He'd seen her coated in layers of dust so thick she resembled a walking statue. He'd seen her drenched head to foot in pools of crimson. He'd seen her gasping for breath after too much dancing and flying with daggers, soaked and plastered and dripping wet salt. He'd seen her shaken from certainty more than once, blustering with false bravado. He'd seen her driven to the edge of snapping after days of endless dwarven babbling in the Deep Roads, the target of endless stories and jests and jibes and japes. He'd seen her shaken and trembling at the gates of Kirkwall, on her knees, head to the paving-stones in prayer.
What he had never seen was what cowered before him. He couldn't see her defiance in the masses of bloody-colored tangles that wanted to escape her scalp. He couldn't hear her sometimes excessive jocularity in the mabari-like howls that surrounded her in a haze. He couldn't even see the proud, sculpted lines of her body in the quivering ball at his feet. He couldn't see much of her at all in the flickering firelight, and the day was wrong for moonlight to add its silver glow through the ceiling cracks. Night. And no other companions rattled endless nonsense.
"What were you doing out there? Are you mad?"
Nothing. Nothing more than trembling shoulders. At least the howling stopped, thank the Maker. Still, he expected some words bristling with hostility or some sharp comment that would slice him to the bone. Or at least let her think she had.
He steeled himself for the burning and put an arm around her shoulders. He should have felt an almost infernal itching as bits of chain or small spikes embossed in leather pressed his bared bicep, but it was only as he settled her on his bench that he noticed she hadn't even bothered to put on a padded coat over her peasant dress. Nor did he feel a single weapon, though she should have at least kept a knife sheathed at her waist. She bent over her knees and shook, though he could barely hear her hitched breaths over the crackling logs in the fireplace. He took his time inspecting her as she gasped—no wounds as far as he could see. The Maker had likely been looking out for her in ways he had never bothered for Tevinter slaves.
"I had no idea wealth was so difficult to deal with. You're a strange woman, Lysandra Hawke."
She looked up, and he couldn't tell where the redness of her hair ended and her puffy eyes and cheeks began. The pitiful light from his fire didn't help, casting deep shadows beneath her eyes that briefly made his heart contort before they shifted away. No bruising, then.
"I… I'll go…" She struggled to her feet.
"Why?"
She sniffled and rubbed her swollen but dry eyes with her bare hand. No gloves, either. Then she looked at the floor for what felt like centuries, her hands clenched in front of her. She forced her breath to steady.
"I just… May I borrow one of your downstairs rooms? You won't know I'm there."
"You came all this way, risking life and limb, just to ask to borrow a room."
A weak nod.
"You could hire a room for all the gold you brought back."
"I should have figured that would be your answer. If you need me for anything, I'll be at the Hanged Man for a few hours." She adjusted her skirt and shoved down her clotted hair as best she could with a smooth, and almost practiced motion. A very deliberate motion that reeked of her typical defiance.
She held herself ramrod straight and took a step toward the door. That single step heartened him more than it should have.
"You'd risk the dwarf?"
"Flames! Just what I need, more of his horrific stories."
"That he would pass on for all eternity to any who bothered to listen. His own special form of 'brooding.'"
At that, just the faintest hint of a smile flitted across her lips and was gone so quickly he wondered if he'd imagined it. He steeled himself again and steered her back toward the bench.
"You're going to tell me what's going on."
"I am, am I?" She sat under her own power. "You'll find out eventually."
He glared at her. "Not if you don't tell me."
"I… You'll just be happy it finally happened, and I can't… Not after Mother… Not after Carver…" A sudden sob choked off her words. "Not after I…"
"After you what?" He sat beside her and felt the vibrations of her heavy breaths through the bench.
"Templars…"
He swallowed. He couldn't exactly deny that she was right. "Took your sister."
She nodded almost imperceptibly. "I should have ignored Mother. I should have taken her with us. I…"
"Instead, we had that damned blood mage with us."
"…my fault…"
"It's better that Bethany is kept safe from herself and we're kept safe from her."
She affixed him with a glare that made any further words dry up in his throat.
"After she saved your sorry arse, that's the best you have to offer? Andraste's bare backside, the Hanged Man was a better choice!"
"You expected me to say something else?"
"You're not a heartless bastard, no matter how much you pretend to be one! Beth was only a threat to those who threatened us. Spiders. Darkspawn. Murderers. Blood mages. How often did you see her slitting her wrists? Harboring demons? Owning slaves? Maker's breath!"
"Every mage has the potential to…"
"Nonsense! Pure nonsense! Have you helped raise a mage from childhood? Have you sung her lullabies? Held her cup, fed her, dressed her? Exchanged whispered secrets and gossip with her when Mother put the lamps out? Laughed with her? Been so proud when you watched her grow, not just in power but into a beautiful, kind woman? Have you? Have you labored beside her on a farm by day? Covered for her when the Templars became a little too curious? Watched her cast her first controlled flame?"
She paused to take a breath.
"Are you through?"
"No, I'm not, and you're going to listen for once! Have you watched this beautiful young woman cry herself to sleep at night because she blames herself for Mother's grey hair? Because she thinks she's destroyed her family's happiness? Watch her condemn herself because she was born with an additional talent I wasn't? Is this fair? Is it fair that she's going to spend the rest of her life in prison because her sister was too much of a wimpy idiot to stand up to her sobbing mother?"
"You seemed quite eager to send other apostates to the Circle."
Her eyes narrowed, and if she'd been a mage, he'd have long since exploded into flame. She gripped at her skirt and rucked the fabric up in each hand. He shouldn't have enjoyed the glimpse of ankle and calf half as much as he did.
"Other apostates who knew nothing about life outside the Circle, or needed control that only the Circle could teach them. If you can't see a difference, I'm sure I'll never be able to explain it to you."
"The difference is that you're a hypocrite, and you can't see your own hypocrisy for your blind family ties."
She stood and made for the door. Just as she reached the stair landing, she turned. "Not every mage is Danarius. Beth never hurt you. Anders heals people free of charge. Merrill, well, I don't know about her, but I haven't exactly seen her doing crazy rituals."
The admission nearly killed him, but as she turned, the sight of her retreating back cut him deeper. "I'm sorry, Lysandra. You didn't come here to talk to me about mages."
"I… No. I don't know why I came here exactly."
"It seems like you could use a friend."
She forced a smile. "Maybe."
"I can't claim to have had much practice at it, but I can try."
Her smile this time seemed genuine, though it still seemed too weighed down for his taste. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to keep discussing mages?"
"You're sure that's wise?"
She settled on the bench next to him, close, very close. "Better mages than my heart."
"Mages, then." She returned his smile. "You have a lesson to teach me, I assume, and likely a bitter one. Something that will make me, in the words of our sage dwarven friend, 'brood.'"
"If I ever hear the word, 'brood' again from that little man, I swear, I'll… It's just as bad as hearing about his damned 'Bianca!' You worry about mages going bad, but you don't worry that the little bastard's next shout of, 'Bianca, you minx,' is going to turn me into a worse abomination than any of the demons we've faced?"
"The dwarf isn't so bad."
"Except when he is. The Maker must truly hate me to saddle me with that little…"
"You don't find me 'broody?'"
"I find you refreshingly normal."
"That isn't the first word I've heard most use to describe me."
"Their loss."
He stared at her and quirked his eyebrows. "I hear 'brood' or 'brooding' from every other one of your little circle multiple times a day, but you believe differently."
"Well, if you smiled all the time, you'd either be completely insane or Merrill." She grinned, though her eyes were still far too red for his taste.
"And you're sure they're not one and the same? The latter would be a fate worse than death."
A tiny laugh, but better than nothing. "Well, from what I've seen, the people who call you 'broody' aren't exactly the most stable sorts. Isabela sleeps with anything that moves. Anders is possessed, Merrill's, well, I don't know how to describe Merrill. Rainbows, butterflies, puppies, gouts of blood and demons. And look at that damned dwarf! What kind of lunatic spends hours and hours polishing and fondling a crossbow? And naming it? And writing long odes to it?"
He smiled. Or maybe it was more than a smile—he hadn't felt his lips stretch so wide, perhaps ever. "The sort of lunatic who winds up following you."
She stared at him, scanned him, penetrated him, and then flushed. "You should smile more often."
"I thought you didn't find me 'broody.'"
"I just… You have a beautiful smile. But maybe its rarity makes it all the more precious." She looked away. "But we were going to talk about mages, weren't we?"
"If that is your desire. I apologize- I haven't had much of a chance to practice my flattery. If I had, I might mention that your smile lights up the room."
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. What was that you said?" She eyed him through a clump of hair.
He had to grip the bench to keep his hand down; not being able to see the set of her lips drove him mad.
"I doubt you can hear anything through that mess. I asked you about magic."
She let loose with a throaty laugh that not only shook the bench, but his world as well. He'd heard enough laughter from mage scum at Danarius' humiliations, his torture, but never laughter for pure pleasure at something he'd said or done. She threw her head back and let her peals warm the room. When she finished and he gasped for his own air, little snorts escaped her.
"Magic, you say?"
"You have your own special form of magic, it seems."
"Is that what it is?" She smiled and chuffed. "So, mages. You asked me earlier why I helped send them to the Circle."
"I don't expect you to answer, knowing what happened to your sister. I was… insensitive, and I apologize."
"Maybe a little… All right, a lot, but it's understandable."
"Oh?" Whatever she might have to say would prove as interesting as her assertion that he was "normal." Or maybe he expected too much.
"You've seen things I can't even imagine, and you've suffered for them. All I saw growing up was a little girl cowering in terror whenever the Templars came too close. I'd never seen a demon until the day we helped you, but you must have seen them constantly, and worse."
"'Worse' is one way to put it."
She looked down at her feet as they dug into the floor. "I'm sorry."
"Why? You didn't do this to me, and as I recall, you've done more for me than anyone else has."
"I know. I just…"
"You were going to answer a question."
"I… Right. Beth was raised normally, with a family. She has experience with the world, and can face it on her own terms. Those Starkhaven mages weren't, and they couldn't. Five minutes free, and they're already consorting with demons? Feynriel doesn't know how to control his power and he needs help. I don't know where else he could find what he needs."
"You claim the difference is stability. I find that dubious at best. And what of the Dalish? Couldn't they have 'helped' the boy?"
"You didn't agree with me?"
"You know what I think." She shook her head, a half-smile stretching her lips. She definitely knew. "You were offered another option when it came to the boy, but you chose the Circle. Why?"
"I don't trust the Dalish, especially when it comes to demons."
"You do have some sense."
"Why, thank you." The smile widened and warmed him more than he wanted it to. "I just wish… Well, never mind what I wish."
"I agree the Gallows seems unpleasant, but the alternative is far worse. I lived it."
"Is that really the only alternative? What if mages were raised with their families, and taught to control their talents properly? You know, special magic schools, or something of the sort, and if they fail, more drastic measures could be taken."
"If mages weren't so easily corrupted and their abilities were less dangerous, I might agree with you. Power is an intoxicating drug, and few can resist its effects."
"Like Beth when she surrendered. I was ready to kill every last one of the bastards, but she protected us. They would have hanged all of us—me, Gamlen, Mother… Maker's breath! All I could do was let them take her away. I…"
The red was back, but nothing fell from her eyes. Her voice cracked. "Some protector I am… I'd have taken my chances with the noose if Beth had been willing to fight beside me. Better death than facing Mother's accusing eyes."
"This is why you believe you failed? I don't doubt you could kill a roomful of Templars, but would that have been wise?"
"Father kept us safe. I lack the instinct. First Carver, then Beth…"
"You blame yourself for your brother's death? He was killed by darkspawn."
"Not really, but Mother does. And now her other twin is gone. She's stuck with me."
"A fate worse than death, it would seem." He hoped for a hint of her defiance to return, or even a twisted smile, but she just gripped the bench, her knuckles white with effort.
"For Mother, it is. Her twins, her precious babies, all gone." The bitterness in her voice sounded far too much like his own.
"How long have you been providing for your family?"
"Four years now. I was nineteen when Father died."
Twenty-three, at least three years younger than he'd guessed. Far too young to shoulder such a burden, and yet she'd done it with aplomb.
"Your sister still lives."
"Is it life when she's locked away? How long until she just breathes wrong, and some Templar decides to geld her mind? She's not alive, not really. All this Deep Roads nonsense was for nothing now."
"No, perhaps it isn't." So much for banishing the memory of her widened eyes and narrowed lips when he'd spoken of a few of Danarius' lesser humiliations. And so much for banishing the memories themselves.
The silence ate at him worse than her howls and her tears had. Her eyes never budged from her feet, which had gone as motionless as she had. Her lips remained pursed until she clenched her eyes shut, and then they went slack. Lifeless. As lifeless as he felt, unable to find even the smallest word of comfort. Not enough practice at friendship, indeed.
"Well, that was a mood-killer, wasn't it?" she said. "I suppose I should be going."
"Without weapons? What were you thinking, coming here unarmed?"
"I… don't know. I really don't know."
"You can't leave—the Maker may have looked out for you once, but he's unlikely to do it twice."
"I can run, you know." She watched him intently, but he couldn't figure out why.
"You take the bed, I'll take the bench."
"You wish me to stay? I didn't mean to intrude. I mean… thank you."
That was enough to set her in motion. She cleared off the ends of the second bench and arranged everything neatly on the dining table before he could register what she was doing. She took one of the pillows and fluffed it, then tore the coverlet off the bed and folded it into a long, narrow pad.
"What are you doing?"
"I… Listen, I'll take the bench."
"You're my guest, Lysandra. Even the most base hospitality demands…"
"I've slept on far worse things than a bench. At Ostagar, I was on the ground, and the horrid bedrolls issued to the infantry didn't keep out the Wilds' damp and chill. I've spent the last two years in a squalid room, sleeping underneath Gamlen and his alcohol-hazed snoring. The bench is a haven, believe me."
"You're not sleeping on the bench."
She laid the coverlet on top of the bench and futzed with it until it looked almost inviting. The pillow followed, and she fluffed it once more for good measure.
"Stop!"
When else would that defiant smile return? She stripped the blanket from the bed, and dragged it past him.
"Lie down," she said.
"You're not doing this. I'm perfectly capable…"
"Lie down."
"Lysandra."
"You're doing me a bigger favor than you know, and I don't have any other way to repay you…"
Did the tears really have to choose that moment to return? Much as he hated being served, he hated that sight far more.
"You don't owe me anything."
But he complied anyway. Out of his own debt or something else? The bench felt far softer than he'd imagined. How many times had she folded the coverlet over? The pillow had felt far too limp for his taste until she'd had her way with it. Now it felt like a cushion fit for a magister's pathetically tender head. She drew the blanket over him and adjusted it as he felt Thedas' most pathetic fool.
"I know you hate this, but thank you." She wiped her eyes. "I just… I'll never be able to do this again for Beth. Never."
"Get some sleep." He wished he could say something more fitting, something that would erase those tears.
"I'll try. Really, thank you. I couldn't stay… Couldn't let Mother see…"
"If I can say anything to make things better, tell me what it is."
She shook her head, and he knew there was nothing that could be said. Only time could ease the wound, but even time could never heal it completely. She tucked herself under the single sheet that remained and adjusted the pillow.
"Fenris?" Quiet, from beneath the sheet.
"Hm?"
"You're better at this than you think."
