Katja grunted as the weight on her right shoulder intensified, the woman leaning on her for support once again threatening to collapse from her unnamed exhaustion.
Clarissa Hawke struggled to maintain her breathing. Never had inhaling and exhaling taken so much out of her. Her head felt like it was swimming in clouds, her body drowning amidst a sea of flames and her heart providing her with fresh pain with every delivery of blood through her failing system. She felt hot and dry, like a crumpled tunic hung out to dry on a clothesline in midsummer. It didn't help that the package came with an audience.
"That'll teach you not to dance in the rain, Hawke. Did you want to get a cold?" Merrill, too sprightly and slender to carry anything of considerable weight, pivoted in her stride and strolled backwards from the direction she was guiding her companions in, her steps light, springing and energetic. "What were you thinking?" She asked, her voice a mixture of confused innocence and friendly concern, as always.
"I see you still haven't changed a bit, Merrill," Katja shot bitterly, glaring at the little elf, "still the oblivious, innocent, childlike excuse of a First to the Keeper." Couldn't she see what afflicted the human woman was something far sinister than mere physical illness? Sadistic satisfaction ran through her as the dainty elf visibly folded inwards.
A hand, weak but insistent, draped itself over the arm that kept Clarissa upright, making her break away from her glare to see Clarissa squeezing her hand, shaking her head.
"I was just trying to lighten the mood..." Merrill said sheepishly. She counted herself fortunate when Katja relented. She turned back around, resolving to dote her attentions on Sundermount's greenery. It was a refreshing sight. It reminded her of home.
"If it were a common cold, we wouldn't need to half-carry, half-drag Hawke out here, now wouldn't we?" Anders interjected heartily. He had tried, he reasoned, with every method of healing he knew. Poultices, spells, potions, even letting Justice look her over. Nothing had worked, and Justice's examination only led to more questions bubbling in their shared consciousnesses. He'd found something he didn't... understand.
"Don't worry. Keeper Marethari will know what to do." Merrill said, keeping her eyes on the road for the flying colours that signified the Sabrae clan, her clan's presence.
"Marethari..." Katja murmured. It had been so long since she last laid eyes on her Keeper, her teacher, the only leader in her life that she'd looked up to and respected. That is, until the actions of one put her entire clan in danger, killed Tamlen and scores of others, and turned her into... this.
She glanced sideways, looking past the nest of unkempt auburn hair that rested on her shoulder and rested her blood-red eyes on the midnight black of her skin. It felt like she hadn't seen the landships for decades, hadn't heard the gentle creaking of the aravels amidst birdsong, hadn't smelled the aroma of burning cinder from the campfire and hadn't felt the comfort of being among her own kind for a lifetime. Deep inside, she wondered if the clan felt the same and, although she refused to let it show, she feared how her kin would react to her reappearance after all this time. She had left a survivor, the lead hunter of her clan, and now returned as a member of an order her kind knew little about. If anything, she'd grown much taller. The Dalish were slight in their height when compared to humans and, considering the fact that she was a head taller than the mage assisting in keeping Clarissa upright, it only added to the worry that coiled in her heart, like vipers slithering over one another, vile and poisonous.
The faint rustling of leaves, out of place in an otherwise serene landscape, rang warning bells in Katja's troubled mind, tearing her away from idle thoughts and worries. Suddenly alert, her eyes darted to and fro amidst the low bushes that lined the strangely regular peaks of the narrow, winding pass they were treading upon.
To her heightened senses and her keen elven ears, the familiar sound of straining bowstrings did not escape her.
Only this time around, she heard one after the other, echoing all around them, blending into one another until it became impossible to make out exact numbers.
She halted her steps, forcing Anders to do the same and Merrill to stop her humming, just as a dozen figures materialized atop the ridge, flanking them.
Surrounding them.
They wore forest-green, lightweight armor, forged with a metal only the Dalish have mastered and tempered by meticulous craftsmanship only possible under elven hands. White, stylized symbols of hallas, the beasts of burden for the Dalish, stood in stark contrast at the center of their breastplates. There were men and women both, every one of them glaring with unerring precision at the intruding group with wide, round eyes only narrowed by caution and lethality, and every one of them pressed the taut bowstrings of their uniform, recurved longbows against their cheeks, their actions fluid, accurate and deadly. Their aim unwavering, they trapped the four intruders with the intensity of their stares alone while another of their kin appeared from beyond the bend. Like them, the lone Dalish elf was garbed in full armor but, unlike them, he held a naked sword in his right hand and a sturdy yet elegant shield on his left. His gaze was unflinching, cold and calculating as he ran it over the frozen group, narrowing when he recognized the wary Dalish girl at their front.
"Merrill," he hissed, "we were well rid of you."
"Fenarel, please. I need to see the Keeper." She said, a pleading tone evident in her voice. She turned round, gesturing at the limp human hanging between the rest of their party furtively. "She needs her help."
The Dalish warrior, Fenarel, sneered derisively. "You want us to help a shem? For what? So you could bring more of your troubles into our clan?" He spat and swore, anger animating his originally passive features.
"You've already done more than enough, Merrill. Remember the Eluvian? How you couldn't let go of that pathetic dream of yours? Tamlen was dead because of you, because you couldn't get over your cursed dream! They listened to you, followed you into the woods and they held their ground while you escaped, without so much as looking back!" He cried, the emotions that ran high in his voice betraying the fact that he was speaking for more than his clan and far more than what they, as a whole, had lost.
"I did look back, Fenarel! I didn't want them to die!" Merrill shouted, fear, remorse and regret striking blow after blow at her. "Not a day goes by that I do not mourn their loss, Fenarel. But what I did was for the good of our people, the good of our clan! You have to-"
She stopped then, for she noticed the wavering light in his eyes, mirroring the midday sun as it reflected its rays, carrying none of its warmth.
"Understand?" Finished the warrior, Fenarel, in a much smaller, much weaker voice. The hand on his sword grew bone-white as he clenched his fist around the handle. "How can you ask me that, Merrill..."
Tears spilled onto his cheeks. The Dalish perched atop the ridge shifted their gaze for the briefest of moments.
"when she died in your stead?"
Merrill was silent. For that, she had no retort.
Someone else did.
"You were always too quick to judge, Fen." A voice came from behind Merrill, brushing her aside as she backed away, still at a loss for words.
Fenarel's eyes widened in shock as he saw through the midnight-black skin, the maroon eyes and the inhuman height, her slanted, feline features, more pronounced than any of his kin, blurred but still vivid in his mind.
"Bor'assanen," Katja projected her voice so the hunters surrounding them could hear her words, "lower your weapons. Your huntress commands it."
The trio behind her watched, dumbstruck as the archers, one by one, obeyed. Their eyes were fazed by confusion but, in some of them, the spark of recognition burned like wildfire, overcoming their inhibitions.
"Katja?" One of them called, incredulous. The lone question was swept away by the sound of armor clinking against armor as Fenarel strode forward, tearing off his helm so he could see clearly, unhindered by the metallic visage. Clarissa, with her bleary eyes and weary mind, could not make out the features of the warrior who had not moments ago been adamant in barring their way. She could tell he was quite comely, though. His light blue eyes were as wide as saucers, running up and down the slender, elven woman standing before him, but something in his eyes betrayed the fact that he did not regard Katja as one of his kind.
Indeed, one would have thought Katja had plummeted from the heavens in a shower of flames, had they examined Fenarel's expression alone.
"Kat..." Fenarel murmured, disbelief etched across his face, "is it really you?"
Katja felt a tremor run through her, a mixture of roiling emotions bubbling up, the name awakening some part of her that she had all but buried, deemed dead as dead could have been. And yet, here he was, calling her name, looking into her eyes, dragging her from this life into the previous, changing her into a person who she had long forgotten. A person she had tried so hard to forget.
She nodded, the last of her barriers crumbling before him.
"Emma sa'lath." She whispered in endearment, in happiness, in reclamation of what she thought she had lost. She rushed forward and embraced him, squeezing herself tight enough around him that he gasped softly before his arms mirrored her own, wrapping around her slowly, gently. While she hugged her in her crushing embrace, however, she noticed something odd – Fenarel's arms were halting in their movements, hovering just out of contact with her body, as if he was holding himself back.
She gave the notion little thought before tossing it out of her mind, separating herself from Fenarel and looking into his eyes, and there it was again – Doubt, uncertainty and a host of different emotions flickered across his eyes in a split second and she thought she saw, of all things, guilt.
Snapping at herself, she turned round and gestured towards Clarissa, who was leaning on Anders for support, her pallid skin and bleary eyes a silent, yet reluctant, plea for help.
"She needs the Keeper." Katja said, laying a hand on Fenarel's arm. She had so much she wanted to tell him, to share with him, to shed light on the past year when they've been torn apart, but she forced herself to remember what she had come for. She had found her love, lost it, and found it again, and now she was determined to help Clarissa do the same thing.
Retreating from Fenarel, but never keeping her eyes off him, Katja slid herself under Clarissa's right arm once more.
The archers retreated from the ridges without a sound, reappearing further down the pass, which widened to reveal a small clearing surrounded by dense woods. Red-and-white halla horns, embroidered on flowing banners of cloth, hung from separate poles around the perimeter of the clearing. Katja took it all in, looking round, inhaling deeply, feeling the familiar wash of the breeze. She noticed no fewer than a dozen pairs of eyes staring at her, but she paid them no mind.
She was back.
The Sabrae.
Home.
The camp was deathly quiet, save for the sound of two elven tongues in effluent conversation caught her sensitive ears, making her squint at the forge situated beside a row of tents that lined the edge of the clearing. A deep, gruff and somewhat impatient voice, obviously male, was offset by a slower, gentler but raspy female voice, as if wizened by time. She recognized both of them without even needing to see their faces.
The conversation abruptly stopped as two of the hunters stepped behind the red canvas tent that blocked Katja's view of the forge. They returned just as quickly as they have disappeared, though a woman now strode between them as they walked briskly towards her. Katja felt her heart leap to her throat at the familiar figure.
Keeper Marethari walked at a leisurely pace, allowing the hunters flanking her to outstrip her stride and in return giving her more time to examine the outsiders in their camp. Her slanted eyes, a deep green mirroring the forests around her, sparkled with an intelligence that was gathered from long years guiding her young through thick and thin. They locked onto Katja immediately, and she thought she saw a flicker of surprise widen them slightly. As she approached, Katja noticed her relative shortness compared to the more athletic of the clan, which translated to her being a full head slighter than Katja herself. Despite that, the way Marethari carried herself highlighted her position as the clan's leader, with her head held high and her strides gentle but firm. Her presence exuded an air of authority, warranting unspoken respect from the Dalish under her leadership, a respect that was apparently well-deserved.
Her footsteps were silent save for soft crunches in the grass as she stopped in front of Katja. Her forest green eyes remained fixated on her own, never wavering in its attention but soft and gentle with its inspection. She had to look downwards at her to maintain eye contact, but that didn't diminish the feeling of smallness she felt coursing through her as her Keeper looked at her. It was as if she were a child again, under the watchful eyes of her mother.
"Welcome back, da'len." Marethari said softly, laying a hand on her shoulder. Her touch was warm, comforting, like the familiar sight of home after a long journey. She was once the huntress of the clan, the most skilled with the bow and the Keeper's favourite, second only to Merrill. Time has robbed her of those. She was no longer the prodigal, but a stranger. She saw it in Marethari's eyes, and in the eyes that never left her since her entry – The wary, guarded stare reserved for an outsider.
You still have Fenarel.
"Keeper," Katja replied, bowing her head.
"The Wardens have treated you well?" Marethari asked, cocking her head to take a closer look at her. It was not like her, Katja thought, to worry for her. She's always been independent, and Marethari knew it.
She's changed.
A lot has changed.
"My wellbeing is of lesser concern at the moment," Katja said, motioning for Anders to let her shoulder Clarissa on her own and bringing her forward to the Keeper's eyes, "she needs your help."
Marethari's eyes softened with sadness as she recognized the ailing human. "What have you done to yourself, child?" She asked.
Clarissa struggled to remain standing. She gave no answer.
"Take her to my tent."
Wordlessly, they obeyed. Anders took his position at Clarissa's side again, and they carried her to a circular tent on the opposite side of the camp with a worried Merrill in tow. Marethari held the flaps while they set her down on a bedroll inside the tent.
The interior of the tent was dry and warm, the temperature maintained at just the correct level that it would feel comfortable but not to the point where it became stuffy. Katja smiled to herself as memories of her being called into the "red round prison" every time she snuck out of camp, much to her parents' and Marethari's frustration. Her curiosity of the outside world, however, was invariably trounced by her sense of belonging to her clan. She always came back, save for that fateful day.
"Hurry!" Surana hissed, serpentine daggers flexing in her hands as she eyed the woods surrounding her.
"It's not enough! My magic is not enough to purify it!" Merrill cried, a starburst of azure light escaping from gaps between her fingers, emanating from the shattered piece of ancient Elven metal.
"I can hear them!" Tamlen whispered, fear gripping him, twisting his voice and vexing his aim.
"Steady, Tamlen. The woods will protect us. They cannot harm us here." She said, attempting to soothe her fellow hunter's worries.
And then they came for them.
Drawn to the tainted, broken mirror, they came for them, materializing out of the forest by the dozen. Their eyes burned with bestial hunger, with a lust only one thing could slake.
Blood.
Surana.
Torn apart. Taken by the monsters.
Tamlen.
Run down while he ran. Left for dead.
Marra.
Riddled with black arrows. Taken by the monsters.
All the while, she stood her ground, buying Merrill time to return to the clan, to tell them of their wayward quest, to send help.
She didn't get back in time.
Overpowering, excruciating pain overcame her as they fell upon her, raining blow after blow with their misshapen weapons. She survived just long enough for them to reach her, for them to take her away.
Katja blinked. She realized the tent was empty save for Clarissa, Marethari and herself. The Keeper's eyes were on her, then jerked towards the door.
Privacy. She realized, backing out the door just as she heard faint whispering from Marethari, as a mother would an ailing daughter.
She stepped into the sunlight to find Fenarel staring at her.
With a woman by his side.
The warm musk in the Keeper's tent washed over Clarissa. The chill that resided in her bones fought back vigourously, trying to repel the heat while drawing on Clarissa's own strength. She was beyond caring, however. A numbness had long since come over her, shutting out both physical and mental discomfort. She had welcomed it at first, for it dampened the longing in her heart and the pain of guilt in her thoughts. It had sapped her will, little by little, until she toppled down the stairs leading into Darktown, her wobbling legs unable to support her weight. What happened next was vague and black, only acknowledged by ear as Anders carried her into his clinic, teetering on the edge of consciousness.
Since then, she has downed countless brews and herbal extracts, but none restored her waning strength; She had felt wave after wave of creation magic wash over her, but none lifted the stifling blanket of fatigue that was smothering the life out of her. Day by day, darkness crept around the corners of her failing vision, tempting her with total blackness.
She vaguely recalled a figure in black, highlighted by red eyes clouded with worry, staying by her side from dawn till dusk; She remembered a distressed Merrill, shaking her in futility and desperation, praying for her recovery with her cold, lifeless hand clutched between her own; Out of everything, she remembered a woman who frequently dogged Anders with questions, pacing back and forth and cradling her inflamed cheeks with a wrinkled hand.
Then, out of the ether, she felt crisp, cool forest air on her skin as they took her outside the city, to the clan of Dalish elves who despised anyone and everyone not of their association.
And now here she was, letting an old Dalish elf probe at her mind without restriction. Not that she had any say in the matter.
"You do realize the extent of your actions, shem?" Marethari asked brusquely, a sigh escaping her thin lips as she boiled a rag to wipe at the sweat gathering on her forehead.
"Y-Yes..." Clarissa answered feebly.
"It matters little. The bond between you and whoever you've chosen is dragging you ever closer to Falon'Din's embrace. The distance is too great." Marethari said. A tone of wonder crept into her voice, "What you've done has been shunned and feared by the wisest and bravest of us."
"Why?" The Keeper asked, unsure why she even asked such a question. Some part of her wanted, needed, to know.
"It was... her life or mine... I chose mine." Clarissa said, the fatigue in her voice doing little to mask the determination she had when the words tumbled out of her mouth.
"You must love your sister very much." Marethari said, clearly aware that such forms of affection transcended familial love. From what she had felt, the love between them was strong, pure, but far too quick to bloom.
"Bethany... Is she all right?" Clarissa asked, weakly beating herself up inside for not asking sooner.
"She suffers from the fatigue that afflicts you both. Your untrained mind is unstable. Your bond is drawing from that, and with the distance it's travelled, it's killing you."
"And her." Clarissa said.
"And her." Marethari agreed.
"Can I... close? That distance?" Clarissa asked.
"It would be far too dangerous for you, child. You would not survive the trek through the Vimmarks."
"I have to. There's no... other... way." Clarissa said. Her body rebelled against her words, consuming her in uncontrollable spasms as she coughed and heaved, every intake of breath becoming increasingly difficult.
Marethari averted her resolute gaze, conflict evident in her eyes. Would it be wrong for her to even suggest this?
"There... is another path." Marethari said haltingly, doubting herself with every syllable she uttered. In all her years as Keeper, no decision has troubled her so.
Even in her fragile state, Clarissa caught the uncertainty in her voice. She felt white, blank fear creep over her at the ominous tone.
"To sever the link." Marethari said, taking a deep breath and exhaling the words out, as softly and gently as possible.
It hit Clarissa like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath out of her and making her gasp with sudden agony. She felt the Keeper edge closer to her, and she pushed herself away with all the strength she could muster, all the while battling a fear that threatened to take away everything, to rob her of everything she had left.
"You will last no more than a day with the magic draining your life force. What happens after that, child? Will you spend the last seconds of your life amidst frozen peaks and howling winds, knowing that with your last act of defiance, you have sealed your fate as well as that of which you hold most dear?" Marethari said, pinning her down at her shoulders with her willowy hands. Had Clarissa's strength not been a shadow of what it had once been, she would have shoved her clear with brute force, letting nothing stand in her way. But now, she was powerless, helpless before the frail might of the Dalish Keeper as she whispered words into her ears, words that she fought against with every fiber of her being, battling against a bitter truth she refused to accept.
"Your path must not end here, young one!" Marethari insisted, remembering what she had seen in the human woman's eyes. The light within them shone deep into the beyond, a sign of a lifetime rivaling the ancient Arlathan elves themselves. She could not, must not, allow her to throw that away. "If you throw your life away, she will follow, one way or another."
Clarissa's struggling ceased. Tears leaked from the sides of her eyes, seemingly vanishing into the warm, musky air of the tent.
"You're right," she whispered. "I'm sorry."
The resolve in Marethari's eyes softened as she saw the resignation in the human woman's eyes and the aura of despair that seemed to permeate her. Taking a deep breath, she recited the spells needed for spellbreaking in her mind, her aged, weathered heart painfully aware of what she was about to do.
"Do not resist…" Marethari said, closing her eyes and using her mind to discern her surroundings instead. The world went black for a brief moment, then flared to life as her probing mind touched upon a life force so vibrant in its liveliness and headstrong in its will to live, she forgot to whom it belonged. She felt the intangible barriers around it lower reluctantly, as if opening a gate that led into the woman's soul. She ventured inwards cautiously, resolving to cause the least amount of harm to the distressed consciousness. To her mind's eye, the insides of Clarissa's soul blazed with pure flames, silent in its procession but overwhelming in its intensity. As she searched for the spell that tied Clarissa's soul to her sister's, she thought she heard the call of a hawk, far in the distance. She wondered at it. Never before had she ventured into the mind of a human. Had the Dalish been wrong to think them not their equal, when their minds bested even the sun in their luminance?
Then, she found it.
Deep inside the fiery depths of Clarissa's soul, she found the spectral image of a hawk, talons intertwined with that of an eagle. Both birds were at the precipice of death, their sharp eyes fluttering and their breathing shallow. For a moment, the Keeper wondered at the image, at the immaculate details on both hawk and eagle, making her doubt herself about its authenticity.
She believes in them.
She saw the strength with which both hawk and eagle clung to one another, nigh on unbreakable with sheer strength.
Even when faced with certain death, she believes in them.
In her.
A jolt of fear ran through her as she approached the foreboding pair of hunters, her focus temporarily diverted as their avian eyes sprang open and glared at her with singular intensity. The eagle's eyes softened in enquiry as its head cocked to one side, as if questioning her actions. The hawk, however, kept its eyes fixated on her, intent on burning a hole through her skull.
Ignoring the hawk's piercing gaze, Marethari focused instead on the rivulets of spiritual energy that bound the birds together. The violet strains of magic flickered dangerously, waning with the passage of every second. As with all things translated from mundane to ethereal, the distance between them was largely discounted, with its appearance in the Fade being merely inches in length. Marethari knew better. The bond between them was stretched beyond measure, and it was killing both of them.
She placed her hand on the talons, expecting a hard, rough feel underneath her fingertips. What she felt, instead, was the smooth, unmarred texture of human skin, untouched by age and contradictory to what her eyes perceived it to be. It removed every illusion she had of the act she was about to commit, and she felt her breath hitch.
"Melava inan enansal, ir su araval tu alvaral," Marethari began, the ancient tongue her race once remembered clearly recited in immaculate, practised syllables, "u na emma abelas."
Time was once a blessing, but long journeys are made longer, when alone within.
In a way, it foreshadowed what lay before the ill-fated human, telling of the hardship ahead of her. Marethari thought it fitting, and fitting was all it needed to be for the ritual to take effect. All the while she pressed her thoughts into the fragile bond, lamenting but repeating what needed to be said.
But you have to let go.
Heat suffused the tent as an unworldly light illuminated the interior of the tent, peeking out into the camp through gaps in the dark-red fabric. Marethari noticed the change around her physical body peripherally, but she pushed the stray thoughts from her mind as she focused, keeping in mind the next verses to be recited.
"Lath sulevin,"
Be certain,
A whiteout of flames engulfed the Dalish Keeper's overextended mind as Clarissa fought back, an uncontrollable part of her breaking free of her inhibitions and enveloping Marethari in an inferno. She felt her thoughts sway and muddle as the fire grew in intensity, bringing with it an agony few could withstand. Dislodging the talons, she pushed hawk and eagle apart, gasping in pain and suppressed anger as the hawk took flight, raking her with its razor-sharp talons. The eagle keened, its mournful call echoing out into the ether.
"Lath araval ana."
The path shall emerge.
Every sound produced from her throat rasped and clogged as fresh blood oozed from deep lacerations on her back and outstretched arms, mingling with the fire eating at her skin, all the while grinding her teeth to dust as the hawk continued its relentless endeavour to dislodge her. A small part of her reminded her that the pain was only in her mind, that she was still shielded from harm in the safety of her tent, expending herself to save a woman who was, at the moment, in the form of a spectral hawk hellbent on killing her.
"Arla vent u vir mahvir."
To a home tomorrow.
The hawk ceased in its ruthless assault as the words, foreign but unmistakable, calmed its primal instinct and brought its eyes upon the eagle underneath it. Their eyes locked, looking past the battered elf between them, remaining standing in her defiance. Bruised, cut and gravely wounded, Marethari thought she felt the ruffle of wind in her short, tied hair. Her concentration was slipping. Reality was interlacing with her perception of the Fade. She heard whispering – faint, weak but distinct.
"I'm sorry…"
She heard shouting, muffled and agitated as if heard beyond of veil of cloth. Daring a break in her mantra, she reached into reality and took control of her throat.
"Stay back!" She shouted to the clan gathered outside, feeling the rippling wind in the tent carry her words outwards.
She allowed her arms respite, lowering them and stepping backwards. Understanding gleamed in the hawk's eyes, encased in a film of shimmering tears. The frightful strength in its talons lay dormant.
"Suledin, Da'len." Marethari spoke to the hawk gliding on windless air, attracting its attentions with her words.
Endure, child.
"Melana 'nehn enasal ir sa lethalin."
And time will again be the joy it once was.
She watched as the tendrils of spirit magic snapped –
And kept her eyes closed as Clarissa cried out at the sudden emptiness that filled her.
Every single elf in the camp showered Marethari with frenzied questions, relieved exclamations and quizzical looks as she lifted the flaps of the tent. She shook her head, silencing all of them, then motioned to Katja, who nodded and brushed past her, heading into the interior of the ransacked tent. She noticed a gut-wrenching emotion hidden within her maroon eyes a split second before the dark-skinned elf disappeared into the tent.
"How is she?" A human mage, the one named Anders, asked. Marethari stared at him for a brief moment, judging his motives to be pure and his concern to be genuine. Her heightened mind, sensitive to the touch of others after her ordeal, sensed something burning within the good-natured healer. She placed little thought in the matter. Her mind bore many a fresh scar from her exertion. The elves preceding her were correct in avoiding what she had just encountered.
"She has a strong heart," she answered. In a way, it explained everything. Anders nodded, retreating.
Katja emerged from the dark interior of the tent with Clarissa's limp body in her arms. Marethari was relieved to see that the shem's determinate, unyielding violet-blue eyes had, mercifully, drifted shut.
She ran a hand over the flame-red hair, the tangled locks reminding her of the fiery resolve that threatened to consume her.
"Ven atishan, Da'len," Marethari whispered to her, surprising even herself with her referral to the human woman as one of her people. It only seemed right. Or was it only her who thought so? "be strong, and may your heart be whole."
The elves parted before their huntress, cradling her catch as she would a child. Merrill rejoined them at the entrance, silent save for the muffled sob she failed to contain as she saw Clarissa's blank features.
Marethari laid a hand on Katja's shoulder, making her tilt her head sideways. She found speaking a labourious task.
"And what of you, Da'len? The Sabrae is still your home." She said. She hoped.
Katja's crimson eyes softened, looking forlornly into the Keeper, her Keeper's eyes. Then her gaze flickered further beyond. Marethari followed her unwitting gesture, finding the clan's lead hunter, Fenarel, bowing his head as Vania, his wife, returned the dark-skinned assassin's gaze steadily. There was no animosity between the women, but Marethari understood, in an instant, what was making her favoured huntress walk off without a backward glance.
"No," Katja answered, a bitter tone in her voice.
"Not any longer."
/Save yourself,
Don't look back,
Tearing us apart until it's
All gone.
The only world I've never known,
Sleeps beneath the waves.
But I'm the one who's drowning,
Without your love I am lost,
And I can never go back.
Between uncertain love and certain death, how would you choose?
Spike: Love blinds, as does anger. It's the turning back that counts.
The updates will probably be coming in slower than usual (which is already quite slow), because the exams are pressing on my borders. One can only take so much before he takes up arms and fights back. Do come by and sit awhile, though. I may not be churning out 1,000 words every day, but I certainly check up every single day. As always, (R&R) have a nice day./