and though the darkspawn is slow to turn to face him, moving stiffly as though in pain, it is still standing. Horror floods his body, and a cold fear takes its place.
The darkspawn laughs, and Mahanon feels something overtake him, an instinct he’s never born but that spoke to him now, that he should grab whatever opportunity fate hands him.
He pulls the dagger from his belt, and in a motion far more fluid than his knife-work had ever been before, stabs it deep into where its heart ought to have been, and rips it down, tearing the darkspawn open.
Blood and viscera spurt from the wound, covering his face and spraying into his mouth. It tastes like acrid rot, and Mahanon spits it out, wiping off his face with his sleeve.
The darkspawn falls, and though it twitches a few times, it doesn’t get up again.
Slowly, Mahanon gets back onto shaking legs, dusting off the snow that covered his hands and knees.
The world feels deathly quiet in the wake of the creature’s passing, and Mahanon looks at its corpse and feels numb. There is only the beating of his heart, the cold of the wind, and an emptiness that haunts him.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, not lost in thought, because he is not thinking, but in sensation, but he feels like a spell has been broken when he feels a familiar hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to his body.
Ellana meets his eyes, and he sees in her a reflection of what he thinks he would have felt, if Ellana had been the one to stumble. Relief, guilt, anger. He hefts a shaking hand to her face and wipes away the tears that form, and she clutches at his shoulders, embracing him.
“Why didn’t you run?” She asks, choked with tears as she rests her head against his chest. “I told you...—I told you.”
“It was faster than me,” he says, and he realises then that if he hadn’t noticed that blow coming to land from behind, he would have been dead by now, and that is enough for his legs to give in.
He leads them the few steps it takes to reach a nearby tree, and sits down with his back against it, feeling exhaustion come over him. Ellana curls up against him, his younger sister then instead of the proud warrior she was growing up to be.
He watches the woods wearily, hoping against hope that there would be no more darkspawn. He draws in on himself at the soft crunch of snow being trampled, but relaxes when he sees that the new arrival is one of the hunters, who rushes into the clearing with such haste Mahanon is surprised that he doesn’t slip at the sudden stop.
“You’re alright!” the man exclaims in relief, then spots the darkspawn corpse and lets out a string of curses, notching an arrow on his bow and scanning for more enemies.
“We think it was alone,” Mahanon says, and his voice sounds odd to his own ears. “Could you—would you check?”
The hunter nods, waits for a few moments for the other hunters to catch up, and quietly discusses something with them. They spread out in a formation that allow them to keep an eye out for each other, and follow the darkspawn’s footsteps back where it came from.
Mahanon breathes for a few moments, then nudges Ellana up on her feet, “I don’t want to leave them alone.”
Ellana wipes away tears and nods with a grim and determined look on her face.
They follow along the group, pausing every so often to catch their breath, and Mahanon slowly but steadily feels more grounded as they cross more territory without encountering danger.
They do not end up finding any more darkspawn, to Mahanon’s shaky relief. Ellana gets off a lucky shot on a deer, and they return to camp victorious, if weary.
*
There is a celebration held that night, the fires being stoked high and the clan gathered around them. Bowls of a thick meat stew are passed around, deer meat and root vegetables, the taste dark and well-salted when Mahanon takes a bite.
Mahanon listens to the chatter with a smile, and lets his voice join in on the common and less-common songs. He knows he has a fair voice, and enjoys the attention and the way his voice lifts and falls to follow the melody.
There are baked apples later, sweet and lovely, and one of the elders hushes them to tell a tale. Mahanon listens, though he has heard the tale before. The last stand of the Emerald Knights, led by the knight Lindiranae, and their bravery until the bitter, blood-stained end. It is a sorrowful tale, but one held in pride by the clans.
The Dales are gone, the promise broken, but his people remain proud, their heads still held up high.
Mahanon finishes off the last of his apple, and goes to thank the elder when the tale is complete. He receives a pat on his back and a hug in return, and he relishes in the affection and the warmth it brings.
When he was small, listening to the elder’s tales was his favorite thing to do, and he enjoyed the ones that drew from history more than any other. Some of the elders have since passed, but the ones that remain remember his dedication to learning every bit of information they were willing to share.
She lets him go with a wrinkled smile, and tells him to visit the Keeper before going to sleep.
The Keeper’s aravel is near the center of the camp, only a few meters away from the edge of the cleared space around the fire pit. The aravel’s sails have long been taken down and folded away, and spanned cloth covers the wagon from sight, forming make-shift walls, sturdy enough to withstand the wind and the rains.
Mahanon ducks under a rope and past a loose-hanging cloth to slip into the tent, taking his shoes off at the entrance. Inside, a familiar figure sits on a low chair, her legs crossing underneath, carved beautifully from wood. The floor is covered with rough, woven cloth, and in front of her lies a pillow, ready for Mahanon to take a seat.
He sits in front of Keeper Deshanna, feeling safe in her presence for the first time since he encountered darkspawn that morning. She smiles and ruffles his hair, and he leans into the touch.
“Mahanon,” she greets, her voice warm and her eyes proud. “I heard from Ellana what happened.”
“We encountered darkspawn while we were out hunting,” Mahanon says, because it was the responsibility of the First to inform the Keeper of anything unusual he encountered. He should have been the first to speak to her, but… he’d been rattled badly by the encounter, and hadn’t thought of his duties at all when they returned. He feels a surge of gratitude towards his sister, for doing what he couldn’t.
He recounts his encounter with the darkspawn in detail, feeling nauseous at the thought of potentially encountering another one, “There was only one, and I took care of it before it could injure anyone. My staff was destroyed in the process, though. Ellana caught a deer after, and the hunt was a success.”
“We’ll find you a new staff,” the Keeper says, “And you did well—no casualties against darkspawn is a good result, better than what we could have hoped for. The clan is well-fed tonight, and we can stretch the rest of the meat for a fortnight.”
Mahanon nods, then considers, “Would you teach me how to cast a stronger barrier? The one I used against the darkspawn, it shattered in a single blow.”
“And your staff with it, hmm? But then you killed it with your dagger,” she says, and there is pride in her voice, “Well done, that. When your magic isn’t up to the task, you must be resourceful to make up for it, and you acquitted yourself well. I can teach you, though we’ll want to have someone there to test your barriers. I’ll have to arrange it with the hunters, but I think we’ll be able to manage. The hunt has bought us time.”
Mahanon relaxes at that.
“Now, you’ve had a rough day—why don’t you meet with me tomorrow morning, and we’ll go over the plans for the next few weeks then,” the Keeper says, patting him one last time on the head, ruffling at his hair until it’s in disarray.
Mahanon’s mouth twitches into a smile, and he leaves her abode to join Ellana in their shared aravel.
*
He sleeps deeply that night. He dreams of a soft, low hum, a hand raking through his hair. A voice, whispering soothing words in his ears, profusions of caring and love, tender and true.
His own heartbeat, thunderously loud, drums slowly, like a herald of something to come. He is hungry, and no manner of kind words can keep him from wanting to fill the void.
He is hushed into quiet by a hand stroking over his head, stiff and awkwardly, but kindly meant, and the world slips back into a dark haze.