"Excellent.â Words of praise were sparing, when their source was Rilien, but he was generally willing to dole them out when he believed they were warranted. Sandal was exceptionally talented at his craft, and Rilien suspected not much longer would remain before there was nothing left for him to teach the peculiar dwarven lad. The thought brought about⊠something, and he paused a moment, attempting to identify which shadow of a feeling this was. A little warm flicker, tinged with something soft. His feelings, such as they were, still counted as diluted, so much so that he doubted anyone else would call them feelings at all, but he seemed to have more of them as time wore on. He did wonder about that, from time to time, but as the emotions had not yet reached a level where they caused him problems, he was content to leave them lie, as it were.
Well. That was perhaps not entirely true of all of them. There were some that he was unsure he should maintain. Some that he was beginning to see that he should let go, eventually. He was not blind to the way patterns shifted in history, in politics and the games of nations, and he knew. He knew, without quite being able to articulate, that things were going to change. That he would not be able to remain as he was, here, for an interminable time. To say it bothered him or worried him would be to overstate things considerably, but he acknowledged his own foresight, and he knew it was necessary to begin preparations, for whatever it was that would shake him loose from his foothold here. Eventually.
Sandal smiled broadly. âEnchantment!â Setting aside the hammer theyâd been working on, Rilien placed all the tools back on their proper hooks or in the shelves and drawers to which they had long belonged. The shop had an air of meticulous cleanliness about it, and fortunately enough, both Bodahn and Sandal were quite tidy on their own time as well, which made sharing the space with them considerably less labor-intensive than it would have been if his own sense of neatness had required him to clean up after them. While the other two went about the business of closing up the storefront for the day, Rilien faced all the merchandise, which mostly involved sorting the runes on display in a small counter case that sat on the outside of his area, and rotating the potions stock. Heâd received a new lot from Amalia earlier in the day, and lined them up next to his own, right above the precise labels he used to differentiate them to those whose eye for alchemy was not practiced.
The task meant that both of the others were finished before he was, and so he nodded as they bid him farewell and headed out the door, leaving him, for the moment, to his own devices.
Sparrow dug her shoulder blades into the alley's masonry, hands planted palm-first against the crumbly surface, not-so subtly eyeing Rilien's shop from around the corner. She absently picked at the bricks, fingernails scraping between the cracks, mainly to keep herself from stepping out and bullying into the store, disturbing his work as she usually did. Over the last couple of days, she'd been trying to catch him doing something she was unaware of.
She couldn't honestly explain it, but there was a pull there, between them, and not in her direction. He hadn't been outright avoiding her, and there had been no odd, speculative conversation on either end, but here she was, eyebrows bunched, hiding in the shadows like a thief seeking purses to cut. Things were different between them, but not how she'd expected. Usually, it'd be all soft touches, lingering kisses, and whispers pressed against collar bones, necks, shoulders. Her expectations have become flight fancies, and she danced around them; foolishly.
She took another breath and crept closer to the mouth of the alleyway, careful not to trip over a snoring drunkard. Her heart skipped at an ugly, adamant rhythm. She had half the mind to slink back home, and wait there, instead of doing this, whatever this was. It felt foolish, being so easily bothered by an itch of a feeling. She'd wanted to consult Nostariel or Ashton, or both, but if she couldn't even sort her thoughts out, what would she ask them? If they'd known about anything Rilien might have been purposely hiding from her, wouldn't they have told her? She might've not proved very reliable over the years, but it was important. This was important. The gruff man snuffled loudly in response, rolling onto his side. It was. As soon as she saw the door swing open, she instinctively sank back against the brick wall, hissing softly.
What would she ask of him?
She tensed her shoulders and drew back her head, staring up at the tattered red cloth, flailing across the wooden parapet. Perhaps, he'd lead her somewhere. Perhaps, she'd get a better idea. Perhaps, this was nothing at all.
It was several more minutes before Rilien exited the shop, though it would have been ridiculous to assume he was unaware of her nearness. He knew the feel of her magic, and it was a thing he would never forget. There were several like that now, so customary to him that they had become unique, easily separable from the rest. Like a taste on the back of the tongue. He hadnât exactly told her that this was how he was mysteriously able to find her when he needed to, however, so perhaps she was unaware that her attempt at subterfuge was destined to fail. He wondered what it was that she wantedâshe would have simply approached him if there were nothing in particular on her mind.
Locking up the shop behind him for the moment, he tucked the bundle for delivery under his arm, turning right and stopping just in front of the alley she hid in, turning his head so that he was looking right at her, blinking slowly. Then he tilted his head slightly, and proceeded on his way. The implied question was obvious:
Are you coming, or not?
The slow trickle of unease became full-blown hair-prickling panic, for reasons she couldn't quite fathom, as Rilien approached her chosen hiding place. Not that it'd been that great of one, in the first place. She smoothed the wrinkles from her tunic with her hands, and sniffled softly, knuckling her nose while she conjured up some farfetched fable as to why she was here and not anywhere else. Sparrow stepped out of the alley as if she'd just been on some romantic, moonlit walk, and there, what a coincidence, was her dear old friend, blinking owlishly into the path she just happened to be walking down. She took a moment to look at him and tossed up her arms, dropping them back down in a dramatic flourish, âOh, Ril! Fancy meeting you here, of all spots... well, I guess, your shop is there, isn't it? I was just going for a walk. Darktown gets stuffy sometimes. Must be the spores. And all the dust.â
She edged closer to him, chewing at the inside of her lip. Nothing was easy between them, not even frankness. She danced around subjects she believed held importance and he simply left her out of things that he deemed too dangerous. Sometimes, she even believed that she'd been the one leading them. She felt an awkward pull at her lips; a lacklustre nerve to continue pretending as if this entire escapade had been accidental. It wasn't as if she could very well follow him now, if he'd been going anywhere of note to begin with. She clinched her jaw and snatched a handful of his sleeve. Though, she did not pull or bully him in any specific direction. Merely walked alongside him. Mind whirring and working through proper conversation and not simply what are you hiding from me?
âSo, what have you been doing lately?â Sparrow mused as nonchalantly as she could muster, âSeems like I haven't seen you around lately.â Which hadn't been exactly true, he'd been around. But there it was: a general unease, a prickling feeling crawling down her spine. It felt like the first time she'd seen Amalia in Kirkwall, like things wouldn't remain as they'd been before.
Rilien continued to walk forward in silence for a few moments after the question was asked, not appearing even slightly inconvenienced by Sparrowâs grip on his sleeve. Though⊠it was not like her to be so conscientious as to notice something of that kind. Usually she was much more self-absorbed, and scarcely noticed the frequency or lack of his comings and goings, or at least he had believed this. He was forced to entertain two possibilities, neither of which were particularly favorable: either she was more observant than he had believed of her, or else he was not nearly so subtle as he had taken himself to be. Given that he was generally accurate in his assessments of his own skill, he was left to conclude that he had, in some small way at least, misjudged her.
He had always known that she had a certain level of intuition, of course; it was what made her good enough with people to talk her way out of half the trouble she got herself into. The other half went away because it became his trouble. This was how they had operated, since first he ventured into Kirkwall, and found her squatting in what was legally his dwelling.
He did not look at her when he answered, no longer assuming that she would not see all the things he did not want her to know. What else might she have intuited? He didnât think it was too much, but it was better to be cautious when one had the opportunity. "I have been doing what I always do. I enchant, I brew potions, and I lend my assistance in martial matters when it is requested of me. Of late, this has been more frequent.â It hadnât. Heâd just been spending his spare time differently. Specifically, not with her. All things must end. He, at least, had known that from the beginning. But perhaps heâd almost forgotten, somewhere in the middle.
Sparrow kept her head somewhat inclined and occasionally glanced at the point where Rilien's jaw met his hairline. It had grown longer over the years, falling past his shoulders. Like sheets of snow she'd once seen in her travels. Far longer than her own, though hers was now longer than it had ever been. These changes came to her in small, uneasy morsels. Hard to chew and harder still to swallow. She looked away and focused on their boots. On their unsynchronized footsteps.
It was not Kirkwall that caused these changes. Each person she had met here had dipped their fingers into her once-fluid life. She asserted her freedoms less now. She no longer disappeared when things did not suit her needs. Her course was much different now that she had found somewhere comfortable to perch. Her fingers crooked tighter until she had a fistful of loose fabric, and while she wished he would answer quickly lest she fill the silence with her own suspicions, Rilien's answers always came deliberately. Unhurried. Careful and impartial.
He had hidden things from her before. While his intentions had been to protect her from being devoured entirely, caused by her own missteps... the cave, and his sacrifices, came to mind in a sharp, vivid bloom. And she had barely noticed then. Everything he had already done. It had been already too late when they banished the demon from her body. Only then had the story tumbled out and she had learnt of the life he had willingly given up. A yoke of timeworn reproach bunched her eyebrows together. He had never sworn that he would not do the same sort of thing again. He had never sworn he wouldn't leave her out of future business if it meant keeping her out of danger. She doubted he ever would. Promises were made for trying to predict and rearrange multiple futures. He moved through them like a languid stream.
She exhaled sharply and rolled her eyes skyward. Of course, he was only working. She looked back down and chewed at the inside of her lip. Even if he was leaving out important details, sometimes falsehoods were easier to wash down. Apparently it had been nothing at all. Why had she come out here? âAh, I see. You've been busy, then,â her fistful of fabric soothed itself back into crooked claw. Their lives intervened frequently, but he was not hers to hoard away. People were not things. A slight smile tugged at the corners of her lips, though her eyebrows remained drawn. Her fingers loosened as well and she finally let go of him, âI must've thought that... seems I was mistaken.â
Their steps, out of sync still, took them down one of the main staircases into Lowtown. Where once upon a time, Rilien would have adjusted his stride so as to match hers with little effort, he did not do so at present. Perhaps someone else wouldnât have even noticed that heâd failed to do it. Perhaps someone else would have been doing it by instinct, and not be particularly concerned either way if instinct failed once or twice, or laughed and hitched awkwardly to fall back into time. But there was little about Rilien that was instinctual anymore, and what was wasnât gentle things like this. He never failed to notice any of these little things, because noticing them, adjusting them, presenting himself in a deliberate fashionâthese were the ways in which he could blend or not blend as he needed to, blur into a crowd or draw the eyes of an audience. Nothing he did lacked a reason, not even the things he didnât do.
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, he at last looked at her, if only from the corner of an eye. "Everything changes, Sparrow. Nothing is immutable. Not even I.â He wondered if she understood what he was trying to convey to her. He wondered why he hadnât the courage to just say it outright.
The silence stretched between them as they walked and no matter how much she wished to break it, Sparrow remained unusually silent. What more could she say? Admit that she had been snooping through his belongings and that she'd followed him this evening in hopes that she would catch him doing something she wanted to know about. Lowtown, Darktown, Kirkwall. Nobles, guards, and poor wretches. It almost felt like nothing changed even though so much had over the years. Even she had. Flighty as she was, birds did not usually stay in one place. In her youth, she would have scoffed at anything resolute, anything claiming sameness. Now, her talons found purchase in the people who surrounded her, and of course they would change, as she had. She ground her teeth together and focused on their boots. Once they reached the staircase she hopped ahead and took them two at a time.
She took in another deep breath through her nose. Crisp air. Different from Darktown's usual dust and dirt and musk. And while she did not want to look directly at him, Sparrow shifted when Rilien stopped walking and scrunched her eyebrows. She wasn't sure why, but the words he had chosen to say and the way he was saying them made her throat tighten, balling and bunching around angry words. She took another deep breath, and the air no longer felt crisp. âImmutable?â She parroted and threw her arms out wide. Her hands settled at her hips, dropped and curled into fists. There was a palpable divide between them, and as oblivious as she could be, she could feel it. âWhat are these changes, Ril? You... I haven't been... I'm not stupid. There's something you haven't told me.â
Just one thing? He wanted to ask it, just to see what she would do. But it was an impulsive thought, and he didnât enjoy having those, much less did he give into them. No, there were many things he had not said, but most of them did not, could not, matter any longer. Rilien tipped his head up slightly, as if to take note of the jagged piece of sky framed in building roofs, awnings, and street-lamps, few and scattered as they were. "I will not be here forever, Sparrow.â It was strangely difficult, to push the words out with his breath, almost as if they had some mind of their own and did not wish to leave him. Not now, perhaps not ever. But they were the truth, and he had never, not at any point in his life, shied away from the truth, however brutal and unkind it really was.
"I will go back, one day. Back to Orlais. There are things that I must yet do.â He didnât know how soon that day would beâeven his clairvoyance was nothing supernatural. He didnât know the day or the time, he only knew that it would happen. He read not portents, but people, perhaps the more reliable tell, in all honesty. "Debts that I must yet pay.â Ones that would not, as her debts, be absolved with a few sovereigns in the right grubby palms. "This, here, is what will change.â Whatever it rightfully was.
This was it.
She regretted voicing the question as soon as it tumbled from her lips. She hadn't truly wanted to know, after all. Especially if it confirmed what she feared most. Her world changing. In small increments, or in huge, quaking leaps. Nothing was immutable. That meant things would always change, didn't it? People always would. That's what he was saying. Everything shifted and changed and became much more than it had been initially. Circumstances, experiences, and time, may have changed her. But without him, where would she have ended up?
The false smile shifted from her lips, and curled back from her teeth. They ground together, biting back disappointment. Already, she felt the creeping discomfort of her throat tightening in a raw, throttling lump. Her heart was both a beast and its own gilded cage, and here she was, clawing and tearing against the changes she'd so admired as a young boy. She'd been fine with how things were now, so why then. Why wasn't he?
âBack to Orlais?â She echoed his words, because her own were bitter, tawdry things. Hitched, breathless, ugly. She repeated those words to make them tangible things. Real things. She pushed him. Not hard. And softer than she'd meant to. She had no other place to direct her kindling outrage. It bloomed, desperate and lost. Running away wouldn't solve anything and slinking back to the Hanged Man would only make her feel weak. Its comforts were only temporary. Even she knew that. âYou're leaving. And so, what then, you weren't planning on telling me until you'd already left?â Her hands trembledâcurled, unfurled, fists and empty hands. She fought the urge to bury them into the collar of his jacket. She could not shake the answers him. Wished she did not know them. Wished he did not answer. Wished she hadn't brought it up. Ignorance was bliss, always.
"I was going to tell you.â Rilien felt that, in this at least, he did not desire to be misinterpreted. "But not until it was simpler.â For her or for himâhe found it surprisingly difficult to tell. Heâd intended to be further along in this process, this slow detachment that he was very deliberately attempting. He would fade from her life, just as he had faded from others. He would take a small step back, and then another, and still more, until his absence felt more natural to her, to both of them, than his presence. And then he would tell her that he meant to leave for good. When any vehemence in her reaction would have been affected, or for show. When they were strangers again. But she was impatient, just as she always had been. And heâhe found himself unable not to answer her.
She felt the muscles jumping along her jawline, and tried easing her expression to something resembling calm. Unbunching her eyebrows, settling her mouth into a straight line. Swallowing the injustices she clutched in her drubbing chest. It failed, miserably. Everything felt tense, discordant. âI can go too. I can go with you,â she tried again, softening her voice.
He tried, again, to imagine that. Parts of it were easy. Parts of her would go over relatively well in Orlais, where the flirting and the inelegant ease of her demeanor would have been amusing diversions. She would have been immediately underestimated, judged harmless, dismissed, or perhaps on the occasion even indulged. But those were only parts of her, and in the end, he knew that the Game would tear her apart. If not because someone falsely perceived threat in her, then because someone correctly perceived threat in him. The innocent were never spared, in his world.
"No.â
Simpler he'd said. She clutched a hand to her stomach, swilling as it was, and bunched her hand into a fist of loose fabric. She snorted in disbelief. Simple had never applied to them in the first place. It was a luxury they'd never been able to afford. Never allowed to have. What with them being so differentâRilien, someone who harboured a remote stillness, and impenetrable principles, was still somehow capable of changing worlds, hers especially. She was a creature of habits, rejecting shifts as stubbornly as a child would. She wanted to say fuck those promises, and all those debts he might have owed in Orlais. Why did they matter now? Shedding her own personal responsibilities had been easier than removing a particularly grimy coat. He was telling her that he could not. And here, lied their differences.
Sparrow wanted to stomp her feet and continue pushing him until he relented. She wanted to raise her voice and become heard. She wanted to scream to drown out his no. She wanted to tear down his convictions, and all the commitments he'd made before coming to Kirkwall. Swallow them both whole. She wanted to tether them down. Beg on her jellied knees, curse and swear and bleat about the unfairness of it all. Instead, she stared at him and dropped her hand back to her side. Hadn't he promised her? No. She fought against the quibbling of her lip and drew her eyebrows tighter, centring herself around the bloom of anger in the pit of her belly. No. And even though she'd already been given the answer, and knew it would remain the same, she tried again.
âForget those debts. Stay here.â
Rilien drew to a halt, exhaling softly, bringing himself to face her with what seemed almost to be the faintest trace of reluctance. He was long past the point of feeling nothing when it came to the people in his life that called themselves his friends, after all, even if he never did say it as such. Even if he demonstrated it only seldom, and most often with actions rather than words or even expressions. What could such emotions mean to him, after all? He would never feel them in a way that she or anyone else would recognize or understand. He was resigned to being alone in this respect, caught between a man and the shell of that man, neither quite Tranquil nor even close to being whole.
Didnât she see that his actions, his promises, his debts, that these were all of his former self he had left? Doing had to stand in for feeling, where he was concerned. Gratitude, obligation, friendship, love: these could only be in the things he did, because he was too empty everywhere else. His heart wasnât porous enough to soak in and hold all the sentiments hers or anyone elseâs did. It was just an empty cavern, filled only with echoes of what had once been. He could not abandon these things, he could not stand by and refuse to act when he would be useful, needed, or necessary. He could not stay here, in comfort and idleness, when people he had known would be helped by his presence elsewhere. It wasnât in him. So little really was.
He shook his head faintly, reaching out to place a hand on the crown of her head. She didnât need him, not really. She could go, do, be wherever and whatever she wanted. Her attachment to him would fade in time, as would his attachment to her. That, he believed, would be for the best. He belonged where she could not go. They were antithetical to one another, really, and for a time, that had been to mutual benefit. But it would not be so for much longer, and they both had to accept that.
Softly, his fingers moved through her hair, as if to smooth away the ruffled evidence of her earlier distress. Current distress, evenâthat he was bereft didnât mean he could not identify it in another. "I will not.â Rilienâs eyes softened, just a bit. "And if that upsets you⊠I am sorry.â He hadnât meant to make himself irreplaceable to anyone, and he did not believe, in the end, that he had. She would discover that, too, eventually.
It was strange how much had changed over the years. He might have thought that this was inevitable. Perhaps, for far longer than she had dared to imagine. That this was an inescapable necessity: this parting of theirs. In days gone past, it had been Sparrow who frequently left. Whether it was after weapon-wielding misadventures, or even, after lingering long enough to form friendships she was destined to ruin. After friendly drinks in dingy taverns or nights spent in the warmth of someone's bedroom. Cold arms, cold pillows. A long list of meaningless, forgettable bodies. And then, came the one who's not meaningless, and not forgettable in the least. Perhaps, she had always known that he would be the one to leave her in this mutual exchange and admitting it had been too terrible a consideration.
Sparrow stood still, tensing her shoulders and neck, as if any sudden movements would shatter and destroy her efforts to keep him stationary. As if it would make any difference. She knew better. She understood him better than that. The tangled knot in her throat tightened as his hand settled across her head. All these years, she had been the one anchored in place, and she wanted everything to remain as it was, as it had always been.The indignant storm brewing behind her eyelids flickered and swam and threatened to expose her as vulnerable, weak woman. What would she do without him? It had never been possibility: an idea, a fleeting thought, a future she imagined. He was not a random, meaningless body occupying the spaces of her life. Not a flickering candle. Not disposable. His existence would matter to her.
She exhaled sharply, breathless. She was brighter and louder against his fluctuating monochrome. Even after everything they'd been throughâhe would not move, he would not relent, he would not stay with her. Sparrow caught his hand in her own and slowly pulled it against her cheek, tipping her nose under his palm. Cold. His hands were cold. She took a tentative step forward and pulled his arm down, dipping him low enough to crane her head against the side of his neck. What she wanted could never be, she'd known that, once. She focused on the nearest building and cocked her head to the side, âAfter all these years, you know nothing.â A soft, solemn whisper. There was a pause, and her voice shifted, losing it's edge, âI love you.â
It would not be enough. Drifting away from him, Sparrow released his hands, his arm and neck and stepped backwards. She refused to become a vulnerable, weak woman. Bullshit, she'd wanted to scream. She wanted to call him a liar. Scrape up words he may have used to appease her. She refused to meet his eyes, because she felt her own swimming. Instead, she fled back the way they'd walked.