Prompt: January hymn
Varric used to tease her about humming and singing under her breath, said he should have nicknamed her "Songbird" instead of "Sunshine."
But ever since Wintersend—since her Joining—she has not heard the music that used to be in her heart. It has withered, drowned beneath the flow of tainted blood that now runs through her veins.
It was cold in the Fereldan Keep, but she hardly noticed as she trained outside with straw dummies.
She would rather be anywhere but here—Anders ran away, didn't he? But Stroud seemed to sense the risk of leaving her alone and assigned her a mentor—an older Warden. She laughed quietly with bitterness: "Warden" was a fitting word, for she was a prisoner to the order; to the poison in her body. Even now he was watching, pretending to train as she was, flinging arrow after arrow into painted targets.
"Spar with me, Senior Warden," she found herself calling out in a brash challenge that she never would have said before the Joining. "I tire of these false enemies that provide no threat."
Nathaniel Howe raised one dark eyebrow, but followed her without comment to the ring.
Standing opposite him, Bethany hurled a fireball, remembering a distant time when she and her father had sparred like this. He'd taught her to use her magic to fight, to protect herself and her siblings.
"I never wanted this," she muttered, watching Nathaniel dodge the daggers of ice she flung at him. He fired off an arrow, but she blocked it easily. Suddenly, the other Warden was gone. She tensed, cursing her inattention. The rogue had obviously stealthed himself and—
Bethany crumpled to her knees with a cry of pain as he knocked her knees out from under her. She stared up at the sky, tears leaking from her eyes.
"I never wanted this," she said again, a sob strangled in her throat.
Nathaniel leaned down next to her, concern crossing his angular features. She laid there, feeling stupid, and horrible, and wishing he was a real enemy that would just kill her and get it over with.
Instead, he offered a calloused hand. "Come," he said in a gravelly voice. "You'll never find a reason for this if you lay there in the mud."
Reason. A purpose for this misery? Perhaps. Perhaps it was possible. She locked eyes with him, noticing that his irises were gray, like the never-ending clouds above the Keep... or like the glint of a blade shining ahead of her on the path out of Lothering. Carver. Bethany swallowed and grasped the older Warden's hand. For you, brother, I will try.