There is no ship to take in Gwaren. They have already left by the time Bethany and her family stumble in, sore from an impossible ride on a dragon, and she stands frozen as Aveline curses and Leandra wilts, We'll never get to Kirkwall on her lips followed by, we'll never survive.
Carver is dead. He is gone. And he always will be. Carver, and father, and-
"Bethany," Marian says, and Bethany startles. It's only the thought of father that keeps fire from dancing along her palms, and she presses them together to still any wayward cinders.
"Yes?" She looks up and she tries to smile. It feels tight and false across her face, and she would much rather be murmuring words of the Chant, or old stories, or anything but necessity. She's too young for this. She's a woman now, but that doesn't mean she's not too young for this, and she wants to wrap her arms around herself, hunker down, and disappear.
"There's a fishing ship, willing to take us up the coast. It can only get us towards Amaranthine, though."
Bethany frowns. "Why are you asking me?"
Marian smirks, though it too is hollow and haunted. "I'm not. Get your things."
___
The boat is open to the heavens and she thanks the Maker that it doesn't rain. She does end up crispy pink by the time they reach shore again and begin to march on foot, from sunlight shining on the water and turning deadly. It leaves a tan in the months that follow, holed up in a small house in Amaranthine.
At first they plan to take ship, but money is scarce and news reaches them that all the ports along the Waking Sea are closed to Fereldans. Nobody wants a refugee anymore, especially not muddy, dirty ones with no gold to speak of. So they fold their arms around themselves, hunker down, and wait.
___
It's her nineteenth nameday when the Hero of Ferelden enters the city. She sees the woman pass, and her eyes fix on the staff she carries. The rumors are true, then- a mage has saved the world. A mage walks free. A mage…
"She looks like Rivka," her mother wonders quietly beside her. "Do you think…?"
"What, mother?"
Her smile turns tight, the same tight it's been since Lothering. "Never mind."
Death and the Maiden (1/3)
Carver is dead. He is gone. And he always will be. Carver, and father, and-
"Bethany," Marian says, and Bethany startles. It's only the thought of father that keeps fire from dancing along her palms, and she presses them together to still any wayward cinders.
"Yes?" She looks up and she tries to smile. It feels tight and false across her face, and she would much rather be murmuring words of the Chant, or old stories, or anything but necessity. She's too young for this. She's a woman now, but that doesn't mean she's not too young for this, and she wants to wrap her arms around herself, hunker down, and disappear.
"There's a fishing ship, willing to take us up the coast. It can only get us towards Amaranthine, though."
Bethany frowns. "Why are you asking me?"
Marian smirks, though it too is hollow and haunted. "I'm not. Get your things."
The boat is open to the heavens and she thanks the Maker that it doesn't rain. She does end up crispy pink by the time they reach shore again and begin to march on foot, from sunlight shining on the water and turning deadly. It leaves a tan in the months that follow, holed up in a small house in Amaranthine.
At first they plan to take ship, but money is scarce and news reaches them that all the ports along the Waking Sea are closed to Fereldans. Nobody wants a refugee anymore, especially not muddy, dirty ones with no gold to speak of. So they fold their arms around themselves, hunker down, and wait.
It's her nineteenth nameday when the Hero of Ferelden enters the city. She sees the woman pass, and her eyes fix on the staff she carries. The rumors are true, then- a mage has saved the world. A mage walks free. A mage…
"She looks like Rivka," her mother wonders quietly beside her. "Do you think…?"
"What, mother?"
Her smile turns tight, the same tight it's been since Lothering. "Never mind."