fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

[bellaknoti]

An AU to Wings of the Storm Crow

Title: Confidence (Chapter Nineteen)
Rating: AO (Caution: possible abuse/domestic violence triggers)
Pairing: Zev/Lily
Summary: If I can't keep my head together, this whole thing is going to go up in flames, with us in the middle of it. And maybe all our friends, as well. Wise and deadly Athena preserve us, make quick my mind and feet, give us a clear path out of this. Just one more day, right? I can pretend I know what I'm doing for one more day. Right. Then Zev'll be back with me, and I can stop guessing. Until then? One foot in front of the other. First item of business: don't get lost again.


scarylady is very awesome, and fixes all the injustices and horrible liberties I take with the language without even meaning to.




Alistair leans back in his chair, watching me carefully. His ankle is propped on one knee, elbow resting on the edge of the table, thumb under his chin and forefinger curled over his upper lip. I’m very carefully not looking at him while I pore over a map of the city, leaning over his desk across from him with my left palm flat to the table. I scrub at my eyes with my right wrist, tired as hell already after everything that’s happened today. This... has got to be one of the worst days of my life.

“Tell me what you’re up to, Lily,” he says, and it’s not a request, but I shake my head, leaning to the left so I can follow the lines of the streets off the Strada Rosa with my fingertip.

“You don’t want to know.” Alistair brings the flat of his hand down on the desk firmly, making me spring back at the sudden noise, heart in my throat. The look on his face turns my stomach to jelly, and I swallow. “Okay, maybe you do,” I say quickly, only a little bit breathless. “Sorry, I just--”

“You still act like you don’t trust me,” he says, and it’s almost a growl, so dark it makes me sit down abruptly on the chair behind me, open-mouthed. “How much do I have to give for you to believe in me?”

His hazel eyes bore into my heart and make my cheeks colour with shame. “Gods, Alistair, I’m sorry... That’s not my motivation at all, I swear. I hate that I’ve tangled you in all this; I’m just trying to spare you.”

He looks at me for a long moment, then shakes his head, chuckling softly. “Spare me. That’s good. That’s a good one.”

I hang my head. Damn me for an idiot. “Ugh, that’s not what I meant either. Look, can we just back up a minute? Here’s some truth for you: I’m in over my head so deep I’m drowning, and I don’t want to drag you down with me. How about that?”

“And that’s it? That’s just going to have to be good enough, is it?” he shoots back, and I sigh, grimacing and looking at my hands as the silence stretches on for a very uncomfortable moment.

“How secure is this room?” I finally ask, looking around at the walls, and Alistair sits up suddenly, all four legs of the chair coming down on the floor with a thump. “We better get Lels too, actually.”

“Anders, as well,” he says, already standing. “You stay here,” he says in his Warden Commander voice, pointing at me, and I blink.

“Oh-- Okay,” I acquiesce meekly, and it’s his turn to be stunned for a second, but then he smirks, shaking his head, and goes out. I stand up and work on the map again, trying to fix the shape of the city in my mind’s eye, all the main streets and the pattern of the parks, major landmarks and which streets lead back down to the docks. Most importantly, where the hell am I in relation to everywhere else?

After a short time, Alistair comes back with Anders and Lels, Ponka hot on their heels, and they all look at me expectantly. I swallow hard and take a deep breath. May as well jump in at the deep end. “Zev is going to take over the Crows,” I begin, to the shock of everyone in the room, then lay it all out for them, everything, including today’s letter, but not the fact that Ferrilin’s boy is Zev’s son, nor how we got to and from the meeting with Ignacio. Some of these secrets aren’t mine to tell. Through it all, Ponka looks from one to another of us, listening intently, and damned if he doesn’t seem to understand everything we’re saying. “I don’t know what the bit about the thief and the kitchen maids is, though, nor whether the gift I’m to bring is supposed to be deadly. I’ve been thinking I might need to talk to Enzo, because he’s the only Crow I know how to get a hold of,” I conclude.

In the moment of silence, as everyone chews it over, Ponka deliberately rises and sits down next to me, head high, and looks up at me, regarding me seriously. I drop my hand to his head, smiling at him. “Thank you.”

Alistair has been steadily glaring at his desk, hard enough that I’m surprised there aren’t two smoking holes in it. Anders leans against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, brow furrowed, and Leliana paces restlessly, gears clicking behind those shrewd blue eyes. “You didn’t understand the passage about the thief and the kitchen maids, did you,” she says flatly, not a question, and I look up, blinking.

“No... But you sound like you do.”

She pauses for a moment, eyes flicking to Alistair, considering what she wants to say, and then blind-sides me with the obvious. “Have you ever heard Gina and Serena chattering to each other about the Wardens?”

“Yeah, Gina likes--”

Enzo.

“Oh.”

Enzo, our messenger to and from Ignacio. Zev went out of his way to send me a message through someone else other than him.

“Shit.”

Enzo, who overheard the conversation Alistair and I had, the night he confronted me.

“Shit.”

“Indeed,” she replies dryly, and I smack my forehead with my palm. How did I not see this?

Ignacio confirmed that he’s a former Crow. Oh, which means that while Enzo was having me followed to the cafe, Zev followed him someplace, and oh, I bet he’s dead. Hah. Former Crow. Is there such a thing, really? Who better to have been in command of the abduction in the first place? And he knows who I am, which means that the Crows are not fooled by anything. Motherfucker. Oh gods, and that could mean they know that if one of us dies, we both die.

I can feel the hair raising on my head as my brain dumps another shot of adrenaline into me.

“Fuck.”

Oops, I said that out loud. Alistair’s eyebrows have been steadily climbing his forehead, and now he’s looking at me with something akin to the alarm I’m feeling.

Oh gods, this isn’t fantasy, this is real, oh gods, I hate this shit. There’s no save point, no going back and making a different choice so it goes properly, no starting the scene over if I die. No turning back. Oh Ares, Athena, protect us. Dizziness overtakes me and my stomach turns as I feel all the blood rush out of my head at once. I bend over from the waist and stick my head between my knees, trying to breathe.

“Whoa, Lily, are you okay?” Anders is at my side in an instant as I break out in a cold sweat, his light shining near my temple.

“Hmh,” I murmur, more of a whimper, really, and try to get control of myself. “Just-- Too much in one day. I left out the part where I was nearly raped and murdered by some asshole and his two friends down by the docks on my way back.” I laugh, shaky and half hysterical.

“What? How did that happen?” Alistair says, indignant and shocked, and I choke on another laugh.

“I’m a woman and I was by myself. How do you think it happened? I got lost, like a gods-damned amateur.” I sigh and sit up a little bit, the dizziness passing. Holding my head in my hands, elbows on my knees and fingers in my hair, I try to think past the thunder of blood in my ears. “Fuck. Okay. Someone’s going to have to go and check the place out, somehow.”

“I could do that,” Leliana says, and I look up at her. She is totally cool, knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s such a relief that someone does.

“Okay, okay good... find out as much as you can.”

Alistair leans forward, both forearms on the desk now. “Look, I may not be the smartest man in the room, but I can see that you and Leliana know something that nearly made you faint at the thought of it. You’re not that sort of woman, Lily, so what is it?”

“We’ve lost our element of surprise. The Crows know. Maybe everything.”

“What? How?”

“Double-agent,” I say, and when Alistair blinks, uncomprehending, I sigh again. “Ummm... Have you seen Enzo, since I left?”

He shakes his head. “Noooo... What’s Enzo got to do with anything?”

“Gina has a crush on him. The kitchen maid.” I swallow, then continue on, grim and matter-of-fact. “I expect we’ll find him dead somewhere, if we find him at all. No such thing as a living ‘former Crow’... Not even Zev,” I finish softly, more and more dread piling into my stomach. Surely I’ll reach a critical mass at some point, a place where the word ‘terror’ ceases to have any meaning, where I’ll be able to be as calm about this as he is. Then again, I’m beginning to think that he’s just better at hiding it than I am. “Oh man, I think I’m gonna be sick,” I say, hanging my head again, and I hear a rustling and a flutter of footsteps around me, and then a cool cloth pressed to the back of my neck.

“Hmm... Have you eaten today?” Leliana asks, and I really have to think.

“Um... The boys gave me a giant plate this morning as payment for grilling me about the broodmother.”

“And lunch?” she asks, archly, and I sigh.

“Coffee and biscotti,” I admit.

Leliana snorts, and Anders produces an apple from his satchel, presenting it in my field of vision. “Thanks,” I murmur as I sit up. The smell as it nears my nose makes my stomach cramp painfully and my mouth water all at once. I press a hand over my stomach, grimacing, waiting for it to pass, and swallow that black water; it’s almost as though my body can’t determine whether it wants to devour or purge. Closing my eyes, I force it to decide, and take a bite. Everything calms down after a moment, and then I feel a little more normal.

It’s strange how so much can depend on such a small thing. Eating is a hassle.

“No wonder the hunger hit you so hard,” Alistair murmurs, “You forget to eat.” He doesn’t mean my temporary faintness, he means the Warden hunger. I look up at him as my stomach clenches again, and I think maybe I know a shadow of it, from that constant gnaw when I was homeless. It sets a person on permanent edge. Another facet is added to the ways in which I respect this man.

“What do you want us to do?” Anders asks, an entirely reasonable question, one to which I have no firm answer.

“I... I really don’t know.” The apple is gone, nothing but a core in my hand, and I have no clear memory of eating it. “Clearly, I have to go. I don’t know what or whom to bring with me, what to say when I get there--”

“I can help with that part,” Leliana says. “You said he extended you an invitation. It has been some time since your arrival; it is entirely reasonable to say that you would have acquired a handmaid by now. Getting inside the house, where I might be able to converse with the servants, will be a good beginning, no?”

I nod. She speaks sense. There are a million things that will become clearer with a closer look at the house and its inhabitants.

“It’s not too late to go. I’ll leave at once,” she says, turning for the door.

“Lels,” I say, and she turns.

“Hmm?” I look up at her, at this woman with clear blue eyes, and she is intimidating as hell. Capable, strong, and a survivor of a war that I only watched happen, and now she’s putting her life on the line for us. Oh gods, I have no idea what I’m doing. The only thing I can do is keep running forward as fast as I can and hope I don’t hit a wall.

“Thanks.” I hope she can read in my eyes some of what I’m thinking, which is more than I’m able to say. She gives me a solemn nod, just one quick second of acknowledgement, and then her typical smile with a wink, before she is gone, leaving me with Anders and Alistair, and Ponka’s head heavy in my lap. “I don’t think I can make any more coherent plans until we have more information, honestly,” I admit.

“You’re over-exhausted and half-starved anyway,” Anders says cheerfully, and I give him a baleful look. He just grins at me, and I really can’t hold it. “You know I’m behind you, Lily, whatever the plan is going to be, but right now, you need to see to yourself for a minute, or you won’t be standing long enough to get there.”

I sigh, knowing he’s right, and resentful of the necessity. “I know, I know,” I bemoan, rubbing at my temples. I haven’t had a migraine in months, but it seems like one might be brewing now. “And thank you. I guess the next items on the agenda should be food and sleep.”

Anders and Alistair decide to come with me to the kitchens, and I can’t determine whether it’s because they’re hungry or if it’s to make sure I’m actually going to eat, but in either case, I’m glad of the company. I stuff myself full with an early dinner, talking of inconsequential things to take my mind off the screaming panic I’m trying really hard not to heed, bid them good night, and take a small cup of wine with me up to our room. Sitting heavily on the bench at the foot of the bed, I gaze dully out the window at the brilliant Antivan sky, so blue and innocent, arching over all the machinations and treachery below. It’s about an hour to sundown. If I take these powders that Anders gave me right now, I’ll be able to get up and move again around one or two a.m., which should give me plenty of time for night manoeuvres, if necessary.

I peel off my sandals and toss them aside. Examining my damaged toe, I determine that, although the nail is split, I’ll live. At least it isn’t broken. Before I can do anything else, Ponka licks it, effectively cleaning the blood off it. He looks up at me calmly, sort of matter-of-fact, and my protest dies on my lips, unspoken. Ah, hell. Maybe he knows something I don’t. At least he’s saved me the necessity of washing it off. Gross. Whatever.

Looking at the little piece of parchment, I read Anders’ instructions again: Place one packet under tongue for gradual effect. Swallow with water for delayed effect; dissolve in wine for immediate effect. Plan for 8 hours uninterrupted.

Well, here’s my wine. I dump the contents of one packet - there are two here - into my cup, tuck the other into the trunk, and crack the door open. “Ponka,” I say, turning to my dog, and he looks up, quirking an eyebrow. “I’m about to take some kind of medicine I’ve never had before. It’s going to make me sleep, and I might not be able to wake up if something happens, not until it’s going on third watch, so I’m leaving the door open just enough that you can get out and get help, if anything goes wrong.” He cocks his head, and I can’t help but smile at him, the way he grins, and I reach down to ruffle his ears. “You’re such a good dog,” I tell him fondly, and he barks once, short and sharp, in happy agreement.

He parks himself by the door, blocking it from opening any further, and squares himself, my loyal sentinel. Shrugging out of the belts that hold my dress on, I leave the puddle of fabric on the floor next to the bed, chug the bitter-flavoured wine, and crawl in. Pulling Zev’s pillow into my arms, I bury my face in it, smothering myself with his scent as I slip into unconsciousness.

.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.:o:.

My back is screaming with burning pain, and shifting doesn’t help it. Stirring, I wake to see the familiar sight of my shop door. Sitting up on the hard bench, looking around, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I am truly a frightening spectre. My cheeks are gaunt, my hair a terrifyingly wild tangle. I look exhausted, pale, worn thin. I’m wearing nothing but a nightgown. Looking around my shop, I see that there are drawings and writing all over the walls in pencil.

Oh gods, how long have I been here?

A small pile of papers and three pencils lay on my table, and I haul myself to my feet, shocked at how weak I feel. Tottering over to it, I look down, and see the frenzied scribblings of someone entirely unhinged. I am horrified by what I read, pages upon pages, detailing everything that I’ve been doing in Antiva. I flip through them impatiently, and read the last lines on the last page. “I curl around the pillow, wrapping my arms tightly around it, hoping against hope that perhaps tomorrow, my husband will be returned to me, and I will not have to sleep alone again, waiting for that moment when he wraps his arms around me, that illusion of safety that only comes when he is near me.” Every moment. Oh gods. I drop it like it might burn me, backing away from the table.

I look at my hands. My nails have grown long, and there is an angry red weal on my right ring finger, where my pencil rests. Looking at myself through the neckline of my gown, I see that I have dropped weight rapidly, my skin hanging loose in a decidedly unhealthy way, grown a waxy sort of yellow from imprisonment behind shuttered doors and windows, without sunlight. With a feeling of sick dread, I look back up at my reflection, and go closer to the mirror to examine my face, my teeth. Could I have scurvy? I feel like shit.

My face is lined, and shadowed with bruises both old and new, but at least I’m clean, and closer to the sink, I can see that I’ve got some soap. Hmmm... at least I haven’t been eating it... right? I pull my sleeves up to check my arms, and find multiple finger-print bruises on them. Lifting the hem of my nightgown, I see that my legs are no better. In all honesty, I’m afraid to look at my back.

My breath fogs the mirror and I lean back, waiting for it to fade. All of it dissipates, save for a hand-print, which remains there, perfectly shaped, even showing the lines of palm and fingers. Reaching out, I brush a fingertip across the fog, and it doesn’t wipe away. Matching my left hand up to it, I find that both palm and fingers are slightly longer and wider than mine. It’s someone’s right hand, but it’s not mine. What the hell? The glass grows warm beneath my hand, and I lean closer, and closer still. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I get right up to the glass and peer into it, like I would if it were a two-way mirror. Beyond the darkness of my own face, something flickers, a movement, another pair of eyes that definitely do not look anything like mine, and I jump, scrambling backward, heart in my throat.

I’m still standing there staring at my own frightened reflection when the locks on the door begin to rattle, distracting me. My eyes immediately light on the papers, my scribblings. Quickly, before Tommy can finish opening the door, I take the papers and stuff them in the gap above the table drawer. I have no idea if there’s anything else up there, and I don’t have time to check. I barely get the drawer closed in time. Tommy stops in the doorway, holding a plate with a sandwich on it, and looks at me, momentarily surprised.

“You’re awake!” The way he says this does not bode well.

“Uh... yeah...?” Clearly I haven’t been exactly present lately. “What... What’s going on?” I ask, not liking how thin and nervous my voice is. I steal a glance at the mirror, but the hand print has gone. I wonder if it was ever actually there at all. Tommy catches the direction of my gaze, looks at our reflections in the mirror, then back to me.

“Are you still having problems with the mirror?” he asks, moving further into the room, though I notice that he still keeps himself between me and the door. It gives me a little bit of heart that I’ve still been fighting, apparently, even though I haven’t really... been here, exactly. What has he been feeding me?

I swallow. “I hate mirrors, Tommy, you know that.”

His eyebrows raise; I’ve surprised him again. “You know who I am today!” What can I say to that? I don’t want to admit too much ignorance.

“Uh... Yeah.” I run my fingers through my hair self-consciously, with eyes now for nothing but the sandwich he is putting on the table, as my stomach clenches with hunger.

“Are you going to eat?” he asks, watching me carefully, and I look up, blinking.

“Uh... that was the plan...” I agree cautiously, not liking it at all when he looks relieved by the answer. Tommy holds his hands out, empty, as he approaches me, like one would a frightened animal. There’s nowhere for me to go, cornered like I am, so all I can do is let him close in and put his hands on me. He pulls me into a hug, wrapping his arms around me and picking me up off the floor as he buries his face in my shoulder. I repress a shudder as my body reacts with a loathing so complete I can taste it, and I try not to gag.

“I miss you, Lily,” he whispers, voice kind of choked, and there’s nothing coherent I can say to that, either, that wouldn’t get me hurt, so I settle for a whimper as a reply. Opening my eyes, trying to focus on something else until he lets go of me, I end up looking at our reflection in the mirror, my face so tiny above his shoulder. Tommy continues to whisper meaningless things into my hair, all about how much he loves me and how he’s doing all this for me, and how much it hurts him, blahbitty blahbitty blah. I’ve heard these platitudes so often, I can say them in my sleep, so I just hang there, letting him natter on, staring sightlessly at the mirror.

Well, almost sightlessly. I’ll never trust those things. As I stare at the reflection of my table, the space I was standing in when I saw the hand print, I see it ripple, like a flag in a breeze. Tommy feels me stiffen and thinks it’s due to whatever he was saying just now, because he draws back, looking into my eyes, both confused and sort of hopeful.

“You don’t like that idea?” he asks, and I just agree; whatever it is, I don’t like it on principle, just because it’s his idea. I should’ve been listening, since the next thing he does is kiss me heatedly, surprising the hell out of me, and as my brain catches up, I realize that he’d been talking about how scared he was that we’d never get to be together again.

Fuck.

I do my best to react the way he wants me to, thinking that maybe if I can get him to take me into the house, I’ll have a better chance of escaping. I can feel his... need for me growing against my thigh, and I suddenly have a very clear picture of where this is going to go. At this point, he thinks I’ve agreed, so I can’t back out now; I’ll have to put on a performance. I wrap my arms around his shoulders as he begins to put his hands all over me, clinging for dear life and hoping I can keep myself steady long enough to get through this, and all the while, I watch our reflection as it continues to do strange things, rippling and distorting, moving back and forth. As he lays me on the table, I realize that the movement is man-shaped and pacing, not so much see-through as bending reality around himself, like Predator’s camouflage.

My preoccupation doesn’t escape Tommy’s notice, and he looks at our reflection, too, but he doesn’t seem to see what I do... which just goes to prove that I probably am crazy. I mean, what the fuck, doors to Narnia don’t actually exist. There is just one psycho fangirl who’s gone off the deep end, and her abusive boyfriend who has locked her in the shop to keep her from running around naked in the streets. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs with a dark smile that makes my stomach turn, but I give him a giggle because it’s what he wants, and it lets me keep watching the mirror, which is something I’ve never wanted to do before.

I definitely don’t want to be watching or thinking about what Tommy’s about to be doing, but I can’t really help it, not if I want to keep an eye on the man in the mirror. Like one of those “Magic Eye” stereogram things, now that I’ve seen him, he’s getting clearer, so long as I don’t look away. I can see the shape of his face now, and the fingers on his hands.

Tommy continues to fumble and grope at me, and I let my hands just wander around as my gown slowly rises. I can feel my heart hammering in my chest, and try to squash down the sudden wild panic. I don’t want him to touch me, but I don’t see how I have any choice. I could fight, let him bruise me some more, turn it into violent rape, or submit, let him think that I like what’s going on, and it won’t hurt. Whoever that man is, I don’t want him to see me like this.

Gods, I must be crazy. I believe there’s a man in the mirror.

The man’s pacing becomes more and more agitated as Tommy’s actions progress, and as he readies himself, the man stops pacing abruptly and grows larger, striding toward the glass. Scary! Against my better judgement, I close my eyes, not wanting to give anything away. Things need to get better, not worse. I can’t show anything that might feed into Tommy’s belief that I’m crazy. He might be right, but I’m lucid enough right now to know that what’s going on here isn’t sane or safe, either. If I am crazy, and it looks like I might be, then I need an institution, not this. Oh gods, not this.

Daring to look at the mirror again, I can see the man standing there, hands pressed to the glass, making foggy prints. I search out his eyes, find that piercing blue that frightened me away in the first place, and I see the moment he knows I’m looking at him, as he abruptly shifts toward me, like he would come through the barrier if he could. I hold his gaze steadily, as he holds mine, and there is a peace there, a release of sorts from what is happening. Dissociation? Probably. Also possible I’m hallucinating from whatever drugs Tommy has been feeding me, I could be sick... Who knows. What I can say is, the eyes I’m looking into right now are far kinder than the ones above me.

As Tommy shoves himself within me, the man in the glass raises his hand, stroking his fingers down it, as though he would caress me himself. It is through him, the distraction he provides in the calm, unwavering weight of his gaze, that it becomes bearable, that I am able to simply let it ride. The man steps back as Tommy gains his completion, his hand prints fading from the glass, though I can still see him. I tear myself away, closing my eyes and turning my face as Tommy gathers me up in his arms, whispering something. I don’t even care anymore. I hold him and pet his hair, let him lay his head on my breast, and try really hard not to think about the fact that he just barebacked me and I don’t know when or if I’ve taken any of my birth control pills recently. Probably not.

Don’t think about it.

Eventually, Tommy pulls himself away from me and puts himself back together. “Can I come inside?” I ask meekly, and he pauses, slowing as he finishes buttoning his pants. I blink, my brow furrowing. Buttons? Since when does Tommy wear button-fly jeans?

“Hmm...” he says, chewing his lower lip. “I want to say yes, but it’s only one afternoon, Lily. We can’t take that kind of chance, yet. You have to be like this for a few more days.” He comes forward again, touches my hair affectionately, and I have to fight not to ball my hands up, to smile up at him, to show nothing but understanding, patience, and love.

“Okay,” I say, simply. “Can I have a hairbrush?”

He gives me that smirky smile that used to make me giggle, but now it just turns my stomach, and I have to smile back. “Sure... I’ll bring it in when I come back next. Anything else?” he asks, but the edge creeping into his eyes tells me that I’d better make it a good one if I do take him up on it.

“Uh... Well... Maybe some more paper, but... Other than that, no...” I say, averting my gaze as he snorts, his mood instantly cooling from jovial to bitter.

“Sure. More paper.” He makes a disgusted little click of a sigh in the back of his throat, and then he is out the door with a bang, locks rattling on the other side. I listen carefully, waiting to hear his footsteps recede, then I rush over to the sink, clamber up into it, and turn on the tap, washing frantically. I don’t think anything could ever make me feel clean again.

It is as I finish this that I remember the man with the blue eyes, and look up, the water still falling over my toes. He is standing just on the other side of the glass, right next to me. I find his eyes again as my fingers automatically turn off the tap, and he holds up his hand; when I press my palm to his, the glass is warm.

I blink, startled, and his gaze is level, serious, as I put my other hand up, and he meets me, a moment later. I feel the change in temperature when his hand lines up with mine, and gasp, surprised. Can hallucinations be tactile, too? Fuck, I don’t know. The little bit of acid I took as a teenager didn’t really prepare me for this. I feel lucid; I always knew before when I wasn’t, but such things can creep on a person and if I’ve been fed a bunch of drugs, what perceptions can I trust? Climbing down out of the sink, my feet make wet prints across the floor.

The man and I pace back and forth, looking at each other, trying to touch, to reach, always coming up against that cold barrier... much like I described my experience of Thedas to Zev. I look at those eyes again and again, trying to determine whose they might be, but that pale ice blue just doesn’t match anyone I know. Eventually the gnawing hunger becomes too much for me, and so, drugged though it undoubtedly is, I have to eat the food that Tommy left me. I sit down with the plate, next to the mirror, and after a moment, the man drops down to the ground on the other side, sitting across from me. I put the plate and cup between us, looking at him carefully.

“Can you hear me?” I ask, my voice quiet and nervous in the still air of my shop. He cocks his head, and I put my hand to the glass again. “Can you hear me?” I ask once more, a little more steadily, and after a moment, he shakes his head, no. Sighing, I sit back, shaking my own head. I look down at the sandwich, then back up at him, as he regards me steadily, no doubt wondering what I’m going to do next. I point to the plate and the cup, then mime eating it and passing out, falling to the side in an apparent faint.

Opening my eyes again, I look up to find the man on his feet, pacing, agitated. He stops across from me, hands on his hips, and he gestures at the food, makes a throwing gesture. I sigh and press a hand to my stomach, grimacing. He runs his hand through his hair, agitated, paces some more, but there’s nothing to be done. He can’t save me, and neither can I. Eventually, I have to pick up the sandwich. When he sees me do it, he stops, coming over to me quickly, crouching down so that his whole side leans against the glass, creating a fog in the shape of his body. I scoot closer, moulding myself to the shape of him, and I swear the glass is warmer where he touches it. I can feel him, and his presence is a comfort to me, as I eat this drugged food, and after a few minutes, where I look into his eyes, as close to him as I am able to get, I do indeed pass out.

Sleep is no respite. I wake again, my back a screaming riot. I should know better. Sitting on the floor is agony, laying on it much worse, but I couldn’t do anything else at the time, and now I’m paying for it. I look up, almost as helpless as an overturned turtle, to find the man still sitting there, watching over me. I reach out, immediately, and his hand is there, pressing to the glass on the other side, a reassuring warmth against my fingertips.

Gods, I must be crazy.

Eventually, I manage to pry my recalcitrant body off the floor, climbing the table leg until I can haul myself upright. By the time I’m finally under my own power, I’m shaking and sweating, every bit of cartilage in my back screaming white hot agony, my head pounding like taiko drums. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to scream. Eventually, I manage to recover my breath enough to turn around, and the man is standing there, hovering, both hands pressed to the mirror, forearms making long stripes of fog, his forehead making another oval between them. With his shoulders slumped, he looks defeated, and half-heartedly thumps his fist against the glass, making it thud hollowly.

Wait, do hallucinations carry auditory components? I don’t remember.

Occam’s Razor clearly indicates that this is the drugs talking, though.

Strange... All my lifelong fear of mirrors, and suddenly I invent a friend in one? Doesn’t quite make sense... But drugs do strange things to our heads.

Staggering over to the make-shift bed, I collapse upon it, finding it only moderately softer than the floor, and moan with the ache of it.

For three more days, as far as I can tell, this becomes my pattern. Tommy brings me three meals a day, corners me again, and begins to treat me with some measure of affection. I am entrusted with my hairbrush, which is a relief, and then rewarded for good behaviour with a trip into the house for an actual shower. I have to pay for this with physical favours, but at least I get to stand under the hot spray, which relaxes a lot of the tense muscles in my upper back, even if it can’t do much for the lower half. I even manage to finagle myself a few cushions for my little pallet, to make it easier to inhabit. He tells me every day how much I am improving, how much he loves that I’m making peace with the mirror, with my reflection.

I have no idea how to respond to these comments, so I just smile and nod, and bide.

Meanwhile, the man becomes more and more solid, more and more visible. On the third afternoon, when I’ve woken from the drug-induced coma, I look up at him, and I realise I can see his face. I do know him, but it only confuses me more.

“Tamlen?” Why on earth would I make up Tamlen, of all people? I’d have thought it would be Zev. Even Alistair. But Tamlen?

I stare at him in sheer bafflement, looking him up and down, and I can see him mouth my name, coming over to the glass again and putting his hands to it. Despair grips me hard, and I look at him despondently. He leans forward, fogging the glass with his breath, and writes two words: “main era”. I stare at him, uncomprehending, as the mist fades, he looks so sad. He writes it again, and I try to understand what he’s telling me, but it doesn’t make any sense.

Main era? Is he talking about now? Synonyms... primary, central, major... time, generation, epoch... This isn’t helping. I start pacing, and he strikes the mirror, harder, making me jump, making me look back at him again. Impatiently, he fogs the glass. “main era.” He points at his words as they fade, urgently. I shrug, spreading my hands, no idea what he’s trying to tell me.

Tamlen puts a hand over his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and I draw closer, putting my hand up, warming the mirror, fogging it on my side. He looks up, presses his hand to mine, rests his forehead against the glass again, and I copy him, feeling the warmth of his face against my own. A heavy sigh, by the way his shoulders lift and drop, fogs the mirror on his side. After a moment, he looks at me once more, those blue eyes piercing mine, and steps back. One more time, he breathes a patch to write in, but this time, he writes “vir adahlen”.

I feel my jaw drop. He’s been writing in Elvish. Elvish! It’s not “main era”, it’s “ma in era” - “You’re in a dream.”

I stare at him, dumbfounded for a second while that sinks in. Tamlen - not someone I would make up, and writing in Elvish, something I’ve nearly forgotten about while trying to learn Antivan as fast as I can... Wait a minute. This is the dream. This is a dream. I’m dreaming! It starts to occur to me, all the things that are not quite right. Tommy’s button-fly jeans. The lack of his constant justifications. How the hell did I get here in the first place? Dragged senseless off the beach, but standing up in front of the fire? Why have I never heard Wanderer meowing around the door? Where is the smell of salt water? Nolan.

All these things flash through my mind in the blink of an eye, and it’s like shaking off a heavy stupor. Spinning, quickly scanning the room from that point of view, I can see so many small details that aren’t right. Little things that only I would know to look for, if I were paying attention, like the knothole in the beam across the top of the sink that looks like a duck. It’s not there. In fact, the roof isn’t exactly entirely solid. It looks like someone got it with the smudge tool. ‘Cause no one ever thinks to look up, of course... Turning my head too quickly, I catch the blur at the corner of my eye.

This is a prison of my own making!

In that case...

I turn back to Tamlen. Mirrors.

Fuck mirrors.

If this is the Fade, I can do whatever the fuck I want, if I have enough willpower for it, right? And I’ve got a tattoo, given to me by a woman with tremendous power, that might help me here, give me a light in the dark. I look down at myself, pulling my nightgown away from my side, and see the lines that curl down my ribs and swirl over my hip. No. I’m not crazy.

Oh my gods, I’m not crazy.

D&D logic: once you know you’re facing an illusion, you can roll to disbelieve. I close my eyes, and I simply do not believe in this place. Thedas fairy tale rules: I think about the trip through Kinloch, rescuing Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana from their dreams, and how they had to be convinced before they could see through it. Putting my hands out toward where the mirror was - for I have now decided that it should no longer be there, if I’m not looking at it - I walk forward purposefully, with the full intention of simply grabbing Tamlen.

“Lily!” My name, barked behind me in Tommy’s voice makes me jump, at the same time that a softer, different voice says it, in front of me. I open my eyes as hands close around mine, pulling me forward, into the arms of an elf I’ve technically never met before, but who is looking at me with an intimacy that makes a small bird take wing and flutter frantically behind my breast. No time for that, though, as Tommy stalks toward me. He can’t have just appeared; I never even heard the locks. And besides, there’s no mirror anymore, either. On this side of the wall, there’s just the sketchy impression of sand, like a poor backdrop, a two-dimensional set.

Oh shit, that means Tommy’s a--

“Run!” Tamlen says, pushing me behind him in the next instant. He pulls his bow down over his shoulder and takes aim at Tommy, keen hunter’s eye measuring the goal with ease and precision. I don’t stop to watch, much as I wish I could. I’ve learned that when someone with that kind of capable eye tells you to do something in a crisis, you bloody well do it. I’ve also learned that when you run, you don’t look back, you watch where you’re going. If you’re still running when they’re not behind you, that’s okay, but if you stop at the wrong moment, you’re dead.

So I leg it.

There are strange twisting paths all over the place, and I recognize the lyrium ferns, though there’s no way that pixels could ever have done them justice. They glow like fractal fireflies. It doesn’t take long for a second pair of feet to overtake me; Tamlen runs up on my side, seizes my wrist, and tugs me on after him.

Dream logic: just like following Nolan, I let everything blur past us, keeping my eyes on the ground. I now realize that when Nolan taught me to do this, he was making sure that he was the one controlling our destination. When we stop, I look up to find we are standing in the middle of a stand of birch, their yellow leaves raining down like feathers and carpeting the ground.

“El reth’an sahlin, melanaen, lethallan,” Tamlen says, and realize I’d forgotten how soft the burr of his voice was. I’ve also forgotten too much Elvish. We’re safe here, for now. True enough. The moment we’ve stopped, he is standing close to me, invading my space, nearly chest-to-chest, his hand rising to trace lines over my forehead, down my cheek, lines that aren’t there, have never actually been there. “Na vallaslin’din... Ma tu’dar da’len,” he says, laughing softly, and I blush, in spite of myself. Of course, he would never have seen Lily Mahariel without her ink as an adult; my naked face would remind him of their childhood. “U’araval na’din, sa’nehn. Ar ma’isala mana. Uth. Sahlin.”

I can feel my eyes grow wider and wider as he whispers this fierce stream of Elvish, calling me his ‘one joy’, and before I really have the time to process the fact that he’s telling me he’s been waiting forever to find me again, he closes the slight distance between us and lays a very heated kiss on me that curls my toes. I can feel the intense desire in him as he holds me like he’s always known me, fitting his body against mine in a certain, confident way that leaves me breathless. No one but Zev has ever pressed to me quite like this, and it stuns me to silence, my body reacting under the hands of someone who clearly knows how to touch it. He provokes me to a whimper with the way his hands travel up my sides, before I’m able to draw back.

I look at him, searching his face, looking for all the things that Lily Mahariel would have seen, all those long years growing up with him in the wilds of the Brecilian Forest, and I know why she was pulled to him. I can see it in the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his arms, echoes of the things that draw me to Zev, all the grace and power of a stalking cat. I can see it in his eyes, how he misses nothing, how he seems to see straight through me. Oh, the hunter. He reaches up, cupping my cheek in his palm, thumb crossing my cheekbone.

“Do you remember this place?” he asks, and I look around, racking my brain, trying to remember what I wrote about Lily Mahariel’s origin. What gives it away at last is the hillside.

“The journal,” I breathe, and he nods.

“I caught you,” he whispers, kissing me again, and this time I don’t fight it. This man deserves more than just a kiss from me, considering all the detail I wrote into their backstory. As he draws back, his gaze has gained some darkness to its weight, and before I can say anything, he beats me to the punch.

“Su melava? U shem’alas? Tu’din shem’din?” he asks, and they’re fair questions. How did I come to be alone with a dirtbag like Tommy? Why didn’t I kill him?

I shrug awkwardly. “Elvarel’era,” I tell him, casting my eyes down, not really wanting to have to explain all this again to the ghost of a man who loved a woman that I never truly was. It’s a long story.

He puts his thumb under my chin, tilting my face back up, making me look at him again, and this is the moment when I realize he’s still got his arm around me, still holding me quite close. I am pinned by his gaze from inches apart, and he is so direct and no-nonsense that all my protests die unspoken. “Dirth. Tell me all of it,” he says, utterly calm, entirely serious, and what else can I do? I’m still not awake.

Standing there in the middle of a dream of the Brecilian, in the arms of a man who loved me before I even really knew who I was, I tell Tamlen everything I know about their story, as cleanly as possible. I don’t know where Lily Mahariel really is, so I just skip over that part, but he is far too keen for that. He doesn’t let me get away with anything.

“All of it, Lily. It’s far too late for hiding and lies,” he says, and I hesitate, but he’s right. What use do the dead have for being protected? I tell him the rest, including Tommy, me drowning, Zev, and the random times I end up speaking Elvish. Through it all, he stands there with me, never flinching, letting go or slackening his hold once, stomach to stomach. When I reach the part where I confess that I’m not Lily Mahariel at all, and move to step back, he pulls me forward again, twines his fingers with mine, and shakes his head. “Nae. Dar emm’asha,” he murmurs, entirely sure of himself, making me blush again. Clearly there’s no doubt in his mind that I’m his woman. “How could I have found you, otherwise?” I open my mouth to reply, but I’ve got no answer, and he laughs, not unkindly, brushing a strand of my hair back behind my ear.

“But... I’m a shem,” I admit, helplessly. How could this man, of all people, find that okay?

He simply shrugs. “You are Lily.” As though that answers everything. Perhaps for him, it does. “You have... bonded, though,” he says, face falling a bit, and after a moment, I nod. “With a man who will keep you on the edge of danger, lethallan,” he adds, and I bite my lip. Not again, not another lecture. His thumb strokes over my lower lip, and he looks so sad. “Dirthamen make silent your secrets; Mythal keep your blades sharp and your feet quick, my Lily.”

This sounds like a goodbye. “I think the other part of me is still here, somewhere. I can feel it, sometimes. Things I shouldn’t have any clear memory of, ways of moving or things I say by accident...”

“Your spirit isn’t whole yet,” he says, and I blink, entirely taken by surprise. I’ve been using that as an analogy, that ‘half my soul was burned away’, as a way to explain it. Could it be more than just this reality trying to impose her personality on me? Could it be that there is actually another piece of soul out there, waiting for me to find it and make myself ‘whole’, by fairy tale logic?

I stare at him, at a loss. “Y’think?” He arches an eyebrow, not exactly sure what I’m trying to say, and I laugh softly. “If you couldn’t find it, how can I?”

He shrugs a shoulder. “Na vhenan ven’vir arla,” he says. Hah. My heart will find its way home. Sure. My sarcasm dies unspoken as I meet his calm, entirely unconcerned gaze. Maybe he knows something I don’t.

One could hope, right?

“Thank you,” I whisper, and he smiles.

“Melana’then, sahlin, emm’asha,” he says, and kisses me once more. Time to wake up?

“How--” I begin, but the next thing I’m aware of is a cold, white light, blinding me, surrounded by darkness, and Anders’ voice, uncharacteristically barking in Antivan, followed by the sound of several pairs of booted feet retreating. “Anders?” I ask, trying to figure out what’s going on, and I don’t like at all how slurred my voice is. “Wha--?”

“I’m here, Lily,” he says, his face swimming into view, but I can barely make him out. He pats my cheek, and the coldness of the light intensifies as I reel. “It’s not working,” he says to someone over his shoulder, and then, “Try to stay awake,” to me, but the darkness is pulling me down again.

“No-- No--” I start, panicked, trying to hang on to him, but my arms, my hands, they won’t work properly, and my tongue is thick in my mouth.

“We’re losing her,” someone says, and I can feel my eyes rolling up in my head.

“There’s something--” Anders says, frustrated, and the light recedes. I can feel fumbling about the blankets next to me, and then he growls. “I should have known,” he mutters. “She’s got--”

“Lily!” Tommy’s voice. My eyes are gritty. He’s shaking me, bruising my arms; I tighten my jaw to stop from biting my tongue. I flail, try to push him back, but there’s no escape. “Lily, my god, I thought I lost you.” My eyes finally focus as I pry them open.

“What the fuck?” I blurt, blinking, staring at him. His face falls.

“I thought we were really making some progress,” he says, shaking his head sadly. Leaning forward, he reaches up and brushes the hair out of my eyes, tucking it behind both ears. “What will it take for you to let me in, Lily? Just let me in. I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.”




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