#ziskfic: symbiotes

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 1 - Upbringing)

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages.

CHAPTER 1: UPBRINGING | MEREDITH & AMELIA | WORDS: 700 | RATED: T Notes: takes place in the same continuity as the rest of Symbiotes, but prior knowledge is not required for this chapter. (AO3 LINK)

Sometimes, Meredith dreams about her childhood. Dreams about her sister, before she had become the Thing.

It had been a simpler time, before everything had gone to shit. A time before the Kirkwall docks where her father once worked had become shrouded in the shadow of the Gallows, even though logic dictated the ancient Tevinter fortress had stood for centuries, and would stand for ages more.

No. In the old dreams, Meredith can only remember the sun. The perfect summer days. The deceptively still surface of the Waking Sea reflecting the cloudless blue skies above their heads. Hers, and Amelia’s. Bare legs dangling into the water to keep cool in the heat. Amelia, jerking into Meredith’s side swearing an eel had slithered past. Meredith, clutching at her big sister’s side to keep her steady. 

It was only seaweed. Only ever seaweed.

On a good day, they’d have coppers enough to split a whole fish between them for lunch, a big juicy fat one at that. They’d cook it on a stick over one of the communal firepits, Amelia glancing around nervously worried the neighbourhood boys would pick a fight with them again and Meredith focused on her task, confident in the knowledge they wouldn’t.

Meredith had known, once upon a time, that their father had been disappointed their mother had borne him a second daughter. But it didn’t matter so much these days, not now she’d proven to him she could do everything a boy could, could do it even better.

She still remembers the first time she’d come home bloodied and bedraggled after breaking a bully’s nose for making fun of her sister. She’d expected to get a hiding but Dad had only laughed, ruffling her matted hair.

Maker’s breath, he’d said, I’ve created a monster. And yet upon noticing her swollen thumb, he’d still taught her how to throw a proper punch. For next time. It had been in that moment Meredith had been convinced of her purpose in life, her reason for being: she had been brought into this world to protect her sister, and she would never ever give up, so long as she lived.

And it had all been going so swimmingly, until Amelia’s magic had manifested. Until the already shy and reticent Amelia withdrew so deep inside her shell she had turned herself inside out instead—

—her dreaming mind refuses to dwell on what had happened after, tonight. Tonight, it still has hope. A false belief there is a chance. Something, anything, that she can do to change what actually happened.

She is chasing her sister through the winding streets of Lowtown, bare feet kicking up clouds of dust as she runs. Amelia is out of sight, but only just. Like Meredith will turn the corner and see her standing there, close enough to jab a finger in the dimple of her smile.

Meredith is not sure any of this ever actually happened.

However, what she is certain of is this: that Amelia has always been just out of her grasp. That the templars always reached her sister first. That every day, she wakes up into a nightmare.

She is sticking to her nightclothes, her sheets, perspiration rolling off her in waves. It’s summer in Kirkwall, but she is no longer eight years old, but forty-two. It’s early still, sun yet to break the sky, but she can make out the shape of the objects in her bedchamber in the red glow of her greatsword, never too far from hand.

Do you still believe you can change things? Orsino had once asked her many moons ago, and back then, she had demurred. Had told him she didn’t know. But now, as she pushes herself upright and hums the red lyrium’s haunting song under her breath, she feels it in her bones.

Certainty.

As good a name for a sword as any.

The Thing watches her out of the corner of her eye. You promised, it says. Once upon a time, Meredith had been adamant that the Thing was not her sister. These days, she sees little utility in such arbitrarily drawn lines. 

Yes, she whispers into the empty room. I did.

[volkoss]

Fic: Dissonance (Ch. 2 - Arrival)

A series of non-linear vignettes exploring the life of Meredith Stannard. Written for @14dayscirclemages. CHAPTER 2: ARRIVAL | MEREDITH & WENTWORTH | WORDS: ~700 | RATED: M 1 | 2 (AO3 LINK)

Most nights, Meredith dreams about how everything can change in an instant.

Her parents, alive, dead. Home, burned to ashes. Screams, silence. Her sister, the Thing.

“Maker’s breath,” Knight-Captain Wentworth had sworn upon discovering her hidden in the rubble, shivering and snivelling. “A survivor.”

His face, still so clear in her mind now, reaching out to her with concerned, compassionate eyes. He'd pulled her from the wreckage, screaming at the knights under his command. “You fucking morons! I told you to cover the bodies!” Meredith had looked. How could she not? Her mother and father still lay side by side in the kitchen, faces pale, rigid, unmoving. Her gaze travelled downwards, unwilling but unstoppable.

The demon’s talons had torn them apart. “Child,” Wentworth had started once she’d finished retching, a hand at her shoulder turning her away from full view of the scene, “what is your name?”

She’d wanted to yell at him, had wanted to pound at his chest with her fists, ask why it even mattered now nothing would be the same again. Instead, she’d clung to the templar, fingers finding grooves in his armour, desperately holding on. “Meredith, Meredith,” she’d chanted, her name her only other anchor in this strange new world. The knight-captain bent a knee so they were face to face. “Meredith,” he repeated. “Do you have any other family? In wake of…” This tragedy, she knows he’d wanted to say now, but even then he had been unable to bring himself to say the words. She’d shaken her head. “No.” There were no siblings, no cousins, no aunties or uncles. She was alone in the world. Except for the knight-captain with the kind eyes. “You’re a templar.” “Yes,” the knight-captain answered. “What do you know of the Templar Order?” They were walking now, away from the smoke, away from the fire. The templars—what remained of them—reassuring the neighbours everything was under control. That the situation had been dealt with.

The situation. Her sister. The Thing. There is no sight of it now. She is safe here, under the wing of the knight-captain. She’d swallowed hard, struggling to reconcile the past words of her parents with everything that had happened after. “Templars keep everyone safe,” she answers. Anxiety crawls up her throat, threatens to suffocate.

“I’m sorry,” she continues. Smoke and regret prick at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry we hid her. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Meredith.” The knight-captain has a handkerchief. He hands it to her to wipe away her tears. Soot and grime come away with them as she rubs it against her face.  “It’s not your fault.” Then why does it feel like it is? 

But the words went unsaid. They always do.

“Where are you taking me?” she’d asked instead.

“The Chantry,” the knight-captain had answered. “It is their responsibility to take care of children in your situation.” Meredith had frozen in place. The knight-captain looked back in surprise. “Meredith?” “No,” she’d insisted. “Take me home with you.” “What?” “I want to become a templar. Like you.” The dream blurs then. It always does. She doesn’t remember the first time she’d passed through the Gallows’ gates; it almost feels like she’s lived here her whole life. Would, if it weren’t for the good dreams, the ones of the happier times. Before everything had gone to shit.

She remembers sitting in the infirmary, still smelling of vomit and smoke and slime, Ser Wentworth never leaving her side, a mage healing her injuries but being too tired to flinch away from the arcane unnatural energy.

The knight-commander’s scowl, more confused than angry as he’d peered closer. “Wentworth,” he’d said, “why in the world have you brought this child to the Gallows? She’s not a mage.”

Wentworth, turning his attention from Meredith to his commander, but his hands never leaving hers. “Guylian.” No title, an intimate address. “The girl—” Meredith interrupts. “I wish to become a templar.” It is her destiny. She knows this now. The knight-commander’s face, softening. “And so you shall, child. And so you shall.”