Written for the Cheeky Monkeys 'Love Returns' Valentine's Day challenge.
Presence
.o0o.
The hallas' feet whisper in the grass as they move about the meadow and Elora breathes gently into her pipe, working the sound into the quiet tune she sends drifting with her charges. Her gaze wanders from one to another and comes to rest on the wood beyond, where the early evening shadows stretch and tangle. She lowers the instrument to smile.
"I know you're here."
"You always do, emma lath." The dimness resolves into form, of leather and fall of hair brushing an otter-sleek curve of neck. Mithra steps out of the shadows and Elora savors her beloved's approach, the music of the huntress's warrior-grace a melody in its own right.
"We move out tomorrow to join the Warden's forces." Mithra's voice is fierce with anticipation. Elora simply nods, winding her fingers through Mithra's without comment, and the huntress squeezes her hand. "Hey. Shemlen hunters, forest spirits, werewolves: what's a mere Archdemon? The Clan will survive." She strokes the silvery white hair, brushing a thumb over Elora's lips.
"Just see to it that you do, beloved." Elora turns her head to press a kiss into the palm cupping her cheek and steps into the warm embrace.
.o0o.
They make the most of the night, of touches and gasps and murmurs of passion and love, lying with limbs entangled, clothed in dapples of moonlight and the pendants they exchanged long ago. And when the post-coital glow is abruptly extinguished upon discovering tangible evidence that a halla had made a different use of their little nook, their uncontrollable mirth at the sight of each other's expressions more than makes up for it, as does the subsequent prolonged and mutually intimate bathing down in the star-filled lake.
.o0o.
The assemblage of warriors departs in the morning, afoot in the silent mist with Keeper Lanaya at their head. They will not risk the halla amongst the human armies, if indeed the gentle beasts would have consented to leaving the forests. As Elora's place is with the herd, she stays behind along with the children, the hearth-bound, and a handful of fighters chosen by lot to keep them safe, whether here in the heart of the Brecilian Forest or on the flight north if the Blight advances unchecked. Surprisingly, the proud warriors had voiced little protest over remaining. Whether traveling to protect the land upon which they live, or staying to protect the future of the Clan itself, it is all one in the end.
Elora watches with her fellows as their Clan vanishes into the mist, fervent prayers to the Creators for their safe return on every tongue, memories brimming from every corner, fears and hopes trembling in every heart. Waiting, unknowing, will be a more fearsome struggle than any demon might offer.
.o0o.
Their lives become an anxious fugue, facing the immediate concerns of survival and constantly poised for news. The days slip into weeks, and the season has well turned when the younglings on watch raise an alarm which quickly becomes an excited cry.
"It's them! They're back!"
There is just time enough for the returning warriors to cry victory before there is a melee of embraces, of shouts and greetings, of wild exuberance and impassioned intensity. The confusion is all the greater for the strange faces in the party, Dalish from another Clan and city elves abandoning the shem life. Elora greets and touches friends and strangers alike with heartfelt delight, albeit with some distraction.
I know you're here. She moves eagerly through the crowd, craning her neck to scan for one particular face. I know you're here. A twinge of apprehension grows with her lack of success. Please . . .
For of course, not all the tears are of joy. Here, a father presses his little girl to his heart and tries to explain why her mamae did not come back to her. There, old Nashal covers his face with trembling hands while Keeper Lanaya and Hahren Sarel gently relate how his sons perished together, victims of an Emissary's fell magics. The Dalish strangers are the sole survivors of their entire contingent, perhaps the last of their Clan. None are left unscathed, whether the scars are carried outwardly or inwardly.
Cammen and Gheyna stand apart with Deygan. The young lovers notice her approach, directing the scout's attention to her, and Elora goes still inside at the looks on their faces. Her pace slows, groping blindly for her footing on the packed soil as if wading through stagnant water. Eventually she stands with them, but all her words of welcome fail and hover unspoken, shunted aside for one name.
"Mithra?"
Gheyna's eyes fill with tears while Cammen looks as woebegone as only he can, and they both look to Deygan who drops his eyes and tugs at the sling supporting his arm.
"Tell me." Her lips scarcely move.
The running battle through Denerim, flanking the Wardens where the monsters swarmed the thickest. . .
The Archdemon itself descending like a malevolent storm front, vomiting sheets of searing violet flame . . .
The bridge shattering . . .
The fighters burning, falling . . .
The wall crumbling, folding in on itself, hurling clouds of grit and masonry in pursuit of the plummeting bodies . . .
Each word pecks and shreds at Elora's dying heart.
"Did—" She falters, swallows, and continues. "You found her? Afterward?"
They shake their heads, and she allows herself a chord of hope.
"We searched for all our dead, but—oh, Elora, no, don't." Gheyna touches the other woman's hand unhappily. "The fire was so intense. And the debris pile, you can't imagine, it was . . . we recovered no one there. Nothing recognizable. Nothing . . . whole."
...nothing whole...
"Lethallan, I'm so sorry."
No, nothing whole. Not anymore.
.o0o.
The days slip into weeks which slide into a full turn of seasons. The Clan eases back into the rhythm of life, singing death into growth and enfolding the newcomers into its own. Elora drifts with her halla, Mithra's shade with her in every turn.
Grace of movement, flash of limb.
'Chok' of arrow striking target.
Trill of laughter resolving into a distant hawk's keen.
Dimness of shadow resolving into . . . shadows only.
The unquiet spirits of the Brecilian are no less present than the echoes of her beloved.
She cradles the pendant Mithra made for her, rubbing her thumb over Mythal's symbol, then bows her head and presses the round of leather to her heart.
"I know you're here," she whispers. "I know. I—" She folds in on herself, her fingers curling to grasp after pain and love.
.o0o.
Elora sits amongst the halla, silvery-white hides and hair alike glinting in the last rays of sunlight. A cluster of dried leaves follows an errant gust around the animals' legs and across the grass and Elora breathes into her flute, shaping the skittering rustle into her quiet melody.
She can hear the increased activity in the camp as the traders arrive, dwarves with whom Master Varathorn had formed a craftsman's bond while with the Warden's armies. Later she will see if they have any goods to pique her interest, but for now she is content to remain where she is.
"Elora?" Deygan's call has a peculiar timbre. She raises her eyes, mildly curious, to where he and Varathorn stand at the edge of the meadow. Their hands rest upon the shoulders of a third figure, and Elora bolts to her feet.
A tidal upsurge of emotion freezes her in place. Scream of joy, shout of laughter, sob of relief—what emerges is a sort of exultant hiccup before she claps her hands over her mouth to stare, wide-eyed.
The men press Mithra's arms and step back.
Time enough to learn how she survived, how she fell into the sewers only to be sealed in by slabs of collapsed masonry. Time enough to learn of her time lost in the tunnels, injured, out of her mind in the dark. Time enough to learn of her eventual rescue by a party of Durgen'len seeking their own fallen and of her prolonged convalescence.
For now, all Elora needs is the sight of her beloved's form, the fall of hair brushing the shimmer-smooth expanse of scars winding along the curve of neck and teasing at the corner of mouth. She savors her beloved's approach, the hitch in Mithra's gait a beautiful syncopation to the melody of her living grace.
"All this time—" Mithra's voice is roughened, as one who has breathed flames and desperation. She winds her fingers through Elora's own. "You were what kept me going. In the dark, through the pain and the terror and the waiting. You, emma lath, thoughts of you, and us, and—" Her grip tightens, desperate, and her eyes fill. "You. Oh, emma lath—"
Tears run silver tracks along vallaslin and they bury themselves in each others' embrace.
"I lo-lost your pendant. It burned—"
"It's all right—"
"If I'd never seen you again—I couldn't bear—"
"I know, emma lath." Elora turns her face into Mithra's hair, smelling pine and sweat, wood smoke and life, and presses her beloved to her heart.
"I know. I'm here."
.o0o.
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