Mending Pride

Voices, rising and falling above my head, as I float in a daze, white, shimmering waves surrounding me.

What happened? Where am I, so lost, so alone?

After a few seconds, it comes to me – I tried to kill myself.

Does it mean I'm dead? I wonder, slightly curious, but overall, oddly detached, as if it had no meaning. Maybe it doesn't, maybe as long as I don't care – nothing does.

We often judge things on the basis of their importance to us – but rarely stop to think whether any of it has an actual value. I valued my dreams – and they trapped me, in a golden cage of a world. I valued my family – but they didn't, not for what I truly was, only their own perception of how I ought to be. I valued my pride – and it brought me to my knees.

'Fean'Na! Don't let go, my friend, don't you dare to give up…' I hear familiar voice begging fervently into my ear, yet strangely disjointed, as if coming from afar. Fen? But it is somehow different. Is it the timbre of tone that changed, is it even Fen, or merely a figment of my imagination, a result of my hope? I cannot wrap my head around it, and soon, capitulate – I'm so tired. So very tired.

'Sylaise! She…' and I drift away, falling deeper and deeper into the comfortable, enticing whiteness.

I remember a long forgotten events from my childhood. The smiling face of my mum as I was showing off my first paintings, the awkward, somewhat askew lines made with the uncertain hand of a youngster. But she was so proud of me, regardless of the distortion of the image… And then the dream alters, and this time, I face her disappointed, pained face, as she tells me she cannot deal with my addiction anymore, that she is giving me into the care of physicians. I try to forcefully squirm away from the image, it is too painful, to raw a wound, and in my efforts, I slip away, feel my soul flickering, as the white is slowly being devoured by darkness.

I feel I should be alarmed by it. But I'm not, the all-consuming dark even more enticing than white – I know that once it engulfs me, I'll be able to rest. Isn't it what I wanted in the first place? To let go?

Yet still, something bothers me, disturbs my peace. A plea, reaching deep into my dreams, a plea for strength, and a reassurance - all is not lost, Fean'Na. You can still find your way home.

There's only one person that knows me well enough to find words that would move me. At first, I do not listen. The world is too cruel, too constraining, and I know, if I return, my suffering will not end – and the oblivion is so inviting, so peaceful.

But Fen is stubborn, unyielding. Whispering, imploring, convincing, my dear friend, do not allow your flame to be extinguished, until I stop, and I listen. In the end, he succeeds in swaying me – maybe there's something that still awaits me. Maybe the doors to the cage are not sealed shut, as I believed them to be, maybe I can find a way to overcome my peers', my family's, disappointment.

It is a breakthrough point, when I decide to cling onto my existence, when I start fighting back against the darkness that attempts to swallow me.

I become more cognizant with each passing second, resurfacing from underwater. Not yet awake, and the short moments of half-lucidity tire me, not yet strong enough to break a hold the dreams have over me, but close. Close enough to hear the angry conversation, over my head.

I'm glad I have the excuse of my slumber to shield me, as I recognize June's voice, as usual, demanding of something, until Fen interrupts him furiously.

'It's all your fault! You defiled her, took away her purity, and now, she refuses to cope with this existence anymore!'

Defiled. What an apt description, I marvel dispassionately. Accurate and to the point. Fen certainly doesn't beat around the bush. The voices above my head waver – or maybe it's just me that fades away again?

I struggle to hold onto my slipping consciousness, slightly curious that Fen got so rattled. So unlike the composed, impervious him.

'I believe it may be best to leave her in Fen'Harel's care for now, my son.' I tense internally, irritated by the tried patience of Mythal's. 'They have a history of good rapport, and the most important thing, for now, is stabilizing her condition.'

Is it my imagination, or does the infallible goddess seem a bit out of it? Shaken, perhaps? What a revelation. Is suicide here really that much of a rarity? I suppose it might be – it's much harder to sacrifice infinity than twenty, thirty years.

'But…'

'Enough!' the adamant, displeased tone of Elgar'nan's cuts through his son's protests. 'The word of the… incident has spread across Thedas, making People question you. And by extension, all of us. You will deal with this mess, and on your return, we will revisit the issue again.'

I knew he was my favourite in the pantheon for a reason, as he firmly puts June in his place.

Though it's no surprise that June had failed to figure out anything from what had happened. I guess he'll only begin to learn once I actually die, and not just barely.

After that, I'm left in peace, unbothered. Only people ever dropping by are Fen, who could just as well live in the room, considering how often he checks up on me, and Sylaise, who is responsible for taking care of my injuries. There's also my handmaiden, Neria, ever present, ever helpful, anticipating my wishes without me having spoken them.

Soon, I'm beginning to hold conversations, and slowly, become able to ingest some light meals, and steadfastly recovering. Most of my wounds were superficial, and are already starting to lose their red tinge. Neria reassures me of that – and from my perspective, the pain stopped bothering me, becoming merely an annoying twinge once I move carelessly. With time, and proper care, they will fade completely, claims Sylaise. My eyes are, however, an entirely different story.

I am well aware of the severity of the damage done to them – I had intended to maim them. Sylaise does not allow me to take the bandage off aside from check-ups, worried it would impede my recovery. As the sunrays are offending the tender, slowly healing cells, and I'm relieved when they are covered again.

Being blind – even temporarily, my healer assures me – strangely, helps to put everything into perspective. I am able to… see things more clearly, during these days of inactivity, laying quietly in bed, left to my thoughts.

What hurts me – more than I would care to admit – is skittishness of Fen's around me. Even though I can well understand its causes. It's clear he has no idea how to behave towards me, that seeing me so vulnerable had somehow changed our relationship. He threads lightly, weighing his words, testing ground, uncertainly. There are half-finished sentences, and hesitancy, and more words unspoken than said out loud.

Yet, no matter his apparent discomfort, he stays. Always near, watching, guarding over me, even if he doesn't know how to help. And as I get better, patching up my soul, gathering the scattered pieces, he also becomes more certain. Even though I do not return to my previous self, not entirely – some things lost forever – he accepts it, treats the changes with curious delight, not condemnation. Even if my wit is sharper, and the humour I find in situations darker, he doesn't judge.

I am vaguely aware that Fen changed his form, as I had felt his light touches, and saw a shadowy figure in my dreams. I may be blind, but I am far from stupid – and I can differentiate between the soft sound of paws, and decisive steps of shoed feet. I am surprised I do not care, much, about that – I would have expected to be as uneasy in his presence as I am with other males, but I trust him. Implicitly. He is still the same wolf to me, deep inside, he hasn't changed.

I do not ask for his reasoning behind the transformation, as he is not as open with me as he once was, and I have no wish to drive him away - I remain forever grateful for his company.

But the one to assists me the most in getting over my depression is not Fen, though his staunch, supportive presence is certainly a part of it, but Sylaise.

At first, we are both rigid around one another, and she refers to me with official professionalism, describing my condition to me in detail, as she moves around me, poking and checking and applying salves, and teaching Neria how she can do the same. It is much disconcerting, her fluttering light touches invading my personal space when I can't prepare for them, and I have to teach myself to relax, as the constant stiffening strains and aggravates the wounds.

Being blind has an unexpected sides to it, certainly.

Naturally, with the passage of time, we grow more comfortable. She starts speaking of meaningless court gossip, reporting with a light humour the recent affairs and scandals, and I listen, with avid interest, to her insightful observations. And then, one day, surprising both of us, I reply, with a witty, slightly morbid quip that forces a startled laugh out of her.

I like to think she is genuine in her unassuming friendship with me. I think she had gotten over her misplaced anger with me, and her jealousy over me holding June's heart. I had put her assumptions, that I had stolen away June from her on purpose, rather decisively, to rest. She stopped blaming me, and then, possibly, most likely, out of guilt, extended her hand to me.

She confesses quietly to being shocked and dismayed at finding me in such pitiful state, when Fen had demanded her assistance. And then, as if a flood gate opened, everything comes pouring out of her – as she feared for my life, feared for June's reaction, feared that she might, - for the first time in her life – fail. Because her powers weren't enough, and as long as I refused her help, I was balancing on a very thin line, so close to death I barely bore breath. Because no matter her intentions, the chance I would lose my eyesight entirely was more than likely – and even now, she is uncertain how much of it I'll recover.

She apologizes profusely for that, as well. Blindly, I reach out to her, and reassuringly squeeze her hand, as I place no blame on her shoulders. Sympathizing with her fright, and, compelled by her honesty, I return it with my own.

First words are stuttered, weak, as I force myself to speak against the constricting throat. I begin with my travels, paint my world before her – I do not attempt to glorify it, truthfully depicting all of its faults and problems – but she is fascinated, and asks for more. She resembles the young June at the moment, and I smile melancholically, remembering how well that went. I recount my meeting June, and soon, everything is out in the open, painful and raw, as my voice quivers in unspeakable agony – since the words are not enough, they pale, in comparison to reality. How do I explain, describe, how it feels to have one's soul shattered, torn and shattered, until there was no recovering it?

I can feel the wet drops falling on my hand, which she holds tightly, firmly, lamenting for me, when I can't, not at first.

But then, something in me unlocks, and I can feel the rising tide, unfurling within me, and I start to cry as well. I weep for my lost innocence, I weep for my tortured soul, I weep for the death of the girl named Joanne, who will never return, ripped apart by her suffering. The bandage over my eyes soon sags, wetting from my warm tears.

It's a relief, being able to cry again.

I do not know how much time passes before our quiet sobs recede. Sylaise sniffs, and while delicately dressing my eyes anew – the salt against the raw wounds has begun to sting - asks me tentatively,

'Do you blame your parents for what happened?'

'Yes.' I hesitate. 'No.' A heavy sigh. 'I don't know.'

I can feel her confusion at that, as her hands freeze.

'I often think on it, especially recently. I did not even attempt to explain. I just… expected them to accept me in stride' I exhale, continuing bitterly, 'Of course, not to say they shouldn't but… I had given them a cause to worry, and, at a first glance, an evident, obvious, explanation.' I pause, mulling over it, before adding a bit reluctantly,

'I do not know what I would have done in their place, knowing what they did.'

I fall silent, and she does not prod any further.

Saying it all out loud is a weight off my shoulders, and everything seems easier afterwards. More manageable. I rapidly get better, and start showing off some of my personality again, a touch a humour, an apt remark, and my unending curiosity.

At first, I am crippled by the lack of sight – even as I try moving, I bump against the furniture, bruising my already battered body, before I learn to rely on touch and sound more. It's disorientating, at first, until I learn to stretch, manipulate my aura, so that it encompasses my immediate surroundings, allowing me to perceive, create an imaginary outline of the space around me in my mind.

It leads to other experiments I never would have thought to try without that loss, and I find myself playing with my magic again. I cannot observe the shapes my spells take, and I feel frustrated, as they fail, more often than not, as I fail in replicating their exact patterns. But I try to not let it discourage me, and begin anew.

These are better days – but there are also worse ones. The days when I wallow in despair, looking at the holes left over in my soul. When I involuntarily flinch away from males, and feeling their surprise, hate the weakness in me. When I miss the vibrancy I used to have, the energetic stubbornness, and I feel incomplete, empty, passionless… aimless.

It's one of these days, when I realize something, subtly inspecting the binds of geas placed over my soul.

Fucking wolf.

Fucking wolf, I repeat to myself morosely. He lied. To save me, he had fucking lied.

But there's no bite to the thought, nor even much of a surprise – just resignation. I do not have enough energy to rage.

To be precise, technically, he had merely omitted a tiny, yet crucial thing. This is what we, both of us, do – weave the words to achieve the desired outcome. I just never expected of him to use it against me.

There's no lifting the geas, no squirming out of the binds, not permanently. I can lift them, weaken them, certainly – for a time. A stolen moment, before I'm forced back, forced to return here yet again, and to work on the spell anew.

A never ending tick and tock – once you hear one, you know another one comes. Inevitably.

Unless, of course, the bitch and her spawn suddenly find it in themselves to free me, in an inexplicable bout of generosity.

Right. When hell freezes over… – or, to be more local, when Creators descent onto Thedas.

I run a hand across my hair and sigh in defeat.

Yet, when he comes into the rooms, I cannot hold back my bitterness.

'I didn't think you would be this selfish' I state flatly. Fen draws a sharp, raspy breath, and I know, that he understands what I'm talking about – and does not deny the accusation. Of course, it would be a wasted effort on his part – both of us know each other far too well for such nonsensical attempts.

'I suppose, in this regard, you are quite similar to June' I muse out loud, dispassionately. He flinches at the sting of the pointed blow, I hear the faint rustle of his robes. I feel a tingle of guilt over it, but its soon smothered by my certainty that he deserves the censure.

Because I'm right. He wished me to remain, to stay alive – just like June did. Disregarding my plainly expressed desires, since there could be no conceivable doubt regarding them.

Ever since then, we hold each other at a chilly distance. I do not like what the wolf – former wolf, to be more accurate, but of course, he retains both of his forms, so maybe he is still a wolf? Did. He visits less, uncomfortable with my quiet, unchanging accusation hanging in the air. There are times I regret my words, missing him – but then I remind myself that he shouldn't have manipulated me. Not me. It's a betrayal I cannot find it in me to forgive so easily.

I have an unexpected visitor, coming in just after Sylaise had left after one of her regular check-ups – Neria, with her silvery voice, officially announces the arrival of the Ghilan'nain.

I have heard many unfavourable rumours comparing her gait to cow on the pasture, and always believed them slanders born from envy – until now. It is clear, as she saunters in, that whatever nature had grated her – supposedly – in beauty, it had skimped in grace.

'I was soo curious about meeting you' she trills excitedly, and I frown at the high tones irritating my ears. Luckily, my eyes are, as usually, covered by the white fabric, so the goddess has no way to discern my annoyance. 'But Sylaise and Fen'Harel, the boors, weren't letting anyone in. They said you were too weak for visitors.'

I can literally hear the pout on her face, she is such an expressive creature.

She sits on the edge of my bed, closing in onto me, and I back away, uneasy with her invasion of my personal space.

'Why did you do it?'

She touches the bandage, a curious little poke, before quickly withdrawing her hand. I run my fingers through my silvery locks, trying to think on the simplest way in which to convey at least some of my problem.

'You like Andruil, right?'

'Of course I do!' She replies immediately, honestly. 'She is wonderful…' Ghilan'nain swoons, and I fight down a growl, trying to contain my ire. I never had much patience for fools.

'So imagine, if you please, that you are yourself – loving Andruil, but the one who chose you is Falon'Din.'

'Eww, gross. Males are gross' I can see her scrunching her beautiful faces into a grimace of pure disgust with my imagination, before she asks, 'so, like, you like females?'

'That's not the point?'

The confusion radiates from her in waves, and this time, I cannot stop the groan.

Ugh, the girl – goddess – is a bird brain. The classical blonde from the jokes back home – only, she's not blonde, aside from her mind.

'You know, never mind. I give up.'

How did this girl survive the court? Ah, right. They fear Andruil enough to leave this half-wit alone.

I easily steer the conversation away – Ghilan'nain's focus is flighty, easily jumping from one issue to another, and soon, I'm regaled to a most recent gossip concerning Dirthamen's secret lover.

Personally, I very much doubt the credibility of it, as I'm very much aware of his stalwart devotion to his brother.

But 'Nain is convinced there must be something to it, and isn't that interesting?

I'm completely exhausted by the time she finally leaves. The inane prattle has tired me, and I'm glad for some peace.

Unexpectedly, the topic returns, picked up by Neria, once I'm out in the garden, enjoying fresh air, after weeks of enclosure within the palace wall's.

'So. Why did you do it, mistress?' I stop playing around with magic, surprised, yet pleased by her initiative.

'Hmm?' I prompt her to continue a bit distractedly, lost in my thoughts. Unreasonably, the loss of my sight had emboldened her. I do not know why the fact of my current disability has such an effect, as she knows, surely, I'm as dangerous as ever – if not more. I do seek my magic more easily, more naturally than before, as it is now one of the means of communicating with the world.

'Lord June is not a bad master to have. And yet…' she trails off, and I can feel the air move from her impatient gesture. Sometimes, she forgets about the bandage covering my head – if Sylaise is to be believed, I cannot risk the tender irises for at least a week more.

I do not mind, in fact, I revel in it. It gives me peace, as most are uncertain how to deal with me, disturbed by the sight of the cloth covering upper half of my face. The visit from Ghilan'Nain was the only one I had to bear, thankfully.

I consider her thoughtfully for a moment, enclosed in my dark world, flexing my hands in front of me. I ponder how to explain a concept of freedom, of pride, to someone who was born without it. Finally, with a light tug of my power, I create a strand of power, which allows me to catch a butterfly hovering over a rose-like flower.

Neria's eyes widen at the masterful accuracy, and she claps in enthusiastic endorsement. I snort – showing off was not my motivation, - and open my fist, displaying the fragile insect. I can feel the delicate gusts of winds it creates with the tiny movements of its wings.

'Look at it. I'm sure it's beautiful' I implore her, and soon, her steps come closer, a bit hesitantly at first, as she bends down over my hand with bated breath.

'For mortals, freedom is like wings. Take it away, and we cannot take in flight, achieve our potential, forever limited to crawling' I mercilessly rip the tender wings away from the powerless creature, and Neria stifles a sudden, anguished cry. I can feel the creature convulsing on my hand, while the young girl in front of me tries to calm her rapid breath. I scared her. I hope it gets her thinking.

Finally, she swallows, and takes a deep breath, before observing,

'But we are not butterflies.'

Well, at the very least, she has grasped the metaphor.

'Ah, but does the fact we survive having our wings ripped from us make it right?' I ask her, but hearing the telling, strained silence, I know she hadn't understood. Exhaling heavily, I squash the insect in my hand – a small mercy – and abandon the subject.

Finally comes the day when my bandage is taken down. I blink a few times, getting used to the brightness again, and cast a glance about the room. In the corner stands Fen, clearly uncertain of his welcome, and I take a moment to study him covertly, as Sylaise fusses over me.

He is most certainly handsome, though not in the overshadowing, aggressive sort of way, like June. His is more restrained look, of a lean, balanced figure, and severe, sort of… scholarly, I guess? Even the surprising, at first glance, baldness, somehow melds with the image. I can still see the wolf underneath it all. It fits him.

Suddenly, I flush, escaping with my eyes, realizing how inappropriate my behaviour is. No matter my curiosity regarding his new form, unsated for months of my blindness.

I am ogling him like a hormonal teenage girl, for fucks sake!

Finished with her tests, Sylaise lowers her head, saying,

'I did everything I could but…' she pauses, shame and sadness on her face, 'I do not think you will be able to see magic ever again.'

'What do you mean?!' jumps in aggressively Fen. 'You are a fucking goddess of healing!'

I forgive him his manipulative ways in that very moment. I'm touched by his indignation, outrage on my behalf. It reminds me of every time he took care of me, of the countless times he had supported me – even when he didn't know how to, flailing desperately on the unknown territory, grasping at straws.

I know, it will most likely happen again. It's him and me, and we both enjoy the game of playing others. There will come a day, when, in my best interest, he will reach to deceit again.

And there will come a day when I will do the same.

I hope he will find it in him to forgive me as well.

But, for the moment…

'It's fine, Fen.' I stop him from accosting the remorseful, cowering under her guilt – unreasonably, as she extended every effort – Sylaise.

'It's not alright! Do you…' he turns to face me, and snaps his mouth shut, flabbergasted by the warmth in my eyes.

I smile gently, and repeat softly,

'Everything is fine.'

Both of us know I'm not talking about my impairment anymore. He hesitantly reaches out to touch my cheek, and I snuggle against his hand.

We are fine.