Maybe we're all children of a star
misguided in direction, our misdirection
pardon me while I pray for light
I'm not the only one,
that walks between the rain, there are many.
I'm not the only one,
When everything is lost, that doesn't surrender. ~(Per)version of the truth, Mudvayne
He'd forgotten what it was like to have someone around to just simply listen to him speak.
It was part of what had made him enjoy giving the readings during services at the Chantry in Kirkwall. The feeling of speaking and knowing that his words would reach ears of people who were there to listen to him.
It was part of what had endeared Elthina to him. It didn't matter how petulant, impetuous or childish he'd seemed, and he'd had plenty of those moments during his time as a lay brother. She'd always listened to him. Always made time for him. After his parents sent him to the Chantry she'd taken to him. After they'd been slain she'd come to look after him.
Elthina.
His hands clenched into fists and he closed his eyes against the memory of the shrapnel of the Chantry falling around them as they stood in the Gallows courtyard. Ashes falling like snowflakes gently against his face, and he remembered wiping one away and wanting to retch, realizing it could be the remains of one of his sisters from the Chantry. The remains of the innocent as she stood in front of him deigning to justify his actions and going so far as to stand in front of him. Throwing what he'd thought had been a friendship away.
He drew his bow and ran his hands over the smooth wood, drawing comfort from the same wood that his grandfather had graced with his own fingers. He pulled a bit of serenity from it. When life ran out of control he'd always been able to come back to this. To the feel of the tension on the string and the discipline it took to center on a target, to hold a breath while he would aim, to release the arrow and breath as it flew true to find its mark.
His new companion rode on the gelding in front of him with practiced ease. She'd clearly been no stranger to horses growing up. She spoke easily to the animal, knowing that she had to become familiar with it before presuming to ride it. She ran one gauntleted hand along the dark coat speckled with white and checked each striped foot carefully before every ride. She had the ability to coo at the horse in a soothing voice and then somehow heft herself up onto it as if she were much larger than she was, fitting into the saddle easily. That was the only sign that she had any softness to her at all under her terseness.
The reason she could listen to him so well was that she didn't speak unless addressed directly. She didn't seem to be ignoring him, however. She occasionally lifted an eyebrow in his direction, though the rest of her face remained mostly expressionless. Either way, the addition of another person to his mission was comforting, if not something that kept him slightly on edge. He didn't need distractions and the anger radiating from her exceeded his own.
Good as her word she threw herself into his cause, and they pooled resources. She had maps and missives from a network of Wardens from across half the Free Marches. She never really revealed who she was searching for, except that he was a fellow Warden and a deserter. Deserters were not allowed, and she didn't say why, but for now at least, Kahrin's purpose aligned with his, and that meant using the same resources to find the mage and her.
He didn't tell the Cousland woman as much yet, but her brother, he knew, had become a Warden a few years back as well. He didn't know where he was now, but perhaps if they found him then he could be persuaded to assist them.
He'd already proven he was willing to go to extreme measures to get his information. Even he'd never known he'd go that far. But could he do that to her brother? If he was a Warden, then Kahrin would be able to help him, if what she had said about her blood was the truth. In that case, he should have some time to think about what they would do when they found these Wardens. He wasn't sure yet what they would do when they found them, but a few months ago he didn't expect that he would have had to choose to retake his throne in an effort to begin a mission to exact justice either.
Sometimes you did things you didn't particularly enjoy to in order to accomplish what had to be done. Let the Maker judge him if his actions were incorrect.
He pulled himself into the saddle of his own horse, giving a brief and absent rub along the animal's long neck, the metallic sheen of the mare's almost lack of hair glinting slightly, having a glittering effect in the low sun of the evening. They turned and continued to pick their way East, staying between the coast and the Vimmarks.
Much to his almost irritation they stopped in each and every tavern along the way so she could comb the inhabitants. It never took her long. She would stride into the room, her face stoic, scan the patrons briefly, then pause as if in contemplation or meditation for a moment or two. With little more than a twitch of her eye, she would spin on a heavily booted heel and nearly shoulder past him with no word.
He took a deep breath and narrowed his eyes slightly. "You might tell me what we are doing, Serah Cousland. This is the fifth one of these places you have insisted upon stopping in today, and each time with no progress. You said we would find these Wardens." His jaw clenched imperceptibly.
"I'm searching. I told you that I would."
"You also told me you could sense them."
She stopped and looked at him, no expression at all on her face, her eyes may as well have been dead for all the flatness in the hazel colour, something that reflected in his own chest. When she spoke, though, there was an edge to it, sharp as the blades she'd spent the last night honing. "It's not magic. I can't just pinpoint them. I have to be in a vicinity. Now, if you are finished questioning my methods." She arched an eyebrow at him again, questioning him, and probably his own methods.
"I apologize, serah-"
"I asked you to call me Kahrin, Vael."
"Kahrin. I must be tired and hungry. It makes me less than amicable. The Chantry here will gladly take us in for the night."
"I'd prefer to find an inn, so we can plan our move for tomorrow."
He tensed again. She was willful and demanding, sometimes unreasonably so. "The Chantry will take us for no cost, and we will not want for anything. We can still plan from there. There may be news there, also." There was a mage war brewing, and they might be able to give them some direction if anyone had seen her or her apostate.
Kahrin looked like she might protest again, then set her jaw. "Fine. We'll do it your way, Your Highness."
"Sebastian."
"Sebastian. Lead on. I'm apparently not doing so effectively." She gestured calmly despite her tone with one hand as she grasped the bridle of her horse, then began petting the snout almost affectionately.
Sometimes he was not sure that her hostility was not specifically directed at him, but he had a feeling that if she didn't desire to be in his company she would not be here. He didn't know why she was out here alone. It seemed that someone like her should have someone with her. At least a fellow Warden.
Of course, he'd often thought that by this point in his life he would no longer be on his own either.
She was agitated all the time, though it only showed in her actions. She was kind with the horses, even taking the husbandry of his mare upon herself without asking, but she was brusque with him, even when being polite. Her manners were perfect, well-practiced, but stiff. She was curt with the Starkhaven and Tantervale soldiers that traveled with them, expecting them to obey her commands when she gave them as if they were her troops to order. He had to admit it irked him slightly though the soldiers bore it with enough tolerance. He presumed it was from the years of being a Commander, and he knew old habits died hard. He'd fought his as a lay brother, and now as a Prince he fought the Chantry Brother in himself as he pushed to be a leader of men and not a follower. Perhaps if he'd been a leader longer instead of following her around for years he'd have less trouble adapting to his new position.
The Warden carried herself tall despite her frame, with the grace of a noblewoman who had little use for the social graces of Court. She was business, and it wasn't entirely unbecoming.
The Chantry gave him solace. He kneeled on the stiff bench in front of the rows and rows of candles and bowed his head. A real meal had pulled him back from his seeming temper, and he no longer felt as short as he had before.
Maker give me strength. Guide me as I carry on your work. Stay my hand from harming your children needlessly.
And thank you for placing an ally in my path. May we find what we seek with your guidance...
She cleared her throat behind him. "How can you breathe in all this incense?"
He sighed and rose from the kneeling bench, his reverie broken. "You don't notice it after a while. And the contemplation is good for the soul. Do you not pray, serah Cousland?"
"Not since I was a girl. And only then when I had to. I don't think the Maker hears me."
"The Maker hears us. He simply doesn't always answer in the ways we would like."
"Was his answer to take everything I'd ever cared about from me?"
He had no response to that. It stung awfully close, and it was also the closest she'd come to exposing a feeling at all.
"I understand your loss. Sometimes it helps to pray, I find." He paused, considering her hard face, the stoic set of her mouth and the lines of her tattoo around her vacant eyes.
"I hardly think you do. Otherwise you would not think prayer would help."
"I don't think it will stop the hurt. But sometimes it helps when you feel useless against the pain."
It was like a crack in her veneer. The momentary flash across her eyes, the slight furrow between her eyebrows. He knew what she'd lost. A wiping of a house like that spread fast among nobility, and it was not unlike his own loss. Two strides later he was in front of her.
"You don't know." She spat.
"No. But I've lost also. The Grand Cleric, she was like..." he had no idea why he wanted to share this. It hurt to talk about her. It filled him with so much rage, and it made him feel like a hollow mockery of a man, this mission. But it was all he had. She deserved to be avenged. "She was like another mother to me." He met her eyes and stared. "Come."
He took her hand, and she jerked, but he grasped it. Her eyes widened. How long had it been since another person had shown her the kindness of a friendly gesture.
"Don't."
"Let us light candles for them."
She resisted at first. She looked smaller without her plates and helm. Somehow with the armour she managed to take up space that she didn't physically. She looked softer with her hair down. She wore it back so tight that it sometimes made her face look severe. There was so much of it that it betrayed the fact now that she was a woman and he suddenly felt shy about being so forward. He switched to a gentle elbow grasp, which won him a deep frown.
"Candles?" She glared at him as if he were daft.
"Lighting candles for the souls of the faithfully departed. They guide them to the side of the Maker."
"My family died over ten years ago. If they aren't with your Maker now-"
"It is the symbolism. The gesture that matters. It gives you something to hold onto." He pulled gently at her elbow as she reluctantly followed him to the bench and knelt beside him. He took the long match and lit a new candle in a long row, then two more...one for each of their families and one for Elthina.
"This is ridicu-"
"Shhh. Serah-"
"It's Kahrin."
"Yes. Forgive me. Be silent with me now, for just a moment. Just for them."
She stared at him blankly for one moment, a slight fire in her eyes finally, but she said nothing else, her face smooth.
He closed his eyes and murmured softly. "Blessed are the souls of the faithful as the descend to your right hand. Guide them and watch over them. Guide us and keep us, the living, as we strive to do your work."
He didn't know if it was the Maker or himself he was serving, but for now, he could not turn from his mission. If, however, he could offer a balm in this moment, perhaps it would afford him a bit of forgiveness.
He glanced sideways just a moment and her face was turned down, though her eyes were not closed. She stared at her hands folded on her knees, and for whatever reason, he wasn't sure, but he reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently.
"There is no weakness in grief. It drives us on."
"You don't think I know this? I'm finished grieving, Sebastian. I'm angry."
"It shows. I recognize it. I have felt that kind of anger. I still feel it."
"Good. Because you'll need to hold onto it, to be good and angry, because when we find them, you'll need more than candles in your memory. Whatever image gets you there, keep that fresh in your mind. And don't forget it. That is what we will need." She gripped his hand back tight enough for it to hurt, grinding the bones in his bow hand slightly, then sliding her fingers in between his, and tightening that hold. She had an iron grip, a warrior's grip, making him wince slightly. "You may also want to have care before deciding to be kind to me. It hasn't ended well for others."
She released his hand and stood in a fluid motion, walking from the small room with little sound.
He swallowed.
