David Gaider - The Calling

“Anything in there was probably crushed,” the lad remarked. “Or spoiled.”

“Would it hurt to look?”

Duncan gave Maric an annoyed glance, but Fiona held her hand up. “You know as well as I do that the darkspawn are well behind us. I can’t even sense them right now.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Duncan glanced toward the cavern entrance, suddenly troubled. “It’s just that I keep expecting Genevieve to appear out of every shadow, all blighted like she is now. I feel like she’s right on our heels.”

Fiona snorted. “She’s only human, Duncan, as she proved quite well.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Still, Duncan looked far more sad than frightened, and with a final pensive glance at the entrance, he turned and nodded. “Let’s stay here and rest, then. There’s only the one entrance to the cavern, and even with all the rubble it’s still pretty defensible. This is as good a place as any.”

They spent some time searching through the ruins, but other than finding a few stone crates just inside one of the smaller caves, there wasn’t as much as Maric had hoped. Cooking utensils, pots and pans, a few worn blankets and some dusty clothing. Thankfully the dwarves had a knack for building sturdy crates that kept the insides protected. Maric was able to find a pair of boots that fit, and Duncan located a grey leather vest that replaced his torn jerkin quite well.

Fiona located a crate with some food supplies that were mostly useless, no doubt left behind for good reason, but at least a few of the stores therein looked edible and they chewed on them in silence. Balls of jerky, though of what meat Maric couldn’t really imagine. Perhaps it wasn’t meat at all. He seemed to recall that Nalthur, the leader of the Legion, had complained about their lack of decent food. Justifiably, it turned out.

The elf was much more pleased when she located a dusty, cracked basin underneath a pile of rocks. It had a magical dweomer, she exclaimed, and when she ran her hands over it the basin began to fill with water. Maric had seen something similar during his time in Ortan thaig years before, and Fiona explained that it was a simple enough enchantment—one the dwarven Shapers specialized in.

This afforded them the opportunity to wash themselves at least a little, and they took turns at the basin. Maric didn’t realize just how filthy he was until he started wiping off some of the dust and dried ichor that had accumulated on him. He ran the water through his hair, watching with alarm as the basin quickly turned a brownish red. Then the water slowly cleared as if by magic.

Or exactly by magic , he corrected himself. We should get these at the palace.

He wiped his face once more with the makeshift washcloth, marveling at the feeling of the cool water on his skin. Throwing caution to the wind, he undid the straps on his breastplate and removed the top half of his armor. Then he removed his shirt and proceeded to wash up. The cave was cramped but it allowed a little bit of privacy, and for a brief minute he just enjoyed sitting there in the quiet, listening only to the occasional splashing of the water and feeling human again.

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Fiona mused, standing at the entrance to the cave.

He grinned at her. “Where’s Duncan?”

“Standing watch at the cavern entrance. He saw me looking over at the cave and rolled his eyes and told me that’s exactly where he would be until one of us came to get him.” She chuckled, but it trailed off quickly into silence. A shadow crossed behind her eyes and she frowned. “He still isn’t hearing the Calling.”

“But you are?”

“Yes. And it’s getting worse.” She walked toward him and knelt down next to him beside the basin, leaning her staff against the wall. She refused to meet Maric’s eyes, and he watched as she slowly removed her chain shirt. As soon as her back appeared, he noticed the tell-tale signs of corruption spreading. The stains were small, but noticeable, and he didn’t remember seeing anything when they lay together not a night before.

Fiona began to shake suddenly, covering her eyes with her hands and stifling an exhausted sob. “Do you see them?” she asked, her voice anguished.

“Yes.”

“Of course you do. How could you not?” She wiped at her eyes, and then shook her head angrily. “It’s on my hands, too. I’m going to end up like Kell. Or Utha.”

“You’re not.”

“Don’t say such things.” Fiona looked at him reproachfully. “Of course I am. There is no coming back from this, is there? Even if we make it to the surface, I’m … I’m dead. I don’t even feel elven any longer.”

He hushed her, and she closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. Dunking his cloth into the basin again, he took it and began to wash her back gently. She jumped, surprised by the cold water, but then quickly acquiesced. For a time he ran the cloth over her skin, including the tainted areas, and she said nothing, continuing to stare ahead. Occasionally she shuddered when his fingers brushed against her. The quiet filled up the small cave, electric and yet somehow still not uncomfortable.

“Maric,” she finally asked, “do you think we will really get out of this?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why, exactly? Our chances are not good.”

“It’s like this—” He smiled. “I’ve been incredibly lucky most of my life. I barely escaped the night my mother was murdered, and I met Loghain by chance. He saved my life more times than I can count during the rebellion. In fact, he wasn’t the only one. I think I’m due for some more luck, now.”

“Perhaps you used up all your luck,” Fiona said. Her tone was more severe than she probably intended, and she bit her lower lip as soon as she said it. He didn’t mind. His grin widened as he wiped the back of her neck with the cold cloth and felt her shiver.

“I think my luck is returning, actually.”

The elf finally turned her head and peered at him curiously. Maric continued to wash the dried blood off her skin as she appraised him, the thoughts clearly running about in her head. He didn’t ask, and eventually she frowned and spoke her mind. “You know, you don’t have to live as you do.”

“Oh? How do I live?”

“Like a man who’s trapped.” Now it was his turn to avoid her piercing eyes. “As a king you have every freedom, Maric. Yet you act as if you were a slave. You act as if this gift the Maker has given you is some kind of burden.”

He sighed, taking a long minute to soak the cloth in the basin once again. The ichor bloomed in the water like a dark and deadly flower. “I don’t think I’m as free as you think I am.”

“Aren’t you? What’s imprisoning you, exactly?”

“I didn’t have a choice about becoming what I am. My country needed me. The way Rowan looked at me and the way Loghain looked at me, they expected me to take my place. To be a strong king. To be a good king. To rebuild Ferelden. And I’ve done that. But … all it feels like is that there’s this long, long road ahead of me, with no surprises and no reprieve, and I’m going to keep walking down it until one day I just fall down and die.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m sure they’ll have a very large funeral, with many Fereldan women weeping over my grave that Maric the Savior is dead.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. “And you never once wanted to be king? Not even just a little?”

“I wanted to avenge my mother. I wanted to kick the Orlesians out of Ferelden.”

“And nothing else?”

“Well …”

She turned herself around to face him completely, her skirt rustling loudly on the stone floor. She appeared to be completely oblivious to her bared chest, and firmly took his chin in her hand. “This elven woman you killed. What was her name?”