|Seeds of the Pomegranate
Author: Italian Empress 1985 PM
His power was taken by the Maker, his beauty diseased inside the shell of an archdemon, but through his madness, the Old God, Urthemiel found a chance at vengeance and new life. And woe betide the Grey Warden that captured his immense and awful interest.Rated: Fiction M - English - Fantasy/Drama - Urthemiel & Cousland - Chapters: 2 - Words: 3,806 - Reviews: 5 - Favs: 9 - Follows: 13 - Updated: 09-18-11 - Published: 08-23-11 - id: 7315124
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Disclaimer: "Dragon Age: Origins" and all its expansions and additional content is the property of Bioware and EA Games. Large portions of written content within the game, as well as Dragon's Age: The Stolen Throne, and Dragon's Age: Calling, are the creation of David Gaider. Original scenarios and characters are used under the creative license of the writer, ItalianEmpress1985. No profit is being made and the following story is for entertainment purposes only
Words From The Author: So, welcome to the first of my Fate and Forbearance related drabbles, though I think some of them might turn out to be long enough to be short stories instead of just drabbles. Of course you can read these without having read the main story, and I think they'll still make sense, but I also think readers of Fate and Forbearance will read these with a knowing little smile (or grimace depending on the content) and that it adds something to the story. Or I hope it does.
I was watching a longer gameplay trailer for Skyrim *drool* and was in a very Dragon-y mood, and we haven't seen Urthemiel for a while, and I don't think there actually are any other stories that use Urthemiel's rebirth in the way that Fate and Forbearance will, so I thought it'd be fun to get into F&F's Urthemiel and maybe understand him a bit more outside the story. I think especially these first two drabbles lend a bit of interweaving with the interaction between Gwyneth/Morgreth that we've seen so far. The title comes from a bit of Hades/Persephone Greek myth about the God of the Dead having his intended eat pomegranate seeds so she'd have to stay in the Underworld with him, not that the situation is the same as Urthemiel and Cousland here, but rather the same idea of a dark god yearning for a beautiful girl full of the life that he covets but thought he could never have again.
For those that haven't read Fate and Forbearance, I use a lot of game/story canon, but not all of it, I'm fond of taking my own ideas and blending them with the canon, so some of this ties into the official Chantry definitions of Old Gods and the fall of the Golden City, and some of it doesn't. Also, Urthemiel has two names, Urthemiel being the one the Tevinters gave him, and Morgreth that of his original name and he uses them both. This is also written in a different style than Fate and Forbearance and has a POV sort of feel I think, without being first person, so Urthemiel is always capitalizing 'Him' because he's a god, and not capitalizing the Maker as 'Him' because he hates him.
I'm going to leave this one open for more Morgreth/Gwyneth drabbles and will probably do the same with any of the others until Fate and Forbearance itself is finished. So 'story alert' away if you like this, because there will likely be more.
Warning: This is rated 'M' in case of any future NSFW content, which may crop up. Also this drabble makes a mention of deity incest, not graphically portrayed however, but a warning just in case.
Seeds of the Pomegranate
What is it to be an Old God, full of power, to suddenly lose it, and to find hope for it again in a tainted Grey Warden?
He looks out at His children as they bow and pray for Him and His name. "Great Urthemiel, speak unto us so that we may hear your song and find our salvation within!"
He hears not these entreaties, pouting as would a spoiled child that Uvolla, His sister, would accuse Him of, but She has been gone for some time, and yet Morgreth thinks that She is out there still, thinking of ways to prove Her power is greater than any of their siblings. Uvolla Lusacan and Morgreth Urthemiel, always thought of as the youngest of the Old Ones, and yet the only two that had ever had enough courage to surge their kind forward.
This . . . new one . . . this usurper essence who lets the young barbarians speak unto him and call him 'Maker', he might accuse the true gods of acting as children as well, but Urthemiel would hear that not, and thinks on this false god as more the child, coming along and thinking his new power is deserved. It is not, and yet this . . . Maker, he takes with him a bride. Urthemiel hears these whispers and they vex Him, they vex Him greatly.
For so long Morgreth has tried to find the perfect bride, to find a way to lengthen His own life, His own seed, because he can feel the greatness that is His and that of His brethren fading away. Once, longer ago than even Urthemiel can recall, there were thousands of the Old Ones, the very essence of power itself, and now only a handful remain. They used to know how to perpetuate their own blood, but the knowledge to birth new Great Children has been lost.
The God of Beauty, these mages and men that title themselves 'imperial' do so call Him, and Urthemiel wants to create the beauty of new life, a son of His own, to grow into power and return Urthemiel and their kind back into the fold of eternal beings. He and Uvolla once tried to mate with each other, but nothing came of that besides more of the old self hatreds that were hidden under their glowing skin. Each of them possessing the desire for progeny without knowing the means to attain such a thing.
Seeking then, the mortal kind, women who could birth almost a litter of squalling children if given enough years, Morgreth thought to give them His own blood, to change them so their mortal ability to create life within would be given the endurance of a God so that finally He might have a son. One after another, the mortal women He sought to grow His seed within, fell into the great flames He conjured to test their ability to carry His progeny. For any woman that would birth a God of the Great Dragon's Blood, must not be burnt from the inside out by the power of what she carried in her womb, but nothing was enough, no rituals of the feeding of His blood, no attempts at mating, had ever worked and once His prospective brides entered the pyre, they were turned to ash, the screams of their dying fragile bodies heard in kind with Urthemiel's great angry roaring.
One of His arch magi, those that had risen to His favor was calling to Him now, telling their god that they were ready. Today they took the Golden City for their own, the 'Maker' be damned into the fiery pits of the Great Abyss were he would burn along with all of Morgreth's lost hopes. Today there would be a reckoning and nothing could stop the burning anger the Old God felt. He would light the Maker's world aflame. In that the usurper would know His pain, for Urthemiel may never have children, but the Maker would not have them either, no bride, no golden palace, no power . . . nothing.
For the first time in a while, Morgreth Urthemiel smiled.
She was dancing when first He truly looked at her, there had been glimpses before, but everything was hectic in Morgreth's infected mind.
He knew His own illness and that was the most maddening of anything, all that He had sought to do brought nearly to ruin, but He was alive, inside a twisted shell. His once beautiful children turned into monstrosities and His rage turning His own beauty into the hideous creature the mortals would call an archdemon. Such was this rage, this hate, that Urthemiel could see little else. The biting flies that were the mortals, and the wasps that were the Grey Wardens, stealing the blood of Urthemiel's children, the devout worshippers that had been the only sort of progeny he would ever have, for their own so that they could kill them, so that they could kill His own siblings. Dumat, Zazikel, Toth and Andoral . . . His brothers, all dead, killed by Wardens! He would kill them all, turn their precious Maker blessed world into ash for such an outrage! Beyond those thoughts there was nothing . . . until her.
She was one of them, had partaken of tainted blood and passed their short sighted ritual. Urthemiel snorted, dragon's nostrils flaring wide as He recalled what it had looked like when He'd gotten inside the head of one that was performing it. So serious they were, and yet they were but infants compared to the rituals the Old Gods had performed. Yet this one, she had such thoughts that He had not heard from a Warden, thoughts beyond them, beyond the thing they most feared . . . The Blight. In this girl's head was a burning hatred for another of her kind, an older human man that she thought of with so much frequency that often she did not open her mind to the visions shared between the Darkspawn and the Wardens. So obsessed with killing this man, with making him suffer for daring to kill her family, was she. Urthemiel understood such thoughts, He understood them better than anyone.
Perhaps that was why He had not noticed this young human before, and looking back Morgreth thinks that must be it. Then as the blood in her veins and that of the blonde haired one that walked with her, began to fester in its potency, Urthemiel saw more, heard more, and in a fit of boredom looked in on them.
Revels of some kind, both of these juvenile Wardens had been partaking in. Celebration of . . . a victory? Yes. Against . . . a demon infecting an even younger human, a boy with the magical talent? Yes. He peered closer, consciousness hovering at the edges of the male Warden's mind, seeing with his eyes, hearing with his ears, but unable to do more than that.
The mind Morgreth relaxed into was rife with growing affection for a very comely copper haired female that sat beside him at the table, smiling into a stoneware wine goblet. He had no desire to look further, mortal affection meant nothing to Him. Instead the Old God listened to the music, raucous sounds of peasant folk drums and happy carousing, bawdy human jokes and friendly village women on drunken men's laps. A typical scene of the simple minded reveling of mortality.
"Dance! Dance! Dance!" A cheering began, and the Warden's head turned to look at his tainted blood kindred, the other Warden, as she climbed on top of an emptied table, villagers laughing around her.
"I promised you all a display of one of the old Avaar dances, did I not?"
"Aye!" A rousing cheer, and the woman smiled about the room, and Urthemiel peered with the male Warden's eyes.
A tall one for her kind, long dark red hair, loose and flowing like a river of blood, and when she turned the Old God caught sight of silver eyes. He bit back on a sound of surprise at just how much this woman looked like the hateful Maker's bride, that whore, Andraste. They could have been cast from the same mould, and yet, this one was far different beneath her skin, a dark Andraste where the real one had been full of the Maker's light. Another snort from Urthemiel where His physical body lay, deep beneath the earth. The male Warden shifted, rubbing at his temples as if he sensed something odd, and Morgreth quieted His own reaction accordingly, to remain unnoticed.
As she moved and danced on the table, laughing with too much wine and high on their victory, Urthemiel watched, entranced by her fluidity, by the passion she displayed simply with a movement of her hips and those long limbs. She would have made a wonderful bride during Urthemiel's previous life, but such was lost to Him . . . and yet, He began to think about how her blood might have been changed by the ritual she partook in. Old thoughts, old hopes and imaginings were rekindled their in and the Old God smiled inside the Warden's consciousness.
She was breathless as she finally sat down, giggling to herself, and Morgreth didn't have enough energy to stay for much longer, already He could feel his thoughts being pulled back into the archdemon shell that was his home now. Yet He yearned to stay, just a little longer, He told himself.
They were indeed silver eyes she possessed, eerily bright and sharp, as she looked at the male Warden, grinning. "And you thought I'd break an ankle or two."
"Well, Gwyneth, I think you're lucky you didn't." The man's voice reverberated into his own chest and sounded muffled to Morgreth because of it, but He could still hear him.
Her name was a song on His tainted heart, the whisper of something once thought dead, this beautiful human with the blood of the darkspawn and a nasty little mind filled with angry thoughts, and yet a joyful sense of revelry whenever she did succeed. Urthemiel let his essence leave that mortal scene, sinking back down beneath the earth where He would slumber until His children were ready to move again. But He didn't mind as He thought back on her . . . His Gwyneth.