Unsurprisingly, some recovery had been warranted for the battered, one-eyed elf.
Ithilian spent most of his recent days in or under the vhenadahl, depending on whether he felt like climbing a branch. Had he not pressed himself as far as he had, he might have healed quickly, and been little the worse for wear. But had he done that, Amalia would in all likelihood be dead. As it had always been in his life, Ithilian was willing to go to any lengths for those he called lethallan. The price he paid was worth it.
It was a steep price, however, and he was thankful that no pressing matters had been brought to his attention upon returning. His throat burned almost constantly, save for those moments when Nostariel was able to come by the Alienage, preferring him to stay put rather than ask him to make the walk up, short as it was. She checked on Amalia as well, who had been about as battered, albeit with less unique means than Ithilian had suffered. His vision, thankfully, returned to its full strength, but there were other wounds to deal with, things that had not been adequately treated until they returned, such as the shards of stone that had pierced deep into his skin, some sinking completely beneath the surface.
Still, with regular assistance, and no further exertion for the moment, Ithilian expected to be formidable once more, if he needed to be. For now, he was content to sit at the base of the tree, the crisp, cold air soothing to him, while he worked on stitching up the holes in one of his shirts. Having spent many winters in the Brecilian Forest, he knew well how to manage in colder climates. Kirkwall couldn't quite compare.
Amaliaās own recovery had been slower than she was accustomed to, a fact that she was able to recognize was partially due to her mentality. Usually, when she had injuries to deal with, her strength of will was of assistance to her recovery, butā¦ in this instance, she didnāt quite feel that same desire to recover, to push past the limitations of her body and return to capable form. It wasnāt that she wanted to languish, either, onlyā¦ something ate at her now, uncomfortable and distracting and always at the back of her mind.
Maybe it was because sheād simply assumed that he wouldnāt care enough to try for her life again. But he seemed to have made it something personal now, for him as well as for her, and the words he had spoken to her just prior to his disappearance gave her no hope that she was simply done with him. Whether she would next cross paths with him in three months or three more years, she could not say, but it was inevitable now, and It seemed to hang over her head, like a reminder of the futility of all her efforts to expunge his influence from her life. Doubtless something he had intended, when he had spoken.
The cold had chased most of the Alienageās residents indoors, and she honestly would have preferred to be there as well. She had endured no snowy winters in her years before coming hereāshe knew jungle and tropical summer. The worst of Par Vollenās winters were the massive storms that lashed the coasts, bringing swollen clouds inland and dumping a monsoonās worth of rain on the cities, several times a season. Sheād never even seen snow until her midtwenties, let alone had to cope with it.
But she never complained, even if her mattress did have a familyās worth of blankets piled onto it. In any case, she wanted to be outdoors right now because she knew that was where she would find Ithilian. He appeared to be sewing something, and she was reminded that she had to get to work on repairing her armor at some point. Not right now, though. Wordlessly, she sat down beside him, pulling the edges of her cloak around herself. If she werenāt so chilled, she might have thought the winter beautiful, she supposed, in a harsh sort of way that she could appreciate.
Amalia sucked in a breath, sharp in her lungs and twinging a bit uncomfortably against her still-bruised ribs. Nostariel did good work, but Marcus had put them both through a lot. She hoped that burn on his face would scar. āI havenāt thanked you yet,ā she said, beginning as always in her blunt sort of way. āI suppose that is because I find it to be an inadequate representation of what I really want to say.ā
It was perhaps hard to see as a display of affection, when the two of them sat next to each other, touching incidentally or with purpose, and reacting little to it, but those that knew them knew they behaved in that way with nearly no others. Ithilian knew by now that Amalia was not fond of the cold, but the fact that she'd sat down implied she was willing to endure it, for what she wanted to say. A small part of him was glad for that; he didn't really want to get up, and he also was holding out hope that she might grow at least a little more accustomed to it. Someday.
"If my aim had been better, we could have been done with him," he said quietly, having no desire to strain his voice. The shot had been there, Marcus having not seen him approach, the time to aim freely given. But he'd missed, and while it had saved Amalia, it had left Marcus alive. It left no doubt that this trouble would return for them. Someday.
"And you don't need to thank me. Of all the causes left to spend my strength on, that one I am most certain of. We'll see to it that you're free of him. Someday."
Free of him. It seemed strange to think it. Almost wrong. Not because she didnāt want itāshe had wondered, for a time, what she would be without that chain always shackled to her wrist, reminding her. The experience had made her what she was, in a very significant way, catalyzing her change from foolish girl into deeply-reserved, deeply-hurt woman. She recognized that now. What she had been, back thenāthat was a wounded thing, like a jungle-cat that hissed to mask an injured leg, raised its hackles to intimidate away anything that would do it further harm. A survival instinct.
But surviving was not the same thing as living. This was what she had learned since then. Her value had been in that she had endured, and thus her name. Her identity, the fundamental principle of who she was. Still bound to what Marcus had done. She was her reaction, not her action. Her passive endurance, not her active decision. Even now, she still held traces of that, because she still allowed him to do the determining. How she would feel, what she would fear. Whether or not she was free of him. He didnāt deserve that power, and she didnāt want him to have it.
Amalia shook her head slightly, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance in front of her. She drew some comfort from the awareness of Ithilianās regular motion beside her, from something as small as the sound of his breath. āNo,ā she replied, just as quietly as him, if for a different reason. āI do need to thank you. Exactly because you are so certain. Even when I am not.ā It felt a little like they moved in circles, almost, weaving themselves a little more closely each time. She depended on him now, counted on him for the times she could not count on herself. It was a far cry from the way either of them had been, when first they met. It wasā¦
She turned her head to the side, so that she was looking at him instead of out to the Alienage courtyard. āI want you to know. For this, for meā¦ you were enough. You are enough. I could notā¦ I would have died there, without you, and I knew that going in. I knew you would be enough to save my life, and I was right.ā She hadnāt doubted for a second that he would follow, would never have thought to question the fact that he would do what was necessary. Whether theyād killed Marcus or not, theyād beaten him. Because this, this kind of trust in another person, that was what heād stolen from her, all those years ago. And she had it back, because of Ithilian.
He knew he could never truly understand what it was she had been through, the effect it had upon her mind, at least as devastating as the evidence left behind on her body. Of all the hardships Ithilian had suffered, he had never known betrayal. He knew different agonies that she did not, and he suspected that, in much the same way, she would never fully understand them herself. What mattered, then, was that they possessed the correct qualities to bring the other back from the brink of what had nearly destroyed them. They knew, somehow, how to break down the walls they put up, be they made of hate, or an utter aversion to trust and dependence.
Having long since paused the work in his hands, he set down the shirt and met Amalia's gaze. Almost cautiously, he moved a hand up, around her head to the back, and gently pulled her in closer to him, where he pressed dry, scarred lips briefly to her forehead. He then released her.
"And I will continue to be so," he stated, the left side of his lips quirking upward, "for as long as my body allows." There was a definite timer on that now, that much had become obvious some time ago, but for however long he could support her in her battles, he would, without a second's thought or hesitation. He hoped that someday they might have a time where their battles were no longer fought with blades and bows. Where they would need to fight no battles at all.
Amalia supposed there was more she might say there, more yet to navigate still in this life she was building for herself, beside the people she cared about most, butā¦ for now, sheād said enough. There was much yet to be decided, or discovered maybe, but she could be content in that, at the very least, she knew where she was now, and she liked being there. So instead of speaking, she smiled slightly, breathing out a gentle exhale that seemed to carry all of her tension with it, for the moment.
Careful not to impede the work he might want to finish, she moved a little closer, leaning slightly into him, just enough to establish solid contact between their shoulders. Pulling her legs up underneath her and ensconced in the cloak as well, she decided that the cold was tolerable enough, after all.
Ithilian spent most of his recent days in or under the vhenadahl, depending on whether he felt like climbing a branch. Had he not pressed himself as far as he had, he might have healed quickly, and been little the worse for wear. But had he done that, Amalia would in all likelihood be dead. As it had always been in his life, Ithilian was willing to go to any lengths for those he called lethallan. The price he paid was worth it.
It was a steep price, however, and he was thankful that no pressing matters had been brought to his attention upon returning. His throat burned almost constantly, save for those moments when Nostariel was able to come by the Alienage, preferring him to stay put rather than ask him to make the walk up, short as it was. She checked on Amalia as well, who had been about as battered, albeit with less unique means than Ithilian had suffered. His vision, thankfully, returned to its full strength, but there were other wounds to deal with, things that had not been adequately treated until they returned, such as the shards of stone that had pierced deep into his skin, some sinking completely beneath the surface.
Still, with regular assistance, and no further exertion for the moment, Ithilian expected to be formidable once more, if he needed to be. For now, he was content to sit at the base of the tree, the crisp, cold air soothing to him, while he worked on stitching up the holes in one of his shirts. Having spent many winters in the Brecilian Forest, he knew well how to manage in colder climates. Kirkwall couldn't quite compare.
Amaliaās own recovery had been slower than she was accustomed to, a fact that she was able to recognize was partially due to her mentality. Usually, when she had injuries to deal with, her strength of will was of assistance to her recovery, butā¦ in this instance, she didnāt quite feel that same desire to recover, to push past the limitations of her body and return to capable form. It wasnāt that she wanted to languish, either, onlyā¦ something ate at her now, uncomfortable and distracting and always at the back of her mind.
Maybe it was because sheād simply assumed that he wouldnāt care enough to try for her life again. But he seemed to have made it something personal now, for him as well as for her, and the words he had spoken to her just prior to his disappearance gave her no hope that she was simply done with him. Whether she would next cross paths with him in three months or three more years, she could not say, but it was inevitable now, and It seemed to hang over her head, like a reminder of the futility of all her efforts to expunge his influence from her life. Doubtless something he had intended, when he had spoken.
The cold had chased most of the Alienageās residents indoors, and she honestly would have preferred to be there as well. She had endured no snowy winters in her years before coming hereāshe knew jungle and tropical summer. The worst of Par Vollenās winters were the massive storms that lashed the coasts, bringing swollen clouds inland and dumping a monsoonās worth of rain on the cities, several times a season. Sheād never even seen snow until her midtwenties, let alone had to cope with it.
But she never complained, even if her mattress did have a familyās worth of blankets piled onto it. In any case, she wanted to be outdoors right now because she knew that was where she would find Ithilian. He appeared to be sewing something, and she was reminded that she had to get to work on repairing her armor at some point. Not right now, though. Wordlessly, she sat down beside him, pulling the edges of her cloak around herself. If she werenāt so chilled, she might have thought the winter beautiful, she supposed, in a harsh sort of way that she could appreciate.
Amalia sucked in a breath, sharp in her lungs and twinging a bit uncomfortably against her still-bruised ribs. Nostariel did good work, but Marcus had put them both through a lot. She hoped that burn on his face would scar. āI havenāt thanked you yet,ā she said, beginning as always in her blunt sort of way. āI suppose that is because I find it to be an inadequate representation of what I really want to say.ā
It was perhaps hard to see as a display of affection, when the two of them sat next to each other, touching incidentally or with purpose, and reacting little to it, but those that knew them knew they behaved in that way with nearly no others. Ithilian knew by now that Amalia was not fond of the cold, but the fact that she'd sat down implied she was willing to endure it, for what she wanted to say. A small part of him was glad for that; he didn't really want to get up, and he also was holding out hope that she might grow at least a little more accustomed to it. Someday.
"If my aim had been better, we could have been done with him," he said quietly, having no desire to strain his voice. The shot had been there, Marcus having not seen him approach, the time to aim freely given. But he'd missed, and while it had saved Amalia, it had left Marcus alive. It left no doubt that this trouble would return for them. Someday.
"And you don't need to thank me. Of all the causes left to spend my strength on, that one I am most certain of. We'll see to it that you're free of him. Someday."
Free of him. It seemed strange to think it. Almost wrong. Not because she didnāt want itāshe had wondered, for a time, what she would be without that chain always shackled to her wrist, reminding her. The experience had made her what she was, in a very significant way, catalyzing her change from foolish girl into deeply-reserved, deeply-hurt woman. She recognized that now. What she had been, back thenāthat was a wounded thing, like a jungle-cat that hissed to mask an injured leg, raised its hackles to intimidate away anything that would do it further harm. A survival instinct.
But surviving was not the same thing as living. This was what she had learned since then. Her value had been in that she had endured, and thus her name. Her identity, the fundamental principle of who she was. Still bound to what Marcus had done. She was her reaction, not her action. Her passive endurance, not her active decision. Even now, she still held traces of that, because she still allowed him to do the determining. How she would feel, what she would fear. Whether or not she was free of him. He didnāt deserve that power, and she didnāt want him to have it.
Amalia shook her head slightly, eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance in front of her. She drew some comfort from the awareness of Ithilianās regular motion beside her, from something as small as the sound of his breath. āNo,ā she replied, just as quietly as him, if for a different reason. āI do need to thank you. Exactly because you are so certain. Even when I am not.ā It felt a little like they moved in circles, almost, weaving themselves a little more closely each time. She depended on him now, counted on him for the times she could not count on herself. It was a far cry from the way either of them had been, when first they met. It wasā¦
She turned her head to the side, so that she was looking at him instead of out to the Alienage courtyard. āI want you to know. For this, for meā¦ you were enough. You are enough. I could notā¦ I would have died there, without you, and I knew that going in. I knew you would be enough to save my life, and I was right.ā She hadnāt doubted for a second that he would follow, would never have thought to question the fact that he would do what was necessary. Whether theyād killed Marcus or not, theyād beaten him. Because this, this kind of trust in another person, that was what heād stolen from her, all those years ago. And she had it back, because of Ithilian.
He knew he could never truly understand what it was she had been through, the effect it had upon her mind, at least as devastating as the evidence left behind on her body. Of all the hardships Ithilian had suffered, he had never known betrayal. He knew different agonies that she did not, and he suspected that, in much the same way, she would never fully understand them herself. What mattered, then, was that they possessed the correct qualities to bring the other back from the brink of what had nearly destroyed them. They knew, somehow, how to break down the walls they put up, be they made of hate, or an utter aversion to trust and dependence.
Having long since paused the work in his hands, he set down the shirt and met Amalia's gaze. Almost cautiously, he moved a hand up, around her head to the back, and gently pulled her in closer to him, where he pressed dry, scarred lips briefly to her forehead. He then released her.
"And I will continue to be so," he stated, the left side of his lips quirking upward, "for as long as my body allows." There was a definite timer on that now, that much had become obvious some time ago, but for however long he could support her in her battles, he would, without a second's thought or hesitation. He hoped that someday they might have a time where their battles were no longer fought with blades and bows. Where they would need to fight no battles at all.
Amalia supposed there was more she might say there, more yet to navigate still in this life she was building for herself, beside the people she cared about most, butā¦ for now, sheād said enough. There was much yet to be decided, or discovered maybe, but she could be content in that, at the very least, she knew where she was now, and she liked being there. So instead of speaking, she smiled slightly, breathing out a gentle exhale that seemed to carry all of her tension with it, for the moment.
Careful not to impede the work he might want to finish, she moved a little closer, leaning slightly into him, just enough to establish solid contact between their shoulders. Pulling her legs up underneath her and ensconced in the cloak as well, she decided that the cold was tolerable enough, after all.