While Rilien was often to be found in the rookery, where he attended to the immediate business of sending and receiving messages from his agents, he spent almost as much time on the floor below, in the room that served as both office and workshop. It was, of course, meticulously-organized, the newly-installed wooden shelves host to books, tools, and a truly considerable number of stoppered glass vials, filled with liquids ranging in color from the deep, nearly black-red of Leon's concoctions to the pale silver-silver of his strongest nature-resistance tonic. The arrangement was in prismatic order, but only after they'd been sorted by general type: potion, poison, tonic. He had taken care to label everything for those not as familiar with alchemy as himself.
At present, he was brewing, the shutters over the gaps in the rounded stone walls thrown open to allow for more air circulation. It didn't quite prevent the pungent smell of dried elfroot from hanging low in the space, sitting thickly on the back of his tongue. It was long familiar by this point, and incapable of bothering him. Most things were like that.
âNever got used to that smell.â
Accompanying the statement was someone whoâd taken to appearing in Rilienâs rook as of late. Even if Sparrow had no business there, she didnât seem to mind intruding in his space. Her footsteps had become light enough to become indiscernible taps against the wooden slats leading up into the rookery. It mightâve eluded to the missing years she hadnât spoken of. Years that warranted becoming a smaller, quieter creature, far different than the woman heâd known in Kirkwall. No longer did the beady-eyed birds squawk at her presence, protesting the intruder. Perhaps, sheâd come up in his absence, or else, theyâd simply become acclimatized to her unwarranted visits.
The Rookery. A place of quiet contemplation and oft times, fastidious decision making. An unusual mix of propriety, pressures and complexities that she could not fathomâbut still managed to ceaselessly bumble into, interrupting whenever she had the chance. Not in the same manner. After all, this was not the shop in Kirkwall. She dragged her hand across the wooden railing until she reached the top of the stairs and revealed herself fully. She picked her way around wooden crates, unfurled parchments and bubbling pots. Careful not to touch anything she shouldnât. Discretion looked strange on her, though she employed it frequently.
âAurora told me you kept in touch with everyone back in Kirkwall,â she hadnât called it home, though there was a brief pause where she faltered in her words. Sparrow perched herself nearby. She settled herself atop a barrel and drew one leg across her knee, hands planted on the sideâs of it. While her eyes raked across his workstation and stoppered vials, she did not ask about them. Her moment of uncertainty ended quickly enough, âI never asked. Did you ever visit them after you went to Orlais?â From the sounds of it, she hadnât.
âNo." Rilien brought some dried embrium petals to the board in front of him, tipping them into a stone pestle. To the thin layer of plant matter, he added some of the liquid in the third of the vials lined up on his worktable. It was clear, but the sharp smell could only belong to some kind of distilled alcohol. Not the sort for drinking, of course. âLetters were sufficient to my purposes."
Stoppering the vial again and taking up the pestle, he ground the dried petals against the stone bowl with a soft rasping sounds, each stroke crisp and short. Gradually, it became a thin paste, colored a rather unappetizing burnt orange.
His answer seemed to fulfill whatever gnawing curiosities she had on the matter. Save for the sounds of pestle strokes, there was the briefest of silence brewing between them before she broke it once more. An absence of conversation, at least.
âDid you ever settle your debts?â
The query came without malice, and without bitterness. Spoken with the same matter-of-fact tone Rilien was prone to. As if they were discussing the weather and not something that had happened ages ago. There was a faint thudding sound as Sparrow slipped from her perch and approached him from the side. She appeared somewhat distracted by whatever he was working on. Murky eyes following his movements. His hands, rather. The scar stippled across her lip stretched slightly and settled back into a line, inquisitive if anything else.
âWhat I owe cannot be repaid." His debt was, first and foremost, to Ser Lucien. What did you give the person who reduced to nothing the confines one had been forced into one's whole life? The person who pointed out what may have always been true: that there was something for Rilien to be but someone else's curiosity, someone else's exotic bird or subtle knife? Maybe in saying it, Lucien had even made it so. Certainly for all his rationality, Rilien had never noticed before then. How much there was outside of what he already knew.
A teaspoonful of powdered root entered the mortar, thickening the admixture to the texture of paste. âAnd..." He paused, frowning just slightly down at his work. âAt some point, it was no longer about the debt." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, blinking slowly. âYou see, do you not? How important this is?" Not for the world. Rilien had little care for the world; if he'd ever been capable of such altruism, he was no longer. But there were people here who were quite capable of it. And he was at least able to desire to aid them. To act on their behalf. His. Hers. Theirs.
His words seemed to resound something in her. An echo, perhaps. Sparrow leaned far enough forward that the sliver of sunlight cutting through the opened windows, spilling out onto the table, filtered across her face. She winced slightly at the sudden burst of white, and retracted her inquiring advance. Her lips peeled back into a small smile, as if she understood the sentiment well. Of owing debts that couldnât be paid. She nodded her head and slipped her hands off the table, away from the loose bundles of herbs, elf-root bits and other things heâd had meticulously arranged.
Thereâs another stretch of silence, of careful consideration. As if she was milling the words in her mouth before she set them aâflight, like birds being released from the rookeryâs windows. Talons anchored with letters, and thoughts. Sparrow met his gaze and seemed to steel herself. For what? Everything. Nothing. It appeared as if sheâd already known his answer. Or else, sheâd prepared for it. She studied his face for a moment longer, and peeled her eyes away, âI do.â Her voice was quiet. A whisper, nearly. She cleared her throat and stepped away from the table, opting to drape her arms over the rounded railing where the room was gutted; allowing one to look down into the library, or even further, if they wished.
âIâm glad you found something so important. The Inquisition. The people in it. Itâs⊠a good cause.â
Unstoppering the leftmost vial with a soft pop, Rilien set aside the rubber cap and emptied the contents into the mortar, whisking the mixture together rather than using the pestle that time. The whole lot of it went into the bubbling cauldron he had over a recessed flame. âAnd you?" His voice was quiet, lacking some of the leveled certainty he usually had. It was not a waverâRilien did not do that.
âHave you found nothing in all this time that you consider important?"
A supposed hurt flickered in and out and was gone, barely discerned by the tension leaving her shoulders and her white-knuckled fists untangling from over the wide gap in the rookery. Mountains had erected in her murky eyes, unclimbable. Unreadable, as of late. Sparrow turned and propped her elbows on the railing. Trusting it enough not to buckle under her weight and send her tumbling through the empty air. Her recklessness, at least, hadnât changed.
âI always had something important,â the response came quickly. A conviction of sorts. There was an inevitability there that spoke volumes, though she took no time to elaborate on what sheâd meant by it. She tilted her head and glanced in Rilienâs direction for a brief moment, before turning her attentionâs towards the bird cages dangling from the ceilingâs rafters; swaying with the absent breeze sifting through the windows, âSometimes, what you consider important isnât yours to keep.â
Her smile was wistful, tugging at the edges of an ugly scar, âBut it doesnât mean I've stopped looking.â
Rilien understood what she said, even if she didn't explain. His eyes lingered on the scar at the edge of her mouth for a moment. There was a sense in which it suited her. A visual cue to the rougher edges to her personality. Itâsheâhad character. Everything she touched was changed by her presence, in some way or another. He had been taught to leave no trace, no matter where he went or who he encountered on the way. In that respect, he supposed he was the one who had failed.
âNothing is permanent." Perhaps the first truth of any great significance he'd ever learned, and one constantly reinforced by his experience. âBut perhaps you have kept more than you believe." He dropped his gaze to the cauldron on front of him; the brew had changed color and needed to be moved to the empty glassware he'd laid out for the purpose.
He set about his work at an efficient clip, but he did not delude himself about where the majority of his attention remained.
Sparrow hummed an assent of sorts, pushing herself away from the railing and back towards the top of the stairs sheâd just climbed moments before. Sheâd acquired a new habit of drifting in and out of things. Phantom-like. A harder, peculiar presence. Equipped with a new flightiness that was colder in some regards. Or else, less like the dizzying tornado sheâd been before, and more like a creature with clipped wings who never strayed too far. She paused mid-step and rested her hand back on the spiraling railing leading down into the library below. It would guide her back to wherever sheâd come from, which was anyoneâs guess.
Her mouth parted.
If sheâd had anything else to say, sheâd thought against it. The sound of retreating footsteps were considerably louder than her entrance, but soon enough they too were silenced.
At present, he was brewing, the shutters over the gaps in the rounded stone walls thrown open to allow for more air circulation. It didn't quite prevent the pungent smell of dried elfroot from hanging low in the space, sitting thickly on the back of his tongue. It was long familiar by this point, and incapable of bothering him. Most things were like that.
âNever got used to that smell.â
Accompanying the statement was someone whoâd taken to appearing in Rilienâs rook as of late. Even if Sparrow had no business there, she didnât seem to mind intruding in his space. Her footsteps had become light enough to become indiscernible taps against the wooden slats leading up into the rookery. It mightâve eluded to the missing years she hadnât spoken of. Years that warranted becoming a smaller, quieter creature, far different than the woman heâd known in Kirkwall. No longer did the beady-eyed birds squawk at her presence, protesting the intruder. Perhaps, sheâd come up in his absence, or else, theyâd simply become acclimatized to her unwarranted visits.
The Rookery. A place of quiet contemplation and oft times, fastidious decision making. An unusual mix of propriety, pressures and complexities that she could not fathomâbut still managed to ceaselessly bumble into, interrupting whenever she had the chance. Not in the same manner. After all, this was not the shop in Kirkwall. She dragged her hand across the wooden railing until she reached the top of the stairs and revealed herself fully. She picked her way around wooden crates, unfurled parchments and bubbling pots. Careful not to touch anything she shouldnât. Discretion looked strange on her, though she employed it frequently.
âAurora told me you kept in touch with everyone back in Kirkwall,â she hadnât called it home, though there was a brief pause where she faltered in her words. Sparrow perched herself nearby. She settled herself atop a barrel and drew one leg across her knee, hands planted on the sideâs of it. While her eyes raked across his workstation and stoppered vials, she did not ask about them. Her moment of uncertainty ended quickly enough, âI never asked. Did you ever visit them after you went to Orlais?â From the sounds of it, she hadnât.
âNo." Rilien brought some dried embrium petals to the board in front of him, tipping them into a stone pestle. To the thin layer of plant matter, he added some of the liquid in the third of the vials lined up on his worktable. It was clear, but the sharp smell could only belong to some kind of distilled alcohol. Not the sort for drinking, of course. âLetters were sufficient to my purposes."
Stoppering the vial again and taking up the pestle, he ground the dried petals against the stone bowl with a soft rasping sounds, each stroke crisp and short. Gradually, it became a thin paste, colored a rather unappetizing burnt orange.
His answer seemed to fulfill whatever gnawing curiosities she had on the matter. Save for the sounds of pestle strokes, there was the briefest of silence brewing between them before she broke it once more. An absence of conversation, at least.
âDid you ever settle your debts?â
The query came without malice, and without bitterness. Spoken with the same matter-of-fact tone Rilien was prone to. As if they were discussing the weather and not something that had happened ages ago. There was a faint thudding sound as Sparrow slipped from her perch and approached him from the side. She appeared somewhat distracted by whatever he was working on. Murky eyes following his movements. His hands, rather. The scar stippled across her lip stretched slightly and settled back into a line, inquisitive if anything else.
âWhat I owe cannot be repaid." His debt was, first and foremost, to Ser Lucien. What did you give the person who reduced to nothing the confines one had been forced into one's whole life? The person who pointed out what may have always been true: that there was something for Rilien to be but someone else's curiosity, someone else's exotic bird or subtle knife? Maybe in saying it, Lucien had even made it so. Certainly for all his rationality, Rilien had never noticed before then. How much there was outside of what he already knew.
A teaspoonful of powdered root entered the mortar, thickening the admixture to the texture of paste. âAnd..." He paused, frowning just slightly down at his work. âAt some point, it was no longer about the debt." He lifted his eyes to meet hers, blinking slowly. âYou see, do you not? How important this is?" Not for the world. Rilien had little care for the world; if he'd ever been capable of such altruism, he was no longer. But there were people here who were quite capable of it. And he was at least able to desire to aid them. To act on their behalf. His. Hers. Theirs.
His words seemed to resound something in her. An echo, perhaps. Sparrow leaned far enough forward that the sliver of sunlight cutting through the opened windows, spilling out onto the table, filtered across her face. She winced slightly at the sudden burst of white, and retracted her inquiring advance. Her lips peeled back into a small smile, as if she understood the sentiment well. Of owing debts that couldnât be paid. She nodded her head and slipped her hands off the table, away from the loose bundles of herbs, elf-root bits and other things heâd had meticulously arranged.
Thereâs another stretch of silence, of careful consideration. As if she was milling the words in her mouth before she set them aâflight, like birds being released from the rookeryâs windows. Talons anchored with letters, and thoughts. Sparrow met his gaze and seemed to steel herself. For what? Everything. Nothing. It appeared as if sheâd already known his answer. Or else, sheâd prepared for it. She studied his face for a moment longer, and peeled her eyes away, âI do.â Her voice was quiet. A whisper, nearly. She cleared her throat and stepped away from the table, opting to drape her arms over the rounded railing where the room was gutted; allowing one to look down into the library, or even further, if they wished.
âIâm glad you found something so important. The Inquisition. The people in it. Itâs⊠a good cause.â
Unstoppering the leftmost vial with a soft pop, Rilien set aside the rubber cap and emptied the contents into the mortar, whisking the mixture together rather than using the pestle that time. The whole lot of it went into the bubbling cauldron he had over a recessed flame. âAnd you?" His voice was quiet, lacking some of the leveled certainty he usually had. It was not a waverâRilien did not do that.
âHave you found nothing in all this time that you consider important?"
A supposed hurt flickered in and out and was gone, barely discerned by the tension leaving her shoulders and her white-knuckled fists untangling from over the wide gap in the rookery. Mountains had erected in her murky eyes, unclimbable. Unreadable, as of late. Sparrow turned and propped her elbows on the railing. Trusting it enough not to buckle under her weight and send her tumbling through the empty air. Her recklessness, at least, hadnât changed.
âI always had something important,â the response came quickly. A conviction of sorts. There was an inevitability there that spoke volumes, though she took no time to elaborate on what sheâd meant by it. She tilted her head and glanced in Rilienâs direction for a brief moment, before turning her attentionâs towards the bird cages dangling from the ceilingâs rafters; swaying with the absent breeze sifting through the windows, âSometimes, what you consider important isnât yours to keep.â
Her smile was wistful, tugging at the edges of an ugly scar, âBut it doesnât mean I've stopped looking.â
Rilien understood what she said, even if she didn't explain. His eyes lingered on the scar at the edge of her mouth for a moment. There was a sense in which it suited her. A visual cue to the rougher edges to her personality. Itâsheâhad character. Everything she touched was changed by her presence, in some way or another. He had been taught to leave no trace, no matter where he went or who he encountered on the way. In that respect, he supposed he was the one who had failed.
âNothing is permanent." Perhaps the first truth of any great significance he'd ever learned, and one constantly reinforced by his experience. âBut perhaps you have kept more than you believe." He dropped his gaze to the cauldron on front of him; the brew had changed color and needed to be moved to the empty glassware he'd laid out for the purpose.
He set about his work at an efficient clip, but he did not delude himself about where the majority of his attention remained.
Sparrow hummed an assent of sorts, pushing herself away from the railing and back towards the top of the stairs sheâd just climbed moments before. Sheâd acquired a new habit of drifting in and out of things. Phantom-like. A harder, peculiar presence. Equipped with a new flightiness that was colder in some regards. Or else, less like the dizzying tornado sheâd been before, and more like a creature with clipped wings who never strayed too far. She paused mid-step and rested her hand back on the spiraling railing leading down into the library below. It would guide her back to wherever sheâd come from, which was anyoneâs guess.
Her mouth parted.
If sheâd had anything else to say, sheâd thought against it. The sound of retreating footsteps were considerably louder than her entrance, but soon enough they too were silenced.