...
When by now and tree by leaf;
He laughed his joy, he cried his grief.
Bird by snow and stir by still,
Anyone's any was all to him.(1)
...
"Lari?" Illyria balanced the tray on her hip to knock on the door. "I've brought dinner." There was no reply from inside, so after a few moments she let herself in.
"It is soup. Easy on the stomach." Icthlarin didn't reply. He sat, still and silent, in the same high back chair he had been sitting this morning, and Illyria wondered if he had moved at all. His eyes were the same vacant and empty voids as she would never grow used to seeing. He hadn't eaten, hadn't spoken, since the horrifying scream of denial had passed them nearly a week ago. When she had sat him down and told him, in the gentlest way she could, that the Tevinter mage who owned his soul had succumbed to the injuries he had sustained during the Battle of the Rift. She knew, that no matter how many centuries she lived, she would never forget that sound. It had been the death cry of the most vibrant soul she had ever known.
He was clutching something in his hands, so tightly his knuckles had whitened around it. She hesitated for the briefest of moments, before carefully bending them open. She met no resistance, and soon she could see what it was. Her heart ached when she looked at the Pavus Birthright.
"Oh, brother. I'm so sorry." he didn't react. It was as if she was speaking to a corpse. He was looking like one too. His usually wild red hair hung in limp curls around his gaunt face, his skin was clammy and pale as if diseased. He wore a clean shirt, but it just served to remind her how they had been forced to wash and dress him like a doll. They had all been surprised when Sera had done so without complaint and surprising tenderness. She had been caring for the Inquisitor every day since... Since the light in his eyes went out. Since she watched his heart shatter.
Illyria set the tray aside on the table, knowing full well that it would not be touched. Then she leaned down and kissed his forehead.
"Love you, little brother." he didn't react. But he never did anymore.
...
Why do the birds go on singing?
Why do the stars glow above?
Don't they know it's the end of the world?
It ended when I lost your love.(2)
...
It was the night before they were set to burn Dorian's body in the courtyard and Illyria had made a heart wrenching decision. That was why they were here, in the garden. Andraste's grace and elf root was blooming all around them but she was blind to their sweet scent. Instead, she focused on lighting the candles. One for each of the Gods Father had sung about with her perched on one knee, Icthlarin on the other, when they were small. She remembered his red hair in firelight, his bright eyes, and his laughter like a spring brook. Father walked with Falon'din now. As she lit each candle, she said a short prayer to the God it represented.
Dirthamen, show him the path. Falon'Din, lead his way. Mythal soothe his broken heart. Andruil give him strength to brave the darkness.
The last candle was for her. Fen'Harel, give me the power to do what I must.
Then she turned to look at Icthlarin. He knelt in the middle of the circle, still clutching the amulet. As if it was the only thing holding him together. Perhaps it was.
She walked around him slowly, coming to stand directly behind him. Her hand trembled as it rested on his shoulder, but there was no hesitancy or doubt in the hands that placed the noose around his neck.
"It is not done yet" she pleaded. "You can still choose life." the slow shake of his head was miniscule, but she saw it. No, sister. Give me the death of the warrior's bride. Illyria allowed herself one sob, before picking up the knife.
"The warrior lies in ashes
The pyre is built and soon it shall burn.
Tonight I shall send him his doe-eyed bride
And the cycle of life will turn."
The recitation was old, from the days when the humans still hunted elves and killed them like animals.
She wrapped the short rope making up the noose several times around his neck. Then she said the last words she would ever say to her brother.
"Dorian Pavus, this thrice-blessed life, this three-fold death, is yours. May the Gods reunite you." then she pulled the noose tight, tight around his neck. Body. She buried the blade into the hilt in his chest once, twice, thrice, while pulling on the rope with all her strength. Heart. Then she, in one swift motion, pulled out the knife, let go of the rope, and Icthlarin fell forward into the basin of sweet-smelling water she had prepared. Illyria placed her hand on his head and pushed his face down, under the surface. She held him there until he stopped breathing. Soul.
...
I have died every day waiting for you
Darling, don't be afraid I have loved you
For a thousand years
I'll love you for a thousand more(3)
...
Later, as she washed his body with a mixture of death-water and tears, she realized she wasn't alone. She waited for accusations, for anger and recriminations, but there were none. The iron bull was quiet as he helped her prepare Icthlarin for the pyre. They wrapped him in white linen, the noose still around his neck, knife in his hands. The Birthright resting over his heart.
The pyre was lit at dawn.
...
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.(4)
...
songs quoted:
1. 'Anyone lived in a pretty how town' by E.E. Cummings
2. 'A thousand years' by Christina Ricci
3. 'The End of the World' by Skeeter Davis
4. 'Funeral Blues' by W. H. Auden