XIV

Nathaniel watches her, curious, but says nothing, and she is immensely grateful that he makes sure Sigrun keeps quiet, too. Because this is something very brittle, very delicate. Something shifted between them, something very subtle, but she knows, knows it by the way Rainier glances at her sometimes, only to immediately look away. In the way he keeps avoiding her, and refrains from talking when he cannot avoid her, barely speaking more that a short greeting or a quiet goodbye, walking away quickly as soon as he can, as if the mere sight of her hurt him.

And that is why she needs to talk to him. Or rather: she needs him to talk to her. So just before dawn, when the Vigil is quiet and slightly unreal, she slips out of her room and walks to the chapel, knowing she will find him there, at a time he can be there alone with his thoughts and regrets and all the questions he is afraid to ask.

"My lady," he greets as soon as he notices her, bowing his head in respect.

She can see how his eyes dart from one side of the chapel to another, how he would rather flee than talk to her, than even be in the same room with her. But he cannot, because there is only one door and she is standing at the threshold, blocking his way out.

And then his gaze meets hers, reluctantly, hesitantly, and she understands she cannot force him to talk to her, because that would only add to the damage, because it would be unfair on either of them. So she steps forth, towards the statue of Andraste, and lights her candles, lips moving in a silent prayer for her parents, for Oriana and Oren, for Fergus. For guidance, for words that would help her get to Thom Rainier and bring him back to life.

She can feel his presence, and she knows he keeps a distance, far enough to be respectable and far enough that she knows he feels uncomfortable in her presence. For that, at least, she cannot blame him.

The words that come to her mind then scare her, but maybe that is what she needs. Maybe he needs to be shaken back to life. Maybe she needs that, too, this realisation she never wanted to acknowledge, but it is there, and she can see it every time she looks at him and even now, when she does not see him but knows he is right there.

"I killed him," she says quietly, her words more a breath than a whisper, but she knows that in the silence of the chapel Thom Rainier can hear her. "Rendon Howe. I killed him." When she pauses, she can feel the stillness in the air, and even though she does not see him she knows he is frozen to the spot. "I had prayed to the Maker for revenge for months, and then after I killed him I thanked the Maker for giving me that, at least, and I didn't care if that prayer was a sin, because all that mattered back then was Howe's blood on the blade of my family sword." She turns, looks right into Rainier's eyes. "It didn't help," she says quietly, but clearly. "I hoped the pain will be gone, that the hole in my heart would at least scar, but it didn't help. He felt no remorse, he boasted about what he did and so I don't regret killing him, and it was justice, but it didn't help."

When she walks closer, Rainier hangs his head, looks away. She stops beside him.

"Look at me, Thom Rainier," she says quietly.

He obeys her, as he always does. Just as meek and mellow as he was while fighting off fever and death, and this time the thought chills her to the bone.

"You regret. You changed your life." She watches as he tries to look away again, puts her fingers under his chin to keep him looking up, at her face. "If this is not enough to convince you to live, I have no other words to change it. But know this, Thom Rainier: death didn't solve anything, didn't change anything. Yours wouldn't have, either. Will not. But your regret can change things. Your life can change things. It changes things. Not the past, but the present, the future." Her hand slips onto his shoulder, thumb brushing across his tunic where she knows the scar is underneath. "So if not for yourself, live for them."

Live for me, Thom Rainier, she thinks, smiling at him sadly, live for me because I need to believe. That is what it is about, she realises. Hope. Believing that no matter what, there can be good in this world even in the most unexpected places.

. . .

It has been over ten years, but on that single night each year it feels the same. She is standing at the battlements, looking up in the sky, at the stars that looks like sparks flying up from a burning castle. Fergus manages better than her, somehow, despite all, and she thanks the Maker for it, and wonders that perhaps it is because he had not seen anything. She had, and the sight is forever burnt under her eyelids. And perhaps she could not have done more, but there is that ever-present feeling that she still should have done more, and nothing Fergus says to her can convince her otherwise.

There is a creak of the door, and heavy footsteps, coming to a sudden halt.

"I am sorry, my lady," Thom Rainier says quietly. So he knows what day it is. "I shouldn't..."

"You can stay, if you wish," she says to the air around her.

A surprised silence. Steps, lighter now, coming to a halt beside her, at a respectable distance. His gaze on her as he watches, and that strange mix of compassion and sorrow and guilt which she knows is in his eyes, and that is why she does not look at him because she does not want to see.

"Do not torment yourself over that, my lady," he says, his rough voice going softer, trying to soothe, to do something he has no great experience in but still he tries.

"It doesn't work, no matter how much you repeat that to yourself," she replies. He would know, oh, yes, he of all people knows that.

He reaches out, briefly touches her palm, just a ghost of a touch, as if he was afraid of touching her, as if he was afraid that could hurt her somehow. Her first instinct is to snatch her palm away, and her hand jerks. He withdraws his hand instantly.

She makes an effort to turn towards him, to let him know that she is not offended, nor repulsed, that she was simply taken aback and acted on instinct. When she looks up at him, his eyes are obscured by the shadows his wind-tousled hair casts on his face, and she is relieved that she cannot see what is in his eyes. For a moment, they both just look, he into her eyes, and she into the questions he is.

"What happened back there... You're guilty of nothing, my lady," he says softly, at last. "Believe me," he adds, with a mirthless, hollow smile. "I know about guilt." He bows to her briefly, turns away and walks back into the Keep.

And she stands there on the battlements, immobile, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. Because yes, of all men, he would know guilt, and she believes him.

The chilly gust of wind feels like a breath of life, and she almost chokes on it, can almost grasp it. But there is one thing she must do before that. He eased her burden, and she has to try to ease his. She has no right to offer him forgiveness, because it had not been her and it had not been him, but maybe if she sets him free she will also finally free herself.