Light shone through the wavy glass, casting a hazy nimbus around the flowers in the vase on the desk beside the window. The water in the vase was half gone, and the petals were beginning to wither around the edges.
Without thinking, he dumped the water into the chamber pot and refilled the pottery urn from the pitcher by the bed. The stems were slimy. The lilies would not last much longer, but she would know how to refresh them and prolong their beauty. She knew how to care for growing things. They would not die before she returned. She would be back any moment.
It was growing late. Perhaps he should walk out to meet her, if he could deduce which direction to go.
Her cloak was gone. She must have taken it to ward off the chill rising off the harbor. She went somewhere by water. Considering that the Gallows was an island, that was hardly intuitive reasoning on his part.
Her sandals sat beside the bed. She had worn her boots... to protect her from dirty streets. The Docks, then, or Lowtown. To see her suitor.
It was none of his business, he reminded himself.
She would want to chat when she returned. She would tell him about the unusually fragrant stonecrop she found growing along the cracks of an old Tevinter wall, or about the lute maker who tried to sell her an instrument. She would sigh over the merchant who no longer stocked her favorite ink, or extol the virtues of a bookbinder who sold just the right kind of parchment. And then she would pour wine in two cups and she would read her research notes to him.
He pulled her notebook across the desk and opened it to a random page. He took almost as much comfort in her smooth, even penmanship as he did in her voice. If he closed his eyes, he could see her writing it. In his mind, her long, graceful fingers curled lovingly around the pen as silken tendrils of chestnut hair brushed the desk. He would tuck them behind her ear to keep them out of the ink, and she would shoo him away and ask him if he did not have some pressing matter to attend.
When she returned.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
"Your move," she reminded him.
"Hmm," he said. "You've hemmed me in quite nicely, haven't you?"
"The Grand Cleric can only move on the diagonal," she said. "Are you even paying attention."
"Forgive me," he said, correcting his move and consequently losing the game. "I seem to be a most unworthy opponent tonight."
"You're distracted," she said, pushing the board away and laying a concerned hand on his vambrace. "I should not have told you."
He covered her hand with his own for a moment, caressing the satin smoothness with callused fingers. She did not immediately pull away.
"You know I worry about you," he said gently. "The city is less safe than it was. Knight-Commander Meredith does her best to keep order, but refugees keep pouring in, and they're a lawless lot."
"They are no more lawless than they were last week," she said. "That isn't the issue, and you know it."
He rose and walked to the window. It was dark outside, of course, and his own haggard face looked back at him from the narrow space between the jambs.
"Very well," he said, still staring at the glass, "I did not want to upset you, but the Knight-Commander has ordered greater vigilance. She may look upon frequent outings as a sign of discontent."
"Emeric." She rose and placed herself between the templar and the window. "After all this time, do you think I don't know when you're lying?"
He spun away from her and sat at the table again, his head cradled miserably in his hands.
"I am sorry, Mharen," he said at last. "This is difficult. I hardly know how to start."
She sank to the seat opposite him and took his hands between her own. He flinched, but she did not allow him to pull away. No one would disturb them. No one would open any closed door in the Gallows without knocking first.
"You could begin by saying that you're jealous," she said gently.
"I'm not," he said. "I want you to be happy, Mharen. I want you to have everything that I cannot give you. But I can't bear the thought -"
"You aren't going to lose me," she said. "I'm a mage. The Gallows is the only home I'll ever know, and as long as I'm here, you'll always be part of my life. Even if we can never be more than friends."
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She retrieved her hand with a smile.
"How courtly!" she laughed. "Are you sure you haven't changed your mind?"
"I have," he said sadly. "Many times, but it always changes back. We both have a duty to perform."
She looked at him, and he could almost read her thoughts in those wise brown eyes. She understood. She always had.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
The market was crowded, but merry. Throngs of gaily clad strangers clasped hands over sealed transactions and gossiped between rows of brightly decked stalls. Mharen's unadorned grey robes and somber deportment stood out among the less-restrained Hightown natives, but her rare smile and the lightness of her step bespoke her excitement better than any number of festive ribbons would have done.
He loved to see her like that. The sun brightened cheeks that were only beginning to crease under the years that graced them, and shone upon eyes as kind and wise as any he had seen.
"These seeds are much fresher than the ones Solitivus is selling," she said, holding a sample under his nose. "I told him the shell should be shinier. Still, he does the best he can, I suppose."
"These are much better," he agreed without looking. His heart swelled at the animation of her features and the vivacity of her voice. How long had it been since he had seen her this happy?
"But this ginger root is another matter," she said, repeating the demonstration with something more pungent. "I wouldn't pay three bits for such a shriveled thing."
"As well you shouldn't," he said amiably, his eyes falling on the curve of her neck. But for the absence of a silken gown or a gilded hair net, she would be lovelier than any Hightown beauty. Not that she needed such trappings. In a way, it cheered him that he alone knew what her mousy robes concealed. Her smiles and her society were all for him.
"What are you looking at?" she asked and turned to see what she thought had drawn his gaze. An elven acrobat capered in the square, her garish motley revealing more of her lithe form than it concealed.
"Oh, Emeric!" she chuckled. "You never change."
"I assure you, madam," he said gravely, "I never noticed that woman."
"It's all right, you know," she said. "You have needs, just like everyone else. How long has it been since you've paid a call at the florist?"
"If you're referring to the Blooming Rose, I never..." he began, the heat rising in his weathered cheeks.
"I see that blush, ser templar. You needn't feign innocence for my benefit. Shall we pass through the district on our way back to the pier? We can always take a later ferry if you would prefer to linger."
"Madam, I -"
Whatever he was, the thought was never finished. A crash, a cry, and she flew forward onto the flagstones as a recklessly steered handcart careened away from them.
He cried out for help and dropped beside her.
"Mharen! Are you hurt? Speak to me!"
He held his breath until fingers closed feebly around his gauntlet.
"I... I'm alright," she breathed.
He stripped off his gauntlets and hovered over her, torn between the reflex to scoop her up and carry her away and the knowledge that if she was injured, moving her might exacerbate her wounds.
"Can you move?" he demanded.
"I think so," she said, struggling to lift herself. "I've just had the wind knocked out of me."
A ring of onlookers gathered around them. He waved them back as he helped her sit, then supported her with his body as she assessed the damage.
"What seems to be the trouble?" a female voice asked. Armored boots entered his field of vision. The guard attached to them was a tall woman, a city guard, with coppery hair and an impressive jawline. To her credit, she did not recoil as Emeric's movement revealed the Circle insignia on Mharen's robe.
"I'm fine," Mharen said weakly. "I just need a moment."
"Get the driver of that cart!" Emeric barked. "The man's a menace!"
"Which one?" the guard said. The square was full of carts of every size and description.
He sighed impotently and shook his head.
"Right, then," said the guard. "Move along, everyone! There's nothing to see here."
The knot of gawkers dispersed at the guard's command, leaving them alone in the middle of the square. He gathered her carefully in his arms and carried her toward the perimeter, his shoulders burning. She was no heavier than she had ever been. His pauldrons must need adjustment... and his breastplate. It strained across his chest, tightening, making him gasp for air. He sank gratefully to lean against a pillar, cradling her against his chest.
"Mharen... "he panted, "are you sure... you're all right?"
"Are you?" she asked, soft fingertips grazing his cheek.
"I just need a moment, too," he said, willing his pulse to slow.
They sat locked in each others' arms, a templar and a mage, momentarily heedless of the stares. His breathing slowed, and his heart rate soon after, but he did not release her yet. It felt good to cling to her, to reassure himself that she was safe and unharmed. For a few moments, he was human, allowed to care, allowed to feel. In that instant, he was no longer alone.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
She barely looked up as the door slammed behind him. He crossed the room in four strides and jerked the stool away from the desk. She was already sitting in the chair.
"You're a bit jumpy," she observed.
"They put two more men in my room," he said, flopping onto the stool as if his legs were cut from under him. "That makes four. How are we supposed to live like this?"
She poured a cup of tea and spooned in an obscene amount of honey.
"You won't all be sleeping there at the same time, Emeric," she said, stirring the cup and placing it in front of him.
"That isn't the point!" he fumed.
"Your ranks have more than doubled this year," she said. "They have to put them somewhere."
He sighed, took a sip of tea, and reached for the honey pot.
"I don't see them asking you to double up," he said petulantly.
"There aren't any more mages than there were before," she said. "They did tear up the rose arbor to put in an archery range, if you want to be outraged on my behalf."
"They didn't!"
"See for yourself. It's a pity. They'd be coming into flower about now."
"Oh, Mharen," he said, "I'm sorry. You loved that rose garden."
"We both did," she said, adjusting the spoon on his saucer and caressing his wrist in the process. "But things change, and we must change with them."
"Not everything changes," he said, resting his hand on hers before taking up the cup again.
"And we still have the memories." Her smile was sad, but he knew why.
Perhaps the removal of the arbor was for the best. He could not smell them without reliving that moment so long ago when he first confessed his feelings for her. He should have been stronger. He should not have burdened her. He knew even as he rejoiced at the echoes from her lips that their love was doomed. Perhaps he felt that they had to acknowledge their emotions to live with them. Perhaps those few blissful weeks were enough. Perhaps they never really ended. She was closer to him than anyone else had ever been, even if he no longer shared her bed. Not all pain was evil.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
The reek of torch smoke and blood clung to him. It saturated his hair, his armor. He would be glad to be free of it. To be free of the memory of how it got there... that would not wash off as easily.
His legs were leaden as he swung them over the rail. He barely remembered the crossing, numbed by the nausea of an unsettled harbor and of an uneasy conscience as much as his injuries. Viscount Threnhold - Perrin Threnhold, viscount no longer - was a tyrant, and he had struck the first blow by leading an army against the Gallows, but he was a lawful ruler elected by his peers. His... removal... had not been as bloodless as they hoped. Losses on both sides were high, and few of the survivors escaped unscathed. Emeric himself was wounded, shot by archers in the gallery as they charged the great hall, but the wounds were shallow and would heal well enough. The damage to the purity of the Order would be slower to mend. The Chantry and the Templar Order were a political force in Kirkwall now, and the marriage of the sacred with the secular might not be a happy one.
The sun rose as the first launch struck the wharf, its pallid light illuminating the weary, haunted faces of the living and casting mocking shadows across the faces of those whose voyage had not ended at the Gallows. A few more steps, and he could rest. So he told himself.
She was waiting for him. Slender arms embraced him, supporting him when he would fall.
"You should not be here," he said wearily.
"Don't be absurd," she retorted. She recoiled at the touch of gore against her skin. "You're injured!"
"Scratches," he said. "Mharen, if you're discovered in my quarters..."
"I will say that I was sent here to tend your wounds," she said, tugging at the straps that held his pauldrons in place. "Emeric, why?"
He surrendered to her ministrations, allowing her to strip him of his armor and the leather gambeson he wore beneath.
"Does it matter?" he asked. "I serve the Order."
"You didn't even tell me you were going! You could have died!"
"Many men did die." He gasped as she reopened a wound while removing his shirt. "Mharen, please. You know I cannot allow this."
"You're an injured templar," she said more calmly, "and I'm here to help you. We're nothing to each other, so you will allow me to treat your wounds just like any other mage."
She warmed a basin of water with magic and began to wash away the blood. He tried to maintain his composure, but her touch was like a caress, gliding across tired muscles and awakening senses he wished would remain dormant.
"Mharen, I can't..." he began. She laid a finger across his lips and guided him to a stool.
"Please, ser, we're almost done," she said in her most detached voice. That helped.
He closed his eyes and waited for the energy to flow. He wished that he could sense the precise moment her spirit made contact with his. They said that mages could perceive the mind of another, but he never could. All he felt was a radiance that began somewhere in his chest and expanded until it encompassed his entire being, spreading ease and relief in its wake... and arousal. She was so close to him. Her hands rested on each of his shoulders, and her breath was warm against his collarbone.
"Thank you," he said at last. "I will rest easier, thanks to you."
"You're filthy," she said, dipping the rag once again, and tracing slow, lazy circles across his chest.
He ached with yearning, with need so intense, it left him breathless. He remembered the softness of her lips, the supple strength of her thighs as she held him, the yielding warmth of her core. He remembered the fleeting bliss of surrender, and the sated completion of lying spent in her arms. It was as if they were one being with two hearts, a communion of spirits as well as of bodies. It was a kind of magic... and they must never share it again.
He had embraced her as he fantasized, and opened his eyes to find that his lips were almost touching hers.
"Mharen..." he groaned. Her body trembled in his arms, as lost in the moment as he was. Perhaps it might be permissible. He was the victor triumphant, weary from doing the Maker's work. The union he desired would restore him. He was a wounded warrior, graced by one gifted with healing. The need of his soul was no less deserving than that of his flesh. He was a sinner, abusing the trust of one placed in his care.
He released her.
"Mharen, I can't," he said.
"You need this, Emeric," she said. "We both do."
"And that's why it's wrong," he said.
She sighed and let him go.
"I know," she said. "I should not have come, knowing how we would be tempted, but when you hurt, I bleed."
"As do I, for you. But I am not sorry you came. I see you and I remember why I serve."
Her smile was as sudden as springtime.
"To protect the world from the evils of magic?" she teased.
"Because there is someone worth more than my life. Thank you, Mharen."
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
The clink of cutlery against the platters was deafening in the small room. They ate methodically, not tasting any of it, and neither of them touching their wine.
He cleared his throat. She put down her knife.
"Has Simone learned that spell you were teaching her?" he asked just as she said, "I hear Thrask has been granted full knighthood."
They both reached for the same beaker of wine. Their fingertips touched, and both withdrew.
"Not quite, but she's getting closer," she replied just as he said, "Yes, we are all very pleased for him."
She pointed at the wine glass on the left and he nodded. They both reached out for the same glass again.
"I thought you wanted me to take that one," he said as she said, "I was trying to tell you that I would take that one."
She laughed.
"Maker, have mercy upon us," he said.
"This is harder than I thought it would be," she said.
"Yes, it is. But it is necessary."
"Is it?" she asked. "Can we really be friends after everything we've shared?"
"In time," he said. "If we are willing to put in the effort."
He waited for her to speak, but she sat studying him instead. Immediately, he began to catalogue his flaws. He was serious. Others mocked his gravity, but she never did. He was going grey, though he was not yet five and twenty. His lovemaking was unimaginative, if sincere... though she had not complained... and he supposed that would cease to be a concern, now that they no longer shared a bed. He preferred quiet amusements, though her tastes were more restrained than his. He tended to over-analyze things, as he was doing at the present moment. He forced himself to stop thinking and wait for her to tell him that she was not interested.
He held his breath. What would he do without her? He needed her to remind him when to smile. He needed her gentle patience, her quiet understanding. She made no demands of him, but he found that he wanted to please her. She never pried, but he found himself telling her things he had never told another. She never asked for explanations, but he felt she deserved them. He was not a different man when she was near, but he liked himself better when she was. She never criticized him - or spoke ill of anyone, for that matter - but being near her made him want to be a better person. A life without her would be unbearable... but it was not his decision.
"I don't know how to stop loving you!" she blurted, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
"And I will never stop loving you," he said, seizing her hands and pressing them tightly. "There is no law of the Maker that forbids us to care about each other. We must learn to love each other as friends."
"We did before," she said, sniffing back a tear.
"We did, and still do," he said. "Please, Mharen. I will cherish the time we were more to each other until the day I die, but I cannot bear the thought of excluding you from my life."
"Nor I, you. And I do understand. You cannot live with your loyalties divided."
"Had I met you before I made my vows, things might have been very different."
"If you weren't a templar, we would never have met," she said. "My earliest memories are of the Circle. But you do offer one bit of comfort."
"Oh?" he said, brightening. "What might that be?"
"It's theoretically possible for a mage to have a lover outside the Circle, but they would seldom be able to see each other. I may see you every day if your duties allow it."
"There is some comfort in that," he agreed. "And temptation. I can tell myself that we must not be lovers, but the desire remains unchanged."
"That's true for me, as well," she said ruefully. "Even now. I will try not to be jealous when you start taking other lovers."
"I never will," he said. "But that is my burden to bear. I want you to live, Mharen, and be happy. Whatever that entails."
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
She stirred in her sleep as she lay nestled in his embrace, and waves of chestnut hair fell away from her eyes. His breath caught as he contemplated her face. Hers was not an insipid, flawless beauty. Individuality shone in her features, and animated them even as she slept. She was a creature of balance, the juxtaposition of earth and sky, the perfect mingling of the cerebral with the visceral.
Her fingers lay curled against his bare chest as if teasing the hair that grew there. She did have beautiful hands, the hands of a scholar, slender and soft, and graceful even in repose.
"Was it everything you hoped it would be?" she asked him the first time they made love.
"Not at all," he replied with perfect honesty. "It was infinitely better than anything I could have imagined."
She smiled at that, and at him, and invited him to spend the night. A week later, he was still there, leaving her bed only when duty required him to be somewhere else.
He had never felt himself or his life deficient before he met her, but now, he knew better. She completed him. She was the missing piece of his soul.
He did not fall in love with her the moment he met her, or she, with him. She was researching a kind of magic-resistant joint malady, and he had been one of her subjects. They spoke at length and discovered that they shared many common interests, especially a love of history, but after his treatment was over and the mobility of his knee restored, they went their separate ways and he expected that their future involvement with each other would be limited to pleasant greetings across the courtyard.
Weeks passed, and he found that he missed their daily chats. None of his colleagues were as interested in Nevarran burial practices as she was, nor did any of them possess her comprehensive knowledge of the Steel Age. More importantly, most people mistook his formality for coldness, and thought him devoid of humor. But not her. She alone understood the subtlety of his jokes, and she alone replied in kind. He found excuses to seek her out.
He did not share her interest in botany, but she allowed him to walk with her as she tended the rose garden. For his part, he helped her replant seedlings and do the menial work that exhausted her. Before long, they were meeting every day again, often without either of them ever picking up a pair of pruning shears.
One day, she appeared with her hair done up Orlesian-style, with traces of powder near her hairline and the remnants of kohl around her eyes. She had been to a ball, she said, hosted by the Amell family to celebrate the engagement of some daughter to the Comte De Launcet. She was not there as a guest, she added hastily, but as part of a troupe of mages the First Enchanter sent to amuse the guests. He protested that her gifts should not be used for something so vain or so trivial, but she soothed him. She was well accustomed to her role, she said, and while she preferred to use her gifts for healing, she enjoyed showing people that mages were not monsters to be feared, even if it meant floating multicolored bubbles over the heads of Lord Amell's guests. Her only regret was that no one had asked her to dance.
He requested the honor at once. He knew no more of dancing than he did of ice fishing, but she brought joy and companionship into his lonely life, and he could do no less that make an effort for her sake. For her sake, he should probably have refrained. They tread on each other's feet and bumped foreheads most alarmingly, but it changed the course of their relationship forever.
"You weren't lying when you said you've never done this before," she said, leaning against the garden wall and rubbing the elbow he had inadvertently struck against it.
"I was not," he said, "although I hoped it would not be so obvious. Is the head any better?"
"It seems to be getting an egg on it, but I daresay I'll live," she said. "My eye isn't bruising, is it?"
"Maker preserve us," he said and stepped closer to examine it. He peered intently into her eye, one hand beneath her chin and the other along her cheek. "I don't think it is."
"That's fortunate," she said. Her hands clasped behind his waist and she drew him further into the corner, out of sight of the path.
"I believe we've danced enough for one day," he said, suddenly conscious of how close she was... and how good she smelled, warmed by the sun and surrounded by flowering roses.
"Are you sure?" she asked gently. She plucked a half-blown blossom from a trellis and stroked it along his cheek before securing it in the buckle of the breastplate.
"Mharen... " He shuddered, keenly aware that his trousers were becoming much too tight.
"Ser Emeric," she replied. Her voice was huskier than usual, and sent too-pleasant ripples down his spine. Not releasing her hold on his armor straps, she leaned back until her shoulders touched the wall. He resisted, but he was off balance. His breastplate touched her robe.
"Not 'ser,'" he said. "Not from you."
He closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the wall. They were nearly of a height, and his head was right beside hers. She cocked her head and their cheeks touched. His knees went weak.
"What's wrong?" she asked in that same soft, enticing voice.
"This is... very new to me," he said. "I've never known anyone like you."
"Nor I, you," she said. He lowered his arms to encircle her back, the first embrace he had bestowed that was not camaraderie.
"You're trembling," she said after a few moments.
"I'm human, Mharen," he said. "Human, and profoundly flawed. I respect you and care about you deeply, but human I remain."
His breath came in sharp gasps, his chest heaving. She must be aware of his distress. He thanked the Maker for the breastplate that prevented him from feeling her contours against his skin. Merely knowing that they existed was bad enough.
"I feel the same way you do, Emeric," she whispered, taking his head in her hands and positioning it so his forehead touched hers. She then placed one of her hands behind his neck and used the other to guide his hand to the valley between her breasts. Her heartbeat was bounding. "About everything."
"I love you, Mharen," he breathed, and touched his lips to hers.
He intended a light, almost-chaste kiss to demonstrate his affection and honorable intentions, but all three were more profound - and less pure - than he imagined.
"We can't stay here," he said at last. "Someone will see us."
"Do you remember where my quarters are?" She waited for his nod. "Come tonight, after lockdown."
He never knew how he endured the endless hours until nightfall, but at last, it came. His thoughts were a maelstrom, but nothing would keep him from her chamber that night, and nothing did.
It was not unusual to see templars prowling the mage quarters after dark, so he made no precautions that were not personal. He bathed and shaved, and experimented incautiously with scent until the other men in his bunk room threatened to toss him into the harbor. They teased him about having a lady love in the city, a myth he encouraged by inquiring anxiously about the ferry schedule and borrowing coin to pay the fare. Finally, he bathed again to rid himself of the worst of the perfume miasma and made a show of walking jauntily toward the wharfs. Once there, he threw on a cloak and came back on the merchant side, away from the barracks.
The guard stationed outside the mage quarters barely glanced at him, but he gave him an evil wink and an elbow prod that made him shudder with revulsion. He almost turned back, but he had come too far to be deterred by an old fool's ignorant assumptions.
She was waiting for him, her hair still damp from her own ablutions.
"It's a fine night," he said nervously. "Would you like to walk under the stars?"
"I would," she said, sounding almost as tense as he was, "but that probably isn't a good idea. You aren't really supposed to be here."
"Shall I go? I don't want to risk your reputation."
"No, don't go. I'm anxious, but it feels right that you're here."
This time, he took the initiative and embraced her.
"You've probably gathered that I'm not as experienced as some," he said. She giggled, which did not help his confidence.
"I'm not laughing at you," she said. "But I do wonder, handsome as you are..."
"I'm a late bloomer," he said, overlooking the compliment until it was far too late to respond without giving offense. "I joined the Order young, barely sixteen, and opportunities have been few. You seem to know what you're doing."
He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
"Forgive me," he said, blushing to the roots of his hair. "I meant to say that I admire your confidence."
"It's alright," she said, kissing him lightly to show that she was not offended. "I knew what you meant. Mages don't always get to choose. Not that I've ever been forced, but most apprentices start young. It's better if you can look back on your first time without regret."
"Those sound like wise words to live by."
She took him by the hand and led him to the bed. The lights dimmed. The moon rose, and the stars wheeled uncaring overhead, but in a tiny enchanter's cell in the Gallows, two people formed a bond of love and joy that would last them the rest of their lives.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.
Light shone impossibly bright, seemingly from the air itself. It blinded him, but it did not hurt his eyes. He felt younger, almost weightless, and strangely expectant.
A figure emerged from the brilliance, a tall, willowy woman, her features indistinct. As she walked closer, the warmth of her presence flowed through him as her healing magic had so many years before. She extended her hand, long and graceful. A scholar's hand.
"Come, my love" she said. "I've been waiting for you."
He rose, leaving his spent, broken body behind. Shades hovered over him, powerless against the light. Faint, familiar voices called in the distance.
"Hold on, Emeric, we'll save you!" one cried.
"Thank you, my friend," he whispered, "but someone already has."
He took the hand that was offered and embraced the only woman he had ever loved.
"I've been waiting all my life for this moment," he said. "Mharen... beloved... let's go home."
AN: They say that a person relives their life before death, spiraling backward, and I felt Emeric deserved closure. His death touched me deeply in game, and the only way I could endure it was to imagine the happiness of his afterlife. I hope you agree.