"You look pretty when you smile."
Rhyanon can feel a sudden flush of heat filling her, from the core of her body. She shakes her head.
"No, I mean it," Anders murmurs. "You do."
He reaches out and trails his thumb down her jawline. Rhyanon swallows hard, and shivers as soon as he pulls away. She feels light-headed, like she can't pull in enough air to breathe. They're still only a handspan apart. She ducks her head so that she doesn't have to look at him – so that he won't see her blushing. She can feel the crackling buzz of his mana, bright and powerful and hot and cold at the same time, with a touch that tastes like pine trees and lemons. She sighs, and giggles as he pushes the not-quite empty bottle of wine into her hand.
Anders leans down and presses a kiss to the top of her head. Rhyanon squirms. She pushes him away. "You're drunk!" she accuses. He doesn't argue.
"So what, Melly?"
She bites her lip and tries to come up with a reason, a good 'so what.' But she can't. She just shakes her head and finishes the wine before he tells her too, and it makes her head swim and she feels like laughing and crying and throwing up, all at once. Anders holds her close, and he's warm and soft and safe and she loves him. "I love you," she murmurs.
Anders runs his fingers through her tangled hair. "You're drunk," he reminds her.
"I know," she replies. It seems obvious.
She wakes up slowly, hours later, and her head is pounding. She doesn't remember going to bed, but she did, obviously. Somehow Anders must have gotten her there, without any of the templar patrols intercepting them. He's good at that kind of thing; she swears he can invent hallways in the tower that don't exist for anybody else.
She moans, and pulls herself up to a sitting position, as she blinks her eyes open and moans some more.
"You're missing Chapel," Jowan points out. He's sitting on the bunk across from hers – Anders' bunk - picking at his fingernails and trying too hard to act like he doesn't care.
"So're you," Rhyanon points out bluntly. Duh.
Jowan shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. "He's gone again," he tells her, simply. His voice sounds slightly strained. Rhyanon might be one of the only people who knows him well enough to notice. Panic wraps its icy fingers around her insides, and her headache intensifies for reasons that have nothing to do with last night being the first time she's ever gotten wonderfully, stupidly drunk.
Her heart hurts. She doesn't remember a lot about what happened last night, but what she remembers makes her want to bury herself in her bed and never come out. He left her. And he must have done it on purpose. She told him she loved him, and he ran away. It's probably her fault. He's gonna get caught, he's gonna get hurt, and it'll be her fault. Or if he doesn't, then she'll just never see him again, and she knows it's selfish as fuck, but that thought scares her even more. She doesn't know who she is without him. She isn't anything.
She remembers the taste of wine on her lips, the warmth of his breath on the back of her neck, the sound of his laughter. Why the hell wasn't she paying attention? Why was she stupid enough to let him get her drunk?!
Tears sting her eyes, but she rolls over onto her back, so that Jowan can talk to her if he feels like it. The fifteen-year-old watches her, but doesn't say much. He's good at that, he never really talks unless there's something actually helpful to say. He listens though, which is more than she can say for most people.
She stares up at the wooden slats of the bunk above her and wracks her brain, trying to remember every single thing Anders said in the preceding days, in case he'd given her any clues or warnings she'd been too dense to notice. Probably not though. Anders is good at keeping secrets, even from her. Maybe especially from her.
"We have to go to class," Jowan finally says, what feels like an hour later.
Rhyanon nods. Missing Chapel is bad enough, but probably fine because there are so many people there that their absence might not be noticed. But if they don't start acting like good, obedient magelings, then the templars might think they had something to do with Anders running away. Rhyanon hates that she is afraid of them, but she is. "It'll be good," Jowan whispers, pulling his robes on as Rhyanon combs her fingers through her hair. "Sitting around here all day will just be..."
"Too much thinking," Rhyanon finishes. Jowan nods.
Rhyanon watches him for a minute, and almost asks him a question, like how he's feeling or what he wants. But she doesn't, because she doesn't feel like talking about Anders, and neither does he, and that's the only thing that either of them can think about right now.
They go to class together – they're still in the same classes, and Rhyanon tries her best to pull Jowan through them when he struggles. The teachers are frustrated by his lack of progress; they are more frustrated by her frequently telling them that they suck at their jobs, and all of this frustration usually cancels itself out and leaves her and Jowan mostly ignored in the back of the classroom. It's impossible to pay attention under normal circumstances, and today is so far away from normal that Rhyanon doesn't even try. She goes to Irving's office early. The door is closed, which is unusual enough in the middle of the day, but she doesn't think too much of it. She stops, halfway in and halfway out of the room, as soon as it becomes apparent that she's walked into an argument between her teacher and the Knight Commander.
Greagoir stalks over to her before she can decide to leave. He grabs her upper arm, not tightly enough to hurt, but enough to keep her from going anywhere. He practically shoves her into the nearest empty chair.
Rhyanon looks to Irving for help, but the First Enchanter can't help her. Greagoir is furious, he will do anything to uphold his duty. And a mage running away from the tower... there's not a lot Rhyanon – or Irving – can say to make that sound less bad then it is. It won't matter to a templar that Anders is a good person, or her friend. She could tell him, over and over again, that Anders won't hurt anybody, but she knows he won't listen.
"Where is he?" the Knight Commander growls. Rhyanon can feel a little bit of pressure at the edges of her skull, a little bit like how it feels when you hold your breath for too long. It's not a Smite, not yet, more like a... warning. A reminder that Greagoir will shut her down if she even tries to reach for her power. She doesn't try.
"I don't know," she announces, honestly. She stares at the Knight Commander with a look that is almost a hostile glare. Greagoir sighs. "He doesn't talk to me," she insists. Greagoir says nothing. Rhyanon taps her fingers in a quick four-beat pattern on arm of the chair. She caves, a little bit, dropping her gaze. She hates that she's afraid of them. But she is.
"If I knew where he was, I'd tell you," she murmurs.
"Really?" Greagoir sneers. The obvious sarcasm in his tone startles her. Her stomach clenches. She gnaws on her lower lip, still looking down, at the fraying hem of the robes she's starting to outgrow, at the scuffed tip of her boot. She nods, and prays that he'll believe her. He obviously doesn't. And she doesn't know how to prove that she's telling the truth. "Why?" Greagoir demands.
Rhyanon looks up again, tracking the templar's movement as he paces across the room. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and meets his eyes. It's the first time she notices that he seems genuinely worried.
"Because I..." miss him, she wants to say. But she doesn't. "I want him to be safe."
Greagoir nods. He gives her a tired smile. "We will find him, you know," he tells her. His certainty settles like a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach.
"I know," she whispers. Agreeing with the Knight Commander feels like an impossible betrayal. "Can I go now?" she spits. Her voice bleeds with hostility, she almost wants him to call her out on it. But he just nods, and sends her away. And she is all too glad to get away from him. It takes too much effort to walk calmly out of the room, and act like she isn't scared. Part of her wishes that she did know where Anders had gone, so that she can see him again. So that she could protect him.
She has nowhere she's supposed to be – she's supposed to be in Irving's office. And she doesn't want to go to any of her usual places. With Anders gone, she's forced to be aware of how trapped she is here. It's something she tries not to think about most of the time. She doesn't hate the tower, honestly. She doesn't spend all of her time trying to find a way out, the way he does. But she's sick of the dorms and the classrooms and the library and the kitchen and the thought of spending one more minute stuck in any of those rooms makes her feel like punching something, but there is no place else.
She ends up retreating to the bathroom. She perches on the sink and plays with magic, tiny streams of ice and fire that are simple to manipulate and control.
She stops when she hears other voices. A few of the other girls – her age, or close to it, all of them – come in tittering and laughing and talking about stupid things. Boys and makeup. One of them, a tall, dark-haired girl with sharp features that make her seem perpetually anger, stares suspiciously at Rhyanon. "What are you doing here?" she spits.
Rhyanon shrugs. "This place isn't yours," she points out. Obviously.
They have no idea that Anders is even gone, probably. Why would they? They have no idea what she's dealing with, and they wouldn't care even if they did.
Another girl, this one quiet and mousy and hiding in the shadows, frowns at her. Her eyes flicker toward the ringleader, and she's so obviously caught between the two of them that Rhyanon almost feels bad. She's seen this kid before, in classes, and in Chapel. She's never talked to her though.
The pack of girls quickly saunters down to another sink – the one all the way across the room, and begins taking out combs and makeup. The quiet one follows in their shadow. They all sit in a circle on the floor, and one of them pulls out a small circle of glass, checking her reflection and that of her friends. The dark-haired one laughs and smacks her lips together, twisting her mouth up like a fish in an attempt to show off her unnaturally, disturbingly bright lip color. Rhyanon wonders where they even get all that stuff; it's not like the Chantry hands out gifts at Wintersend or anything. She watches them while pretending not to.
After a few moments, she slips down from the sink and tries to act like being chased out of her hiding spot isn't at all awkward, like she was done anyway, like she even had a reason to be there in the first place.
She goes to bed early simply because there's nothing else to do, but even after everyone else has fallen asleep she can't get comfortable, no matter how many times she rolls over or shifts position or flips her pillow to the cooler side. She kicks the blankets off, then pulls them back over herself five seconds later. The air is heavy and humid.
Jowan slips in a little while later, but he doesn't say anything to her, and she keeps her eyes closed, even though he can certainly tell she's not actually sleeping. The apprentice dorms are dark, so she guesses the passage of time by listening, though it doesn't really help much. Above her head, she can hear the faraway roar of heavy rain pounding down on the tower roof. She can taste the rain in the air, but she will not be able to feel it, nor likely even see it unless she sneaks away from classes to find a window she can actually look out of. Mostly what she hears is the oppressive almost-silence.
She rolls over again, sprawls out on her stomach, and waits for morning to come. Time creeps slowly.
She goes to the kitchen as soon as she can get away with it, hoping to steal a bit of food for herself so she won't have to talk to anyone else. She crosses through the main hall instead of taking the lesser-known passageways, because she doesn't want anyone to think she's sneaking around. There's no way she could not hear the thunderously loud sound of the gates slamming shut. The Knight Commander hurries to catch up with his patrol of men. The templars are only partially armored and soaked to the skin, but if they look miserable it's nothing compared to Anders, who is limp and shivering. He trips, and barely manages to catch himself – there are shackles around his wrists and ankles, glinting in the early morning light - as one of the few female templars Rhyanon's ever seen pushes him toward Greagoir.
Rhyanon's heart sinks. It's been what? A day? A little over? Last time he'd at least gotten to taste a little bit of freedom. This time... this time everybody loses.
She wants to run out to help him, or ask him what the hell he was thinking, or ask him what went wrong, how they caught up to him so quickly. But something stops her. Fear, or curiosity, or both, a tightness in her stomach. She couldn't move even if she wanted to, it's like someone's drawn an invisible paralysis glyph right at the spot where she's standing.
Irving appears a moment later, and he meets her eyes with a concerned frown. He doesn't send her away – no doubt knowing he'd never win that argument – but he obviously wants her to stay where she is: out of harm's way. Rhyanon tucks herself into the shadows and listens, but she can only hear a few scattered murmurs of the soft but urgent - and very one-sided – argument between the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter.
Greagoir looks up, in her direction, and frowns, but says nothing. And then he grabs Anders' arm and drags him off, without a word. The two of them quickly disappear.
Irving follows soon after, but he turns off in another direction, following the tower's spiraling halls upward. Rhyanon chases him to his office. Irving shuts the door softly, and turns to her.
She stands there with her fists clenched, watching him, not bothering to hide her fear. "Irving, what's gonna happen?" Her voice shakes as she speaks. Her fingers twitch. She can't stay still; it's as though every muscle in her body wants to run after Anders, to protect him somehow.
Irving rests his hand on her shoulder. She can feel the soft touch of the mana he's channeling – without asking her first – a tendril of calming energy. She could block it if she wanted to, but she doesn't. She bites her lip and waits for a response. But the First Enchanter doesn't say anything.
"Irving," she demands. This time, her voice is louder, and steady. "What's gonna happen?"
"The Knight Commander wants Anders isolated for a while. A week or so. Until he's certain the boy won't..." he sighs, and sits down, heavily, in the chair behind his desk. Rhyanon perches on the table's edge.
"Isolated?" she repeats. What does that even mean?
"There are cells," Irving says, very softly. "Warded, antimagic. They are... very rarely used."
Rhyanon swallows hard. "You mean like... prison cells?"
Irving nods. When he looks up at her, it's the most vulnerable she's ever seen him. He almost looks scared. But he can't be. Irving has to keep them all safe. It's his job. He promised. He told her, a thousand years ago, that he would protect them all, when it really mattered. That's the point of a First Enchanter.
"Do something," she demands.
Irving sighs, and puts his hand to his forehead as if to ward off a headache. He blows out a heavy sigh. "Rhyanon, I can't," he tells her, as fear and anger war in her stomach and she tightens her grip on the edge of her desk. They avoid looking at each other.
"He didn't do anything wrong."
"He fled from the Circle, in violation of Chantry law. Repeatedly."
"He came back!"
He didn't, really. They tracked him down with a phylactery. But he didn't fight them, and he could've. Right? She doesn't know if that makes her feel better or worse.
"The Knight Commander has not yet declared him apostate," Irving concedes. "But this is not a game!"
"You said this isn't a prison," Rhyanon whispers.
Goosebumps run up her arms, and she doesn't feel any warmer no matter how tightly she wraps her arms around herself.
Irving looks at Rhyanon. He looks her directly in the eye, something too few people do in the tower, this place where no one trusts each other, where everyone's afraid. "The Circle exists to keep people safe," he tells her, gently. "Us and them. I know neither of you believe it, but Anders is in as much danger from the people out there than anyone here. More, probably."
"Liar!" Rhyanon yells. She pushes Irving backwards, away from her.
The First Enchanter sighs. "Have you ever spoken to Jowan about his memories of life before he arrived here?"
"He said he can't remember anything."
"Ask him again."
Rhyanon stares down Irving for a long moment, seeking a flaw in his argument, ready to demand that he can't forfeit responsibility by changing the subject. But yelling at him won't make her feel any better, and will probably make her feel worse, so she just nods.
"I do what I can," Irving tells her, very softly. "You know that, don't you?"
"I guess."
She doesn't believe it though. Or maybe she does, and that's what that hollow feeling inside her is, a hole filled up with the knowledge that 'what he can' won't ever be enough to matter.
She goes looking for Jowan, as much because it's something to do as because Irving told her to. And because she doesn't want to be alone anymore, and she doesn't want to fight with the grown-ups either. It doesn't take her long to find him pretending to read in a secluded corner of the library.
"Irving says I should talk to you," she tells him bluntly. She sits down on the floor beside him and curls her knees up close to her chest. She runs her fingernail along the edge of the design embossed into the leather cover of one of the books he's left on the floor. It's the flaring sun symbol of the Chantry. Rhyanon scowls at it.
Jowan looks neither surprised nor upset to see her there. "'Bout what?" he asks softly.
"Before."
"Melly..."
"Tell me," she demands. "It's important."
Jowan sighs. "I don't feel like talking about it."
"That's different from not remembering."
He holds her gaze for a long moment, then suddenly breaks away. He pushes away the book he'd been reading with his foot, until it slams against the bottom of the nearby shelf. The fifteen-year-old stares straight ahead, at that bookshelf, as Rhyanon settles in beside him, willing herself not to be anxious, or afraid. She really only talks to Jowan when Anders isn't around. This is the first time she's ever felt bad about it.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few long moments, until Rhyanon almost figures he's not going to answer the question. But Jowan starts talking as soon as she starts to get up. "Okay, you know what they say, about this place being here to protect us?" Rhyanon nods slowly. "They're right, I guess."
A flare of anger wells up in the pit of Rhyanon's stomach, a rebuttal already forming in her head. She starts to talk, but Jowan knows her to well. "Just shut up, Rhyanon," he demands. She does, clenching her jaw and grinding her teeth as she listens to him.
"I know I'm the most useless mage here -"
"No, you're not," she interrupts immediately.
"Are you going to listen to me or not?"
"Fine." Rhyanon presses her hand flat against the rug beneath her, and looks at that, while Jowan talks.
"Okay, so even though I can't do anything useful with my magic, I manifested it really early."
Rhyanon nods. "You were five," she remembers.
"Four. And my father... I dunno. My mother'd died bringing me into the world, and he already hated me enough for that. Once it became obvious what I was..." he trails off, for a long moment, and the pain on his face is so obvious that Rhyanon can almost feel it herself. She realizes that she's holding her breath, afraid of what's coming next. "He almost killed me, Rhyanon," Jowan whispers. "The templars saved my life."
She can picture Jowan as a little boy, barely older than a toddler, almost dying at the hands of his own father. She sees it in the way he still cringes now, when people are angry with him. She sees it in the way that he's afraid of himself and his magic. She understands it now, even though she doesn't want to.
"I guess it doesn't matter that they might kill you, then," she spits.
She knows it's not Jowan's fault that she's upset and she shouldn't be mad at him. But he's there. And he doesn't even seem to care when she snaps at him.
His lack of reaction just frustrates her even more. Her head hurts and her stomach hurts and tears sting her eyes and she can't breathe.
He takes her hand, and his fingers feel warm and strong, intertwined with hers. "Rhyanon, what's wrong?"
She wipes her hand across her face and tells him everything. About Anders getting caught. About the dungeon cells she just found out existed. About how Irving all but told her directly that the templars can do whatever they want, that nothing he can do can keep them safe, not really.
"They're not going to kill him," Jowan tells her calmly. Logically.
"They might make him Tranquil," she insists. It scares her more than anything that he doesn't argue that. He's lived here forever. He's probably seen it happen.
'About a week,' Irving had said. Rhyanon counts the days and tries not to let on how much the ever-present templar scrutiny bothers her now. Something important has changed. The tower feels darker. Colder. Isolated.
She struggles in class, trying and failing to figure out how to work a chain lightning spell. She curses as it fizzles out, the moment she attempts to channel the mana required for a secondary surge. She wonders if Greagoir has any idea how much she feels like she's being punished too. Probably. She remembers the way the Knight Commander had looked when he'd grilled her for information. Anders may have been right about her worrying too much, but she wasn't making up the fact that Greagoir thinks she's dangerous; that Irving gives her too much information, that she's too sympathetic to the behaviors that make Anders a borderline apostate. He had let her see what it looked like when his templars found Anders, he'd let her learn about the cells. The fact that it's all meant to be a warning is anything but subtle. But it's effective. It feels like a heavy weight that she can't escape from, ever, as she goes to class and keeps her head down and tries to pretend that everything is absolutely fine and normal.
She keeps looking over her shoulder as she wanders the halls that night, unable to sleep (Night number six since Anders got back. Almost a week).
She jumps when someone puts a hand on her shoulder, and it takes long minutes for her heart rate to slow down, even when she sees it's only Wynne. "It's after curfew," the senior mage points out. Rhyanon shrugs.
Wynne stares down at her, and Rhyanon braces herself for a reprimand, or an order to go to bed, but the woman simply begins walking down the hall toward the classrooms, and her office. "Come with me," she says. It's obviously an invitation, not a command, but Rhyanon follows her anyway.
"What do you want?" she demands.
"Let's say I'd just like to know why you're wandering the tower after curfew."
"Is this the part where you lecture me? Send me to the priests to confess my sins?"
"Would you like me to?" Wynne doesn't bother waiting for a response to the obviously rhetorical question. Instead, she bustles about, brewing a pot of tea.
Rhyanon snorts. "What is it with you people and tea? It's not going to make me feel better."
"It's for me," Wynne replies immediately. Rhyanon almost laughs at the teacher's unexpectedly witty comeback, but she bites her lip instead, and glares instead. She crosses her arms tightly over her chest, and leans backward, until her head rests against the bookshelf that's currently serving as a wall. It bothers her, sometimes, how there is so much openness in this place – no personal space, no locks on the doors. No place to hide.
She scowls at Wynne, and resolves not to let herself laugh, or relax. She may have to be here, but she doesn't have to actually talk the woman. They can't make her.
"What do you hope to gain by staying angry for all this time?" Wynne asks gently.
"Nothing," Rhyanon spits, before remembering that she's not speaking to anyone. I'm not angry," she adds, after a heartbeat of uncomfortable silence.
Wynne holds her gaze, neither judging her nor moving away. She simply waits, unfailingly patient, as though she has no qualms whatsoever about allowing an irrationally emotional thirteen-year-old to hide in her office all night. "What do you know?" Rhyanon mutters.
"I know that you need to be very careful with how you go about channeling that anger."
"I'm not going to turn into an abomination!" Rhyanon snaps defensively.
"Maker forbid." Rhyanon stares at her. Her jaw drops open slightly. Wynne only shakes her head. She's actually smirking. "If all the demons needed to gain a foothold on this plane was a moody teenager, this world would've long ago been torn asunder," she points out calmly.
Rhyanon sets her jaw, and goes back to glaring.
"You need to do something helpful," Wynne points out. "Something that will -"
"I'm not gonna forget that he's locked up in a dungeon cell!" Rhyanon screams. "Why does this place even have dungeons in the first place?! It's so fucked up!"
There is a long moment of silence, before Wynne gently sets down her mug and hugs the girl close. Rhyanon doesn't have any energy left to fight her. She lets the senior mage hold her. It's the first time anyone has since she was a little kid. It should be embarrasing, but it isn't. It feels safe. Rhyanon shivers and struggles to get control of her breathing. She doesn't even care that she's crying anymore. Wynne starts combing through Rhyanon's long hair with her fingers, gently untangling the knotted mess. Rhyanon relaxes slowly, though her breathing is still interspersed with sporadic, hiccuping sobs. "He wouldn't hurt anybody," Rhyanon demands.
"I know," Wynne agrees. Her voice is steady, and comforting.
"He's not dangerous."
"What would you like me to say to you? That you're right, that this place is not solely about protecting us? Would that make you feel better?"
"Yes!" Rhyanon yells, stupidly. She's just so completely, utterly sick of everyone lying to her.
Wynne sighs. She gets up and places a cup of tea next to Rhyanon, though neither of them actually expects the girl to drink it. Rhyanon rests her hand against the smooth ceramic mug, feeling its residual warmth pass through her skin. "You can't leave either, can you?" she asks softly.
She's never considered what would happen once she became an adult. For long, that has seemed so far away, too far away to matter. Maybe that's why Anders runs away. He probably thought about that a long time ago.
"Harrowed mages are often assigned to cities across Ferelden," Wynne replies. "There is much work that our... talents can make considerably easier. And some of us are sent to other Circles, to share information, or assist with specific research."
"But you come back."
Wynne nods. Obviously. "Sometimes, not for several years, though."
"Do you get to decide where to go?"
"Sometimes," Wynne answers carefully, and Rhyanon can read through the lines enough to hear 'not a lot.' The older woman sighs. "There's a long time before you'll have to worry about any of this," she points out.
"Maybe not as long as you think," Rhyanon mutters darkly.
"The Knight Commander is not an evil man," Wynne says, very slowly. She lays it out in the same way that she offers step-by-step instructions in practical demonstrations in the classroom. "He is simply trying to impress upon your friend the incredible seriousness of his actions."
"Yeah, but -"
"Amell." Rhyanon bites her lips as soon as the woman says her name. "The both of you are far beyond childish pranks. Anders is an adult now, a Harrowed mage."
"No, he isn't."
Wynne looks down. "He passed the test a few days ago."
"You mean right after he... got back." Was dragged back. In shackles, and beaten so badly he could barely walk. And then they made him go through the Harrowing? A test that sometimes – more than anyone ever wants to talk about – kills people, even people who aren't already weak.
"Is he okay?" Rhyanon whispers.
"Anders is surprisingly resilient. You know that."
"But -"
"No buts, Amell. He's okay."
Rhyanon studies the older mage's face, trying to figure out it she's lying, or hiding anything. But Wynne is good at not giving anything away. She'll have to trust the woman. She doesn't have any other choice.
"I am not telling you to forget about your friend," Wynne says gently. "But it will help you to have something else to occupy your time, and your mind."
Rhyanon nods. The senior mage smiles and clears away their teacups, then sets to work showing Rhyanon the fundamentals of healing. Showing her how to help.
Rhyanon really does end up spending nearly the whole night with Wynne. She's falling asleep on her feet when the teacher escorts her back through the halls to the apprentice dorms only a couple of hours before dawn, to protect her from the scrutiny of the templars stationed along the way. Rhyanon murmurs her thanks. When she curls up to sleep, she does it in Anders' bed.
She blinks her eyes slowly, then immediately panics when she realizes that someone else has woken her up. She can still feel the hand on her shoulder. She scrambles backward, raising her arm to protect herself.
The emotional overcharge snaps her immediately into full alertness. But the confusion doesn't go away. It just changes flavor. "Anders," she whispers, as she slowly regains control of her breathing.
He sits down on the bed next to her. "Hey," he says. His voice sounds rough, and he looks tired. Rhyanon tries not to notice. "Bad dream?"
She nods. "Yeah," she murmurs. It seems the easiest way to sum it up. She studies him carefully, trying to read him, trying to figure out how worried she should be.
"I didn't expect a welcoming committee," he teases gently. Rhyanon blushes. And then she hugs him. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight, trying not to notice when he shies away.
"I guess that means you missed me," he says slowly, and his voice fills her stomach with flapping wings.
She nods.
He's too tense. She lets go of him. She carefully doesn't touch him.
"Of course I did!" It sounds much more like crying than she wanted.
"Aw, come on, Melly. I've been gone for what? A few days? Nothing to get worked up about. Really."
A few days? No. That's not good enough. One week exactly. One hundred and sixty-eight hours. He knows. He's been counting. So has she.
"No one would tell me anything," she whispers.
He sits down next to her, and forces out a broken laugh. "Of course not," he whispers. "There's nothing to tell. They locked me in a room, ignored me for a couple of days, and let me out again. Piece of cake, really. Nice break. No homework."
He's trying too hard. It hurts. Rhyanon shakes her head. "Please don't lie," she begs him. "Everybody else in this place lies. Not you, too."
"When did I ever lie to you, Melly?" His voice is still light, but his eyes are haunted. His words are too measured, too careful. He's still lying. Rhyanon stares him down. "Okay, so it was a little cold down there. And it smelled like wet rat most of the time. But I promise, that's all it was. They were trying to scare me, that's all."
She snorts, and it's half way between laugh and cry. "Since when has that ever worked with you?"
He smiles. It seems more real now. She relaxes, just a bit. "See? Walk in the park, told you so."
She shakes her head, and struggles to breathe. "Did you know you were going to leave, that night?"
"Melly -"
"Did you?!"
He nods, slowly. And Rhyanon's heart sinks. She'd known it, but somehow having the confirmation just makes her feel even worse. "And you didn't tell me."
"Of course I didn't!" Anders yells.
Rhyanon jumps, but it feels good. It makes him seem more alive. More solidly real. "I thought they were gonna make you Tranquil," she gasps. "I thought... I thought I was gonna lose you."
"Melly, I don't wanna talk about it. Okay? Please?"
Rhyanon kicks at the floor with the toe of her boot. "I wanna help you," she murmurs. "I can, you know. Please let me help you. I..." she takes a shuddering breath. When did she start actually crying? How did that happen?
She won't finish the sentence. There are too many ways it could go wrong.
"I'm okay, Melly," Anders insists. His voice is almost calm. "There's nothing you could do anyway."
"I'm not okay," she admits.
"Don't say that," Anders begs. "Don't... don't get hurt because of me. I never wanted you to. I never wanted this."
"It's kinda too late for that," Rhyanon admits.
Anders sighs. "I know," he murmurs. And he is so resigned. She's never heard him sound like that. Like someone who's given up.
With thanks to Acherubis, who bounced a few ideas back and forth with me way-back-when, some of which, in altered form, made it into this chapter.
