A/N: Finally, the sequel to "Stars Tumbling from a Burning Sky" and it only took months and months. I am still working on my other stories, despite the brick wall, and hope to begin a more serious posting schedule.
My thanks to the bestest beta ever, Oleander's One, for taking on the challenge of comma round-up and generally whipping into shape that which is not.
Shining On
"We all shine on...like the moon and the stars and the sun...we all shine on...come on and on and on..." - John Lennon
Dearest Brother,
Oh, I can imagine the blush on your face right now. I bet your ears are bright red, as well. But you are dearer to me than I can express. I found Ser Bryant, or perhaps it is more accurate to say he found me. I thought when you sent me away that I would find nothing of my old life, and no happiness, either, yet I have found both. Thank you, Carver, for having more wisdom than I did. Or perhaps you were merely trying to get rid of your melancholy older sister so you could have some fun without worrying about her? Oh, stable your indignation! I'm teasing you. I think in the end you had more wisdom than any of us, and Papa would be so proud of you.
I won't ask how Mother is. She endures, I have no doubt. And frequently makes veiled references to my murdering her beloved Bethany, I'm sure. Maker, you twins were the only good thing that came of the union between Leandra Amell and Malcolm Hawke. I managed to kill the sweetest of us. I miss her, Carver, so much I wake up some nights with such an ache. But I needn't tell you how wonderful Bethy was; you know full well.
You would be hard pressed to recognize Lothering. The Barlins have returned but the old man still looks so lost with Quince gone. How Quince would hate to see what's happened to the fields - miles of blackened hills and farmland, ruined by the darkspawn taint and fire. But Barlin is determined to bring the land to life, as is Elder Miriam and a handful of others, and more trickle back each day. But the losses in Ferelden are grievous and it breaks my heart how many good people died.
I spent a month searching for Aerin and it was the most frustrating and frightening time. Some had heard of a Ser Bryant and some had heard of a Bann Sinclair, but nobody had heard of my Ser Bryant Aerin Sinclair. He was badly wounded before the Blight and spent a large portion of it in the Korcari Wilds with his late wife's family. However, he was well enough to fight in the Battle of Denerim and then spent a great deal of time looking for me. Somehow we managed to return to Lothering at nearly the same time, or as near as makes no difference. He's still working with the Reformationists, and Revered Mother Glynis is now at Highever, where the teyrn, Fergus Cousland, is offering aid.
Ostagar seems to be permanently blighted and I have not gone there, but I can't help remembering as we watched that horrible night when everything seemed lost. I will never understand why Teyrn Loghain deserted the field, and as he is dead now, I suppose I never will.
I must sign off as I have much to do. The tunnels under the farm are providing a perfect place to store supplies, which we are stockpiling for the coming winter. I will miss the balmy weather. Even more, I'll miss you. Ha! Neither of us ever thought to have me say such a thing, I'll wager, but there it is.
Know that you will always be welcome here. If you are ever unhappy in Kirkwall, leave. You owe Mother no allegiance and I wouldn't want you to be as miserable as I was. Although you seemed somehow to have found a niche there that I never did.
Give my best to Gamlen and Aveline - and especially Varric. Write to me in care of the Lothering Chantry. If I have to move on they will know how to find me.
I remain ever your nagging older sister,
Laria
Carver folded the letter and slipped it into the small chest that contained all his most important possessions. He would not have thought it possible how much he missed his older sister. In some ways he missed her more than Bethany, and he realized how much she had influenced his life in the years after their father had died. He hoped that solemn, lost look in her wide grey eyes had disappeared now that she had found Ser Bryant. He'd write her soon, he promised himself, and then quietly dressed, hoping to escape the house before his mother woke.
He stepped out of the house that was little more than a shack and tried not to breathe in too deeply. The sun was only a milky orb hiding behind a thin veil of clouds, as if ashamed to beam down on such a foul place. Carver couldn't blame it. The air reeked of rotting cooked cabbage, stale beer, and unwashed bodies, and there was more than one drunk asleep in the doorway of an abandoned house.
With long, quick strides he made his way to the Hanged Man and pushed inside before his disgust overcame his common sense. The thought that he should have gone home to Ferelden with Laria tickled at the back of his mind, and he felt the tension of a headache forming around the thought.
"How's Curly?" Varric asked, glancing up from his table.
Carver shuddered, not envying the fate of anyone caught calling his older sister Curly. Not that her hair wasn't usually a mess of curls. With that thought, he thanked the Maker for his own straight, crow-black hair along with Varric's good cheer, as he always did when in the dwarf's company; not that he'd ever tell the dwarf.
Of course, Laria wasn't around to hear the dwarf's nickname, so any condemnation of such a nickname on his part would be met with the dwarf's usual good-humored teasing. And how had Varric known he'd recently received a letter from her? It always unnerved Carver when Varric did that sort of thing. His glare darkened, but the dwarf, unrepentant, ignored it.
"She'd rip your head off and shove it down your neck if she heard you call her that, Dwarf."
"Ah, but she'd have to be here to do it, wouldn't she? And since you got a letter from her, I'm guessing she didn't write it from one side of Kirkwall and post it to the other."
"Shut it, Dwarf. Who I get mail from is my business and her name, in case you've forgotten, is Laria."
Carver wasn't sure why he'd lashed out at Varric, or why he was suddenly so angry, although he was honest enough to admit that it had to do with that mage, Anders, who was supposed to have maps of the Deep Roads. He wasn't looking forward to meeting the former Grey Warden. He'd heard enough about him to know he was trouble. Maker, he hated the problems attendant with mages. Hadn't he, and his family, suffered enough because of them?
Varric grinned, one hand smoothing the vellum in front of him and the other reaching for a half-full mug of ale. "Suit yourself, Sonny. How is Laria?"
"Fine, but she said you're not to get me into trouble. As if I'd let you," Carver harrumphed, sliding into a chair and extending his long legs with a satisfied sigh. "Across the Waking Sea and still bossing me around."
"The nerve," Varric agreed, downing his ale.
"And stop calling me Sonny, would you? I have a name; it's Carver, and if Carver's too tough to remember, Hawke shouldn't be."
"Mischief works just as well," Varric replied, his grin obnoxious in its good humor.
"Maker, Dwarf! Just stop trying to embarrass me!"
"So, ready to meet with that Grey Warden?"
Carver leaned forward with his elbows on the table and rested his chin in his palm. "I say we find someone else to get help from. The last thing I want to do is have an apostate running around with us in Kirkwall. And why'd he leave the Wardens? He's got to be a bit … off."
"Off? What does that mean, Junior?"
Carver felt the flush of irritation warm his cheeks and he straightened. "I mean he's holding something back from us besides those maps, I'd bet my last silver on it. I'm just not sure what it is."
"Only one way to find out," Varric stated with an easy grin, standing and reaching for his beloved Bianca. "Shall we?"
They entered the clinic a few minutes later and the smell of magic and lyrium was impossible to ignore. Practicing healing with magic was one thing, but Carver felt a growing wariness, a familiar tug of unease that he always felt when magic was used, and he knew he couldn't work with the mage now standing so protectively beside his patient.
"Sorry to trouble you, Mate," he said quietly and turned on his heel to leave.
"Wait a minute! Lirene told me you needed me and I could use your help."
"She was wrong," Carver said grimly, ignoring the plea in the mage's voice.
"Listen, I need some help with the templars and you look able. The bloody bastards took a friend of mine and I'm worried about him. You know how templars are."
Carver shrugged off the wheedling note in the mage's voice and remained silent. He'd be damned if he would give in to that kind of manipulation. It hadn't worked when Bethany had used that kind of guilt-inducing voice and it wouldn't work with a complete stranger wielding the guilt stick, as Laria had called it.
"Don't tell me you can't use a good mage. Everyone needs a mage. Unless, of course, you're one," the mage added with an edge of desperation in his voice. It was the desperation that made Carver even more determined to walk away.
"That's it, isn't it? You're a mage?" Anders said bitterly. "Mages never seem to help other mages. I wonder why?"
Carver, nearly at the door and escape, turned and strode back to stand in front of the mage, hands clenched into fists and jaw thrust forward in what Laria had always called his pugilist's pose.
"No, I'm not, but my twin sister and my da were, you arse! Don't tell me I don't know what templars are like; they're the same as mages: some are good and some are bad. Then there're some who have these huge chips on their shoulders and are complete bastards. Like you."
Carver took a deep breath and leaned close to the mage, unafraid and unapologetic. "I don't want your help, your maps, or your reasons for being a complete arse, Mage. I've seen enough, Varric."
They were on the street and heading for Lowtown and the Hanged Man before Varric could complain. Carver's anger gradually subsided as they walked along in the weak sunlight.
"Great, Junior, now what? We needed those maps."
Carver frowned, his steps slowing. "No, we needed a map and I think I have an idea. I have a cousin who just happens to be kind of a big deal in the Wardens."
He could feel Varric's curiosity fairly leaping off him but the dwarf remained quiet, a placid smile on his lips. Carver's anger evaporated. "You could at least ask me who," Carver grumbled.
"And ruin the surprise? Not a chance!"
Chuckling, Carver pushed open the door of the Hanged Man, waved at Norah and took the stairs to Varric's room two at a time. "Come on, then!" he called cheerfully as Varric trailed behind him.
"I hate tall humans," Varric muttered as he entered his rooms, his face red and his breath short.
Carver's smile widened until he thought it would split his face. "Not so smug now, are you?"
Varric carefully placed Bianca on the table and shrugged. "Smug enough to suit me, Farm Boy."
"Maker! Stop already! Carver! My bloody name is bloody Carver!"
Varric poured out a dram of whiskey and shoved it across the table. "So?"
"So, Adelaide Amell is a cousin. And she should have access to some pretty decent maps of the Deep Roads, considering she's the –"
"Hero of Ferelden. Nice work, Sonny," Varric whistled, clearly impressed.
"She's probably busy, but she's sure to send some maps, maybe even a Warden. Preferably not a mage. Or a templar. Too much bloody trouble."
He admitted to that small part of himself that never felt quite as intelligent or worthy as Laria that he'd managed well enough without her so far and maybe, just maybe, he wasn't such a blithering idiot as he'd imagined. Too bad she's not here to see. Still, he thought he might just write her a letter.
"This partnership just might work out after all," Varric pronounced.
"Too right, Dwarf."
~~~oOo~~~
Ha, Lark, can't imagine why you'd leave good old Kirkwall for Lothering. You always were a loose screw. No matter. You're happy and I am too, now that I'm out from behind your shadow. No offense. For some reason people actually seem to want to hire me for odd jobs, and since the City Guard has its fill of new hires, I'm relieved enough to have work of any kind. Aveline put in a good word for me, or so she says, but really, does that woman ever put in a good word for anyone? I don't think so.
Anyway, as soon as I have enough to pay the back taxes on the Amell mansion, I'm going to set Mother up in it and then probably move on. I hear that Tantervale has need of a good mercenary. Oh, right, settle down, old girl, I'm kidding! I like it here. I feel like I got a fresh start and I aim to make it count.
Didn't you have enough trouble with mages? Working for the Reformationists is crazy, even if they are trying for a peaceful change in the chantry. I blame that man of yours.
Say hi to Peaches, and tell old man Barlin to plow a straight line for once. Ha, remember the time we lured Quince out and got him drunk? Never saw such crooked rows in my life. See? We had some good times, even back then.
Write when you aren't too busy!
Carver the Magnificent (well, Mother thinks so, at any rate)
Laria smiled, tears briefly stinging her eyes and then drying as she placed the letter in a wooden cedar box. He seemed happy and her worries and guilt began to ease. With a livelier step, she went in search of Con and Aerin.
The land in and around Lothering had been cleansed with fires set by the Warden mages and tended by half the village. That had been months ago, before Laria had returned to Ferelden. She could see some green shoots gamely pushing aside the ruined, corrupted ground and it gave her hope that somehow they would manage. Still, the only sign of life at present was the Aithne's Heart, growing in solitary white splendor in the midst of a sea of blackened stubble. How a flower had managed to thrive in such conditions she would never understand, but she found it encouraging.
Ashes, bits of melted metal, and charcoal were all that remained of the Hawke's homestead, but Lothering was being rebuilt and Laria was determined to rebuild as well. In the meantime, she and Aerin continued to live in a makeshift camp, a campaign tent serving as living quarters. With few possessions and little money, Laria felt their only hope was to stay on the old Hawke farm. Her heart ached for the devastation she had witnessed in her search for Aerin.
There seemed to be so few areas that the Blight hadn't destroyed. Highever and the northern areas were intact and the soil healthy and untainted, but the breadbasket of Ferelden, the Bannorn, had suffered greatly. It was as if the darkspawn had known where to destroy for maximum effect. A large team of Wardens and most of the banns were working to resurrect the ground in time for at least one crop before winter's bite made that impossible.
Because of the large number of farms destroyed, food was not always readily available and because most of it was imported, prices were staggering at times. King Alistair and his new bride, Elissa Cousland Theirin, were trying to assist, but there were thousands of people who were hungry and homeless. Unrest rippled through the countryside and it was sure to increase when winter arrived. It appeared that surviving the aftermath of a Blight was as difficult as surviving a Blight.
She wondered, again, if returning to Kirkwall with Aerin and Con wasn't a smarter move but she was loath to do so. This was their home, their country, and she felt that odd stirring of love for the hardheaded and rough-hewn people of Ferelden.
Glancing at the sky, Laria paused, resting on the rake handle for a moment, before resuming her task. The sun hung like an angry judgment in the pale blue sky. Sweat trickled in sticky rivulets down her brow and back as she raked through the cold ashes.
To the north there was still a glint of angry vermillion low on the horizon, and the clouds looked like darkened fists. Storms seemed to cling to the sky, washing away soot and stains and hope. They'd heard rumors that dark grey clouds, limned in blood red, still continued to roil in the skies over Ostagar.
She bent over the rake she held, sifting through the ashes in a vain attempt to salvage anything they'd left behind. She felt a wave of anguish slam into her and the rake dropped. Why was she pretending that life could ever grow again in soil so corrupted that only a mage's fire had been able to cleanse it? What a fool she was.
Aerin, striding up from the river, held up a string of fish, his smile warm and confident. Conlaoch nipped at his heels, barking cheerfully. Laria's stomach fluttered and her anguish slid from her shoulders like a discarded cloak. They would be fine. Everything would be all right. She reached for the fish, a hint of a smile lurking at the edges of her lips.
"The wolf bears gifts for his beloved hawk," Aerin murmured, holding the fish out to her. "And hopes most heartily that his lady hawk will clean and cook his gifts."
With a ceremonial bow, he bestowed his gifts, followed by a kiss. He smelled of sunshine and river and she was reminded of a time when they had walked not in burned fields, but rippling green grass. Tears came to her eyes and she blinked them away. Now was the time to celebrate what they did have, not what was lost. Her smile came unbidden to her lips.
"I accept your gifts, my wolf, and ask that you join me in an hour for a meal worthy of such generosity."
He pulled her closer still, his lips against hers with a lush promise of more at a later time. She returned his kiss, letting the fingers of her empty hand thread through his hair as she promised the same. Con pressed against her legs, nearly upending her, and she pulled away from Aerin's embrace.
"Ser Bryant, what will the Order of Templars think to see so bold a kiss?"
He glanced around, his brown eyes alight with humor. "Have they spies in our camp, Lady Hawke?"
"One never knows, Ser Bryant. They are a tricky lot, are they not?"
"Madam, you wound me most grievously," he replied, hand to his heart. "Have I ever tricked you, my lady?"
A smile twitched at her lips and laughter tickled her throat. In that moment, it seemed possible that their life together would be full of happiness and the painful past would not continue to haunt her. But behind her stretched endless, blackened fields that had once been thick with wheat and barley and rye. Skeletal trees, bleached white by the heat of the fires, stood silently condemning the land, their tainted fruit destroyed.
The sun winked behind a passing cloud, casting a shadow across Aerin's handsome face, accentuating the long white scar that ran from the outer corner of his left eye down his cheek to end near the corner of his mouth. She traced it with her fingers and then leaned closer to kiss along its length. Her heart slammed into her ribs and her body ached deep inside. The need for him, for his touch, astonished her, caused her to blush; Aerin, as if sensing it, smiled knowingly.
"I think I should prepare this bountiful gift now, before I am incapable of it," she whispered, pulling away. "Get you down to the river and bathe, Ser Bryant, and be back within the hour."
Later, after the fish had been shared and the stars had come out to linger in a sky dyed indigo by the sun's departure, she said, "I never thought to miss Carver so much."
Aerin took her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing each finger before settling it close to his heart. "We can go to Kirkwall, if that is your desire, my love. You've only to say so and I will gladly go."
She leaned close, her pulse rapid and her heart full. "No, this is where I am meant to be. I know that well. My heart was always here, in Ferelden with you. But I think I never really knew Carver, or maybe he changed when we fled Ferelden."
"I miss Maron and Fletcher. I never expected Fletch to amount to much as a templar, he was such an ungainly boy when he first arrived. He was more than a little in love with you, you know."
Memories drifted in and she smiled, drowsy and warm in Aerin's embrace. "I think he was in love with my cooking."
"I won't argue with you on that point. I'd rather take you to bed."
She stood without speaking and entered their tent, smiling at how quickly he doused the fire. He was already stripping as he entered the tent, his body limned in gold by a trio of candles on an upended crate.
"I would like to travel to Gwyneth's clan, to Hedwynn. They may have ways to heal the land we aren't aware of. And," he added softly, his hands gentle on her shoulders, "I would like Saraid's blessings."
A tremulous smile came and went before she finally nodded. "I'd like to see Gwyneth's people," she said and sighed. "I admit I'm a bit nervous at the prospect."
"There's no need, Laria. They will appreciate your courage and envy me my luck at having found you," he reassured, his eyes and smile teasing, putting her at ease.
With a sigh, she sank onto their bed and stretched out her arms in invitation. He bent over her and dropped a light kiss on her lips before continuing on, prowling, his eyes dark with want.
His lips traced along a puckered scar on her left hip. "How did you come by this?"
She sighed, goosebumps forming in the wake of his lips. "Carta twins, proficient in daggers," she said, voice husky as his lips continued on their journey.
"And this? It must have hurt. Did you not remember any of our lessons, my lady hawk?"
"I was distracted by the Coterie's assassins, dear wolf."
His lips hovered over the thin scar that ran along her side, his warm breath feathering across her skin until she moaned. His lips drifted up to her shoulder and down her arm, sweet kisses as warm as summer blazing a trail along her skin. He seemed determined to kiss every inch of her and reassure himself that she was really there. She did not argue.
He stopped at her wrist. "Lark?" he asked in a stilled voice, moving his head until their eyes aligned. "What happened?"
She glanced away, shaking her head. "I fell."
"My lady hawk, do you think me a fool? I have seen marks like this before, a number of times. Lyrium-addled templars, desperate for the cravings to stop, have opened up their wrists in the hope that they can bleed their addiction away. Are you addicted to lyrium?" he asked, his tone grim and insistent.
She pulled away and sat up, arms folded defensively. "Of course not. Leave it, Aerin. Can we not go back to celebrating?"
He raised a brow, studying her so intently she felt the telltale heat of a blush sweeping up her body to flood her cheeks with color. She was unable to meet his gaze and plucked nervously at his shoulder.
"My love, I will ask again; if not this night, another."
"Another. Let it be another," she said softly, hating the plea in her voice. She struggled with her conscience, knowing that if she didn't tell him she wouldn't sleep and neither would he, but she was afraid, and ashamed, hesitant to break the mood. An unhappy chuff of laughter escaped her as she realized that was already the case.
With the continued silence, the mood darkened, as if the candles had suddenly been snuffed, and she sighed with regret. The scars served to remind her of the depths one's despair could lead them into. She needed to make him understand, somehow. But how? How could she communicate the utter blackness that had invaded her soul? It was like looking at a night sky so completely dark that not even the tiny pinpoints of the stars could penetrate it, a sky without hope or joy…starless and bleak and infinite in that bleakness.
"When I said that I fell, I meant it. Oh not physically, but that's what we told Mother. I just … I fell into such a dark place, Aerin and I just didn't … I couldn't find any peace thinking that you were gone, reminded daily of what I had lost and I … I just wanted the pain and despair to end…" She trailed off, tears dropping on her cheeks as Aerin's eyes overflowed. Pain twisted in his dark eyes and he lowered his head to rest on her breasts, as if trying to hear her beating heart and reassure himself that she was alive. She took another breath and continued softly, calmly, "I didn't want to die, I just wanted the pain to end. I wanted light in my life again, but I couldn't find my way out of the darkness. Do you understand?"
Aerin's voice was bereft, so full of sorrow it changed the timbre of it. "All too well, Lark. I felt something similar when I killed Gwyneth. I thought the despair in my soul was permanent and that it would slowly crush me to death."
She sighed in relief, her arms pulling him even closer. "Yes, oh yes, Aerin, that is exactly so." Tears welled and slipped quietly down her cheeks and he rose on his elbows and kissed them away.
"I trust you will never attempt to find peace that way again," he said with quiet intensity.
"I regretted it almost before I had finished the deed," she explained. "For some reason I couldn't seem to break through my grief until I had committed such a despicable act. I thought Carver would finish me off for being such a craven idiot, but he fetched a friend, who stitched me up, and then he sat with me the whole night, chiding me in the most endearing and aggravating way. I wish I could undo what I did, but then I wonder if it wasn't necessary, in some fundamental way. I don't suppose I'll ever know, nor will Carver, but he saved me that night."
"Then I must send a letter of thanks to Carver."
With those words spoken calmly and without recrimination, the final remnants of her guilt and self-reproach slipped into the shadows. Aerin blew out the candles and lowered himself onto her again, his words and lips gentle, his body warm and firm.
Healed, finally and completely, she drew him into her until they were impossibly close. One in both spirit and body. They were alive and together and that was all that mattered in those moments.