peopleofthedas | fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

An AU to Wings of the Storm Crow

Title: One Day Like This (Chapter Twenty-Four)
Rating: AO
Pairing:
Summary: I remember a song from home by Tori Amos called “Pretty Good Year”. Hold on to nothing, as fast as you can she sang; this could be my theme song.

Warning: Possible mild trigger at the top of the page for abuse.

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

I’ve been captured again. There is blood everywhere. Things are dark and hazy, I can barely feel anything outside of a constant, wracking pain that washes over me in sickening waves. Nearby, someone is moaning in agony, and it takes me a moment before I realize I know that voice. It’s Zev. I turn my head, see him hanging in chains, dripping and tattered. My heart, oh my heart, and I can’t stop them. The figures gather around us, around him, hurting him again and again, and I have to watch as he cries out from it, crying for me.

“No!” I scream, but my voice is hoarse. “No! Stop! I’ll do anything, anything, just stop! No more, please!” I dissolve into incoherent begging, sobbing for the way he’s been treated.

“You can’t protect him now,” someone whispers. I turn my head to look, and it’s Tommy, he’s the one who’s been hurting us, he’s going to take Zev away from me, kill him, and kill me at the same time, because he can, because he wants to hurt me. He comes closer, leering, knife in hand and covered in blood up to his elbows. “Trying to take things you haven’t any right to. I’ll show you what happens to whores,” he says, and the knife descends between my legs, even as I scream, and I can’t move because something is holding me down. The knife sears into my flesh as he rams it home with vicious ferocity, and I scream again, a mortal cry. The pain--!

I sit bolt upright, strange shapes hulking in the darkness, sweating and confused, still screaming. I try to catch my breath, try to remember where I am, my heart hammering in my chest as I skitter across the bed, and then there is a pounding on the door, making me shriek again and fall to the floor.

“Lily!”

I gasp, the sound of that voice pulling me immediately scrambling toward it, to dash across the room and yank the door open. Ponka comes barrelling through, pulling the door from my hand as he shoulders it out of the way and Alistair stands there on the threshold, looking worried, but I only have a moment to register these things before I simply continue hurtling forward, fetching up against his chest and wrapping my arms around his waist tightly.

I’m trembling, my breath coming in gasping heaves as the blood thunders in my ears, adrenaline still coursing through me. I feel him lean toward the wall, hear a slight sound of metal against stone, then his arms come around me, folding me in warmth and strength as I whimper, trying to get a grip.

Because of one nightmare or another, a scene like this has played itself out two or three times a week, every week, for the last year since I lost Zevran, except for tonight. Tonight, the dream was exponentially worse, and I’ve actually thrown myself into Alistair’s arms. Now he’s laid his sword aside to run his hands up and down my back soothingly. “Shhh... Whatever it was, it was just a dream,” he murmurs softly. “You’re safe... I’ve got you...”

I take deep breaths, finally managing to stop shaking quite so much, and open my eyes. Dawn is just now greying through the windows, and I can smell jasmine in the air; it’s the same time of year as That Night. The smell of jasmine will never mean the same thing to me again. Gods, no wonder I was dreaming about it. The next thing I’m aware of is that my cheek is pressed directly to his skin, and I can hear his heart beating rather hard. Alistair and I, between us, have one full set of clothing: he’s wearing breeches, and I’m only wearing my flannel, which, since it’s big on me now, covers my butt when I’m just standing around. With my arms around his waist, however, it isn’t covered by half, and I take a moment to be grateful that I’m actually wearing panties as I step back, suddenly extremely self-conscious, and he lets me go, though I can feel the reluctance in him, his hands sliding around my waist. I cover my mouth with my sleeve-cuff, and the heat in my face tells me it’s bright flaming red. It doesn’t escape my notice how large his hands are compared to my waist.

“Uh.” I cough, clearing my throat. “Sorry...” I realize I’m staring at his stomach, and my eyes careen away to look down the hall, then at my toes. He’s barefoot, too. I must have dragged him out of bed. His hand raises in my peripheral, and I close my eyes so I won’t flinch when he slides his fingers into my hair, pulling it away from the side of my face and tucking it over my ear, then look up at him, trying to skip seeing the part in between. Too much skin. Not safe.

“Stop apologising,” he says, voice still quiet. His thumb strokes softly across my cheekbone, just once, then he swallows, hand falling away. “I’m glad you’re all right.” His voice has returned to its normal tone, and I try on a tremulous smile.

“Uh... Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little shaky.” I shiver, giving the lie to my bravado, but he lets it pass. He knows. “Uhm... I have to... get dressed and stuff. I should probably get a jump on the day, y’know...” I say, gesturing vaguely over my shoulder. He nods, picking up his sword again, and I watch his shoulders flex as he carries it, easily as I do a hammer, but I know that the thing is so heavy, I can only lift it with both hands.

I don’t realize I’m still staring at him until he straightens and catches me at it, the weight of his gaze pinning me there like a startled hare. He knows. He knows that he gives me issues, and I know I give him issues, too. There’s always this strain between us.

He told me one night over chess that now he’s met me, some of the things Mahariel said make a little more sense. He overheard a conversation I wrote for Zevran and me, after the Return to Ostagar mission. I was talking about pain and fear, how I hated feeling weak and helpless, and how I’d never felt any kind of safety.

Alistair just shook his head. “That didn’t make any sense, because she was strong. She was never helpless; she always knew what she was about, especially in battle. She charged through the attack on the tower with a single-minded drive I’d never seen on anyone else. And... it didn’t match with what she said about her childhood. She was safe, with her clan. There were lots of little things like that, things that just didn’t quite... match. But I left it alone, because there were other things to do, and... she’d pushed me away.”

The look he gave me then was hard to swallow, so direct, and I realize he’d been paying a kind of attention to the things I said that no one else was, not even me. I didn’t realize how some of the things I put in there as dialogue didn’t mesh with her character... and even some of the things she did. The dress designs in Orzammar - Leliana showed them to me, and even though I didn’t have any hand in them, Lily Mahariel was drawing Pre-Raphaelite and Grecian designs. At some point, I must have been thinking about it, even if I didn’t put it down on paper, and it happened.

“Lily,” he says, softly. I realize abruptly that I’ve just been standing here, staring at him, thinking all these things in a an instant, and blink, feeling the blood rush to my face. He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath, and gives me a smirk, a little bit knowing around the edges. “Don’t forget to eat.” He turns, strolling back down the hall, whistling, leaving me there to writhe around in my own skin.

Ponka sits proud guard right in the centre of the bed when I turn around; I laugh and he grins, tongue flopping out. I shut the door and get dressed by the uncertain light filtering through the window, my hands still shaking.

A year. It’s already been a year.

His loss ceased to cut me as spring wore into summer, as I focused on just trying to survive the heat and keep working at the same time. As the summer pushed into fall, I met with a keen-eyed smith that Wade sent us, Donal. He’s been a constant source of ideas and innovation, and the shop that is now understood to be shared between myself and Brizio turns out unparalleled work. He was particularly interested in my ruler; suddenly having a consistent unit of measure that could be reliably transferred from person to person, and from piece to piece, has tightened up everything, and made our jobs a lot easier.

I introduced Alistair, Anders, and Leliana to chess, and pretty soon I had requests for sets to take down to the Warden hall, so in between projects I turned out four basic sets with painted boards. Not like the one I ultimately made just for Alistair. That one has an inlaid board with two different woods for the squares and a third for the frame, and each piece was individually carved into unique figures. The spring court is stained honey coloured, all of them in flowing garb that hangs and drapes gracefully, and their warriors are sort of Spartan-ish. Their queen and king are kind of icy in their beauty, and lean from the winter. The fall court are dark cherry, and wear more voluminous garb with decorative trim and fitted waists, and their warriors are more formal knights. Their king and queen look kinder, and are a little rounder from the harvest. All the knights have sword and shield, and all of the pieces, every single one, has a different face, is a different person.

I... may have gone a little overboard.

I try not to examine that too closely.

I wanted Anders to like the game, and there aren’t any Catholics here, so, instead of bishops, I called them mages. “Mages can go anywhere they want, but only in a diagonal line, because they have to stay on their own colour,” I said, and he laughed, but wouldn’t explain.

I’ve changed a lot of things, almost by accident. I went to see a cobbler about my boots, hoping to get a reasonable facsimile, and ended up with a pair that looks almost exactly the same, except they’re stacked wood heels and leather soles. They’re totally great, really, and I get to work in boots that fit me right and give me better traction in the shop. I even got them to do the little scalloped spectator line along the toebox, and dye them black for me.

The second month, I cornered Alistair about my living here, and told him I wasn’t going to be a moocher, which is why I’m working, but I also want to have some cash, and I refuse to spend a single coin of that blood money Zevran gave me. So since then, I’ve had a paycheck, basically, same as all the other Wardens and household, which gives me a sense of independence that I’ve needed.

Brizio finally convinced me to go down to the docks with him toward the end of fall to look at the different woods available from the importers and local vendors, and I came away completely broke, much to his amusement. I don’t have to pay for much, just the things I choose to do, because room and board is covered, but I run myself pretty close to the line, between all the commissions for Donal and my expensive taste in wood.

Leliana fell in love with my ruler, and I made her a measuring tape. She immediately began grilling me about fashions I preferred from home, and so now we spend a couple hours every few days over one meal or another sketching designs. I’m her guinea pig for just about everything, the upshot of which is that I now have several pairs of jeans, which is really nice, since I’m rough on them. She made them out of sailcloth at first, but then when my original pair finally fell apart, I gave her the fabric and she took it down to Vitanza. They now turn out the best denim I’ve ever seen, and it seems to be catching on with tailors who make working people’s clothes.

And so fall wore on into bitter winter and I missed my modern conveniences as I huddled under blankets and worked in the shop with fingerless gloves that I got Lels to make me. Too many nights of boredom, though, so I ended up making a deck of plain cards, and teaching everyone to play rummy. And then I made the mistake of making a cribbage board, and ended up having to make fifteen more for all the Wardens, much to Alistair’s amusement, along with decks of cards to go with them, and that took up the rest of the winter.

Time slipped away from me, day by day and week by week, in a haze of things that needed doing today and what could be put off until tomorrow, things that needed making now, and things I couldn’t afford until next month, piece by piece building up the shop to some semblance of working order. The evenings floated by with Leliana’s songs and stories, games by the fire and long nights of philosophical debate with Alistair and Anders, where they’d be going for hours long after I fell asleep face-first on the desk or leaning against Alistair’s shoulder. I taught the Wardens how to play checkers, chess, cribbage, and rummy and sang them songs sometimes, when two or three of them could get me alone in the dining hall and I thought there might not be anyone else listening.

I’ve been a little self-conscious about it since the day I made Angelo cry when I sang, “The Unquiet Grave”. Of course he didn’t cry. Soldiers don’t cry. (But he totally did.)

I’m lacing my boots, all these thoughts flitting through my head, when I realize today’s the day Brizio and I are supposed to go down to the docks to meet a new supplier from Seheron.

“Ooh, snap, I better get a move on,” I mutter, and Ponka hops to his feet. I grab my bag and head down to the Wardens’ hall to catch an early breakfast. All the men are out in force, and the smell of coffee and meat pies permeates the air, making my mouth water. I pick up some munching supplies, stuffing a hunk of bread and an apple in my bag, then grab a meat pie, holding it horizontally in my teeth while I pick up a coffee mug and the pot.

“Ehi,” a voice says, rising above the din, from one corner of the room. “Ehi, Lily!” I raise my mug, by way of saying I hear them, then fill it up before wriggling my way through the crowd to the other side of the table.

Three men are crouched over a cribbage board and I see they still have two hands up. “What’s up?”

Angelo points accusingly at Raffaello. “Tell him about his nibs,” he says, serious as anything, as though I need to make a pronouncement about someone’s execution, and I laugh.

I sit down next to them, putting my cup in front of me and grabbing the pot of honey from the centre of the table. “Dealer turns a jack, it’s called his nibs, and dealer takes two points,” I say, and Raffaello grumbles. I see that these two points mean the difference between whether or not Angelo’s got him skunked, and smile. “Sorry, looks like he’s gonna skunk you,” I say with a small shrug. “Just be careful how you count your cards, yeah? I can play you at dinner if you want, see how you’re doing your strategy.” Raffaello nods, grimacing at his cards, and I lean over, looking at his hand. He goes to play a ten on the count, and I stop him. “No, no don’t do that. Because look, all he has to do is play one of these, and you’ve got him making points off your back,” I say, pointing at a five. “And everyone saves those. So play this instead,” I say, pointing at the six. He’s got a six, a nine, a ten, and a five. Not bad.

Raffaello looks happier having got through the count with fewer mishaps than usual, apparently. I need to play him some more. He counts his hand at four points and I sigh. “No, no muggins, Angelo. Raffaello, you’re forgetting to use the up card. Look, it’s worth ten, so that’s two more points off your five, and then you get a straight, three points, nine, ten, jack. That’s five points you would have missed.” Raffaello, impressed at how I apparently magicked a four-point hand into nine, grins happily and pegs his points triumphantly, which is nice because Angelo’s only got a four-point hand, himself. He kills on the crib, though, but it’s Raffaello’s deal next, so who knows what might happen.

I don’t have time to find out; I have to get moving. Clapping Angelo on the shoulder, I mumble, “Be nice,” stuffing another bite of pie in my mouth and giving him a wink as he snorts. He’s been known to get irritated enough with other Wardens during a game of cribbage that he’ll skunk them on purpose. You don’t lay coin against Angelo winning, but those who manage to beat him end up strutting about like peacocks. It’s hilarious. I love the Wardens.

Scarfing down the last of my pastie, I am striding across the courtyard and chugging honeyed coffee when I hear a scamper behind me and turn just in time to not be run over by Schmooples, being exuberantly chased by Ponka. He arrived here a few months ago, along with a cat named Ser Pounce-a-Lot who now seems to be living in Anders’ pocket, after a very careful and laborious overland trip. Apparently nugs can’t be sent by ship, or they’ll die, and Pounce was sent along so neither of them would get lonely. Ponka loves Schmooples like a puppy. It’s adorable. Schmoopie - as I call him - throws himself on the ground and squeals like he’s being murdered with a dramatic flailing of limbs, but the moment Ponka stops and sniffs at him to make sure he’s okay, Schmoopie jumps up and bops Ponka under the chin with the top of his head, then bounces circles around my big hound before taking off again.

Leliana comes out of a side hall, looking around, concerned, and I laugh. “Schmoopie is so severely abused, he had to make sure Ponka knew where he was headed next,” I call out.

“He’s so excitable,” she says, giggling, and I grin back as she comes to stand next to me.

“He’s fuzzy though, so that makes up for it,” I assure her. “Whatcha got?” I ask, leaning toward her, because I can see some figures drawn on the papers in her hand.

“Ooh!” she exclaims, like she’s just remembered, and drags me over to a bench. “Look!” she says, pushing them into my hands, as I sit. “How do I get a straight curve on that?” she asks, then laughs. “Oh, you know what I mean, don’t you?” she asks, and I grin. Chugging half my coffee, I dig around in my bag - my ever-present bag of everything - pulling out a charcoal stick.

“Look--” I say, sketching out the pattern for her “-- and then you cut it on the bias like this-- right-- so then it hangs like that-- ‘cause you have to account for the way it curves outward, here.” Man, she has got such a good eye for fabrics. I love collaborating with her, even though I can’t really get too hands-on with it. She’s talking about maybe selling a few of her designs. I’m kind of scared of what I’m releasing on the world, sometimes, but I can’t really help it. “I love the dagged sleeves,” I say, my finger hovering over the lines, tracing the graceful sweeps.

“I was playing chess with Alistair last night,” she says archly, and I blush, but I dip my head so my hair swings down to cover it. The way she says that... I clear my throat, tucking the pencil away. “And I was looking at the clothes on the queens and mages,” she continues blithely on, but I can hear the smug smile in her voice. Oh gods. No, don’t think about it.

“Yeah? Who won?”

“Hmm... He did,” she says casually, and I bite my lip on a grin. He beat me the third time we played, and the only person he ever loses to now is Anders; though Lels beat him a few times before, she can’t seem to anymore.

I cough, taking a drink of my coffee to cover it up, then hold up the sketches again. “Uhm. So yeah, uh, what about this other one?” She laughs, and I know, I am so not sneaky.

About what?

Nothing. We talk about her plan for the afternoon, which makes me look up at the sky. “Ah, I’ve got to get going,” I say, shaking myself and handing back her papers. “I’m going down to the docks with Brizio. New supplier from Seheron, seems very promising,” I say, and she grins. “Mmh, oh, I almost forgot. I gotta go back up to my room and get something I can pawn off in the market. I’m broke after that last commission from Donal,” I say, finishing off my coffee and standing up.

“You know, I’m sure you could get Alistair to--” she begins, but I shake my head, trying to take a drink out of an empty cup and sighing.

“Nope. Not how it works. My pursuits, my coin. Anyway, I saved like, three silver bowls. I have no idea why, because they’re all boring. But they should convert to coin very nicely, right? And from there, into wood. Yesss,” I say, savouring the idea. Seheron woods are hard to get hold of; this will be my first opportunity to see any. I wonder if they have anything like mahogany. Mmmm... mahogany... “Right, well, if they’re gonna have anything good, I’ve got to get there early, right? And I want to see this red wood they say they’ve got. I love red woods.” Leliana clasps my hand as I turn, and I give her another smile.

“Don’t forget to eat,” she says, and I laugh, shaking my head ruefully.

“Got it,” I say, patting my bag. This is what I get for working whole days without remembering meals, and then having dizzy spells and not knowing why. In my defence, it was the middle of summer, and I was too hot to think about eating, so I just stayed hydrated. At least I didn’t drop from heat stroke, right? Right.

Leliana squeaks, and I turn around just in time to see Schmoopie’s little butt disappearing under the edge of her skirt. Ponka comes trotting up behind him, then stops when he sees Leliana. Lels gives him a narrow-eyed look, an ‘I dare you to try it, dog’ look, and he huffs, sitting down and looking proudly off into some other distance, like that was his plan all along.

I laugh and head out of the courtyard, stopping back through the kitchen to hand off my mug before striding down the hallways to my room, Ponka trotting along by my side. Opening the door, I duck out from under the strap on my bag, leaving it on the table at the foot of my bed and head to the trunk, now covered with a cloth and set up as my altar. I haven’t opened this trunk all year. Before I’m quite aware of what I’m doing, I’m on my knees in front of it, setting things aside, and sweeping the cloth away; I open the catches, lift the lid.

Rosemary.

I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Lavender and sweetgrass, too.

Not my scent, exactly, but one I have worn. One I love. I look down at all the things laying there in a jumble, and my eye falls on the pouch of Zevran’s silver there, in the centre of it all. Everything, anything from his hands, I once thought. Oh gods. The memory of his hands is so strong in me, with a clarity that steals my breath and rocks me forward, a physical reaction that makes me sob with sudden and fierce longing, like he only left five minutes ago, shocking me to my core. The trunk slams shut in the next instant, and the horrible feeling of soul-eating despair suddenly cuts off, leaving me numb and dazed. I look up into the very serious face of Ponka, standing on the trunk, holding it closed.

I take deep breaths, putting a hand to my head, feeling a round of crying pounding at my eyes. I don’t have time for this... I don’t want this. No, please, I’ve looked away for so long, I’ve walked so far from there. Please...

I swallow thickly. Logic dictates that I do need something out of there to sell. By the laws of magic I’ve had to force myself to accept as reality, something that snaps on and off like that isn’t just my imagination. Stumbling to my feet, I put my arms around Ponka’s neck and hug him tightly. “Thank you. You’re such a good dog, and I love you very much,” I choke out, and then I do cry on him after all, because I can, and he’ll never tell, and he loves me forever anyway. He’s not a person, but he still puts his arm around me, and sometimes that’s important.

I haven’t cried about him in months. I swore to myself sometime mid-summer, as I sweat out the hours in the shop, that I wouldn’t give that man another one of my tears. It’s over and done, and he never returned, so that should say a lot, shouldn’t it. He knows where I am.

But whatever magic is in that pouch just brought it all back.

It takes me more than a moment to collect myself, but I manage to get my face washed and put myself back together. I can’t let that fester there. I need those bowls. Anders should be in the clinic by now, so I head down there, taking deep breaths and trying not to be too shaken by the force of the emotions that just ripped through me. I’m mostly under control when I arrive, and lean against the door jamb, waiting for him to look up from his book.

He takes a breath like he’s about to tell me something, then pauses, eyeing my face. “What happened?” he asks, and I shift uncomfortably.

Being an open book is really difficult when the people around you are used to reading faces for one reason or another.

“Ah, well. There’s something living in my trunk.” He arches an eyebrow and I slouch a little bit, gesturing over my shoulder guiltily. “I need you to come look at it. I’m afraid it’s going to eat me. And I think I might’ve been feeding it by accident.”

His brows furrow and he looks at me suspiciously. “It’s not another spider, is it?”

I giggle, but it’s strained. “No... Ran myself head-first into a brick wall made of magic. I’m not... exactly in a happy place right now.”

Both his eyebrows are up now, and I know I’ve got his attention. He turns around, grabs his bag, and stands up. I straighten quickly and turn as he falls into step beside me. Sometimes the way people react to me freaks me out. “How do you think you were feeding it?”

“Well... I had set my altar up on it,” I begin, and he smacks his forehead. “No, wait! It shouldn’t have mattered, because it’s supposed to be tied to the cloth,” I say, and he just shakes his head. I bite my lip, feeling really stupid, because... well, yeah, there’s magic stuff in there, but I tend to think of the box as being a barrier, and... I didn’t think there was anything dangerous inside. “Okay, well, so here. I took everything off,” I say, opening the door again. Ponka is still sitting there. “Ponka jumped up on it and closed it, and it cut off immediately,” I tell him, and he turns, looking back at me.

“What did?”

Oh. “Uh, I opened the trunk because I was thinking, you know, I might have something in there I could... uh... There’s a new supplier from Seheron, and I’m skint,” I say pleadingly, and he laughs.

“And?”

“Oh! And, so I opened it and it was--” I can’t even say his name anymore. It burns me. Shit, and I know I’ve just gone pale, too. “Like a hammer,” I whisper.

He frowns, and Ponka carefully shifts himself off the lid as Anders comes closer to the trunk. “I think we need Alistair here, just in case there’s a demon in there,” he says, chewing his lip.

“No!” Anders looks up at me, startled by my outburst, and I blush. “I mean, no, no, we can’t, because--” I swallow. “It-- It’s about--” I close my eyes, my lips forming the word by which my days are numbered, no matter what I may have to say about it. “--Zevran.” I swallow again. Just saying his name again conjures a flood of images and feelings, taking my breath away. “It’s just... so strong. It-- It tried to eat me.” My hands are shaking, and I tuck them into my armpits.

He studies me carefully, brow furrowed, then comes over and wraps me in his arms, hugging me tightly. “It’s going to be okay, Lily,” he says, and I close my eyes briefly, leaning on him for a moment. I take a deep breath and nod, feeling a little calmer. “Do you want to wait in the hall?”

I nod again, a little too quickly, and he steps back to give me room to flee. After a few moments, the door opens again, and he shrugs, looking confused. “I don’t see anything,” he says, “Nothing that would do what you’ve felt, anyway. So, it might be tied just to you, but I have an idea. I’m thinking I’ll put a shield around you, and you can open the chest again. We’ll see then if anything jumps out.” I take another deep breath, nod yet again, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hey.” I look up, realizing that it’s not just my hands shaking, my shoulders hunched, and the look of worry on his face is eloquent. “I’ll be with you, every step of the way.”

Oh gods, oh gods please. Not this again. I was past it, I was done. I haven’t thought about this in months. I don’t want to think about it. Oh gods. Zev... Anders has me stand in front of the trunk, and a pale sphere of light flashes into being around me. I kneel, slowly, dreading this, and put my hands to the edge of the trunk. I can feel Anders standing right behind me, the edge of his robe brushing against my back giving me heart, and flip open the lid with one swift push. The feeling assails me again, but more muted this time. It still punches me in the heart, makes me double up in pain with a strangled cry.

“Zev--” His name is dragged from my very core, and I wonder how I was ever fooling myself that I could let go of him. That I wanted to. “Oh gods--” I press my hands over my stomach, and I feel like I might retch for a very disorienting and uncomfortable moment, and then Anders’ hands splay across my shoulders, spreading that artificial calm that he can sometimes induce in me, making it easier for me to breathe. Zev, oh, his hands, his kiss, the heat of his skin against mine and the smell of his neck, the softness of his hair and the way his shoulders flex, the dark burr of his voice when I--

“The shield clearly isn’t helping much... Can you feel where it’s coming from?” he asks quietly, and I nod, jerky. My arm stretches out, pointing, and I know I’ve pointed straight at the pouch, without looking, when he picks it up. The source of the drag changes position as the pouch moves, and I know that we’ve got the right of it. There’s something about that money. Maybe because it’s payment, because it changed who we were.

“Oh gods...” --the way he makes me writhe when he slides his fingers within me, the sound of his purr in my ear, the length of his leg against mine, all that coiled muscle and grace--

“What’s in here?” Anders asks. I’m still blinded by the way it hurts, an old wound that had finally healed over suddenly ripped open and hollowed out, bleeding and raw like no time has passed at all.

“Silver,” I reply, gagging on it. “Personal message. Very cold.” --the length of his stride as we walk together, his arm around my waist a protective weight and the splay of his hand across my hip--

“This comes from him?” he asks, and I nod. I hear the sound of spilling silver and the feeling intensifies. --Moglie mia in my ear, his voice dark with desire-- I cry out sharply, almost being dragged across the floor as I crawl toward the bed without wanting to, without meaning to. --“Ah, cara, how you drive a man...” and I sat on the desk for him-- “There’s something in the bottom of the pouch,” he mutters, then notices me crawling up on his side. “Hey--” he says, cautious, a warning note in his voice, but I can’t stop.

--On the beach, that shivering bass string that was struck between us, an indestructible bond--

“Show me,” I whisper raggedly, looking up at him, and his face softens, changes with worry and sympathy. In his hand there is a folded piece of parchment with a bulge in the centre. My arm lifts, reaches out for it without my direction, and Anders takes a step back.

“Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing the silver, and the sorry state of me.

--My husband--

“No,” I whisper, one hand pressed to my breast. “But I have to.” This terrifies me. I want him, my Zev, with a longing so complete I can feel it in my bones. His absence is wrong.

Anders’ eyes narrow and he looks at me from the side of them. “You only say that about things that involve him. You don’t have to. You don’t have to open up all those wounds again and be sucked back into his life. You can leave whatever this is unread, and it won’t make a bit of difference, because you’ve been living your life just fine this past year without it.” He keeps backing up, one step at a time, watching me carefully as I am forced to crawl after him, one jerking movement after another. His face transforms with grim determination, and he shakes his head emphatically.

“No, no. Lily, this definitely isn’t right. I’m not going to let this thing, whatever it is, drag you around like that. I’m getting it away from you.” Quickly, before I have any time to react, he ducks out the door with it, and is gone. Just like that, the hold it has on me snaps, and having been pulling so hard against it, the loss of any opposition has me falling over backward. The flood of pain stops.

Ponka lays down next to me as I curl up, right there on the floor, the ragged hole in my chest leaking my soul’s blood all over the floor, and sob half-hysterically into his fur.

Oh gods. I was okay, I was fine, and then I opened the trunk, and it’s like this year never even happened. That magic screamed at me, everything that has been worn away under the rhythm of my life here brought back with eviscerating clarity and leaving me feeling like I’m a puppet just thrown against the wall.

I don’t remember that I’ve left the door open until I hear boots on the stone and Ponka lifts his head at someone’s entrance. I can’t look up. Ponka hasn’t tried to move, so there’s no threat. So I don’t have to. I turn my face further away, my hair falling over it, but a large, warm hand rests on my shoulder a moment later, and I know I don’t have the energy to hide much longer.

“Hey,” Alistair whispers. Oh gods; I’ve dragged him away from his day, all the things he needs to be doing, just to come in here and take care of me. I mean to speak, I mean to tell him I’m okay, but what comes out instead is a choked-off, quiet wail of despair. In the next moment, his hand covers mine, fingers lacing together, and I grip tightly. He draws my arm away from Ponka, slowly gathering me up and pulling me into his chest. I curl against him, taking comfort in his strength in a way I haven’t allowed myself since Zev first left me. I didn’t dare. I haven’t so much as hugged the man, not since that day. Not until this morning... and not like this.

It has been easy. Things have been quiet, stable. I’ve never known a year like this. I have had the best time of my life, the most productive, the most filled with laughter. All at his hands. These hands. Peace. Patience. Constancy, and insight, and wit. Intelligence, charm, and strength. Oh gods.

Aphrodite preserve me; what has happened to my heart? Why must you show me that it is he who put it back together, and Zevran who has torn it asunder again? I can’t. I can’t. I’d be unfaithful, it wouldn’t be fair to--

My heart thuds dangerously as I can’t even allow myself to continue that train of thought. That’s the point of this agony, isn’t it?

Unfaithful to whom?

He’s gone.

The magic conjured in me an emotion that I have laid aside, to live this life, and it is one in which I am happy and useful and loved, one where I’ve become part of a family. From these hands. Hands that have just picked me up off the floor, where the memory of Zevran has put me again, to brush my hair out of my face and rub my back, to hold me, and try to make me whole. I press my face into his shirt, my arm sliding up his chest as I return the embrace, and I make the mistake of taking a deep breath through my nose.

He smells like cedar, and rain, and the ocean.

He smells like home, back and away across an impossible distance, forever unreachable, the Washington coast. Forest and sea and sky.

Something else inside me breaks, but it is a small thing, a quiet thing, and behind it, instead of a rush of pain, there is just a quietness, a wave of relief. All the tension flows out of me at once, and I close my eyes, finally able to catch my breath.

Oh gods.

No, don’t look at it! Don’t look at how you made that chess set for him, just to watch his face light up with each new figure. The first thing you made. The way you laboured over the pieces to make sure each one was different, because you knew he’d notice. Don’t look at how every game you brought out, you taught him first. Don’t look at the way you turned out that first deck of cards as an art piece, and then gave them to him. Don’t look at how he is the first one to see all your sketches for how to bring modern things into this world. Don’t look at how you always try to get to dinner early enough that you’ll be there when he is. Don’t look at how he makes you blush. Don’t look at the way he looks at you, and how he always shows up at your door, every time you wake up screaming, with his sword in his hand, just in case this time it isn’t just a nightmare, even after a year. Don’t look at his tired eyes and know that he wouldn’t have to keep running down the hall every night if you would just--

Oh gods.

No! Shut up, shut up!

He holds me closer, and I realize I’m shaking again. He’s just been here for me, steady as ever, and still picks me up off the floor, even knowing that I won’t ever--

I take another breath.

Cedar and rain and the ocean, and safe, and home.

So easy.

So dangerous.

Home.

“Alistair,” I whisper, and it doesn’t burn me. It doesn’t hurt. Slowly, I turn my face up, my cheek rubbing against his chest, and it makes my breath catch. His neck is right next to my mouth, my nose, and I take another shaking breath. Home.

“Lily,” he says, voice low and strained. “I’m not made of stone.”

My eyes squeeze tightly shut as my heart thuds heavily. “I know,” I whisper, “I know. I’m sorry.” I can feel the resignation settle onto his shoulders like a heavy weight, even as I am leaning up to press my lips to the side of his neck, softly. He stills, frozen on the moment, and then his arms tighten around me.

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers hoarsely, and my mouth pulls into a grimace. Have I come this far, only to realize too late?

“I know... Is it-- Is it okay if I want to?” I ask, my voice so tiny, the only moment where I have actually been afraid of what might come from him.

“You-- want-- to?” he asks, and I feel his throat flex. I wrap my arm more fully around his neck, pressing against him, and he sucks in a breath, fingers flexing against my shoulder, my hip. “Wow,” he breathes, “Lily...” His arms slide around me in a much more intimate way as he buries his face in my neck, pulling me up flush against him. I sigh softly, feeling safe, loved, wanted, needed. But most of all, peaceful.

“Not everything has to be hard and complicated,” I say, quoting, maybe paraphrasing him, and he draws back, looking down at me, hazel eyes pinning me, searching my face, making me blush. I suddenly want him to kiss me, very, very much. “This last year with you has been easy as breathing.”

He swallows again, and the sudden intensity in his eyes makes my heart skip. “If you-- If you let me hold you, Lily, I have to tell you: I’m not going to want to let go.”

A little bird takes flight in my stomach and becomes trapped beneath my breast. I gasp. No lie. Oh gods, no lie.

His fingers are gentle as he smooths my hair off my forehead, tucking a lock of it behind my ear, and I realize he’s had a way of doing that, all year, just casually moving my hair away so he can see me, now that it’s grown down to my shoulders again, and I hide in it. Always, he touches the top edge of my ear, rounded, not pointed. He sees me. Never mind what came before. I don’t have to be anyone other than myself, I don’t have to do anything more than what I already do, to be at his side. I don’t have to pay for it, I don’t have to fight for it. It’s just my place to take, if I want it.

I’ve already been holding it all year.

Easy as breathing.

Oh gods.

His hand still hovers near my cheek as we pause, eyes locked, and I can feel the warmth radiating from it. These hands. Reaching up, I catch it; turning my face, I close my eyes and press my cheek into his palm. My hands are rougher than his. He’s got a lot of callus, sure, but it’s all worn smooth. His shield hand.

“I’m kind of crazy and broken,” I murmur. “Are you sure you want that?”

“You think I don’t know that?” he asks gently, voice low with humour. “I’m more worried about what you’re sure you want,” he says, much more seriously and I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.

“I’ve never felt more myself than I have, than I do, here,” I tell him, but part of me is beginning to feel rejected, beginning to wonder if I’ve made a mistake that is going to cost us a very golden friendship. “If every year I have left could be half so happy as this I have had with you, I could die satisfied. But overshadowing everything is the threat of any random moment being my last. I don’t want to waste any more of them aching for the past.” The pad of his thumb slowly strokes over the width of my lower lip, and I freeze. He pauses at the corner of my mouth, then circles back, even more slowly and softly along the line of my upper lip, as well, and my breath catches.

“Then tell me, Lily. Tell me what you want,” he says, and I can feel the tension of tightly controlled emotion in him. “Say the words.”

I take a deep breath, opening my eyes and looking up at him, meeting his gaze, and my heart thuds. The fierceness that ignites there, oh gods, and the fear that I’m just playing with him, it hits me hard. I’m not playing. Oh, he reminds me of Papa in all the ways that make me love him, oh gods, and I do. I do. I have, for a really long time.

With shaking hand, I reach up, tracing a trembling line along his cheekbone and down the sweep of his jaw, the stubble of his shadow prickling my fingertips. I love this life. I want to keep it. I want to touch, and be touched, to love and be loved, and for that to be enough. For that to fill up my nights, and not be painful, not be hard to bear, hard to earn. I want the gentleness in his touch and the heat of his skin; I want to know exactly what that strength feels like under my hands and what his voice sounds like in my ear.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper, seeing the depth of my own vulnerability in his eyes. I want to erase it. I want him to erase mine.

He takes a deep breath and bends his head, brow furrowing as he rests his forehead against mine, and I can feel his hand tremble, oh so slightly, as it slides into my hair. “Why now? What’s changed?” he whispers, the warmth of his breath washing across my lips, and my heart thuds again.

Truth. Just the truth. “Something in the trunk had powerful magic on it,” I say, and I want to lick my lips, but I can’t, not with how close he is, and my breath shakes. “It brought back all the pain, all that ragged bloody wound, in an instant. I felt like a puppet, like a slave to it, and it didn’t stop until Anders took whatever it was away. I haven’t thought about it, or him, or any of it, since last summer. And then it showed up and totally ruined my day... or... that’s what I was thinking... and then you came... It’s you here with me, picking me up off the ground again, bringing peace with you again, and-- and you... You smell like home,” I whisper.

His breath hitches. “What does home smell like, Lily?”

I don’t have to hesitate, to think about it. “Wind and rain, ocean and cedar, this certain wood--” I start, only to be interrupted by his lips pressing against mine firmly, and I gasp, shocked to stillness for a moment as his fingers flex, tangling in my hair, making me whimper. In the next moment I’m completely melting with a soft sigh, my hand sliding over his shoulder and up his neck to stroke the side of his face as his tongue wraps around mine, kissing me breathless as I crush myself against him, a whole flock of butterflies taking flight from my stomach and swirling around under my skin.

He kisses me so long, so thoroughly, that I grow dizzy from it, intoxicated by the heady rush of his desire for me and my own burgeoning desire for him, both long denied. At last he breaks away, pressing me to his shoulder and hugging me fiercely, and I wrap my arms around his neck, suddenly bursting into tears. He jumps, not having expected this reaction, and I laugh through them, not slacking my hold in the slightest.

“Lily, Lily, what did I do? Why are you crying?” he asks helplessly, and I laugh again.

“Oh gods, no, just overflow,” I say, cuddling closer. “Can’t hold it all in. Such... Such a relief.”

“A relief? Oh, oh that’s romantic. You’re not very good at this whole seduction thing, are you?” he teases gently, settling me more comfortably in his lap, and I giggle, but then he’s kissing me again, softer, less demanding this time, stopping my tears and drawing a soft whimper from me as I arch, instinctively trying to get closer. His finger curls under my chin, thumb pressing to the ball of it as he draws back, and I open my eyes to look at him from just inches away, his hazel eyes writing themselves on my tattered scrap of heart. There may not be much of it left these days, but what I have, it’s his, and if I have any at all, it’s only because of him.

He sighs heavily, brow furrowing, and rests his forehead against mine as he closes his eyes. “I wish I could say I don’t have anything that can’t wait for tomorrow, but I have to meet with the guard today to discuss rotas and wages for the next year. You know, all the fun parts,” he says, voice resigned, and I laugh under my breath, running my fingers through his hair.

We’ve changed the nature of our relationship, but it doesn’t change the way he talks to me, it doesn’t change who we are when we’re together. This, too, is a relief. My hand sweeps down the back of his head and forward again, and I kiss him softly as my hand trails off the edge of his jaw. “And I have to go down to the docks to meet with some merchants,” I say, regretfully. “So... I’ll see you at dinner.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he murmurs, helping me to my feet before climbing to his own. I’m shy all of a sudden, now that he’s standing next to me, so much taller than me, and I blush hotly. He chuckles softly, stepping closer, and cups my cheek in his hand, tilting my face upward, and kisses me once more. The smile he gives me then positively slays me and I giggle, hiding my face in my hair and covering my mouth with my hand.

He smirks, shaking his head, turns to go, gives me another look, then turns away again, still shaking his head.

Oh gods, I can’t believe that just happened.

I just made out with Alistair. I have to clap both hands over my mouth just to keep from squealing like a teenager. Gods, what’s wrong with me? I’m a grown-ass woman. I giggle anyway. Turning around, I look at the trunk, then at all the spilled silver on the bed. I’ll deal with that later. I grab the stack of bowls out of the trunk and stuff them in my bag as I pick it up off the table, then turn for the door. I’ve lost a lot of time this morning, and I still have to turn these bowls in for cash if I want to make it to the meeting with enough money to make it worth my while. Each of these is worth between twelve and fifteen silvers, so I’ve got, what, between thirty-six and forty-five silvers. Not bad. I’ll be able to get enough wood to experiment with, decide what I’d like to use more of, what I can do without.

I’m smiling as I finally make it down to the shop, and Brizio is sitting there, agitated and watching the sky. He blinks at me in surprise as I come through the door, and I shrug apologetically. “Sorry, I got distracted by some magic that was hiding in my room. I had to have Anders take care of it. But I’m here now. I just need to stop off at the silver shop by the docks before we head over.” He nods, getting to his feet and picking up his own bag. Everyone carries one, it seems like.

We’re half-way down to the docks by the time he finally turns to me and says, gruffly, “What is that you’re humming, girl? You’ve been over the same tune since we left.”

I pause, thinking about it, not really having noticed, and then the lyrics float through my head, and I have to blush. I just shake my head, “Oh, just an old ballad,” I prevaricate, and he gives me a knowing and sceptical look, but lets it pass. “It’s looking like a beautiful day,” I say, making myself giggle, and Brizio just nods.

“Yes. Fair winds today. Fair trade. It is a good day for new alliances,” he says, and then huffs at me impatiently as I giggle all the way to the waterfront.

[Next Chapter]

fanfic: A Fish Out of Water

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