The Wounded Coast might not have been most peoples' idea of a good place to meet an old friend, but as had perhaps been long established, Amalia was not most people. Nor was Sparrow most 'old friends,' for that matter. So perhaps it was not so unexpected that when the Qunari had at last decided she was in the right state of mind to have this long-needed discussion of certain very pertinent matters, she had sent word to the half-elf through means of his much more stably-located companion, the enchanter who worked now out of the merchant's district in Hightown. She was quite sure that Rilien, as he was called, would convey the message to Sparrow that Amalia sought audience with him, and at this particular spot on the coast, no less. Here, the ocean met the shore, a cove of soft white sand hidden and defended on three sides by rocky inclines that would be tricky for the average person to navigate. In their childhoods, they had found many such places, secreted away after their hours of instruction to while away the afternoons which were theirs.
Though she was still robed, and armored beneath that, the Qunari had allowed herself the concession of removing both her boots and her gauntlets, setting them neatly on a sun-warmed rock some distance from her present location. This little strip of beach was occupied by several tide pools and many large planks of wood, arranged such that they had obviously once been the bare skeleton of some seafaring vessel. Many, many years ago, from the looks of things. Now, they formed a dozen proud, if decrepit, archways, braced against the west side of the cove.
Amalia walked parallel to the line between sand and water, close enough that occasionally a wave would wash over her bare feet, the sea's spray dampening the tan hem of her linen robe. It was nowhere near as hot or balmy as Par Vollen, here, nor so arid as Seheron tended to be, but it was the closest that this place ever came to reminding her of home. And here, with no humans or elves or dwarves about to prove the contrary, she could almost believe she was back there. At least, she could have if she ever bothered to entertain such useless fancy. Those had always been Venak hol's things, not hers. The breeze from the water rippled through the fabric she wore and tugged at her loose forelock, as though chiding her, in much the manner he would have, no less. Perhaps that was the true reason she'd chosen the spot: it reminded her of him, anyway, more even than it reminded her of home.
The two had not been so readily distinguished, once.
Rilien's straightforward message had been, most likely, repeated word-for-word, identical to what Amalia had told him to relay to her. The location hadn't surprised her in the slightest, and she was almost relieved that it hadn't been somewhere unfamiliar, some place unlike where she would've chosen. If she'd wanted to meet in Hightown, or somewhere busy, chaotic, full of snobby nobles, then she would've wondered whether or not her old friend had truly changed for the worst. She decided ahead of time that she wanted to head to the Wounded Coast before Amalia appeared, in the childish hopes of surprising her. Instead, Sparrow's withering enthusiasm seemed to sluggishly lead her over the hills, following a faint trail.
The way she walked had always been different from hers; she walked lightly, quietly, hardly leaving any evidence that she'd ever been there, and Sparrow walked with large, lumbering steps, leaving tracks like a receding tide-line. The blue undertones of the sky promised of pleasant weather, of a beautiful day spent by the beach. She'd chosen simple clothes that made it look as if she'd just hopped off the nearest shipyard; a fitted, cotton vest with leather trousers and a silken bandana wound across her head, slithering down the right side of her face. For this particular meeting, Sparrow needed no armor, even if it made her feel vulnerable. She'd never been one for being prepared, anyhow.
As she neared the meeting spot, Sparrow removed her shoes, held them aloft and dangled them over her shoulder. She could just see over the cliff-side, and spotted blonde hair blowing in the wind, gentle as blades of grass. Her breath hitched, stilling her movements. It was stifling how she could still do that to her, without so much as saying a thing. Sometimes, Sparrow could muster the courage to do things she never dreamt of doing. Her recklessness was boundless, and often bordered on stupidity, but at moments such as this, whatever bravery she'd scooped up in her hands sifted through her fingers like sand. Only she managed to do this to her. Her eyes, brimming with fire and seriousness and seawater, shook her foundations, and made her want to apologize for something, anything.
She might have been a mirage in the desert, weaving in the distance with all of her aliases and locked doors, but her old friend was as solid and real as the tiny particles of sand squished between her toes. She pressed her free hand to her chest, instilling a calm she didn't feel in her thumping heart, willing it to beat with the steadiness of the ocean. How dearly she wanted to snatch up her elbow, pull her along the beach, like she'd done so long ago – but things were different, and they'd changed more than she'd like to admit.
Sparrow breathed in through her nostrils, tasting both the cleanliness of the air, and the saltwater of the coastline. It was cooler than Par Vollen. Her memories, however skewed, had not eroded like the smooth rocks she'd spotted freckling the beach. She remembered every detail, as vividly as if they'd happened yesterday. Perhaps, it was what made it so painful. She couldn't deny abandoning her friend all those years ago, for reasons beyond selfishness, and she couldn't explain exactly why she'd done it, either. With one final shuddering breath, ruthlessly snatched away with the breeze, Sparrow took another step forward, then another, until she picked her way onto the beach. The secret alcove, hidden away from the world by jagged rocks and a skeletal shipwreck, reminded her of home, of secret hideaways and sharing their worries, dreams, ambitions. She walked slightly behind her old friend, off to the side, idling in the water; knee-deep.
“This may be the only place in the Free Marches that doesn't make me physically sick,” she mused softly, kicking up bits of sand, “Do you think they call it the Wounded Coast because of Kirkwall? Anything close to that place must be in a little pain, a little tainted.”
Amalia's pace hadn't changed when she sensed the arrival of her once-fellow, and indeed, to anyone else it might have seemed as though she hadn't acknowleged his presence at all. But she had; it was in the subtle relaxing of her posture, the way she walked now with looser, longer strides, though still atop the sand rather than sunk into it as he was wont to be. He was flighty, so flighty, and she'd had to admit to the possibility that he wouldn't show at all and her day would be spent by herself. It was not that solitude bothered her-- she'd been alone, in the poet's sense, almost her entire life. Ever since he'd departed, in fact. That she still was could not be counted as his fault, however. By now, she had chosen repeatedly to remain so, though she might have chosen otherwise. She told herself her burdens were best borne alone, that attachment to anything but the Qun diminished her judgement and her usefulness, but in truth she knew not whether it would because she'd never really tried to find out.
He spoke, and she stilled her feet at last, turning a bit to look at him out of the corner of her blue eye. Qunari were excellent with subtext, and Venak hol's, as always, didn't much stretch the limits of her comprehension. Whether it was because they had once been close or because he was unsubtle didn't much matter-- though he did seem to have picked some up, from somewhere. He must have, else surely he'd be dead or in the place they called the Gallows by now. I'm in a little pain, a little tainted, he said to her without speaking the words, and she answered without them also.
"I expect it is called this because it is frequently attacked from the outside, wounded by raiders, perhaps. I do not think they realize that it is the coast itself which brings the most ruin." She eyed the ship-skeleton with meaning. You know as well as I do that the world can only hurt us if we allow ourselves to be hurt. Why else would a being, any sentient person, refuse trust, friendship, cameraderie? Because it opened them to harm, and some were more wary of it than others. Amalia was wary of it as the prowling tigers of Par Vollen were of the spear-laden kossith who moved through its tropical landscapes.
In comparison, Sparrow had lived frivolously, flinging herself in every direction and choosing to lean on whichever sorry shoulder was closest – though, only sharing when it was necessary and only offering small, slivers of truths in place of its entirety. Perhaps, they hadn't strayed far from each other, after all. While Amalia willingly adopted a life of solitude, treading a path of isolation and tranquillity, she'd chosen a life in which masks were worn, falsifications embraced and well-intentioned fibs strewn out like grains of sand. Her friendships were based on unauthentic foundations. They might've been strong to withstand things like disloyalty, but conflict and declarations between companions and allies alike reaffirmed, strengthened and solidified their bonds. She wasn't sure whether or not she was prepared to make that leap. The burdens she shouldered were not carried for the Qun, or for any sort of justified reason, aside from the fact that she was terrified of being left alone once all of her dirty secrets were spoken aloud, as if she'd become a stain on their lives, doomed to be avoided.
Small, insignificant parts of Sparrow sang clearly, noisily, at the very thought of standing on an unfamiliar beach with his once-friend, and other darker parts urged her to throw her hands out wide, offer her everything she'd managed to scrounge up after running rampant in Kirkwall's streets. All of her secrets, all of her hideaways, everything she'd managed to discover since leaving the Qun, its people, and more importantly, her. Each and every question she'd ever thought since abandoning them bubbled to the surface, gurgling in her throat, battling to be voiced, but she only managed a slight inclination of her head so that she could better see Amalia's face. To trace the slope of her nose, and the foreign angles of her cheeks. While it was true that Sparrow had flown far from her nest, further still from her comfortable perch, her heart still basked on Par Vollen's dusty beaches, underneath a brilliant sun.
She blinked slowly, letting her eyes fall away from her, and roll skyward. The smile tugged at her lips, then arranged itself into a knowing smirk – of course, only those who allowed themselves to be hurt, truly hurt. Sparrow thought it was impossible not to let miniscule pieces of yourself slip out, as if they were seeping through imperceptible cracks. Her chest had been clamped shut for so long that she was having difficulties cracking it open, and feared Amalia suffered the same unbearable fate. Did it eat up at her? Did she wish that words came easily? Did she have secrets, as well? She hadn't understood, for the longest of times, why it was Amalia's voice that she could hear the clearest, even though she was nowhere in sight, but it all made sense now that she stood with her on the Wounded Coast. She'd seen her in all of her entirety, once. Her weaknesses, her past, her truths, every part of her. There was no need to lie, or fib, or skirt around anything to stave away humiliation. She already knew everything.
“And they've even got unwelcome guests they can't seem to rid themselves of. It's a mess, this place.” Too cowardly was she to say I'm possessed, I'm possessed, and it'd be better off if you ended it for me. Had she asked, she wouldn't have expected a reply, or an answer, or worse yet: compliance. She finally threw her hands out wide, approaching the skeletal remains of the ship, with its underbelly sticking out like wooden ribs, “I'd rather be home.” Home was an objective, undefined term. Where did any of them truly belong? She'd sought out the answer to that question for as long as she'd been alive, never truly finding it. If she didn't include her happy childhood shared with her once-friend, then Sparrow could readily admit that living alongside Rilien, with new friendships always weaselling their way in, was the closest thing to feeling like she was home. She frowned thoughtfully, clambered up onto the rotten bowsprit, and hooked her arm around the wooden woman's eroding shoulders. “But, you've made some friends, right?”
She needed to know.
Amalia had stopped short at the phrase unwelcome guests, watching Sparrow advance further forward with a hard, measuring stare. This was their entire story, encapsulated: Amalia tugging down the muffler that covered her face, watching with an expression her childhood friend could not see as he opened his arms to the world beyond, the places she could not, or perhaps simply would not, follow. He'd leave her behind, and she'd understand the necessity of it. She'd never like it, but she would understand, so truly and deeply that she'd wish she didn't. He'd leave, and she'd occasionally return to stand at the edge, staring at the marks he'd left in the sand as though some piece of him yet remained in them.
What would he say, if she told him that this was the harm that had stayed her hands, on the way to prying open that foolish thing she called a heart?
But surely it wasn't. One incident did not close someone to so much for such a long time. His leaving had been the first in a series of incidents that had bound that harbor shut with massive boom-chains, a gate to remain forever sealed. She made study of his open, slightly coltlike stride, and her eyes narrowed. She had played at words for too long not to guess what his meaning could possibly be, but she avoided voicing the conclusion, even in her own head, for what she would have to do in response was immediately clear. Instead, she allowed the words to be more literal, a reference to the presence of the Qunari in Kirkwall. "A mess that should be careful, else it finds itself unwittingly cleaned by those suited to the purpose." The Arishok grows impatient; with me, you must guard your words. Meanings stacked atop each other in haphazard piles, woven into the fabric of even the drollest utterances. He always had infused chaos into the order of her being. They complimented, simple as that.
So it shall be. It had become a part of her, it was her. She just hoped, as dearly as any old friend did, that the Qun's wishes were never burdened onto Amalia's shoulders, and that she never conferred any orders to do away with her, and that they'd somehow forgotten about her. As if her presence were little more than a passing breeze, leaving nothing but wayward memories and faint traces of her laughter. It was easier that way. Though Amalia's face was hidden from view, obscured by the muffler she'd pulled up over her lips, nose barely peeping above the fabric, Sparrow imagined that she was frowning. She, herself, had never hidden her face from anyone (though, she'd hidden her identity well enough), because if anything needed to be understood, then all one would need to do is look at it, clearly, unobstructed. Her expressions told many things all at once. Far too much, at times. She squinted her eyes, as if she were staring into the sun, eyebrows flagged in question.
Sparrow's fingers absently tugged at the fabric of her shirt, where her heart thumped beneath. Wherever they might have ended up, they'd still pulled and tugged and lugged their individual chains – quite simply, the ones they'd latched onto their chests, tangled around their hearts, because it was too difficult to live simply, seeking friendships when loneliness hounded their thoughts. She was lonely, often. She chased those sentiments away with liquor, poor company, good company and lending a helping hand where it was asked, or not asked. Her nosiness and curiosity constantly kept her out of her hovel, kept her from withering away in Darktown's despairing corners. Kirkwall, with all of its prospects of confinement and plausible death, could not clip her wings, or keep her grounded enough to present her from escaping once more. Words, words, more words with hidden meanings. They danced around each other, holding metaphors and whispered colloquy’s aloft, knowing everything and yet still belying an animus of altruism, of delicate intentions. Whilst she offered stability and tempered discipline, Sparrow could only swing her mace, sending vibrations through her structure. It would always be this way. “A mess I care not to defend,” She mused quietly, tipping her head.
The question went long without answer, and Amalia took the opportunity she gave herself to approach the dead ship, tilting her head to look up at his perch. Fitting, for a bird, but he'd never remain there for too much time. Friends? Had she? Amalia had to give the question some deliberation. Nostariel was a student. Aurora was... the same, and perhaps also an apprentice. Something not quite identical, but friend was not the proper word; their relationship was too sharply-defined for that muddlement.
That left one, and maybe she hadn't closed herself quite tightly enough, because she was... uncomfortable, thinking about him. A constricting feeling tightened about her lungs, and she pretended to take sudden interest in the curvature of the vessel's wooden bones. Leave it to Venak hol to disturb so much with such an innocent question. Amalia had not ever given much thought to what to call the strange cameraderie between herself and Sataareth; a name had been unnecessary. In retrospect, perhaps that was part of the problem-- without a name, it had no such boundaries, and she may have overstepped hers without understanding that she was doing so. If they had been... friends... they were not now.
"Perhaps," she said quietly, and the word was heavy with implications unvoiced. Her own foolishness was only now beginning to become clear in its fullest extent, but she still knew not whether she was more the fool for overreaching what may indeed have been a friendship or for allowing it in the first place. Had her life not taught her beyond the shadow of a doubt that such things were impossible for her to sustain? Whatever the case, it was abundantly clear that she, not for the first time, had allowed herself to come to harm.
"Nehraa meraas, in the end."[/color] She shook her head, then looked back up. "And of you? The Tranquil was protective." Indeed, it had not been until she stated exactly what her purpose was for desiring a meeting with Sparrow that he had even admitted that he would be able to deliver her any message whatsoever, though Amalia had had it on good authority that they cohabitated. She understood; Sparrow tended to inspire that in people.
Unwelcome guests, indeed. Sparrow did not hate the Qunari, nor even dislike their presence in Kirkwall, and certainly held no aversion towards their teachings, for she'd once believed in the Qun with all of her heart. She'd flown alongside it, allowing it to pass over her like sheets of rain until the it became little more than a torrential storm, stifling her breath, slapping down shackles she thought were too heavy to carry. Flighty birds were not meant to be caged, or told what to do. Respect, honour, dignity, and duty as strong and unyielding as iron. These traits, as she'd begun to see, were embodied in her once-fellow, down to her very core. It was admirable, to say the least, but even in her youth she'd felt as if she hadn't been born with the makings of a good follower, of a resolute kinsmen who breathed and lived within her blade, only to extend herself out as the Qun demanded. Though, she still felt threatened by the Qunari presence in Kirkwall. It signified everything she feared – her freedom being stripped away, her secrets finally executing fatal consequences in the form of stapled eyes and stitched lips, and losing everything she'd recklessly, foolishly fought for. They would kill her for abandoning them, and she'd very nearly deserve it.
The half-breed looked down from her spiny, wooden roost, taking note of Amalia's approach. Like two matches coming together, igniting into something all-too familiar. She moved like a phantom, barely disturbing the ground she trod upon, but still leaving footsteps in her wake – and she found herself oddly relieved, for it meant she was really here. Reality and the Fade had become something intangible, difficult to separate in the days she did not feel her fingers wiggling.
She'd been concentrating on the sound of her once-friend's voice, occasionally leaning forward to hear her better. At times, when she's not quite prepared to hear it again, Sparrow was surprised. It was sharper than she recalled, full of wisps of confidence, as if she knew exactly what she might do and where she might go. Her shoulder blades press together, hand retracting away from the mermaid's wooden collarbone. Again, Amalia wore that iron expression of hers, one of tight lips and lines, a face bound so tightly, so adept at saying nothing at all, while she admired the vessel and looked away from her. Sometimes, her once-friend moved like clockwork, gears all bunched up, mechanically staggered, slow and cautious. Her heart, even now, seemed closed off to her. She'd closed it herself, when she chose to leave.
Her head tilted once more, craning to see Amalia's face. “You have, then,” Sparrow exhaled, breathy and clearly relieved. Her guarded heart, speckled with ramparts and crocodile-infested moats, would always attract a friend, a companion, acquaintances and allies. She might have disagreed, but there was something about her that reeled people in. Her inner core professed safety to all those who stood in her presence, sang of loyalty, honesty, and a guiding hand perpetually toughened by gauntlets. Amalia would never be without a friend. The question had been silly, if not rhetorical. She'd wanted to hear her answer, or see that her worries had always been childish, selfish things. She could pretend. She was good at that. She was the best at that; she'd convinced herself that leaving hadn't effected anyone, she'd convinced herself that lying was the only option she'd ever had. Sparrow adjusted her position, her behind promptly scooted across the figurehead's shoulder, hand extended to the horizon, fingers played. “Ketojan kadan, is fitting. A bridge between hearts. You might disagree, but I don't think your path is meant to be walked alone.”
To that, Amalia exhaled in a huff, a gentle testament to disagreement. He didn't understand, and that was fine. He wasn't meant to. There were secrets she had shared with none, of things that had passed years ago, things that even now kept her a safe distance from others. If she had anything to say of the matter, they always would. Sparrow had shown her that nothing was permanent, but he had convinced her that nobody was trustworthy. It was a lesson she'd taken to heart, the only thing he'd done to her that could ever be considered a beneficence, and even that coated with malice the like of which she'd not seen before or since. She was scarred, and they pulled in places, insistent reminders that what was made broken could not become whole again, not as it had been.
She reeled her hand in, and turned towards Amalia. Rilien? In more ways than one, the unwavering, ever-present bard, had pulled her from the darkness, dusting off loneliness from her shoulders without so much as asking why she was there in the first place, in exchange for nothing. It was a kindness, what he'd done for her. She'd never seen him as someone afflicted by the Rite of Tranquility, and he'd never seen her as a hapless orphan, drug out from the rain. It was a bond she was willing to protect with everything she had – she'd die for it, as well as for the others she'd manage to care for. The half-breed crouched down from her perch, gauged the distance to the ground, and finally hopped down, brushing errant shards of wood from her trousers. She threw her head back, and laughed, then thoughtfully scratched her chin, grinning. “I think I've found a reason to fight, people to fight for.”
This, the Qunari understood. To live always alone did not preclude doing service for others, nor even living for their sake. That much was the very essence of the Qun. Each individual lived and died for the whole, but they should never expect the whole to count them for anything. Nothing at all; they had to be disposable, else their loss would do damage. It was not the same, perhaps, as what Sparrow had found himself, but it was something. Similar, on some level, and she was glad he had found it. It was something worth having-- something to protect, to love, to defend with all the life in one's body. If that was some group of people for Venak hol, it would do. "Then you should count yourself lucky," she replied simply.
It was her turn to frown, mouth struggling to find any chipper expression, flipping through into something a little sadder. While Sparrow moved around things, as transparent and mellifluous as the briny water that lapped over their feet, Amalia had been molded, or guided, into being something similar to an anchor, willingly drowning and professing that loneliness was her only, ever-present companion. Her own word were empty, flighty things, twittering on branches before taking flight. They didn't mean anything, anymore. She'd lost the right to offer advice, or stolidly counter that she'd always be here for her, that she'd always be there to chase away her distrust. This woman – who exuded poise, and grace, and a centre that did not move unless she willed it – was still a prevalent force in her life, as absolute and real as the fragment of herself she'd intentionally buried.
She approached Amalia, tentatively, at first, and stopped short of her right side, fingers already snatching the corner of her muffler. Sparrow did not pull it down, nor make any movement that might've given away her intentions. Indeed, she'd had none, but it had always been a familiar action; one she'd done several times in her youth. The half-breed would always be on the brink of leaving everyone she's ever loved, suspended over a cliff side, wings held aloft. Incessantly claiming that the distance called to her like songbirds, and that she didn't truly belong anywhere. She might have found someone, or many someone's, to fight for, but it would always be in her nature to run away. Difficulties, internal or external, frightened her more than anything. Amalia knew that better than anyone, and yet here they were, standing along the Wounded Coast, with secrets shackled to their ankles.
“Lucky?” She mused, allowing the fabric to sift through her fingers, “Everything comes with a price, I suppose.”
Though she was still robed, and armored beneath that, the Qunari had allowed herself the concession of removing both her boots and her gauntlets, setting them neatly on a sun-warmed rock some distance from her present location. This little strip of beach was occupied by several tide pools and many large planks of wood, arranged such that they had obviously once been the bare skeleton of some seafaring vessel. Many, many years ago, from the looks of things. Now, they formed a dozen proud, if decrepit, archways, braced against the west side of the cove.
Amalia walked parallel to the line between sand and water, close enough that occasionally a wave would wash over her bare feet, the sea's spray dampening the tan hem of her linen robe. It was nowhere near as hot or balmy as Par Vollen, here, nor so arid as Seheron tended to be, but it was the closest that this place ever came to reminding her of home. And here, with no humans or elves or dwarves about to prove the contrary, she could almost believe she was back there. At least, she could have if she ever bothered to entertain such useless fancy. Those had always been Venak hol's things, not hers. The breeze from the water rippled through the fabric she wore and tugged at her loose forelock, as though chiding her, in much the manner he would have, no less. Perhaps that was the true reason she'd chosen the spot: it reminded her of him, anyway, more even than it reminded her of home.
The two had not been so readily distinguished, once.
Rilien's straightforward message had been, most likely, repeated word-for-word, identical to what Amalia had told him to relay to her. The location hadn't surprised her in the slightest, and she was almost relieved that it hadn't been somewhere unfamiliar, some place unlike where she would've chosen. If she'd wanted to meet in Hightown, or somewhere busy, chaotic, full of snobby nobles, then she would've wondered whether or not her old friend had truly changed for the worst. She decided ahead of time that she wanted to head to the Wounded Coast before Amalia appeared, in the childish hopes of surprising her. Instead, Sparrow's withering enthusiasm seemed to sluggishly lead her over the hills, following a faint trail.
The way she walked had always been different from hers; she walked lightly, quietly, hardly leaving any evidence that she'd ever been there, and Sparrow walked with large, lumbering steps, leaving tracks like a receding tide-line. The blue undertones of the sky promised of pleasant weather, of a beautiful day spent by the beach. She'd chosen simple clothes that made it look as if she'd just hopped off the nearest shipyard; a fitted, cotton vest with leather trousers and a silken bandana wound across her head, slithering down the right side of her face. For this particular meeting, Sparrow needed no armor, even if it made her feel vulnerable. She'd never been one for being prepared, anyhow.
As she neared the meeting spot, Sparrow removed her shoes, held them aloft and dangled them over her shoulder. She could just see over the cliff-side, and spotted blonde hair blowing in the wind, gentle as blades of grass. Her breath hitched, stilling her movements. It was stifling how she could still do that to her, without so much as saying a thing. Sometimes, Sparrow could muster the courage to do things she never dreamt of doing. Her recklessness was boundless, and often bordered on stupidity, but at moments such as this, whatever bravery she'd scooped up in her hands sifted through her fingers like sand. Only she managed to do this to her. Her eyes, brimming with fire and seriousness and seawater, shook her foundations, and made her want to apologize for something, anything.
She might have been a mirage in the desert, weaving in the distance with all of her aliases and locked doors, but her old friend was as solid and real as the tiny particles of sand squished between her toes. She pressed her free hand to her chest, instilling a calm she didn't feel in her thumping heart, willing it to beat with the steadiness of the ocean. How dearly she wanted to snatch up her elbow, pull her along the beach, like she'd done so long ago – but things were different, and they'd changed more than she'd like to admit.
Sparrow breathed in through her nostrils, tasting both the cleanliness of the air, and the saltwater of the coastline. It was cooler than Par Vollen. Her memories, however skewed, had not eroded like the smooth rocks she'd spotted freckling the beach. She remembered every detail, as vividly as if they'd happened yesterday. Perhaps, it was what made it so painful. She couldn't deny abandoning her friend all those years ago, for reasons beyond selfishness, and she couldn't explain exactly why she'd done it, either. With one final shuddering breath, ruthlessly snatched away with the breeze, Sparrow took another step forward, then another, until she picked her way onto the beach. The secret alcove, hidden away from the world by jagged rocks and a skeletal shipwreck, reminded her of home, of secret hideaways and sharing their worries, dreams, ambitions. She walked slightly behind her old friend, off to the side, idling in the water; knee-deep.
“This may be the only place in the Free Marches that doesn't make me physically sick,” she mused softly, kicking up bits of sand, “Do you think they call it the Wounded Coast because of Kirkwall? Anything close to that place must be in a little pain, a little tainted.”
Amalia's pace hadn't changed when she sensed the arrival of her once-fellow, and indeed, to anyone else it might have seemed as though she hadn't acknowleged his presence at all. But she had; it was in the subtle relaxing of her posture, the way she walked now with looser, longer strides, though still atop the sand rather than sunk into it as he was wont to be. He was flighty, so flighty, and she'd had to admit to the possibility that he wouldn't show at all and her day would be spent by herself. It was not that solitude bothered her-- she'd been alone, in the poet's sense, almost her entire life. Ever since he'd departed, in fact. That she still was could not be counted as his fault, however. By now, she had chosen repeatedly to remain so, though she might have chosen otherwise. She told herself her burdens were best borne alone, that attachment to anything but the Qun diminished her judgement and her usefulness, but in truth she knew not whether it would because she'd never really tried to find out.
He spoke, and she stilled her feet at last, turning a bit to look at him out of the corner of her blue eye. Qunari were excellent with subtext, and Venak hol's, as always, didn't much stretch the limits of her comprehension. Whether it was because they had once been close or because he was unsubtle didn't much matter-- though he did seem to have picked some up, from somewhere. He must have, else surely he'd be dead or in the place they called the Gallows by now. I'm in a little pain, a little tainted, he said to her without speaking the words, and she answered without them also.
"I expect it is called this because it is frequently attacked from the outside, wounded by raiders, perhaps. I do not think they realize that it is the coast itself which brings the most ruin." She eyed the ship-skeleton with meaning. You know as well as I do that the world can only hurt us if we allow ourselves to be hurt. Why else would a being, any sentient person, refuse trust, friendship, cameraderie? Because it opened them to harm, and some were more wary of it than others. Amalia was wary of it as the prowling tigers of Par Vollen were of the spear-laden kossith who moved through its tropical landscapes.
In comparison, Sparrow had lived frivolously, flinging herself in every direction and choosing to lean on whichever sorry shoulder was closest – though, only sharing when it was necessary and only offering small, slivers of truths in place of its entirety. Perhaps, they hadn't strayed far from each other, after all. While Amalia willingly adopted a life of solitude, treading a path of isolation and tranquillity, she'd chosen a life in which masks were worn, falsifications embraced and well-intentioned fibs strewn out like grains of sand. Her friendships were based on unauthentic foundations. They might've been strong to withstand things like disloyalty, but conflict and declarations between companions and allies alike reaffirmed, strengthened and solidified their bonds. She wasn't sure whether or not she was prepared to make that leap. The burdens she shouldered were not carried for the Qun, or for any sort of justified reason, aside from the fact that she was terrified of being left alone once all of her dirty secrets were spoken aloud, as if she'd become a stain on their lives, doomed to be avoided.
Small, insignificant parts of Sparrow sang clearly, noisily, at the very thought of standing on an unfamiliar beach with his once-friend, and other darker parts urged her to throw her hands out wide, offer her everything she'd managed to scrounge up after running rampant in Kirkwall's streets. All of her secrets, all of her hideaways, everything she'd managed to discover since leaving the Qun, its people, and more importantly, her. Each and every question she'd ever thought since abandoning them bubbled to the surface, gurgling in her throat, battling to be voiced, but she only managed a slight inclination of her head so that she could better see Amalia's face. To trace the slope of her nose, and the foreign angles of her cheeks. While it was true that Sparrow had flown far from her nest, further still from her comfortable perch, her heart still basked on Par Vollen's dusty beaches, underneath a brilliant sun.
She blinked slowly, letting her eyes fall away from her, and roll skyward. The smile tugged at her lips, then arranged itself into a knowing smirk – of course, only those who allowed themselves to be hurt, truly hurt. Sparrow thought it was impossible not to let miniscule pieces of yourself slip out, as if they were seeping through imperceptible cracks. Her chest had been clamped shut for so long that she was having difficulties cracking it open, and feared Amalia suffered the same unbearable fate. Did it eat up at her? Did she wish that words came easily? Did she have secrets, as well? She hadn't understood, for the longest of times, why it was Amalia's voice that she could hear the clearest, even though she was nowhere in sight, but it all made sense now that she stood with her on the Wounded Coast. She'd seen her in all of her entirety, once. Her weaknesses, her past, her truths, every part of her. There was no need to lie, or fib, or skirt around anything to stave away humiliation. She already knew everything.
“And they've even got unwelcome guests they can't seem to rid themselves of. It's a mess, this place.” Too cowardly was she to say I'm possessed, I'm possessed, and it'd be better off if you ended it for me. Had she asked, she wouldn't have expected a reply, or an answer, or worse yet: compliance. She finally threw her hands out wide, approaching the skeletal remains of the ship, with its underbelly sticking out like wooden ribs, “I'd rather be home.” Home was an objective, undefined term. Where did any of them truly belong? She'd sought out the answer to that question for as long as she'd been alive, never truly finding it. If she didn't include her happy childhood shared with her once-friend, then Sparrow could readily admit that living alongside Rilien, with new friendships always weaselling their way in, was the closest thing to feeling like she was home. She frowned thoughtfully, clambered up onto the rotten bowsprit, and hooked her arm around the wooden woman's eroding shoulders. “But, you've made some friends, right?”
She needed to know.
Amalia had stopped short at the phrase unwelcome guests, watching Sparrow advance further forward with a hard, measuring stare. This was their entire story, encapsulated: Amalia tugging down the muffler that covered her face, watching with an expression her childhood friend could not see as he opened his arms to the world beyond, the places she could not, or perhaps simply would not, follow. He'd leave her behind, and she'd understand the necessity of it. She'd never like it, but she would understand, so truly and deeply that she'd wish she didn't. He'd leave, and she'd occasionally return to stand at the edge, staring at the marks he'd left in the sand as though some piece of him yet remained in them.
What would he say, if she told him that this was the harm that had stayed her hands, on the way to prying open that foolish thing she called a heart?
But surely it wasn't. One incident did not close someone to so much for such a long time. His leaving had been the first in a series of incidents that had bound that harbor shut with massive boom-chains, a gate to remain forever sealed. She made study of his open, slightly coltlike stride, and her eyes narrowed. She had played at words for too long not to guess what his meaning could possibly be, but she avoided voicing the conclusion, even in her own head, for what she would have to do in response was immediately clear. Instead, she allowed the words to be more literal, a reference to the presence of the Qunari in Kirkwall. "A mess that should be careful, else it finds itself unwittingly cleaned by those suited to the purpose." The Arishok grows impatient; with me, you must guard your words. Meanings stacked atop each other in haphazard piles, woven into the fabric of even the drollest utterances. He always had infused chaos into the order of her being. They complimented, simple as that.
So it shall be. It had become a part of her, it was her. She just hoped, as dearly as any old friend did, that the Qun's wishes were never burdened onto Amalia's shoulders, and that she never conferred any orders to do away with her, and that they'd somehow forgotten about her. As if her presence were little more than a passing breeze, leaving nothing but wayward memories and faint traces of her laughter. It was easier that way. Though Amalia's face was hidden from view, obscured by the muffler she'd pulled up over her lips, nose barely peeping above the fabric, Sparrow imagined that she was frowning. She, herself, had never hidden her face from anyone (though, she'd hidden her identity well enough), because if anything needed to be understood, then all one would need to do is look at it, clearly, unobstructed. Her expressions told many things all at once. Far too much, at times. She squinted her eyes, as if she were staring into the sun, eyebrows flagged in question.
Sparrow's fingers absently tugged at the fabric of her shirt, where her heart thumped beneath. Wherever they might have ended up, they'd still pulled and tugged and lugged their individual chains – quite simply, the ones they'd latched onto their chests, tangled around their hearts, because it was too difficult to live simply, seeking friendships when loneliness hounded their thoughts. She was lonely, often. She chased those sentiments away with liquor, poor company, good company and lending a helping hand where it was asked, or not asked. Her nosiness and curiosity constantly kept her out of her hovel, kept her from withering away in Darktown's despairing corners. Kirkwall, with all of its prospects of confinement and plausible death, could not clip her wings, or keep her grounded enough to present her from escaping once more. Words, words, more words with hidden meanings. They danced around each other, holding metaphors and whispered colloquy’s aloft, knowing everything and yet still belying an animus of altruism, of delicate intentions. Whilst she offered stability and tempered discipline, Sparrow could only swing her mace, sending vibrations through her structure. It would always be this way. “A mess I care not to defend,” She mused quietly, tipping her head.
The question went long without answer, and Amalia took the opportunity she gave herself to approach the dead ship, tilting her head to look up at his perch. Fitting, for a bird, but he'd never remain there for too much time. Friends? Had she? Amalia had to give the question some deliberation. Nostariel was a student. Aurora was... the same, and perhaps also an apprentice. Something not quite identical, but friend was not the proper word; their relationship was too sharply-defined for that muddlement.
That left one, and maybe she hadn't closed herself quite tightly enough, because she was... uncomfortable, thinking about him. A constricting feeling tightened about her lungs, and she pretended to take sudden interest in the curvature of the vessel's wooden bones. Leave it to Venak hol to disturb so much with such an innocent question. Amalia had not ever given much thought to what to call the strange cameraderie between herself and Sataareth; a name had been unnecessary. In retrospect, perhaps that was part of the problem-- without a name, it had no such boundaries, and she may have overstepped hers without understanding that she was doing so. If they had been... friends... they were not now.
"Perhaps," she said quietly, and the word was heavy with implications unvoiced. Her own foolishness was only now beginning to become clear in its fullest extent, but she still knew not whether she was more the fool for overreaching what may indeed have been a friendship or for allowing it in the first place. Had her life not taught her beyond the shadow of a doubt that such things were impossible for her to sustain? Whatever the case, it was abundantly clear that she, not for the first time, had allowed herself to come to harm.
"Nehraa meraas, in the end."[/color] She shook her head, then looked back up. "And of you? The Tranquil was protective." Indeed, it had not been until she stated exactly what her purpose was for desiring a meeting with Sparrow that he had even admitted that he would be able to deliver her any message whatsoever, though Amalia had had it on good authority that they cohabitated. She understood; Sparrow tended to inspire that in people.
Unwelcome guests, indeed. Sparrow did not hate the Qunari, nor even dislike their presence in Kirkwall, and certainly held no aversion towards their teachings, for she'd once believed in the Qun with all of her heart. She'd flown alongside it, allowing it to pass over her like sheets of rain until the it became little more than a torrential storm, stifling her breath, slapping down shackles she thought were too heavy to carry. Flighty birds were not meant to be caged, or told what to do. Respect, honour, dignity, and duty as strong and unyielding as iron. These traits, as she'd begun to see, were embodied in her once-fellow, down to her very core. It was admirable, to say the least, but even in her youth she'd felt as if she hadn't been born with the makings of a good follower, of a resolute kinsmen who breathed and lived within her blade, only to extend herself out as the Qun demanded. Though, she still felt threatened by the Qunari presence in Kirkwall. It signified everything she feared – her freedom being stripped away, her secrets finally executing fatal consequences in the form of stapled eyes and stitched lips, and losing everything she'd recklessly, foolishly fought for. They would kill her for abandoning them, and she'd very nearly deserve it.
The half-breed looked down from her spiny, wooden roost, taking note of Amalia's approach. Like two matches coming together, igniting into something all-too familiar. She moved like a phantom, barely disturbing the ground she trod upon, but still leaving footsteps in her wake – and she found herself oddly relieved, for it meant she was really here. Reality and the Fade had become something intangible, difficult to separate in the days she did not feel her fingers wiggling.
She'd been concentrating on the sound of her once-friend's voice, occasionally leaning forward to hear her better. At times, when she's not quite prepared to hear it again, Sparrow was surprised. It was sharper than she recalled, full of wisps of confidence, as if she knew exactly what she might do and where she might go. Her shoulder blades press together, hand retracting away from the mermaid's wooden collarbone. Again, Amalia wore that iron expression of hers, one of tight lips and lines, a face bound so tightly, so adept at saying nothing at all, while she admired the vessel and looked away from her. Sometimes, her once-friend moved like clockwork, gears all bunched up, mechanically staggered, slow and cautious. Her heart, even now, seemed closed off to her. She'd closed it herself, when she chose to leave.
Her head tilted once more, craning to see Amalia's face. “You have, then,” Sparrow exhaled, breathy and clearly relieved. Her guarded heart, speckled with ramparts and crocodile-infested moats, would always attract a friend, a companion, acquaintances and allies. She might have disagreed, but there was something about her that reeled people in. Her inner core professed safety to all those who stood in her presence, sang of loyalty, honesty, and a guiding hand perpetually toughened by gauntlets. Amalia would never be without a friend. The question had been silly, if not rhetorical. She'd wanted to hear her answer, or see that her worries had always been childish, selfish things. She could pretend. She was good at that. She was the best at that; she'd convinced herself that leaving hadn't effected anyone, she'd convinced herself that lying was the only option she'd ever had. Sparrow adjusted her position, her behind promptly scooted across the figurehead's shoulder, hand extended to the horizon, fingers played. “Ketojan kadan, is fitting. A bridge between hearts. You might disagree, but I don't think your path is meant to be walked alone.”
To that, Amalia exhaled in a huff, a gentle testament to disagreement. He didn't understand, and that was fine. He wasn't meant to. There were secrets she had shared with none, of things that had passed years ago, things that even now kept her a safe distance from others. If she had anything to say of the matter, they always would. Sparrow had shown her that nothing was permanent, but he had convinced her that nobody was trustworthy. It was a lesson she'd taken to heart, the only thing he'd done to her that could ever be considered a beneficence, and even that coated with malice the like of which she'd not seen before or since. She was scarred, and they pulled in places, insistent reminders that what was made broken could not become whole again, not as it had been.
She reeled her hand in, and turned towards Amalia. Rilien? In more ways than one, the unwavering, ever-present bard, had pulled her from the darkness, dusting off loneliness from her shoulders without so much as asking why she was there in the first place, in exchange for nothing. It was a kindness, what he'd done for her. She'd never seen him as someone afflicted by the Rite of Tranquility, and he'd never seen her as a hapless orphan, drug out from the rain. It was a bond she was willing to protect with everything she had – she'd die for it, as well as for the others she'd manage to care for. The half-breed crouched down from her perch, gauged the distance to the ground, and finally hopped down, brushing errant shards of wood from her trousers. She threw her head back, and laughed, then thoughtfully scratched her chin, grinning. “I think I've found a reason to fight, people to fight for.”
This, the Qunari understood. To live always alone did not preclude doing service for others, nor even living for their sake. That much was the very essence of the Qun. Each individual lived and died for the whole, but they should never expect the whole to count them for anything. Nothing at all; they had to be disposable, else their loss would do damage. It was not the same, perhaps, as what Sparrow had found himself, but it was something. Similar, on some level, and she was glad he had found it. It was something worth having-- something to protect, to love, to defend with all the life in one's body. If that was some group of people for Venak hol, it would do. "Then you should count yourself lucky," she replied simply.
It was her turn to frown, mouth struggling to find any chipper expression, flipping through into something a little sadder. While Sparrow moved around things, as transparent and mellifluous as the briny water that lapped over their feet, Amalia had been molded, or guided, into being something similar to an anchor, willingly drowning and professing that loneliness was her only, ever-present companion. Her own word were empty, flighty things, twittering on branches before taking flight. They didn't mean anything, anymore. She'd lost the right to offer advice, or stolidly counter that she'd always be here for her, that she'd always be there to chase away her distrust. This woman – who exuded poise, and grace, and a centre that did not move unless she willed it – was still a prevalent force in her life, as absolute and real as the fragment of herself she'd intentionally buried.
She approached Amalia, tentatively, at first, and stopped short of her right side, fingers already snatching the corner of her muffler. Sparrow did not pull it down, nor make any movement that might've given away her intentions. Indeed, she'd had none, but it had always been a familiar action; one she'd done several times in her youth. The half-breed would always be on the brink of leaving everyone she's ever loved, suspended over a cliff side, wings held aloft. Incessantly claiming that the distance called to her like songbirds, and that she didn't truly belong anywhere. She might have found someone, or many someone's, to fight for, but it would always be in her nature to run away. Difficulties, internal or external, frightened her more than anything. Amalia knew that better than anyone, and yet here they were, standing along the Wounded Coast, with secrets shackled to their ankles.
“Lucky?” She mused, allowing the fabric to sift through her fingers, “Everything comes with a price, I suppose.”