Chapter Text
“And here there is something to be said on death. Everyone fears death. Of course they do. Even the most devout must have some apprehension, for however confident they are in a life everlasting with their deity of choice, the concept of eternity is one that the mortal mind recoils from. Be it bliss, torment or the senseless void, none can actually imagine what it is to die, so it’s only right that all should have a healthy fear of it.”
- in “Cheating Death”: The Magnus Archives
She’s choking, drowning in a pool of sticky crimson blood that bubbles up in her throat, pouring down her front and staining the linen as it cascades out from the slit in her throat. Her hands grip her throat, desperately clawing and trying to put her life essence back into the wound, failing miserably as her blood continued to spill past the gaps in her fingers.
Suffering is all she knows. The neurons of her brain burn with pain, nerve endings lit up in a tsunami of agony. Silent tears ran down her cheeks, screams coming out as nothing but a pathetic gurgle as she writhed.
Her vision was fading rapidly, black spots filling her eyes even as she desperately tried to blink them away, to stay awake. Her efforts are rendered for naught, and she succumbs to the darkness, as mocking cackles filter into her ringing ears.
She can’t breathe. She’s dying. Mythal, help her, she’s—
Sloane wakes with an aborted gasp, her right hand blindly grasping at her throat, desperately clawing at the skin as if the manic scratching would somehow alleviate the sudden strain on her lungs. Her heart beats rapidly, blood roaring in her ears as her sluggish mind attempts to orient itself.
The reddish-brown canvas of the aravel above Sloane’s head is the first sight to greet her once her vision clears.
The first indication that she’s not there.
She’s safe. In the Free Marches, Sundermount. Not Tevinter.
The air is stifling, her skin too hot and sweaty from within the confines of her bedroll. Sitting up, she quickly kicks herself free, desperate to escape the suffocating cocoon.
A shaky hand runs through her greasy honey-blonde hair, pulling the thick strands up and off her neck. She closes her eyes again, hanging her head between her knees as she focuses on getting her breathing back under control.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Sloane repeats the process for a good few minutes, waiting until the tremors in her body finally abate. She then takes a few extra minutes to compose herself, wiping the sweat from her face and the back of her neck.
Preparing for the day is a laborious endeavour. The lingering shakes from her nightmare proved an obstacle to her basic mission of getting dressed. Not to mention the leaden heaviness of her protesting limbs as she readied herself for the day.
After a final double-check that her daggers are strapped in place, she reluctantly exits the small mobile home she’d been assigned to share for the past few weeks.
The light from the mid-morning sun burns her eyes, causing her to let out a string of curses as she stumbled somewhat blindly, blinking rapidly whilst waiting for her vision to adjust.
Grumbling, she walks over to one of the firepits, hoping to grab some of the leftover game she’d helped hunt yesterday. The Dalish rise early, for what purpose, Sloane couldn’t say. Perhaps it was all just an elaborate hoax designed to fuck with her specifically, because Sloane was decidedly not a morning person.
Especially not after months of roughing it in the wilderness. She’d never willingly gone camping in her life, and if it weren’t for the fact that she’d be totally screwed on her own, Sloane would have said ‘fuck this’ and taken a hike weeks ago.
Stumbling a little as her body adjusts to the devastating fact that she’s awake, Sloane gets barely a few metres before— “Sloane.”
Sensitive ears twitch at the call of her name. Keeper Marethari needn’t even raise her voice too much before Sloane swivels on her heels, eyes meeting the older woman’s before flitting over the unfamiliar group with clan Sabrae’s keeper.
Sloane may not be a member of the clan, but she knows better than to ignore a summons from the Keeper. Throwing one last longing glance towards the small group eating by the firepit, she reluctantly walks towards the odd group that was drawing such suspicious glances from the clan.
Three humans and a dwarf. Hardly a common sight on Sundermount, even less common that they hadn’t been shot down before getting within visual distance of the clan’s camp.
The dwarf and the warrior woman both had a shock of fiery hair, and Sloane spent a few seconds analysing their weapons of choice, more than a little surprised at the sight of what appeared to be a crossbow. Her scrutinising gaze mustn’t have gone unnoticed as the dwarf smirked up at her a little before she focused on the last of the ragtag group.
The two men, she quickly realises, must be related. Each with a mop of inky dark hair and similarly cut jawlines, though the taller of the two grins easily, a stark contrast to the scowl covering what she quickly realises is the youngest of the group’s face. A scowl that probably matches Sloane’s own.
There’s a broadsword strapped to the scowling boy’s back, because up close, she recognises him as that—a boy. He couldn’t possibly be older than twenty. But that’s not the weapon that gives her pause. No, it’s the bladed staff the tallest, admittedly handsome, man wields that causes a sheen of discomfort to settle over her skin.
A mage.
Her throat burns, skin tingling as she fights down the instinctual urge to scream, her fingers itching to grasp her weapons before the mage attacks. Between one blink and the next, she managed to quell the violent response borne of fear, shoving it down into a box and chaining the lid shut.
The slight unease that bubbles under her veins at the sight of a human mage is instinctual. Try as she might to fight back the prejudice that had been so thoroughly ingrained in her being, Tevinter had left its mark on her soul.
“This is Sloane. She’ll help escort you up the mountain.” She was doing what now?
She’s definitely scowling in earnest now, mouth opening to refuse vehemently before snapping it shut instantly at the intense look in Marethari’s eyes.
She may not always see eye to eye with the woman, but Sloane respects her. Marethari had taken her in, giving her shelter and time to heal, even when the rest of the clan seemed uneasy by her presence.
There was plenty of pity to be had for the Tevinter escapee, but despite the pointed ears and vibrant green Vallaslin that Sloane bore on her forehead and cheeks, she was still very much an outsider.
Far too like the shemlen, they whispered behind her back. That was just fine with her. Hardly the insult they thought it to be.
Her dislike for the deity whose mark she bore upon her skin had caused a deep rift between her and the clan, one that would be impossible to salvage. Mythal was akin to Jesus amongst the Dalish, and the Sabrae clan were full-on Jesus freaks.
It’s this respect that has Sloane pouting like a petulant child for only a few seconds, arms crossed, making it clear how displeased she was to have been volunteered against her will for whatever stupid mission the group wished to complete.
“Come on then,” she sighs, starting to shuffle toward the mountain path, giving the unmoving group the opportunity to get with the program.
She can feel the muscles in her body tense at the prospect of leaving her back open to the quartet of strangers, to a mage, but Sloane forces herself forward anyway. One foot in front of the other. If her surprise companions know how on edge she is, then they very graciously don’t make any mention of it.
“So, Sloane, huh? Not a very Dalish-sounding name,” a deep baritone voice chuckled from her left, cutting through the silence.
She hummed in acknowledgment, shrugging her shoulders nonchalantly, before tilting her chin downward to make eye contact with the dwarf that had sidled up to her, “I’m not a very Dalish elf.”
“Lives in the Dalish camp, has Dalish tattoos, but she’s not Dalish? Forgive us for being a little confused” A second masculine voice, that could only belong to the taller human man, chuckles. It’s meant to be a casual statement, but Sloane can practically taste his curiosity and decides to throw him a bone.
“I’m not a member of clan Sabrae; they took me in a few months ago. It’s only my respect for Keeper Marethari that has me helping you.” She manages to keep her tone very matter-of-fact, trying to ignore the various intrigued stares burning into her person.
“Sounds like there’s a story there.” The mage brackets her right side, grinning cheekily.
“Not one you’ll hear today.”
“Ah, but in the future?” He wriggles his brows, and Sloane scoffs, rolling her eyes and turning her gaze back ahead. Men.
Rounding the bend, the group starts the trek up the inclining mountain path before slowing to a stop before a waiting Merril.
“You must be the ones the Keeper spoke of, Aneth ara.” She pauses for a second, her cool demeanour instantly fading as her pale cheeks light up with pink, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask your name. Unless… it’s not rude to ask a human their name is it? I’m Merrill. Which you probably knew already. I’m rambling, sorry.”
In anyone else, Sloane would have found this behaviour annoying, but in Merril, whom she’d grown fond of during her stay with the clan, she found it quite endearing.
“You’ll have to work harder than that to offend me. My name’s Hawke. Our resident surly warrior is Aveline, the scowling one is my younger brother Carver, and the charming dwarf to my right is Varric.” The mage responded casually, and Sloane let out an amused huff of air from her nose when the newly named Varric placed a hand on his chest and bowed. He was quite the showman, it seemed.
“Thank you. I’m afraid I’m not very experienced with your kind. Not like Sloane is.” If only Merril knew just how true that statement was.
“I’ve not got the kind of experience you want, Merril, trust me on that one.” The atmosphere turns slightly sombre at her words, and Sloane internally kicks herself for putting her foot in her mouth. She quickly turned to look their three human companions in the eye. “I’ve no problems with most humans, just the racist ones,” she reassured them with a toothy, only vaguely threatening grin.
From the little she’d observed from their behaviour, none of them seemed to have an aversion towards elves. Usually, people would sneer or make demeaning remarks, and a person’s body language was generally very indicative of their personal opinions on elves. You just couldn’t hide that kind of disdain.
Sloane’s theory is further proven when the woman, Aveline, simply nodded in acknowledgement, and Hawke raised his hands in a ‘surrender’ gesture with a smile of his own.
“Can’t say I blame you for that.” It was then that Sloane’s eyes were once again drawn to the staff on his back. Right. He was a mage. Hatred for mages and elves was hardly the same, but there was at least some common ground between them. A silent understanding of living in a world that seemed to hate you for what you were.
“Oh! Are you joining us, Sloane?” Merril suddenly cut in, as if only just registering what her presence amongst the rag-tag group meant.
“Unfortunately,” she sighed, striding forward and lightly bumping her shoulder against Merril as she went. “Best get to it then, yeah?”
How exactly had this become her life again?
It’s an incredibly arduous and taxing journey, filled with entirely too many demons, corpses and skeletons. They’re barely halfway, and Sloane is already covered in blood and muck, her dual blades dripping in unidentifiable goop that she wipes on her trousers as she scrunches her nose up in disgust.
When they finally get a reprieve from the onslaught of demons residing on the mountain, she attempts to roll the tension out from her shoulders, desperately trying not to think too hard about the ashy stench in the air from Hawke throwing around fireballs.
Not to mention the ends of her hair standing on end from close-quarters lightning and entropic magic. Her skin was crawling, the raised scar marring the expanse of her throat almost itching as she white-knuckled her blades and nearly bit through her tongue in an effort to remain collected.
They’d made it to what appears to be some sort of shimmering magical barrier, and Sloane was ready to collapse into the dirt and call it a day. Her nerves are beyond frayed, and the lactic acid buildup in her muscles from such an intense workout already has her body screaming at her in protest.
Her short moment of rest is shattered in an instant, adrenaline coursing through her panicked body at Merril’s sudden and terrifying display of blood magic. Sloane’s heart raced in her chest a mile a minute, bile filling her throat and threatening to spill from her mouth. She might have been shaking; it was hard to tell over the adrenaline roaring through her veins as her mind screamed at her to run.
Distantly, she realises she’s backed up rapidly, using Hawke’s broad back as a barrier between her and the sudden threat.
Part of her rails against the distinction of her friend as such, whispers that Merril would never hurt her. The larger, animalistic, fear-driven part of her brain howls in panicked fury. Blood mage. Dangerous. Get away, get away, get—
“Yes, it was blood magic, but I know what I’m doing. The spirit helped us, didn’t it?” Merril’s words snap her back into reality, and it’s with a great struggle that she forces herself to sheath the blades she’d almost been prepared to sink into Merril’s flesh.
Shaking her head, Sloane banishes the thought, swallowing down the nausea as she stalwartly ignores Varric’s gaze practically searing into the side of her face.
Let him think what he wants. A self-admitted non-Dalish elf wary of mages, one second away from a panic attack at the sight of blood magic? Whatever the dwarf’s conclusion, it probably wasn’t far from the truth.
“Sure, demons are very helpful… right up until they take your mind and turn you into a monster.” Hawke was tense in front of her, and a quick glance at her companions confirms he’s not the only one. Hell, Carver looked about as ready to cleave Merril’s head off as Sloane had been two seconds ago.
“Well… yes. But that won’t happen. I know how to defend myself.” There’s a tense few seconds where nobody dares move until Sloane forces herself forward, rolling out her shoulders with a deep breath.
This was Merril, naive, but well-meaning Merril. Her friend.
“Right, well, best get a move on, yeah?” To her dismay, her voice is not quite level enough to be casual.
“Sloane—” Merril reaches for her, and despite her best efforts not to, Sloane flinches away from her touch. Merril’s face falls, and despite it all, Sloane’s somehow the one who feels like a monster as she marches ahead, trying to ignore the sudden weakness in her knees.
She can feel various gazes burning into her back, but Sloane doesn’t dare slow her stride. Her nose stings, tears threatening to form in the corners of her eyes as she skaily inhales the brisk mountain air.
Fuck this day. Fuck Tevinter. Fuck Magic. Fuck Thedas.
She just wants to go home.