Every time she visits the Chantry of our Lady Redeemer, she lights a candle for her brother and incense for her father. She remembers a red-headed Sister in Lothering who Carver had told her he was in love with, and she had quietly thought the same of herself. She whispers more than prayers- she whispers old stories, too.
She holds on to every shred of memory she can find, even though it makes her heart ache.
Bethany's head is bowed when she hears armored footsteps that don't sound like templars' (and templars rarely make her flinch anymore, and perhaps it is because Carver is not there to fight them off, and Marian is not there enough to worry). A peculiar scent that she recognizes but cannot place drifts in through the curtain of curling spindleweed smoke. She does not look up. There's speech, quiet speech, and the sound of crying for a brief moment.
And then there are footsteps.
"I request a moment alone."
The voice is a man's, firm, odd around the edges, and Bethany can't place why. She lifts her head and looks over her shoulder, finally. The Hero of Ferelden stands there, wildly curling hair and rounded limbs, her lips purse.
"I'm not sure that's wise," she says, and her voice is like gravel, scarred and halting. It's not how she imagined it.
"Commander-"
"Perhaps the tavern would be better."
"I decline," the man says, and Bethany twists to look at him in full. Something in her breast stammers to a halt. There is a fine jawline, yes, and an elegant brow, but the skin is paper-thin and greying, and there is what looks like patches of rot below his cheekbones.
The smell is death.
He is not natural.
The Hero casts her gaze around the chapel, then shrugs. "Fine. You have until the next bell. Then we have work to do."
"Yes, Commander."
And the Hero leaves, a corpse in her wake who does not shift uncomfortably, who merely goes to a pew and sits, all mechanical movement. There is nothing individual to it. It is like the thought of movement.
She rises to leave.
But as she passes the pew, she slows. It's obvious that she's looking at him, and after a moment he turns to look at her in turn. His eyes are strange, and there is a tension in his brow that she didn't know the dead could have. The dead. Carver is dead, father is dead… mother is dead in some real way, even if she walks and talks still, and has a warm lap to rest a head in.
Bethany takes a deep breath, then smiles. "May I sit with you, ser?"
___
He is a quiet companion. The smell of him is sickly sweet, but there's something else beneath the natural smell of decay (that is fainter than she could have hoped for). There's an edge of Veil there, lyrium and herbs and the scent that is there but not there. She can feel magic in him. It doesn't surprise her, not in the least.
What surprises her is when she has the daring to look about for templars, see none, and snake a thread of power between them to touch his hands.
He does not jerk or grimace or glower. He blinks, and that is a gesture of choice, for he has not blinked the whole time they have sat next to one another. He turns to her.
"Ah," he says, and whatever he is, he knows enough not to say more.
"Who are you?" she asks, when what means too much.
"My name is Justice," he says, and there's a hesitation that she wants to pry apart. A chantry is not the place to do it in, but the reckless girl in her with a dead brother and a dead father leans in.
"You're dead?"
"This body is," he returns, voice blessedly hushed.
"I can see that," she says with a nod to a cheek that is too hollow to be unsettling, going straight by the unnatural to something unbelievable. She waits.
If he considers, she can't see it in his eyes. He is something coiled within the body, not the body itself. She waits.
Death and the Maiden (2/3)
She holds on to every shred of memory she can find, even though it makes her heart ache.
Bethany's head is bowed when she hears armored footsteps that don't sound like templars' (and templars rarely make her flinch anymore, and perhaps it is because Carver is not there to fight them off, and Marian is not there enough to worry). A peculiar scent that she recognizes but cannot place drifts in through the curtain of curling spindleweed smoke. She does not look up. There's speech, quiet speech, and the sound of crying for a brief moment.
And then there are footsteps.
"I request a moment alone."
The voice is a man's, firm, odd around the edges, and Bethany can't place why. She lifts her head and looks over her shoulder, finally. The Hero of Ferelden stands there, wildly curling hair and rounded limbs, her lips purse.
"I'm not sure that's wise," she says, and her voice is like gravel, scarred and halting. It's not how she imagined it.
"Commander-"
"Perhaps the tavern would be better."
"I decline," the man says, and Bethany twists to look at him in full. Something in her breast stammers to a halt. There is a fine jawline, yes, and an elegant brow, but the skin is paper-thin and greying, and there is what looks like patches of rot below his cheekbones.
The smell is death.
He is not natural.
The Hero casts her gaze around the chapel, then shrugs. "Fine. You have until the next bell. Then we have work to do."
"Yes, Commander."
And the Hero leaves, a corpse in her wake who does not shift uncomfortably, who merely goes to a pew and sits, all mechanical movement. There is nothing individual to it. It is like the thought of movement.
She rises to leave.
But as she passes the pew, she slows. It's obvious that she's looking at him, and after a moment he turns to look at her in turn. His eyes are strange, and there is a tension in his brow that she didn't know the dead could have. The dead. Carver is dead, father is dead… mother is dead in some real way, even if she walks and talks still, and has a warm lap to rest a head in.
Bethany takes a deep breath, then smiles. "May I sit with you, ser?"
He is a quiet companion. The smell of him is sickly sweet, but there's something else beneath the natural smell of decay (that is fainter than she could have hoped for). There's an edge of Veil there, lyrium and herbs and the scent that is there but not there. She can feel magic in him. It doesn't surprise her, not in the least.
What surprises her is when she has the daring to look about for templars, see none, and snake a thread of power between them to touch his hands.
He does not jerk or grimace or glower. He blinks, and that is a gesture of choice, for he has not blinked the whole time they have sat next to one another. He turns to her.
"Ah," he says, and whatever he is, he knows enough not to say more.
"Who are you?" she asks, when what means too much.
"My name is Justice," he says, and there's a hesitation that she wants to pry apart. A chantry is not the place to do it in, but the reckless girl in her with a dead brother and a dead father leans in.
"You're dead?"
"This body is," he returns, voice blessedly hushed.
"I can see that," she says with a nod to a cheek that is too hollow to be unsettling, going straight by the unnatural to something unbelievable. She waits.
If he considers, she can't see it in his eyes. He is something coiled within the body, not the body itself. She waits.
"Why have you come here?" he asks at last.