The shop was quiet, something that was a little more rare in the years since Rilien had formed his odd business partnership with Bodahn and Sandal. They, however, were off for the day, and in the absence of clients, the building was occupied by himself alone. His preferences were few, all things considered, but it was not averse to him to have a bit of time with no one else around. Perhaps it would have been anathema to him in his youth, before, well⊠before. There was no need to specify before what, because nothing he knew of was capable of changing a life so fundamentally as a Rite. Heâd been thinking about that quite a bit lately; while normally he did not give his condition more attention than he found necessary, heâd been turning to the topic in any spare moment, of late, and that more than anything else was reminding him of how different he really was, from others like him.
There was something under his skin now, something that had insinuated its way there, initially beneath his notice but now very obvious to him. He had never stopped feeling entirely, but, like the friend that sees another after a decade, he was seeing himself in a new way, all the nearly-imperceptible changes stacked together to bear a weight he could not deny. It was one thing to attribute it all to the foreign magic of a demon, because it wasnât really him, then. Just an outside force toying with him. Rapture, Abraxas, these creatures had made temporary inroads along paths he had not traveled since he was scarcely more than a child. But the damage, the progress, mended itself as soon as they were gone, as soon as his head was again beneath cold water.
That was not this. And now, he could not deny it any longer: something had changed in him. It was obvious, so obvious that he wondered how he could have missed it, but it had become clear when he looked at them. The newly-made Tranquil beneath the Coast. Heâd never been quite like that, but heâd once been close. Now, he couldnât see what they were and find himself in them anymore. They should have been mirrors, the images a fraction distortedâbut it was like someone had taken a heavy mace to the glass, shattered it and spiderwebbed the remaining pieces, until what he looked at was nothing like him at all.
Rilien supposed, using a knife to work a carving into a rune-stone, that he might well be the only one that noticed it, but then he paused a moment, and reconsidered. Perhaps he was the last one to notice it. Lucien had never treated him any differently than any other person. Once, he would have put that down entirely to the other manâs strange nature, but now he wondered if it might not be that his friend had known something he did not, even all those years ago. Ashton completely failed to recognize his lack of humor or feeling, but that may well be because the lack was less than Rilien had once believed of himself. And Sparrow, well⊠heâd always just thought her a little bit oblivious. He wondered if, just maybe, sheâd seen more of him than he had.
He was not, and would never be, as other people were. He still felt less. He would likely never have much of a conscienceâbut that wasnât merely the Tranquility at work, either. Logic and calculation would always find surer expression in him than emotion, and what of those things he did have would always be subdued. But⊠he was forced to admit, by that very logic he utilized so often, that he was not without these things, andâmore importantlyâthey were growing. The likely cause was obvious: it was the people around him, tugging at the tight weave of his mentality until some things loosened a little and some tore away. The imperfections of his Rite had left fraying ends that had never been tied off. Heâd been pulled beneath the water, but never bound there, and every once in a while, he could surface just enough to breathe.
He set the rune down, sliding the knife home in the leather sheath to which it belonged, and brought his forehead down to the heel of his hand. The mark had burned when theyâd pressed it into his brow the first time, but heâd not felt it since. He didnât feel it now, but he imagined that he did.
Just what, Rilien wondered, was he becoming?
The buildings fused together in a dizzying blur of browns and ragged reds as she darted between them. Breathless and shaken, Sparrow shouldered her way into the square and dashed up the staircases leading towards Hightown. She was running from what Lucien had told her. Running from the truth of things. There was a relentless pounding in her head that clattered on the roof of her mind like a rainstorm that refused to trickle away. She stumbled over her feet and caught herself on the corner of rickety stonework before lurching forward again. Her jellied knees disobeyed her orders, making her feel as if the world were tipping sideways. The heaviness of those words weighed down on her like a wounded soldier being carried to safety. She'd been right after all. She hadn't wanted to know. The wretched acid of bile sidles somewhere in her belly and ascends her throat, burning in a grief so rapid that she's surprised she's able to will it back down and keep herself from falling flat on her face.
She clutched at her stomach, curling her fingers into her shirt and leaning against the closest building for support. What could she say to a man who effectively sacrificed himself? He'd been given a chance to reclaim what once was his and what he had every right to have, and he chose her. Stupid, selfish her. The one who'd willingly cracked open her heart and mind and handed it over to a honey-lipped demon: for petty revenge and a hurt that might have gone away on its own. It had been a cheap, quick means of making herself feel better. At the time, she'd never thought of how it may affect anyone else, only that she was hurting and that was enough to excuse what she'd done. Linking arms with all of her fears and insecurities; they'd become crutches she'd never learned to walk without. For all that she'd done over the years, and all of the trouble she assuredly caused, Rilien never turned his back on her.
It was disgust that crept in on her again, though she's not so sure it ever left. As crowded as Hightown was with all of its bugling merchants, tittering women and brightly colored ribbons flapping in the cool breeze, Sparrow felt alone among them. She wobbled away from the wall and ambled up the stairs, abruptly breaking into another puffing run. It felt liberating being exhausted, as if she were settling her worries, and her thoughts, on a shelf until she was finished battling the demons that were snapping at her heels. She scrambled down the street like a wounded deer, leaping over low walls, stumbling like a drunk and ever-evading the faceless nobles that turned to gawk at her. Heading instinctively towards the shop. For what, she would not say. Possible words, possible things, she might say to him ricocheted in her skull. None of them felt right, but if she didn't get them out, she wasn't sure what would happen.
She slowed when the shop came into view. Nestled quaintly between two buildings, as it always was. With all of the money he'd made in the Deep Roads, she'd wondered why he hadn't used any on the shop itself. Gaudiness, she supposed, was reserved for people like her, not him. He was better than her in many ways, even if he did not see it himself. Sparrow's pace became sluggish as she advanced, and the trembling in her knees urged her to stop walking. Sit somewhere secluded and delay the inevitable. Moments later and she was standing in front of the door; one trembling hand wavering above the doorknob, while the other pressed against the frame. She'd imagined herself tearing it open, but now that she was here, and all that remained was stepping through and seeing if Rilien was even there, she froze. Beads of sweat slicked down her forehead, which she slowly came to rest against the door.
Her hand fell across the doorknob. Cold, metal. It grounded her, focused her efforts on what she'd come to say, what she'd come to do. There were things that needed to be saidâthings she needed to say, or else she'd never be able to face him again. Memories did not get duller with time, and if she pretended as if the conversation with Lucien hadn't happened, she'd remember it every time she looked at him. It was the tight knot of anger pounding against her chest that finally turned the doorknob, throwing it open with all of her strength. She stepped through the threshold before it had any time to clatter against the wall and rebound back towards her. There he was; head bowed, palm pressed to his head. Her breath hitched, and her shoulders tensed. Brace, brace, brace.
âYou should've told me, Ril,â she accused, though it was little more than an exhale, and then again, stronger and brighter and desperate for answers, âYou should've told me!â
There was no need to ask what he should have told her. Sparrowâs thoughts were often written on her for all to seeâscrawled into the lines of her shoulders in the large, loopy handwriting of a child. Etched into her face like someone had taken a chisel and hammer to it. Inked into the set of her limbs, her posture, and vibrating in the tone of her voice. Sometimes, that was actually a clever piece of deception, but not now. Rilien had much experience with deception; what he was seeing now was perhaps the most raw, honest thing sheâd ever seen. Frustration. Anger. Hurt. He never had lost the ability to recognize them.
Slowly, calmly, he raised his head, leaning back a little, until his vertebrae all sat perfectly over one another. Whatever visual weakness he had been projecting there, with hunched posture and closed eyes, disappeared like a ghost into the mist. Into the Fade. He laid his palms flat on the table, and decided that it must have been Lucien who told her. The other possibility, of course, was Ashton, but he had the sense that something would have been different were that so. He also hadnât told her the whole story, for he imagined that would look different as well. It was selfish of him, to feel a little twinge of relief that this was so, but Rilien had never claimed to be other than that. If people saw something else in him, that was their business, not his. He never did anything he didnât want to do, and in a way, that meant he was living in the most selfish manner possible.
It was something that he would continue to do, because doing the right thing and telling her the whole truth of it would only hurt her. And perhaps himself as well. There was a strange little paradox in there somewhere, but he was willing to let it be. She was hurt, and so he must be whole. Let her howl against him like the emotional equivalent of a gale, and weather it as unchanging stone would. Eventually, things would settle back into something of an equilibrium. The damage would be undone. She was of a fundamentally elastic nature that way; little ever changed her much, and she grew only slowly, in fits and starts. Two steps in one direction, then one contrariwise. He knew it, and he would never attempt to change it. Perhaps that was part of the reason heâd never said a word.
âWhy?â The question was unadorned, but perhaps the blunt edges of his tone were softened a little. He knew why, intellectually, but he could no longer fully understand it. That was what he had given up, in the end. He didnât need his magic anymore, and he cared little if he dreamed, but that difference between himself and every other person was what heâd relinquished. Was it possible to sacrifice selfishly? It must beâfor he was still the most selfish person he knew, her included. âWhat does it change? You would not have been able to convince me otherwise if I told you then, and it does not matter now that it is done. I do not suffer for what I chose.â A lieâhe was lying to her now, if only a little. He would do worse to keep the truth from her.
âAnd you would have suffered had I chosen differently.â The truth, but not all of it. Had he chosen to regain what he had lost, and left her with that demon, she would have suffered, yes. But so would he have, watching it happen, knowing he could have stopped it, but had not, and with the full scope of his understanding returned to him.
There had never been a choice; only the façade of one.
Carbeau eyes stared fixedly on Rilien's face, searching. His own were so calm, so completely bereft of the trembling desperation swelling in her chest that it made it hurt worse. As if he could not understand what she mourned for. In more ways than she could express, those eyes of his were far more expressive than her own. Campfire mysteries, fiery and blazing and evoking emotion in others, even though he professed to having none himself; she never believed him. Eyes of wood-smoke and errant embers blowing in the wind. They are not watercolors. Not faded, monotone or plain. They spit fire and are ceaselessly brave, even when he has no reason to be. His eyes were the color of truth. Hers were mucky and dark and greedyâhis were anything but. They were made of contrasts, variants and improbabilities. He, the Tranquil who was far more intuitive than she, and she, the runaway Saarebas who stole things from others without replacing them. She muddied him. And he deserved better. She felt a scream building in her throat. Perched languidly on the posts that composed the jumping lines of her Adam's apple, ready to rip out of her mouth.
She watched as he turned towards her. Aligning perfectly with the room, as always. Inclining his head as if he had expected this conversation, and had been waiting for her to storm through the doors. She would rage and batter and bristle. He would weather it and stand as still as a stone. This time, it was different. Moments before, he'd been bowed over his desk. Head down, hunched shoulders. It made no sense. It made no sense. She'd seen it. She was sure that she did. Brief as it was, and as composed as he appeared now, she'd seen him. This time, what she'd done to him was unforgivable, and what he'd decided for her had been unfair. Unkind, to him. Half of her wished that he'd react almost in the same manner she did; scream and fight and gnash his teeth at all of the injustices he's had to face, at all of the opportunities he's missed. Ask her why she'd accepted the demon's promises, and why he had to give everything away to save her. Ask her why he needed to sacrifice a chance at living.
Not all wounds could heal. And not all wounds were visible. For Rilien, she thought this was the case. Muscles bunched and jumped in her jawline as she ground her teeth together. Her emotions clashed wildly; walking a fine line between gratitude and anger and so much fury at the prospect of being rescued and cleansed, only at the loss of another. This was something she would notâno, could not forget. Settling back into the rhythm of things at the end of the day, after everything was all said and done, was impossible. Couldn't he see that? This pain was as much his own, as it was hers. Perhaps, she would have preferred seeing that different side of Rilien. Like the image itched into the wooden plates Ashton had carved so carefully. That is what he'd seen that day. A carefree, laughing Rilien. One that she imagined was far more reckless than he was now, for much different reasons. The thought had crossed her mind more than she'd care to admit.
On the surface, Rilien was the same as he'd always been. As she's always seen him. Simply so, but so much more. He was not shy to inform her that he thought differently from the others, herself included. However, scraping lines in the dirt to make their differences abundantly clear had never appealed to her. She was too stubborn, too oblivious, to understand that no matter how loudly she felt, that she could not feel for them both. Tranquility did not behave in a way that would suit her. Even so, he'd never dealt with her at arms' lengthâthat in itself was different. Why? Of course, he'd ask that. The choice, to him, had been obvious, when it should have been illogical. Who would give up something so important? The lines of her mouth tightened and jerked into a grimace, teeth no longer grinding. âIt changes everything!â She shrieked, balling her hands in her hair and tugging to feel something other than the hopeless, defiant anger. âI would have tried... I would have, and youâyou don't suffer? You're lying! You would have been happier, if you'd chosen differently.â Her fingers loosened their grip against her hair, sifted the tufts as she dropped them in front of her. âI suffer,â she said.
The distance between them shortened in a matter of moments, and she did not stop slow to face him. Instead, Sparrow grabbed Rilien's collar and tried wrenching him up. Silently she shook, not in fear, but in her characteristic display of anger. She bit back a sob and turned all of her frustrations inward, jailing them. Clipping their wings. Settling them in their little cages. The muscles in her face tightened under the strain of control. âI suffer, Rilien,â she choked, âAnd so do you. So do you.â
Rilien stood willingly enoughâthere was no particular reason to fight to keep his seat. He could read her anger clearly, but he simply could not make sense of it. What had he done wrong? Had the demon not been killing her, slowly leeching the life from between her bones and skin, wasting her away into nothing and breaking her spirit beneath its feet? She truly did not understand him, if she believed he was capable of allowing such a state of affairs to continue uninterrupted. It did not matter whose fault it had been, that she had voluntarily accepted the demon into her body and her mind. It did not matter that heâd had to relinquish something to reverse that damage. Or perhaps it mattered, but even if it did, the simple fact, clear as day even to him, was that Sparrow, as she always seemed to, as heâd told her once already, mattered more than any of it.
âWhat would you have me do, Sparrow?â he asked dully, perfectly still in her grip. He made no move to step back, but nor did he attempt anything else. He simply stood and withstood. âIt is done. I cannot take it back. I would not.â She said she suffered, but whatever pain she endured now was not of a kind that he understood. Rapture was gone, her health and vitality returned to herâshe could go, do, be whatever she desired. He failed to see in what way the solution was inadequate to her. He failed to understand how and why she suffered, as she claimed to. âWhat must I do, so that you do not suffer?â
He had so accustomed himself to the attempt to remove from her path the worst of her obstacles that it seemed the natural question. Glancing down, Rilien placidly removed her hands from the collar of his shirt, insinuating his fingers beneath hersâthey both bore calluses, though in different placesâand prizing them gently apart. A few wrinkles remained from the force of her grip, but he made no immediate move to straighten them. âI would not have been happier at all,â he informed her factually, lowering her hands back to her sides before he released them. âDo you think it would have made me so, to watch the demon overtake you?â With all the emotions of some other person?
âYou underestimate your significance.â To me. To what I would have been.
What did she want from him? A reaction, maybe. For him to finally throw down his hands, utterly fed-up, and scream at her for all of the injustices she'd thrown in his lap, for a life she'd selfishly stolen away. Even if it had been his choice to make, he wouldn't have had to make it if it had not been for her mistake. A future built from someone else' sacrifice, that's what it was. She wanted to batter her fists against him. Force the kind of response she thought was necessary. Caustic, brittle anger. And bitterness, most of all. Each time she tried protecting him, he ended up shielding herâeven if it meant deceiving her. There was always a difference between those protecting, and those who were protected. It stood like a clear boundary drawn in the ground, drawing them at opposite ends of the spectrum. She suffered, she supposed, because she was undeserving and grateful, all at once.
Of course, Rilien's responses came as leveled, and unconcerned, as she'd been expecting. As she feared he would sound. There was nothing she could say to change that. No amount of squabbling or ruffled clothes could set any wrinkles across that forehead of his. She could not force him to blame her, as she wished he did. And he could not understand what she could not either. He was the sun, and she was the brooding clouds, eclipsing him in relentless waves. Heedless of his needs, she absorbed what she needed and wanted and desired, and left little more than scraps. Small crumbs, which was hardly sustainable. Had it not been for his Tranquility, she might have asked how he did it. How he gave more, and took less. How she snatched at his friendship like she was starved for it, and he hardly ate at all. As he did now, withstanding her unpleasantness with the patience of someone who'd dealt with this before. What did she want him to do?
Sparrow's eyebrows drew together, as her muscles slowly loosened. The answer eluded her. I would not. It was jarring how much she could not understand. His reasons, his choices; everything. Buds of anger blossomed in her chestâof course they couldn't take it back. There was nothing that could rectify her mistakes, and nothing that could be done to retrieve what was lost. It was finished. The damage was done. And with it, flew his chance of freedom. The cave, and whatever else that had been in there, had swallowed up Rilien's future. And then, he acted as if nothing happened. As if no small part of him ached. Sparrow wept for him, when he could not. She grieved his loses as if they were her own, even if she did not understand why. Long ago, her freedom had meant more to her than anything else, when abandoning those she loved meant less in comparison. She'd expected Amalia to understand her reasons. Though, the difference between her selfishness and his selflessness was stiflingly clear.
âI would've understood.â Had he chosen his own liberty, instead of hers. The flighty thought, little more than an exhale, spoke volumes of what she could not recognize. If Rilien had returned, whole and new and brimming with dusty emotions, Sparrow would have been happy for him. She would have understood his decision, even at her own behest. Rife with good, tender-hearted companions, and with a successful shop at his disposal, Rilien would have thrived in Kirkwall. She would have understood. She appeared to bristle at his question; of what he could do to end her suffering, but her shoulders sagged in defeat. And still, Rilien offered, and she looked, even when she'd taken everything already.
All of the fight left her as soon as Rilien pried her fingers from his collar, dropping her hands away from him. Everything is what it was, as it had always been. However, she could feel small, subtle shifts. Changes unseen to the eye, but felt, in pulsing surges, through the room. Rilien was the most selfless person she knew, keeping her ignorant to ward the pain away. And she, the most destructive one, afflicting guilt and anger as a means of wounding herself. Her mouth twitched, and her eyes and ears burned. âWhy? Whyââ The thing he'd lost had meant so much more than freedom, so much more than the freedom she fought for. Sparrow leaned forward and leaned her forehead against his shoulder, smoothing out the wrinkles with her freed hand. She remained there, unmoving, until she drew back her hand and covered her face. She would grieve for him, when he could not.
As do you. It seemed obvious. Instead, Sparrow asked, âTell me how you were before. Everythingâtell me how you lived.â