Sister, a sister calling
A master, her master and mine!—
And the inboard seas run swirling and hawling;
The rash smart sloggering brine
Blinds her;
—The Wreck of the Deutschland, Gerard Manley Hopkins
—
ALMOST TWO YEARS LATER
Varania, despite considerable effort and a—frankly—rather resilient will, was going to cry.
Even the bustling cheer of the tavern around her could not stop it. Cupped between her hands was a bowl of thick broth, a few potatoes and carrots idly floating through it; she had tried to taste it twice, but disappointment had made her throat too tight to swallow and she could not bear to try again. Her eyes burned badly; she blinked and the bowl blurred, wavered, then reformed.
The image rose again in her mind. A great hall, lit warmly with fire and welcome, clear afternoon sunlight spilling through the towering windows. A crowd of many others, a hundred like her and unlike her in every way, waiting patiently between her and the raised dais at the end of the room. And upon the dais two black thrones; and seated on the rightward one a man dressed in soft, expensive leathers, his skin a rich brown, his stern eyes a familiar mossy green, and his brow crowned in black and twisting iron…
Someone laughed two tables over and the reverie shattered. The inn was overwhelmed by the dinner crowd, every table bursting; the only sign of the waitress was an occasional overloaded platter glimpsed above the throng's heads, and a piercing whistle which summoned kitchen boys like magic.
She had thought the letter had been magic. What else could it have been, a starlit hand reaching out of the black morass of her future like a lifeline from the gods themselves, promises scrawled across the page like jewels spilled from an upturned sack.
A brother yet alive. Alive and seeking reunion after all this time, reconciliation, amendment. Willing and ready to provide aid, if wanted. If needed. Unable to travel himself, but coin enclosed for passage, heavy stamped gold in a velvet bag.
He had signed it with his strange new name, not Leto. The paper had been creamy and thick, very expensive; she had taken it as proof of his stability, of employment in some fine nobleman's house. Come to Kirkwall and ask for me. I am at the palace most days.
At the palace. She gripped the bowl fiercely, unseeing. A personal valet, perhaps, to one of Kirkwall's barons. Or maybe a soldier—she'd known his skill with the blade to be formidable, even before his master had honed him to lethal sharpness. Or, if he had been very fortunate, perhaps some steward for the royal house itself, if he had at last learned to check his temper before his betters—but not—not this—
Not—
"Whew!"
A woman collapsed into the seat opposite her. Varania jumped, broth sloshing over her fingers, and the woman winced. "Ah—so sorry! That isn't hot, is it? Here's a cloth. I swear, squeezing through this lot's like popping the cork from a wine bottle. You don't mind, do you? Hardly a narrow nook left in this place, and you had the whole corner to yourself."
"I…"
"No, no, I understand—this corner's my own preference whenever I come here—but aside from the empty seat, you were looking so awfully glum I could tell you needed to get pulled out of your own head. Supper's the best meal to share with strangers, anyway."
The woman threw up her arm and called for the waitress. There was an answering shout over the din—familiar, aggrieved—and she dropped her hand with a smile. "There we are, even if Norah will charge me double for it. But don't mind me—please, eat!"
Varania stared. The woman was about her age or a trifle older, tall, slim, visibly pregnant. She wore a lavender tunic with brass toggles up the front and roses embroidered at her collar: rich fabric, but simply cut. Her black hair had been braided back away from her pale face; her eyes were very blue. Slowly, Varania took a bite.
"Good, isn't it?" the woman said merrily. "So long as you like bad stew. Right, Norah? Ouch!"
The waitress, glaring severely, replaced the ladle in her apron and set down another bowl in front of the woman, whose rapped knuckles had flown to her lips. "If it bothers you that much, you're welcome to eat elsewhere."
"How I'd miss you, though!" the woman cried, but the waitress had already disappeared into the crowd with a roll of her eyes. "Don't let Norah fool you. She loves me dearly. That's why she forgot to give me a spoon."
"Yes," Varania said slowly, overwhelmed. "I don't know…"
The woman waved it off. "No, no, and why would you? I can see from your face you're new in town. Is this your first time in Kirkwall?"
"I—yes."
"I knew it. Business or pleasure?"
"Neither." She wetted her lips. "I had thought to come here to find someone, but…" She hesitated, but the woman was for once silent, her gaze open and sympathetic. "I'm not sure he was ever here."
"I'm sorry to hear that." The waitress emerged briefly to deposit upon the table a spoon and a glass of water, irritably brushing away the woman's thanks. Some of the patrons had begun prying into the many iron pots and bowls hung within the great stone fireplace; the waitress scolded them as she hurried off, brandishing her ladle. "Did you travel very far?"
"Yes. Orlais. Near Val Royeaux."
The woman whistled, impressed. "A long journey indeed. I suppose you came by sea, this time of year."
"Yes." She brought her spoon to her mouth again. "The captain said the weather was fair, but I could not agree."
The woman laughed, and Varania flushed, but there was no unkindness in the sound. "We heard there were some sea storms to the west. Did you get caught in them, or did they come after you passed?"
"They must have come after." She grimaced. "I will not look forward to the journey back."
"Mm. And what do you do there in Val Royeaux?" the woman asked with her mouth full. "Besides go sailing at every opportunity."
"I am a tailor's apprentice," she said, practiced enough now the words did not sting. "Rough assembly, mostly, though I prefer design and detailed stitchwork. And trim," she added, and gestured with her spoon at the woman's collar. "That is well done."
"My sister," the woman said, swallowing. "She has a masterful eye for such things. And the patience to do them, which is probably more pertinent. Anyway, neither she nor my husband would trust me with a needle regardless, so I will restrict myself to my natural talents, which are fire and meddling in other people's quarrels."
Varania smiled. "You do not mend for your family, then."
This shudder was entirely unfeigned. "He would never forgive me if I tried. He should be here soon enough, anyway, and then you can meet him; I think he got caught up with his work."
As if it were so easy. The smile slipped from Varania's face, and she looked down again at her bowl. Nearly empty, now; she had hardly tasted a bite. "There is no need. I should move on. There is nothing for me here."
"Not staying in Kirkwall, then? Even if the person you came to meet isn't here, it's a fair enough city to visit. So long as you don't mind climbing ten thousand stairs."
"No." She hesitated, then looked up. "I thought—I thought perhaps my brother would be here. We have not seen each other since…" Since a white hall in Minrathous, and his master's cold smile, and a long blade falling like winter. She shook her head. "It's been many years. More than I realized. He's changed too much, and so have I."
"Then you did see him? I thought—"
"Yes. At your city's assembly this afternoon." All the absurdity struck her at once, and she smiled without mirth. "You would not believe me if I told you."
"Oh, try me. I'm enormously gullible."
Varania let out a short, harsh laugh. "My brother, whom I knew as a slave in Minrathous, has become the prince of your city. He married the crown daughter of the royal family and he…" She buried her face in her hand. "He sat so easily on your country's throne, as if he knew he had a claim to it. As if he knew he held its authority and was comfortable wielding that power. When I last saw him he was nothing more than his master's polished blade; now he rules men in his own right."
"The prince of Kirkwall is your brother." At least she kept the doubt from her face, though her voice was strained. "Fenris."
"Yes," Varania said. "Though when I knew him he had a different name."
"But you didn't speak to him."
"I couldn't bear it. I came all this way, thinking he might have managed a small home on the outskirts of your mountain from some smith's work, or a soldier's. Something proud and simple—I could have borne that. But then I asked a man in the city where I might find him and he laughed at me. He thought I was making a joke; I thought he was being cruel. Except the next one said the same, and the one after, as if I ought to have realized their foreign prince was the boy I used to watch fight slaves twice his size so our mother could keep her bread."
"Oh, Varania. I'm sorry."
"It was impossible to believe." She laughed. "Do you understand? It was a dream. So I went to your hall, and then to see him so…" Strong? Stern? Or perhaps—unafraid? Her eyes dropped to her fingers, to the bitten nails there. "He wrote me a letter, asking me to come. But he did not tell me he was—and after all these years I am still only—" But this was too much in this noisy, crowded tavern, and ashamed, Varania heard the note of pleading enter her voice. "Please, can't we talk of something else?"
"Of course," the woman said softly, reaching out across the table to touch her hand where she gripped the empty bowl. "I'm sorry I've pried. Have you—what would you like to talk about instead?"
"Anything." She cast blindly for inspiration. "You—you're with child."
All the grace of a flung brick, but the woman only laughed. "And so I am," she said, and put a hand on the side of her rounded stomach. "Our first, and unless things grow markedly easier, very possibly our only."
"When are you due?"
"A good two months yet, not that I haven't encouraged the little one to hasten things at every chance." She blew a few loose strands of hair from her face in mock pique. "Have you any children? Six, perhaps?"
"No, none at all." Who would have wanted her? she thought bleakly, and then, more perplexed, Six?
"Well, I can't say as I recommend it so far, though I suppose I ought to wait until the end before casting judgement." The woman set down her empty bowl, spun her spoon inside it with a flourish. "That said, my husband's fretted enough for ten men throughout the whole mess of it, so another might strike him stone dead from fear. Maybe we should stop at one."
This smile came easier. "Have you been married long?"
"Two years. Though sometimes it seems a day, and sometimes a decade." She leaned her chair back on two legs, glancing out of one of the squat, smoke-stained glass windows at the night sky. "I can't imagine what's keeping him. He should be here any minute."
"I don't think I caught his name." A thought struck, embarrassingly belated. "Or yours."
The chair's legs thumped to the floor. The woman looked at her, all mirth vanished, her mouth firm, the warmth of her eyes gone opaque, appraising. The blue burned in the torchlight. Their table had become a silent pool in the tavern's raucous crowd. "I'm called Hawke," the woman said at last, voice level, "and my husband's name is Fenris."
Like a great stone dropped upon her chest, crushing out all her air. All sound grew dim and pushed away. "What?"
"Stay with me, Varania." The woman—Hawke—the princess Amell of Kirkwall—gripped both her hands. "Look at me." A shocked laugh burst out of the princess, quickly stifled. "I can't believe how much you look like your brother, especially when you're shaken. Varania."
"You—" Why was this the only thing piercing the murk? "You know my name." Had said it earlier as well, she realized stupidly, even before—
"Yes. I helped Fenris write your letter. Donnic pointed you out to me this morning—one of Fenris's friends in the Guard—and I recognized you from his descriptions. We'd been watching for you among the ships ever since he got your letter, but we missed your arrival all the same."
"So then—you followed me from the castle?"
"More or less." The princess ducked her head down, trying to meet her eyes. "You looked awful in the hall. Terribly upset, white from head to toe and shaking like paper. I was worried about you."
"Did he—? Did Leto see—Fenris—" Her throat squeezed like a clenched fist; she could not force out the words.
"No. He had no idea you were there."
The princess's hands were grounding, tight and steady. Her own gratitude humiliated her. "You needn't fear for him. I'll—I'll leave. Now, right now. He doesn't need to see me. I—"
But Hawke's hands had grown gentler, her thumbs stroking over her wrists like she soothed a panicked animal. "Varania. Listen to me, please. Calm down. He wants to see you. I promise, he does—he's desperate to meet you again."
"You said—"
"I told him afterwards, after you'd left." Her smile was so warm. Varania could not understand it. "Listen to me. He's been looking for you since before we married. Our efforts redoubled after he killed Danarius last year—did you hear of it?"
"Yes, a little." Her fingers were shaking now, even in Hawke's hold. "I had not realized it was Leto who—Fenris—it never crossed my mind. I had heard rumors of a new slave-prince in Kirkwall, but they were idle things, city gossip. Then the empress danced with her lover in Val Chevin in early summer, and so the prince of Kirkwall and some senator from Minrathous were all forgotten. No one cared enough to say his name. Even if they had, I'm not sure it would have mattered." She freed her hands at last, dug the heels into her eyes. "Can't you see? It was—impossible. My brother was long dead and my work demanded all my attention. What did the princes of distant countries matter to me?"
"I understand, truly. Listen, no one's blaming you—no one's angry with you. Fenris thought you might not even want to see him at all, given how you—left." A rare stumble from garrulous ease, but she kept an even tone, unflinching.
"So even that you know." Varania dragged her hands down her face, smiling bitterly. "I have no secrets from you at all. I see I never did."
"Varania." Softer, now. Kind. "We found papers in Danarius's belongings, suggestions that you were still alive. He had watched you for many years—I suspect in case you could be leveraged against your brother. It still took us months to track you down in Val Royeaux, and weeks more before Fenris was satisfied with his letter." The princess took a breath, held it, and let it out again. "I thought he should tell you from the start what had happened, where he had married. But he said if you knew, you wouldn't come."
Her mouth twisted. "I would not have."
"Please," said the princess, and Varania shut her eyes against the stark, cold agony of crown royalty pleading for her favor. Hers, a slave's, a nameless tailor's apprentice with nothing, not even a room to call her own after a decade of Orlesian toil, not even a ghost of a future. "The way you two parted has haunted him as long as I've known him. He has thought of you so often. Please," she said again, and Varania's hands fisted tight around each other behind the forgotten bowl. "Won't you speak to him? Just once?"
She could leave. She should leave, before she embarrassed herself further, before she was forced to pretend she had anything in common with a man who had left his slavery behind him years ago to rule atop a mountain. Except—
Except—
Except she wished to stay. Partly curiosity, Varania knew—when else would she, nothing, speak to a prince with equanimity—and partly from vindictiveness. It had been, after all, his sword which had spurred her flight, his master's hand on the whip behind; even if he had spared her at the last instant that had not erased the moments just before, when she had looked him in the face and seen the shadow of her own death. For more than a decade the memory had risen over and over in her dreams, persistent as hunger; surely she deserved to know if it had done the same for him.
"I will stay," she said at last, at the same time Hawke said, "Besides, I'd like to get to know my sister-in-law."
The thought knocked her loose from all her moorings. She reeled, her chest abruptly tight as new-spun thread, but there was no time to stop her foundering. Hawke looked up towards the door, a new smile spreading over her face, and said, "There he is."
—
He looked—the same.
After all this time. The same green eyes, the heavy black brows drawn down, the full mouth tight with uncertainty. She would have known him anywhere—a street in Minrathous—a Val Royeaux library—even his hair, gone white as bone, fell over his eyes in the same way. His dark hands, callused at every knuckle, still fisted at his sides as he strode through the crowded room, a path cleared for him without apparent effort, even through the drunken laughter—
It was him. She had not known she doubted.
He came to her—she said—something in greeting, she didn't know what—but enough his brow lightened, just a little, and the corners of his mouth eased their pinch. He feared her, she realized, shocked. Feared her power over him, even now, even after all this time. So many years between them, and in a scant handful of seconds he still broke open before her like a cut apple, bared right down to his core.
Her brother sat across from her beside his wife, who reached swiftly for his hand. He still wore the same soft, dark leathers he had earlier in his palace, well-fitted and very expensive, with fine tooling at his high collar and his belt. His linen undershirt had wide sleeves that tapered elegantly to snug bands around his wrists; the markings shone white as starlight against the black. Costly clothes, every inch. Even his boots, thick-soled and trimmed in black fur, were worth more than anything her shop had ever carried.
The crown was gone. She was not sure if that helped.
"Varania," he said again, and her attention returned with a jolt. "Hawke told me you came to the open session this afternoon."
"Yes." Her mouth was so dry. "I saw you, and I…you were so strange to me. After all this time, there seemed to be nothing to say."
"After so much time, I have a great deal to tell you."
"So I see." She could not tamp down the resentment, and he flinched. She pressed her lips together, forced out the regret. "Ah—I'm sorry."
He shook his head. "No. The apologies are mine." Hawke gave him a bracing look; he set his jaw, turned again to Varania. "I was not strong enough to protect you then. When Danarius brought you to the villa, I should have—you fled in fear. Rightly so, and it was my fault."
"Danarius's fault," Hawke muttered, but Fenris threw her a sharp look, and she subsided. The next table over began singing something inebriated and loud, and the table beyond them picked up the chorus.
"My fault," he said again severely, and his voice was very firm. "And my fault after I fled, too, that you remained alone. I could have looked for you sooner and I did not, caught up in my own flight and then in the fight of a friend. I was certain you hated me. I clung to that, to excuses and half-truths, until I could ignore the responsibility of seeking you out. I took from you the choice."
Her heartbeat roared in her ears. "How kind you are, Leto. Bearing all my pain as if you have the right to it." He recoiled; her fingers knotted together until they ached. "I did hate you. For years I hated you, what you did to me. The choices you took from me, and the ones you left me to make by myself. You have no idea what I went through. What I had to do."
"I—I see." He had gone pale; his wife beside him looked anguished. "I understand. I won't—"
"Let me finish." She clenched her eyes shut, then fixed her gaze on her brother like driving home a straight needle at the end of a line. A small smoky tavern on the side of a mountain—an ivory villa in Minrathous with carpets the color of old blood. "You think you are the only one who broke this, between us? You think you are the only one who chose to run? I could have searched for you, too, Leto, could have done more than listen to an idle rumor here and there when it happened to catch my ear. I chose not to."
"Varania—"
"Why do you think I was there?" she hissed fiercely, and his green eyes glittered. "Why do you think I was at the villa that day? Your master did not drag me in screaming by force. He offered me power, Leto. He promised me a place in his household if I came and spoke to you, reminded you of where you belonged: at his heel. I agreed because I feared starving, and you barely knew me as it was. What would it matter to you if half a memory passed you by in the halls now and again?"
She crushed her fists to her eyes. "Except—that day—I knew you. I thought I hated you. What you had taken from our mother by ending our slavery, from me—I was sure you had received the better end of the bargain. And then I saw you under his hand, and I couldn't—you looked—" She tore her hands away. "I knew the despair would kill you. I saw it in your face, the despair and the wild hate. So I could not speak to you the way your master wanted, and for that I—you…"
"He could not use you the way he wished, so he would use you another way."
"Yes."
She was breathing very hard; her eyes stung with tears. Her brother was so tense the tendons of his throat stood taut. "I nearly killed you."
"He wished you to kill me, and you let me go. I knew he would destroy you for that, and it would have been—it was—my fault." She looked down swiftly to cracked, peeling wood, but she could not hide the tears that spattered over the backs of her hands. "I could have looked for you, when I realized you yet lived. I was too proud. And too ashamed."
Someone touched her arm. She blinked again, trying to resolve the damp, smeared world back into truth. Dark skin—darker than her own—white lines engraved along every finger where they laid upon her pale green sleeve. Cheap fabric, she thought numbly, the castoffs from the shop, scrapped together when she had thought she could still impress her brother—or at least, not disgrace him in the contrast. Good work, though. Her own, hours of hand-sewing in dim candlelight. And his shirt-cuffs made of crisp, braced sendal, spun tight and woven tighter until the fine threads caught the light.
His hand looked just the same, even with the marks stretching to the base of each blunt fingernail. "Varania," her brother said, and she looked up. Her mouth was trembling; she could not stop it. "Varania," he said again, more gently—and that ungainly gentleness was the same, too, and a little laugh burst through the pain.
"Oh, Leto," she said, wiping her eyes. "Your life would be far easier without me in it."
"If I cared for an easy life—" he said sharply, but with a sideways glance at his wife he bit back the rest of his sentence.
Hawke, whose long silence Varania sensed came only with considerable effort and, frankly, a great force of will, gave a bright smile. "He wouldn't have married me," she finished for him, and laughed when he looked away, scowling. The princess leaned against him, then reached across the table and laid her long fingers atop his where he touched Varania's wrist. Time slowed as Varania looked at their joined hands, the seconds sliding into each other like molasses gone cool and stretched in winter; then she turned hers over and met her brother's palm to palm, and the fear faded.
"You are his family," Hawke said gently, "and therefore mine. I meant what I said, Varania. I would like to know this new sister I have gained, even if it takes a long time. I am extremely patient in all things."
Varania snorted, sharp and graceless and smiling, and realized only after that her brother had made the same noise. Their eyes met in shared amusement.
Hawke leaned back, delighted. "Two of you! Gods in their golden city, I'll be the most humble woman on the continent."
Her brother laughed. A strange sound, but not unwelcome. As if it were a signal, the harried waitress emerged from the noisy crush into their island of stillness, her brown hair tumbling down from its knot, her cheeks bright red. The inn had grown warm with the blazing fireplace, with bodies, and her forehead shone.
"Highness," she said brusquely, and set before her brother a glass of red wine. "Pleased to see you tonight, my lord. Would have had this to you sooner, except Her Majesty there kept waving me off."
"How delightfully discreet you are," the princess said over her husband's thanks, and the waitress scoffed. "Norah, this is Varania. Fenris's sister. They haven't seen each other in years—she's here so they can get reacquainted."
"A pleasure, lady," Norah said, scrubbing her hand on her apron before reaching out for Varania's. She took it, a little dazed. "You'll be wanting to stay up at the castle, then, I'd wager. Shall I have your things moved?"
A woman worthy of deference, now, of respect; a woman for whom hands were cleaned before they touched her. Transmuted between heartbeats, not because she herself had done any good work of real merit, not because she had earned the awe, but because another had simply declared it to be so. How eager they always were to decide for her what she was worth—not, in the end, so different from—
"No!" Varania said, too quick, and flinched at her own vehemence. That road was poison; she could not swallow it. She looked at Leto—at Fenris, who watched her with a steady gaze. "I'm sorry. I must—go slowly."
I must learn to hate more carefully, or you will burn with me, and your wife with you. Varania closed her eyes. She did not wish to hate Hawke; she had no desire to flee her brother a second time. To mend a thing meant to stay with it, to take the time and tease out the frayed edges thread by thread, weft by weave, until the place where it had torn could at last be bound up and made strong instead. It was slow, patient work; it could not be rushed. If she meant to stay—if she meant to mend—she could not begin with cloth already finely finished and tied. She opened her eyes and looked at her brother.
"Yes," he said. "I understand."
He did. An immense relief washed over her, staggering in its own right. "You—will be busy tomorrow? At your great palace."
Hawke's eyes crinkled in laughter. "As it happens, Fenris's schedule has just abruptly cleared. So you see, he'll be quite available to give you the tour."
"Hawke…"
"Fenris," the princess echoed with the same aggrievement, and even Norah cracked a smile. "Norah, my love, will you bring them the rest of the bottle? And perhaps some of those little bites, the toasty ones with the cheese?"
"Aye, highness, and another water for you," the waitress said, then glanced sharply over her shoulder. "Hands away, laggards! And you, ladyship, will you be wanting aught else?"
"No," Varania said after a short pause, once Hawke's fingers had twitched to remind her she was the one meant. "I thank you."
Norah dipped her head and withdrew. A little silence fell over them, but it was not uncomfortable. Men and women laughed around them, the dinner crowd at last easing to the ready calls and conversations of those much more familiar to this place, those who had come here for many years and knew it well. Each smoky stain upon the walls, each cracked windowpane—each creaking, sticky floorboard as a pair of fiddlers struck up the start of a dance. Hawke shifted in her seat, touched her stomach; Fenris put his hand to the small of her back and she smiled at him. An easy affection, unashamed.
Free, Varania thought suddenly, and was surprised when it did not hurt. Was this something, too, which could be learned with time?
Eventually, Hawke said something low, pleasant, some little comment to bend the peace without breaking it. Fenris answered in the same tone, and Varania with uncertain effort made an offering of her own. Norah brought them food, wine. Hawke accepted them both with gladness, passed the tray to Varania with a smile and a question; she answered again, more easily.
If she leaned back in her seat, just a little, she could see the stars through the cracked window. Kirkwall stars; a Kirkwall sky. A strange place, unfamiliar, which knew nothing of her past and did not care—a place that stood ready to receive her regardless, the same as all the rest which came to it, with an implacable cordiality. And a hard place, too, she thought, bare rock trimmed with black iron, broken only sparingly by stubborn gardens and a stubborner people—but that was all right. She knew how embroidery could soften a line, after all, and she was ready to earn her keep besides.
There, then. Her brother smiled as he looked at her, not without effort, but without shadow. There, that moment, worth the earning.
They could begin the work together. Varania smiled and leaned forward across the little wooden table, towards them, and let the quiet conversation of her brother and his wife wash over her, cleansing, curling like smoke into the warm tavern light.
—
end.
AN:
It's almost impossible for me to believe, but with this chapter, we come to the end of the main story. The last chapter will be a missing scene from much earlier in the piece, a section I wrote and couldn't bear to throw away, and will conclude what's left of this universe (for now?).
Again, I owe deep and profound thanks to Jade for continuing to look over this, even at the interruption of her own family life, and to all of you as well for continuing to let me tell stories about these two characters I love even after ten years. I'm so grateful to all of you for your incredibly kind comments and thoughts and picking-outs of favorite lines; it's really been a joy to get to share this with you over the last six months, and I hope beyond words you've enjoyed the ride.
Thank you all so much! I'll see you next week for the final chapter!
