She never seemed to have taken much to the quarters above his shop in Hightown, and preferred still the ramshackle hovel in Darktown, one of very few that actually wasnât in danger of falling over, due to the structural work heâd put into it over the years. Rilien was the kind of person who picked up skills as he went along, learning anything and everything that was useful for him to know. With the life heâd lived, this was a very wide range of things, indeed, and he was used to being almost entirely self-sufficient. Living in a proper city meant that he didnât have to be, but he was certainly able to, should that become necessary. If he had any pride, he might have been proud of that. As things were, it was simply another fact.
So he glided through the dusty streets of Darktown, carrying himself down the familiar path that led to one of his dual residences, the one that she still occupied. Though he stood out rather like a bright gemstone in the mud, given his clothing and general cleanliness, any criminal worth his salt knew better than to try anything, as the gleaming blades at his back were ample deterrent.
His key unlocked the door, though he could have picked it faster, and he stepped inside. It was still mostly clean, as he paid regular visits to the place for this purpose, though his off-shot room was beginning to show signs of disuse anyway. Sparrowâs on the other hand, was just as vivaciously messy as it had always been, clear evidence that a life was being lived in here, and lived loudly. There seemed hardly another way to describe it, even if the vibrancy of her colors seemed to have dimmed a bit recently.
He would be hard-pressed to admit that he was here to check on her rather than the house, but all the same it was her room he went to first, knocking on the doorframe, as the door itself was cracked somewhat ajar.
Her recent actions had taken a toll on her, though she was hard-pressed to admit it. Admitting any sort of weakness was still beyond her stubborn reach, idling just beneath her chin whenever she felt like a scream would bubble out. Thankfully, it was really only Rilien who witnessed her outbursts. She wasn't sure what she'd do if everyone saw those parts of her. Unbrazen, cowardly and wholly selfishâthat wasn't a side of her that she wanted everyone to know about. The kind of person that locked themselves away instead of facing what they'd done. It wasn't just about her brutal revenge, already lapping bitter on her tongue. The slight against Sophia and her men had begun to weigh heavy on her, anxiously batting around her skull. How many more people would she hurt? She was changing. That much she knew. Sparrow preferred to hide out in Darktown, especially if the Wounded Coast was possibly being patrolled by Kirkwall's finest. Perhaps, even occupied by her once-friend. She was not ready to see her yet. After killing Arcadius, and gathering herself up off the floor, she'd asked Ithilian to pass along a message for her.
After all these years, she'd finally buried a small part of her past. Even if Papyrus went with it. Amalia would understand the gravity of his words should he so choose to pass it along. Telling her herself seemed impossible. She would know the differenceâwhether or not she'd killed them honourably, or done it like a monster. Years had not tarnished her ability to see straight through her. Sparrow sighed softly, inspecting the broken shards of a vase she'd recently broken. Her room was a mess. Far messier than it usually was, with broken furniture and smashed goblets strewn across the floorboards. Lately, visits had become sparse and wandering Kirkwall felt like a daunting task. The house had been hush-quiet. Aside from the occasionally thumps and crashes, as a result of Sparrow's disgusted fits. She wondered if it was on purpose. Whether Rilien had known how she would react and given her the needed time and space. It was most likely true.
Her feet ached, throbbing dully. They were bereft of her boots and thinly sliced from walking on the broken shards, but nonetheless crusted and smeared a few shades darker. Old wounds. Perhaps, from a couple of days ago. Dipping her legs in the sea might have sounded a grand idea if she had the heart to leave her room. She'd donned a loose vest with a pair of cotton trousers. Slightly ripped and speckled red at the knees. The armour she'd worn to the hidden harbour had been haphazardly thrown in the corner, tossed atop a glittering pile of goodies she'd snatched from the Deep Roads. Like the dragons they'd fought in those dark halls, Sparrow liked to hoard things. She wasn't sure what she was expecting. This was the complete opposite of salvation. Freedom did not look like this, she was sure.
She hardly heard the door open. Nor did she hear anyone approaching until a steady knock on the door frame sounded, startling her enough for her to drop the chipped vase. It tumbled onto her bed, which was also in complete disarray and hurtled off the sheets, crashing at her feet. Honestly, it made no difference. It only added to the mess, but she still shot up and towards the door. âY-Yes?â Sparrow called, reaching the door in time to slip through and jerk it closed. Suspicious? Perhaps. Might not have been any stranger than she usually was. She hoped for the latter. Pressing her shoulders into the door, Sparrow arched her eyebrows. Heavy bags rung around her eyes bellied anexhaustion she could not quite feel. Rilienâof course. âAh. Another mission? Errand, perhaps? Forgot something in your desk?" Her expression, silly and sly, waned and died as she slowly eased around him. She took up a half-empty bottle of wine and raised it up. âDrink?â
Rilien impassively took in the details of the room as she opened the door: rumpled bedclothes, broken objects scattered about, the occasional jagged edge of pottery bearing an unmistakable red smear. Sparrowâs feet. Clearly, allowing her to try and sort through her thoughts on her own was not getting her anywhere. His eyes trailed back to meet her own, just as blank as always, or was that some hint of something in there? He wouldnât know, even if he looked in a mirror. Wasnât he the mirror, after all? People seemed always to see things in him that he did not. Lucien saw someone worthy of being called a friend. Ashton saw humor and easy camaraderie. Sparrow⊠he honestly didnât know what she saw in him anymore. She was too far confused about what she saw in herself, maybe, and this translated to the mirror that he was.
Rilien saw nothing, felt nothing. Brief flickers of light on the walls of a cave maybe, the shadows of emotions that other people felt, as though occasionally what they saw bled into him, like color into a pristine canvas. He was blankâthey dyed him with their hues. He didnât mindâhe couldnât mind. This was how he rationalized those ghosts of feelings poking at his established equanimity. They were not his, they belonged to others, and everything he had was pale and borrowed. She was the most colorful of all, even when they clashed, like sky-blue and burnt orange and too-deep purple.
She was holding a wine bottle aloft, and his nose wrinkled slightly at the smell of it. âNot me,â he said tonelessly. That peculiar subtle shrugging motion, and suddenly, the bulb of a potion bottle was in his hand. Red, with that pearly sheen only he produced. He held it aloft, so that it was a foot in front of her eyes, blocking her view of his face. âBut you will. When was the last time you ate an actual meal?â He wasnât going to ask her, not about the thing that hung over her. Her business was hers, to keep to herself or share as she chose. He would demand no confidence, require no further closeness than this: that she at least tried to heed him on matters of her health, which even he somehow managed to care about more than she ever seemed to.
This was how it had always been: Sparrow found the trouble, and Rilien made it disappear. The debt collectors had vanished with a weighty purse from his hand to theirs, the irate husbands or lovers of the women she flirted with in the taverns went home after trying uselessly to gather information from a man who might as well have been a wall. If they didnât, they left after he reminded them that the knives on his back had a purpose. Her physical wounds were matters for his tincturesâeven Rapture would soon understand that there was no problem Sparrow could ever have that Rilien would not vanish like smoke and⊠mirrors. But he couldnât tell her that, not yet. She couldnât know until it was certain, that he would be able to solve this dilemma, too. No matter the tollâfor cost had never been an object.
He did not understand why it was so. This was certainly not a level of trouble he went to for everyone. Sometimes, he suspected that she must remind him of someone, but if so, he had forgotten whom. Such things were too sentimental for his consummate logic, anyway, and when they threatened, he made them disappear as well.
She would speak, and he would listen. He demanded nothing, but accepted whatever she desired to give, or-- sometimes more accurately-- bombard him with. He weathered her strange moods with all the certainty of an island in a storm. If she spoke of nothing, he would listen. If she spoke of what mattered, of what had put her in this state, well, he would listen to that as well. They both knew it; there was no need to say as much.
Had anyone told Sparrow that Rilien did not actually feelâshe would have been doubled-over in hysterics, because she'd never seen Rilien as the Tranquil. The sunburst swell on his forehead meant little to her. She may have been a hungry-eyed hurricane, sweeping in to destroy and disrupt and shake apart the very foundations of her own emotions, but Rilien had the ability to see straight through you and pull out all of your best parts. Meticulously sorting through her flaws and smoothing them out into beautiful gems, eroding all of the grit away. He could always look through her, and still, Sparrow wondered if he saw into her soul, or if he saw something else. She'd never been sure what he thought about himself, but she never believed that he was an empty husk in need of filling. Nor a colourless canvas, stretched perfectly over a wooden frame. Sparrow never believed he was an empty drawer being filled with vibrant things, either. He was a window. He was the night sky, holding everything inside of it.
She asked for more then she gave. She'd always had. And Rilien dealt out pieces of himself in paper parcels, uncomplaining. Only the most selfless souls could utilize themselves in such a way. Had it been anyone else afflicted by the Rite of Tranquility, would she have been spared from a lengthy jaunt to the Gallows? She did not think so. Not many people in Kirkwall would be willing to deal with her ludicrous conceits. Nor her outrageous tendency to nearly get herself killed, captured or tossed away. Trouble dogged her footsteps everywhere she went, with black lips, a lolling tongue and a wet nose planted firmly on the ground she chooses to walk upon. Never had he questioned her poor decision-making skills, nor prevented her from doing something she'd set her mind to, even if it was detrimental to her health. Stubbornness usually won out, unless Rilien had that look in his eye.
The tallest tales could not overrule his simple request. There was no stitch in his brows. No telltale sign of annoyance fluttering in those eyes, like two sky-lit orbs on the brink of frosting. Even still, it was if he was saying that there was hope for the hopeless. He was worried in his own wayâbut he could not tell her, could not convey anything beyond the dangling bauble filled with some sickly liquid swaying in front of her face like a pendulum. Sparrow's nose crinkled and she nearly jerked backwards, catching the edge of their table. She sighed softly, knitting her eyebrows together. The wine bottle thumped onto the table. When had she eaten? Good question, really. She wasn't sure she knew. Empty pangs hollowed out her belly, pushing away her hunger like finicky infant. Finally, Sparrow plucked the bottle from his fingers. She turned it over in her hand, inspecting the sloshing liquid with squinted eyes. Rilien's potions neverfailed. But, they usually tasted terrible.
Under Rilien's unwavering scrutiny, Sparrow finally swilled down the potion and placed it next to the wine bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. âI'm sure I've eaten something lately. If not, I'd be half-dead, wouldn't I? Or chewing up leather boots. Furniture. Your hidden goodies.â Obviously, she'd been sulking in her room, feeding herself with negative thoughts and worries. All of her uncertainties pooled around her feet, sapping the cheerfulness out of her words. It nipped at her ankles, pricked her spine and slowly, ever so slowly, squirmed into the spaces of her skull. Grew thousands of spiders, laid eggs, bore its fangs and tore in. She took a breath. Then, another. Her smile grew heavy, twisted into crestfallen frown. Childishly, Sparrow wished Rilien had a potion up his sleeve to remove those sickly portions from her. It was stupid.
If a blank stare could display skepticism, Rilienâs did. He could see it in the obvious changes in her physiologyâSparrow had grown thinner with the passing of years, when that thing resided in her body like something too big in a skin too small, sucking what little life and nourishment was left to the perpetually impoverished, but the sunken-eyed look she had now, the hollowness to her cheeks, that was newer, and temporary, if he could have his way. Somehow, Rilien usually found a method to get what he wanted. It was perhaps a side-effect of the single-minded dedication with which he undertook the things he deemed worthy of the doing. Loyalty was not a trait he would associate with himself, really, (because loyalty was what you had when you remembered you could chose otherwise) but he did have a certain measure of⊠devotion. That was the word. Once he found something to work to or for or with, he was devoted to it. There were simply no other options anymore.
He was still waiting for her to get around to what she really needed to say, but he did not expect that she wanted to say it, so he might be waiting a while, yet. But he had all the time in the world, and much more patience than she had ever displayed in his company. A hurricane on a stone, she was⊠but with time, the lashing forces could shape the stone, too. Sheâd changed him, he knew it. He just wasnât sure it was for the better.
His telescope eyes saw everythingâheard and knew everything. Mirrors and smoke. Windows and clear, blue skies. Picking apart her flaws and laying them out on the table like gambled-coins, offering the juiciest pieces because even your flaws were important. He knew that. He understood, even when she did not. Sparrow seemed to deflate, body weathering storms like a creaky, pock-holed boat. She plopped down in one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table. âI thought I'd be happy. Free from this,â she swung her hand in an arc, eyeing nothing in particular, âThis feeling. This hate.â Her eyes drew up from Rilien's feet, and met his eyes. âWhy do I feel like this? I know better. For as long as I could remember, I was waiting and waiting. I was prepared and I had friends with me. I'd imagined it in my head. Over and over again. But, I still... it wasn't like I'd planned.â She leaned forward, pressing her hands to her face. Snowy hair fell over her fingers.
âI feel wounded.â
In a rare display of solidarity, perhaps, Rilien sat as well, propping an ankle on the opposite knee and laying his hands calmly on the table. He felt no need to fidgetâhis stillness was nearly supernatural, really, as though he were an ice-sculpture rather than a person. He cocked his head faintly to one side as she explained. It seemed that her vengeance had brought her no absolution, no redemption, though he wasnât sure what there was to redeem. As he understood it, she had been a child when those man had taken her from her home. What was a child to do against such forces? Where was the blame in simply being young and weak? This loathing, he did not understand it, for he supposed it was directed just as much at herself as it was towards these men. And that was simply illogical.
When he opened his mouth, however, it was not to express this, but to provide an answer more direct. âIt hurts to grow,â he said simply. And that was what she was being forced to do. To let go of the things that held her back was causing her pain, but to change at all carried a risk: a risk of pain. But greater than that was the risk of failure. If she did not let go, she would fail to change, and it would destroy her. It might be strange for him to think so, but he understood better than most. He was growing, too, in ways that he did not fully understand. He didnât even know what he was letting go of to do it, only that it was causing him to hurt, on some level.
âAnd it hurts more if you rush. Come. You must eatâI believe the Hanged Man serves dinner soon.â She needed to see the light of day again. Time alone with oneâs own thoughts could be useful and productive, but she wasnât pondering, she was stewing, and it wasnât helping anything. She also needed to eat, and in this way, he could facilitate both without having to take his eye off her. It went without saying that he would be funding this little expedition, of course. It always did.
It took Sparrow a moment to respond, because she wasn't really sure what he meant. It didn't feel like she was growing. Not in the right directions. Always in opposing corners, stretched out across a thin pane of dirt. These were one of the moments where Rilien surprised her by saying things she could not understandâwith her unappreciated, flash flood ability to feel and hurt and wound herself in the most self-deprecating ways. This Tranquil understood feeling far better than she did. While Sparrow floundered with her emotions, swallowing mouthfuls of anxiety and bending under the colossal weight of despair, Rilien navigated the waters as a sailor would. He may not have been able to properly express himself, but his wisdom persisted. He remembered whatever he'd forgotten and patiently expressed his opinions, opening doors and shutting out the ones that would not help her. To grow. Was she growing? In which direction?
She stood and pushed herself away from the table, moving inelegantly by Rilien's side. Hollow cheeked, sunken eyed and sallow complected, Sparrow agreed that it might be better to leave the house and go to the Hanged Man. She'd be better off leaving her worries locked in her room, however temporarily. She did not look into those eyes that cupped oceans, that saw through all of her insecurities and dared her to keep moving forward. For long enough, she'd been cowardly. For long enough, she'd been running away from everything that threatened her. Freedom, at once point in her life, had been the most important thing to her. Something that needed to be hoarded and violently defended. Naturally, Sparrow had changed over the years. It was no longer an end-all, or be-all. She'd settled down in a place that did not think highly of liberty. Slavery emerged within Kirkwall, and blossomed, until its reluctant demise. Misery took roots in the Gallows, twining around broken-backed statues. It was the last place she'd imagine herself living.
Dipping low, Sparrow hunched her shoulders and leaned across Rilien until her forehead touched his shoulder. Her hand gripped his collar, twining the fabric of his robe between her fingers. Selfish creatures often asked selfish things. That day spent on the Wounded Coast, she'd asked Amalia, through the means of an unspoken request riddled in hidden meanings, to kill her if she got out of hand, if there were no longer familiar parts of her left. If she became more of a monster, and less of the once-friend she'd known in days gone past. Losing who she was. If Rapture wonâshe did not want to live. Either way, Amalia would know what to do when the time came. She would not ask Rilien the same. Instead, Sparrow closed her eyes and swallowed thickly. âYou'll always be right here, right? Even when I've changed. Even if you don't recognize me anymore.â The sound of her voice wavered, surprising her with its frailty. âEven if you hate every part that's left.â
She did not wait for an answer, pulling away from him and straightening her shoulders. The remnants of gloom slipped from her like an unruly coat, shrugged from her shoulders and replaced by an artificial guise of complacency. Sparrow gestured towards the door and trudged towards her room, glancing over her shoulder. âGood idea. I'll have to changeâthey'll think I'm drunk already.â Which was probably true. She needed to find her boots, anyway.
It was harder every time. Always, insistently like being pulled up for air, harsh and ragged in his lungs, only until she tugged him, he never knew the pain of drowning. Just submersion, cold and numbing, where all sensation was dulled under still water. Colors were a bit less vivid, sounds more muted, only the color and the sound was his emotion and his conscience. But then, like an unwitting guardian of some kind, sheâd yank him up above the surface with a touch, and he remembered that heâd forgotten what it was like to breathe. It took all he had not to stiffen, nor to acknowledge the peculiar warmth that came over him, and the sadness that lay under everything. Because he knew it wouldnât last. These moments were tastes of life, but he could not keep them. Could not keep her.
But she could keep him, if she wanted. That was the nature of himâunwavering, growing only a little where others changed constantly. He only molded at the pace of the stone in the ocean, and only the most relentless tides achieved it. âI cannot hate, and I cannot forget,â he reminded her gently, the slightest hint of real warmth in his tone. Was there a you implied at the end of each of those clauses? Right now, he wouldn't mind if there were. She wouldnât look at him, but that was all right. He had no expectations of herâhe never had. âIâm not going anywhere.â Loyalty was for people who chose constantly, who reaffirmed. Rilien only chose once, and after that, reconsideration was unnecessary. There were no other choices. Thisâwhatever it wasâwas all there would be. Heâd not wanted it, exactly, but heâd never want anything else. This was the nature of devotion.
She let him go, and he was submerged again, but that was all right.
Wasnât it?