Amalia shut the door behind her, blocking out some of the wind, and pushed her hood down onto her shoulders. Winter was slowly giving way to spring in Kirkwall, which meant that people, including the Alienage residents, were venturing out of doors more often. At present, everyone the Hahren had moved in with her was elsewhere, save the one heâd allowed in at her personal request.
The truth was, she almost hadnât wanted to make the requestâwhile by this point, her presence was readily accepted and to some extent even welcomed in the Alienage, and there were occasional human visitors, like Aurora or members of the Lions, that the residents knew not to fear, it wasnât like humans, or those perceived as human, lived here often. But Sparrow had begged asylum for some reason, and Amalia, with great reservation, had granted it. Not before talking it over with the Hahren, of course, but she expected that he wouldnât have turned her down even if heâd really wanted to. Half an elf Sparrow may be, but to everyone here, that just meant human. Ironically, Amalia suspected that her oldest friend read as more human than she did, despite her elven mother, because she was so obviously an outsider to this part of town.
Once, it would have been of no consequence to Amalia, but she did care about the comfort and safety of the people living here, and sheâd had to weigh it carefully against opening her home to Sparrow. In the end, though, sheâd done itâif only after extracting a vow from her that she would not disturb anyone here. If she wanted to carouse and philander and make a nuisance of herself, she was welcome to, but not here and not in such a way that anyone would track her here for any kind of confrontation. Those were the terms.
Of course, despite the sternness of her injunctions against reckless or selfish behavior, Amalia hadnât missed the current state of her friendâs despondency, obvious as she was being about it. Maybe not to everyone, but it was obvious to her. She even had a decent guess as to the cause, though it wasnât until sheâd paid a visit to Rilienâs storefront that she learned the story in full. Sparrow was, to the nearest approximation she could be, heartsick. It was an emotion that Amalia had experienced before as well, if for different reasons.
Depositing the coinpurse full of her monthâs profits onto the sleeping mat within her room, Amalia emerged back into the common space, hooking the iron pot filled with snowmelt over the fireplace. Then she walked herself to the tiny room Sparrow occupied and knocked her fist against the door, loudly enough to be sure she could not be ignored. âSparrow, I am making tea. Join me, please.â Though it sounded mostly like a request, it was probably also a command, all things considered. Amalia didnât believe in moping or shutting out the world. Sheâd never found it to her liking on the few occasions sheâd tried, and it was not an attitude she could long sustain.
Leaving the doorway, she headed back into the common room, taking down her canister of tea and the ceramics required for the brewing process, busying her hands with familiar work.
Why had she come here of all places? Admittedly, she'd sought sanctum in other places. As much as she wanted to slink and sulk in Ashton's home, she'd lingered beneath his balcony long enough to realize that he might agree with Rilien. Might send her packing before she could assimilate what had happened. Or else, he would seek out Rilien directly and organize some sort of shame-faced encounter. Not now. She could not bear it. Aurora had been a viable option. She would have wanted to help solve her problems, when there were no solutions. She had too much on her plate already. Dealing with their little mage-group, and keeping them out of trouble. Mostly, she hadn't wanted to destroy the smirking, bright-eyed version of Sparrow she'd come to know. There was comfort in normalcy.
Everyone else seemed far too busy. Far too involved. She needed a silent companion. Someone who would not question her weakness. When Amalia hadn't hastily turned her away, chastising her for being so foolish, Sparrow had been surprised most of all. She hadn't known what to expect. Hadn't even prepared herself for a possible yes. Their relationship remained lukewarm at best, and as much as they had come to resolve, the familiar twang of remorse prospered. She still counted Amalia as a close friend. Someone who would always know best. Staying in Kirkwall for as long as she had was, perhaps, the greatest change of all.
After being subjugated to an impressively lengthy, drawn-out lecture, ending in a solemn pledge that she would not cause anyone trouble while she stayed in her household, it reminded her of being put in Amalia's care as children. She hadn't been customary Qunari material when she'd been rescued, and she doubted it had been any easier dealing with her then as it was now. She promised she wouldn't do anyone any harm. Or cause any trouble. Easy enough. Since, she kept herself cooped up in the room she'd been allowed to use. For the time being. Nothing was immutable. Immutable. It even sounded like an ugly word.
She puzzled over the meaning of his words. Searched for loopholes, or further deceptions. Any possible way she might be able to spirit away with him when the time came to see him off. In her allotted chamber, of course. She lie sprawled across her bed, searching the ceiling for answers. None came. Not that she expected to find any answers here. She didn't want to hear them, anyhow, if it wasn't in correlation with what she wanted.
Pursing her lips, Sparrow hissed an angry sigh through her teeth and scratched at her scalp. Feeding the pain she felt in order to make it real, instead of purely emotional. She stopped when she heard someone... Amalia, knocking at the door. Clearly, not a polite request. Withholding the urge to groan, she shifted up and slipped back to her feet. Tea, now. Brood, later.
Slinking out of her bedchamber, Sparrow stomped down the hallway towards the sound of familiar movement. She ignored the equally familiar leer of unease, swallowed it down under a sour grin. Everything felt off-kilter. Strange and monochrome. She took up residency in the nearest chair and tapped her hands across the wooden grains of the table, unsure where to settle them. It took her a few moments to raise her eyebrows, and her gaze, before sniffling an off-handed, âYou need help with that?â
âNo.â Amaliaâs reply was quiet, almost soft, as she finished preparing the tea. It was a set of motions old and familiar to her, something remembered from the very earliest days of her ability to remember anything at all. She would serve her Tamassran teachers like this. The scent of the spiced tea was both present and past, a memory manifesting in the moment. She wondered if Sparrow remembered it the same way. She wasnât sure sheâd ever been asked to serve it, but Amalia could definitely remember partaking with her, back when things were different. Even someone as practical as she was could keep around such a nostalgic thing, it seemed. Perhaps she had always been more sentimental than she believed.
Setting Sparrowâs simple, unhandled cup in front of her, Amalia set another in front of herself and poured for them both, settling back into a lotus position, which was more comfortable to her than sitting otherwise. She picked up her tea and studied Sparrow over the rim of the vessel it was in, her scrutiny initially silent. Far from causing trouble to the Alienage, Sparrow hadnât even left her room in days, and it was clear enough to Amalia that she was sulking. Perhaps it was understandable though. Amalia knew little of heartacheâbut not nothingâbut it seemed the kind of thing that caused this, even in stronger-willed individuals.
âI⊠do not know how much difference it will make in this case,â Amalia began, her words spoken with a sort of wary thoughtfulness, âbut I have learned that pain shared is more easily overcome. If you wish, you may tell me of yours.â She doubted there was anything she could do about any of it, but perhaps listening would be sufficient for now.
No. Supposed she expected the answer before she'd even responded. Even as children, Amalia enjoyed doing things on her own, rather than allow her to muss it all up. Perhaps, she'd been allowed to do it once, and broke a cup or ruined the tea itself. Possibly, many cups. It wouldn't have surprised her if the memory eluded her. She shrugged her shoulders. There was a small measure of relief for not being asked to leave her seat. She knew nothing about tea-brewing or crafting or whatever she was doing over there, shuffling canisters around and pinching spices between her fingertips. It might've been witchcraft for all she knew. But the smell was one she recognized; deep and rich as it was, wafting throughout the entire common room. It reminded her of home, even if she'd been the one to leave it all behind. It did not belong to her anymore.
As soon as Amalia settled the steaming cup in front of her, Sparrow found comfort in placing her hands around it. Warmth spread across the palm of her hands. Far too hot to drink from, and nearly scalding to the touch, she did not pull her hands away. Discomfort grounded her where little else would. This was how things were. She had not slunk home to Darktown. She was not home. This was how things were now. She met Amalia's eyes briefly and turned away to study her own fingernails, and the tea swilling with loose leaves. It was not her scrutiny that cowed her, but the fact that she had nothing more to say. Silence was deceivingly deliberate, and small talk seemed cheap and out of place. She'd never liked it, anyhow.
And yet, Amalia had been the one to break it. She dipped her head lower and blew across the surface of her tea. Watched as ripples formed and disappeared, leaving nothing in their wake, and wondered absently if that was what they were. Unimportant, disappearing ripples. She'd never been known for thoughts deeper than goblets spilling over with cheap ale and nights spent wobbling in the streets or swinging her mace around, but this, this was unusual enough to mull over. A squeamish, cowardly jest bubbled to the forefront, and shortly died before slipping past her lips. She would know better. Pain shared is more easily overcome? It was a concept she wasn't familiar with.
âI thought before, that there wasn't anything I couldn't change,â Sparrow flicked at the corner of her cup, causing more ripples. Changes were necessary. Everything she'd ever known had changed. In increments, in startling dives, âbut in this place, there's no end to them. You and I, and everyone else we know have changed. Some for the better, I understand that much. But I thought that he wouldn't. I wanted him to stay, I need him to. How foolish is that? He said he goes where I cannot follow. How could he decide that for me.â Her sour grin faltered. Where would she go, if he was not present. He was home.
It was an uncomfortable predicament. Amalia tried to imagine herself in it, but found that she simply could not. She refused to conjure even the image of a world where she was without the person she leaned on the most, and perhaps that was for the best. However similar the comparison might seem on the surface, she knew that it would not survive past any serious scrutiny. They were all different people, and the dynamics inherently different as well. So she pursed her lips together and considered what she knew, idly spooning a tiny bit of rock sugar into her teacup, stirring it round by gently swirling the cup until there was a tiny whirlpool in it. When the motion stilled, she exhaled, still, contemplative.
âI donât know him well,â she said simply, shrugging her shoulders a bit, âbut I know you. If Orlais is as I have learned it is, he was probably right. How do you think you would be received, in the world he intends to return to?â As she understood it, Orlesians thought of their politics as some kind of game, one where subtlety and delicacy were required, neither being traits that Sparrow possessed. Most likely, she would be a glaring and obvious weakness of Rilienâs by the very fact that he brought her along, and if Amalia understood properly, that meant someone would quite quickly exploit the fact. It was disconcerting to think about what that meant, but just because it was unpleasant didnât mean she would stop herself.
âIt seems likely he was thinking to protect you, as well as himself, and by extension, anyone he is allied with.â
Sparrow, too, reached over to the middle of the table, scooped up two, and then, three, pieces of rock sugar and plopped it into her teacup. Instead of stirring it like Amalia had, she merely let it sit and blew across the surface again. She'd always liked sweeter things in youthhood, and her preference, it seemed, still held into adulthood. She blew on it once more, snatched up the cup in her rough hands, and tipped it to her lips. A complex mixture, smoothly spiced and imbued with the expected bite of unmixed sweetness. It was softer than what she remembered. She supposed Amalia had perfected the taste over the years. Perhaps, it had been influenced, as much as she had, upon entering Kirkwall and meeting everyone she had come to know. There was a brief flicker of nostalgia... on choking on a particularly strong brew, finding it too spicy. The thought passed as everything usually did.
Her murky eyes narrowed over the rim of the cup, and thawed just as quickly when she settled the teacup back down. Orlais was an unopened oyster ripe for exploration. While she hadn't known specifically about their culture or how they functioned on a day-to-day basis, it was one place she'd considered exploring when she'd been alone. Back when she had no cares about how she fared in such foreign places. Back when she might've met everything with pure, unadulterated force, bullying her way through any resistance she may have met there. What was so different now? She played no games. She would hold Rilien back. He was protecting her. It made her feel sick. She pursed her lips, eyebrows pinched. âWhat does that matter? I can change, I would,â she hissed through her teeth, head bowed, âI won't live a life built on his sacrifices.â Damn Orlais and everyone in it.
âI never asked for that,â Sparrow's voice came quieter now, losing its edge. Wishing him the best on his journeys and parting ways, as if they'd been nothing but acquaintances, or a passing fancy easily forgotten. It was not a possibility she wished to entertain, so she did not. Her hands smoothed down across the table. Anger bit jumping muscles through her jawline, provoked her heart into ugly thumps. âWhat would you do? In my situation, what would you do if Ithilian told you he was leaving? For your own protection.â The implication was clear enough.
âHe wouldnât.â Amaliaâs words were immediate, clear, spoken with the weight of unshakeable belief. âThat is not a possibility that lies within the nature of our relationship.â It was the same kind of impossibility as a square circleâdefinitional, intrinsic. The way they protected one another was precisely the opposite. It always had been so, and for it to be otherwise would mean they had become something different to each other than they were. Amalia considered the rest of it though, and when she spoke, it was slowly, perhaps because she felt a bit ill-at-ease speculating on someone elseâs mindset.
âYou say you would change. Perhaps he doesnât want you to. What you would have to become⊠would you want to be that person?â Her brows drew together, and she took a sip of her tea. Mostly spice, but a hint of sugar. She hadnât recalled much liking the latter in the past. But everything could change, she supposed. Whether it should was another matter.
âHe didnât say youâd never see each other again, did he? Only that he had to leave? Those are not the same. Did you ask, or simply assume that he was intent on leaving you behind on a permanent basis?â Sparrow did have a habit of jumping to conclusions, thinking with her heart first and her head only afterwards, often when the damage was already done.
Once, Sparrow might have reacted similarly. Once, she might have had the same finality. Of course, he would not. She'd half expected Amalia's resolute response, spoken as quick as the question was raised. And she half yearned for something entirely differentâa deciding factor to direct her [/i]somewhere[/i]. What made them so different? Her gaze dropped back down to her hands. When you believed that someone's smile was a question you wanted to answer into infinity... how could it be? It was a two-sided affair that always felt permanent. She'd been no different. She said nothing in response, only settled her mouth into a tight line. Soft voice, hard eyes.
âYes,â Sparrow accidentally kicked the table, rattling her cup and nearly upending it. A small, fool's of a smile flickered on her face. An apology that couldn't quite leave her lips. Whether she truly meant it was another matter altogether. She fought changes with brutal, wrecked knuckles, and only came out on top when she had someone else to fight for. It was a possibility she was willing to consider, changing into someone she was not. Becoming unlike herself in order to maintain what they had. Who would keep her from making wrong choices? Who would keep her from drifting out to sea? For now, she was anchored. No one was immutable is what he'd said, hadn't he?
True enough, she hadn't asked. She'd pushed him, sputtered and ran. Hadn't listened to a word of explanation, nor had she expected one. There was finality, at least, in his words. A laugh escaped her, bubbled out. Short and cold. She levelled Amalia with a stare, eyebrows scrunched. She would not become a weak, vulnerable woman pining in Darktown's doorway, awaiting letters that may or may never arrive. She would not sit on the docks, growing tired and old, wondering when he would return. It was not in her nature. She'd assumed he meant permanently. It certainly felt that way. âHe would have said so,â She paused and sucked on her teeth. Leaving out important details, such as when he would return, was unheard of. Rilien would have made this journey clear to her. He would have assured her, but he hadn't.
âIf it's impossible for you to imagine,â Sparrow went on to say, âWhat more can I do? What can I say?â She leaned back in her chair and cocked her head to the side, studying Amalia's face. Once, she'd had more anchors then she wished to carry. Once, she'd let them go. âI won't stay here, when he leaves.â
Amalia drummed her fingers on the table, not out of impatience, but because she was thinking. âWhatever you do, make sure you understand first. Make sure you really understand him, and what his intentions are. Assume nothing, not when matters are this important to you.â Communication was essential; sheâd learned that much. Leaving too much unsaid was like leaving a wound open: eventually, it would all begin to fester and rot, and the mind would be able to think of nothing else. Endless useless speculation, impeding oneâs forward progress. âAnd make sure he really understands you. But once that is done⊠do what you want.â
A tiny smile flickered over Amaliaâs face. âWhen have you ever let anyone else decide what you do, anyway? You have wings, donât you? So fly. Just do not forget that there are places you can land for a while, when you grow weary.â Perhaps she could not figuratively live in Rilienâs world, but that didnât mean she couldnât literally pick up and travel to Orlais, if she wanted. Or somewhere else. Or nowhere at all. The future was open to her.
For once in her life, Sparrow listened. She didn't predispose what she thought she meant to say, and she didn't interrupt. Only sat quietly in her chair and accepted her observations, because she needed to hear them. Piecing out her own thoughts while staring heatedly at the ceiling had conjured no answers, and sulking alone would do nothing but bolster her irrational judgements. She wouldn't have admitted it, but she needed to talk to someone, and needed advice beyond allowing things to happen as they were. Inaction was not in her nature, either. She needed movement as much as she needed this.
When Amalia smiled, as quickly as it'd come and gone, Sparrow, too, found herself smiling. And then, she laughed. This time, it was warmer. That smile of hers was something she missed after all these years spent apartâand something she doubted she would see again, after all she'd done. Easy to miss, if she hadn't looked back down. Like Rilien, she did not feel as loudly as she did. Anchor or no, she would fly. Birds did not clip their wings willingly. In one swift motion, Sparrow scooped up the teacup, swallowed the rest of the tea and slapped it back down. Only a sliver of sugar remained on the bottom. She knuckled her nose and sniffed noisily, âYou're right, y'know. You often are. I'd almost forgotten that.â Manners. What were those? Ah.
âAnd Amalia,â Sparrow added, leaning forward with renewed energy. She planted her hand across hers, ceasing the drumming and flashed a crooked smile, âthanks for everything.â
âYou are welcome, Sparrow."