Foolish
Chapter Three: In Between
Ferelden, 9:37 Dragon
He never actually expected to return to Fereldan soil, especially not for reasons such as this. He would be lying if he said Greagoir's death didn't upset him—the man had been like a father to him-but he hadn't seen the man in six years, not since he stormed off in a rage and got on the first boat to Kirkwall, where he heard that they took mage hunting seriously.
Meredith had been pleased with his attitude, and he found himself promoted to Knight-Captain—a position that didn't even exist in the Ferelden Circle—rather quickly. It was a while before he stopped seeing abominations and blood mages around every corner, and it was even longer before he realized just how insane the current Knight-Commander was, but he had had a good thing in Kirkwall. He felt…saner, there. Like he had conquered his demons and moved on, that life was good.
That didn't mean he didn't he didn't miss Ferelden, or hadn't wanted to write Greagoir to apologize. But time had gotten away from him, and the next thing he knew his mentor was dead and Cullen had not been able to make amends, or to even say goodbye.
The fact that the man had left Cullen everything was unexpected. He would have thought Greagoir hated him, or was at least disappointed by the fact that he left Ferelden. To have left him everything…
Granted, it wasn't much. Some land that Greagoir never used, inherited from Greagoir's own father. A pocket watch. A faded green ribbon. A collection of books, mostly on the Chant. Humble belongings that had belonged to a humble man.
It was the burning that was the hardest part. Watching his mentor go up in flames without being able to say goodbye…it tore him up inside.
"He loved you, you know." A familiar voice—one he thought he might never hear again—whispers at his side. It's Iza Amell, cloaked in funeral black with a handful of white lilies, standing beside him softly. Maker take him. "It was all he could talk about these past few months. He was proud of you, proud that you showed the mages in Kirkwall mercy."
He takes his eyes off the flames, looks Amell in the eyes. Time has not been particularly kind to either of them, it seems. "You were with him, then, when he…?"
She nods. "I'm First Enchanter now—the best healer the Circle has. I tried to heal him as best I could, but—there wasn't much I could do."
She squeezes his hand, and he blinks back tears. "I'm—I'm glad you were with him," he confesses, because the thought of Greagoir dying completely alone is just too much for him to bear. "I just wish I could have been."
She steps up on her tip toes, kissing his cheek lightly, like she's an old friend and not simply a girl he used to have a crush on. "I'll give you a few minutes to say goodbye, if you want. Come speak to me later. I'll be at the Tower."
It's late, so very late at night, and he doesn't have permission to be in the Tower, much less in the First Enchanter's quarters, but he doesn't care. That, arguably, is the worst thing. She's still wearing black, but robes this time, and he notices not for the first time that the years have not been kind to her. She's thin—skeletally so, to an unhealthy extent—and her hair no longer seems magically silver, but rather prematurely grey. She looks like she's dying from a disease worse than death, paler than any living thing ought to be.
But Maker take him, she's still the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and that's when he knows he really is doomed.
He swallows the breath he's been holding and steps forward. "First Enchanter? You wanted to speak to me?"
She doesn't turn and face him, instead continues staring out of her window. "Come in, Cullen. Shut the door behind you."
He does as she asks, standing in front of her desk like a scolded child before a disappointed parent. It's silly, but he doesn't trust himself to speak in front of her, less he stutters like he did when he was young.
Eventually she sighs, turning half towards him, still partially gazing out the window. "I didn't want this job, you know. But the last thing Irving asked of me before he died was to look after his home, and I did not have the heart to tell him no."
He looks up at her, curious. "When did Irving die?"
"Two years ago. About a year after Wynne did." She finally turns away from the window, looking at him fully. "I was surprised Greagoir lasted as long as he did, to tell you the truth. I think he wanted to speak to you before he died, but his body couldn't hold out forever."
He winces, the thought of Greagoir lying there, dying, waiting…but Amell doesn't let him think about it for long.
"You look different."
He blinks. "Excuse me?"
She smiles at him, a little sad and a little quiet. "I always thought you were a ginger, but apparently you're a blond. Strawberry blond, but blond all the same. Your skin is so much darker, too. You look…healthy."
You don't. He wants to say, but doesn't. "The Gallows, in Kirkwall—you spend a lot of time outside." He explains half-heartedly, not really sure what she wants from him.
She leans forward, patting his head playfully. "You still have your curls, though. It's nice to see that some things never change, even with time."
She removes her hand, and he looks at her seriously. "How are you, Iza?" He asks, because this whole talking-in-circles and not making any sense just isn't her, and he more concerned than he ought to be.
"I'm dying," she says jokingly, a half smile on her face. "It's the Circle. It's killing me."
He frowns. "That's not funny."
"I know. I've never been any good at jokes—that was Alistair's job, not mine." She turns away from him, walks back over to her window, placing her hand on the glass.
"I wanted to leave the Wardens, you know. I didn't want to be around death so much, and the Wardens, all they really do is die. Well, that and kill darkspawn, I suppose. I thought it would be easier, being back in the Circle." She frowns, looks down at the glass, making it freeze against her hand. "But in a lot of ways, it's worse. I'm all alone here. And I think too much."
He steps closer to her, close enough that he can smell her hair and still not touch her. "What do you think about?"
"Dying, mostly," she says honestly, writing her name in the frost on the glass. "Like if I jumped out this window right now, fell to my death, how long would it take them to notice, do you think? An hour, maybe? A whole afternoon? Maybe even a week?"
He grabs her wrist tightly, pulling her away from the glass. "You shouldn't think like that."
"You're right, I shouldn't." But she's still looking at the glass like it's the most fascinating thing in the whole Tower. "How is Kirkwall?"
What is wrong with her? "Fine."
She quips her eyebrow. "Meet any interesting people?"
"I—yes. Your cousin, actually."
Iza smiles at him, and for a moment, looks like the girl he used to know. "You know, it's funny. I never knew I had a cousin. Never knew I had any family at all out there. If I hadn't become the Hero of Ferelden and she hadn't become the Champion of Kirkwall, we probably still wouldn't have known about each other." She leans back against her desk, half relaxed, at ease with the world. "What's she like?"
She fell in love with an apostate, the one who blew up the Chantry. She helps the Templars and then she helps the mages. She's the most confusing woman I've ever met. "She's…a lot like you, actually."
"Hmph. Prettier though, I bet."
He blushes. "I—I wouldn't say that."
She smiles at him widely. "That is because you are kind." She turns her attention to the fireplace, poking at the embers duly. "I was four when I went to the Tower. I don't think I even had a father. And my mother used to hit me when she caught me doing magic."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It isn't your fault." She turns to the window again like it contains her salvation. "If I jumped right now, do you think anyone would care? They'd mourn the Hero of Ferelden, sure, but after that?" She places her hand on the window, freezing it again so that the glass is fragile beneath her hands. "I should have died seven years ago against that blasted archdemon, but I didn't. I was scared. So damn scared. Scared enough to let Morrigan…" She trails off for a bit, doesn't finish her sentence, places both hands on the window so that all she would have to do would be to push, just a little bit, and the glass would crash and she would fall straight through. "Would they even notice I was gone? Or would they be so caught up in their politics and their religion and their lives that wouldn't care about me? Would they—"
He grabs her then, wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her back as far away from the window as he can. "I would care," he whispers into her ear, shaking. His heart is heavy, hurting because he knows how true this is, knows how distraught he'd be if he lost her, too. "I would care, Iza."
She collapses into his arms, sobbing against his chest, the broken shell of a woman who slew dragons, once. "Will you stay with me? Will you make sure I don't jump? I-I don't want to jump, b-but if I'm alone then I might and—"
He kisses her hair, holding her tightly. "I won't let you jump."
"P-promise?"
"I promise."
And then she kisses him, a kiss he's wanted for twelve years. It doesn't disappoint.
"Promise me you won't let me fall?" she whispers, her forehead leaned against his so that he can feel the hot tears running down her face onto his own.
It is the one promise he intends to keep. "I promise." He swears, sealed with a kiss.
He doesn't sleep that night. Or the next night. But Iza Amell stops looking out windows, and so he begins to count it as a small-earned victory.
END CHAPTER
A/N: An odd chapter, I know. I hope Iza wasn't *too* crazy, in that I hope she still made sense and you could sort of follow her thought pattern. Don't worry, we'll be back to Hawke + co next chapter.
Regards,
jak
