The sound was almost the same, but not quite.
The vhenadahl had survived the battle, and it was there that Ithilian planted himself, as he so often had done, either in its lower branches or at its base. The climbing required was not something he was capable of anymore, so he sat among the roots. It was the exact spot he first saw Amalia in. The shemlen interloper, and then the Qunari infiltrator, poisoning impressionable minds in the Alienage. If she was toxic, then Ithilian was well and truly corrupted by her. And there was nothing in his life he was more thankful for than that.
There was not much to do but sit and think. He couldn't carve anything as a gift for Lia. He couldn't play a low, mournful song on the wooden flute. It occurred to him that he could write, given that it was his left arm that had been severed. But he knew not what to write about, or why he should. And so he sat.
Children would often gather at Amalia's feet when she rested here. Ithilian had never known anyone better with them. With his one remaining eye he watched a few, those daring to emerge from their homes now that the siege had been lifted. They ignored him, acted like he wasn't there. Maybe they really didn't see him at all. Just another broken down veteran of one too many battles. Many were without fathers, without mothers, alone in their homes, nowhere to turn save to run to the remaining Alienage elders and see what was to be done with them. Who can take in another child? Who will give them the care they need? The questions usually went unanswered, and the elders did what they thought was best. Many would soon be hunting rabbits of the city, as these elves preferred to call them.
The dead from the battle had been gathered and tallied, and were in the process of being cleaned and prepared for meager rites. Ithilian had heard whispers of remarkable news on the way back from Minrathous, things that would've shaken his world to the core in years past. Now he found he couldn't be bothered with gods and the like. The elves in Kirkwall likely didn't care, those of them that were even familiar with Dalish myths. The funeral rites were for peace of mind, and the comfort that where the dead had gone to, it was a more peaceful place. A more plentiful place.
One of the few intact doors remaining in this part of the Alienage opened, Amalia and Lia emerging from behind it. From the dark red smears on Amalia's arms, they'd been at the task of preparing the dead for their rites—likely some of the especially cruelly-mangled dead. She paused at the open barrel in front of the house, dipping a clean rag into the collected rainwater in it and then scrubbing herself down from shoulders to fingers. The pale lines crosshatching her dark complexion would, of course, never go away, but the evidence of their recent work did.
Discarding the cloth in one of the organized piles of refuse to be burned, Amalia turned towards the vhenadahl, tipping her head slightly upwards to study its familiar branches. Her face had never been the easiest to read, but time and companionship had given him more insight into what her expressions meant than anyone else had. Being here, without the necessity of battle serving to shut down her more emotional reactions, was clearly having an effect on her. For now, only a slight furrow in her brow gave it away, but she glanced once at Lia and then proceeded towards the tree, coming to a stop beside where he sat and laying a hand along the trunk. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly; she huffed a quiet exhalation and shifted to drop into a seated position.
Though she'd paid the children no special mind until that point, he could see her studying them now, not overtly, but from the corners of her eyes. "I suppose there are more now," she observed quietly. "Without parents." For all the things that it had taken Amalia time to understand about the world away from the Qunari, the particular hardship of being an orphan had never seemed to elude her.
"They'll be okay," Lia said, though Ithilian doubted the confidence she put into the words was genuine. Of the three of them, Ithilian was the only one to grow to adulthood with his birth parents, though he supposed he could be considered orphaned after the Blight. Lia had already fallen under Ithilian's care before her father died, though he wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
His daughter sat more cautiously in front of him. Wondering if he was still angry with her, perhaps. He wondered if she understood that it wasn't anger at all. Just fear. He'd encountered very few things he couldn't fight against in his life. This was beyond all of them, and even to begin thinking about it sent an icy chill through him, more than the brisk winter air of Kirkwall could ever do.
Lia clearly expected him to say something, but he remained silent. He didn't know what to say. What subject to bring up, how to do it. He felt... stuck, trapped, helpless. Unable to help. "I talked some with Stel," Lia said eventually. "She said the Inquisition is going to stay a little while, help with some of the rebuilding. We can stay here, an elder told me that your old house is, uh... vacant again, and if you wanted, you could stay here as long as you like."
At some point Lia had shifted from talking about all three of them to just him specifically. Her words were clear, as long as you like meaning well after the Inquisition had departed, and Lia had gone with them. Amalia too, perhaps, but the message was clear enough: stay in Kirkwall.
"No," he answered. "I'm not leaving the Inquisition. The task isn't done."
Amalia hummed. Though she surely had a view on the matter, she had not made it obvious in the way Lia had, not up until this point, anyway. Drawing her eyes away from the other people moving about the Alienage, she refocused on the two closest to her, pursing her lips. "It is not as though they lack the space," she noted, shifting slightly so as to fold her legs beneath her. Her fingers tapped her knee almost involuntarily; perhaps she missed having the harp. "But we cannot continue exactly as we were." Her eyes met Ithilian's one, tone matter-of-fact as it usually was. "You know how strong Marcus is. To face him again would kill you—"
The certitude left her abruptly. From the look on her face, she hadn't been planning on it. He could hear the sound of her swallowing past something in her throat. "I do not wish for you to be elsewhere while I am there. But I alone am the one that must confront him, from here on. If..." Amalia grimaced, then shook her head. Whatever she'd meant to say there faded, and she did not take up the thread, lapsing instead into what was for her uncomfortable silence.
The ifs were the source of the fear, for they all seemed to be about disasters. If Marcus were to kill Amalia, or worse, capture her, it would be the end of Ithilian as surely as if he were the one cut down instead. Loss was not a thing that grew easier for him with experience. His survival of his first great loss had hardly been a sure thing, and it took him so, so long to mend himself to the point where he could accept having a family again. He simply could not lose them. But there was nothing he could do about it, either, besides throw his body in the way of blades meant for them. He would do that if he could, if it would not hurt them just as much.
"Why must it be you alone?" Lia asked Amalia. Her tone was more direct and honestly forceful than he'd ever heard her use with his lethallan. He knew she admired Amalia in nearly every way, but she was poorly concealing frustration at the moment. "Both of you insist that this is your fight, but there are people that care about you, that love you. Let me help you, you've seen how much I've improved since—"
"No." Ithilian shook his head firmly. "You will not. You're a scout, your responsibilities to the Inquisition don't include assassination."
"We worked well together," Lia argued. "We infiltrated this city, we led an attack, we watched each other's backs, we won."
"Marcus is not a mindless red templar brute, da'len, he is a cunning and ruthless monster. You risk yourself enough already in the field, you are not ready to face—"
"So teach me," she interrupted. She looked Amalia, hints of desperation in her eyes. "Will you let me help you? Prepare me for this? Whether you want it to be or not, the battles the two of you fight are my battles too. I want nothing more than for both of you to be free of it."
Amalia did not immediately refuse, which meant she was honestly considering it. The thought didn't seem to please her, from the way the impassive set of her mouth slanted down into a frown, but then her shoulders lifted with her intake of breath, falling again only when she sighed it out. The pad of her thumb ran the trajectory of the scar on her face, where a former Guard-Captain's sword had flayed her skin to bone. It had been him in danger, that time, but she'd not hesitated.
"You would have to be willing to do everything I tell you, when I tell you," she said at last, regarding Lia with a hard expression. "That includes abandoning the fight. And you won't go unless I decide your skill has improved to the point where it is viable." Amalia's standards were exacting to the point of harshness, something Lia knew quite well by reputation, and to some extent directly. She would certainly win no approval for passion alone.
She shifted her attention to Ithilian. "But it may be our best chance. I cannot watch every angle, and Marcus knows me. As well as I know him." No doubt there was still severe risk, but it was also obvious that Amalia fully intended to shoulder as much of that herself as possible. "We're with the Inquisition now, and no doubt their assistance will help. But you know how he works." He always found a way to specifically target Amalia. And him, when he'd been Amalia's obvious ally. The Inquisition had its own objectives, its own priorities and needs. They couldn't count on the aid of many to achieve their own.
They shared a look, Ithilian and Lia. Hers communicated a number of things. She did not need his approval to attempt this, if Amalia was willing to train her. Despite the fact that she was his child, she was not a child at all anymore, a fact he knew he would struggle to come to terms with. She'd survived much in her young life, and it had strengthened her beyond her years, but Marcus was something altogether different.
"Even if you do win," he said, more softly than before, "I don't want you to end up like me. I don't want you to have to fight until your body refuses to let you anymore. I don't want you to wake up and feel broken when you try to rise. I want you to have a different life. A happier life."
"Maybe I will someday," she said. "But right now, this is what makes me happy. Seeing the world, doing real good. Even besides what it means to the two of you, ridding the world of this shem piece of shit is a real good." That, Ithilian could not argue with. Nor could he say that Lia didn't seem her happiest when he'd found her again, in the Emerald Graves. For she'd found herself in the years since she left Kirkwall. She didn't need him anymore, even if he still needed her.
"Ithilian?" said an elderly elven woman, approaching the three of them with caution. He remembered her. Brilwyn, a stitcher, one of the few elves in the Alienage with grandchildren almost old enough to have children of their own. "We're almost ready to begin. I... thought it might lift spirits if you were to offer a few words. In the old tongue."
He wasn't sure how to react at first. He was surprised, to find that they wanted him to speak. He'd never been a leader or a speaker among the elves here before, just a protector alongside Amalia, and a quiet one. Brilwyn knew none of the elven language, same as most of the city elves. Apart from Marethari and Emerion, Ithilian was really the only Dalish to reside within the Alienage for any length of time. He knew a few words he could say, though he wasn't confident in any effect they would have.
Groaning softly, he got to his feet, touching the familiar weight of Parshaara at his belt out of habit. "Ma nuvenin. I'll do what I can." Brilwyn nodded her thanks, returning to where the bodies were being arranged on thin pyres. Many of them had known Ithilian, or at least known of him. He wasn't sure he was the right person to speak, considering that he hadn't been here when they died, but perhaps he couldn't be the judge of that.
Amalia stood as well, clearly intent on at least accompanying him to the ceremony, brief and perfunctory as it was sure to be. She smoothed her hands back over her head to tame the few hairs that had come loose from her high ponytail. Pulling a few wrinkles out of her tunic, she nodded once at them.
The dead were wrapped in clean sheets and laid down next to one another. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. Young and old. There was one body among them that was small, far too small to have ever been a warrior. Ithilian didn't want to know how the child died, but if he had to guess... sickness was the usual cause. They'd been cut off from the clinic, where in years past Nostariel would have saved the child and made it look easy. With so many wounded, it was easy for one young person to pass unnoticed, until it was too late.
The Alienage elves gathered in the open space until those in the rear were standing under the boughs of the vhenadahl. Ithilian, Amalia, and Lia came to stand in the front row, the elves parting to let them pass wherever they went. Ithilian searched a moment for the hahren, who would undoubtedly lead the rite, but he could not locate him. He wondered if perhaps it was someone else now, if the old man had passed during his time away.
Brilwyn seemed to follow his thoughts, and leaned towards him slightly. "Hahren Althorn is among those before you, Ithilian," she said, quietly. "He was killed on the second night, in the worst of the red templar attacks."
It didn't surprise Ithilian that the fool would put himself in harm's way. Too old to be a fighter or a hunter anymore, but still brave enough to risk his life for those with years yet to live. Ithilian nodded his understanding, and then a moment later gestured for them to begin. There was little to the ritual but to light the pyres, as these elves did not believe in the Maker despite occasional visits from the templars, nor did they have knowledge of the elven gods. And any who still followed the Qun were long gone.
Ithilian took a step forward as the flames curled around the wood and began to lick at the bodies. He let his gaze fall down to their feet, unsure what to do with his one hand now that he could not lock it with his other.
"Na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa'vunin."
It wasn't the first time he'd said the words. He remembered speaking them clearly before he met Lia for the first time. As he watched the bodies burn, he couldn't help but wonder how many more times he would need to do this. If the next time would involve burning his daughter, his lethallan. Perhaps both of them. As difficult as these orphans would have it from here on out, Ithilian knew well that there was nothing more painful than for a parent to have to put a period on their child's story. To have everything they'd poured into them simply leak away as the life left their bodies.
He watched the bodies burn until the people began to disperse. It was Brilwyn that first came to stand beside him afterwards, while Amalia and Lia still watched from afar. "I have spoken with the other elders, and we are in agreement. If you are willing, we would like for you to become our next hahren, Ithilian." She paused, as though waiting for an immediate reaction, but none was forthcoming. "You have always been our protector," she continued, "you have worked with the Queen before, enough to have her respect and cooperation. You are loved here, more than you know."
It sounded... quite nice, actually. To have this place to belong to again. He hadn't intended for it when he first arrived, but he'd made a home in the Alienage, one he came to care for. The people were a large part of that, of course, but there was a kind of pride he'd been able to find again, in building and protecting something like this. If they felt he was best positioned to be their leader, could he turn them down? What would he do instead?
"I'll do it," he said. "But... not yet. There's something I have to see finished first. My family will soon leave this place again, and I must go with them, until the task is done."
"I understand," Brilwyn said, nodding with a relieved smile. "I wish you and your family the best of luck, and pray the gods deliver you back to us safely and swiftly."
She took her leave, allowing Ithilian to return to Amalia and Lia. His daughter was already giving him an encouraging smile. "We heard that," she said. "I think it's a great idea. You've got the old and grouchy part down already." He scoffed lightly at that, but didn't dare dispute it. Nor did he dare believe that he would want to do such a thing alone.
Amalia's smile was subtler, a bit more solemn. "And the protection part, as Brilwyn said. Perhaps there's even a little wisdom in there, somewhere." That bit, at least, was clearly meant to be less than completely serious, if the subtle crinkles at the corners of her eyes were anything to go by. He had certainly not always been wise in her presence, but she also knew well the ways in which the years had changed him. The years, and the experiences in them.
"It will suit you."
He hoped so. It was... something, and it would not require him to take up a blade again. Not in this city, not while the current leadership remained in power. It was plain to see that the Queen's rule had been good for the elves, and even if they wouldn't be integrating into Lowtown proper any time soon, they were at least taking steps in the right direction. Their isolation was now out of a sense of pride and having a home rather than simply borne out of fear.
"There's work to be done before we can return to this," he said, turning his eyes on Lia. "All three of us. Lethallan won't be the only one deciding on your skill, da'len." Lia restrained her obvious desire to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't argue. She wouldn't keep him from coming with them, and preparing her as much as possible. Perhaps he wouldn't be at the battle, or wherever they met Marcus next, but he would ensure as much of what he knew was passed onto her as possible, so some part of him could fight on.
To begin that process, he unbuckled and removed the sheath carrying Parshaara. "This... will belong to you now." Ithilian was not sentimental about any of his other weapons. Bows and blades were just tools of the trade, but this knife... there was a history in it that went hand-in-hand with his own. His initial refusal to accept it, the number of times it saved his life regardless, the meaning and the worth he'd come to see in himself after he'd started carrying it. He'd come to believe that he was enough, for himself, for Amalia, for the people of the Alienage, for a daughter, a family, a future. It wasn't enough to bring down Marcus. But she would be. They would be, together.
Lia hesitated. "I... are you sure?"
He nodded. "My fighting days are done. I will not see it go to waste, not if it can help protect someone I love."
She took it slowly, carefully, wrapping her hand around the hilt. Accepting the weapon seemed to help her understand just how much of a weight she was taking on, for their sake. But she broke a smile, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped Ithilian in a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder, and it was there that the tears fell.
"Thank you, Dad."
The vhenadahl had survived the battle, and it was there that Ithilian planted himself, as he so often had done, either in its lower branches or at its base. The climbing required was not something he was capable of anymore, so he sat among the roots. It was the exact spot he first saw Amalia in. The shemlen interloper, and then the Qunari infiltrator, poisoning impressionable minds in the Alienage. If she was toxic, then Ithilian was well and truly corrupted by her. And there was nothing in his life he was more thankful for than that.
There was not much to do but sit and think. He couldn't carve anything as a gift for Lia. He couldn't play a low, mournful song on the wooden flute. It occurred to him that he could write, given that it was his left arm that had been severed. But he knew not what to write about, or why he should. And so he sat.
Children would often gather at Amalia's feet when she rested here. Ithilian had never known anyone better with them. With his one remaining eye he watched a few, those daring to emerge from their homes now that the siege had been lifted. They ignored him, acted like he wasn't there. Maybe they really didn't see him at all. Just another broken down veteran of one too many battles. Many were without fathers, without mothers, alone in their homes, nowhere to turn save to run to the remaining Alienage elders and see what was to be done with them. Who can take in another child? Who will give them the care they need? The questions usually went unanswered, and the elders did what they thought was best. Many would soon be hunting rabbits of the city, as these elves preferred to call them.
The dead from the battle had been gathered and tallied, and were in the process of being cleaned and prepared for meager rites. Ithilian had heard whispers of remarkable news on the way back from Minrathous, things that would've shaken his world to the core in years past. Now he found he couldn't be bothered with gods and the like. The elves in Kirkwall likely didn't care, those of them that were even familiar with Dalish myths. The funeral rites were for peace of mind, and the comfort that where the dead had gone to, it was a more peaceful place. A more plentiful place.
One of the few intact doors remaining in this part of the Alienage opened, Amalia and Lia emerging from behind it. From the dark red smears on Amalia's arms, they'd been at the task of preparing the dead for their rites—likely some of the especially cruelly-mangled dead. She paused at the open barrel in front of the house, dipping a clean rag into the collected rainwater in it and then scrubbing herself down from shoulders to fingers. The pale lines crosshatching her dark complexion would, of course, never go away, but the evidence of their recent work did.
Discarding the cloth in one of the organized piles of refuse to be burned, Amalia turned towards the vhenadahl, tipping her head slightly upwards to study its familiar branches. Her face had never been the easiest to read, but time and companionship had given him more insight into what her expressions meant than anyone else had. Being here, without the necessity of battle serving to shut down her more emotional reactions, was clearly having an effect on her. For now, only a slight furrow in her brow gave it away, but she glanced once at Lia and then proceeded towards the tree, coming to a stop beside where he sat and laying a hand along the trunk. Her expression softened almost imperceptibly; she huffed a quiet exhalation and shifted to drop into a seated position.
Though she'd paid the children no special mind until that point, he could see her studying them now, not overtly, but from the corners of her eyes. "I suppose there are more now," she observed quietly. "Without parents." For all the things that it had taken Amalia time to understand about the world away from the Qunari, the particular hardship of being an orphan had never seemed to elude her.
"They'll be okay," Lia said, though Ithilian doubted the confidence she put into the words was genuine. Of the three of them, Ithilian was the only one to grow to adulthood with his birth parents, though he supposed he could be considered orphaned after the Blight. Lia had already fallen under Ithilian's care before her father died, though he wouldn't have admitted it at the time.
His daughter sat more cautiously in front of him. Wondering if he was still angry with her, perhaps. He wondered if she understood that it wasn't anger at all. Just fear. He'd encountered very few things he couldn't fight against in his life. This was beyond all of them, and even to begin thinking about it sent an icy chill through him, more than the brisk winter air of Kirkwall could ever do.
Lia clearly expected him to say something, but he remained silent. He didn't know what to say. What subject to bring up, how to do it. He felt... stuck, trapped, helpless. Unable to help. "I talked some with Stel," Lia said eventually. "She said the Inquisition is going to stay a little while, help with some of the rebuilding. We can stay here, an elder told me that your old house is, uh... vacant again, and if you wanted, you could stay here as long as you like."
At some point Lia had shifted from talking about all three of them to just him specifically. Her words were clear, as long as you like meaning well after the Inquisition had departed, and Lia had gone with them. Amalia too, perhaps, but the message was clear enough: stay in Kirkwall.
"No," he answered. "I'm not leaving the Inquisition. The task isn't done."
Amalia hummed. Though she surely had a view on the matter, she had not made it obvious in the way Lia had, not up until this point, anyway. Drawing her eyes away from the other people moving about the Alienage, she refocused on the two closest to her, pursing her lips. "It is not as though they lack the space," she noted, shifting slightly so as to fold her legs beneath her. Her fingers tapped her knee almost involuntarily; perhaps she missed having the harp. "But we cannot continue exactly as we were." Her eyes met Ithilian's one, tone matter-of-fact as it usually was. "You know how strong Marcus is. To face him again would kill you—"
The certitude left her abruptly. From the look on her face, she hadn't been planning on it. He could hear the sound of her swallowing past something in her throat. "I do not wish for you to be elsewhere while I am there. But I alone am the one that must confront him, from here on. If..." Amalia grimaced, then shook her head. Whatever she'd meant to say there faded, and she did not take up the thread, lapsing instead into what was for her uncomfortable silence.
The ifs were the source of the fear, for they all seemed to be about disasters. If Marcus were to kill Amalia, or worse, capture her, it would be the end of Ithilian as surely as if he were the one cut down instead. Loss was not a thing that grew easier for him with experience. His survival of his first great loss had hardly been a sure thing, and it took him so, so long to mend himself to the point where he could accept having a family again. He simply could not lose them. But there was nothing he could do about it, either, besides throw his body in the way of blades meant for them. He would do that if he could, if it would not hurt them just as much.
"Why must it be you alone?" Lia asked Amalia. Her tone was more direct and honestly forceful than he'd ever heard her use with his lethallan. He knew she admired Amalia in nearly every way, but she was poorly concealing frustration at the moment. "Both of you insist that this is your fight, but there are people that care about you, that love you. Let me help you, you've seen how much I've improved since—"
"No." Ithilian shook his head firmly. "You will not. You're a scout, your responsibilities to the Inquisition don't include assassination."
"We worked well together," Lia argued. "We infiltrated this city, we led an attack, we watched each other's backs, we won."
"Marcus is not a mindless red templar brute, da'len, he is a cunning and ruthless monster. You risk yourself enough already in the field, you are not ready to face—"
"So teach me," she interrupted. She looked Amalia, hints of desperation in her eyes. "Will you let me help you? Prepare me for this? Whether you want it to be or not, the battles the two of you fight are my battles too. I want nothing more than for both of you to be free of it."
Amalia did not immediately refuse, which meant she was honestly considering it. The thought didn't seem to please her, from the way the impassive set of her mouth slanted down into a frown, but then her shoulders lifted with her intake of breath, falling again only when she sighed it out. The pad of her thumb ran the trajectory of the scar on her face, where a former Guard-Captain's sword had flayed her skin to bone. It had been him in danger, that time, but she'd not hesitated.
"You would have to be willing to do everything I tell you, when I tell you," she said at last, regarding Lia with a hard expression. "That includes abandoning the fight. And you won't go unless I decide your skill has improved to the point where it is viable." Amalia's standards were exacting to the point of harshness, something Lia knew quite well by reputation, and to some extent directly. She would certainly win no approval for passion alone.
She shifted her attention to Ithilian. "But it may be our best chance. I cannot watch every angle, and Marcus knows me. As well as I know him." No doubt there was still severe risk, but it was also obvious that Amalia fully intended to shoulder as much of that herself as possible. "We're with the Inquisition now, and no doubt their assistance will help. But you know how he works." He always found a way to specifically target Amalia. And him, when he'd been Amalia's obvious ally. The Inquisition had its own objectives, its own priorities and needs. They couldn't count on the aid of many to achieve their own.
They shared a look, Ithilian and Lia. Hers communicated a number of things. She did not need his approval to attempt this, if Amalia was willing to train her. Despite the fact that she was his child, she was not a child at all anymore, a fact he knew he would struggle to come to terms with. She'd survived much in her young life, and it had strengthened her beyond her years, but Marcus was something altogether different.
"Even if you do win," he said, more softly than before, "I don't want you to end up like me. I don't want you to have to fight until your body refuses to let you anymore. I don't want you to wake up and feel broken when you try to rise. I want you to have a different life. A happier life."
"Maybe I will someday," she said. "But right now, this is what makes me happy. Seeing the world, doing real good. Even besides what it means to the two of you, ridding the world of this shem piece of shit is a real good." That, Ithilian could not argue with. Nor could he say that Lia didn't seem her happiest when he'd found her again, in the Emerald Graves. For she'd found herself in the years since she left Kirkwall. She didn't need him anymore, even if he still needed her.
"Ithilian?" said an elderly elven woman, approaching the three of them with caution. He remembered her. Brilwyn, a stitcher, one of the few elves in the Alienage with grandchildren almost old enough to have children of their own. "We're almost ready to begin. I... thought it might lift spirits if you were to offer a few words. In the old tongue."
He wasn't sure how to react at first. He was surprised, to find that they wanted him to speak. He'd never been a leader or a speaker among the elves here before, just a protector alongside Amalia, and a quiet one. Brilwyn knew none of the elven language, same as most of the city elves. Apart from Marethari and Emerion, Ithilian was really the only Dalish to reside within the Alienage for any length of time. He knew a few words he could say, though he wasn't confident in any effect they would have.
Groaning softly, he got to his feet, touching the familiar weight of Parshaara at his belt out of habit. "Ma nuvenin. I'll do what I can." Brilwyn nodded her thanks, returning to where the bodies were being arranged on thin pyres. Many of them had known Ithilian, or at least known of him. He wasn't sure he was the right person to speak, considering that he hadn't been here when they died, but perhaps he couldn't be the judge of that.
Amalia stood as well, clearly intent on at least accompanying him to the ceremony, brief and perfunctory as it was sure to be. She smoothed her hands back over her head to tame the few hairs that had come loose from her high ponytail. Pulling a few wrinkles out of her tunic, she nodded once at them.
The dead were wrapped in clean sheets and laid down next to one another. Mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters. Young and old. There was one body among them that was small, far too small to have ever been a warrior. Ithilian didn't want to know how the child died, but if he had to guess... sickness was the usual cause. They'd been cut off from the clinic, where in years past Nostariel would have saved the child and made it look easy. With so many wounded, it was easy for one young person to pass unnoticed, until it was too late.
The Alienage elves gathered in the open space until those in the rear were standing under the boughs of the vhenadahl. Ithilian, Amalia, and Lia came to stand in the front row, the elves parting to let them pass wherever they went. Ithilian searched a moment for the hahren, who would undoubtedly lead the rite, but he could not locate him. He wondered if perhaps it was someone else now, if the old man had passed during his time away.
Brilwyn seemed to follow his thoughts, and leaned towards him slightly. "Hahren Althorn is among those before you, Ithilian," she said, quietly. "He was killed on the second night, in the worst of the red templar attacks."
It didn't surprise Ithilian that the fool would put himself in harm's way. Too old to be a fighter or a hunter anymore, but still brave enough to risk his life for those with years yet to live. Ithilian nodded his understanding, and then a moment later gestured for them to begin. There was little to the ritual but to light the pyres, as these elves did not believe in the Maker despite occasional visits from the templars, nor did they have knowledge of the elven gods. And any who still followed the Qun were long gone.
Ithilian took a step forward as the flames curled around the wood and began to lick at the bodies. He let his gaze fall down to their feet, unsure what to do with his one hand now that he could not lock it with his other.
"Na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas
souver'inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor'felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn'nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa'vunin."
It wasn't the first time he'd said the words. He remembered speaking them clearly before he met Lia for the first time. As he watched the bodies burn, he couldn't help but wonder how many more times he would need to do this. If the next time would involve burning his daughter, his lethallan. Perhaps both of them. As difficult as these orphans would have it from here on out, Ithilian knew well that there was nothing more painful than for a parent to have to put a period on their child's story. To have everything they'd poured into them simply leak away as the life left their bodies.
He watched the bodies burn until the people began to disperse. It was Brilwyn that first came to stand beside him afterwards, while Amalia and Lia still watched from afar. "I have spoken with the other elders, and we are in agreement. If you are willing, we would like for you to become our next hahren, Ithilian." She paused, as though waiting for an immediate reaction, but none was forthcoming. "You have always been our protector," she continued, "you have worked with the Queen before, enough to have her respect and cooperation. You are loved here, more than you know."
It sounded... quite nice, actually. To have this place to belong to again. He hadn't intended for it when he first arrived, but he'd made a home in the Alienage, one he came to care for. The people were a large part of that, of course, but there was a kind of pride he'd been able to find again, in building and protecting something like this. If they felt he was best positioned to be their leader, could he turn them down? What would he do instead?
"I'll do it," he said. "But... not yet. There's something I have to see finished first. My family will soon leave this place again, and I must go with them, until the task is done."
"I understand," Brilwyn said, nodding with a relieved smile. "I wish you and your family the best of luck, and pray the gods deliver you back to us safely and swiftly."
She took her leave, allowing Ithilian to return to Amalia and Lia. His daughter was already giving him an encouraging smile. "We heard that," she said. "I think it's a great idea. You've got the old and grouchy part down already." He scoffed lightly at that, but didn't dare dispute it. Nor did he dare believe that he would want to do such a thing alone.
Amalia's smile was subtler, a bit more solemn. "And the protection part, as Brilwyn said. Perhaps there's even a little wisdom in there, somewhere." That bit, at least, was clearly meant to be less than completely serious, if the subtle crinkles at the corners of her eyes were anything to go by. He had certainly not always been wise in her presence, but she also knew well the ways in which the years had changed him. The years, and the experiences in them.
"It will suit you."
He hoped so. It was... something, and it would not require him to take up a blade again. Not in this city, not while the current leadership remained in power. It was plain to see that the Queen's rule had been good for the elves, and even if they wouldn't be integrating into Lowtown proper any time soon, they were at least taking steps in the right direction. Their isolation was now out of a sense of pride and having a home rather than simply borne out of fear.
"There's work to be done before we can return to this," he said, turning his eyes on Lia. "All three of us. Lethallan won't be the only one deciding on your skill, da'len." Lia restrained her obvious desire to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't argue. She wouldn't keep him from coming with them, and preparing her as much as possible. Perhaps he wouldn't be at the battle, or wherever they met Marcus next, but he would ensure as much of what he knew was passed onto her as possible, so some part of him could fight on.
To begin that process, he unbuckled and removed the sheath carrying Parshaara. "This... will belong to you now." Ithilian was not sentimental about any of his other weapons. Bows and blades were just tools of the trade, but this knife... there was a history in it that went hand-in-hand with his own. His initial refusal to accept it, the number of times it saved his life regardless, the meaning and the worth he'd come to see in himself after he'd started carrying it. He'd come to believe that he was enough, for himself, for Amalia, for the people of the Alienage, for a daughter, a family, a future. It wasn't enough to bring down Marcus. But she would be. They would be, together.
Lia hesitated. "I... are you sure?"
He nodded. "My fighting days are done. I will not see it go to waste, not if it can help protect someone I love."
She took it slowly, carefully, wrapping her hand around the hilt. Accepting the weapon seemed to help her understand just how much of a weight she was taking on, for their sake. But she broke a smile, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped Ithilian in a hug, resting her chin on his shoulder, and it was there that the tears fell.
"Thank you, Dad."