To Be Fearful of the Night
By: SurreptitiousFox245
Disclaimer: I don't own DA or ES - all rights go to their respective peoples.
Quick Author's Note: Aaaand first chapter! Figured the prologue was a bit short, so I wouldn't leave y'all hanging.
Enjoy!
Chapter 1: To Be Fearful of the Night
"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
-Sarah Williams
~Thedas – 9:30 Dragon~
I never once thought that birds can sound so melodic. I am groggy and tired as I wake, met only with darkness and eyes too heavy to lift. Too tired to see. I slowly begin to feel small things—a feather-light touch skitters across my forearm, a cool, earthy moisture tinges the air around me. Sounds are next to enter the forming picture of where I am located—leaves rustling upon bark and other leaves, bullfrogs croaking a mating ballad. A forest, but a picture of it never forms even as I try to pry my eyes open. Only darkness follows, and this is how I conclude bemusedly that I am blind.
It goes beyond physical, I notice too, but it is a detached realization, like a limb that has been asleep for too long finally gaining some semblance of feeling, yet not quite there. I do not know, I do not See, and that is terrifying. I expect the disorientation, but it still takes several moments for me to realize that I am laying on earthen ground instead of leaning upon a rock or tree as I initially think by the sharp point of a thick root digging into the middle of my back. There are birdcalls, though they are diluted. It is still daylight, somewhere near evening. Sunset, I want to believe, and I suddenly feel a sharp panging to see it. Pushing the panic sprouting from the loss of two of my senses to the back of my mind, I focus instead on what I remember.
My face drains of color immediately. That's right—I shouldn't be alive.
Where my eyes are gone, my mind remains sharp, and the scene flashes before me again, cruel reminders that I am wrong in this situation, that the situation is wrong as myself. The deafening roar of stone rolling across stone only to vanish seconds later, someone had been cheering on the mountain. Fading, I remember, when I should not have faded at all; when I should have simply ceased to be and been completely unaware of the transition. Why I am alive, I decide not to question. At least not at the moment. I have more pressing matters to deal with, particularly in pertinence to where I currently am.
A humorous thought occurs to me, half-joking and the other half curious. Perhaps I am enough of them to be reabsorbed into whatever convoluted afterlife to which they think they belong. It is stupid and fleeting. This place does not have the…hmm…completeness I would expect of the Aetherial plane. It feels far too mortal and far less magical. Plainly, I do not know. And plainly again, this frightens me. I can no longer See, in more ways than one, and I find myself helpless in unknown territory, alone, with no allies.
"Damn," I breathe, dragging a hand through my hair once the appendage manages to blindly find the top of my head, an old habit mixed with fumbling effort that should not be there. This frustrates me, too, and I whip my head up and back against the ground with a thwack! "Ow." Not my smartest move, I will admit.
For how long I lay here, trying to decide what to do next, I don't know. It could be minutes, hours, or days; without being able to see the passing of light, I don't hazard to guess what with being lost in thought. Eventually, though, the sound of a bowstring being pulled semi-taught makes me wary enough to heave myself into what I suppose can pass as a sitting position. It is embarrassing, the scrambling involved in a once-simple act.
If I did not have mer blood in me and the acute hearing that brings, I would not be registering it at all. The severity of the sound indicates senses heightened beyond what I am used to. Strange that these boons would manifest so quickly after losing my sight—they should not be doing so. My sight was not taken accidentally, this much I can tell. It is probably a trade-off, then. No one ever claims the Godhead does not have a sense of mercy—or humor, as is more likely. It has always seemed to enjoy playing with me, and I somehow doubt the current excursion in which I find myself is something as mundane as accidental displacement. It simply doesn't do "accidents".
"Accidentally-on-purpose" …well, now, that is certainly more plausible.
A hand sliding to my belt reassures me that my glass dagger is at least still there, though I'm doubtful about how much use it will be in my current state. It is hard to cut something one cannot see. The magika thrumming beneath my fingertips, still potent, does give me some measure of confidence, however, in my ability to defend myself if need be. "Who's there?" A pause ensues, brief but lingering enough for it to register as suspicious. Maybe considering, but I am not ready to grant such amnesties so soon.
"An elf who speaks first in common tongue so close to a Dalish camp?" The voice, obviously male yet of a resonating lilt screaming something other than human tersely scoffs after a moment. "I'd guess you should be ashamed of yourself, but you've the look of no elf, Dalish or otherwise, native to these lands." My stomach drops, but I do my best to conceal this fact. I'm still sure I blanch, though.
I roll my eyes in their sockets out of habit, leering somewhere off towards the left where I track the person to whom the voice presumably belongs and gesturing to him sardonically. "I suppose you believe me a danger?"
"Hardly," replies this man I cannot see, and it is too flat to be passive. He is angry. "You are trespassing on Dalish lands."
"I am here by mistake. What is to be my punishment for trespassing if it is unintentional?"
"Death if you draw that dagger, outsider." I think my accuser snarls, but I can only be so sure. My hand still retreats placidly from my waist. I am not about to start a fight whilst so thoroughly handicapped. I am undoubtedly many things, but I like to think a fool is not commonly one of those.
This unknown person seems at least willing to recognize this attempt at compliance, and I think I hear the bow drop. He stays silent, though I am not above feeling the flame cloak itching my subconscious to be cast. I restrain only for the sneaking suspicion that it is probably not even necessary. There is something oddly comforting about these woods—and by extension, my current interrogator—and it is safe. But where safety lurks, so does darkness; I feel that distinctly, too. It warrants caution, but perhaps more of my surroundings than of the individual.
Finally, he sighs. "I should take you to the Keeper." The weapon is shouldered, if the rustling of cloth and wood is anything to go by. Timidly, I reach a hand out hoping that my request for assistance is not to be taken poorly. A beat later and I feel a wash of relief as a slim hand clasps itself around my wrist. My forearms are covered in tattered leather bracers that have seen better days, and the grip that I feel through them is uncomfortable in that it means I must rely on this person I do not know. I remind myself that it is necessary, that I do not have a choice, but it pangs at my pride regardless.
We begin walking, though it is slow going. My companion seems to either recognize my disability or fear I will run, as he keeps a hand on my elbow to steer me in the correct direction and steady my stumbles. He also sees fit to give me a lecture on conduct. "Keeper Marethari is to be respected, outsider, so mind your words." I nod acceptingly. There will be no arguing from me—these are his customs and beliefs, not mine, and I am in need of help. If respecting this Keeper gets me that, then I have already lost a world. What else is there to lose?
"Noted," I say. Then I bite my chapped lip in thought. "Do you… What is your name?" My escort deigns not to respond, and simply keeps stepping over branch-strewn ground as if I hadn't uttered a word. Somewhat insulted, I turn my gaze elsewhere (or maybe I turn it on him, I can't tell) in defiance. Defiance of what, I don't know. I'll figure out something to defy. It seems to be all I am good at lately—acts of contempt.
Enough to show defiance, the memory spins itself so suddenly, I fight to keep my gait smooth. If all I can further myself to be for my withering cause is a symbol of hope, a flame, then so be it. I feel sick. Old words, ink on parchment, things I had never said and would never say to a people who would never again have ears to hear it. A symbol is all I suppose I was, if I wish to be generous. I did nothing, in the end. Watched, waited—I failed, and as a result, so many,lost…
"Pardon?" I snap my head up, for what good the action is. It takes a few moments for me to realize I am muttering my thoughts aloud. And I don't know why, let alone if it's remotely accurate, but my mind paints a picture of my companion. Shorter than my part-Altmeri height by a few inches, lithe, fair-haired, human in all but the sharp, slim slope of the nose, tipped ears, and too-smooth gait. Wide eyes a scorched hazel shrouded by fine eyebrows sit elegantly in a pale, angular face. Tattoos scroll down his cheeks and across his forehead in the same golden green as his eyes, which are haunted by something I cannot place.
The image in my mind, I don't answer right away. In fact, I'm not quite sure if I can force the lie out that is sitting, ripe on the tip of my tongue. No, I think instead treacherously of the lives I left stranded to their fate. Unintentionally, perhaps, but I still did it. And that word, "fate". It leaves me tired, exhausted, and angry. Fate was malleable in my hands until the one moment when it counted most. Then, my gifts failed me, were stripped away, and I was laughed on. Fate, I realize, was nothing but a cheap excuse masking the reality that I had been bringing about the inevitable, and it is only a calamity that it takes me so long to realize this.
"Nothing," I manage to whisper finally, brokenly, staring off in a direction blankly as my mind perceives darkness where I know there should be something. "A memory—just a memory." The image in my mind of what my nameless companion looks like continues to stare with a burning curiosity behind those imagined green-gold eyes, before he perhaps deems these problems of a trespasser too trifling to deal with. He turns silently away to watch the path ahead.
And his disregard is fine, I tell myself. It is absolutely fine.
I am vaguely aware before I step into this camp that I am longing to see it, its unfamiliarity, to make it familiar and then bask in the feeling. Instead, I file this moment away and stuff the desire back. I keep it in my mind to know how to do this again, because I also know somewhere in my heart that this will not be the only time I yearn for sight again. There are sounds of nature as I felt before when I first woke, but somehow they seem purer the closer I am led towards the center. Sparking of life fiercely celebrated, yet as potently revered and protected, dances wildly across my tongue with every breath I draw through lips parted in respectful awe. It is the aftertaste of a plethora of spells, too pure and burning on my skin as it comforts and is wrong. It fills my lungs with a sense of security that if asked to describe, I will surely find myself at a gross loss for words. Except that beneath the glamour and glitter, it is wrong.
Songs so beautiful they are in a way terrible ring out intermittently, breaking only by the distance put between weaver and audience as we move. The music speaks wordlessly and yet seamlessly of love, laughter, tears, sorrow—hopeful anguish, I deem, among other things that have me wondering just where in Mundus I am. Just what these people have suffered. It is a humbling thought, somehow.
Ironically, it is the very loss of the one sense I wish to have in inclusion that keeps me attached so thoroughly to reality. I can feel the desire for it tugging harshly at my mind, my soul, but I realize the futility of such things and try to ignore the pain. If I were to see these new things, to visualize as well as taste and touch and feel—I do not doubt for a moment that I would be lost and my grief forgotten. And my grief is something I decide I can't lose, not yet. It is something I have to suffer with, my repentance, my punishment, my consequence made painfully true.
"Aneth ara, Fenarel," a voice calls out softly from the bustle of life. Though quiet, it still takes me a bit off guard. I can clearly hear the trepidation within the feminine lilt, and I suspect it has much to do with my presence. At least I do until suddenly, the singing and merriment stops in allowance for a sharp, pungent stench of fear, anger, and uncertainty to settle darkly, unexplained and utterly virulent.
A nod perhaps too curt and stiff sounds from my escort. "Merrill. Do you know where the Keeper is?" My guide, Fenarel's, voice seems almost rigid, a little too polite when compared to Merrill's friendliness. I tense. I trust no one, but his reaction is too on-edge for general dislike. I sense an aura, more of a suggestion than anything else, around the girl that I can feel even from where I stand a few feet away. It's magical, certainly, and quite Aedric which I find interesting and file away for later. But it is tinged with darkness, desperation, pride. Danger, I realize—a threat in the making, something everyone around me seems to also easily recognize, and they are so quick to despise it, despise her with every fiber of their collective being. Unsettled does not do them justice.
It is not so scary to me. It's alike to the lingering touch one tends to carry if they're fresh from a Daedric shrine. Not one of the more harmless ones, either. Merrill feels like she just came from the shrine to Molag Bal in Markarth or from within the confines of the fort housing Vaermina's artifact overlooking Dawnstar. It is an essence of one fresh from the mountain-lifted altar protected by the vigilant, four-armed statue of Mehrunes Dagon in all his terrible glory. It is akin, but ever-so-slightly different, and I figure it an important discrepancy of which to be aware.
It is not Daedric magic saturating the elf, running, shining powerfully through her veins and permeating the very soil upon which she stands. No magic like mine is reaching tentative tendrils of potent, intangible flame out to touch the magika in my blood, teasing, testing it—testing me. It is not quite chaotic enough to feel like home. It's closer to Aedric magic, but in my fatigue I am loathe to analyze any deeper.
The one thing I am certain about, though, is that it is slowly, agonizingly slowly being diseased by something I cannot place. And this scares me on an almost primal level I can't explain.
"She is with Ashalle," Merrill frets, oblivious to the hostile atmosphere directed towards her, or perhaps just very good at ignoring it, "discussing something ab-bout Mahar…w-well, Mahariel. Why do you need her? Is it about who you have with you? She seems rather strange to be Dalish. She looks strange…is she from one of the cities? Oh, I've heard stories about the elves who live with the shemlen. Are any of them true?" I gape because I am not quite sure how to handle the barrage of questions about me, but not directed to me.
Despite the apparent rudeness, Fenarel's response is not just chilled—it is downright cold. I frown. Awkward, yes, but warranting this reaction? "Perhaps—I hardly see where it is your concern. Fen'Harel ma ghilana."
"Lethallin!" she cries, and she sounds utterly stricken. "Y-you don't mean that…!"
My guide is quick to defend whatever the statement means. "I do, Merrill. You're lucky the Keeper allows you to remain with the Clan, and that is all. This path you chose will be the downfall of us all." Gaping, I am just lost. I don't know what is going on, but I pity the girl anyway. Everything about this exchange just seems too left-of-field.
"I—"
"The Keeper, First," Fenarel presses, the word said as a title, and he is clearly not interested in hearing more from her.
Silence reigns for several seconds before Merrill sighs, defeated. "Ma nuvenin. This way. I will take you to her."
I am gripped by the arm again, and the contact brings the imagined face of Fenarel I came up with earlier to the forefront of my mind. His lips are drawn farther into their displeased scowl than they were before, warping the tattoos running down his chin. My brain apparently decides to add more detail-the tattoos are now an intricate mass of scrollwork in the form of vines, twisting and undulating unto themselves. I do not recognize the tiny script expertly inked into lines and shaded with a remarkably steady hand, but I'm pretty sure I must have seen it somewhere, else my brain would not have thought to conjure it. As before, the image fades as quickly as it appears. We are carefully taking steps around roaring campfires seconds after.
Murmuring follows us, though after the previous display, I have to wonder just how much of it has to do with me, and how much of the whispered comments follow Merrill instead. I am never given an answer as we draw to the opposite edge of camp. Deposited here and there I think are structures, perhaps, carts? I am pretty sure my hand brushed a wheel at one point, and I can hear the hooves of animals prancing nearby. It isn't wild prancing, but domesticated. Oxen? No, they do not sound heavy enough—they're lighter. I can't figure, and I deign not to bother. It could just as easily be an animal new to me as it could be familiar.
Led up a ramp, we enter something that feels like a cross between a cart and a tent. The air here is warmer than the autumnal-like exterior and smells of spices that I can't place. The effect is not altogether bad. "Keeper?"
There is shuffling, someone standing perhaps, and a grizzled yet not unkind voice answers back in this foreign tongue I've heard sprinkled around me. I can't make heads or tails of it—I've always been bad with languages outside of merish—but it's the first time I've really heard it spoken in entirety. I wonder why that is?
Either way, the voice is a woman's. She's older by the sound of things. A wisdom carries on this fluid language she speaks with Merrill and Fenarel, and it reminds me of Idgrod in a way. I'm surprised somewhat by the panging I feel in my heart at the reminder that I'm never going to see the Jarl again, the woman who had served as a mentor for so many years. What would she tell me in this situation? Probably something cryptic about not losing hope. I quirk a smile. Easy for her to speak of not losing hope—she always knew what would happen if we did.
"I see," this new woman, Keeper, finally speaks in a language I can understand. I can feel eyes on me, and it's mildly disconcerting as I cannot conversely see them. Blindness is going to take some getting used to. "And have neither of you asked the poor girl her name?"
Something like shuffling sounds from my left, and Merrill's voice mutters, "N-no, Keeper. My apologies."
Name? My mouth opens as if to answer, but the sounds die before they ever leave my throat. My…my name? I think to the little string of syllables and letters and words that denote who I am. Or used to, at least. A name synonymous with failure, one that should be synonymous now. A name responsible for how many deaths?
I don't have to be her here, I realize. It hits me like a punch to the gut. I don't have to be her. I don't have to be Lys if I don't want to. If I can't face her. Me.
Slowly, I stop gaping and blink despite the uselessness of the motion. "My name, it's… I'm not…" Those eyes that have been peering at me suddenly become appraising. I think. I don't know why.
"If it's not something to recall," begins the Keeper slowly, bidding I catch something behind her words I'm not sure I can, "then we can always give you a new one."
An out, I realize. She is giving me an out that I don't have to lie for, and I want to laugh. This woman is more like Idgrod than I could have thought possible, it seems.
I shake my head. "I cannot recall. I'm sorry."
"It is of no consequence," she tells me kindly, a hand gently laying itself across my shoulder to guide me further into the structure we are standing in. "I am Keeper Marethari. Come now, child. Let us have a look at those injuries. Perhaps we may figure out where to go from there."
I am given food and healed over the next handful of hours. I am given clean clothes and helped into them by a bubbly Merrill; a man who I am later informed is something equivalent to a blacksmith, Ilen, offers to clean and repair my daggers. The armor, he tells me, while originally of a sturdy make is too far gone now to be salvageable. Good riddance, I tell him. It carries bad memories, anyway. He doesn't pry further, but I think he wants to.
Marethari while she is healing me does something with her strange, Aedric magic that makes my skin crawl and her jump. She tells me later that it was a test. I can't fathom for what, but by the tone of her voice, the fact that I passed is probably a good thing. I am asked questions that are as noninvasive as possible, and I play dumb for the most part. Yes, I'm from another world. At least, I think. Perhaps. It is fuzzy—something traumatic. I do not think I can return home. Things like that. A part of my frazzled mind still knows enough to garner as much sympathy as I can in order to withhold as much information as possible, and these elves fall for it, for the most part.
It is a joint effort between Marethari and Merrill to answer my questions, but I gather that this world I now find myself in is called Thedas, and that they are a clan of elves known as the Dalish. I personally think this is a dream on some level, but the lingering pain from my freshly healed wounds tells me otherwise. I am in shock still, and I think they realize that on some level. Any information I gain is piecemeal over the course of a month and a half, if only to keep my brain from imploding with all of the difference and change. I appreciate it.
No one says anything about my appearance, at least not to my face in a language I can understand. Any harsh words directed towards me specifically are in that other tongue that these elves speak, the one I cannot decipher, and they are usually just as quickly reprimanded by Merrill who has made herself constant at my side. I don't know if her presence is at the behest of Marethari or simply because the girl is curious and wants to tail me everywhere. Either way, I am minorly appreciative of the support. Everyone for the most part, though, is polite. Curt at first, certainly, and wary, but the more I try to talk to them candidly and openly, the more they seem to accept me. It feels…weird, I think. To belong anywhere. But that is neither here nor there as I am still an outsider. I do not belong, no matter how much I wish it. My face is proof enough.
Trying to piece together where I am in the grand scheme of things is difficult. I can still pull on my magic, though it is slower, so I am still within the mortal plane. I find it ironic. This was the one thing they had wanted to destroy, and look at that? It's still here. I try to mind myself, though, mind my magic. According to Merrill, magic is not commonplace here and is feared by most. The Dalish are a rare exception who embrace people born with magical talent, but when she explains demonic possession to me, I understand why even they have their cautions. Of course, she has to explain demons and the Fade to me as well, but they're things I try to swallow in tiny bits. This with my appearance makes me far more understanding about being hidden away the first time an outsider other than myself stumbled around the camp. It seems Marethari is as content to keep me hidden from the others of this world as I am to remain so.
I get along well with the blacksmith, Ilen, and in my first half a month with the clan (who I learn is migratory, weirdly enough), he crafts me a mask upon weaseling out of me the insecurity I harbor about my appearance. It is not just any mask. Back in Skyrim, between all the running and the fighting, we had stumbled upon one of the old Dragon Priests. Reanimated, of course, and Lurks-In-Shadows had almost lost his tail trying to fight the damned thing, but we brought it down. The mask had been an intricate, enchanted work of art that I had marveled over before deeming that since Jogrunn had struck the killing blow, he deserved the prize. Not that he wore it—it ended up being thrown in a trunk somewhere never to see the light of day again. Typical nord.
Ilen had listened to my (subdued) tale, and unbeknownst to me, recreated the mask as best he could. It feels accurate, at any rate, and it is actually when I receive the mask that I also receive another nugget of information.
I can see.
Kind of.
Not…not like I want to. My fingertips, bared, brush against the lacquered ironbark, and I realize that these flashes of images I've been getting in my head aren't just my imagination making up for the sight I've lost. I keep quiet about this discovery, though I think Marethari suspects, and spend some time experimenting with it. No healing magic of mine is able to fix my eyes, neither could Marethari or Merrill's. Pity or plan, I wonder? What was intended of this? I've been a toy for the Godhead, but though I think I am paying the price for…something, I am not fully disabled by it. It could feel sorry for me, if that's something It's capable of. Or—and this is the more frightening theory—It's not done with me yet.
I hope it's the former.
Regardless of why, I have some limited field of vision so long as my skin is in contact with something in the environment. It pans out, webbing like too much water on a painting. I think the reason I didn't notice it before is because I've taken to covering as much of my skin as I possibly can, simply because the difference…well, it makes others uncomfortable despite how much they try to hide it out of courtesy. So, I hide myself instead and didn't realize how overwhelming my ability to "see" actually can be. This…touch-vision, for lack of a better term, is not affected by if I have something over my eyes or not, and the strength of it depends on how much contact I have with the environment. I don't think it's really my eyes taking in the information, if that makes any sense. It's my magic in a way. A latent spell? I know of a handful that require the caster to physically touch an object to manipulate it. Something to ponder.
I take to wearing my mask permanently, along with a cowl, cloth covering every inch of my body where I can manage it, and some cleverly placed holes in my gloves where the pads of my fingers are. It limits how well I can see, but it's more manageable. And smarter, I think. I know I can't stay with the Sabrae clan forever, and just wandering around Thedas looking like I do sounds like the perfect way to get myself killed. Merrill had grudgingly told me of how many in the clan thought me possessed initially by my appearance. I'm not keen on that, so keeping myself as out of sight as I can is probably going to be necessary. Ironically, dressing like this to avoid attention makes me stick out like a sore thumb.
At least I've always been good at stealth and illusion spells, right?
It's several months after I join them that the clan makes their way to their destination, somewhere further north and warmer. Which I think is odd and maybe they have their directions backwards, but I don't comment. Marethari had told me all about why she was moving the clan northwards, all about the Blight, the Darkspawn. At first it makes me think of tales of the Vvardenfell Crisis, but upon further explanation, I realize that the Thedosian Blights make Dagoth Ur's plague seem tame in comparison. They—we, I guess—settle on a mountain, Sundermount, near a city-state named Kirkwall. We are apparently not the only refugees fleeing Ferelden. The city even from afar seems overcrowded, and more people arrive in boatloads by the day.
The farther we traveled and the longer I am with the clan, the more I begin noticing just how bad the tensions between Merrill and the rest of the clan really are. I don't find out until well into my stay that the reason things are rocky is because the timid, innocent girl dabbles in blood magic. It's apparently taboo, consorting with demons, that sort of thing. I'm cautious about it, mostly because it's foreign and unfamiliar, but I do not understand why they have to shun the girl so harshly for her choices. I pick up that she is only doing it to try and restore an artifact? Yes, an artifact. A mirror of some kind, that was infected with Blight and killed two of their clan members before I joined them. She's misguided in her efforts—I don't see how consorting with entities that have earned the designation of demon can end well…then again, I consort with daedra, and aren't those the same thing?—but I cannot fault her for them. She will either learn or she will not. Shunning a mourning girl from her only available support does not a good idea make.
I can tell she wants to leave the clan after we reach Sundermount. I catch her staring at the city when she thinks no one is awake or noticing. Merrill doesn't have the will built up yet to leave, though I think the frequent disputes between her and Marethari are slowly starting to nudge her in that direction. I try to stay out of things for the most part. It's not my place to say one way or the other whether the First should stay or leave. Just as it is not my place to say whether or not what she is doing is wrong.
Today, though… I sigh for what is probably the hundredth time, listening to the camp clamor lazily in the afternoon sun. The hunters should be returning soon, so the usual noise is demure. Next to me, Ilen hammers away at some new project he won't tell me anything about. I don't really care, I only pry to pass the time. Time being something I have an abundance of. Turns out, when you're blind, people don't really want you hunting. Or walking without assistance. Or being alone. Or practicing magic. Or—
"If you sigh again, girl, I'm going to throw my hammer at your head. Give you something to sigh about." I don't jump at Ilen's grumbling. It's nothing new. Instead, I lazily turn my masked face in his direction and scoff.
My black cowl isn't pulled over my head today, so my blond hair is left down around my shoulders instead of back in its usual knot. It also gives the permanent ironbark scowl a clearer line of sight. More intimidating that way. "Maybe I wouldn't sigh so much if people would stop treating me like I'm made of glass. Or a monster. Either one."
I can feel the look he gives me, sharp and reprimanding. "Mind it."
"I know, not having this conversation again," I reply sourly, crossing my arms and swinging my legs from where I'm perched on the makeshift counter he sets for his equally as makeshift shop. Literally no one buys anything from him. I don't know why he even keeps his little store. "Just…you know how I feel about being useless." And he does, just…not really. I've told him I don't like being dead weight to the clan, and while that's true, it's not the whole of it. I'm being useless to Nirn, to her memory. Marethari can only teach me so much about how Thedas works, and I can only theorize how I got here to an extent. I need to find more information. I need to learn. But I can't do that here.
At least, that's my excuse. I've got a bit of wanderlust. Sue me—tensions aren't exactly fluffy around the camp, either.
"You'll find your place," he says, though I find it about as reassuring as the last forty-seven times he's said it. "Your reclusiveness doesn't endear you to them, Sol'adahla." I cringe a little at the name. When I claimed to Marethari not to remember my own (lies), the clan had banded together to give me a new one. At first it had been Da'banal, "little nothing". Ironic? I didn't know. I didn't care—I had a name that wasn't Lys. I had a name that wasn't me. Three weeks later, I let slip something about remembering a flower, amaryllis, being connected to my name. A stupid joke that had followed me since I was a child, but it had stuck. They took to calling me Sol'adahla instead. "Prideful flower", their word for amaryllis. Some associations transcend worlds, it seems—amaryllis means pride here as much as they did back home.
I shake my head. While I may be accepted by the clan and they are cordial, that does not mean that they are not afraid of me. Most are apathetic, admittedly, but some… "I'm not…they don't want me here." I fiddle with my gloves, but Ilen seems to notice.
"You wish to leave."
Faltering, I shrug. "Maybe. I can't stay here forever."
"You could," he scoffs, returning to his hammering. "If you wanted to stay, no one would protest. But you don't."
Perceptive little… Breathing in a sigh, I don't answer right away. Ilen is content to let me stew, hammering away at his mysterious pet project. My feet itch to walk, to wander, but something keeps me rooted to the clan. I want to leave. I don't deny it. There's a need calling out to me, screaming that I need to puzzle where, how, and why I am in Thedas, something I can't do with Marethari's limited information. Limited by her own admission, no less! But…I press my fingers to the wooden table with enough pressure to catch sight of Merrill, miserably curled over a scroll as people mutter obscenities at her. It steels my resolve. I can't leave. Not yet. Not while she still faces this…wrath. Comradery, perhaps? I am shunned, and so is she. Called demon under their breaths, accepted grudgingly and with false smiles that we know are false but have to bear anyway for fear of truly becoming the monsters they already think us to be.
I don't want to admit it, but there is more of me in the girl than appears at first glance.
"Protest openly, no."
The hammering suddenly stops. "They don't know you. Your fault—you don't give them the chance to know you."
"I do to!" I jeer back as if insulted, hand flying over my heart.
Ilen retorts dryly, "You pitch your tent as far from the camp as you can get while still being in it. You wear a mask every day that scares the hunters, never mind the children. You refuse assistance when you clearly need it—" I bristle at that one. "—and you practically cut off poor Ashalle the other day when she tried to speak with you."
Okay, that last one I can't deny, but the grieving woman was getting on my nerves. Just because her ward died doesn't mean that she has to cry to everyone who will listen. My world died—no one sees me blubbering all over people!
I snap back, "Why are you so against me leaving, old man?" A pause, and I hear him sigh as he sets his tools down. His hand is quick to land on my shoulder. I jump but leave it otherwise. He doesn't mean me harm, I know that logically, but I still…I haven't been able to deal very well with people touching me since the mountain.
"You move well for a blind woman, but the second you leave the camp…," he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I know you can care for yourself. I just don't understand your insistence to do so when you do not have to."
Ah. Of course he wouldn't. I frown, rubbing at my wrist where I had been bound what feels like centuries ago. Had it only been a year since I had been in chains? He wouldn't understand why I wish to leave so badly since I've never told him. But still…he does not give Merrill this same courtesy, this caring. Not this openly, at least. "I can't stay, Ilen."
"You don't want to," he insists, but moves away nonetheless. Back to his project. Back to things that are not me, that are not troublesome. I turn back to glancing around my watercolor view of the camp, back to peering at Merrill, back to contemplating where I go from here.
Final Words: And here's where it starts to deviate a bit. There probably won't be as many chapters between Lys leaving the Dalish and meeting up with the Inquisition as there was in AFD, so that's not going to be too far off. Rest assured, though, I am going to follow her a bit through her acclimitization to Thedas. Have no fears. There will be a run-in with Templars in her future (it's funny, I promise).
R&R!
~SurreptitiousFox
