Chapter 44
"Long ago, when our people were strong and free, we roamed the world and could do as we pleased. But we were taught by Andruil, Mother of Hares, to respect nature and all of the Creator's creatures. Even though the earth was ours, we did not misuse it. They say the great leaders of the People would pray to Andruil for guidance. Where shall we hunt? Where shall we raise our halla? Where shall we settle and build? Andruil would send her messenger, the owl, to show the People the way, and they would follow him to where the land was blessed.
Always keep an eye out for the noble owl. You never know: Andruil might have a message for you."
—Andruil's Messenger, as told by Keeper Gisharel of the Ralaferin clan of the Dalish
Líadan
Líadan couldn't recognize herself. The person she'd known didn't fall apart. She didn't put all her emotions on display, and especially not all at once. But she was coming apart, and every feeling shouted for attention as it sought freedom.
All she wanted was to be herself again, and she wasn't even sure who that was. She couldn't even look in a mirror for that. She couldn't look because she needed to be able to see her face in the mirror, her own face, not the face Meredith had inflicted on her.
Her hood had fallen halfway off, leaving the lyrium brand marring her vallaslin bare to whoever dared to look.
She didn't dare.
As she glared down at the pile of packs and saddles that Varric and Marian had recovered from the stables, the items she'd hastily paid an obscene amount of coin to store so that she could get right to finding her last clanmate, at the bow and the sword she'd been convinced she'd lost for good, Malcolm came into the room and quietly shut the door behind him.
He didn't say anything at all. Just stood there, a few steps in from the doorway, and waited.
Malcolm didn't have to wait long, Líadan's question formed and asked before he'd had time to set his feet to ready for a protracted battle.
"How far away is Lanaya's clan?" The question came out clearer than she'd thought.
Equally as clear was Malcolm's puzzlement. "Not far. Less than half a day, maybe even just a quarter. Why?"
"I need to go there."
Then he looked more annoyed than puzzled, offended that she had believed he wouldn't know she'd need to visit the closest thing she had to a Dalish clan, and not the tiny clan she'd created for herself amongst the humans. "I know you—oh. Wait, you mean now?"
"I don't…" She looked away, toward the window, her hood falling the rest of the way down. But she knew he didn't miss her grimace when it did. She felt bare, exposed. Too vulnerable, yet acknowledging that vulnerability by pulling the hood back into place would leave her vulnerable, too. So, she left it. "I don't want to get there while it's daylight. And," she continued before he could force her to admit why she needed to arrive while it was dark, "I need to get there as soon as I can, and normally that would mean tomorrow, but that would be daytime. I can't go then, and I don't think I can wait until tomorrow night. No, I know I can't."
His brow furrowed as he tried to piece together her thoughts, but his expression cleared as quickly as it'd clouded. The fact that he understood so quickly and implicitly reignited both her love for him and her anger at her grandfather for what he'd done to interfere with them. And her anger at herself, for almost falling for it.
"All right," said Malcolm. "But we can't leave Cáel and Ava behind."
She looked at him as if he were daft. "Of course they're coming with us."
He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Well, you seem like you want to travel really fast."
She didn't have the heart to tell him that if she truly wanted to travel quickly, their children wouldn't be the only people left behind. But she was done with that now. If she needed to go anywhere, her bondmate and her children would be going with her. "I do," she said out loud. "But they learned a lot on the trip with me." Then she did her best keep her thoughts on the middle of their trip, when things hadn't exactly been wonderful, but hadn't yet taken the next terrible turn. "And we do have our horses."
He scowled. "Speak for yourself. Mine's in Denerim, and it's a miracle he even made it there, considering I had to entrust Leliana with seeing that he got there."
"You saw Leliana?"
"Yes." His expression was threaded with some amusement, which somehow left Líadan relieved. "I," he continued, "along with several others, also followed her through a sewer. I had a grand trip, and I'll tell you all about it on the way to Lanaya's clan."
"I also have a dim recollection of Wynne's son being mentioned." Out of the flood of information she'd learned over the past day, the involvement of Wynne's son in whatever mission Malcolm had been required to take was one tidbit that'd piqued her curiosity. Of course, it was a story she would've preferred to hear with Wynne there, correcting the inaccuracies in whatever wild tale Malcolm chose to tell.
"That part's even better than the Leliana part." His smile was mostly sincere, but Líadan could see some of the residual pain from whatever he'd gone through with Leliana. She hoped Alistair hadn't been involved. While the rest of them had fairly well hardened themselves against the hurts they might've suffered due to Leliana's actions during the Blight, Alistair hadn't nearly as much or as well. He'd tried, and tried again, but there were some sore spots that could never be fully healed. Leliana was one of his.
"I look forward to hearing it." She almost said that it was sure to be better than hers, but she wasn't ready to joke about the Gallows or Tranquility yet. Nor was she sure when she would be. "I think we can go after Wynne's pyre and still have enough sunlight to make it. If not, Ava can summon a wisp—several, actually—or there's always the option of torches. And we both know Morrigan is more than capable of lighting the way, and I doubt Cianán is any less able."
"You've already discussed this with Morrigan?"
"Not yet." Then she left the room before Malcolm could ask more questions. It wasn't as if they both knew perfectly well that Morrigan would have assumed the same as Malcolm had, that Líadan would need to return to the Dalish, and that Morrigan would choose staying with the Dalish over staying in Kirkwall for any length of time. Most importantly, Morrigan wouldn't ask to come along. She simply would.
Indeed, Morrigan waited at the bottom of the stairs, lounging against the wall. She quirked an eyebrow once Líadan had gotten halfway down, Malcolm only a few steps behind her. "You will be traveling to Lanaya's clan?"
"After the pyre, yes." Out of the corner of her eye, Líadan saw Malcolm roll his eyes at Morrigan having known, and Líadan taking the other woman's knowledge in stride.
Morrigan straightened slightly, her mind shifting to planning instead of waiting. "I shall accompany you." The way she said it left no room for disagreement, though Líadan wasn't inclined to do so even if it had. However, Malcolm's eyes looked to be rolling right out of his head. Then, beyond the stairwell, in the main room, Nathaniel slowly stood and started for them, Cianán on his heels.
Malcolm didn't indicate if he'd noticed, his attention on the two women. "Has it occurred to either of you that now there'll be three kids with us and it'll be a late ride and they aren't the best at riding like the adults are?"
After having traveled with two children and only herself for weeks at a time, Líadan felt that three children and an assortment of adults wouldn't prove difficult at all. "If they get too tired to stay seated, the children can ride with us, and we can lead their ponies."
"Except," said Malcolm, "I'm betting Morrigan will fly rather than ride."
Morrigan nodded. "Indeed. Flying is more efficient, and I do not end up smelling of horse."
"Cianán can ride with me, if necessary," said Nathaniel.
Morrigan glared at him, but did not raise an objection. Which, in turn, had Líadan raising an eyebrow at Morrigan.
Morrigan did not acknowledge it.
Líadan really began to wonder just what was going on there, but she wasn't in the right mindset to investigate. If she prodded, Morrigan wouldn't hurt her, not on purpose, but Morrigan on the defensive meant sharp, cutting words that would pierce too deeply, a wound that would take too long to mend once the words were spoken. Not that Morrigan would mean it, not truly—she would merely be trying to chase away someone who was getting too close. And for Morrigan to trust a person as much as she did Nathaniel with the well-being of her son spoke of a close relationship. It could be friendship, or it could be something more, but Líadan would have to wait until Morrigan said something of her own accord.
Still, she wondered, and the wondering about Morrigan and Nathaniel was far preferable to the worries that would plague her otherwise.
The children, when Líadan and Malcolm told them a short time later about setting out for the Dalish after Wynne's funeral pyre, were elated. They were so elated that their unsureness about Liadan's disposition faded, and that Wynne's absence was set aside for a time as they jabbered on to Malcolm about everything they'd learned about the Dalish, and then launching into lists of what they could do, personally. They kept on as they packed up their belongings for the trip, Malcolm listening and shaking his head as the stream of proud chatter from their children seemed without an end.
Líadan lifted the sword her grandfather had given her years ago, only to find that it felt odd in her hand. Its balance was the same, but the grip sent an uncomfortable vibration into her fingers and palm. It wasn't enough to hurt, but it was strong enough to make her want to let go.
She frowned at it instead. "It doesn't feel right," she said at questioning looks from the other three in the room.
Malcolm shared her frown. "Varric assured me it was yours. Merrill checked it, too."
"It's the same sword. I think it's me who isn't the same."
He extended a hand. "Let me try." Once she'd handed it to him, he tested it out, feeling heft and balance as she had. Then he shrugged. "Honestly, it doesn't feel any different to me. Still has that weird vibration that makes the insides of your fingers itch."
"It never did that before," said Líadan. "Not with me."
Malcolm's frown deepened, and then he handed the sword to Cáel, who said the same as Malcolm had. Then Cáel passed it to Ava.
"It doesn't feel weird," she said after a moment. "And my hands don't itch. Not sure why the rest of you think it does."
The implications of the discovery went right back to the conversation Líadan had shared with Morrigan early that morning. This part of those implications, Líadan didn't like in the least. The ancient elvhen sword was one of the few things, possibly the only thing, that her grandfather had approved of her enough to give to her. It was a tangible sign that her grandfather had approved of something she'd done, at least once.
Not that she needed his approval. Not that she'd ever really get it even if she did.
Ava returned her sword. Líadan scowled at it before sheathing it and setting it aside with the packs now resting on the bed. Unwilling to think about it further, as she'd been unwilling to do with many things that day, Líadan finished going over the belongings Varric had recovered from the stable. With delight, she discovered that the children's bows were unharmed. They were equally as delighted when Líadan returned them, along with finding their quivers and some arrows.
"Can you two even shoot them?" Malcolm asked, eying the bows with more than a little wariness.
"Quite well," said Líadan. "Better than you."
He rolled his eyes. "That's really not saying much. You know as well as I do that anyone who approaches basic competency with a bow is better than me."
"Really?" asked Ava.
"Your father is better off throwing arrows over trying to use a bow to shoot them," said Líadan.
Cáel laughed, and then he and his sister ran out the door and back to their room to gather up the rest of their belongings.
Once they were out of earshot, Malcolm said, "They picked up a lot while you traveled."
If it could have changed the outcome, Líadan would've gladly taken all the knowledge back, leaving her children entirely ignorant of Dalish ways. That ignorance would be a small price to pay for having kept them out of the Circle. But now they knew some Dalish ways and were proud of their knowledge, yet also had memories of whatever they'd suffered in the Circle. From what she'd observed so far, and had heard while she cared in the Circle, they hadn't been hurt physically, and had mostly been treated well. The separations from their mother and then from each other were another sort of hurt, as would be the memories of the battle with the templars before they were captured, and seeing their mother Tranquil. Those injuries, Líadan had no idea how to fix, in them or in her.
Then she realized Malcolm was giving her an expectant look, because she hadn't replied to him. "Some of it, I taught them," she said. "I thought it was important then. Now I see that it isn't." The rest she would need to discuss some other time, when she was ready for it. When she didn't bear the marks that reflected her mistakes.
Her pronouncement dismayed him, if his expression was any indication. "It is, though. Sure, they're human, but their mother is Dalish. I'd say it's pretty important for them to know the Dalish ways as much as they do human."
Líadan shook her head. "Important, maybe. But not as important as I once believed."
His expression didn't become any less dismayed, but he left the issue alone. He changed the subject to something more innocuous and potentially amusing as he trudged back up the stairs to begin the labor of carrying their packs and other items downstairs to the front hall so they could leave immediately after they returned from the pyres.
The pyres turned out to be harder to endure than Líadan had assumed.
The beginning wasn't so bad, not when the pyres were distant and not quite ready, mages, Wardens, and templars milling about them, aiding each other as they made final preparations. They'd been set up outside the Gallows courtyard, on the stretch of stone-paved land between the Gallows and the docks. At first, Líadan was relieved that she wouldn't have to go back into the Gallows, not even the courtyard. Then the relief gave way to dread when she realized that none of the people who were in charge were present, which meant they'd have to go into the Gallows regardless. They needed to speak with Hildur, and Líadan knew she'd have to talk to Cullen. Not yell. Talk, because Cáel was likely right about Cullen's motivations. While in the Gallows, Líadan hadn't been in a place where she could see that, and even now it was difficult, but she could see the sense in it. Cullen had come through with delivering a message to the Seeker, and then the Seeker delivering the message to where it needed to go. Otherwise, Malcolm and the Wardens wouldn't have come at all, she would still be Tranquil, her children in the Circle or with the templars, Malcolm wouldn't have known about the fate of his family, and Wynne would still be alive.
The last bit was the only good part.
Marian had gone ahead of them, Bethany and Sebastian with her, and Líadan and the rest of the group with her found them in deep discussion with Cullen and Hildur. It was involved enough that their approach wasn't acknowledged, possibly even not noticed until they were practically stepping on them.
"What about Lady Amell's pyre?" Cullen was asking Marian.
Marian's hand made a dismissive motion toward Kirkwall. "They'll want to have something in Hightown." At Cullen's confused look, she clarified: "The nobility." The way she said it told them all they needed to know about how much she cared for what the nobility wanted—not a whit. Yet, she was giving in to their demands before they voiced them, even so. "Mother was an Amell, of the Kirkwall Amells. It's what she would've wanted."
Cullen nodded slightly. "I've been told more than once that funerals are really for the living, pyre aside."
Bethany gave him a genuinely curious look. "Cullen, you knew my mother. Would you risk it?"
"I… no. I would not, as a matter of fact."
She nodded. "Exactly."
Sebastian seemed as if he had more to add—knowing him, he likely did—but wisely kept his mouth shut.
"I do wish Carver could be here for it," said Marian.
"Ser Thrask knows of their latest whereabouts, or near to where they might be," said Cullen. "I would send templars to fetch them, but I haven't enough to spare."
"Only having a dozen of you plus the initiates being the decent ones will do that to you," said Hildur. Her condemnation was sharp and precise, enough for Cullen to flinch. She continued before he could muster any sort of explanation. "I'll send a squad of Wardens. Marian or Bethany can write a letter if they want since he'll probably recognize their handwriting." She waited for Marian to nod before addressing Cullen again. "And the templars with Carver, they're morally and ethically on the up-and-up? Because I've got to tell you, some of your formerly alive templars make my nephew look bad. And if you knew my nephew, you'd know that was saying something."
"It's why they were sent away. Meredith thought of as many far-flung, yet useless tasks she could to effectively banish good ones," said Cullen. "She could only send so many and she didn't manage to oust us all, but she got a sizable number." He sighed. "They do need to be brought in, however. If I could avoid putting those remaining here at the Gallows in danger by—"
Hildur held up a hand. "No need. Like I told you, I'll send a squad of Wardens. If you haven't noticed, we outnumber you by a rather significant amount."
"Do you? I hadn't gotten a chance to count." His faint smile faded, and he gave her a nod. "I appreciate your offer, and I will gladly take you up on it."
"Good, because it wasn't really a choice."
At Cullen's surprised look, Malcolm said, "She's like that a lot. You'll get used to it. Just be glad you aren't a Warden."
"I thank the Maker every day for that," said Cullen.
Líadan only vaguely heard the conversation as it drifted from her attention, her eyes drawn to the canvas-covered lump that she knew could only be Meredith's body. Statue? She wasn't sure what to call it, exactly. But it was there, and seeing even the covering made her forehead burn, not with fire, but with shame. The mages, Wardens, and templars bustling about in the courtyard gave it a wide berth. Taken by curiosity, or perhaps need to reassure herself again that her tormentor was dead and gone, Líadan walked over to it, leaving behind the conversation entirely. Once she drew close, she could hear the lightest of sounds, the same people could hear in lyrium, if they got close enough. But this one was dark, almost discordant, and disconcerting.
She nudged the petrified body with her foot, and it was no different than kicking a statue. A tremor went through the paving stones underfoot and Líadan jumped a little before she looked over and realized it was Shale.
"The bossy dwarf could not figure out what to do with it," said Shale. "I offered to smash it, but it had changed its mind by then. It postulated that doing so could be dangerous."
Líadan's eyes went back to Meredith's body. "Marian and Varric said the red lyrium did nasty things." It was an explanation, possibly, for Meredith's actions, but Líadan wasn't willing to believe it, nor could she excuse them, even if she had.
"The bossy dwarf said as much. I believe I could lift the entire thing, but what would I do with it, if not smash it?"
"We can't decide how to dispose of it," Hildur said as she approached them. Behind her, Cullen was motioning for a young templar to go into the Gallows.
"We could try asking Sandal," said Marian. "He's Bodahn's boy. Some sort of gifted rune enchanter, but can barely speak. When he does, it's usually only one word. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's a mage of some sort, but dwarves aren't connected to the Fade, so he isn't. However, if anyone would know about this stuff, Sandal would."
"Sounds like a good start," said Hildur. "I'll wait until tomorrow, after we've dealt with the pyres and the mourning and sending out Dalish and dwarven Wardens to deal with Warden ashes. I'm more tired than the stone under Orzammar after dealing with all this shit." She sighed as she looked at Meredith's statue one more time, and then looked over at Líadan. "When are you heading out to visit Lanaya's clan?"
It took Líadan a moment to realize Hildur was addressing her, and then couldn't stop her startled jerk as she realized Hildur had known what she was going to do, likely before she'd known herself. Which meant all she could muster was a befuddled, "What?" in answer.
"Like I need to explain to you how I arrived at that conclusion, because I don't. I do need to know when you're going, though."
"After the pyres," said Malcolm.
Hildur's eyebrow lifted a tiny bit in surprise. "I'll admit that's sooner than I thought." After another weighty look on Líadan, she nodded and pointedly began to walk away from the statue. The rest followed without complaint. "But necessary, I'll also admit. Well, there's no need for you to worry about getting back here in time for when we all leave for Ferelden. Stay as long as you want with the Dalish, because I've got a lot of shit to settle here before I can even start contemplating going back. I'll be here long enough that I'm sending two ships of Wardens back home, and only keeping a third of them here with me. Granted, I'm also asking Alistair if Ferelden wants to step into this mess and send some of their own soldiers, just in case." She frowned as her eyes flicked to the harbor and back. "If he hasn't sent some already."
"He's sent some already," Malcolm said at the same time as Hildur. "And probably himself, too. And if anyone told Fergus, he's probably right there with him."
"So, it's more than likely your brothers will be here when you get back, for good or for ill." Hildur let go of a long, weary sigh that had Líadan wondering exactly how overworked Hildur must be to the point where she couldn't handle the thought of dealing with Malcolm and his brothers. Then Hildur said, "And if you're going to punch Alistair, try not to do it in public."
Malcolm's shoulders tightened, as if a bowstring had been drawn between them. "I won't punch him."
Hildur gave him a flat look. "You'll want to. You might've let the reason why slip your mind, but I'm sure you'll remember it when you see him. And I know you'll remember it when Fergus reminds you if you haven't."
Then Líadan remembered what had been said to her almost in passing, as she'd been filled in on events she'd missed while locked in the Gallows—both Dane and Callum had manifested magic. What she didn't know was why Malcolm would be mad enough at his brother to hit him outside a sparring match.
Malcolm flexed his jaw—which immediately told Líadan that he'd remembered fully and was now trying not to let the anger take over—and glanced toward their own children, who stood under the watchful eyes of Nuala and Revas. Cianán stood with them as Morrigan examined Meredith's remains, making it quite clear that he did not want to approach the red lyrium. Morrigan did not study them for long, and came away with her mouth twisted into an expression of distaste.
"That bad?" asked Líadan as Morrigan passed by her.
"It defies proper description. Perhaps 'it makes my teeth itch' may suffice to convey the feeling."
"That does sound uncomfortable," said Hildur. "Personally, it makes me antsy when I get near it, which is strange enough as it is, given that I'm a dwarf and lyrium typically does nothing for me except look pretty." As she'd talked, she'd led them over to Cullen, who stood next to Gratian, both shifting awkwardly and trying to hide it.
"It's almost time to light the pyres," Cullen said.
Nuala rounded up the children and started for the gates, and the rest of the adults began to follow suit. Líadan's feet refused to move, her dread for acknowledging Wynne's death holding her fast, and her unwillingness to look at Meredith's remains keeping her from retreating. After another look toward the unlit pyres, Cullen hung back, a muslin bag in his hand. He approached Líadan slowly, treating her like a skittish animal, and she couldn't blame him. If their roles were reversed, she likely wouldn't have approached herself at all. Behind him, Gratian had stopped to glance back at them, but he remained where he was.
"You left some things." Cullen's tone was gentle, and he extended the hand holding the bag, while the other went up to hold off any immediate inquiry from her. "Not robes or anything! The Dalish leathers you were wearing when you were… ah…" He faltered as he sought the right words that wouldn't either hurt her or entice her anger. "Brought in, I suppose. Enchanter Betrys had them with her. She, um. She'd cleaned the blood off them. Ser Keran found the bag yesterday when we went downstairs to check on the integrity of the Veil."
Líadan wasn't sure if she wanted the leathers back. She eyed the bag with trepidation, remembering her last moments before she lost consciousness in the Lowtown street, then waking up to the humming—or maybe the humming had woken her—and discovering that she wasn't being guided by Falon'Din, but was the nearest to what she imagined the Void to be. Trapped with no way to escape, separated from her children, her bondmate, separated from everything she'd known, not even allowed outside, and Betrys there, humming. Then Líadan's breath caught as other memories joined the onslaught, Betrys falling as she tried to stop Meredith, falling as a faceless, helmed templar knocked her to the muddy ground, and the flash of another templar's Sword of Mercy—and she'd heard spirits then, demons roused by activity on the other side of the thin Veil. Clamoring to help, outrageous yet earnest offers of aid that would render her no less dead than the Tranquil brand Meredith had brought around again, hard and fast and she wouldn't miss this time, her aim true, her movements sure. A blur, shouting, Betrys still not rising—
But they'd had to act; she'd had to escape before Meredith could do something permanent to her son, before Meredith discovered Ava's true talent and did something terrible in the name of neutralizing it, did something terrible to keep Ava from ending up as Meredith's sister had, and Líadan couldn't let that happen. All of that day, her anxiety rushed from one fear to another, the fear over the thin Veil awaiting them in the depths below, in a tunnel that promised death more than escape, fear that she wouldn't act soon enough to prevent even more horrible things happening to her children, worse than separation and imprisonment, and the darkness below hadn't mattered when it came to them. Betrys had agreed, and they'd gone together, slipping away in the bustling activity of the Circle's day and into a tunnel lit only by glimpses of the Veil where it was close to tearing. Then there had been the boots, she remembered the boots, plate-shod boots clustered around her body and she couldn't remember how she'd fallen, only that she had. Her eyes looked downward at boots of the same make and she remembered why.
"You were going to make him a templar," she said, her voice rough as it scraped between memory and reality. Her fingers held the bag near the top, but she hadn't taken it from him. "You were—no, no, you—"
"I wasn't," said Cullen. "I never would have, I assure you."
"I know," she said, horrified at how weak it sounded coming out of her mouth, and she tightened her grip on the bag and jerked it away to cover it up. "I know." Her question she managed to hold in, stoppering up what threatened to escape, and she couldn't allow it to escape here in the open, in public, in full view of a hundred people or more. Their looks of pity that she saw and pretended to ignore would only become more open, and she would become her shame to them, because it would be all they saw. But holding on to the question didn't keep her from wanting the answer. She knew, but she didn't seem to know, not all of her.
She took a breath and checked her hood to reassure herself that it was still low enough to cover most of the brand. "Thank you," she said afterward.
Cullen looked as if he had a question, but it remained unasked. Maybe he wanted to know what she was thanking him for, yet was as unwilling as she to dredge up more. "You're welcome," he settled with, and then looked at the gate. "They're starting, if you want to go, but I understand if you don't."
Líadan raised her chin. Not fully, not like before, but a little. "I'll go. It's the… I owe it to her." She owed Wynne more than that, but there were some things that there could never be recompense for. "Is Betrys—?"
He shook his head. "No. I don't know what Meredith had done with her body."
She acknowledged him with a brief nod, and then started for the pyres. They'd already started the process of lighting them all, and the incense the Chantry used for their pyres and services wafted over the courtyard. Malcolm raised an eyebrow at her as she passed him; he'd been waiting just outside the gate. She gripped the bag even tighter as she gave him a shake of her head so short that only he could have seen it. His frown of concern remained, but he didn't ask further. That he knew her well enough to let it be drew her closer to his side as her love for him scrabbled up over the fear and sorrow and threatened to overwhelm her as the other emotions had.
No, not here. If anything had get to out, she would rather the anger. But she would allow neither; she would control it.
She concentrated on the flames rising from each pyre, concentrated on restoring herself to the person whom Wynne had given her life to save. The drone of the intoned words from the few priests and lay brothers and sisters of the Chantry said over the burning bodies served to quiet the noise within, the incense catching at her nose to remind her that she stood in a crowd comprised primarily of humans. She was amongst humans who espoused beliefs about a god and a prophet she did not share with them, yet no anger surged at them. Years ago, anger would have been the only emotion she would've felt when surrounded by humans.
The anger simmered, but not at them, not this time. She reserved it for herself and the Dalish, and it didn't startle her to realize it. Not when it was clear that living as she had according to the tenets of the Dalish helped lead to one of the worst outcomes she could think of in regards to her own life, and the lives of her children. Her refusal to submit or relent, to bide her time, to bend the slightest bit, had led her to this end. It had put her in a place where she was physically present, yet couldn't do anything, even for her children. The idea that she'd been caged in her own body hadn't even caught up to her until it was cured. Playing along couldn't have been a bad thing if it'd gotten her to the preferable end, especially when the opposite meant an end completely. You couldn't endure if you were dead or worse.
While she and her children had survived despite her failure, Wynne had not.
She couldn't let Wynne's sacrifice be wasted.
Andruil had long ceased to be her guide, for it had been an equally long time since she'd been a true hunter. She was a Grey Warden. She had a bondmate. Children. Family closer than even her parents, and while her own parents had never failed her, she had failed her own children. She should have seen it sooner. She should have recognized it sooner. Perhaps, if she'd opened her eyes, she'd have realized she should have looked elsewhere for her present, elsewhere for her future, because the past wasn't either one. Andruil was her past, and she had to let her go.
Her thoughts went to the bag still clutched in her hand, the bag holding her leathers, and wondered if she should burn them in their own little pyre. No. She quashed the thought as quickly as it'd appeared. The gesture, while symbolic, would be overly dramatic and a waste of a good set of leathers. And just because she recognized she wasn't a Dalish hunter anymore didn't mean she couldn't still hunt, and the leathers she held were perfect for it.
Under her breath, she murmured the Dalish prayer for the dead as she looked up at the sky and the smoke rising into it. Then she turned and headed for the docks. Her farewells had been made. She was done here, including whatever Hildur wanted to do with Meredith's statue. Líadan considered asking Elgar'nan for vengeance, or maybe Mythal for justice, but not right then. Now was the time for Wynne and Anders and the others who'd died to return to their Maker or whatever deity they believed in.
It wasn't until they were back on the ferry and headed for Lowtown's docks that anyone spoke to her. Malcolm, though he'd stayed nearby, had been content to leave her be. Her children and even her mabari managed to understand and grant her need for space, but Cianán either didn't pick up on it or ignored it. Without so much as a greeting, he joined her where she stood at the bow of the ferry, risking seasickness in favor of no longer having to see the Gallows.
"Ava will still need proper instruction," he said, a child clearly repeating words once directed at him. "But, it doesn't have to be so…" Líadan glanced down at him when he went quiet, just in time to see him frowning as he hunted the right words for what he meant. Then he brightened. "She doesn't have to be away from you or her family, not all the time. It's something I can do to help, since I couldn't…" He stopped again, but he had the right words—he just didn't want to say the words he had. His eyes flicked up toward her forehead and back down again. "You know. That."
Her fingers tightened on the rail, and she concentrated on the few drops of spray from the cold harbor as it hit her hands. "It wasn't your responsibility. You're a child. And I think Wynne was the only one of you in a real position to help."
"And she did," said Cianán.
Líadan nodded. "And she did."
"I liked her," he said after a moment. "She was nice."
"She was." Except when she was lecturing, Líadan thought. Yet while Wynne had lectured a lot, even then, she'd cared deeply. Her lectures had largely been attempts at healing with the application of a few judicious phrases, which were sometimes gentle, sometimes pedantic, and other times as subtle as a bludgeoning.
Their small group was ready to leave as soon as they arrived again at the Amell estate, but Líadan took the time to carefully pack away her leathers. Even though she was returning to the Dalish for a short time, even though she was going to request the restoration of her vallaslin, she wouldn't set aside the role she'd left unacknowledged for too long.
When she shook the leathers out of the sack, a knit scarf came tumbling out with them. Líadan frowned as she picked it up to examine its thick, green wool that matched the greens in her leathers. A note fluttered out as she finished unfolding it.
Malcolm, who'd been carrying belongings out to the front hall, walked into their room as she picked it up.
"What've you got there?" he asked.
"Bit of paper," she said, but the smile at being able to engage like this with him again made her poor at keeping the straight face necessary for it.
"Oh, good thing you told me. This uneducated lout never would've figured it out." Then, before she could react, he plucked the paper out of her fingers and grinned at her outraged look. "Your reflexes are better than that. If you'd really wanted to keep it away from me, I wouldn't have been able to do that."
He was right, but it wasn't something she wanted to acknowledge, because he'd be smug. So, she scowled at him and tried to snatch it back, but his Creators-damned height kept her from success.
It meant he made a big deal of out reading it, even as she stretched to get it. "It says it's to keep you from catching cold," he said. Then he slowly brought the note down before handing it to her, thoroughly making a wordless mockery of her efforts as she was easily able to take it from him. "Which is self-explanatory for a scarf."
"I suppose she was going to give these to me after we got out." But they hadn't gotten out, both their lives lost inside the tunnel they where they never should have been in the first place. The paper fluttered to the floor as her hands started to shake and she wanted to stop the memory from coming out. She didn't want to experience it again; it had been hard enough with feelings removed. To deal with it now would leave her vulnerable again, and it was nearly as bad as the brand in declaring what she did or did not feel. The memory posed questions as she avoided it, and they sent her to the very thoughts she wished to banish. Betrys falling and Cullen dragged back, and then—had it hurt? Was it cold? She remembered cold. Fear. Overwhelming fear and pain so cold that it stopped hurting and nothing hurt, because everything was nothing.
Then large hands cupped her cheeks and lifted her from the rising current of emotion-laced memory. She opened her eyes to see Malcolm's face there, only a hand's breadth away, concern lingering behind his eyes even as he attempted to give her a lopsided grin to put her at ease.
"If I'd known you'd react like this to stealing your note, then I might've considered not taking it." Malcolm followed up his statement by running his fingers through her hair as his thumbs lightly skimmed over the features of her face. "Might. Hard to pass up something like that."
But she flinched away when his thumbs moved over her brand, and he discarded his attempt at levity. While he didn't follow her movement with his hands, he didn't draw them back either, instead lightly framing her face with them loosely enough for her to turn entirely from him if she needed to. "Does it hurt?" he asked.
"Not like you're asking, no." She couldn't bring herself to look at him, because he'd know. Maybe he already did.
His jaw set, declaring his determination to have her understand his point of view. "It isn't anything to be ashamed of, not to me. Not to anyone, really. It isn't like you gave it to yourself."
"What if I did?"
"I don't think anyone can literally perform the ritual on themselves."
She hadn't yet brought her eyes to meet his, though at some point, she noticed, her hands had found a resting place on his chest. "But I—"
Malcolm moved his head lower, so that she had to look at him. "I know what you meant. And you didn't." He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, right on the brand, but wasn't content for it to be brief. He kept them there, then his hands drew her toward him as close as she allowed. If her fingers hadn't anchored her arms to his shirt by twisting the cloth, they would have trembled. She knew what he was offering, but she couldn't. It was too soon.
Líadan ducked her head to escape the touch to the brand, but she didn't pull away completely. She laid the side of her head against his chest, taking in the warmth, listening to his heart, the thumps a little faster in his anxiety over her well-being, but reassuring nonetheless. He sighed and rested his chin on her head. The sadness in his sigh made her want to give him more, but if she did right then, she would give too much. Not too much for him—he, she belatedly realized, could handle far more of her turmoil than she ever could and she should've trusted him with all of it long ago—but it would be too much for her. She had to hold on to what control she could, however little it was proving to be.
"I love you," she said in place of telling him the burdens he wanted to help carry.
His heart beat faster but he didn't say anything. Instead, he pulled his head just far enough away from her so that he could drop another kiss on her brand, and this time she managed not to flinch. Then his mouth sought out hers and if they ended up leaving a little later than planned, it was all right.