A/N: Thank you for your help with this, Lisa. Your suggestions, as always, were spot-on. Hope you feel better soon!
Tears of the Mourning Star
Long ago, when the mountains were little more than hillocks, a star appeared low in the night sky. It was a pale grey color with a cascade of silver tears trailing behind it, and it appeared to loom closer with each passing night.
The ground began to tremble as the star approached. Prayers beseeched Father Sky to protect the great clans of the north, but to no avail. Trembling became shaking and still the star came ever closer, its tears falling to earth. As it drew nearer great rains came, heavy and unrelenting like the tears of a woman in mourning. Yet still could we see the star, even in the midst of the rain.
Many nights passed as the star traveled across the home of Father Sky. Where once had been arid lands there were lakes, fed by rivers that roared angrily over their banks. Many were lost to the floods or trembling, and the star became known among our people as Glahseren, the Mourning Star.
When at last the Mourning Star departed, the lands were forever changed. Growth sprang up in once barren lands, rivers ran in new directions, life flourished in unexpected places. We mourned our losses but celebrated our victories.
All life is a cycle, a pattern that repeats constantly. So it is with the Mourning Star. It is a herald, a paean of joy, of the new cycle. Watch for the return of the Mourning Star, look for her tears and celebrate, for with them comes renewal. Found in a tattered and worn book entitled: Stories of the North Wood Tribes
~~~oOo~~~
Morning crept closer, no more than a hint of pink in a fragile grey sky. A stir of wind, scented with roses and freshly turned earth, brushed tenderly against her skin. She glanced to the east, and, for a moment, she felt at peace as she watched the rays of the rising sun paint golden filigree against a deepening lavender sky. But, even as the sun took possession of the sky, clouds in the south began their assault.
"You were supposed to rest," Aerin chided quietly from the shadows.
"I was supposed to do a great many things," she replied solemnly, the bitterness creeping in despite her efforts.
"Perhaps I should go and cut some willow reeds for you?"
His tone was almost unkind, and definitely mocking. She blinked, surprised to see his unfailing courtesy slip. Tilting her head, she studied him in the pastel glow of dawn. He looked as tired as she felt. She leaned closer and saw a few silver strands among the dark. She noticed smudges under his eyes, and new lines fanning away from them. Her impulse, as it had before, was to reach out and run her fingertips along those lines to ease them, and it angered her that she still had such a desire.
Four days had passed since her sentence had been imposed, three since the messenger had been sent to the Chasind village where her family was staying to let them know she was all right. Each day had seen torrents of rain falling from a dark and violent sky. She had yet to make her way home, remaining in the monastery with the initiates instead, though she'd been given her own small room. Sooner or later, she would have to face the farm...and her fears. She felt her spine stiffen as she straightened. Her father hadn't raised her to shirk her duties and responsibilities, yet she had allowed Mother Glynis and Aerin to convince her to stay in the chantry. They claimed it would help her gather her strength. It seemed only to make her feel weaker and less in control.
Maker, how was she going to explain to her family that she was a conscript? She had tried, in vain, to find a different solution but no amount of arguing with Grant had changed his mind. Even Aerin, as charming as he was, had not swayed the constable from his position. Finally, she had given up, instead reminding herself that a few years of service in a militia that only mustered once a week and went on maneuvers only once a year was hardly the same as being conscripted into the royal guard or the Ferelden army. Her fate could have been much worse. She ought to be grateful for that small mercy. She found she wasn't.
"I'm not in need of a whipping willow," she replied after several moments of silence, her voice stilted and cool.
"I disagree. You aren't sleeping, you aren't eating. You have spent countless hours sitting in the gardens, in the rain, staring at nothing, clenching your hands into such tight fists that your nails have bitten into your flesh. I have seen the marks and blood on your palms, Lady Hawke. If that isn't punishing yourself, perhaps you will explain what it is?"
Laria blinked, the anger in his words penetrating her barriers to land with unerring accuracy. Turning away from him, she paced the length of the garden before wheeling and pacing back. "I am here, at your invitation, to rest," she replied coolly.
Andraste's grace, this was not how she wanted their morning to go. She gripped her hands and took a deep breath, reaching for the stoicism that had helped her through her father's death. "I appreciate your concern, Ser Bryant, but I assure you, I have no desire to punish myself."
A well-formed brow rose and there was a sadness in the smile hovering about his lips. "Of course not. That you aren't eating is merely a coincidence. As is your refusal to sleep, no doubt."
Anger needled at her nerves, taunting her carefully constructed composure as it wicked its way under her skin to heat her blood. "Stop it," she whispered harshly. "Stop it!" she commanded with more strength.
"Of course, Lady Hawke. Far be it from me to show you any truth other than your own." Sorrow underscored his tone, as if he'd held a similar conversation with someone else but to no avail. There was a certain helplessness entwined with the sorrow.
She stared up at the sky, now moving effortlessly from deep violet to a bright, clear blue. Clouds continued amassing as they moved relentlessly onward. After months of drought, the rains seemed determined to stay until the rivers overran their banks. She should get back and make sure the house was protected from floodwaters. It would be so easy to remain where she was, fixed in a constant twilight, without responsibilities. Too easy. She had drifted for days, but admitting that meant dealing with things she was trying to avoid.
He was right about so many things, and yet she couldn't bring herself to unbend and tell him so. She knew she needed to let her grief and anger come out, but the thought of losing the last few strands of her dignity, as well as her pride, held her prisoner. She felt brittle, like a clay pot that hadn't been properly fired. It would take very little for it – her – to shatter.
She found she was shaking again, the strain pulling her nerves into a taut wire, vibrating with the need to scream at the Maker for his intolerance and abandonment, to beg for forgiveness from the families of those she'd killed, to give voice to the sobs that pushed continuously to be released. For long moments, she couldn't speak and when she finally did, Aerin was gone, slipping back into the shadows of the walled garden, a wraith untouched by the morning sun.
~~~oOo~~~
"Lady Laria, please wait for Ser Bryant. His orders –"
"I don't care what his orders are, Maron. I am going home. Now. You may ride with me, or not, as you choose."
She cinched the saddle and tested it, slipping a finger between the cinch and Mab's belly. A shadow fell across the door, like a cloud passing in front of the sun, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Aerin standing in the doorway, arms folded, face masked by the gloom.
"Ah, I see our Lady Hawke takes wing," he began, waving a dismissal in Maron's direction and stepping into the stables. In the filtered light, she saw his face was far graver than his words. Maron disappeared through the open door, his armor rattling in his haste to get away.
"Unless you are holding me prisoner here, I see no reason why I shouldn't," she replied as she ran the tie-strap through the girth ring and knotted it. Her fingers reflected her voice, stiff and unyielding. It took three attempts before she had secured the leather strap.
"There's no need to hold you prisoner, Laria. Your pride is doing an admirable job of that."
The barb stung as it founds its mark. Why was he deliberately provoking her? Had he no idea of the fury that raged within her? He cared about her, why was he trying to hurt her?
"Cry, damn you," he cursed in a low voice, moving to her. A hand, neither gentle nor rough, settled on her shoulder. His other hand moved to cup her chin, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. "Just give voice to your emotions before they devour you," he urged, his voice straining against the patience he had shown her earlier.
"I have no desire to cry. Nor am I the emotionally overwrought woman you seem to think I am," she argued, jerking her chin from his grasp and returning to her task of saddling Mab.
"If I believed that, Laria, I wouldn't be standing here now."
"And if I felt the need to be cloistered here, I would stay. But hiding here solves nothing, aids in nothing. I need to get back to the farm and set it to rights."
Refusing to say more, she pulled herself into the saddle and carefully walked Mab around Aerin and out of the stable. The sun nearly blinded her, dazzling and warm against her cool skin. Without a backward glance, she spurred her horse and rode out of the chantry's courtyard, turning onto the back road to avoid riding through Lothering.
Mab's gallop turned into a mincing walk as the roads, still thick with mud from days of rain, were treacherous. The horse refused to do more than take dainty steps around the mud-holes, much to Laria's consternation. She needed to get home. Urgency plucked at her, pushing her onward, twisted and tangled with the fear of what she would find once she arrived.
Concentrating on Mab kept her mind from spiraling back in on itself, examining and re-examining every action she'd taken the night of the attack. There were moments, late at night when the world was sleeping, that her mind replayed the events over and over, always seeking a different outcome.
Glancing behind her, she wasn't sure which feeling angered her more…the relief she felt at not seeing Aerin riding up behind her, or the disappointment that he hadn't said something that would have made her stay. The contradictions only added to the turmoil she felt.
"Papa bear," she whispered, tears welling. She swiped at them, furious with her weakness. How disappointed would her father be to see her now? She was doing a very poor job of taking care of the family, had done something he had never been forced to do because he had never allowed himself to be put into such a situation. He would have packed everything up and left long before the circumstances had become dangerous to the family. Why hadn't she? A question whose answer danced away from her.
Dead stalks of wheat had been crushed and drowned by the rain, leaving mounds of debris in tidy rows. But there was also new growth, small green sprouts poking bravely out of the mud, tended by an unknown hand. Had the family returned without her knowing? Where had the seedlings come from? She slid out of the saddle, her boots sinking into the soil.
Kneeling beside the sprouts, mindless of the wet earth, she studied them, confused. Someone had grown the seedlings and transplanted them. The growth process took several weeks, so someone had used at least part of their own seedlings. But who? And why?
Glancing around, she noticed that the mounds of dead wheat had been deliberately piled up, that they were ready to be gathered and burned away from the newly planted oat seedlings. She stood and bent to brush at the mud caking her trousers, trying to calm the rapid beats of her heart.
Had Aerin sent some of the templars and lay brothers to plant a new oat crop? Where had he obtained germinated seedlings?
Footsteps, muffled by the water-soaked soil, sounded behind her and she swung around, nearly nose to nose with Quince Barlin. She let out a startled cry and instinctively reached for her sword as she stepped back. Recognition finally made it past the fear and she dropped her hand from the hilt of her sword.
"Laria, I didn't think you'd be back yet." His eyes darted nervously between her and the seedlings.
Her heart collided with her stomach. What was he doing? But she knew, saw it in the quick, furtive glances he sent the seedlings. He was her unseen benefactor. Why? What would possess him to jeopardize his own oat crops for her family? She stared at him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.
"Quince, you shouldn't have used your own seedlings," she protested, once her heart had calmed. Reaching out a hand and laying it lightly on his arm, she allowed herself a smile. A dull red flush suffused his neck and face.
"It wasn't just me. We all donated some of our seedlings."
She felt weightless, as if she could float away on a middling wind. Who were 'the all' he'd mentioned, and why would they help her, of all people? Hadn't she just killed three of the town's citizens? Speech deserted her as she stared around her, taking in the neat rows of newly planted seedlings. There looked to be enough to take them through the winter if they were frugal. She could not understand such generosity and she ducked her head to hide tears that formed. Blinking rapidly, mind working slowly, she wondered what she could say in the face of such kindness.
"Quince – I – how…" she trailed off and tried again. "I will never be able to repay you."
"No need to repay, Laria. Most of us feel partly responsible for what happened. We heard Pelham's threats and ravings. We should have set up a watch, or warned you to leave until things settled down. We didn't do anything and you paid for it."
It was too much for her to take in. Tears continued to gather but she dammed them behind closed eyes, willing them away through sheer stubborn determination. "Who else?" she finally managed, her voice made thick and uneven by her emotions.
"It would be easier to say who didn't."
She stared at the man before her, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. He'd been the object of her first serious infatuation, and later, he'd become her first and only lover. Now, looking abashed, her best friend gave her a sheepish smile. She reached up and caressed his cheek with fingers that shook. They knew, without speaking, how moved she was, and how honored. He nodded, meeting her gaze and holding it.
"Don't leave, Laria. Don't take your family and run. There's no need," he commanded and then gave a self-conscious laugh. "I'd best get back to my place. Da will be looking for me and it looks like another storm's heading this way."
She moved closer and brought her lips to his cheek, her hands reaching around his broad shoulders. The physical contact centered her, brought her body and mind back to share the same space. "Thank you, my dear friend," she whispered before stepping back.
He took his leave quickly and she watched him until he disappeared over the crown of a low hill. Even after he was no longer visible, she found herself staring after him and only slowly became aware of the shrill, raucous call of crows, the sweet chirrup of chickadees and the low hum of bees; the sounds of life.
Breaking out of her reverie, she made her way to the small, neat house that had been home for nearly eight years and would remain so, it seemed. She was having trouble believing, in allowing herself to believe. Before entering the house, she stopped by the well and drew a bucket of water, but stopped as memories flooded through her…
Pelham was so close she could smell his unwashed body; redolent of old ale, rancid oil, sweat and onions. Her stomach jerked and rolled. An odd echo of staccato heartbeats deafened her momentarily.
"Maker's arse, Florrin, let's get this done!" Pelham hissed again. "Jolby?"
"Yeah," grunted a voice several paces away. Jolby Drumble? Her heart sank in dismay. The day laborer hired out only when he couldn't cadge drinks at Dane's Refuge. He had three children by Widow Winona, for all that they hadn't married. A man of great girth and porcine features. She shuddered, her legs trembling with the need to move.
"Seems Florrin lit out. Go torch the barn while I get that apostate," Pelham hissed.
Her world exploded then as she pushed up from her crouch and launched herself in his direction, throwing herself at him with such force that they both careened against the well-house before crashing to the ground.
He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. "Go!" he yelled, before returning his attention to her.
He was brutally efficient, his fingers digging into her throat and pushing on her windpipe. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, and she bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him. The world was beginning to darken, fuzzy lights shimmering in the distance and she knew if she didn't dislodge him quickly, she'd be dead.
She twisted and turned, freeing first one hand and then another, an agonizingly slow process, or so it felt as her breath was choked from her. With her hands free, she brought them up and sank her fingers into his eye sockets, pushing her thumbs into his nostrils for purchase as she continued turning and twisting her body.
A scream broke from her and then another. She gripped her sword, swinging around at the sound of mocking laughter. Pelham, dirty and bloody, advanced on her, his sword drawn, sneering at her. "Don't be afraid, little girl…we only want your sister."
Another scream rose up in her throat, but died away as she brought her sword up, pointing it at the advancing figure. "Please, Pelham, don't make me do this," she pleaded, stepping back. Still he kept advancing.
"Laria!"
She blinked once, twice, and again as her eyes slowly focused. She stared at her drawn sword and then at the man who was calling her name so insistently. She felt as if she was viewing everything through a long tunnel.
"Aerin? I – I thought …" she began and then trailed off. She carefully re-sheathed her sword and stared around her, feeling confused and embarrassed.
He came to her and his hands gripped her arms, his expression concerned. "Laria, do you know where you are?" he demanded urgently.
She glanced around, letting out a shaky laugh. "I'm home, obviously. You frightened me, sneaking up on me like that. And," she continued, looking pointedly as his hands, "you're hurting me."
Aerin gave her a gentle shake and dropped his hands. The color had drained from his tanned face, and his concern was palpable. "You called me Pelham," he said shortly, stepping back.
She shook her head in denial. "Don't be ab – I would never –" again she trailed off as the truth filtered in.
She turned away from him, her feet taking her across the courtyard, away from him. Was she unhinged? How could she have thought Aerin was Pelham? The memories had been so vivid, so real. She closed her eyes, rubbing at her temples, disgusted to feel the press of tears in her throat once more.
With the disgust came anger, and she spun around, pointing a finger at him. "You keep pushing and pushing, but I want to forget!" she shouted at him. He flinched at her words but held his ground as she continued to pace around the yard. "You want me to cry, you're impelling me to do so, but I can't!"
"Why can't you?" Aerin asked, his voice as calm and still as the air before a storm.
She stopped pacing, her shoulders stiff. "Because there isn't time to wallow in self-pity."
"My dear Lady Hawke," he said sorrowfully, stepping closer, but she shook her head, holding up her hand to stop him, to shove him away if necessary. Her self-control hung perilously on the edge. She would be Maker damned if she would allow it to slip over.
He would undo her. He would unwind the carefully knit cocoon she had woven to protect herself. She could already feel the seams pulling apart. Panic awoke as more threads unraveled.
"You have to deal with this, Laria."
"I just need to forget it!"
"That is the surest way to remain centered in the past, to give it control. Let it out."
"I won't! I can't!" she cried out, but it was already too late. The pain and fear, the guilt were all bubbling to the surface, threatening to spill over.
"Why? Why can't you?" he asked as if he already knew the answer. But they both knew the truth, and she finally gave voice to it.
"I'm afraid," she whispered, head bowed and fists clenched tightly. She wouldn't be able to stop once she started. All the tears and anger and grief would overwhelm her and she would never be the same person again.
It was the sound of the robin's song that finally released her tears. The force of them, so long held at bay, staggered her, dropped her to her knees. She covered her face, trying to block out the memories of that night but they came with wicked purpose, determined to undo her carefully constructed calm. Sounds emerged from her that humiliated and humbled her; primal screams, whimpering, curses against the fates, against the Maker, against herself.
To his credit, Aerin knelt beside her, his arm, steady and comforting, pulling her close. A murmur of soothing words whispered against her ear, and she sobbed out her anguish, her anger and her fears in a torrent, until she was exhausted.
~~~oOo~~~
The rain arrived after dinner. He'd managed a decent enough meal, given the limited amount of unspoiled food, and she'd eaten it with more relish than she'd previously shown for food. There had been little conversation during the meal, even less while they cleaned up and washed the dishes.
As the rain gathered strength, the steady drumbeat of it on the roof made them both drowsy. Their game of cribbage forgotten, Laria yawned widely and then excused herself. He noticed that she left her door open but he stayed where he was, stretching his legs towards the fire. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but thoughts of her played against his closed lids.
Hours later, when the rain was no more than a dripping mist, he heard her cry out in her sleep. He stood up, stretching tight muscles and listened for the sound again. He could hear her thrashing about and he moved with quick, sure steps to her bedroom.
A candle burned low on a table beside her bed, and she murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, fretful and restless. He pulled up a chair and sat down, offering quiet reassurances until she calmed and fell into a deep sleep again.
He watched her, curled on her side and hands tucked under her cheek. A stray curl brushed against her forehead and he allowed himself to brush it back. She had cried for so long and hard that afternoon that she'd become dehydrated, her breath shuddering through her. But she had finally begun the slow process of healing, and he was grateful for that.
She stirred, rolling from her side to her back, flinging an arm up to cover her eyes. "I know you're there," she said, her voice husky with sleep and the after-effects of her tears.
"I'll sit in the other room if it will help you sleep," he offered. He hoped she wouldn't send him away. He felt as though he'd spent most of his time in Lothering chasing after her only to be rebuffed. Obviously my wooing technique needs a great deal of work, he thought wryly.
She lowered her arm, her solemn grey eyes meeting his. "No, I don't want you to go," she confessed, pushing herself up on her elbows. "It's just that, right now, I'm not sure if I want you near me because I'm frightened of being alone, or because I care for you," she admitted honestly.
"At your pace then, my lady Hawke. That you want me near is a start," he replied after a moment. His disappointment added only a slight hitch to his smile.
The past four days at the monastery, watching her as she stumbled, lost in her own darkness, had shown him just how solitary his life had become since Gwyneth's death. His fellow templars, members of the Chantry, even the Revered Mother, were friends, but none of them had ever penetrated his own carefully constructed walls. Laria Hawke had breached the walls and carefully wrapped herself around his heart and she had no idea how fragile a creature it was. Now, in her house, amongst the trappings of her life, he wondered if he shouldn't leave before they were both hurt, even knowing it was far too late.
"Now, how about some tea and honey for your throat?" he continued, standing and moving quickly to the door.
"Yes, please. I'll be right there."
A few minutes later, standing in the small kitchen, waiting for the water to heat, he heard her soft footsteps padding across the wooden slats of the floor. His heart dipped and then began to beat loudly and plaintively as her hand came to rest on the small of his back. For the first time in years, he was unsure of what to do, so he did nothing, waiting for her to speak, feeling much too vulnerable for his liking.
"Aerin," she began softly, her hand moving slowly up his back.
He bit back a groan, his desire leaping to life. He felt like a randy young boy, unable to maintain his control, and that thought brought with it the knowledge that he was pathetically grateful for her touch. Her fingers slipped into his hair, scraping gently at his scalp and his earlier groan turned into a barely disguised growl.
"Aerin," she whispered, her breath warm against the back of his neck.
Either she had no idea how badly he wanted her, or she was a tease, and he could not believe the latter. He leaned against the counter, his erection straining against his leathers. Maker's breath, had she no idea how desirable she was? How badly he wanted her?
"Please, Aerin, look at me."
To his regret, her hand fell away then. He took a deep breath, feeling an odd sensation of heat seeping into his cheeks. He was blushing like some daft, shy adolescent, something he hadn't done in a very long time, at least not because he was attracted to a woman.
He turned to face her and she was so close he could see the gold flecks in her grey eyes, so close he could see his reflection in them. So close she no doubt felt the physical presence of his attraction to her. She held his gaze, reaching up to brush at his hair, to let her fingers trail along his cheeks before falling gently to his shoulders.
"I want you to stay because I care," she said softly. "Please."
Still he did not do what he wanted, letting her determine the next step, but his heart was racing, his skin tingling at her touch. His eyes swept shut and his breath caught. It had been too long since he'd felt the light touch of a caress on his skin. How could anyone think the love between two people was wrong? That it detracted from service to the Maker? It only added to it, gave it depth and meaning…enriched it.
Her lips brushed against his, light and tentative at first. He willed himself not to move, to let her be the guide, but he felt his resolve weakening as her hands caressed his shoulders. A soft moan escaped from her as she leaned against him, her lips pliant and warm against his.
He broke away, finally, his breath quick and his heartbeat erratic. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked, suddenly aware that her answer had the power to uplift him or crush him.
She brought her hands up, gentle fingers tracing the planes and angles of his face. A small smile played across her lips. "You sound worried," she teased. "Does this mean you aren't nearly as cavalier as you pretend to be?"
Relief, love, desire all rushed through him at her words, at the teasing lilt of her voice. She was invigorated, awake and aware for the first time in days. The woman he'd believed in, the woman of such strength and conviction, smiled at him. And with her renewed spirit came his salvation. It flooded into him, through him, the knowledge that there was a future, no matter how tentative and difficult, with the woman who had captured his heart.
The ache of loneliness eased. His answering smile lit his face, was reflected in her eyes. This was a start, a new beginning for them both, and he accepted the gift without question.
"My lovely lady, never let it be said that a wolf fears a hawk."
A/N: Glahseren is a combination of two Welsh names and translates to: Raining Star.
Most ancient cultures viewed the arrival of a comet as a harbinger of death, a destructive punishment, and/or the work of evil deities. But there were several cultures, including a few small tribes in Northern California, who viewed them as a herald of a new age, and they were a cause for celebration. They accepted that there would be great upheaval first, but that a peaceful and joyous new age would follow. They rejoiced for the future generations who would benefit from their sacrifices, if it came to that.
A robin represents growth, change and renewal. The mnemonic for a robin's song is: cheerily, cheer up, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.
