o.O.o
Two
o.O.o
"Thank you, Anders." The name was decidedly foreign, though not unpleasant. He actually looked surprised, but covered it up with a smile.
"Such gratitude; you're going to spoil me. There," With one tug on the knot, Illyria's shoulder was rewrapped securely. "All done. Don't exert yourself for a few days and it should be good as new before you know it."
"Is that necessary?" Mother wouldn't rest until she knew everything if she were to skip training. "I mean, it's mostly healed, isn't it? The poultices or whatever you put on it worked."
As he moved to sit at a polite distance from her, she could swear something odd passed through Anders's face. But it was gone too quickly. "Yes, it worked, but it's a fresh injury nonetheless. You won't lose your skills if you just take it easy for a few days, I can vouch for that."
"I know that, believe me. But my- it will be suspicious to some people close to me if I change my routine." She didn't want to mention her ties to the templar order, real or speculated. "And I don't want them knowing about my coming here."
After the display of reassurance, seeing Anders frown was peculiar. "A bolt to the shoulder isn't an injury easily concealed. I don't suppose it's a common malady in the rich parts of the city… and I unfortunately don't see you managing to play the part of the dainty noble lady too well."
"Not without Mother summoning several priests to exorcise me, no." Maker, there she went again. "Unless you can speed up time, I'll just have to grin and bear it."
"Well, I can hardly stop someone so determined." The look in his eyes said quite plainly what he thought about the idea. This man was the genuine article, not some charlatan with medicine made of rabbit droppings. "But if you don't wish to reveal your injury to others, it doesn't seem like a viable strategy. Self-mutilation isn't worth any prize, believe me."
The idea of reopening her injury was painful in itself, but it also stirred up her train of thought once again. "Unless I happen to know an excellent healer. Who would perhaps have a weakness for Kirkwall cuisine." After all, she couldn't expect something for nothing more than once. "I doubt the guards here pay much attention to how people here are actually doing, assuming they don't riot. And I've heard all about Fereldan cooking, so I'm positive whatever I bring will be an improvement."
"Oh, let's all slander the penniless refugee's homeland. What great fun!" But Anders looked genuinely taken aback when he got past the end of her babbling. "I don't need anything in return for helping the deserving," His stomach was of a different opinion, though, losing no time in pointing out how scrawny he looked for his impressive height. "But I'll swallow my pride here and admit that sounds wonderful. Just no lamb, please. We wouldn't want to scandalize Ser Eilrys." he added in a stage whisper, not forgetting to carefully cover the stuffed lamb's ears.
Illyria couldn't remember having this much reason to laugh in ages. "So is that why you've come to Kirkwall? To starve yourself out of altruism towards innocent sheep?"
"You forgot looking roguishly handsome while doing it. Actually, now that I think about it, starvation is kind of counterproductive to that plan." Anders pointed out sagely, scratching his knee. It was a wonder the motion didn't leave behind a hole in the fabric; his clothes were worn and patched enough for that. "No, I'm mainly here to visit a friend. I received some worrying news and I had to come see it for myself. With the Blight in such recent memory, few people concern themselves with those who fled to other lands."
Such devotion for a friend – or a lover, perhaps, which triggered an odd sinking feeling – was something admirable. She said as much (minus the lover part, of course), as that would have been silly and nosy, and they briefly shared irrelevant information about the situation beyond the walls and over the sea. The Blight was indeed over, as far as anyone knew, Ferelden was stabilizing under a new monarch and a host of people who didn't want to wait for the situation to get better, seeking the greener grass abroad. Anders didn't say if this included him.
The night was passing, though; Illyria wasn't tired, though she was told the poison still hadn't left her system entirely. She needed to return home and try not to mess up practice in a few hours, if she was to get in unnoticed. Anders looked a bit dejected when she reluctantly announced her intention. She had certainly shared less than she had received, or so she thought.
"I'll return tomorrow." she repeated, because was had the slightest suspicion that Anders didn't fully believe her. "I wouldn't want Vanora to think I abandoned Ser Eilrys like that."
"That would be treason of the highest order." Without Illyria asking for it, Anders got up and proceeded to help her re-strap the discarded armor to its proper place, though more loosely than it should. "They owe you their lives and know it. They're a little shy about receiving kindness from humans… most don't think twice about treating elves like second-class citizens."
"They eat, drink and think just like we do – they have hopes, fears, strengths and weaknesses like us. I think I'm secure enough in my identity as a human not to have to resort to belittling others who are different from me."
Anders had to take care to not fasten the metal around her upper arm far too tightly. Open mindedness was rare, no matter what the land. It was all too easy to forget that just because he had phrased it in a way that inquired about Illyria's feelings to oppression in general, and that the answer could directly be interpreted as a willingness to accept some slight differences in others.
The way she had jumped in to intervene without any intention of gain – his current willingness to help the needy without hope for a reward was at least partly Justice's influence. This woman definitely wasn't poor, but it was often the richest who were the most greedy about their wealth. And risking life and limb – literally – for elves… it was unexpected, refreshing and a bit beautiful.
He could admire a person and their deeds without selfish desires. Even Justice approved of that much, even if he didn't understand or care that it was significant that Illyria was still sitting with him, smiling as much as her discomfort allowed and offering to return (with food, no less).
The decision not to entirely heal her shoulder had been a pragmatic one. She wouldn't remember the broken arm due to the poison's daze on her senses, but a crossbow hit was more difficult to forget.
Anders had used more magic than intended to slay the remaining dwarves and heal the worst of her injuries. So far, she hadn't asked the most obvious questions, but revealing himself as a mage in front of a stranger was inconvenient, no matter how helpful they were or how difficult it had actually been to maintain focus on her injury alone when removing her armor.
Thank the Maker for that poison knocking out her senses, else he'd be collecting his teeth from the floor right now. That shield of hers was heavy and she waved it around like it was made of parchment. You'd never guess from the awkward way she was petting the stuffed toy still in her lap.
"All done." Fortunately, too, because cleanness had a very distracting scent, especially in a camp full of smelly refugees. "Are you certain you'll make it? The poison hasn't yet completely left your system. The effects have worn off, but it'll take a few more hours. And the guard here isn't exactly lax even at nighttime. It's been attempted."
Of course, other refugees would mob her if they saw her get past and she did mention possible trouble with family. Anders found himself somewhat curious. Wardens shed family names and he had done so before being conscripted, but Illyria didn't know those things. Though her silence on the subject of family names wasn't surprising.
She didn't look at all worried and managed to get up without his help, though Anders was ready to help. "I'll be fine. Please return Ser Eilrys to Lady Vanora - I'm sure they can't bear to be parted for much longer. He's fulfilled any knightly duty towards me in chaperoning me through the night."
Anders could insist on her keeping the thing as a way of ensuring she returned.
"Very well." he said instead, part of him hoping she wasn't going to come back or reinjure herself. It was enough to know someone like her still existed. Part of him still thought that was utter nonsense, which alone was dangerous.
"Very well." he said instead, part of him hoping she wasn't going to come back or reinjure herself. It was enough to know someone like her still existed. Part of him still thought that was utter nonsense, which alone was dangerous.
Before she left, she stared at him with something close to a glower, as if she could read his mind or sense that he was discounting her word. Clearly not something she was fond of. "I owe you my life. I won't forget that."
How she managed to make gratitude sound almost like a threat had to be a talent, Anders assumed. Justice spoke that way, more often than not, in the brief moments when their thoughts weren't entirely united. Her armored gloves were a blessing when she returned the stuffed lamb to him, because the harsh metal was enough to discern that no, he wasn't imagining this. Perhaps his ideas weren't entirely helpless in Kirkwall, of all places. The Maker had a sense of humor.
"I'm not expecting you to. I just don't want you needlessly putting yourself in jeopardy. People like you are needed."
"It's always nice to feel appreciated." Illyria said, the mask of steel slipping away from her features.
o.O.o
It didn't settle back there for the entire following day.
Injury aside, she made it back home without any trouble. The few servants in her home were used to her peculiar comings and goings, so it didn't bother them. Illyria couldn't even manage to take her armor off, though. Her shoulder, though half-healed, hurt if moved too much. She'd have to put it back on anyway and sleep just wouldn't come, so she spent the remaining hours of darkness trying to count stuffed sheep.
Needless to say, when she arrived at the training grounds, she was barely aware of the usual greetings aimed in her direction. But at least she had a viable strategy to cover up her current inability to do much more with her sword than pop a few bubbles. Good equipment required proper care and with her training schedule, it wasn't so surprising that she'd need to have her blade sharpened by the order's smith more often than the others.
Her thoughts kept straying back to the refugee encampment. Hopefully, she had dealt with all of the extortionists and those elves would be left alone now. And the little girl not too disappointed to not see her there, though why Illyria had been offered the company of such a well-loved toy, she couldn't completely fathom. That she thought of Anders went without saying, though now that her thoughts were completely lucid, she began to wonder a bit more about the circumstances of their meeting.
Someone had killed the remaining dwarves, yet she didn't see any weapon anywhere near Anders. His hands also lacked the inevitable calluses weapons training would have left behind – not that many fighters practiced healing, in any case. And she was almost certain that her shield arm felt a little stiff, like when she had had a finger healed after snapping the joint in a ferocious ball game as a child.
It could just be Mother's modus operandi of 'constant vigilance' rubbing off on her, of course – which she dreaded a little – but the memory of Orsino's letter kept nagging at her. As proud as she was about helping, she hadn't left the city to right wrongs. Not entirely, anyway. All the more reason to go back there and find out. Only, how to bring up such a thing? Accusing someone who had helped her of being an apostate was kind of like inviting friends to dinner and then spitting in the pot.
"Lady Stannard, you're not training today?" It was kind of like promising to teach someone a maneuver and then taking your sword to the smith. Maker damn her luck.
"Ah, my apologies, Knight-Captain." Illyria did her best to look mildly sheepish instead of irked about the situation. "I'm used to my own weapon and I'd like to have it properly taken care of before I start today."
"Of course, that is most reasonable of you. Your business yesterday went without problems?" No doubt Mother hadn't returned pleased, given that concerned frown.
Illyria found herself not caring. "As well as could be expected. I have no interest in joining the order. No offense, Serah Cullen."
The apology seemed to unsettle the templar more than the actual refusal, but he didn't have the usual reaction of shock and horror when Illyria made such intentions known.
"That's a great shame, milady. You are an excellent warrior and, well, you have all the predisposition in the world to make a difference for the better." Finish what Mother was starting, he meant. "Might I ask why?"
Now that was a question rarely given to her. "Perhaps I just don't think my path lies that way. There's enough devotion to the Maker in my house for the whole family. Also, I'm no fan of uniforms, myself."
"The Maker never turns away those who come to him with a true heart."
Illyria resisted the urge to scoff, laughing for a second instead. "Did you get Chantry duty this fortnight? Brother Sebastian's sermons are rather heartfelt, I understand." She didn't much want to think about the outspoken but sincere priest who had grown into his role after years of resentment. It was too much of an example of what Mother seemed to hope for her.
There went the tell-tale reddened ears again. "We must all do our duty, no matter how lacking in glamour it might be. Besides, I cherish the days when there isn't a need to hunt down maleficarum. That's when we can show the world that the Chantry's way exists to keep everyone safe."
Cullen had never actually mentioned any kind of details about the slaughter at Lake Calenhad, but all of Thedas was buzzing with word that the templars had lost ground in Ferelden. The new king had granted autonomy to the Circle of Magi as a favor to the victorious archdemon-slayer, a close friend of his. Seeing a mage stop the Blight had apparently made some progress in terms of how her kin were viewed in that country, but the new way of running things there was still regarded as highly experimental.
Kirkwall wasn't going to change anytime soon.
"I went to a Harrowing gone wrong; I understand the dangers." Illyria said when the Knight-Captain seemed to be waiting from some semblance of approval from her. Her thoughts were a bit biased due to last night, so she didn't want to get into a debate about mage rights with anyone so devoted. "Anyway, I know I promised to show you the counterattack, but I'm afraid it'll have to wait a while. Sorry about that."
"There's no need to apologize to me, milady. But perhaps it would be good for you to start familiarizing yourself with other weapons? I understand the comfort of one's own blade, but you might not always have that luxury in actual combat. Basic proficiency with other weapons is invaluable for any warrior."
It was a reasonable suggestion, fully in line with the philosophy the Knight-Commander preached for the order. Besides, seeing Lady Stannard merely sitting and watching the other proceedings in the training grounds was almost unsettling to Cullen. Perhaps the others ought to be grateful for the unexpected – Maker knew they always focused less whenever she was there to be watched – but he had never seen such a driven warrior look so troubled and at the same time content to be lost in her thoughts.
She seemed sad. It was a new and peculiarly human look on her.
"Exactly so." Cullen almost jumped; a woman as tall and encased in armor as the Knight-Commander shouldn't be able to sneak up on people that well. "At ease, Knight-Captain; you may stay. Your suggestion has merit, especially as my daughter apparently has time for idleness and pursuits unfit for her station."
The defiant Lady Stannard usually didn't squirm under her mother's gaze, but for an instant she almost looked panicked. "With all due respect, Mother, I'm comfortable with my current fighting style."
"Your opponents will hardly pay attention to your personal comfort. You have learned all but everything you can about the shield and sword. It's time to move on." the Knight-Commander said mercilessly, citing the example of how he himself had chosen to move on towards the shield after years of using a greatsword. "Knight-Captain, I'd entrust part of the teaching to you. A single talent apparently blinds my child to the wisdom of experience."
Experience. The horror of Kinoch Hold was an experience.
Cullen nodded briskly. "If you wish, Knight-Commander, I'd be honored. I could learn much from Lady Stannard myself."
"Not tact or a sense of duty, I imagine." she replied, staring down the indignant glare of her child.
"Mother, I ask permission to follow through with the First Enchanter's suggestion." Lady Stannard blurted out suddenly. Cullen had absolutely no idea what she was talking about, but the Knight-Commander's stare hardened considerably. "I'll undergo the training, if you believe it necessary; I ask this in return."
"Out of the question. You lack the abilities required for such a task, as I told you yesterday. Even if you did as I said, you haven't the experience to delve into Circle politics."
"I am precisely what you require for this. Give me a chance to prove that I don't need-"
"Leave the matter be; and don't be so quick to quote Orsino's words to me. You are naïve to think he doesn't see what a perfect mouthpiece you could be, parroting nonsense wrapped in a layer of hypocrisy. You cannot be neutral, Illyria. No one in this city will ever allow that." For a moment there, the moment was private, and Cullen felt out of place. Especially since the Knight-Commander looked just a touch pained to hear a mage's words come from her daughter's mouth, even if the mage was the First Enchanter.
Lady Stannard, for her part, looked like she'd just swallowed an entire lemon. She didn't argue further, nor did she stalk away like a child denied toys, but her disapproval was evident. Instead, she gave a stiff half-nod, like a disgruntled soldier might. "I will go to the blacksmith and see if there are any claymores available for the day. I will meet you here in an hour, if that suits, Knight-Captain?"
"Of course, Lady Stannard." Maker, the family resemblance was uncanny when anger reigned over her expression. Cullen almost called her Knight-Commander without even thinking about it. "I will be waiting for you."
Sparing one last defiant glance for her mother, the young woman stalked away like a feline on the prowl. If there wasn't a courtyard full of templars and other unwelcome strangers watching them, other words would have been spoken between the family members, without a doubt.
But the Knight-Commander appeared pleased with this outcome, nodding at him briskly. "I expect you to treat my daughter no differently than any other recruit, Knight-Captain. She'll never excel if she doesn't learn her own limitations."
"As you command, Knight-Commander." Cullen could understand driving her own daughter harder than others to wipe away the accusation of favoritism, but hesitated to point out that Lady Stannard could already wipe the floor with almost anyone they chose to throw at her, sometimes regardless of numbers.
The Knight-Commander didn't want her daughter to be everything she was; the Knight-Commander wanted her to be better.
It was an honor to have a part in that entrusted to him. Though from what he had seen, Cullen didn't doubt that it would be a very small part. An hour later, Lady Stannard was brandishing a larger sword than ever, though she seemed to be favoring her left arm. He hadn't noticed that before; from the way she used her usual weapon, Cullen had her pegged for right-handed. Or maybe it was just the different balance – he could sympathize with that.
They started slow. Lady Stannard was an exceptional student, even if her expression was more fitting for a member of a suicide squad. Still, her blows were a little weaker than Cullen had expected – which, admittedly, was a lot – and, ever so often, she gripped the sword harder than a seasoned fighter should.
Their lesson was over before he could mention that, but Cullen decided to watch a bit more carefully next time. She was a little reckless. Her experience with a single Harrowing obviously hadn't shaken her belief that mages were little more than, say, people with a disability. He couldn't imagine the Knight-Commander allowing such things for long. It was probably also why she wanted her only child to take the templar vows; Cullen remembered being told that there had been some kind of magic-related tragedy in the family, though no specifics.
o.O.o
That evening, Illyria rather felt that her armor was the only thing keeping her arm properly in place. Discovering her hitherto unknown ambidexterity would have been wonderful right about then. Unfortunately, it wouldn't have helped with wielding a two-handed weapon – and she couldn't exactly have refused that offer, with the way Mother had forced her to backpedal into it. Especially since she had made a promise she had to break.
Her shoulder hurt, to put it mildly. A new weapon was always a challenge, especially at the start, and with her upset arm, she was about as graceful as a genlock in high heels. The exertion had reopened the wound, just as Anders had predicted – she didn't have to look. Illyria managed to eat dinner with her left hand alone, not trusting her right. Most of it was going to end up wrapped and delivered elsewhere, of course.
Mother was still dealing with the First Enchanter, as she had promised, and so wouldn't be back for the remainder of the night – though not due to any lewd reasons gossips could think of. Which was nothing out of the ordinary and obviously gave her more than enough time. Putting her on the spot like that in front of someone she liked (zealotry aside); there would be retribution for that eventually. She swore that to herself.
Carrying a bag meant she had to forego her shield for the night; she couldn't possibly take both, not feeling like she had arm-wrestled with an ogre. Nervous politeness aside, Cullen certainly hadn't pulled any punches when it came to her lesson. It wasn't his fault, but Illyria was a little peeved by that. Especially considering her program for the night.
For all of Anders's warnings that the way in was carefully guarded, the way out was decidedly clear. Actually, the few guardsmen around seemed to be relying on the gates and fear of the Knight-Captain to keep refugees outside, apparently. If it wasn't playing in her favor, Illyria would have informed Mother about Jeven's lax policies to get her off own her back for a week or two.
No one bothered her as she made her way through the camp. Those that saw her knew better than to approach an armed knight with a grim face. Thinking about impending confrontations with Mother usually had that effect on people who saw her.
"E-excuse me, m'lady?" Though not all, apparently, if they were determined enough. It was the father of the elven family from yesterday – alone this time and looking less brave than yesterday. "You are the one who saved us from the Carta, aren't you?"
Illyria chased thoughts of her problems away. This wasn't the time or the place. "I was happy to help."
"I don't know how I can even begin to thank you. We didn't have a choice but to take those thugs up for their offer to leave Ferelden. Nobody cares about the fate of a few elves. My wife thanks you as well, but she's trying to get a new blanket for our daughter."
The heavy bag on her left shoulder felt a little lighter and a little heavier at the same time. "Maybe we can help each other this time. I'm looking for Anders."
"You were wounded. I see." the elf said, already motioning for her to follow. So this wasn't a one-time healing occasion. "Please, don't tell the guard about the fighting. They expel refugees who take up arms from the city. He doesn't deserve it. Aside from you, he's the only human who's shown anyone else kindness around here."
"You know him well?"
"Not at all, m'lady. But he saved my child from getting burned yesterday and dressed her wounds. And he helped you." As if she could forget – but the elf was probably reminding her only due to his experiences with human selfishness. "And doesn't ask anything in return."
It turned out that he knew exactly where to look, as Vanora was apparently having a tea party with Ser Eilrys and a few other makeshift toys while Anders was attempting to make something edible out of the mess of food by the fire. The healer was focusing intently on not messing things up and looked more like he was mixing a potion requiring precise measurements rather than cooking. Illyria was once again reminded of part of her purpose (though also of the fact that only the tranquil dabbled in potion-making).
Vanora noticed her father before seeing the more out-of-place armor and ran to him with a joyful shriek. Anders, on the other hand, spotted her immediately after the elf-child's signal and seemed to have forgotten how to blink or that he could stop pouring salt into the pot any minute now.
Illyria left the family reunion after half an hour apart be for the moment, because carrying half a regiment's worth of food was getting uncomfortable. She ignored the staring as she carefully laid down her package and unwrapped what had to be the culinary equivalent of paradise in comparison to what she glanced at in the rough pots.
Anders was still holding the salt container upside down, so she quickly snatched it from his hand before it could be completely emptied.
"Now you've jeopardized your way out of eating actual food, serah. Thank you for making my job tonight easier." she noted wryly, handing him a flask of water.
The Fereldan couldn't find his voice before having the object all but forced into his hands. "I was hoping you wouldn't come." he said finally, contradicting everything that was written all over his face.
Weren't apostates supposed to be good liars? A point against the theory, then. "I feel so welcome. And so trusted, too! Did you think I was going to gorge myself tonight and have a good laugh about the practical joke my promise to help the day before was?"
The shameful thought had crossed his mind, to be completely honest. But Anders had pushed it away in an instant. "I'm concerned that this means you've hurt yourself again. You have, haven't you?" he prodded when Illyria told him to start heating up the food. "Andraste's knickerweasels, is common sense not part of the whole warrior training package?"
Almost irritatingly, Illyria burst out laughing after a moment of religious shock. "Should I even ask? No, I'd better not. And, for your information, I did my best to adhere to your instructions. But it was decided for me that idleness meant that I have time to start mastering other weapons."
"Decided for you? By whom?"
For a moment, it almost seemed as though she wouldn't answer that. Anders realized that she was wondering how much she should say without having to resort to lies. "My mother."
"I'd have thought a noble lady would be scandalized if her daughter showed such devotion to blades." It also signified that she was likely not yet attached to a man, as the husband who was proud of his wife's superior prowess in battle was a rare creature. But that was a thought that shouldn't concern him, for many very good reasons.
"Maybe in Ferelden." Illyria countered, finishing her work. Anders realized what she was missing – her shield was gone, to allow her to carry the heavy load of food. He had stumbled upon a miracle of the Maker, devoted but apparently masochistic. "Take whatever you like. There's plenty." She said it with the matter-of-factness that showed how used she was to every comfort.
But she was here, with them – with him – not in an overdecorated mansion.
Just then, Vanora and her father carefully approached them again, with the now oddly shy little girl peeking at Illyria with wide-eyed wonder. The knight responded kindly to any words of thanks, offered some of her own to the child for Ser Eilrys and added that they were free to help themselves to the food as well after seeing how thin and small the child looked from up close. The elves didn't need to be told twice and eventually were joined by the mother, who had succeeded in winning a ratty, hole-riddled blanket. Illyria offered to leave them the one she had brought the food in; it was smaller, but decidedly better in every other aspect.
Anders could feel something swell up with approval not only in his mind, but also his heart. What worried him was that exposing Illyria's skin again would trigger a similar response, if a physical one. But he could see how she favored her left hand whenever handing something to others. Concern and professionalism won over selfish desires.
"I need to see your injury again. You won't be able to fight again without getting it treated." It was the least he could do for her, even if allowing her to fight again was the exact opposite of what her health and his peace of mind needed.