I'm not here to say I'm sorry; Leliana

[Rhonen]

rhonen

molten eyes and a smile made for war

The Meadow is a familiar place; Rhonen had spent a lot of time there when he was first on his own, when he was beyond lost and struggling to keep his head above the rushing waters of life. It had been the place where the copper colored boy had often dozed, and daydreamed of what his family must be doing, far away wherever they were. Where he imagined he could see through his twin’s eyes, feel what she must be feeling. But they had been the fantasies of a young man ripped from the only life he had ever known, and eventually he had pushed them away.

Now he finds the Meadow too bright, too happy, and too pure. So he bypasses it, settling instead for the darker Forest. In the Meadow, he often wonders when the nightmares will return to corrupt his dream-memories of his happy family. Here, he has no memories of them. The nightmares can have free reign.

As he crosses the border, the slow drizzle of rain turns into a veritable downpour, soaking him in seconds. Nimble on his feet despite his height, graceful despite his dark thoughts, Rhonen picks his way towards the shelter of a tree that is especially heavy-laden with leaves, and has branches high enough to offer shelter for someone of his height. But as he pushes his way through the foliage to the shelter beneath, shaking hard to shed the worst of the wet, somethings makes him think to look up. He lifts dark eyes and realizes that he isn’t alone, and that he’s probably just relocated all of the wetness onto the formerly solitary figure under the tree.

“Sorry,” he mumbles the word, somehow making it sound as if it has to be pulled from him at great force,  and starts to back away into the rain.

@[leliana]/@[Laura]

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

The Forest holds painful memories. She is not sure why she has come here, except that sometimes the thrill of the pain has become a draw. When she begins to feel his memory fade, when his face bleeds away in the back of her mind, she feels a panic crawl up her throat. She is no longer certain whether it is worse to forget him entirely or to live days in agony, the reminder of him a ghost along her mind's edges.

Tonight, she chooses the agony, walking the Forest with bruised eyes, the hazel of them stormy with memories. Her healing reaches out to a few, but for the most part, she keeps it pulled into herself, the magic selfishly curling into her chest as if she could heal herself; as if it could do good by keeping it tucked away in her mind. It was a foolish maneuver, a hopeless one, but she could not help but try.

As sky splits open and the water begins to crash down above them, she at first tilts her head back, letting the water sluice over her, wetting the crimson of her mane and sticking it to her neck, darkening the depths of her mahogany coat. For a moment, she stands there in perfect stillness, the feathers around her legs wrapping around her cannon bones and sticking there; as moments pass and the rain does not relent, she brings her head back down and seeks shelter, finding the haven within the heart of the tree.

It, of course, does not last for long.

She is there for but a moment before he enters into the space. He shakes and the water instantly drenches her further, although the small sound she makes is more of surprise than upset. After all, she had already been wet by the time she found the space in the first place. “Oh, it’s okay,” she says softly, taking a step back to accommodate for his size. “It’s pouring out there; there’s plenty of room to share.” Her hazel eyes finds his and her smile is serene, kind, although a little shaken by the roughness of his voice.

“My name is Leliana.”  

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow

[Rhonen]

He’s frozen for a moment in indecision, ready to step back into the rain, but her soft voice decides him as much as the displeasure the thought of returning into the rain does. Stepping forward just enough to bring his rump back under the tree, he maneuvers himself into the somewhat tight confines, side stepping so that they are facing each other at an angle around the tree’s trunk. There is room for both of them, though Rhonen wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘plenty’.

For a moment he simply looks at her, the dark and dappled prettiness of her coat framed in red and feathers. She is nothing like him, he thinks, her voice quiet and her smile so calm. Calm enough to sooth even the roiling bitterness inside Rhonen that causes him to lash out at the world – at least for a little while. Nothing lasts forever, but she brings him temporarily back to Before. Before he fought war, famine, conquest, and death; Before his family vanished.

Still, the boy he once was does not come easily, and it takes those several awkward moments for him to untie his tongue and respond. “Oh – ah, I’m Rhonen.” He shifts uncomfortably, looking away from her but watching out of the corner of his eye. She reminds him of his mother – not in a matronly way, for she is much too young to be his mother even if he’s not that old – but she reminds him of everything that had been good about Natilyn.

Rhonen is so far from everything his mother had wanted him to be, and for a moment that fact overwhelms him, and it makes him sharp again, turning his head from her and looking at the branches above them.

He doesn’t have the slightest idea anymore how to hold a civil conversation.

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

He is rough and skittish—the way of wild animals with large eyes and fear in their hearts. She recognizes that in him and she responds accordingly. The way she would react if she found a wounded deer or a wolf with an arrow in his heart. She remains still, the edges of her calming, her breath going deep and slow, hazel eyes watching him carefully but not pointedly, softening so that her focus grows hazy and soft.

It is a distraction, and she is grateful for it. As with all distractions nowadays, she pours herself into it wholeheartedly, abandoning the pain, the memories, in the back of her mind, turning instead toward this creature who she believes needs her help. Her fingers skim over the edge of her gift absentmindedly, but she doesn’t grasp it just yet; the healing he needed was not the kind she could provide so easily.

There were no bruises to soothe. No wounds to staunch.

When he gives her his name (nay, throws it—tosses it on the ground at her feet), she picks it up and dusts it off, holding it to her chest carefully. “Rhonen,” she repeats quietly, letting the syllables grow familiar on her tongue, her attention gravitating toward him. Part of her wants to ask more, but she remains quiet for a few more moments, the wings at her side taking up the color of his coat, matching the rich copper.

She doesn’t notice though and instead just tilts her head to consider him. When he tips his head back to look at the branches she follows suit, lifting her chin and revealing the elegant curve of her throat. For a moment she imagines she can see the stars twinkle through them, but that was of course impossible; not when the rain was coming down as heavily as it was. Finally, her voice of fog breaks the silence.

“Nights like this feel like a secret to be shared.”

She drops her head and gives him a shy, kind smile.

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow

[Rhonen]

rhonen

molten eyes and a smile made for war

Rhonen is oblivious to the fact that she is doing everything in her power to calm him, to sooth the edges of his spiky, pungent fear. But despite his being unawares, it works to some extent. He doesn’t have to step closer – they are close enough as it is, in his opinion! – but his stance softens and he doesn’t hold himself so stiffly away from her, though some wariness remains. His name sounds good from her, softer than he speaks it, more like the way his family used to say it.

He glances at her out of the corner of his gaze and is startled by the change in her wings, drawing his head around to gaze at them, a small hidden part of him in awe of the stunning copper color against her darker coat. It’s prettier on her, he is sure. Of course, he had always though that the color was prettier on his twin as well. Aubri wore the bright copper like the shiny, beautiful thing she was; Rhonen thinks he has too much dark in him for the bright color. Surely, he thought when he first accepted the seal into his keeping, it would darken him slowly (but that had been a child’s nightmares. His color had never changed.).

It is when he realizes she is studying him as well that he finds the branches above them so fascinating, hoping that she will either start a new train of thought or the ground will open up and swallow him whole. Or sudden disaster will strike and he can escape in the chaos. Or he becomes suddenly invisible. Good, perhaps for both of them, it is the first thing that happens. Her voice draws his face back down, curious, rotating his ears to catch the soft words.

Leliana’s soft smile draws a response from him. It is sharp-edged, only half there, but he is trying. It’s the best he currently has to offer. And the words themselves draw a harsh chuckle, his own secrets flashing behind his dark eyes. “Do you have a lot of secrets, Leliana?” he asks, honestly curious, his eyes flickering back to her wings as he asks. She seems too soft, too pretty, too picture-perfect to have a lot of secrets, but perhaps her exterior doesn’t match the inner workings of her mind either.

It’s ironic, maybe, how closely at least one of their secrets match. Leliana is a healer, a fixer. Rhonen is nothing right now, but someday he will be something again. And he is not quite the opposite. When Conquest’s seal is firmly embedded in his chest, the heavy weight, he controls disease in the way his once-enemy did all those nights ago. Causes it, certainly, but also can fix it. A terrible power, and one he wouldn’t want except every time he touches the oily magic inside of him he had been assured that Conquest was still imprisoned. Now, he is unsure.

[leliana]

I know what it is but I'm hoping that all is well
no harvest of green but it's still my heart to sell

She is not used to being unwanted, at least so openly. He doesn’t say it or even imply it, but she can feel it in the way he holds himself, the way he often looks everywhere but her face. She wonders if he feels discomfort simply because she is so close or because being near anybody was seen as less than ideal. For the first time in her entire life, Leliana wished that she could evaporate from the spot, turn inward until she could not find any piece of herself; she wished that she could just disappear right then and there.

Of course, she couldn’t, and she wasn’t about to make him feel guilty for his emotions, so she just made herself as small as possible, her wings wrapping around her barrel, and her head tucking to her chest.  At his question, she looked up through her thick lashes, amber eyes finding his and holding it for a second.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, her pretty face lay bare. “I didn’t think that I used to, but now I am not so sure.” Her voice trailed off at the end of it as she contemplated the open wound in her chest, the way the past few days had opened it so viciously, leaving it vulnerable to the sun and salt and air. She thought about the way Dovev’s touches had felt like a secret; the way he had stolen her away and they had slept next to one another in his cave, the warmth of his embrace both foreign and forbidden and perfect.

She thought about the way the gold and white stallion had found them, spat the truths out.

How she had discovered he had someone else. Of course he had.

These were not her secrets, but they still felt like them, stones placed carefully in her chest. When she found his eyes again, their were bruises in her eyes, and her mouth was pressed together. “Do you think that intentions matter, Rhonen?” Her voice was soft, so quiet you could almost not hear it over the pounding of the rain. “If I did not intend to hurt someone, does that matter if they were hurt?”

I put everything I had into something that didn't grow
like going on a wild hunt, shooting arrows without a bow

[Rhonen]

Rhonen doesn’t realize that she even notices his discomfort, much less that it makes her wish to vanish much like he wishes he could vanish. Which is all well and good, really, because he wouldn’t know what to do even if he did understand how she felt. He cannot change that she doesn’t want him to venture back into the storm, and he cannot change his disgust with himself that makes him reluctant to impinge on her space. But he does allow himself to study her as she is thinking, several moments where the sound of the rain and the thunder are the only things that break the silence between them.

If it is a night that feels like a time to share secrets, to Leliana, to Rhonen it feels like a night where long stretches of silence aren’t uncomfortable. She can take her time to form thoughts, and he can take his time to reply, and it won’t feel as if it takes forever. Time moves funny, Rhonen has always thought, in the dark of some strange nights. So he studies her, the way she draws her wings around her body and the minute tensions in her body while she considers her words.

Their eyes meet again, and now he thinks that the shadows in her eyes might rival the shadows in his heart, and so he is prepared for the difficult question. Relative morality in the middle of the night; well, why not? She asks him if intentions matter and he thinks about the desperate fight for the lives of his loved ones, unsure of whether it was real or some tortured dream. He thinks about being willing to die, for the chance that it would keep the world from burning. He thinks about the relief of knowing that his family is probably safe, somewhere, and the pain of wondering if they left him on purpose. He thinks, as he so often does, of his twin. Another thing that he and Leliana don’t realize they have in common.

“I have to believe that intentions do matter,” he says finally, “because how else are we to choose our paths in life? We cannot know everything, so we can only act on what we do know.” If only it were that simple, he thinks, and sighs heavily, wondering if the weight of the world is part of dark nights that encourage the sharing of secrets. “It matters that they were hurt, of course it does, but if you didn’t do it on purpose, it can’t be totally your fault. And feelings are…” he trails off, because even assigning them a word seems too difficult. “Everyone must be responsible for their own feelings.” he decides on, instead; “Unless we are purposefully hurtful and cruel, it seems to me that we are still redeemable.”

Because if darkness is not redeemable, he thinks many are lost. Even, perhaps, himself.

[leliana]

His words soothe, if not entirely ease, her pain, and she is grateful for the kindness he shows in extending it to her. Her eyes close for a moment and the edges of her lips curl just a little, something like relief washing over her features. “That’s good to hear,” she murmurs, wings taking on the color of damp earth, the color of rain-soaked forest, something between the colors of blue and green and brown. They fluff by her side and then settle again, her hazel eyes opening to study the solemn lines of his handsome face.

“It is good to know that there are those who believe in redemption.”

For but a second, her thoughts turned toward Dovev and the hurricane-mess of their lives, the absolute and utter destruction they’d wrought on those near to them, but she turns from it as quickly as it appears. She could not focus on it for it was like looking into the sun, its very existence searing the back of her eyes until she whimpered and gave in. It was easier, in this moment, (the two of them barricaded together against the storm, shielded from the rest of the world), to think that such problems didn’t exist.

“I like when you talk,” she finally offered with a shy smile, looking up at him through her lashes, just the barest hint of teasing in her expression. “I think you should do it more often.” Her wings shifted again, back to the rich copper of his coat, but she remains quiet. She had wonder if she would be able to draw out more words from him or if he was like a bird that flew away the second that you made eye contact.

There was only one way to find out though and so she glanced up fully, waiting for his reaction.

[Rhonen]

In the quiet pauses, he wonders what she could possibly have done that she believes she needs redemption for; he cannot see the shadows of her past, not beyond the hint of something darker in her gaze and her words, and to him she seems much too pure and kind and friendly to need any sort of restoration. But, perhaps, she does not see anything in him which needs redemption either. It seems that in the shelter of these branches, Leliana is receiving the time and attention of a Rhonen from his own not-so-distant past; a Rhonen who hasn’t seen horrors in the dark of living dreams and doesn’t worry about the fate of the world itself.

Leliana doesn’t see, and neither does Rhonen, the twisted threads of time and fate. He doesn’t know that she, in some time future or past, has feelings and interactions with the monster who is nearly as bad as the ones who have haunted his dreams for years. She doesn’t know that he, in some moment future or past, will meet Dovev and little Atrani and he will love her for reminding him of his sister and he will come to blows with the monster, reclaiming his possibly cursed powers and will rake some sort of disease across Dovev’s skin, leaving sickness (however fleeting) in return for the blood Dovev will smear on his copper coat. Neither of them knows, in this moment, that he will harbor a hatred for Dovev that will take every drop of anger and fear he has to sustain.

No, in this moment he hasn’t met Dovev or his little blind daughter, or perhaps he has but he has pushed them from his mind. In this moment, there is only a storm raging outside of their little shelter and Leliana smiling shyly, and Rhonen would blush if horses were capable of such things. “I rarely have anything of any importance to say.” Is his first response, and he ducks his head a little, shuffles his feet, considers retreating into the storm, and finally (hesitantly) he returns the smile. A hint of the boy he was, there, instead of the man he is becoming. She’s looking at him, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her like he has everyone else. She is sharing her shelter, after all, he could at least talk.

“I could tell you a story,” the copper boy says after a long hesitation, and then he tells her the things he hasn’t told anyone (who would he have told?), though he tells it as if it is happening to some unknown boy, not as if it is Rhonen he speaks of. He tells her about the Bells, and the Beqanna-that-wasn’t-Beqanna (it was as if no living thing had remained, except the thirteen questers and the lamb), and the lamb. About the breaking of the four seals, and the desperate race to seal them back in their stone prisons before they could destroy the world. About Conquest (and the terror of the beasts and how his touch had wrought sickness and destruction, War (the helplessness of someone wanting only your mindless death), Famine (the desperate hunger, thirst he had never before felt), and Death (he still remembers the touch, striking perhaps because it was the only one who hadn’t wanted to cause him pain). He tells her of those who had fought beside the boy he speaks of, those who had been steadfast and true and those who had fallen to the whiles of the enemy. Those he had seen vanish, to fates unknown, and the final five who had stood with him before the lamb at the end. And the three, besides him, who had felt the weight of those stone seal prisons settle into their chests, the last bastion between Beqanna and the end of the world.

Rhonen tries to revise his own story as he goes, give it a hopeful ending, but despite his own best efforts he is certain, when he finishes, that she will be horrified. Tell him to leave. He wouldn’t blame her. But a part of him hopes she thinks it’s only a particularly scary story for a stormy night, and that she can’t hear the truth of his experience in his words, can’t tell that he’d decided to spill his secrets after all. He isn’t sure, himself, to this day whether it was real. He likes to pretend it isn’t, but he woke from that terrible nightmare with a  new power that insisted it had all been very real, a power that he hated but would give anything now to have back; because if it was real, and the power was linked to the seal, he fears without the power that Conquest is loose in his world, and that someday he will face the nightmare come real again.

[leliana]

They are intrinsically bound, and it would be impossible for them to know to what extent. She does not know that he has, or will, harbor hate for the one stallion who has both grown and ripped apart her heart. She does not know that he has come to love the little filly who thinks Leliana, in one way or another, has ruined her life. They have no idea how the threads of their lives have brought them so close to each other, how they still stand apart and yet remain tied, their destinies leading to the same point in time and space.

So she just laughs and shakes her pretty head, the crimson of her mane framing the curve of her jaw. “I somehow doubt that very much,” because he did not seem like the type to not have things of importance to say. Still, she quiets at his offer and just nods her head once, because hearing his story somehow felt vital—and she could not imagine anything more worthwhile than listening to whatever he had to share.  

She remained quiet as he spoke, as the story spilled forth, and despite the fact that her heart clenched in her chest—despite the fact that anguish twisted her gut—she didn’t move. Not until he was done, not until silence reigned between them again. A single tear fell down her cheek, unbidden, as the only way of knowing that she had heard the story at all. She couldn’t imagine everything that he had felt.

She could not possibly imagine everything that he had experienced.

So she did the only thing that she could imagine, the only thing that made sense, and she stepped forward, closing the limited distance between them and touching the velvet of her nose to his cheek. She lingered there for a moment, knowing that he harbored terrible power there in his chest but also trusting that he was good underneath it all. “I am so sorry, Rhonen,” she finally murmured into his skin before pulling away and finding his gaze, the hazel of her eyes wide. “No one should have to experience what you did.”