Everywhere Sparrow turned, it seemed as if there were Shades and Pride Demons and particularly relentless baddies who were just waiting in Darktown's dingy corners, whispering foul things, stringing her along like a badly-wound puppet. Fallible noises transformed into approaching footsteps, always encroaching on her privacy, nipping at her heels. Scrummy elbows belonging to Darktown's denizens appeared pronged, fabled with growths reserved for Fade-beasts. Only for a moment before her eyes adjusted, blinking away the delusions. It didn't help that Rapture seemed hellbent on perusing her most intimate thoughts, sorting through them with circumscribed boredom. There was an undeniable curiosity in the way she was scrutinized, as if she were a flickering candle cupped in the hands of a naughty child. It was all she could do to distract herself by wandering outside of Rilien's safe-haven, shake her head like a dog with fleas. Sitting still for long periods of time pained her, filled her with an itching anxiety – if that wasn't enough, it took her down an unfamiliar path, sending her into bouts of teeth-gritting mood-swings. Her companion didn't deserve to bear the brunt of her affliction.
She was tromping on her chest, playing fiddle on her heart, squeezing her lungs, and generally making everything incredibly uncomfortable. Sparrow ground her molars, murmuring soft-spoken curses between set teeth. Instead of collapsing against the wall, clutching at her head like some kind of abomination, she decidedly rolled back her shoulders, straightened her spine, and climbed up the steps, heading towards Darktown's rickety lift. If she didn't leave the hovel, with it's dark streets and vulnerable wretches, then she'd end up doing something that would get herself in trouble. She doubted that Rilien would want to clean any of her messes, or smooth out any ruffled feathers for her sake. She breathed deeply through her nose, in controlled breaths, as if the smoggy clutches of chokedamp could strengthen her foundations, and filter out her unease. She'd found out the hard way that no amount of intoxication, or merry dancing, could silence that kitten. If she wanted something, then she made it clear as diamond.
With a wayward, resigned sigh, Sparrow huffed strands of streaked hair from her eyes, trailing her fingers across cobblestones, iron railings, and whatever inanimate object she walked along. It helped a little. She felt grounded touching something that wasn't moving or capable of anything beyond a little give, a little push. Her eyes closed, then creased when her fingers brushed against air, clear of it's craggy touch. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she'd taken a wrong turn. Nowhere near the Hanged Man, Sparrow found herself blinking up at the gnarled tree, bridled with twirling colours, mainly in rich reds and soft whites, painted carefully along roots. The Tree of the People, so it was called. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once – it baffled her more than anything that something beautiful and green could grow in the heart of Kirkwall; a city renown for it's oppressive weight, it's shackles and chains.
Even if it was mysterious, and even if she didn't really feel acquainted to the Dalish ways anymore, Sparrow felt an unforeseen quiet; a strange reprieve from her systematic cleaving. As if a sopping wet blanket had been plucked from her shoulders. No more prattling. Her relentless promises were silenced. Her insistent warbling temporarily muted. She stepped forward, feeling lighter than she had for days, and pressed her hands against the trunk, nearly bumbling into it. Her eyes focused on the drying leaves, curled into themselves, and then, onto the rustling leaves, still vibrantly green, hanging overhead. This was alive, and real, and natural. Not cold stone pressing into her back, clipping her shoulders whenever she was too drunk to make it home. If she could sink into the earth, grab handfuls of grass, then maybe she'd be able to take back her one mistake. Saying yes, being too weak, giving in.
On just the other side of the tree, the laughter of small children was obvious, trilling as it did like windchimes, moved to tumbing sounds with the slightest stirring of some unseen breeze, something in their childish psyches or innocent hearts. Amalia was not accustomed to being the focus of such attentions, nor indeed their cause. To be fair, she dealt with children on a fairly-regular basis, and though she was no Tamassran and did not raise them, many of her viddethari were children like these.
None of them had ever derived such delight from her hair. And yet here she was, seated in her spot under the painted tree, harp currently held loosely in her hands, and several girl-children had taken it upon themselves to unwind her plait, leaving the honey-colored mass of it to pool on the stone. One of them was putting tiny braids in it, which seemed to amuse the other greatly, and the slightly-uncomfortable look on the Qunari's usually-stoic face was enough to draw in a few others, who more or less gathered at her knees and feet as they always did and entreated her to play something. Despite the irregularity of the ministrations to her scalp, she accepted them as a matter of course. No harm was being done to her person, and she conceded that there were certain things she would have to endure of she wished to be a proper denizen of this place, as her role demanded.
It was far from the most unpleasant thing she'd ever endured, and she endeavored to keep her head more or less still so that the thin, deft fingers of the elf-girl could proceed uninterrupted, and the others would have their song as well. Her left thumb flicked a string, producing a soft, warbling note, sustained alone until just before it faded, whereupon it was replaced by another. Somehow, this reminded her of a time a number of years ago, in her own childhood, when the silly, pointless things children did were not so far beyond her that she almost forgot how to understand. There was a time when she'd lain awake in the night, exchanging whispers with a friend, demure phrases allowed their release only when the reality of the world, of her impending committment to duty, was temporarily suspended. Magic, she'd called that time, before she'd learned what that word truly implied. Illusions danced freely in front of the eyes of children, things that adults were not allowed to see.
Amalia had been made an adult before most, and in her unguarded moments, she sometimes wondered if she'd lost something in so becoming.
The slow progression of notes evolved into something much more complex; it was a melody she'd written to bring him sleep, on those nights when the quiet murmurs were not enough. She'd known, even then, that his nightmares were somehow worse than hers, but she'd not understood why, and devised him a lullaby for the purpose, she'd asserted matter-of-factly, of making them more pleasant. He'd always told her it worked, and requested it of her periodically, but she knew now that the effect, if any, had likely been negligible. Why then, had he asked? It was illogical, and she no longer comprehended what had been so simple for her childhood self. Sometimes, she wondered what had happened to him. He was Vashoth, now, if he yet lived. The notes, her fingers, the harpstrings, her memories; these were all that remained to her of that time. Perhaps it was best she shared them.
There were no birds tittering in the branches, scratching absently under outstretched wings, flashing their colours for all to see. Several scores, like scars peeled across her knees, were torn across bark, stippled over roots like ruddy birthmarks. Sparrow paused, slowly pulling her hands away from the tree, when she heard small sniggers of laughter, obviously belonging to small children. Though, she hadn't spent enough time in the Alienage to know any of the children, or even realize that she might've not been as alone as she felt – so caught up in her own thoughts, she'd been. She whispered softly to turn about, stalk in the opposite direction because something didn't feel right, as if nasties lurked around the corner. Sparrow sighed a long sigh, blinked and slowly, gingerly, circled around the tree, careful not to kick over the boxes and candles settled around her. A tree in a cage did not stand as tall as a tree in the forest, even if it was as revered as this.
Unwilling to reveal who indeed was laughing, Sparrow suddenly stopped walking, only glimpsing a brief tumble of honeyed hair being released from a braid before back-peddling a couple steps. Her mouth remained resolutely closed, opposed to the idea of interrupting whatever they were doing. It hadn't been, after all, only a few children playing behind the great tree, but rather a small army of the gathered at the feet of some woman. From what she'd glimpsed, anyway. Instead of revealing herself, and explaining why she was wondering around like a sneak-thief, Sparrow pressed her back against the tree, and half-sat down, straining her stunted ears to hear any bits of conversation. Apparently, there was none to be had. The children crowed in amusement, giggling requests for songs to be sung. Her hand was loosely curled, like a child's fist, with her neck bent forward. She was completely lost to this. These willow-dipped, sharp-eared fledgelings lived in such indigent hovels, still regarded as wayward toilers, and still, they laughed loudly, without apology.
How long had it been since she'd laughed like that? Far too long. Perhaps, as long ago as when she'd been adopted by the Qunari clansmen, in the woods, miles from her own clansmen. The unlikeliest kith and kin she could've come across, sallying her in as one of their own. Whether it was pity, or mere duty on their part, Sparrow would never know. The days had long passed where she would've whittled small animals into long slats of wood, describing stories that she could hardly remember to make herself feel a little better. She could spring through the meadows unfettered, as if there weren't stubby-eared shemlen sheltered in the treeline, waiting to clutch at her shoulders again. Where the soft braying of her breathing and the erratic drumming of her heart wasn't dependant on survival, or striking first. Things were much simpler then. Even with the deep-rooted beliefs all Qunari shared, heavy-handed and strict, yet somehow effortless. Everyone had their own place, chosen since birth, but still, they weren't painted as outsiders concluded – as barbarians without music, without art, without beauty. They weren't savages and they laughed loudly, recklessly.
She leaned the back of her head against the Tree of Life, listing her head to the side. Familiar notes plucked skillfully, only three or four feet around the tree's trunk, tightened it's ghostly fingers around her lungs, tickling tendrils of cold down her spine. It was a harp. Those warbling notes, so unlike anything she'd ever heard as a child, were unmistakable, nearly sanctioned in her memory. The instrument needed no accompaniment. It never did. The music sounded so familiar, like Sparrow had heard it once before. Her eyebrow knit, eyes closed in concentration. Most of all, she supposed it reminded her of her first friend among the horned-ones, her silent brethren. Perhaps, she'd been the only one who ever accepted Sparrow, without any further enquiries, and dutifully ignored the ripped remains of Papyrus. Scrawny-armed, bruise-lipped, with knobby, ineffectual elbows. It reminded her of all the nights spent in the valley, arms tucked behind their heads like chickens, leaving behind grassy impressions like imprints left in the snow. The notes, with the wind, curved across the small alcove, like colossal chimes jingling with each pull. It transformed; became something much more complicated, much more intimate. The awareness snapped her eyes open.
It was her song. Sparrow was sure of it. Her heartbeat quickened, thumping loudly in her ears. It was almost too much to take in all at once, far too much to subdue. She cooed softly, urging her to turn away, necessitating the need to make herself scarce, for wasn't Amalia still very much apart of the Qun, willing to strip away her freedom for abandoning the way? In one swift movement, Sparrow pushed away from the tree, quickly circled around until she made herself known. Her eyes flit from the woman's honeycomb hair, plaited in several small braids, but still pooling around her shoulders, to the harp sitting in her lap. Her eyes stung. “Amalia...” It came as a choppy exhale of disbelief, bereft of her usual assurance.
Amalia had taken note of the presence just on the other side of the tree, but initially thought nothing of it. Occasionally, one of the children was too shy or timid to approach her, and this she took as a matter of course. She was aware that she had not the most... tender of visages, and she had cultivated herself to withstand, to endure. It did not, as a rule, dovetail well with softness in demeanor, and she generally relied upon other people to overcome their natural aversions to her if they had them, or otherwise leave her be. Such things were not her decisions to make, and she didn't concern herself with attempting to be other than she was for the sake of others' comfort.
A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye drew her two-toned gaze upwards, and both irises were soon surrounded by white sclera. A small, but sharp intake of breath was the only other sound of her registered surprise, and for anyone else it would perhaps have been quite a scene. For her, it was already too much a lapse of ironclad control, and she smoothed out her face immediately, turning back to her music and finishing the song with a few last tremulous notes before she placed it onto the knee of a small boy and guided his fingers to the strings. He plucked at one experimentally, and the Qunari nodded her approval. That small thing seemed to inspire an entire bout of confidene, because it was not long before he was trilling sequences of them, discordant but getting better as he gained a bit more of an ear for what each strong produced. The others immediately gathered around the new source of entertainment, and Amalia stood, for the moment forgotten.
"Venak hol" she replied, and the words were scarcely more than a soft whisper. There was much in them. Literally, it was something of an insult, but between these two particular people, that was the least of it. A "wearying one:" one who causes vexation or concern, worry. This person, this being before her had had many names, but Amalia had called him ever and only this. A simple enough statement, and one she used to refer to her viddethari when they frustrated her in one way or another, and yet... it was never the soul-rooted worry of their childood, when she'd watched him flit about from this place to that, unwilling or unable to settle as the Qun demanded, one layer of deception laying beneath another. She knew his secrets, inside and out, and always they had worried her. Worry was, for people such as herself, a pointless emotion. It achieved nothing but lowering the efficiency of the one who worried, and it was something she'd near-wholly eliminated from her person.
It was only this, the subject of so many old memories, of sprawling in the desert sands of Par Vollen and laughing at something the Tamassran had said, or else linking pinky fingers quietly before they slept, so that they might be connected even bereft of conscious notice (she'd thought herself guarding his dreams, that way), that could still cause her anxiety in this way. Qunlat had no word for "brother." Sometimes, in her most deridable moments of weakness, she found this to be a failing.
"Why now?" Why appear before her now? It had been years. She'd believed him dead or else so far moved beyond her and her kith that she'd never encounter him again either way. He'd always been capricious, that way, the fluttering breeze to her steady, still pond. He could sweep about, gestures overexaggerated and words careless, and he'd even so only ripple her surface. It was more than she'd ever allowed anyone else to do, if she'd allowed it all. Perhaps it had simply happened, like a happenstance, a coincidence, luck. It was too bad that she'd never believed in those things the way he had.
She knew her friend well enough not to expect any fierce embraces, tender moments, or anything of the sort, but still, Sparrow was shocked at the expression on Amalia's face, a brief wink of surprise – so astutely different from the calm, collected child she remembered, wiggling daisies between her toes, while remaining completely tranquil. There had always been an almost laughable contrast to her gregarious personality, though, she believed, they still complimented each other. How long had she been without her anchor? It was Amalia who'd dutifully dug in her heels whenever Sparrow chose to flit about as breezy as the wind, halfheartedly reprimanding her for not acting accordingly, for not falling subserviently into her chosen role within the Qun. The feelings swelling in her gut was overwhelming. Small smiles, simple handshakes, and simple greetings. They'd never done that, either, so she stood, expecting something for certain, but unaware how she would react to seeing her after all this time. This woman's thoughts were composed of complicated things, whirring in directions she couldn't follow, much like trying to decipher Rilien's frame of mind – impossible, like scrawled hieroglyphics. How much had she changed?
Her heart dropped when Amalia's mismatched eyes fell away from her own. She turned back towards the gawking children and resumed her song with steely determination, plucking at the resounding strings to end her lullaby. A few of the children turned to regard her, eyeing her with inhibited interest before swarming around the boy who'd been handed the harp, already begging for another song that the boy could not possibly play. Even without knowing what Amalia had been up to, or where she'd been, Sparrow could already tell what role she'd adopted from the manner she treated the fledgelings, as tenderhearted as the ones who rehabilitated, or re-educated, new converts and those who stubbornly went against their established roles. For her, it'd been different. Her days had always been heavy with the shrieks of terrified people, heavy with the smell of smoke, heavy with blood. It had certainly become a simple way to live when one was living by the sword, or by her mace, as it was. Her days had slowly drifted away from her companion. She hadn't had any time to warn her, to tell her of her plans to escape and live her own life freely. Chains, it seemed, did not suit her well.
Venak hol. That was something she could not forget, and wouldn't have chosen to forget even if she had the choice. There were many things in the Qun, in the oppressive way of life they managed to live, that Sparrow disagreed with, but her days among the Qunari were some of the best, especially with Amalia's endearing nickname. She was, after all, the only one who knew her true name. When Sparrow had initially come to the Qun, as bedraggled as a ruffled bird, they were the ones who had picked another, more suitable, title to begin anew, to create something out of nothing. In more ways than one, Amalia had aided in putting her back together. She had puzzled out her pieces, struck out the old and strengthened her foundations so that she didn't shake so much anymore. It was one of the reasons she pestered her to play her harp when the nights were far too dark, or when her hands refused to cease trembling, even if it didn't truly still her nightmares. Her mouth wouldn't peel back into a smile. Another sharp intake of breath whisked through her lips. She was speechless. Speechless and vulnerable, stupidly mute.
She offhandedly observed that those two-toned eyes had hardened. They didn't properly belong to the one she'd linked pinkies with, nor did they seem intent on welcoming her with open arms, as if they were merely wayward companions who'd traded letters from afar. Sparrow had always known that Amalia was alive, for the Qunari had always been great protectors of their own, solid walls that were almost impenetrable. It hadn't occurred to her that Amalia might've thought she'd perished. Her mouth felt parched, nearly like the sands of Par Vollen. It took a few seconds for those two individual words to sink in – why? Why now? Why hadn't she come to find her before? Why had she left in the first place? Why here in Kirkwall, in the strangest of places? So many unanswered questions bellying between two simple idioms. Her feverish tales of exploits and adventures, of freedom and excitement, suddenly tasted bitter in her throat, hardly capable of rationalizing her decisions, her choices. Time had never stopped, time never waited. She'd chosen something else without Amalia, her greatest friend.
Any witticisms she'd planned beforehand had already withered and died. They were far too inappropriate at a time like this. She hadn't thought this through. Had she been thinking at all? She didn't know what to say, how to react. There were gaps spun between them like disagreeable spiderwebs, mitigating an unexpected tension. She remained unhelpfully quiet for once. The question had caught of her guard. There was somebody precious standing there, a woman (once a small girl), frowning at him, not holding her hands out towards her to reconcile any hurts or worries, but standing at a regulated distance. No amount of hand-flapping or sweeping bows could placate any wrongs she'd done by running away, by leaving everyone behind who'd ever meant anything to her. “I never meant—,” she began awkwardly, taking an uneasy step forward. She hadn't cared back then, if she disappointed anyone, if she hurt anyone because being free had taken priority. Now though, after coming to Kirkwall, after letting down her guard and letting people in, things hurt a lot more. “I would've told you...”
"Your tongue is as unhelpful as it has always been, Venak hol," Amalia replied, tilting her head to one side. A forearm slid just behind her neck, catching the hair that had spilled over her shoulder and tossing it behind to lay flatly against her back. Despite herself, her lips just barely turned upwards at the corners. For all he lamented of being caged, it would seem that, in his own way, her friend was still playing the same role as he always had- he was certainly dancing to the same tune. The Qunari had a catch-all idiom: Merevas. 'So shall it be.' The phrase, like everything the Qunari said, was meant to encapsulate many things. Inlcuded in it was the notion that nothing ever truly changed. New facets of things were revealed to the world, and new forms of being could come to take prominence, but everything was at its core the same, forever and always.
Perhaps this made it simpler for Amalia to accept that what was not now was again. Venak hol had left, but he had never been truly gone, by one reckoning of things. She would not lie; the girl she had been had felt quite betrayed at her best friend's disappearance, nearly inconsolable for some months afterwards. This had, eventually, manifested a stronger will to see the Qun's promise fulfilled, it's directives spread to all corners of Thedas. When there was nowhere without the Qun, she had thought, there would be no chance that he would remain gone, beyond her reach. That selfish thought had been tempered, and while she would not deny that she was surprised to see him, she would not begrudge his past absence. This was to be the way of things- then, and now.
Merevas.
She was tromping on her chest, playing fiddle on her heart, squeezing her lungs, and generally making everything incredibly uncomfortable. Sparrow ground her molars, murmuring soft-spoken curses between set teeth. Instead of collapsing against the wall, clutching at her head like some kind of abomination, she decidedly rolled back her shoulders, straightened her spine, and climbed up the steps, heading towards Darktown's rickety lift. If she didn't leave the hovel, with it's dark streets and vulnerable wretches, then she'd end up doing something that would get herself in trouble. She doubted that Rilien would want to clean any of her messes, or smooth out any ruffled feathers for her sake. She breathed deeply through her nose, in controlled breaths, as if the smoggy clutches of chokedamp could strengthen her foundations, and filter out her unease. She'd found out the hard way that no amount of intoxication, or merry dancing, could silence that kitten. If she wanted something, then she made it clear as diamond.
With a wayward, resigned sigh, Sparrow huffed strands of streaked hair from her eyes, trailing her fingers across cobblestones, iron railings, and whatever inanimate object she walked along. It helped a little. She felt grounded touching something that wasn't moving or capable of anything beyond a little give, a little push. Her eyes closed, then creased when her fingers brushed against air, clear of it's craggy touch. Somehow, somewhere along the way, she'd taken a wrong turn. Nowhere near the Hanged Man, Sparrow found herself blinking up at the gnarled tree, bridled with twirling colours, mainly in rich reds and soft whites, painted carefully along roots. The Tree of the People, so it was called. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once – it baffled her more than anything that something beautiful and green could grow in the heart of Kirkwall; a city renown for it's oppressive weight, it's shackles and chains.
Even if it was mysterious, and even if she didn't really feel acquainted to the Dalish ways anymore, Sparrow felt an unforeseen quiet; a strange reprieve from her systematic cleaving. As if a sopping wet blanket had been plucked from her shoulders. No more prattling. Her relentless promises were silenced. Her insistent warbling temporarily muted. She stepped forward, feeling lighter than she had for days, and pressed her hands against the trunk, nearly bumbling into it. Her eyes focused on the drying leaves, curled into themselves, and then, onto the rustling leaves, still vibrantly green, hanging overhead. This was alive, and real, and natural. Not cold stone pressing into her back, clipping her shoulders whenever she was too drunk to make it home. If she could sink into the earth, grab handfuls of grass, then maybe she'd be able to take back her one mistake. Saying yes, being too weak, giving in.
On just the other side of the tree, the laughter of small children was obvious, trilling as it did like windchimes, moved to tumbing sounds with the slightest stirring of some unseen breeze, something in their childish psyches or innocent hearts. Amalia was not accustomed to being the focus of such attentions, nor indeed their cause. To be fair, she dealt with children on a fairly-regular basis, and though she was no Tamassran and did not raise them, many of her viddethari were children like these.
None of them had ever derived such delight from her hair. And yet here she was, seated in her spot under the painted tree, harp currently held loosely in her hands, and several girl-children had taken it upon themselves to unwind her plait, leaving the honey-colored mass of it to pool on the stone. One of them was putting tiny braids in it, which seemed to amuse the other greatly, and the slightly-uncomfortable look on the Qunari's usually-stoic face was enough to draw in a few others, who more or less gathered at her knees and feet as they always did and entreated her to play something. Despite the irregularity of the ministrations to her scalp, she accepted them as a matter of course. No harm was being done to her person, and she conceded that there were certain things she would have to endure of she wished to be a proper denizen of this place, as her role demanded.
It was far from the most unpleasant thing she'd ever endured, and she endeavored to keep her head more or less still so that the thin, deft fingers of the elf-girl could proceed uninterrupted, and the others would have their song as well. Her left thumb flicked a string, producing a soft, warbling note, sustained alone until just before it faded, whereupon it was replaced by another. Somehow, this reminded her of a time a number of years ago, in her own childhood, when the silly, pointless things children did were not so far beyond her that she almost forgot how to understand. There was a time when she'd lain awake in the night, exchanging whispers with a friend, demure phrases allowed their release only when the reality of the world, of her impending committment to duty, was temporarily suspended. Magic, she'd called that time, before she'd learned what that word truly implied. Illusions danced freely in front of the eyes of children, things that adults were not allowed to see.
Amalia had been made an adult before most, and in her unguarded moments, she sometimes wondered if she'd lost something in so becoming.
The slow progression of notes evolved into something much more complex; it was a melody she'd written to bring him sleep, on those nights when the quiet murmurs were not enough. She'd known, even then, that his nightmares were somehow worse than hers, but she'd not understood why, and devised him a lullaby for the purpose, she'd asserted matter-of-factly, of making them more pleasant. He'd always told her it worked, and requested it of her periodically, but she knew now that the effect, if any, had likely been negligible. Why then, had he asked? It was illogical, and she no longer comprehended what had been so simple for her childhood self. Sometimes, she wondered what had happened to him. He was Vashoth, now, if he yet lived. The notes, her fingers, the harpstrings, her memories; these were all that remained to her of that time. Perhaps it was best she shared them.
There were no birds tittering in the branches, scratching absently under outstretched wings, flashing their colours for all to see. Several scores, like scars peeled across her knees, were torn across bark, stippled over roots like ruddy birthmarks. Sparrow paused, slowly pulling her hands away from the tree, when she heard small sniggers of laughter, obviously belonging to small children. Though, she hadn't spent enough time in the Alienage to know any of the children, or even realize that she might've not been as alone as she felt – so caught up in her own thoughts, she'd been. She whispered softly to turn about, stalk in the opposite direction because something didn't feel right, as if nasties lurked around the corner. Sparrow sighed a long sigh, blinked and slowly, gingerly, circled around the tree, careful not to kick over the boxes and candles settled around her. A tree in a cage did not stand as tall as a tree in the forest, even if it was as revered as this.
Unwilling to reveal who indeed was laughing, Sparrow suddenly stopped walking, only glimpsing a brief tumble of honeyed hair being released from a braid before back-peddling a couple steps. Her mouth remained resolutely closed, opposed to the idea of interrupting whatever they were doing. It hadn't been, after all, only a few children playing behind the great tree, but rather a small army of the gathered at the feet of some woman. From what she'd glimpsed, anyway. Instead of revealing herself, and explaining why she was wondering around like a sneak-thief, Sparrow pressed her back against the tree, and half-sat down, straining her stunted ears to hear any bits of conversation. Apparently, there was none to be had. The children crowed in amusement, giggling requests for songs to be sung. Her hand was loosely curled, like a child's fist, with her neck bent forward. She was completely lost to this. These willow-dipped, sharp-eared fledgelings lived in such indigent hovels, still regarded as wayward toilers, and still, they laughed loudly, without apology.
How long had it been since she'd laughed like that? Far too long. Perhaps, as long ago as when she'd been adopted by the Qunari clansmen, in the woods, miles from her own clansmen. The unlikeliest kith and kin she could've come across, sallying her in as one of their own. Whether it was pity, or mere duty on their part, Sparrow would never know. The days had long passed where she would've whittled small animals into long slats of wood, describing stories that she could hardly remember to make herself feel a little better. She could spring through the meadows unfettered, as if there weren't stubby-eared shemlen sheltered in the treeline, waiting to clutch at her shoulders again. Where the soft braying of her breathing and the erratic drumming of her heart wasn't dependant on survival, or striking first. Things were much simpler then. Even with the deep-rooted beliefs all Qunari shared, heavy-handed and strict, yet somehow effortless. Everyone had their own place, chosen since birth, but still, they weren't painted as outsiders concluded – as barbarians without music, without art, without beauty. They weren't savages and they laughed loudly, recklessly.
She leaned the back of her head against the Tree of Life, listing her head to the side. Familiar notes plucked skillfully, only three or four feet around the tree's trunk, tightened it's ghostly fingers around her lungs, tickling tendrils of cold down her spine. It was a harp. Those warbling notes, so unlike anything she'd ever heard as a child, were unmistakable, nearly sanctioned in her memory. The instrument needed no accompaniment. It never did. The music sounded so familiar, like Sparrow had heard it once before. Her eyebrow knit, eyes closed in concentration. Most of all, she supposed it reminded her of her first friend among the horned-ones, her silent brethren. Perhaps, she'd been the only one who ever accepted Sparrow, without any further enquiries, and dutifully ignored the ripped remains of Papyrus. Scrawny-armed, bruise-lipped, with knobby, ineffectual elbows. It reminded her of all the nights spent in the valley, arms tucked behind their heads like chickens, leaving behind grassy impressions like imprints left in the snow. The notes, with the wind, curved across the small alcove, like colossal chimes jingling with each pull. It transformed; became something much more complicated, much more intimate. The awareness snapped her eyes open.
It was her song. Sparrow was sure of it. Her heartbeat quickened, thumping loudly in her ears. It was almost too much to take in all at once, far too much to subdue. She cooed softly, urging her to turn away, necessitating the need to make herself scarce, for wasn't Amalia still very much apart of the Qun, willing to strip away her freedom for abandoning the way? In one swift movement, Sparrow pushed away from the tree, quickly circled around until she made herself known. Her eyes flit from the woman's honeycomb hair, plaited in several small braids, but still pooling around her shoulders, to the harp sitting in her lap. Her eyes stung. “Amalia...” It came as a choppy exhale of disbelief, bereft of her usual assurance.
Amalia had taken note of the presence just on the other side of the tree, but initially thought nothing of it. Occasionally, one of the children was too shy or timid to approach her, and this she took as a matter of course. She was aware that she had not the most... tender of visages, and she had cultivated herself to withstand, to endure. It did not, as a rule, dovetail well with softness in demeanor, and she generally relied upon other people to overcome their natural aversions to her if they had them, or otherwise leave her be. Such things were not her decisions to make, and she didn't concern herself with attempting to be other than she was for the sake of others' comfort.
A flicker of movement from the corner of her eye drew her two-toned gaze upwards, and both irises were soon surrounded by white sclera. A small, but sharp intake of breath was the only other sound of her registered surprise, and for anyone else it would perhaps have been quite a scene. For her, it was already too much a lapse of ironclad control, and she smoothed out her face immediately, turning back to her music and finishing the song with a few last tremulous notes before she placed it onto the knee of a small boy and guided his fingers to the strings. He plucked at one experimentally, and the Qunari nodded her approval. That small thing seemed to inspire an entire bout of confidene, because it was not long before he was trilling sequences of them, discordant but getting better as he gained a bit more of an ear for what each strong produced. The others immediately gathered around the new source of entertainment, and Amalia stood, for the moment forgotten.
"Venak hol" she replied, and the words were scarcely more than a soft whisper. There was much in them. Literally, it was something of an insult, but between these two particular people, that was the least of it. A "wearying one:" one who causes vexation or concern, worry. This person, this being before her had had many names, but Amalia had called him ever and only this. A simple enough statement, and one she used to refer to her viddethari when they frustrated her in one way or another, and yet... it was never the soul-rooted worry of their childood, when she'd watched him flit about from this place to that, unwilling or unable to settle as the Qun demanded, one layer of deception laying beneath another. She knew his secrets, inside and out, and always they had worried her. Worry was, for people such as herself, a pointless emotion. It achieved nothing but lowering the efficiency of the one who worried, and it was something she'd near-wholly eliminated from her person.
It was only this, the subject of so many old memories, of sprawling in the desert sands of Par Vollen and laughing at something the Tamassran had said, or else linking pinky fingers quietly before they slept, so that they might be connected even bereft of conscious notice (she'd thought herself guarding his dreams, that way), that could still cause her anxiety in this way. Qunlat had no word for "brother." Sometimes, in her most deridable moments of weakness, she found this to be a failing.
"Why now?" Why appear before her now? It had been years. She'd believed him dead or else so far moved beyond her and her kith that she'd never encounter him again either way. He'd always been capricious, that way, the fluttering breeze to her steady, still pond. He could sweep about, gestures overexaggerated and words careless, and he'd even so only ripple her surface. It was more than she'd ever allowed anyone else to do, if she'd allowed it all. Perhaps it had simply happened, like a happenstance, a coincidence, luck. It was too bad that she'd never believed in those things the way he had.
She knew her friend well enough not to expect any fierce embraces, tender moments, or anything of the sort, but still, Sparrow was shocked at the expression on Amalia's face, a brief wink of surprise – so astutely different from the calm, collected child she remembered, wiggling daisies between her toes, while remaining completely tranquil. There had always been an almost laughable contrast to her gregarious personality, though, she believed, they still complimented each other. How long had she been without her anchor? It was Amalia who'd dutifully dug in her heels whenever Sparrow chose to flit about as breezy as the wind, halfheartedly reprimanding her for not acting accordingly, for not falling subserviently into her chosen role within the Qun. The feelings swelling in her gut was overwhelming. Small smiles, simple handshakes, and simple greetings. They'd never done that, either, so she stood, expecting something for certain, but unaware how she would react to seeing her after all this time. This woman's thoughts were composed of complicated things, whirring in directions she couldn't follow, much like trying to decipher Rilien's frame of mind – impossible, like scrawled hieroglyphics. How much had she changed?
Her heart dropped when Amalia's mismatched eyes fell away from her own. She turned back towards the gawking children and resumed her song with steely determination, plucking at the resounding strings to end her lullaby. A few of the children turned to regard her, eyeing her with inhibited interest before swarming around the boy who'd been handed the harp, already begging for another song that the boy could not possibly play. Even without knowing what Amalia had been up to, or where she'd been, Sparrow could already tell what role she'd adopted from the manner she treated the fledgelings, as tenderhearted as the ones who rehabilitated, or re-educated, new converts and those who stubbornly went against their established roles. For her, it'd been different. Her days had always been heavy with the shrieks of terrified people, heavy with the smell of smoke, heavy with blood. It had certainly become a simple way to live when one was living by the sword, or by her mace, as it was. Her days had slowly drifted away from her companion. She hadn't had any time to warn her, to tell her of her plans to escape and live her own life freely. Chains, it seemed, did not suit her well.
Venak hol. That was something she could not forget, and wouldn't have chosen to forget even if she had the choice. There were many things in the Qun, in the oppressive way of life they managed to live, that Sparrow disagreed with, but her days among the Qunari were some of the best, especially with Amalia's endearing nickname. She was, after all, the only one who knew her true name. When Sparrow had initially come to the Qun, as bedraggled as a ruffled bird, they were the ones who had picked another, more suitable, title to begin anew, to create something out of nothing. In more ways than one, Amalia had aided in putting her back together. She had puzzled out her pieces, struck out the old and strengthened her foundations so that she didn't shake so much anymore. It was one of the reasons she pestered her to play her harp when the nights were far too dark, or when her hands refused to cease trembling, even if it didn't truly still her nightmares. Her mouth wouldn't peel back into a smile. Another sharp intake of breath whisked through her lips. She was speechless. Speechless and vulnerable, stupidly mute.
She offhandedly observed that those two-toned eyes had hardened. They didn't properly belong to the one she'd linked pinkies with, nor did they seem intent on welcoming her with open arms, as if they were merely wayward companions who'd traded letters from afar. Sparrow had always known that Amalia was alive, for the Qunari had always been great protectors of their own, solid walls that were almost impenetrable. It hadn't occurred to her that Amalia might've thought she'd perished. Her mouth felt parched, nearly like the sands of Par Vollen. It took a few seconds for those two individual words to sink in – why? Why now? Why hadn't she come to find her before? Why had she left in the first place? Why here in Kirkwall, in the strangest of places? So many unanswered questions bellying between two simple idioms. Her feverish tales of exploits and adventures, of freedom and excitement, suddenly tasted bitter in her throat, hardly capable of rationalizing her decisions, her choices. Time had never stopped, time never waited. She'd chosen something else without Amalia, her greatest friend.
Any witticisms she'd planned beforehand had already withered and died. They were far too inappropriate at a time like this. She hadn't thought this through. Had she been thinking at all? She didn't know what to say, how to react. There were gaps spun between them like disagreeable spiderwebs, mitigating an unexpected tension. She remained unhelpfully quiet for once. The question had caught of her guard. There was somebody precious standing there, a woman (once a small girl), frowning at him, not holding her hands out towards her to reconcile any hurts or worries, but standing at a regulated distance. No amount of hand-flapping or sweeping bows could placate any wrongs she'd done by running away, by leaving everyone behind who'd ever meant anything to her. “I never meant—,” she began awkwardly, taking an uneasy step forward. She hadn't cared back then, if she disappointed anyone, if she hurt anyone because being free had taken priority. Now though, after coming to Kirkwall, after letting down her guard and letting people in, things hurt a lot more. “I would've told you...”
"Your tongue is as unhelpful as it has always been, Venak hol," Amalia replied, tilting her head to one side. A forearm slid just behind her neck, catching the hair that had spilled over her shoulder and tossing it behind to lay flatly against her back. Despite herself, her lips just barely turned upwards at the corners. For all he lamented of being caged, it would seem that, in his own way, her friend was still playing the same role as he always had- he was certainly dancing to the same tune. The Qunari had a catch-all idiom: Merevas. 'So shall it be.' The phrase, like everything the Qunari said, was meant to encapsulate many things. Inlcuded in it was the notion that nothing ever truly changed. New facets of things were revealed to the world, and new forms of being could come to take prominence, but everything was at its core the same, forever and always.
Perhaps this made it simpler for Amalia to accept that what was not now was again. Venak hol had left, but he had never been truly gone, by one reckoning of things. She would not lie; the girl she had been had felt quite betrayed at her best friend's disappearance, nearly inconsolable for some months afterwards. This had, eventually, manifested a stronger will to see the Qun's promise fulfilled, it's directives spread to all corners of Thedas. When there was nowhere without the Qun, she had thought, there would be no chance that he would remain gone, beyond her reach. That selfish thought had been tempered, and while she would not deny that she was surprised to see him, she would not begrudge his past absence. This was to be the way of things- then, and now.
Merevas.