#but satisfying in its own way in his current lifetime where he's been reborn

[deathbind]

I'll write up a proper post about this at some point, but Refhremmit hasn't been a direct part of all of Serot's lifetime. Their bond persists through each one, yes. Refhremmit always knows when they are reincarnated, and they always greet them in death. But even with their bond, finding the living person who holds the other end is another matter. It takes something tugging on it to pull Refhremmit in the right direction. This is usually the rite a person may undergo to discover a spirit name (which I'll explain in the future). Sometimes it's something / someone else tugging on the bond, like the tadpole in the BG3 timeline. It can vary. They don't usually find each other until that lifetime is mid-twenties or later, and sometimes they do not find each other at all. But, Refhremmit is always waiting to embrace them at the end.

[categorically-patheic]

Fic: Hero Syndrome, Pt.1 Ch. 2

I can’t believe I wrote 2700 words of fanfiction. Holy shit. 

Early mornings at Ostagar are lethargic and tepid, like wading through cooling molasses. Dew mottling the battlegrounds glisten in the torrid dawn, glittering the grass and reflecting pinpricks of light onto the decorated ashen armor currently being leisurely adorned by each sleepy-eyed soldier. Within the barracks, the recruits move in sluggish synchronicity with one another; sitting up from their cots, changing their bedclothes, retrieving their weapons were all actions memorized by their muscles from the daily monotony of training.

As each Grey Warden filters into the main staging arena, the rows of tables fill with broad bodies and heaping servings of this day's breakfast: grains, dried fruits, and lukewarm ale. An unsatisfactory morning meal made irrelevant by the mirth and good-natured ribbing being shared between brothers-in-arms. Soon the still air rumbles with a crescendo of the usual boisterous clangor of warriors rowdily conversing and laughing, the commotions consuming the battlements. Pats on the back and slaps of metal-on-metal crash ringingly in a supine expression of camaraderie.

Not far from the vociferous mess, Shepard emerges from her own beige tent well-rested and radiant. Blades of grass squish between her bare toes when she walks along the verdure, inhaling the cool breeze with focused, deep breaths. Her milky skin gleams with a matte sheen in the rising sunlight, the dark brown dotting freckles and moles scattered across her face and upper arms giving contrast to the pale, almost-white cream color of her flesh. Her large, dark eyes scan the horizon in search of danger, but find none. With the feeling of security, she initiates her morning routine by attaching her plate chest piece to her mage light-wear, working her way to the pauldrons and arms pieces down to her legs and finally slipping on her boots. She dons the armor diligently, and her honey-tinted hair bounces and falls against the side of her head with her snappy movements; the short waves of her sandy locks fall charmingly along her face and the back of her neck, framing her head with upward curves of golden, wispy thread.

She finishes her preparations, slings her knapsack upon her shoulder, and begins to saunter along the tents and armaments to greet her cavalry, and the sound of refreshingly familiar tumult of hundreds of overzealous soldiers makes her smile to herself as she marches upon the beaten, gravel path with firm and distinct steps crunching softly under her dainty frame.

It's the first morning of her new career serving as Ferelden's Commander of the Grey. She actually isn't sure if the hordes of mercenaries and volunteers had even been notified of their contemporary officer. That doesn't really matter, though, for she'll whip their asses into shape regardless if they want her to do it or some hulking human templar. All they have to do is show up; she'll rip the passion and enthusiasm out of each soul with her bare hands if she had to. Ferelden, Thedas really, needs defending, and she is going to be the one leading the charge, whether they like it or not.

The discordian melody of amicable banter peters out when the sight of her Warden-Commander  mail and the amber-colored vestment underneath comes into view. And with that reaction, Shepard has her answer. The tranquil smile splayed across her lips shifts subtly into a sneer at the revelation that they do know of her becoming their new leader and don't like it at all. She'd always loved a challenge, and this'll probably be the most daunting of her life. The thought makes her heart bubble giddily and feet pick up speed.

Shepard approaches a crate of dehydrated fruit at the front end of the mess and effortlessly hops up and climbs onto the box, adding an additional two feet to her meager five foot three. Her hips are held in her hands in a cocky spectacle as she her face beams with joy and just a hint of sinister intentions. "Grey Wardens of Ferelden, look upon the Warden-Commander who will lead you into inevitable victory against the Blight!"Confidence ripples throughout her speech, her voice booming across the ramparts. Her physique is curved in a convex arch, and the body language amplifies her boisterous complexion.

The proceeding silence is deafening and painful; every millisecond drags out as if lifetimes had gone by. Her eyes flicker across each confused and unaffected face as her whole body deflates under the disconcerting stillness. Finally, one man dares disturb the quiet when a masculine cry comes out of the lines of men and women, unseen by most but heard by all. "As if we'd take orders from a puny rabbit!"

The stillness remains for only but a second. Cacophony reborn, a roar of cackles and shrieks replace the lull, building up in volume and intensity and expounding on itself with each individual snicker. A nerve is struck within her, though not out of a lack of self-confidence or even anxiety. It was more of an overwhelming desire to prove all of them wrong. Not waning for any self-assured jackass, Shepard's eyes turn dangerous, the satisfied gleam all but killed in the instant the bellow carried about the air.

"Well, this rabbit's got teeth. You think this is funny? We'll see how hard you're laughing at the end of 20 laps around the perimeter. Come on, break time's over." She claps her hands twice before she crosses her arms with perhaps a bit too much force in a gesture of impatience and ire. Groans and protests emit from the mob, a faceless coagulation of silver shuffling falteringly in position at the front gates to prepare for their punishment. Shepard leers at the stragglers, shoving them forward and scaring them straight with her glare alone.

Heavy footsteps indent the grass behind her, pausing at her side to look out at the recruits, watching them sweatily sprint in a broad circle around Ostagar. She deviates her deadly gaze downward and catches the sight of her King Kryik staring passively and unimpressed ahead with his arms bent behind his back, only about a foot and a half shorter than her still atop the wooden container. She feels a warmth spread down her neck and into her spine, a nervous energy bunching up within her chest and settling densely in her stomach.

"Good morning, your Highness. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Overly formal and rather excessive for her tastes, Shepard extends the common and polite greeting to one's sovereign ruler.

Without so much as glimpsing to her, he subtlety smiles and slants his head and scrutiny to his left where she stood uptight and suspicious. "You've made quite the impression so far." His amused disposition isn't lost on her. He's enjoying her abuse of power as much as he's trying to cast an unspoken admonishment upon it. She can't imagine Saren getting a kick out of this as much as they are.

"Most of them know me from training anyways, they understand I don't take any shit. They're just testing their boundaries." Her words are light and aloof, but the feeling of disappointment douses every syllable in venom. Her use of 'curse words' was known and disregarded when she was included within the featureless mass; no one really cares how the trainees talk as long as they get the job done. But this is different, this is the king. She's playing the same game as the teasing squall this incident was born from, pushing at the confines of her role as his inferior.

His mood is promoted from amused to entertained when he realizes a banter has been achieved between them. She's capable and proficient enough that chewing her out for insubordination seems unnecessary, but she still needs to learn her place. She may run this operation, but he runs every thing around it, and he intends to reminder her of that.

"Perhaps you'd like to join them. You've gotta stay limber if you hope to be a capable Commander." He teases her and prods where he know he can without going too far. With this report they've established between them, they could pretend that they don't see each other as a threat, masquerade the tension that arises between two people given authority. Just maybe, they could convince themselves they're comrades fighting side-by-side and not begrudging associates locked in an uneven power struggle. It seems King Nihilus is a magnet for rivalry and infighting.

A wry smile smears across her lips in understanding. The king was quite well-known for his unique and oddly playful propensity for delivering genuine advice in the form of ironic quips. Knowing him and his quirks all too well, she takes the hint and bounds off of the storage unit and onto the ground in a crouching position, holding her left hand in front of her to break her fall. She slowly erects, marinating in the moment and basking in the mid-morning heat before announcing her departure and letting him win this encounter, "I think I'll do just that, your Majesty. I'll keep the troops on their toes."

Nihilus chuckles breathy all in one syllable, "Heh. I'm sure you will, Commander. I'll be watching." As ominous and foreboding as the parting message was, Kryik adorns an innocent expression as his penetrating regard bores holes through her eyes and into her deepest thoughts. The king turns around and retraces his steps back the way he came to his tent. Shepard is left somewhat dumbfounded, gawking obtusely as his back until it vanishes behind its tent's flap. She shakes her head, clearing it of his mind games, and squats down onto the balls of her feet to meet eye-level with the latch of the platform she'd just jumped off of. She slips the crate's lid open and sneaks a handful of dried apple slices before raising back to her full height and prepares to move onward. She slides the strips of fruit into her side-satchel and trudges forward in what she can only hope appears as a nonchalant amble to the front gates of Ostagar.

She crosses the fortress in minutes, hurried and tight strides tracing a beeline from the mess to the starting point of those laps she'd angrily ordered of her army. She was starting to regret that decision, feeling it a touch harsh for just giving her a hard time -- always brash and impulsive, her. Maybe she'd make it up to them later, throw them a sort of celebratory bash if they preform at least acceptably when sparring in the afternoon.  

Lost in thought, she almost bumped into her best friend and second-in-command in the chaos of scampering armored conscripts. "Kaidan-- shit, sorry." Shepard put a hand to her forehead, ripping herself out of her petty musings and wiping the perspiration she'd accumulated from just standing around in the broiling daybreak. Yeah, she definitely owes every single recruit a beer.

"Hey, Shepard. I- I mean--" He fumbles as he straightens his posture and folds his right arm over his chest inelegantly. "Commander." He tries his damnedest to respond to her salutation with as much tribute as he has within his soul, voice gruff and face unwaveringly obstinate. The spectacle makes her snicker quietly, his eyes brightening as she does so.

Kaidan (Warden-Constable Alenko, now) was probably her only true friend within the Grey Wardens; he really was someone she could trust with her secrets and whom she could count on to have her back. They'd bonded over their shared interests, what with them both being spirit healers and having a knack for the technical: mechanical engineering, trap-making, weapon design, etc. She'd gravitated towards him almost immediately when he was delivered to the grounds by that Nevarran First Enchanter with high praise only 3 months ago, when the first signs of the Blight had sprung up.

But her intrigue in him wasn't due to his magical proficiency or impressive Circle resume, not really. It was because there was something so soft and nonthreatening within him that emanated out to her the first time they'd met eyes; that placid aspect about him had made her feel better about herself in contrast, though now she felt guilty admitting that to herself. Shame begins replacing the relief of finding him amidst the mob, and it stains her cheeks a subtle red as he stares at her wide-eyed and hanging on her trailed words, awaiting her orders.

"Stand down, Warden-Constable. No need to get all fancy on me now." Her warm words dissolve the tension between the two; things had gotten rather high-strung when it came to her personal relationships with her crew now that she was their boss. She guesses they feel as though they can't be themselves around her anymore lest they get the boot. Her heart beats ice cold at the idea that her connections to these people were so thin that they'd untwine under such a seemingly minor shift in power.

"What d'ya think of my method of discipline? Too harsh?" Shepard says it in such a way that he could think her joking, laugh, and move on-- or he'd see it for the plea for guidance it truly was. She'd 'exhibited strong leadership qualities in her training' (quote High-Constable Anderson), but this was the real deal. Shepard wouldn't dare say this out loud, but she's scared. Actually, she's entirely fucking petrified at the idea of leading this entire army to their deaths, which is most likely exactly what the next 2 days would entail. At this point, she'd trade every possession she owns if it meant someone would slap her in the face and explain everything she was doing wrong. Was fantasizing about being physically abused healthy?

"Ehh... You could've gone easier on them, but they need to know who's boss," he expresses reverently. His right hand travels from the fisted position against his chest to rub the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with giving his commanding officer leadership advice.

Ignoring his apprehension, she continues, "Yeah, I know I really need to reign it in, but that 'rabbit' comment just pissed me off too much for me to let it go in the moment." Her arms fold over each other as she looks upwards and into this eyes.

"It'd piss anyone off, Shepard. They disrespected you, you punished them for it. I think you should just stop worrying about it and move on." Her faint wince on the word 'punished' didn't escape Kaidan, and he begins to imagine the numerous self-deprecating things she's probably projecting onto herself now. He frowns at thought. If he'd been asked, he'd say he thinks she's too nice for her own good. He'd also say he's completely aware of the fact that she believes the same about him. But while he can be somewhat of a pushover, her undying need to placate and attend to the needs of everyone around her will, in his opinion, drag her down. They both need to harden up for their own well-beings.  

"So how's the promoted life feeling? Are they scared shitless of you yet like they are me?" As long as she keeps the conversation light and surface level, she won't need to analyze the concerned expression he's studying her face with.

"It's weird, if I'm being honest. I mean, I don't know if I'm cut out for this. Leading is more of your thing." Somehow he manages to tell her the last thing she wants to hear every time, today being no exception. She runs a hand pensively through her short, thin locks as she considers his misgiving. She sighs, defeated and already tired, despite waking but 3 hours ago.

"Alright. I'm not gonna make you do anything you don't feel comfortable with. I'll ask Williams later if she'd take the position. You're certain you can't make this work, though?" She feels like she's pressuring him, which she is, but her hopes had been high to see him in a management role. It'd be a learning experience for all of them, something for the better. He'd get grips on his confidence, and perchance they'd discover some goddamn respect.

"I-- Yeah. I am, Commander." His speech is tense and definite.

Her brow tilts upward just so, eyes searching his. "Okay. You're officially off the hook," she jokes with her hand on his shoulder, and his stance loosens with a release of unease. "Don't worry about the laps. Looks like they're about done, anyway."

Without giving him the chance to replay, she turns to her left and walks passed him and the other Grey Wardens, most of them panting and reclined against the brick walls of the parapet. All she can see in her periphery is dirty looks and anxious grimaces. Shepard reaches into her pack and pulls out the preserved apple slices, nibbling on the end of a ribbon of fruit. She lowers her head and watches the dirt pass underneath her feet as she walks.

Today was gonna be a long day.