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"Try again."
Vandal gritted his teeth, lifting up his shield. The strike came immediately--the dummy's sandbag whistling from accumulated speed, the complicated mechanism of ropes and pulleys working overtime--and hit him on his bracing shoulder. Except he'd missed his position again. The blow glanced over the lip his shield and hit him on the cheek, the sudden burst of pain temporarily blinding him.
"Again," said Warden Thorne, his voice stern and measured. The Warden, in Vandal's mind, even though they technically shared the title now; the man who'd plucked him out of death and given him an unexpected, unasked for second chance at life. The Warden was a steady presence, unmoving as the mountains. A good quality to have when wrangling shell-shocked slaves out of their executions and into conscription... less so when he was training those same recruits at the crack of dawn. "You must do it until it feels like second nature."
Vandal felt a surge of anger, fed up with the man, with his life, with being told what to do. He scowled and lifted his shield as the next blow jarred his shoulder again—
--and again—
--and again—
"Enough!" he roared. Gripping his shield with both hands he struck, wood splintering at his wake. The shield was nothing more than a blunt instrument now, a conduit to his fired-up rage, a weapon of destruction obedient to his will. The training dummy bent and broke under his pummeling--until it stood no more, with Vandal harshly exhaling over its corpse.
The adrenaline in his blood receded, his sweat cooling on his skin. Vandal schooled his breathing and looked over at Warden Thorne, suddenly apprehensive. Was he about to be punished? He'd earned it, surely, for acting so out of control. But The Warden wasn't frowning. He was calmly watching Vandal, eyebrows slightly raised, and... smiling?
"Alright," Warden Thorne said, an undercurrent of amusement in his words. "You've made your point."
Vandal felt blood rush into his cheeks. "Sorry," he offered, stopping himself before he tacked on the instinctive master at the end. It was disquieting, the way that habit still lingered.
But Warden Thorne waved it all away. "Never mind that. Come on."
He led Vandal to a weapon rack. Ignoring all the iron swords he reached for a hammer, a sturdy-looking, bronze-gilded monster of a weapon. He maneuvered it from hand to hand like it weighed nothing, and proffered it. "Here. Let's try this one for size."
Vandal took it--and grunted, the unexpected weight dragging him down. Girding his muscles he gripped it with both hands, widening his stance. It felt heavy, heavier than anything he'd wielded before; the soles of his feet pressed against the ground, his center of gravity lowering.
Warden Thorne nodded. "Good. Give it a swing."
Vandal took a sharp, preparatory inhale, and tried it out. The hammer moved in a different arc than he was used to, so he took a second to focus, to slow down his motion. Another try, and it felt--good. Hefty.
"Now try it with a target."
A straw dummy stood a few paces away. Vandal took a running start and swung, putting all his strength behind it. When the hit connected he felt it in his core, the very force of it reverberating in his bones.
"Damn!" he exclaimed, shocked into laughter. For the very first time in his life, he actually felt powerful. He swung again, and again, his body singing with this strange euphoria.
"Alright, enough," Warden Thorne said. He thumped Vandal on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. "Guess we found your weapon of choice, huh? But first you'd better fatten up those arm muscles of yours. We're going to make a sturdy man out of you yet, just you wait."
"Yessir," Vandal said, smiling wide. He couldn't help himself. "Thank you," he added, a little belated, but he hoped it still sounded honest. He meant it. For this, and for everything.
As if reading his thoughts, Warden Thorne's curved up in a smile. He patted Vandal's shoulder once more, paternal and encouraging. "Think nothing of it. Now go get some grub, recruit."
Vandal didn't need to be told twice. He hurriedly deposited armor and weapon by the barracks—taking extra caution when hanging up the hammer; the weapon belonged to him now, as clearly as he belonged to it—and made for the mess hall.
Weisshaupt was built on ancient lines, and the mess hall was as dark and cavernous as a venerable castle could be. The tables shoved close together seemed incongruous in comparison, the blue-armored figures moving back and forth inconsequential under that yawning ceiling. Vandal kept his head down as he scurried to his seat, gripping his plate with both hands. Better to avoid eye-contact, experience had taught him, for all that he was ostensibly as safe and free here as any other person.
Besides, it was easy to focus on the food: thick, creamy stew—with meat chunks!—and black rye bread, with an apple for some sweetness. A strong and hearty meal, and a generous portion to boot. Vandal had heard other recruits—and even long-standing veterans—complain about its simplicity, but he personally couldn’t relate. He wolfed down both stew and bread with a hunger greedier than anything he’d felt as a slave. Another symptom of his latest transformation, perhaps.
“Hey, slow down before you choke!” a laughing voice said.
Vandal looked up. Smiling down at him were Antoine and Evka, glued to the hip as always, friendly and happier to see Vandal than he deserved. As always. He couldn’t quite bring himself to match their wide grins—but he felt his shoulders relax in their company, his mouth curling up in a shyer smile of his own. “Hey guys. Back from training?”
“Patrol, actually,” Antoine said with a small sigh, taking a seat. Evka followed suit, putting down a bowl of stew that seemed too small to last the two of them. “How does the saying go? No rest for the wicked.”
“Right. Patrol any good, then?”
“The usual,” Evka shrugged. “We’re both still alive, so I guess we can’t complain.” She pushed her bowl towards Vandal as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Here. Something tells me you’re going to need this.”
“Oh…” Vandal swallowed past the various emotions that swelled up in his throat. “I thought—are you sure? You guys must be hungry too.”
“We already ate.” Evka pushed the bowl again, her expression firm but kindly. “Come on. Is it such a crime that we care about you? Let us help.”
“And you do need the sustenance, my friend,” Antoine said, his smile now the smaller, understanding one he shared with Vandal whenever their mutual… situation came up. “Trust me, I—ouch!”
The interruption came courtesy of some other warden’s elbow to the back of Antoine’s head, with even odds on whether it was an accident or not. The man looked down—it was an older recruit, Vandal now saw, a human from Orlais called Florian or Fabian or some such—and his sneer definitively tipped the scales towards the on purpose camp.
“Watch where you’re going, rabbit,” Florian or Fabian said.
The rage that engulfed Vandal was both immediate and blinding. Before he had a chance to react the way he wanted to—the way that snooty bastard deserved—Evka had already jumped to action. “Hey!” she yelled, her face reddening with righteous anger. “You wanna say that again, asshole?”
But the only reply they got was a scoff as the man walked off. They weren’t even worthy of a response, apparently. Vandal tensed his body, wanting to act—to stand up—to do something—
“Oh, leave it,” Antoine said, sounding much too calm for the situation. “People like that never change. Why waste your breath?”
“To teach them a lesson?” Evka grumbled, though she’d noticeably calmed down once Antoine pressed a pacifying hand to her shoulder. “Prissy little noble boys, thinking their piss shines like gold. They’re in for a rude awakening once they realize the Calling comes for us all, no matter who our daddy is.”
Vandal grunted in agreement. Orlesian nobles were no Tevinter magisters—no abusive monsters like Redakis—but still, it felt good to know some measure of justice was being meted out. In death, they were all equals.
“You see? They will learn on their own, whether they want to or not. Now, let’s talk about more pleasant things…”
None of them needed any more encouragement. Antoine and Evka had no issue turning the conversation to anything and everything under the sun—flowers, a blue pebble Antoine had found that matched the exact colour of Evka’s tattoos, the dates they’d go on if they ever visited Val Royeaux. Vandal was content to let the chatter wash over him while he chewed, feeling unexpectedly at peace. Good food and good friends; life could be sweet, when you had a reason to keep going.
Unfortunately, just when he was about to reach for the second plate, their peace got shattered. A clanging noise rang loud enough to reverberate around the mess hall, causing people to crane their necks. At the center of the commotion was a short woman, spilled stew all over her blue uniform, and…
“Look at what you did, you little idiot!” Florian—or Fabian—shouted.
Vandal felt the rage rise up in him like it had never left. The woman was an elf herself, dark-skinned and dark-haired, short and scrawny. She flinched away from the human’s threatening fist, and something inside Vandal just—snapped.
“Hey, you!” All heads turned towards him, including Evka’s surprised and Antoine’s worried faces, but Vandal was beyond caring. He’d jumped to his feet without even realising it so he followed the momentum, marching up to the man. “You owe her an apology,” he said, nodding at her with his chin as he crossed his arms.
Aristocratic features twisted into a sneer. “She stumbled onto me.”
A lie, no doubt, but Vandal wasn’t going to waste his time with words anymore. He smacked a fist against his palm, stretching his neck threateningly. It felt good, to have physical strength. To be able to use it. “The next words out of that mouth better be ‘I’m sorry’.”
Florian-or-Fabian faltered, visible shaken at being stood up to. The split-second of doubt on his face was supremely gratifying, even if he then papered over it with a scowl. “Or what?” he goaded.
Vandal didn’t usually smile, but he allowed himself one small, grimly satisfied grin. He raised his arm.
Then he punched the man square on the face, knocking him down.
—
“I should have known better than to expect good behaviour from you, Vandal,” The First Warden growled, his glare filled with disdain and the unacknowledged desperation of a man clinging too hard on control. “I will not have the Order sacrificed over one man’s crazed ravings. Follow your orders, recruit!”
“It’s Rook now,” Thorne reminded him, stoic at the face of his superior’s ire, “and I don’t take suicidal orders from you or anyone.”
Thorne’s arm sailed through the air. His punch landed in a perfect, unerring hit. The crack that sounded was visceral, satisfying, thin bones crumbling under the force of his knuckles.
The First Warden fell on the spot.
As Thorne shook off the hit from his tingling arm, a hush descended all around him. Time itself had stopped, holding its breath. Thorne was familiar with this lull in reaction, with the wordless surprise of a crowd struggling to catch up with reality. It never deterred him before. It never would again. He won’t ever regret doing the right thing, no matter what rich-men laws and authorities had to say about it.
Taash was the first to break the silence, giving a sudden, sharp bark of a laugh. Lucanis huffed, half in astonishment and half in amusement, shooting a sly look of approval at Thorne.
But Thorne didn’t have time to acknowledge it. He searched the crowd for Evka, and found her already looking back at him with an expression of determination. Understanding flowed through their locked gazes. They nodded to each other, just once.
“Everyone, listen to me!” Evka ordered, taking charge. “Stay back and take defensive positions. Our new objective is supporting Rook until he loads up the trap. That’s an order.”
“We’ll take care of the dragon,” Thorne said, shouldering his weapon. He turned to his team. “Let’s go!”
They went, one well-oiled machine with Thorne as the tip of the spear. His war hammer danced in his grasp, graceful in its trajectory until it landed with explosive force on its targets. Darkspawn crumbled and fell in his path, bits of gore spilling in the air. Thorne ignored it all with well-practised discipline, and lifted up his shield. On his left Taash’s dragon fire incinerated all enemies. On his right Lucanis’s dagger flashed sly and deadly, taking care of threats before they had a chance to act.
But even with their impeccable teamwork, they had their work cut out for them. The darkspawn horde was unending, a sea of senseless malice. Matched with the darkened sky it made Weisshaupt look unreal, like something out of a nightmare. Thorne stretched his aching shoulders, and refused to be bowed.
“Geez,” Taash complained, even their prodigious shoulders sagging with exhaustion. “Is there even an end to them?”
“We need to go to the source,” Lucanis said, his eyes glinting like his blades. “Take off the monster’s head, and rest will follow.”
“Agreed.” Thorne spared a moment to grasp Lucanis’s shoulder, bloodied glove to bloodied armor, a silent gesture of support. “Come on. The dragon can’t be far.”
The dragon—arch-demon? Unfortunately, itt seemed more and more likely—was a chilling sight to come upon, larger-than-life and malignly intelligent. Great flames surrounded the entire courtyard, with darkspawn writhing in the shadows like one monstrous organism. A nightmare, again, over and over. Thorne focused instead on Darvin, already waiting and grimly determined. They exchanged a nod, Grey Warden to Grey Warden.
In Death, Sacrifice, Thorne thought. He’d finally made his peace with the line, had finally understood all it was meant for. It would be worth it, to die protecting the decent folk, the world. The people he loved.
He jumped into the fiery fray.
—
“Merda!”
“I think those tomatoes are diced enough, actually,” Thorne said wryly.
Lucanis gave a huff of pure disgust, throwing the knife on the cutting board and his arms up in the air, in true Antivan style. Thorne was privately charmed by the display, though he knew better than to add fuel to the fire. “I have made the killing blow a thousand times to a thousand targets,” Lucanis said, his body too animated. “And this time I miss? Testa di cazzo.”
“Lucanis.” Thorne waited for the man to look at him, then sighed when Lucanis kept pacing. “It’s alright.”
Lucanis’s only response was a bitter scoff.
“I mean it.” Thorne approached the cutting board, took up the knife and a fresh tomato. The rhythmic sound of slicing was oddly soothing. “Look, it happens. The important thing is that you’re alive right now. You survived. That means you get the chance to fix it.”
“I think that’s the longest speech I’ve heard you give so far,” Lucanis said dryly, but he was visibly thawing. He exhaled, slow and deliberate, his whole body slackening. “Thanks, Rook,” he said quietly. “And thanks for not kicking me out of the team.”
Thorne chuckled despite himself. He looked up with a teasing grin, feeling the way it stretched his cheeks. “Do I look like the sort of man who would do that?”
“No,” Lucanis said, unexpectedly serious. “You look like a good man, and a better one than we deserve.”
Thorne looked down, surprised by the earnestness of the words, by the bashfulness of his own reaction. He felt the tips of his ears go warm. “I’m just doing what needs to be done.”
Lucanis hummed. He sidled up and stood next to Thorne, their shoulders brushing. Another wordless gesture; the kind they were the best at. Thorne allowed himself to relax, to let an imperceptible knot of tension disappear.
“Not bad, by the way,” Lucanis broke the silence, nodding down at the tomatoes. He smirked. “Nice technique.”
“I do know how to cook, you know,” Thorne said, a small, answering smile hiding in his lips. “Maybe I should be the one making you a meal for a change.”
“Absolutely not. I’m the master of this kitchen.”
Thorne laughed, a breathless flutter he couldn’t quite stop from bubbling up his throat. “Fine. Let’s team up at least, then.”
They worked with the same ease as they did on the battlefield, bodies moving in tandem, taking action without needing to check each other’s position. Though admittedly, cooking was an infinitely more peaceful pursuit. The onions sizzled gently on their pan. The water boiled. All around them pleasant aromas wafted up, cozy and domestic.
Thorne mustered up his courage. “Hey,” he said, stealing a glance at Lucanis through his eyelashes. “I just wanted to say… thank you as well. For, you know. Everything. I never thought my life would end up the way it did… but I’m glad you’re in it.”
Lucanis gazed steadily back, his expression serious, intent. “I’m glad too. It’s an honor and a relief, to know I matter so much to you. That I’m a boon to you and not a burden. You of all people deserve some sweetness in your life, Rook.” Then he smiled, his eyes twinkling playfully, and lifted up a spoon. “Speaking of. Try out the sauce.”
Another laugh, escaping golden from Thorne’s mouth. He obeyed and tried the sauce, closing his eyes to concentrate. Flavour burst against his tastebuds, savoury with just a hint of citrus. A perfect mixture.
Despite everything so far—about his life, his past, his doubtful future with the bloodthirsty gods and a world on the brink of collapse—in this moment Thorne felt… hopeful. Happy. He bent down and captured Lucanis’s lips in a kiss, tasting the salt.
Life could be sweet indeed.