Cobblestones. One, two, three. One of them is cracked. Moss here, one, two, three. Just keep walking. Keep walking. It's not far.
"Champion, are you…are you alright, Serah Hawke?"
She looks up, her eyes shattered, and her step falters, along with the careful count of the uneven cobblestones she had doggedly focused on to avoid hearing them in her head- hoarse whispers in a dimly-lit room, breaths labouring- to prevent herself from seeing them again in her mind's eye- bodies together, glistening with sweat.
She shallows hard, then tries to focus. "Yes," she realizes she's talking to a young guardsman, one whose face is familiar from a card game a few nights ago, a friend of Donnic's.
Guardsman Greyson, her brain provides, and she is numb enough with pain and heartache that a random thought flitters through the fog in her head. Imagine that, she thinks. Remembering a random name when your heart feels stabbed with splinters of broken glass.
"Yes," she manages to whisper again, still amazed at how she doesn't break down and cry. "Everything is fine, Greyson."
The young guardsman leaves out a relieved sigh, obviously comforted by her even tone and the fact that she has remembered his name. But then the moon peeks from behind the heavy clouds that herald another midnight storm and he stiffens up again. A frown creases his brow as if he can't believe what he's seeing, as if the sight is infinitely confusing to him.
"Serah Hawke…Champion…" he stutters. "Are you…are you crying?"
A shaking hand comes up and finds moisture on her own cheek and she laughs at that, a mirthless sound that chills the young man down to his toes. "I guess I am," she whispers and then her eyes focus on the cobblestones again, stubbornly pushing away the images –and the sounds, Maker, she would never forget the sounds- how he moaned her name in that sinful voice of his, how she purred his- but no. She would not break down. Not here, in front of that guardsman -not now.
Count, she forces herself. One, two, three. A puddle. One, two, three. Right foot. Left foot. Right, left, one, two, right, left. Just a few more feet. We're almost there.
She doesn't hear the worried voice of guardsman Greyson calling her name as she stubbornly pushes one foot in front of the other and counts in her head, loud enough to drown out the sounds. It's only been a few minutes, but it's already as if she has been hearing it for a lifetime; his name on another woman's lips, the sound of bodies slapping together, his throaty moans. Her ears feel scalded and her throat is parched, it's all she can hear, along with the deafening sound of her heart breaking.
Count DeLione's house. We're close. One, two, three. Hang on. Almost there now, big girl, you can do it. Just keep counting, one, two, three, that's it. Right foot forward. Left foot follows. She keeps soldiering on, because that's what she does, that's who she is. She doesn't break down, she doesn't allow herself to mourn all that she has lost, lest the weight of her grief drowns her. That's who she has made herself to be; a hero, a champion, a strong, bold, confident woman. She will not allow herself to break down because the only man she has ever loved has moved on, the same man she has been patiently waiting for these past three years. She will not allow herself any weakness- he was her last one.
So she counts, the worried voice and then the clang of the armoured feet of the young guardsman following her from a discrete distance.
As all things, the short walk to her front door is soon over, eaten away by the firm one- two- three of her count, by one foot single-mindedly being placed in front of the other. She leans against the oak door for a few seconds, heaves a few deep breaths, trying to draw some of its constant, steadfast strength; it stands there, just as it always has, and so must she.
"Champion?" she hears an unsteady, self-conscious stammer from the young man who was worried enough to follow her home, and she even manages to turn over her shoulder and grace him with a barely there smile.
"I will be fine, Greyson," she assures the man, then caresses the wood of her front door before turning the handle and walking in.
Silence greets her, and she backs up against the door, her knees buckling underneath her until she slides to the floor.
"I will be fine," she repeats to herself, but already a sob is forming in her throat, so the last word comes out wobbly and miserable.
"I will be fine," she repeats again, trying to make herself believe it. Tears slide down her face, and she clenches her hands into fists and presses them to her eyes.
She consoles herself with repeating the words another time. You will be fine, she tells herself more firmly this time, as if she scolding a misbehaving dog. Do you hear me? I said you will be fine and you will, you stupid thing.
What choice do you have?
Get over it.
But a sniffle rises anyway, and she gives up, letting the knot that has climbed up her throat dissolve in helpless, racking sobs.
Outside the door, a young guardsman is torn, remembering the look on her face with dread and sympathy, shaken down to his toes by the look of anguish on the face of a woman that has always looked to be unbreakable, that has always been a force of nature, shiny and bright, strong and competent. He raises a fist as if to knock, then lowers it slowly and sighs. He thinks he can hear the sound of a woman crying and for a moment he draws back, astonished and disturbed. He still has an image of Serah Hawke from a few years ago, bloodied, wounded, bruised black and blue after her fight with the Arishok; her brilliant smile, the proud tilt of her chin, the stubborn, determined gleam in her eye. The fact that he is standing here, listening to the muffled sobs of the same woman behind the door is tearing something down inside the young guardsman now. Pity floods him, then sympathy, along with an acute sense of how wrong, how utterly wrong it is to hear this strong woman cry.
He contemplates knocking again, has a brief vision of himself being the bold, confident hero that manages to comfort the damsel in distress, then shakes his head and smiles ruefully. She'd sooner bash his head in than give him, a lowly guardsman, the time of day. But damn it, lowly guardsman or not, he is still male, and the sound of a female in distress rouses his protective instincts. There must be something he can do. Making up his mind, he turns to the street, walking briskly to the barracks, deciding that Guard Captain Aveline, a close friend of the Champion's, is better equipped to deal with this crisis than him.
He passes by a white-haired elf on the way, even bumps into him a little, and then realizes it's another of the champion's companions. He hesitates for a while, debating whether to call out to him, but the elf rushes by before Greyson can make up his mind.
The young guardsman shrugs and carries on.
Hours later, as his shift is ending, he passes by the Champion's house again, even though it's not part of his route, wondering if Captain Aveline has managed to come by and check up on her as she had promised. He catches sight of something on the street, - a flash of bright colour amidst the grey cobblestones and the muddy puddles- and bends down to examine it.
It's a red ribbon.
Greyson looks at it for a while, wondering why it seems vaguely familiar, before straightening up and continuing his patrol. He sneaks one last look at the Amell mansion before he goes, then decides it's none of his concern, and sternly chides himself for becoming entangled too much in affairs that aren't his, and carries on.
He is a big lad, a bit clumsy on his feet, and he hasn't fully gotten used to walking with all this metal further weighting him down, so he treads on the ribbon without even noticing it as he goes. For a few feet it drags behind him, snagged on a spike of his grieves, until it comes loose in a muddy puddle and lies there, now more brown than red.
The next morning a cart goes over it, and some urchins make it into a toy, tying it to a stick and dragging it behind them. Soon, it is more a rag than a ribbon, its promise lost and its meaning as faded as its colour.
It is only noticed by its absence, and even then, nobody asks after it. They all know what has happened, and curious, worried eyes follow the Champion; she only bends her head and shrugs the well-meaning concern off. Further off, the white-haired elf and the pirate have the decency to look contrite, and exchange guilty looks.
But she just smiles, even though it doesn't reach her eyes.
She is fine, she assures everyone.
Just fine.
Just. Fine.
The lie doesn't reach her eyes, and her smile is faded and fake, obviously forced, but her chin is tilted stubbornly up and her shoulders are squared. She is the Champion of Kirkwall, damn it, and she is just fine. Or she will be, in time, because really, what else can she do? She drowns the little voice that mourns inside her head, she thins her lips, and does her job.
She is a big girl, and big girls don't cry.
It was just a red ribbon. It didn't mean anything. Tying all her hopes and dreams to it had been stupid. She'll buy a new one tomorrow-maybe green, not red.
Her eyes meet the concerned gaze of the white-haired elf, and she flinches away, a pang of pain taking her breath away for a second.
Not green.
She'll buy a blue one.
Then she looks down to her feet, and starts counting in her brain again, like she did that night-her new mantra, one, two, right foot forward, left foot follows.
And she just keeps walking, soldering on.