Chapter 42
"One day, Andruil grew tired of hunting mortal men and beasts. She began stalking the Forgotten Ones, wicked things that thrive in the abyss. Yet, even a god should not linger there, and each time she entered the Void, Andruil suffered longer and longer periods of madness after returning.
Andruil put on armor made of the Void, and all forgot her true face. She made weapons of darkness, and plague ate her lands. She howled things meant to be forgotten, and the other gods became fearful Andruil would hunt them in turn. So Mythal spread rumors of a monstrous creature and took the form of a great serpent, waiting for Andruil at the base of a mountain.
When Andruil came, Mythal sprang on the hunter. They fought for three day and nights, Andruil slashing deep gouges in the serpent's hide. But Mythal's magic sapped Andruil's strength, and stole her knowledge of how to find the Void. After this, the great hunter could never make her way back to the abyss, and peace returned."
—ancient elven myth, author unknown
Malcolm
When Líadan offered no further arguments, no one else mustered the courage to speak to Wynne.
Morrigan was the exception. "It is decided?" she asked as soon as Wynne turned her attention from Líadan.
"Yes. I will take a few minutes to make my farewells."
It wasn't until Wynne had spoken to a few people that Malcolm summoned enough courage to talk to her. And instead of expressing how grateful he was, or how torn he felt and didn't feel, at how he'd really, truly miss her, including her lectures, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. "Aren't you afraid?"
She raised her eyebrows. "No one should fear death if they are happy with the life they have led, if they can look back on everything and say, 'Yes, I am content. It is enough.'" She brought her arms around him then, giving him a strong hug that told him that while she welcomed her choice, she did not welcome the grief that would follow, but it was all right for him to feel it. Then she released him from the hug to hold him at arm's length, her hands tightly gripping his upper arms. "I am content," she said to him. "It is enough."
He had nothing to say, not to that. She smiled at him and went to make the rest of her goodbyes.
Malcolm walked aimlessly, torn between finding his children so they could see Wynne one last time, or saving them from witnessing Wynne's death.
Death.
He kept hoping that Emrys would walk in at any second to fix everything, but he didn't. Malcolm paced between rooms as he waited, still frustratingly unable to approach Líadan, too fearful of making Tranquility real, tangible, a thing that could not be taken back. He visited with Cáel, and it was cut short by his own inability to answer his questions about his mother.
Can they put her back the way they found her?
I hope so.
Can Wynne heal her?
We'll see.
That isn't an answer.
It's the only one I have.
He couldn't tell him or Ava what Wynne had planned, that her idea of healing Líadan involved the end of her own life. If it didn't work, they stood the chance of losing both Wynne and their mother and they were worried enough as it was. He wanted them to keep this last sliver of innocence. So he stood up, told Cáel he'd go check, and resumed his wandering. Wanting to see if he could find Ava, he meandered as he headed in the general direction of the healers.
And then practically stumbled on her and Cullen as she put the templar to question about his role in what had happened to Líadan. Malcolm stopped and slid mostly back around the corner before either of them saw him, wanting to hear the answers Cullen would supply in a frank conversation with a child. Admittedly, he did keep poking his head around the same corner, because seeing the conversation was as much hearing it with how obvious his child's body language tended to be.
"Did you really try to stop them?" Ava asked.
"Stop who?" asked Cullen, whose attention had been split between the small anteroom the children were in, and where the adult mages tended to the injured. But once Ava had posed her question, Cullen gave her his full attention. It wasn't something many adults did for children at all, much less templars to mage children.
"Them. From…" Ava touched her fingers to her forehead.
Cullen drew his head back, almost offended at the idea of telling a falsehood about something so serious. "Of course I did. What happened was wrong. Tranquility is not to be used as a punishment. It's supposed to be used sparingly, usually at the mage's request, because they do not trust themselves to resist the temptations of demons. But your mother had never shown to be at risk of possession, nor was her magic, such as it was, ever out of control. Aside from punishment, there was no other reason the Knight-Commander had to make her Tranquil, and yet she did. I tried to stop it. I intervened twice, earning partial brands for my efforts, but it wasn't enough. Would that it had."
Ava squinted up at him. "Ser Keran said they threw you in the dungeon."
Cullen mustered a small smile for her. "More escorted and pushed in than thrown, but yes."
"You don't look like you'd be easy to throw."
"Without magic, no. Probably not. However, the point of a sword can be unsurprisingly persuasive."
Cullen had protected his family while they'd been stuck in the Gallows. Not that the earlier evidence hadn't pointed to that truth, and that confessions given to an angry Morrigan usually contained a great deal of truth, but hearing more didn't hurt.
Then Merrill came around the other corner and took Ava by the hand, deliberately removing the child from a vantage point that would have allowed her to see the outcome of Wynne's choice. Malcolm gave Merrill a silent nod of approval, and then continued his pacing.
Eventually, he gave up on the pacing and sat against the wall to wait.
The air shifted next to him, and he caught a whiff of the slight mix of embrium and deathroot that always clung to Morrigan. Then he felt a bit of cloth pressed into his hand. He frowned down at the scrap of dark cloth, and then over at Morrigan. "What's this for?"
"The dust left from the battles has irritated your eyes, as they have mine. I assumed you would like to take care of it. Hence the cloth, provided by Merrill. I am told they are used for such things."
"Because it wouldn't be something you'd know about at all, would it?"
"No, it would not."
When she dabbed at her eyes with her own small cloth, he made no mention of it.
There was no ceremony. No ritual. They had all made their farewells, reluctantly yet gratefully given. Wynne sat down, her back supported by the wall. It was practical, she said. No need for a dramatic fall afterward.
Afterward, when I am dead, she didn't say, but they all thought it.
Then she closed her eyes to speak with the spirit, and a moment later, a glow appeared, hovering over her. Wynne slumped over slightly, and the glow briefly appeared over Líadan, who closed her eyes as it enveloped her.
When she opened them, Wynne was dead, and Líadan was alive.
It was her. She was there, right there. She was back and there wouldn't be any need for killing. Yet, while they'd escaped the need for Líadan dying, they hadn't escaped the necessity of death. And still, Malcolm felt a great big grin spread on his face on her eyes connecting with his, and seeing life. But he wasn't given much a chance to say anything or even approach her, because Merrill had brought the children in and they accosted Líadan much as they'd accosted Malcolm, their enthusiastic hugs hiding her from his view.
The distraction of the return of their mother also allowed for Gratian and Bethany to move Wynne to one of the makeshift examination tables. Then the two of them began to try what they could to save her. Malcolm didn't get his hopes up, since Wynne had been quite clear through the years that it was the spirit keeping her alive, and nothing else. As for Cáel and Ava, they did take some notice of Wynne's state, but their happiness at seeing their mother restored to herself overrode their innate curiosity. Questions wouldn't come until later, and Malcolm dreaded them. The answers would hurt, both for him to say and for them to hear.
While Líadan didn't run about the room or randomly shout or cry as Pharamond had done, Malcolm still wondered how much of her reaction to their children was from the end of the long separation, and how much of it was from being freed from Tranquility. She had tears in her eyes as she'd knelt and hugged them, smiling at the same time, and still yet somehow managed to look horrified about the tears.
And Malcolm still couldn't bring himself to join them. He glanced over and saw Morrigan also rooted to where she stood, as strangely reluctant with Líadan as he was. It was as if they thought Líadan's return to herself was an illusion, and if they touched that illusion, it would shatter.
It was Líadan who brought them around, when she managed to pry the children far enough away from herself to stand. "I'm not broken," she said to Malcolm. "And I'm not going to break, either. I will, however, break you if you keep acting all weird."
Which sealed it, strangely enough. He smiled, walked over, and kissed her like he'd wanted to do since the moment she'd left. Her arms twined behind his neck as she returned the kiss without hesitation, as if she'd been wanting to do the same since she'd left him behind.
He never wanted to be separated again, not like they had. And he was fairly certain neither did she.
Their children, however, were another story as they offered their own commentary, consisting mostly of playacting at gagging and exclaiming how grossed out they were.
They paid no mind.
Then Revas bounded into the room and straight into them, knocking them apart before insinuating herself between Malcolm and Líadan. Revas hadn't so much as barked once before Líadan had taken a knee and buried her face in her mabari's fur. "I thought they'd killed you," she said, muffled.
"Nearly," said Marian. "Turns out a Fereldan shopkeeper found her and nursed her back to health, and then made my uncle take care of her. Which he did, which is surprising, which makes me wonder if he's carrying a torch for Lirene. Either way, he took care of Revas up until Revas saw Malcolm in the marketplace and then attacked him. Literally, in case you wondering, but not with teeth. Just a friendly tackle that sent them both flying across the entire marketplace. You know, the usual spectacle when comes to a mabari."
Líadan gave Revas one last good rub on the head before she got to her feet and looked at Malcolm. "You thanked him, I hope?"
He frowned. "I think so. I recall giving him a rather large sum of gold, which Marian assured me he'll either drink or gamble away, or both, but whatever."
She nodded, and then slowly turned to Morrigan. "You're back," she said, not unkindly, but with a small amount of uncertainty. Its source became clear when Líadan's eyes briefly went toward Cáel before returning to Morrigan.
"I am," said Morrigan, who'd immediately understood the question Líadan would never ask out loud. "I returned for part of Cianán's education, and I remained to assure that you were freed. Nothing more."
Then they continued looking at each other, and it was the kind of moment where Malcolm knew that practically any other two people would've hugged, but Morrigan and Líadan weren't like any other people. So, even though they were as close as sisters, instead of openly acknowledging that closeness and the relief that Líadan was restored, they stood apart and looked awkwardly at each other.
Varric, who'd been strangely quiet the entire time, let out a very audible scoff. "Please. Just hug each other. No one here will tell, I promise. I won't even write it into my story. Not a word."
After they both shot disparaging looks at Varric, they gave in, and ended up clinging to the other far longer and more tightly than they likely had anticipated. Then Morrigan introduced Cianán, and events settled into a vague sense of normalcy. Gratian and Bethany gave the news that nothing could be done for Wynne, which meant explaining to the children what had happened. They had questions, but Malcolm asked them to hold onto them until the next day, after everyone had rested both bodies and minds.
"I can take charge here," Cullen said from amongst the throng of mages still trying to heal the injured. "I assume you would like to recuperate somewhere that is not in the Gallows, and that the rest of you plainly do not wish to be here." Cullen didn't say that he would also rather not be there, but his expression said as much. His sense of duty, however, would keep him at the Gallows to aid with the recovery of the survivors.
Líadan jumped a little at hearing Cullen's voice, and turned to speak to him before anyone else could answer. "Thank you," she said, and it was clearly not for his newly-made offer.
He flushed slightly. "I'm not certain there's—" He broke off, having noticed that Líadan wasn't quite ready to argue the details of what'd happened in that awful incident. "You're welcome," he opted for instead. "I just wish it could have been more."
"So do I." She started to turn, but stopped suddenly to ask, "Betrys?"
Pained sorrow threaded into Cullen's look. "She died attempting the same thing I did. I'm sorry."
Líadan offered him a tight smile and nothing more.
When the silence marched onward, Marian cleared her throat to halt it. "We should get ready to leave, like Cullen said. They've got a lot to do here, and I'm betting Hildur and her Wardens will help. We'll just be in the way, and I, for one, don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. I'm sure there are others who feel that even more strongly."
"I need to do something before we leave," Líadan said, casting hesitant looks between Cullen and the open doorway.
Puzzlement drew Marian's eyebrows together. "You want to spend more time here?"
"No! No, I don't. But—"
"Already smashed them all," said a human apprentice as she broke free of the crowd of apprentices. "Pax and Keran helped me. I can take you up, if you want to have a look yourself."
"I do, actually," Líadan said after a moment.
Sylvie smiled. "I thought you might."
After giving Cullen a scathing glare—Cullen seemed to be the target for ire against the Chantry—Morrigan said to Sylvie, "I would go with you. I wish to confirm their destruction for myself." Once Líadan nodded her agreement, the three women left without fanfare.
The rest of them began to gather together those who were leaving, most of whom were interestingly not the Circle mages. They had nowhere to go, one explained when Marian questioned their choice to stay behind. And with the unsavory templars, the overzealous Meredith dealt with, and despite the thin Veil, they preferred to stay under the watch of the reasonable templars left behind. When Líadan, Morrigan, and Sylvie returned, Cullen had already begun to organize what little remained of Kirkwall's Circle, with Gratian stepping in to help, taking on the role of First Enchanter the same as Cullen had accidentally taken on the role of Knight-Commander. Though Cullen seemed incredibly uncomfortable when templars and mages both began to refer him as such, he performed the requisite duties quite well.
Líadan mentioned nothing of what she'd seen of the phylacteries, though Sylvie and Morrigan provided description enough of the carnage of shattered glass and the dried remnants of lyrium-infused blood. On her part, Líadan cut through the increasingly crowded dining hall until her feet brought her to the table where Wynne's body rested. When Malcolm managed to catch up, unable to get through the mass of people as easily as Líadan had, he caught the tail end of Líadan's whispers to Wynne, but the words were spoken too quietly and the crowd's din too loud for him to parse it out. Then, mirroring what Wynne had done to her, Líadan brushed the strands of Wynne's hair that had become displaced when she'd fallen. Then she breathed deeply and moved away, once last glance given to the woman who'd healed what once couldn't be, but at the cost of her own life.
"We'll see to her," Gratian said when he caught Líadan's glance. "We'll wrap her in a shroud and keep her in stasis until a pyre can be arranged. From what I managed to see through the windows before we locked ourselves in here, and what I've overheard since, I think we've seen enough fire today."
No one disagreed.
The group that had stormed the Gallows was the same group that exited, with the addition of the three whom they'd sought to rescue, and short one elder mage.
In the yard, Hildur directed the processing of templar prisoners, who remained docile and mollified throughout the process. "We'll have to vet them," she was saying to Thierry as the two of them stood in the middle of a courtyard that reeked with blood. "Bring them before the surviving mages and known good templars we know of to find out what they truly are before we come to any final decisions."
Thierry nodded. "Fair. More fair than many of them deserve, I suspect." He inclined his head toward Meredith's body, a smoking red ruin that forced everyone to take notice. "And what about the Knight-Commander?"
Hildur gave him a wry grin. "I think we can let the mages decide what to do with what's left of her."
Malcolm whistled as he took a second look at Meredith. Rather, what had become of her. The hollow lyrium left in her wake vaguely resembled a human in prayer. No. Betrayal. The look the statue—for lack of a better word—directed toward the sky was one of betrayal and despair. Still, after finding out what she'd done to Líadan, he really wanted another go, this time at the statue, preferably using something with the destructive power of, say, a battering ram. But that particular sort of avenging blow rightly belonged to Líadan, who'd yet to look away from the remains.
"She did that to herself," Marian said when she noticed Líadan staring at the statue. "Much as I might've bitched, it seemed the right sort of end. Looking like it fucking hurt helped too, I'll admit. Do you want to go kick it or something? Hit it a bunch of times? No one will judge you if you do."
"No," said Líadan. "I'm not—we should just go."
When Malcolm shot her a look of confusion, she didn't acknowledge it. With that, the uncomfortable feeling began to return, the strangeness of not knowing how to help her, or even talk to her without making it worse. And having heard the one most wronged by Meredith wish only to leave the entire incident behind caused his desire to obliterate the statue to wane.
"Shit," Hildur said when she saw them approach, her eyes immediately lighting on Líadan and the evidence of her former Tranquility. "Shit! All right, I might've changed my mind about Meredith's remains. While I'm not one for desecrating corpses, even if said corpses were desecrated as they died, I might have to change my stance." She punched Thierry in the arm. "Shit!"
He jumped, at once disgusted with what had happened with Líadan, and surprised that his commander would take it out on him. "I'm not the one who did it, you realize?" As he waited for an answer, he rubbed at his shoulder for effect.
Hildur let go of a frustrated sigh. "I know. You were just the only thing I could hit. Sorry."
Then Líadan said, "I'm fine. I'm me, I mean. Mostly."
"But—" Hildur inclined her head toward Líadan, her meaning clear despite not saying it out loud.
"Wynne saved her," said Morrigan. "She died in doing so."
"The elder mage is dead?" Shale asked, sounding surprisingly shocked.
Not that Malcolm could blame her, since he hadn't quite accepted Wynne being gone, either. She'd lived so long and through so much, that even though he'd witnessed her dying, part of him didn't believe it.
"Unfortunately," said Marian. "And fortunately, since if she hadn't done what she'd done, Líadan would be Tranquil still."
"Shale," Hildur said, eyeing the Meredith-statue, "if I asked you to smash that thing over there to tiny little pieces, followed by pulverizing those pieces into powder, would you object?"
"Does it wish for me to do it now? I will do so gladly," said Shale.
"Meredith's dead," said Líadan. "Leave it."
Malcolm flicked his eyes over to her, having heard the several barely restrained emotions locked within Líadan's attempt at a flat command. Maybe she was a little like Pharamond had been, but the shortness of her Tranquility at least gave her better control over when the tide of emotions would overwhelm her. It might not be long until it did, but it was a far sight better than Pharamond's incredible lack of control.
She didn't meet his eyes. Then, without consulting anyone else, she turned and began to walk toward the courtyard's gates.
"I can see how that could do a number on anyone," Hildur said as she watched Líadan go.
"We'll be at my estate, as long as it's standing," Marian said after a moment. "Whoever wants to and can fit and who you can spare."
Hildur nodded. "Probably for the best. We've a few days' work left here, I believe. Send someone down tomorrow. We'll find places to bunk, either back on the ships or somewhere safe in the Gallows." After another concerned look at Líadan as she began walking through the broken gates, Hildur returned to her conference with Thierry, who'd also been looking worriedly in Líadan's direction.
Which, Malcolm knew, she would hate to know, to have others outwardly worried about her. When they caught up, he didn't tell her. Neither did the others.
Frederick, as per their agreement, had remained ashore. He straightened his posture as they approached, then hopped to his feet and began the process of raising his boat's sails. Isabela leapt into the scow and helped, explaining over her shoulder how they'd be launching the boat off the beach and into the water. At the prospect of having feet and legs soaked in sea water, Marian exchanged a look with Sebastian, who looked at Malcolm in turn, who sighed. Then he asked Nathaniel to run back and ask Hildur to ask Shale for assistance.
Shale agreed, because, she said, she didn't require coverings of cloth like they did, and she was happy to show them, once again, the superiority of her construct.
"Show off all you like," Marian said as Shale shoved the scow into the harbor, "as long as my boots stay dry."
And the farther away they got from the Gallows, the stronger Malcolm's own concern became. Trepidation followed it, leaving him unsure of what to do or how to act. Cáel, Ava, and Revas, on their parts, navigated the awkwardness far better than he did. The children flanked Líadan at the stern of the boat, telling her what had gone on with each of them when they hadn't been able to see her. They didn't speak about her Tranquility at all, their chatter serving as a good distraction from Líadan's dark, haunted thoughts. Revas sat behind the three of them, her massive head on her paws, her brown eyes sad and troubled.
When they reached the middle of the harbor, they could see that the fires in Hightown had been extinguished. Smoke rose from the site of the chantry, but it wasn't as thick as before. Malcolm couldn't see much destruction beyond the chantry itself, and he wondered if it'd been an accident or by design. Maybe Justice or Anders had exerted some influence while Vengeance began to enact his plans, assuring the lives of what innocents they could.
As they walked up the stairs through Lowtown and into Hightown, the lack of destruction throughout the rest of the city was confirmed. Panic had spread, but Kirkwall's City Guard had set a strong presence throughout the city. As the acrid haze from the explosion lifted, order had been established.
Aveline, Malcolm realized, was incredibly good at her job.
On the outside, Marian's home showed almost no damage, save a few cracked roof tiles and a fine coating of ash. Inside the Amell estate, quiet held court. More people now gathered there than had in years, but it was quieter than when it had stood empty and abandoned, before Marian and her family had arrived in Kirkwall. Bodahn, Sandal, and Orana were all safe, questions in their eyes about everyone's fates, but their questions went unasked, replaced by offers of hospitality and ushering guests to rooms. There were enough of them staying that sharing was a necessity for some, but no one seemed to mind. With all that had happened, company, the reminder of living, was welcomed by most. The children elected to share a room with Nuala, who in turn agreed to share with them. Morrigan did not object to the arrangement, for it freed up enough space that she could retain her own room. Morrigan was not so much like the others, and after her long day, required respite from the world, especially people.
When they walked through the door of the estate and Leandra hadn't been there, and Marian unsurprised by it, Bethany's tightened posture gave away her suspicion that all was not as well as she'd been allowed to believe. "Sister?" Bethany asked. The tiny lilt at the end of the word belied the hope she clung to, despite the growing evidence that another terrible thing had happened.
Marian glanced up the stairs towards Leandra's room before she took her sister's hand in hers. "Come with me," she said in soft tone barely hovering over shattered, "we should… we should talk."
Later, when Bethany emerged from the kitchen with Marian trailing behind, the zeal in her eyes at having defeated Meredith and the templars and rescuing her friend, had disappeared.
Bodahn's solution was to fill them with food, though their conversation was understandably lacking. Varric gave a valiant effort, but even his tales held no sway over them. They laughed when they were supposed to laugh, they moaned and groaned when they were supposed to, they even cheered the characters on when the story called for it, but their efforts were shallow and rote.
When they disbanded and disappeared, by ones and twos, into bedrooms or quiet corners in the library or the main room, no one complained. Instead, they were all in tacit agreement that real discussions about what they'd do in the coming days could wait until morning.
Orana, who practically wrapped herself in concern over Líadan, her looks constantly drawn to the marred tattoos, led Malcolm and Líadan to their room herself. And when she shut the door behind her, they were left alone, the two of them.
Líadan kept glancing out the window, toward the Gallows, as if confirming she wasn't imagining things. She hadn't indicated that she'd noticed any of the pile of formerly missing belongings in the corner.
Malcolm wanted to go see their children, but he didn't want to leave Líadan by herself. Not that he didn't trust her, but because leaving didn't feel like the right thing to do. Tranquility had seemed a terribly lonely state of being, but the loneliness didn't manifest until after. To leave someone alone after that wasn't fair, even if the person in question seemed standoffish. Then he wanted to pace out his indecision, but knew he shouldn't. So, he kept fidgeting, catching himself, stopping, then unconsciously fidgeting again. Before all this, before Ava and her magic, he would've known what to do. Right now, he had no idea. What did one say after someone they loved was cured of Tranquility? Sorry about losing your emotions for a while, but hey! Looks like you found them!
That probably wouldn't go over well.
And he kept very much not looking at the sunburst breaking the lines of Líadan's vallaslin, which didn't help with the fidgeting.
Maker, it hadn't been this sodding awkward between them since before they'd gotten together. Well, there'd been that time when he'd proposed and she'd run off, but that had worked out in the end. But it'd been so long since he'd felt this uneasy about them. She practically embodied skittish and wary—understandably so—and he didn't know what to do to help, because it wasn't like she'd gone through Tranquility before. He didn't want to make it worse, but he didn't know how to make it better.
Which meant he just started talking.
"I suppose it goes without saying that you don't want to talk about it?"
The corners of her mouth quirked upward in the smallest of smiles. "So you say it?"
"Figured it'd be a good way of proving I'm me. In case there were any doubts." He paused to consider it. "Are there doubts? Because I'm sure I could come up with more methods of proving I'm me. And I'm fairly certain most of them involve not shutting up." That one earned him a short, muffled laugh, but she still didn't approach him. "I'm real, you know," he said quieter than he had previously. "I'm not going anywhere. And I'm pretty sure you're you and not going anywhere, because you've got no shoes on and you hate running barefoot."
Her faint smile remained. He took it as a good sign even though she hadn't yet talked much.
Then she said, "I need to go wash up. Or walk. Or look in on Cáel and Ava." A brief frown appeared on her face. "All three, I think, but maybe not in that order. Just because I can." She finally looked over at him, her eyes holding the same barely controlled writhing knot of emotions that'd been in Pharamond's, but fainter, a representation of how short her own time under Tranquility had been next to his comparatively eternal experience. The eye contact, and the fact that she held it, bolstered Malcolm's confidence in them being able to work out the strangeness between them. She loved him, and she'd talk, but like she'd always been, it would have to be in her own time. "I'll be back," she said. "I promise. I just…"
"Want to exercise your freedom?" It was a sentiment he could understand, even from his relatively short amount of time spent cooling his heels in the White Spire.
"Something like that."
"Marian would probably appreciate it if you skipped around her house in your bedclothes. Or," he said, drawing out the word, "that might be me."
The faint smile returned. "We'll see."
After she left, Malcolm took out Cáel's book and found the stack of paper Marian had given him a few days ago. While he wanted to give Cáel back his book, he needed to get the sketches copied before he did. So far, he'd made little progress in copying the new Deep Roads maps, and it was better Cáel got his book back sooner rather than later.
The work also let Malcolm feel like everything was normal.
When the door opened again, he'd made somewhat decent headway. He looked up to find that Líadan had returned, and he couldn't help his grin. It'd just been so long since he'd been able to look up and see her there, returning the smile.
And there she was, complete with the answering smile, despite everything.
He shut the book, and then scowled at the smudges he'd gotten on his hand from the graphite. Then he turned the scowl on the offending writing implement itself.
She'd approached him as he'd scowled, and one of her hands rested on his back as the other plucked the graphite from his fingers. After she studied it for a moment, she set it down on the table. On noticing his confusion when he turned to look at her fully, she attempted to explain.
"There was a morning, during a meeting, when I saw…" She stopped and took a breath. "When I saw someone writing. The entire time, all I could see was your hands, and you writing, and even the smudges on your hands and fingers that you didn't always notice." Her own hand reached out and she tried to wipe away what he assumed was another of those smudges on his chin. "I never told you, but I loved seeing those whenever I stopped by your study, because it meant when you finally looked up, you'd get this brilliant smile that—" She inhaled sharply and closed her eyes as she wrestled surging emotions into submission.
Malcolm stood, painfully close to her but not close enough, yet he waited silently instead of prompting her to continue. This had to be on her terms, whatever they were. He'd suffered, but he hadn't gone through anything near what she had, not when Tranquility was thrown into the mix.
She opened her eyes and closed the rest of the distance between them, her hands moving up from the tops of his shoulders to behind his neck. "I started to think I'd never see it again, and then I'd wanted to, more than I ever had before. Then I came in here and there it was and—" Then she gave up on words and started tugging him down before he realized what her intentions were and caught her lips with his before she'd gotten halfway. It was in that kiss that she managed to tell him what she hadn't been able to properly say, and he was able to respond in a startlingly succinct manner as opposed to his own clumsy and too wordy attempts at explaining how he felt.
What he really hadn't expected was for them to begin meandering toward the bed as the kiss continued, hands wandering to feel what hadn't been felt in far too long. When he realized that he'd not only reached for the hem of her shirt, but had started to go under it, he managed to stop. While he'd wanted to do this, he hadn't believed they would this quickly. He removed his hands before he went further. "Are you sure you want—"
"Yes."
The lack of hesitation before she answered had him lifting his brows. "So soon after—"
"Yes." She rested her hands briefly on his cheeks before drawing them down along his neck and outward to his shoulders. "I didn't know—I didn't realize how—" She cut herself off, her fingers twisting in his shirt where she held it. "I kept expecting to see you and you weren't there because I'd left you behind and had done it to myself. Then I wouldn't expect to see you and I'd see you in my mind and it would just get me, the emptiness of something missing and it was you." Her hands crept back up behind his neck and pulled him down to her level.
Her lips brushed against his as she continued her confession. "I love you. I love you and I want you so that I know you're here and not gone and that feeling of missing is—"
He interrupted her this time, because she'd gotten to him, and he kissed her. Softly at first, just wanting to reassure her that he was most certainly there with her, but whatever feeling of want and need that drove her carried over to him. He quickly answered her insistence, his mouth opening to hers as the kiss deepened, and his body suddenly remembered that the overwhelming need for the other wasn't just on her side. The realization nearly bowled him over as it leapt out from wherever he'd locked it away, the desperation and joy of having the person he'd wanted and needed right there, like she'd never gone, like the gaping emptiness of her being missing hadn't existed at all.
She was right here, in body and in mind, and her soul hadn't been ripped away after all, and he wanted to touch it, touch her, to reassure himself of her presence.
It was a good thing, he decided, that their room wasn't large, and the bed only a few steps away. For even in those few steps, they'd managed to get rid of their clothes, and had there been a few more steps, they wouldn't have gotten to the bed. While they'd been content to go slow for a time, that time had been before they'd allowed themselves to come into contact. Once they had, the idea of slow fled, long forgotten.
Malcolm wasn't sure how long it'd been since… weeks, maybe. Possibly more, and he didn't want to wait any longer than Líadan did.
Her leg wrapped around his hip, not so subtly encouraging him. He kissed her ear before slipping down to press his lips to her neck, reveling in the familiarity of her skin, her voice, her gasps, her smell, the brush of her fingers, all of it reminding him that she was home, that he was home. Those fingers of hers lost their subtlety as they tightened on his hips, but he damn well knew he wouldn't last, and so he evaded what both of them sought.
When she said, "Please don't make me wait," however, he let her guide him.
Then his mind decided to hate him, because it started to think, even as he started in on exactly where he wanted to be right then.
If she'd been held captive in the Gallows for weeks, she wouldn't have had access to the right supplies for—and he really stopped, barely managing it. And he could still feel her right there and it was a special kind of torture that he'd only brought on himself. But this was important. It had been very important to her since they'd taken that new Joining potion because it had introduced outcomes she did not want, that she wasn't ready for. He'd be an ass to ignore it, even if he wished for those outcomes. "What about—"
"I don't care."
But she did care, she'd always cared, and he couldn't, didn't want to set aside those cares—he did yet he didn't and only if she meant it—not when her not caring could be a result of the flood of emotions her cure had left her to deal with. Not when it wasn't a rational, purposeful choice on her part. "But you—"
"I know." Her hands shifted to cup his cheeks, rubbing her thumbs against his stubble. Then she looked him directly in the eye and did not look away. "And I don't care."
He could see reasons of all sorts roiling about behind her eyes, but they were too many to discuss right then and they would be discussing them, but they had more important matters to attend to first.
Except he had to check one last time. "You're really all right with it? Because you actually could end up—"
"Right now, this is my choice. If it happens, it happens. If it doesn't, it doesn't." Then some of those roiling emotions rushed out, and once he heard them, they were enough to help him truly understand. "I've had too much taken away from me, from both my people and yours. My bonding, my children, my agency, my very self. No one gets to do that anymore. No one except me. And I want you. I want us close again and I'm not going to wait while herbs and potions are scrounged up. If there are consequences, there are consequences, but right now—" Her fingers skittered down his sides, grasped his hips again, and pulled him flush, seating him deep within her. "—I don't care."
And neither did he.
The grip she had on his hips only tightened when he acceded to her demands, her legs twining around him, keeping him so close that he could barely withdraw before he moved back in. But he was all right with it, because he wanted exactly that, he wanted to surround himself with her, to revel in the fact that she was home and if she left again, he would be at her side. He would no longer have to miss her and she wouldn't have to miss him. He canted his hips to angle in as far as he dared, letting her gasps lead him toward the right pace so they could stay together. The hot tingle crept up on him, tightening, and he didn't want to be alone.
"Stay with me," he said into her ear. "Stay with me, please. Stay with me." He wasn't sure if he was still talking about the present, as they worked their way to completion, or if he was referring to something beyond this moment. Then he didn't care. "I love you."
Her answer was a gasp followed by a jumbled string of Elvish. He caught one word. "Abelas."
"No," he said, sentences becoming difficult to form, "none of that. Just stay."
At his words, her pace quickened and more Elvish tumbled out. The tingle began to spike outward and her movements weren't helping.
"Stay with me," he whispered. Then he skimmed his lips down from her ear to a place he'd discovered years ago, a place no one else knew, just under and to the side of her breast, where he could mouth a kiss and, if he timed it right, neither of them would be leaving the other behind.
"Stay," he said, and then kissed her there.
She went rigid, her muscles inside dragging him deeper. The Elvish tumbled faster, and mixed in was some of the common tongue, and he thought he heard an always.
Then there was no question when he heard the single, clear word couched in a breathy voice.
"Always," she said.
And whatever had been tightening broke over him. This time he stayed with her, buried in her, surrounded by her as he surrendered. "Always," he repeated as he rocked his hips into hers in the last echoes of his release. "Always."