The moonlight crept through cracks in the ruined stonework, bathing her in soft, white light. Her eyes traced the jagged, crumbled edges of the hold's thirty-feet high stone wall, running over each and every contour, seeing the missing blocks form a reverse triangle leading to the night beyond, and she envisioned the massive debris scattered around the gap rearranging themselves, floating through the air with effortless grace and precision, until the wall seemed whole again and left no trace of whatever had driven a wedge between it.
But then she blinked, and the blocks came tumbling down once more.
She turned from the wrecked barricade, feeling a faraway, but insistent tug at her heart that she had tried so hard to ignore. Despite her best efforts, a part of her sympathised with the faraway call. It yearned to feel strong arms wrapped around her once again and wanted to forgive every mistake, absolve every wrongdoing until nothing else stood between her and the one person she had come to care for, but had pushed away.
Let her come and take me back herself, should her plight be sincere. Her vanity rebelled. After all this time, it still refused to relent.
You know it to be sincere! Her heart shot back, fighting the fire that burned within her, smothering her until her hands balled into fists and her eyes squeezed shut. Ignorance was not her sanctuary, however, for the moment she closed her eyes, she saw glimmering orbs of violet-blue suspended in the darkness, flailing every which way as if lost amid oily shadows. From what meager light it gave off in her disobedient mind, she thought she saw flame-red hair, doused and smothered by unrelenting raindrops. The faint traces of Lowtown ale, rough and harsh to the smell, coalesced in her nostrils.
She's been drinking.
A lot.
Her entire being throbbed with heartfelt agony as regret swam to the forefront of her preoccupied mind, lending clarity and force to the mental image that she tried to push away but refused to let go. She needed to see, to watch on in silence, even though every fiber of her being struggled against her restraint.
She felt the jarring impact of cold stone as she lost her balance. She felt the tears running down her face, mingling with the midnight rain. She felt inability, helplessness and longing as she slumped against the wall, letting the prickling, taunting droplets of water hammer her shuddering frame.
She shivered from the cold, the fire in her eyes long since burned out.
She held her head low, the pride, the confidence she once had torn from her.
She wept silently, alone and in the dark, trembling lips unable to form the word, the name of the one she loved and lost.
Bethany Hawke started when she felt it staining her skin, opening her eyes and bringing the back of her hand against her right cheek. She did it slowly and carefully, although she already knew what it was. She just had to see it with her own eyes.
"Commander?" A voice came from behind.
She gasped and turned round, bringing the hand from her cheek down and behind her body, rubbing what little moisture lingering on her skin into the worn fabric of her Grey Warden frock.
"Y-yes?" Bethany stammered, attempting to regain her composure before the Warden, who had so rudely intruded upon her, noticed the tears on her face and the erratic pulse of her breath.
Delvin Aristold, senior Grey Warden of the Free Marches, looked at his newly-anointed commander with concern. The red veins in her eyes and the swollen puff of her face told him all he needed to know, and what he knew made him snap at himself.
"Is this... a bad time?" Delvin asked tentatively. He knew full well it was, but the news he brought with him carried importance as well.
"I... No, Delvin, not at all," Bethany managed, fighting the urge to clench her fists to keep the tears at bay. All the while, memories besieged her mind. Mere sight became difficult, and she patronised her growing headache with a wrist to her forehead.
"It's not easy, is it? To be Warden-Commander?" Delvin asked, his hand not touching but gently guiding Bethany to the section of the wall she had been watching.
"I'm glad you noticed."
"That's why I didn't stick my neck out when Madred died. Maker knows he could've been better." Delvin said, the mirth in his voice giving way to thinly-veiled hatred as he practically spat his name out.
"He didn't deserve the power he had, over you and over everyone else." Bethany remarked.
"Aye. And if it hadn't been for you, Hawke, we'd still be idiots kept in the dark, stumbling in the blind." Delvin nodded, "That's why we gave you his seat, you know, because you're the only one who broke free."
He turned towards her when she gave no answer, brows raising in question. "Hawke?"
He saw her flinch from his use of the word.
"What's wrong?"
Bethany blinked, jolted out of her reverie. "Nothing... It's just that I'm not used to being called that." Her eyes trailed to the other end of the courtyard, where the cracks in the foundation of a certain faceless statue reminded her of her bitter betrayal.
The relief that shot through her as her sister, unstoppable and relentless, backed away from her killing blow. She felt her faculties return to her, her body once again under her command as the demon relinquished its hold on her. She felt tears well in her eyes as her sister stayed her hand, lowering her onto the ground.
"Remember how she lied to you, little one..." The demon emerged once again, speaking from within a darkness that resided within her very soul.
Its influence snaked over her. She did not resist. The dagger pushed itself through steel and into warm flesh. She saw her gasp in pain, in surprise and, of all things, she smiled.
"I was no more immune to the demons' influence than you were, Delvin. I'm no more worthy of this station than you are." Her hands went to her dagger. She tried hard to fight the emotions that lingered on the worn hilt. She tried telling herself that it was Seryna's doing, that it was her taloned fingers that slid the blade into Clarissa's stomach, but she couldn't convince herself. Hadn't she won free? Hadn't she wrestled control from the demon at the last second and begged for her sister's mercy? And had she not been goaded by the treacherous seductress corrupting her mind into relinquishing her control over her body once again?
If Clarissa's lie made her a traitor, then what did this make her?
She felt strong hands, masculine hands, turn her round and hold her tightly at arms' length. She lowered her eyes as the senior Warden's easy-going tone and his at-times-inappropriate jests gave way to genuine concern.
"No, but if it hadn't for you and your sister, Madred would still be dragging away young men and women from their homes, putting demons in them and making them his mindless foot soldiers." Delvin said with no room for doubt in his gentle voice.
"The Grey Wardens are in your debt, Bethany. And that of your sister, as well." Delvin said, smiling reassuringly as Bethany nodded feebly. He was not aware of the emotions she fought, with tooth and nail, behind her shrouded eyes. Only one other person knew her well enough to see what she hid, and that person was leagues away, powerless as she surrendered to the elements without and within. And it was her doing.
More so my sister than myself. She's the hero. She's always been the hero, the big sister who took care of everything.
Bethany stopped herself. She's not her sister anymore. She herself had made that clear to her not a week ago.
Clarissa.
She had loved her in her own way, doing whatever it took to protect her in her own way. And she had pushed her away for precisely that.
She gritted her teeth, the reins over her magic spiraling out of control. She never thought she could hate herself this much. Despite her best efforts, a choking sob escaped her as she noticed, for the first time, how she had be so, so wrong.
She closed her eyes again.
She was back in the rain again.
"I'm sorry." Bethany whispered, her body shuddering as love and loss staked their claim on her heart, tearing it in half. He barely caught her when she collapsed, the conflict within proving to be too much.
She felt someone calling her name. Near or far, she could not tell.
"I'm just so... tired." She murmured before her eyes closed in merciful lapse.
In the distant south, thunder and lightning waged war.
/There's something special about connection. When it's there, you barely notice because you take it for granted. When it's not, your knees go weak, your heart shatters and you're left with a pale reminder of what things once were. I've learned that the hard way when I was hard at work with this chapter, when a phone call reopened old wounds and returned old connections that I'd thought I'd let go of. Perhaps it's not the same connection as what I've written about in these 1,000 words, but it feels just about the same.
If you've reached this line in words, then you know of what connection I speak.
Spike: Sometimes a kick is what one needs to get back up fighting. Fenris was tricky to write, though. He's moody.
Night: I feel for you. I really do. But the earplugs stay on. Good luck once again! It's only one of the most defining periods of time in your life!
And as a side note, the aggregate visitors (repeat readers) on this story, last month, has just broken through 1,000. I thank these 1,000 people for their silent encouragement, even when at times when I disappoint. But for those countless others out there: Come back soon!