Chapter Thirty-Five: Castle of Glass
AN: Fenris' song is Linkin Park: Castle of Glass
Rillian's song is Paolo Buonvino and Skin: Renaissance.
Some of the books are real medical texts ('Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica','De Humani Corporis Fabrica' and 'Horror Autotoxicus') and I made up 'Song of the Magrallen' and 'Veins of Blue Lightning' though the latter was inspired by 'Make It Rain by Foy Vance.
My depiction of Ath Velanis is based on Pontefract Castle.
I was also thinking of the poems, 'The Song of the Stormy Petrel' by the Russian revolutionist Maxim Gorky and 'Not forever will the lord of the red hail' by Dylan Thomas. I realize DA is set before the equivalent of the Renaissance or the Russian Revolution, I just like revolutionary and post-apocalyptic stuff!
"Rillian!" the Arishok's call rolled in echoes. He and his men were already inside the dungeons. They had let Rillian's party take the risks – defeat Titus – and now followed after her to claim the prize. "The Ariskok would speak with you!"
He stalked into view, gleaming in his armour. He was surrounded by guards and some of them were Saarebas. There was a loud boom outside – the sound of gaatlok.
"A taste of our power. Ath Velanis is ours. The Magrallen is ours."
"Why would you use Blood Magic? Isn't that why you despise Tevinter?"
"Our Viddasala speaks of a plot named 'Dragon's Breath' that will use the blood of dragons to allow the mass production of gaatlok. We were searching for a High Dragon – but a king with the blood of Calenhad will be far easier to control. I do not owe you this explanation – I give it to you out of respect. Join us. Embrace the Qun, and you may study the cure for taint. Its secrets will be ours."
Alistair growled, "You will never take my father!"
Rillian said, "I will never prostitute my science. Bianca - Jowan - Lambert and I: we swore a blood oath. As scientists, we research ethically, free; or we die ethically, free forever. Simple, no?"
Her three friends moved beside her, backing her without question. Ser Otto – blind again, but able to 'see' the magic of the Saarebas, raised his mace to defend them.
Maric chuckled – impossibly weak, hurt, crushed, but the laugh of a man who has nothing left to lose. "I am going to power up the Magrallen. Ask yourself how much time you've got."
Eerily, the Arishok addressed Isabella. "I appeal to you, Naishe. Would you have your friends die? We are the future. The Qun is the faith. We bring peace. We bring order. We bring guidance."
"No dice. I am Rillian's trooper." As an aside, she whispered to Zevran, "Why does every party I go to end up like this?"
The Magrallen glowed an unholy red. "Dragonfire," Maric said – his shattered voice almost sad. "It might have been your birthright: Titus told me the Magisters Sidereal bred their Elven slaves with dragons to create a slave race with strength. The Qunari eventually escaped and turned on their masters. What they did to you was evil. What you are trying to do is evil. I am not your experimental subject. Come in peace or come to die. The choice is yours."
The Arishok's shout of fury raised a contorted, veinlike wrinkle in the translucent desk. He turned to his men. "Strike," he ordered.
"Instead, it kills."
The Arishok and his men went down like target practice, incinerated to ashes. So did the screaming skull that had been Yavana, trapped by Titus as an oculara. But Maric's own body was fading – unable to control the power.
"Stop - please!" Alistair begged him.
Rillian was searching frantically among Titus' books – libraries of a lifetime. There was no way they would win – the Qunari were too many. 'One Arishok dies; another is chosen' - so Fenris had told her, and they would waste no time. What would they do to the murderers of the former Arishok! Her heart ached with how idiotically she had allowed the Arishok to violate her trust.
She searched the desks first – found five leather-bound volumes: 'Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica', 'De Humani Corporis Fabrica', 'Veins of Blue Lightning; the making and unmaking of a lyrium warrior', 'Song of the Magrallen' and 'Horror Autotoxicus'. Rillian stowed them all in the deep pockets of her backpack, disturbed that there did not seem to be one that directly addressed taint. Despite her disappointment, she felt the haunted power of the things she held; the sheer intelligence involved.
Bianca was searching the shelves and gave a whoop of delight. "'Engineering: theory and practice.' This one's an alchemy text – it may even contain the formula for gaatlok! Titus didn't even understand what he was holding. And this..." she went quiet a moment. 'Titans: the fathers of dwarves.' Can I please ask you to forget it was found? Please? It doesn't exist." The non-dwarves nodded unhesitating agreement. Rillian knew Bianca and Varric would share the secret when they were ready.
Zevran grabbed Rillian's arm, "Cara mia – we've got to get out of here."
"No!" Rillian tore herself free, backed against the wall. "Alistair can't leave Maric and I have a duty to cure taint and end the Blights."
Bluntly, Zevran said, "You can't carry it out dead. We can't help you dead. King Maric used the last of his own life-force to power the Magrallen – he doesn't have much time."
"My son – I am not going to make it." There was a touch of surprise in Maric's voice. After everything he had been through, it was still impossibly hard for a man to face his own mortality.
"You don't know that..."
"Alistair: you don't need me. I know you'll go on to do great things: the Warden Fiona should have been and the husband I should have been. But I need..."
The dark suspicion floating on Alistair's face amused Maric. He gave a dry chuckle. "No - the way to destroy the Magrallen – make sure it cannot fall to Qunari hands - is by casting the Litany of Adralla." The king looked at the three who could cast it: Rillian, Fenris and Lambert.
Lambert approached without hesitation, stood beside Alistair. "It should be me," he told the Templar. "I am the only one who can do it painlessly – because I am a mage."
He looked quiet, stricken, determined. During the Fifth Blight, it had been his duty to heal the injured and comfort those he could not save; take their pain and maintain their dignity.
He said, "Your Majesty, when I begin you will feel the artificial life leave your body. Your mind may float in and out of the Fade – reality may be permeable. But I promise you: there will be no pain."
"Because you'll feel it instead," Maric said, "Fiona told me of mages who could do that but she had never met one. I'd rather you didn't. It can't possibly feel worse than the years in Velabanchel."
"As you wish, sire.
Before the Litany ended, Maric was dead. Eaten up from within, there was nothing left of him. The Magrallen was no more than a gaudy chandelier.
"Do not remember your father like this," Jowan said softly, "Remember him as you saw him in the Fade. That's how Ser Otto remembers Boann and how I'll remember him."
Ser Otto smiled - the ghost of the handsome young knight still visible behind the burned features and blinded eyes. Alistair and Rillian had not needed the Fade vision to know what Ser Otto truly looked like: the Templar had trained Alistair since he was a squire of fifteen and he had once bought Rillian the map of her dreams.
Rillian looked at Alistair and had no idea what to say. "I thought...I believed...the Arishok. If I had planned this better, Maric may still be alive."
"Never think that. You wanted to think the best of a society that treats Elves and humans as equals. I love you for that. For everything. Because you're who you are. My father is in the Golden City and I will see him again – but hopefully not too soon."
As soon as the Magrallen's rolling thunder quieted, dire threats boiled up from the hallway. Rillian smiled ruefully. Battling underground in a place of magic that had just killed their Arishok would take all the courage the Qunari possessed. When they came again, it would be with a bellyful of fear – the sort that generated an absolutely mindless fanaticism.
To Varric, she said, "Can you and the archers hold them off? Carver and Donnic can't help until they're on us, but they can help me look for a way out. Fenris: any ideas?"
Fenris' alert, constrained expression, the veins of blue lightning that etched his dark, muscular body and the glaring emerald eyes combined to image him as a fighter: a person executing an ordained role.
"The way we came in will be guarded. Fortunately, I know another. Come with me if you want to live."
Instead of retracing the steps Gatt had shown them – the Qunari knew those and they'd be sitting ducks – Fenris led them through an embrasure.
Five Qunari gave chase. Varric wasted five rounds of his version of gaatlok – only hit one man. Another group was even luckier, avoiding Sebastian's arrows without injury. Since the Magrallen's destruction, all light had faded – Lambert couldn't cast Light without making himself a target. Fortunately, the darkness shielded both sides.
With a sinking heart, Rillian heard a roar of voices in the distance. Reinforcements. Pointlessly, she recounted her grenades: three flasks of fire, frost and lightning.
In the abyssal darkness, the Karasten exhorted his men, "Our enemy are blind. They waste their strength. Remember: this is the traitor who brought death to our Arishok and the basSaarabas who know magic as a drowning man knows water. We waste nothing: they will be made to serve or given qamek if that is the only way they can be saved. The Qun conquers." The 's' was sibilant, an elongated hiss.
In the distance behind her Rillian heard occasional thumps as her friends stumbled in the darkness. Suddenly growls and screams blasted the black solidity. She heard a name – called in anguish. Thank the Maker it was not one of hers.
Fenris' voice almost startled her into firing his way. She saw the lyrium brands just in time.
"This way."
The sighted followed the glowing brands; Ser Otto, in the darkness, was in his element. He struck Saarebas with his Templar powers and always knew where their own mages and Templars were. He put out a hand to steady Jowan.
Behind them, the metal wedges squealed piercingly as the dungeon doors were forced. An orange glow followed like smoke.
"They've got torches."
"That'll illuminate them more than us."
"If they can see and we can't, we're finished."
"I can 'see'" Ser Otto promised them. "Trust me."
They did. Ser Otto and Fenris led the way. Fenris' quickly drank another lyrium vial from Jowan - before Lambert could object. The lyrium warrior's anticipatory grin was spectral eye whites and teeth. An instant later, he phased, and it was as if the Qunari were being put through a meat grinder. A torch fell. Wild, surreal patterns scrawled the walls and ceiling.
The dungeons were huge, and extended across a number of different rooms, all around thirty-five feet below the main bulk of the castle. One room held magical ammunition: Titus' attempts to create gaatlok (it appeared similar to Dworkin's mixture, with lyrium sand instead of charcoal, and the proportions were wrong) vials and vials of grenades accompanied by a book titled 'The Way of the Tempest'. And a staff whose name, written in the Tevene Rillian could understand thanks to Urthemiel, was 'Encore'. Instinctively, she passed it to Jowan – but he frowned.
"This one wants a singer."
Rillian did not ask him how he could know that – merely passed the staff to Lambert, who took it gingerly. As an apostate trying to pass as a non-mage, he had never carried a staff in his life.
When the party had all they could carry Rillian said, "Lock and load. We're going out."
When they reached the wall Fenris had told them was thin enough to blast through, everyone with firepower (Rillian, Varric, Isabella, Bianca, Jowan and Lambert – fearfully trying out his new staff) blasted though. It took ten earsplitting seconds to blow a large enough hole. Fenris crawled out first, sword in hand. Last, Alistair, guarding the rear.
Their explosion rocked the dungeons. Another explosion from higher inside the fortress – the Qunari were clearly not too careful about their own gaatlok – thundered and vibrated. Smoke seeped from arrow slits. The postern gate leaned outward from its base, cordite roiling, then toppled forward. With a low rumble, the runnels they had just passed collapsed behind them, expelling blackpowder that jetted horizontally for yards, then bent to raise skyward like dark clouds.
As soon as they cleared their lungs and vision, they ran. They slipped into the jungle near Alam and retraced their steps down to the river bend, where they had left Lady and Ravenous. The two dogs yelped and ran in delighted circles. Even Fenris smiled.
"Now those are true hearts."
Fenris' eyes were like liquid moss; his deep voice matched the rumble of the gaatlok.
Rillian and Carver sent the mabaris ahead to scout. They were heading for where they had banked their boat on a stretch of beach. From there, it would be the deceptively simple matter of rowing back to where Isabella had moored The Siren's Call – praying no Qunari archer spotted them. A few arrows would end their quest.
They were near the western shore when Qunari charged out of Akhaaz. Varric and Sebastian fired as fast as they could. Fenris phased, disappearing from the boat and reappearing inside the crowd of enemies, exploding one as he reappeared then hacking and slashing at the rest.
Desperately, Lambert, Jowan, Varric, Rillian and Bianca fired from the boat, giving him support. Lambert hesitantly, but more surely as he went on, began to combine the Litany of Adralla with the musical abilities of the staff. He smiled with the look of someone meeting an unexpected friend.
The mabaris whined - wanting to help and unable to reach. For a moment, Rillian feared they would actually try to swim across the river to reach Fenris.
Lethandralis sang like a live thing. Fenris disappeared and reappeared, never there to hit. The Qunari at the rear pressed forward, trampling the bodies of their fellows, creating a maelstrom of destruction. A sword thrust caught Fenris in the stomach. He stumbled. Lambert screamed and fired a bolt of electricity from Encore, killing the Qunari who had done it. His eyes were enormous. Rillian knew in that instant it was the first time he had killed. She would never forget her first time: what it added to you, and what it took away. Fenris recovered – bloody, bent over in pain, he was back in the fight. The gentle wash of Lambert's healing magic worked even over this distance.
A voice called Fenris' name. It sounded Elven – but she couldn't place it. The voice tried again, "Thought I'd find you here, Wraith!"
Isabella and Lambert were grinning and pointing. It made no sense. The next wave of Qunari would end them.
"About time."
Isabella was laughing in delight. "Jan and Brand. The rest of my men are behind the trees. They waited for us – and when we didn't come back, they found us. We're going home to The Siren's Call!"
Home.
Now Rillian knew her friends were safe, a wave of self-pity reared. Where was home? After making enemies of Weisshaupt, the Chantry, Tevinter and the Qunari their options were looking decidedly limited. They could return to Clan Lavellan but that was not a long-term solution – the Tevinters were constructing Fort Viridan to the northwest of the forest, dangerously close. The Clan would have to move again soon. What shelter could she give her griffons, her research?
Would anywhere on Thedas prove a safe haven?
Virga rain appeared in streaks and shafts of light, falling from dark clouds but never reaching the ground. When they reached the black coast, a stormy petrel pattered and danced over the waves, appearing almost to walk on water. Isabella had explained the 'stormy' part of their name originated from their habit of hiding in the leeward side of ships to avoid the worst weather during storms. Denerim Alienage called them waterwitches, bad omens, but Isabella thought they were the spirits of captains who mistreated their crews, forever doomed to spend their days flying over the sea. Rillian saw the bird as a symbol of defiance: unafraid of the turbulence.
Rillian, it appeared, was not the only person having doubts. Seeing Fenris' lyrium brands glowing like determination, Lambert's face crumpled. He turned to Sebastian as if he blamed him personally:
"If your Maker is so wise and so good, He ought to be able to tell the difference between me wanting to stay in the Fade out of self-indulgence and Fenris becoming a lyrium ghost to save us all. It's not right it should lead to the same outcome: an indeterminate state at the whim of another."
Gravely, Sebastian said, "I believe it will make a difference – at the end of time when the Fade and reality stop and we all – spirits as well as mortals - have to account for ourselves. It says in the Chant that nothing the Maker has wrought shall be lost."
Bitterly, Lambert said, "After a millennia of that hollow existence?"
"Time passes differently in the Fade. We all learned that today."
Lambert went silent, and Rillian could see unfathomable thoughts pass across his face like unknown musical notes. She could not have said how or why, but she knew this conversation would prove important in time.
The Siren's Call sailed dangerously close to Castellum Tenebris, land of the forever rains, across the Ventosus Straits, and dropped anchor near the northern beach of Arlathan forest. Non-elves were routinely slain, but Rillian had sent a bird to Keeper Deshanna. Deshanna valued Rillian and her word was law. There was the crash of waves and the dark thick shine of wet sand. The promise of the open sea. The fresh green of the ancient forest.
As Alistair, feeling awkward in his ill-fitting splintmail, watched Deshanna greet them, he realized why this elderly woman was Keeper. It was far more than her magic- visible to his Templar senses - it was a natural charisma, an aura of confidence and energy that was contagious. Both Clan Lavellan and Clan Morlyn respected her, that was plain, but she also had the gift of making each individual feel they were the most valuable person under the sun. And she let each Elf tend the task to which they were best suited, making no attempt to micromanage.
Alistair could see an unlikely resemblance between her and her half-Elven grandson, Lambert. They shared the same snow-coloured skin and eyes the shade of an indigo summer sky. He himself had found out he was an Elf-blooded human – a first-generation half-Elf, like both Lambert's parents had been. Elf-blooded humans always took exclusively after the human side, giving rise to the myth that the Elven race always lost, but traits that had been hidden sometimes came out in their children and grandchildren. At the thought, he looked at Rillian and blushed, remembering their Fade dream. Would it ever be possible to undo the damage of the taint? Could they ever have children of their own?
No matter. He loved Rillian, and he needed nothing more.
King Maric was in the Golden City with his wife and son. His real son. Alistair had only ever been the unplanned result of danger-forged closeness between a widower and a Grey Warden Elven mage. He himself would never speak of what had happened to anyone – let the world think Maric had died at sea - and he had overheard Lambert begging Varric, "Please don't write this. Loghain loved Maric like I love Fenris - it would break his heart." Neither Alistair nor Lambert was a hundred percent sure, of course, but both had served during the Blight and remembered Loghain's veterans making comments like 'on his knees before his beloved king'. They were taking no chances. Varric had reluctantly agreed but said, "I'll write about Red Brides Grave instead – expose Weisshaupt like I've exposed the Chantry."
"Is there anyone who won't be trying to assassinate you?" Lambert had sighed but Varric had only smiled his trademark coprophagous grin.
Alistair was aware that, though the Elves accepted the humans and dwarves among them as Grey Warden companions, they were not trusted by most in the Clan. The young hunter, Ariane, followed him like a shadow, far enough away to eschew suspicion, yet close enough to come to the aid of Deshanna should the former Templar raise a blade against her. Lambert had told him Ariane was Merrill's lover, but Merrill had disappeared into an Eluvian months ago and there were no words for her long, silent absence.
Time passes differently in the Fade, they had learned. When Merrill returned she could have felt only a few days pass but the whole world might have changed.
Deshanna pointed to the trees, and the thin wisps of smoke curling up towards the afternoon sky. The Dalish camp among the ruins of Arlathan palace was a place of verdant light and green rain.
"Arlathan," she said with quiet satisfaction.
Contained in that word was more than Alistair could explain – more than he could understand. Never had he been able to call a place home, not in the sense Deshanna expressed the word: a yearning satisfaction, a destination, a belonging-place. Alistair had dreamed of finding such a place in Weisshaupt – had listened, all agog, to the tall tales of Duncan and Riordan - but the reality had been far different.
And what a homecoming it was! Rillian's cousin – eight months pregnant – came out to embrace her, and Alistair saw with a pang how Rillian thrilled to the movements of the child between them.
"Have you decided on a name yet?" she whispered,
"Andruil," Shianni told her with satisfaction
Andruil, so Rillian had told him, was the goddess of the hunt, who wielded a golden bow crafted from the gathering storm and a spear of unbearable heat crafted from the radiance of stars.
Strife, who had been adopted by Clan Morlyn after fleeing Starkhaven's Alienage – ruled with utter cruelty by Lady Joanne Harimann – made Fenris, Jan and Brand feel at home. In the security of Arlathan, the Dalish showed a warmth that amazed Alistair.
Rillian and Deshanna spoke together for long, intense moments, then the warriors were fed, and then the tribe erupted into celebration. All joined in the feasting and the sharing of summer mead: a sweet honey wine with a deceptive kick distilled from flowers and fruit. Rillian explained the Dalish harvested the nectar in hollowed trees and added to it the essence of wild blackberries and nature magic. The result knocked Alistair sideways – he had thought himself a hardened drinker at The Hanged Man, but this stuff was potent. Yet the Dalish knocked it back like water. All except Shianni, of course, who also sat down for the dancing but encouraged Rillian to join in, to the pulsing of resonant skin-covered drums and the lilting tune of reed pipes. Alistair pulled Rillian into his arms, and she trod squarely on his toes. He didn't mind.
At a prescribed moment – when the Elves were all merry but none entirely given over to impulse - Deshanna called for the Clan's bard to tell the story of the founding of Arlathan:
"Before the ages were named or numbered, our people were glorious and eternal and never-changing. They felt no need to rush when life was endless. From time to time, our ancestors would drift into centuries-long slumber, but this was not death, for those in Uthenera wandered the Fade in dreams. Elvhenen covered most of Thedas, from the city of Arlathan to Ferelden and the lands west of Orlais. Our ancestors first made contact with the dwarves in – 4600 Ancient. The dwarves fear the sun because of Elgar'nan's fire so the Elvhen ruled the land and the dwarves the underground, in a land devoid of humans. But the Dread Wolf caused the twilight of the gods. The People who survived the creation of the Veil were forced to flee, and some claimed a home in Halamshiral, only to fall under the rulership of humans. But we are the Elves who will not forsake Arlathan, the place of love and the first Elvhen home. We walk beneath these trees today, the children's children of Arlathan."
Twilight came late and softly, with a deepening of golden green light. The Elvhen music seemed to be drawing down starlight, weaving it into threads of magic. There was something in the air: an effervescence in the shadows. Alistair even thought he saw some Elves here one minute and gone the next. He wondered if these were the folk described as 'in Uthenera' and wondered if in Arlathan the Veil was so thin that even a non-mage could catch glimpses.
Rillian and Alistair slipped away with a slight embarrassment, each trying to gauge the other's thoughts. He glanced around quickly, determining that Shianni was occupied by Cale, then took her in his arms and kissed her. She was startled for a moment, then she clumsily returned it. They broke apart and scanned the forest to see who else might be watching. When they caught each other at it, they laughed.
"I've fed our griffons, and Ravenous and Lady are occupied with each other. Let's walk. There are things I need to tell you."
"I've been wanting to talk to you, too," Rillian said, and at her quick blush he read what he hoped was the same shyness, the same uncertainty, he felt. The thought made him feel guilty. How could he be glad she felt as uncomfortable as he did? He wanted her to be happy. He only meant he hoped she was experiencing the same feelings. But that would mean she felt as awkward as he did.
It was all very confusing. He had to stop overthinking. His knees were threatening to melt.
His mood improved as they headed deeper into the forest. The freshening wind brought the cool taste of rain and the rustling sighs of trees preparing for autumn. Summer was nearly over. Smoke from the Dalish camp added the scents of burning alder and cedar. Just as they reached the bank of a small stream, a flight of geese appeared, their formations wavering and rearranging so the entire sky seemed to be covered in unending writing. He thought of it as a message from Maric, telling him to treat Rillian right, not to make the same mistake he had made with Fiona.
Not to let her go.
They walked out onto a log that formed a natural bridge across the stream, sitting side-by-side and dangling their feet over the water. Rillian was wearing her mother's boots - she'd had them ever since he had met her. She still wore Nelaros' ring – she would never take it off – but she had changed its place. It was an engagement ring, not a wedding ring.
He remembered the time she had told him of her red wedding, drawn like an arrow from a wound, wet with her blood. He had felt the shame of belonging to the race that did this to Elves; he had felt her pain. But he had also felt a wholly unworthy jealousy at the thought she wanted only Nelaros.
Was he wracked with jealousy at the thought of her loving Nelaros, or at the thought of her in her fiancé's arms? When he thought of losing her, or never having her, which part of him dominated his mind? Which was the more dangerous, love or sex?
Since his first time with Morrigan he had felt as if somehow his body did not belong to him. He was a stranger in his own flesh. The guilt and shame of having betrayed both Rillian and the ideals of the Wardens. Then, when Guillaume Caron had tricked him into betraying Rillian again, he had sought solace at The Hanged Man, at the bottom of a bottle. The craved emptying of consciousness; the miraculous draining of every ounce of self - it could not come quickly enough.
Had he found in himself the man he hoped he could be? Was he capable of being Rillian's friend, comrade, fellow-soldier, as well as her husband? Was he strong enough to protect her; wise enough to compromise? No man perfected these qualities. He sighed, willing to be content with the knowledge he was closer than he had ever been.
The stream turned sharply a few yards away, and the force of the water glanced off a large boulder and drove into a pocket it had created for itself. An eddy growled and swirled. The elegant geese in their black, white and grey cruised regally through a lesser cast of mallards, widgeons and redwing blackbirds. Their metallic challenges rang out in a thousand harmonizing bells. Colourful wood ducks whirled and glittered.
Rillian was so close to Alistair their bodies were in contact from shoulder to hip. She turned to speak, and the warm variations of her pressure against him so clouded his mind he almost missed the words. Bewildering treasures were being poured into his hands while his mind wandered to the blinding trifle of his own desire.
"You said you wanted to talk to me."
He was falling into her amber eyes. He said, "I don't know how to start."
She encouraged him. "I have the same trouble sometimes. If I just say it, even if I say it wrong, I always feel better."
"I'll say it, then. The only way I know how. Will you marry me?"
Her eyes misted and he thought his heart would freeze but then she smiled. She said, "Yes. I love you too." She leaned forward to put her head against his chest and her arms around him. There was a sound like crying in her voice as she said, "Whatever happens to us, I want to be beside you."
"I promise you that. So long as I live."
Shianni's voice stopped them, and they both moved apart guiltily to see her coming almost at a run. Shianni was eight months pregnant but she still looked like she could take Alistair on. Her shortbow, The Dark Moon, was slung over her shoulder. She was frowning, and as soon as she got close enough to speak she made it clear she wasn't happy.
"Shianni - we're getting married!" Rillian called joyfully.
"I guessed as much. That means you'll need to come with me: your measurements have changed and the outfits you own now won't do."
"But I want to be with Alistair - my dress can wait."
"Humph. Where we come from, it's bad luck for the bride to see the groom before the wedding."
Alistair winced, knowing Rillian's marriage had been arranged and they had written to each other, met beforehand, and fallen in love. Only for her to lose him in the worst way possible. He flushed, aware Shianni would never accept him as family.
"I promise you, we haven't done more than talk," Alistair stammered.
Shianni looked disbelieving. "You may be a king's bastard, and a Grey Warden, and my poor cousin may have fallen in love with you, but you're just another shem to me, running around with your tongue hanging out like a wet sleeve. Let Rillian be. We have work."
Sighing, Rillian walked back from the log and turned to follow her cousin. She knew better than to argue with family.
When Alistair called, "Thank you for taking care of her," Shianni only sniffed, and hurried Rillian away.
Fenris watched the preparations for the double wedding of Rillian and Alistair, himself and Lambert, with a feeling of detachment. It was all under the conflicting orders of Shianni and Ariane. Each claimed to have authority for every morsel of food or assigned position or rehearsal of vows – until something went wrong; then they bickered and blamed each other.
The Dalish tents reminded him of multicolored mushrooms. Musicians on flute, drum, lute and a half-dozen different instruments competed for audiences.
Lambert and Varric hugged tightly. Varric and Carver were both going to be Lambert's best men, and Sebastian and Donnic were standing for Fenris. The following morning, Isabella was going to sail to Qarinus, where Bianca and Varric were planning to marry. Lambert and Fenris could not accompany them: Tevinter was not a safe place for Elves and Lambert would never go where Fenris could not follow. But they would always find ways to see each other. Fenris wished the dwarves luck – as Bianca was already married and divorce forbidden among Kalnas the couple needed Magister Tilani to support their illicit union.
As someone whose own marriage was forbidden on three counts in both Andrastian and Tevinter society – neither Divine Nihalias nor Divine Justinia permitted marriage between Elf-human couples, same-sex couples, or couples where one was a mage and the other a non-mage – Fenris was hardly in a position to judge. Lambert's grandmother had given them her blessing but Fenris privately thought it a bit hypocritical.
Neither he nor Lambert believed in the Elvhen gods - neither he nor Lambert had loyalties to Clan Lavellan. Clan Lavellan had forced Deshanna to give up her human child – Hawke Lavellan, who had later taken the name of his circle mentor, Malcolm - and when Fenris had first escaped Danarius Clan Morlyn had made it clear they did not want him. On the run, he had had hopes of finding these 'free Elves' but they had taken one look at the lyrium markings and chased him away like a contagious animal.
Lambert came up unnoticed to take his arm. He turned and saw Lambert's face as a glowing nimbus: instinct and radiant. He looked at Lambert, his dancing eyes half-hidden in lustrous darkness. Strong, wise, beautiful, radiant and drenched in joy. Fenris' dour mood vanished like a soap bubble. A silly grin stretched his face out of its usual shape. If getting married made Lambert happy, Fenris would get married. If having children made Lambert happy Fenris would do his best.
They had had that discussion last night...
..."I want to make vows to Mythal – goddess of motherhood – and my grandmother tells me that is unusual for same-sex couples but she will do it."
"I don't think we are going to manage to make each other pregnant - although we might have fun trying."
Lambert swatted his lover. "Blood's just a substance that leaks from a wound. To adopt a child – to give shelter, create happiness, give meaning – that's parenthood. That's love."
Fenris agreed. He himself was not the child of his Elf-blooded human sire nor the mother who had sold him to Danarius. "But - do you think adoption would be fair to a child?"
"Yes," Lambert said fiercely, "You'll be an amazing father - as good as my father, who was the second-best man I've ever known. And I've always wanted children. I think we'll have a lot to give."
Fenris shrugged inwardly. Whatever Lambert wanted – cats, griffons, children – he must have...
He tried to force a serious expression and felt it struggle and fail. He said, "Do you think anyone would miss us if we ran away from all this?"
Both Fenris and Lambert were dressed like ancient Elvhen warrior-mages. For a moment, Fenris visualized Lambert riding a halla like an Emerald Knight out of Elvhen legend. Black hair streaming behind him like rainclouds and indigo eyes gleaming.
Some Dalish had muttered about these being given to Andrastians: one a half-Elf and the other a warrior who had sworn no loyalty to the Dalish. Deshanna claimed the Creators believed in them nonetheless. Fenris had merely nodded, hoping his silence would be taken for respect rather than extreme disinterest. It seemed to him the Creators were nothing more than immortal Elvhen mages with the same faults and foibles as anyone else – why should anyone worship that? Because they were powerful? Because they promised immortality? The whole question of immortality was rather disgusting to Fenris – what mattered to him was living well, not forever.
If goodness – which he had never known existed till he met the Fog Warriors – came from the Maker he would worship Him. If the Maker turned out to be a tyrant who hated mages - Alrik writ large – he'd go down fighting for Lambert. As Lambert would go down fighting for him if the Supreme Being turned out to be a Tevinter Magister.
"It would be a terrible unkindness to my grandmother," Lambert said reproachfully, "She's gone to a lot of trouble."
"Most of it was to celebrate Rillian's return."
"Of course it was. Rillian is her protégé. Clan Lavellan is the Keeper's. Our lives are ours. She didn't have to do anything for us."
"You're right."
The conversation about children had not been their only discussion. Lambert had still been worried about having been tricked by Dehn'Kharas. As if wanting to give Fenris one last chance to back out, he had shared the diary he had kept as a teenage boy...
...Last night I saw the Fade and now know what it is like: wobbling glitter, a field of venomous colours, the edges dissolving like a painting left in rain. I knew what the things from there would do to me with their dreaming, and I was terrified. I did not stay in one place for longer than a second, and I prayed to the Maker I would still be me when I woke. Is this how it was for Bethany? Poor poor Beth…she was younger than I am now. Why do mage children have to face this terror? Why does the Maker allow this? I am very angry with Him...
Fenris had devoured every word and wondered at such a life. He knew that - even if he had led the same life - he wouldn't have had these amazing thoughts. Lambert was unique. Fenris remembered seeing Lambert reading: his angular, softly pure profile intent. His eyes were smiling; thinking or remembering something. He'd looked like an epicene, fearless deity.
"You see – I have a tendency to dwell in dreams and forget to live. It isn't healthy."
"And I have a tendency to phase," Fenris shrugged. "We'll keep each other solid."
"Yes, but... I never thought I was a jealous guy, but when Donnic and Seb came to get you in our Fade dream I wanted you all to myself! I was selfish and silly. You should have your own friends - that's normal."
Fenris shrugged. "Silly - maybe - who isn't? It was never a big thing, Hawke." He paused and then added, "I don't have anything to give you in return – when I was a teenager I was killing for Danarius – being ready to die for him – and pleasing him in bed." He could see Lambert yearning to speak but holding himself back, knowing what Fenris had to say was more important than all his sympathy. With a glint of humour, Fenris concluded, "So: I'll kill and die for you and I'll please you in bed. A fair exchange, no?"
It was a terrible joke but Lambert laughed and hugged him.
Arlathan forest slid into twilight with a gentle green yawn. The forest was filled with healthy purple buds, sparks of lavender and indigo. It was breathtaking, pulsing with life and virility.
"I have loved you since I first saw you battling Danarius' demons like some resurrected lost god."
For Fenris it had taken longer. He was ashamed of the way he had seen Lambert back then – as a hapless teenage prostitute who had needed rescuing – a nascent mage not strong enough to be a threat but never to be trusted. When he had come to value Lambert he had never allowed himself to remember it – thinking of Lambert in those terms had felt disloyal. Something Ser Otto had said came back to him then: he had told them his Knight Commander believed the Golden City, once attained, worked backwards, transforming the past as well as the present and future. He thought he had an inkling of what that meant. Lambert had taught him to see his own past as small and dark and dreary – the banality of evil – and now that memory of Lambert was changed for Fenris. When he looked back on it now he saw a young man who had sacrificed dignity, sanctity and sanity to feed his mother, because no-one else would.
He could vividly remember the day he had fallen in love with Lambert – although, naturally, it had taken him a while to realize it. It was the day Lambert had defeated Wryme; the day Fenris had seen Lambert as he really was. A warrior angel with a flaming sword: fiery, sharp, bright and ruthless; ready to kill, ready to die, outspeeding light. He realized then it had been Lambert's strength as well as his goodness he had fallen in love with at first: here was someone who would never fall to demons - but he realized now he did not need Lambert to be strong because he was good. Good in the real sense, not merely kind. Like all good people, he had made Fenris strong, made him very much himself. Lambert was the opposite of Danarius in every way that mattered. They could both keep each other free of demons.
Shianni had outfitted her cousin in a filmy green gown that was by far the loveliest thing Alistair had ever seen her wear. Apparently it would have been scandalous in Denerim Alienage - showing far too much flesh – but was perfect for dancing away a long summer night. Gossamer-soft, light enough to float around her as she moved. Her hair had been left free, flowing like red rain down her back.
Of course no Elvhen outfit could be found for Alistair: as an Elf-blooded human he took after his human father completely. He was stuck, knowing he no longer fitted his splintmail.
Lambert came to his rescue. He gave Alistair a magnificent outfit: a suit of white armour to rival Sebastian's.
"Where did you get that?' Alistair asked in astonishment. "It fits me not you or Fenris."
"It was the outfit my father wore when marrying my mother. It's too big for me - Dad was a big human man with an impressive beard - an Elf-blooded human, like you."
"Thank you,' Alistair stammered, overcome. This one fit, so apparently Malcolm Hawke had had a Dad bod too.
Lambert grinned. "He'd want you to have it."
Lamberts own outfit had been given him by Keeper Deshanna and was the armour of an Arcane Warrior. In it, Lambert looked fully Elvhen - not all elves had reflective eyes, though it was a dominant trait, and his hair had grown past his ears.
The air swam with droplets of dusk, the amber sun vanished behind the trees, the sky shifted into crushed indigo. Blackbirds called from a canopy of spruce and fir. The path zigzagged higher and higher, an arboreal labyrinth inhabited by birds and beasts submerged in mouldering timber infested with fungi. Deep in the forest the light failed and the air swelled with the aroma of cooking meat. There was a constant murmuring: the sound of the wilderness whispering. Birds sang their symphonies to the night.
Now, on the wooden stage, in front of all the Dalish, the two couples held hands and crowded together for mutual support as Deshanna repeated the prescribed phrases. Out of regard for their Andrastian faith - even though Fenris had only recently started listening to Sebastian and Lambert had a liberal's tendency to intellectualize the Maker - Deshanna allowed them to substitute Maker for Creators (Sebastian and Lambert both believed the names were fabulous, intricate references to something that could not be grasped). Both couples had chosen to make their vows to Mythal: as a guide, not a goddess.
Alistair went down on one knee before Rillian: knight swearing to liege:
"Here, my love, I become liegeman of yours for life and limb and earthly regard; and I shall keep faith and loyalty to you through life and death, Maker helping me."
"Arise, Warden Alistair Tabris."
Fenris and Lambert looked each other in the eye. Their vow was not a thing of emotions: it was … brisk? Keen? Alert? Cheerful? Intense? Wide-awake? Above all, solid. Real. The opposite of the Fade and lyrium and illusions. Utterly reliable. Firm. They swore to keep each other solid, mortal, real and free of demons.
Alistair and Rillian exchanged rings – Alistair gave Rillian 'The Skylark's Golden Ring' and she gave him 'Tears of Ferelden' - Fenris and Lambert exchanged tokens. Lambert gave Fenris his diary and Fenris gave Lambert a wooden emblem of a hawk. He had been secretly working on it for a month.
"I say it for all to hear and acknowledge: Alistair and Rillian Tabris are married; Fenris and Lambert Hawke-Lethandralis are married!"
Fenris felt the last chains of his former life break open.
Free.
Full of cheer, Varric greeted them in front of a fire ebbing to coals. "Good timing. While our newlyweds enjoy the night, the rest of us can party."
When Isabella returned from Qarinus she would take Carver, Sebastian, Donnic and Zevran back to Kirkwall. Zevran would be reunited with his lover, Carver would be seeking a place for himself, his wife and son with Warden-Commander Stroud – swallowing his pride and asking Lord Gamlen Amell for help if necessary - and Nathaniel had promised to defy Meredith in reinstating Donnic as Guard Captain and sheltering Sebastian as Prince of Starkhaven. Retaking Starkhaven was a task for the following year, and all Sebastian's friends would help.
Alistair and Rillian, Lambert and Fenris soon disappeared into the wedding cabins that had been prepared for them. Isabella and Zevran didn't waste time with cabins but disappeared behind some bushes. Varric and Bianca chose to wait.
The rest of the evening went smoothly, albeit a bit strangely. The tinge of melancholy was offset by other considerations: of accomplishment, of challenge, of decisions long put off and finally determined. The pale sun had almost set, and the full weight of the night sky was about to descend. For some while they were all quiet, caught in that splendour.
Finally, Varric rose. He said, "I doubt we'll ever see a night like this again: this group. These companions. What times we've had! But there are other things to come. Rillian and Bianca are going to cure taint – Lambert and Fenris are going to free slaves – His Royal Shininess is going to retake Starkhaven and – hell! - Anders and Fiona are going to free mages. Another world to build, another world to create, another world to discover. A salute, one to another. To the love of friends for friends."
Rillian and Alistair edged towards the darker shadows, trying to break away discreetly. Together, they shortened their responses to well-wishers. From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fenris and Lambert trying to get away too. When there was a momentary lull, he whispered to Rillian, "Now!" and they made a run for it towards the small dwelling that had been prepared for them.
As they climbed the ladder they saw a basin of mint-scented water had been left. A solitary rose-scented candle burned; its light augmenting the muted glow of the flowers. Herbs were strewn across the wooden floor, so every step released the fragrance of thyme and marjoram, lavender and tarragon, to mingle with the smell of fresh-cut cedar and fir of the house's construction. Two cups of dandelion tea steamed. Whoever had arranged all his had also left a pile of furs conveniently in place.
Alistair's heart raced as the air became more fragrant with each step. Flowers blanketing the walls reacted to their presence, blossoms glowing. The petals seemed to sway in the direction they moved, light bathing them in a green-and-blue haze.
Neither of them wanted to be the first to break the silence. They sat awkwardly on the furs, cups of dandelion tea in hand. They sipped then put the mugs down in unspoken agreement. She turned toward him.
"Are you going to kiss me?"
"I am," he said, and then he was pulling her to his chest and bending to take her mouth with his, as much to reassure as to communicate his growing desire.
Once, he'd looked at her as something so beautiful she should be admired. Like the soldiers she commanded, he'd scarcely thought her a flesh-and-blood woman at all. If she were to be touched, it must be with reverence – as he'd touched the Ashes of Andraste. He still thought of her in those terms. With that kiss, something forced its way past his reserve. He looked at her and saw the rise of small, high breasts beneath her filmy green gown; the play of firm muscle under tanned skin. Hair spilled like red rain down her back, drew his eyes to her buttocks, her long, graceful legs.
Sometimes he watched her and his soul sang at her loveliness. Other times the world was forgotten in his private image of the two of them in sweaty, sliding, mindless extasy. He knew Rillian was a maiden still and was worried the rage of sexual appetite in him could make him hurt her. He felt the tremor that ran through her and was prepared for her look of concern.
"I'm afraid," she said. Her hands twisted in her lap and she stared at the flowers, the walls, anywhere but him. "I don't want to make any mistakes."
"I thought you'd be afraid I'd..."
"You'd never hurt me."
His hands seemed to take on a life of their own. He lifted the wedding gown aside to expose one breast, the flesh washed roseate in the candlelight; the nipple like a dark, inviting bud. He was unable to believe its soft firmness was truly captured in his hand. Her soft moan told him it was so.
As they kissed, she raised her arms to work at the straps on his armour. She'd had practice with this: during the Blight she had helped not only Alistair but Rylock with their armour. His body was that of a farmer, a father, a man who enjoyed life. His skin was golden and covered by the scars she knew about – and one she didn't. She traced it tenderly.
"You are beautiful," she said.
She raised herself to remove the rest of his clothing, an unreadable half-smile playing about her lips. There was an aura of eager vulnerability about her; her amber eyes were mysterious, her expression almost languorous. She stared down at him in wonder, biting her bottom lip. Alistair could not help but give her a rakish grin in response. They removed their boots and then he raised himself above her just long enough to imprison the naked beauty of her in his mind forever.
Rillian spread her legs further, allowing him to settle between. Her breaths were coming in bursts; her pulse was thunder. Alistair claimed her mouth as he slid into her.
She gave a small cry of pain and he hesitated. Alistair held still, their chests rising and falling as one; their heartbeats together. She clutched him tighter, her hands splayed across his back, her demands challenging his as she arched to meet them. Alistair groaned, and the sound of his desire made her bold. She began to meet each of his thrusts with an angling of her hips. This position had him going deeper and in her amber eyes the pain swam into pleasure. She let out a throaty sound, a laugh spiced by more mischief than nervousness.
Orgasm rushed up and took him completely by surprise. The world broke apart in a thousand shards of sparkling light.
Fenris and Lambert made their way to their own cabin. The forest encircled them like a diadem. Spiked shadows jutted into a sky now deepened to midnight black and dusted with stars like icing sugar.
Fenris took in Lamberts's scent: vanilla, purple rain, almonds and warmth. His laugh misted like gold dust. His eyes were the bruised purple of clouds at dusk. His muscles flexed as Fenris drew him near: present and powerful and gloriously real.
Lambert's fingers entwined in his, like leaves seeking nourishment, his eyes – windows to his soul – bloomed like roses of joy. There were times Fenris had glimpses of the true measure of his resilient spirit, whom life had taught to survive on dreams the way certain plants fed on air. But now they had each other - were wide awake. Joy exploded in Fenris like a firework. Lambert twisted sinuously against him; cradled his face in his long, delicate hands. Eyes shut, his fingers skated over Fenris' eyebrows, his cheeks, his lips. It was the memorization of a blind man, knowing each feature as a tactile message. Then he opened them, studying Fenris with such burning intensity it was as if he might never see him again. His amethyst eyes glimmered and seemed full; their gaze and Lambert's heady sensuality falling over him like purple rain. Fenris bloomed under it. Lambert's pain had been his pain and his joy was Fenris' joy.
Hungry lips closed on his, ravenously. Thanks to his choked-back gasp, Fenris' lips were already parted – it was easy for Lambert to surge in, lay claim. With that one kiss, Fenris' caged lust surged. His hands were tangled in Lambert's hair; he was kissing him back – just as hungry, just as needy.
And then Lambert's tongue stroked along his, a blatant invitation to play, and he stopped thinking.
Let desire rear its head and match Lambert's, his senses dancing in a firestorm of pleasure and need.
Fenris had no trouble getting out of his Elvhen armour: he phased and came back naked save for the red armband. The effort used up the very last of his brands; he had taken both his injection and his vial. Fenris would use the lyrium brands when he had to, to protect those he loved or those who couldn't defend themselves - but the rest of the time it made sense to take the medicine. His brands were pale scars, unimportant.
Lambert was not so fortunate. Fenris turned to him.
"Now, Mr Hawke-Lethandralis: how does all this come off?"
He grasped the buckles of Lambert's armour; flicked them loose, stripped the ironbark off piece by piece. Gloves, pauldrons, greaves, cuirass, belt, trousers, boots – he tossed them to the ground, heedless of where and how they landed, until finally Lambert was naked.
After a year together, Fenris knew what Lambert liked to the nth degree and Lambert was just as knowledgeable. There were times during that night he was uncertain which one of them he was: afterwards, he distinctly remembered stroking the ridges of scars along Lamberts back - legacy of Alrik - and feeling the featherlight touch upon his own battered flesh. They lay together, filling the little spaces, touching in every space it was possible to touch. For a moment, it seemed the line separating two individuals was blurred. But, far from making them one being, they were gloriously different, totally themselves.
Lambert's arms were around him, his slender, supple hands around Fenris' waist, that soft and gentle mouth against his.
He caressed Fenris. Assessed, explored, skating up his sides and down his chest, then closed about his nipples. Fenris felt his spine arch - heard a distant groan – realized to his surprise it came from him. Those elegant fingers – wicked, wicked fingers – rolled, pinched, and Fenris groaned again. His arms closed about Lambert's wrists; gripping, tightening, holding on.
He felt the lithe body shift, twisting sinuously, and then Lambert's mouth closed about the nipple he'd just released. Fenris bit back a shout of surprise – not well enough, if Lambert's low, dark chuckle was anything to go by – then the mouth on his nipple kissed, licked, laved, before drawing the hardened bud and sucking, greedily.
Fenris' hands rose to tangle in the silky hair, simultaneously demanding and holding on. Head back, eyes closed, he gave himself up to the sensations flooding through him, lancing sharp and hot; held them – and Lambert – close.
Lambert's lips on his skin – the hot, wet caress of that devouring mouth – sent jolts of heat through him and then spread out, pooled low in his belly, and swelled his groin to an insistent ache.
Until he couldn't take the teasing. He gripped - forced the slighter figure to look up at him.
Lambert was heartstoppingly beautiful. His delicate face had a startling blend of sensuality and purity. His hair and winged eyebrows were dark – a living, iridescent blue-black. The bruised eyes and mouth were heavy, like wet roses. Sensuality oozed from every pore of the deliciously smooth skin, like a dark, heavy, perfumed flower. Playful wickedness flickered about the angular face like the iridescence of oil on water.
And yet, Lambert had risked everything to follow his first love, his fallen angel – had endured torture rather than betray Anders – and that passionate idealism left echoes like harp-strings after the chord. Fenris' own faith – in Lambert – was equally bright; untarnished by the sins of violence, murder, torture he had committed on Danarius' orders. His and Lambert's shared duality spoke to them – unconscious, unbidden – with a strange sense of recognition.
The moment passed in a heartbeat – and then Fenris growled, gripped Lambert's shoulders between his hands – bent his head and found his husband's mouth with his own.
Kissed him ravenously - heard Lambert moan softly – felt him kiss back; hot, eager.
Lambert's response – uninhibited, unrestrained, blatantly inviting – left him dizzy.
A dizziness no amount of kissing could ease. A dizziness that only weakened his hold over the primitive impulse to take-seize-plunder.
Lambert realized where this was going. He dropped to his back upon the luxurious furs. pulled Fenris down on top of him. He was a pale, sinuous sea-creature, luminous and otherworldly. His eyes were dark as the depths of the sea, sunk far below where sunbeams can reach, his lips parted in a purely carnivorous grin.
There was just enough light to see the lithe dancer's muscles, the tattoos, the subtle interplay of bone and shadow and taut, hot flesh, framed by the dark grey shades of wolf fur.
Fenris peered past the edge of the down-filled bed. At the furthest edges of his vision – through the cabin window - was brittle darkness. Stars were out, myriad chips shining against the void of night. Looking down into Lambert's pale, blurred features, he smiled like a wolf. Slowly, as if not wanting to startle Lambert, his arms rose to encircle him. Meeting his eyes was like looking into an indigo sky, mysterious, amaranthine. Lambert's mana escaped him like glistening diamonds that danced in the air, gentle and harmless as it brushed along Fenris' skin.
When fighting Wryme Lambert had been a sword in the Maker's hand – cutting arcs of lightning through the Fade - now he was like a garden, like a series of gardens, more secret, more full with fragrant and fertile life the further you entered. A sheen of sweat covered them both. He pulled Lambert to him. Lambert drew up his knees, arched his back. So braced, he resisted the smooth power of Fenris' arms, savouring the muscles Fenris himself had trained into him. Then he relaxed, raised ankles, exulting in the strength that pulled him deliciously to his lover, his husband.
Fenris delighted in the greedy, hungry response as he gave all that Lambert so blatantly wanted; took all that he so brazenly offered in exchange.
Heat flared – poured like sunlight - raced beneath his skin.
Lambert was a living flame beneath him; graceful hands – the hands of a scientist as well as a musician – reached to tangle in Fenris' hair. His undulating body writhed and flowed, matching the driving rhythm.
Very fast, so unforeseen, like catching fire, the violet storm licked his skin, caressed with sweet intensity, drenching him until it reached his core.
Where the name 'Hawke' was written on his heart.
Danarius had used the body like meat, so the heart within it had never been free to make a choice. He chose this man, now and forever. Only a free heart could express love and - for a long time - the closest Fenris could come to that was 'I'm yours' but he whispered it now. The candle was the cabin's only light; Lambert's face was dark-shadowed, one feathery brow visible, the other a glimmer. Very quietly, Fenris said, for the first time, "I love you."