Ithilian waited at the camp while the sounds of battle raged in the distance. The army returned, the Commander and the Lord Inquisitor leading them back in retreat. Corypheus was immortal. Ithilian was not altogether surprised to hear it. He'd helped kill the magister once before, after all. But he found he didn't much care about that.
The Venatori had broken through to the Temple of Mythal, they said. A small party had accompanied the Lady Inquisitor inside, and they had not returned. Lia and Amalia had fought their way inside, in pursuit of Marcus. They had not returned.
He left the Arbor Wilds, feeling utterly alone.
They waited as long as they could before they began the march back. The Venatori forces were still about, and they could not risk another confrontation, not while their army was so battered. Corypheus had taken many losses as well, but with no known way to slay him, no guarantee that they could survive another confrontation with his army, they had to leave. Ithilian wasn't sure how to feel about the hope that lingered in his chest. He did not know how his kin could have survived, but he also could not declare them dead until he saw their bodies for himself. And even then... death and Amalia were old friends.
So he rode back, in silence and solitude, observing the others. Morale was low. The Qunari girl and her fellow healers had their work cut out for them, trying to save the wounded on the move. The Inquisitor was good at keeping a straight face, but he had to be nervous, with his counterpart potentially slain. Then again, Ithilian had heard from Lia that something similar had once happened to him, and the fiery-haired Dalish riding at his side.
Days and nights passed, and Ithilian spoke not a word to anyone. His thoughts paced around him like a pack of wolves circling prey. Thoughts of what he would do now. What he would become, if his lethallan and his daughter were dead. If Marcus had taken them from him, on his way to the Well of Sorrows. Would they know already, if he or Corypheus had claimed it? Would they even still be alive? There was so much unknown.
His legs were weak and weary as he ascended the path to Skyhold near the head of the army. He'd begun to feel almost unwelcome, just a one-armed elf that had never been an official part of this Inquisition before. Unable to fight, unable to help. Unsure what else to do. And then a scout from Skyhold met with the Commander at the front of the column. Ithilian overheard a few words, and then picked up his horse's pace slightly.
The Lady Inquisitor was alive and safe in Skyhold, the scout said. The Well of Sorrows had been secured. The Venatori general was dead.
Marcus was dead. Slain by the one known as Amalia and their very own Scout Captain.
"Where are they now?" Ithilian demanded to know, urging his horse into a trot. The scout hadn't been aware he was listening. If the Commander or the Inquisitor had bothered to say anything, Ithilian didn't know or care. "Where?"
The infirmary, he said, at least last he knew. It was enough. Ithilian kicked his heels in, spurring his horse on until the hooves were clacking across the bridge to Skyhold. The gate was opened in preparation for the army, and he was the first inside, dismounting swiftly and leaving the horse to the stablehands. He ran as best he was able to, ignoring old pains and making his way to the infirmary. The door was already open there too, expecting a hefty increase in patients as they were. But there were relatively few now, and his eyes were drawn to only one place.
Lia sat at Amalia's bedside, half asleep, out of her armor and armed only with Parshaara. She was whole and intact, with no grievous injuries that he could see. Amalia was in significantly worse condition, no doubt limited to the bed she was in, but she too was very much alive. She rested, with Lia watching over her.
A young elven healer said something to Ithilian upon seeing him enter, but he ignored her entirely and walked towards his daughter. She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him, wincing from some leftover pain. It didn't stop her from wrapping him in a hug when she reached him. He still wasn't sure this wasn't a dream, but the feel of her arms around him, her hair in his face... that had to be real.
"How..." He found he couldn't even phrase the question.
"An eluvian, at the Well," she answered. "Cyrus claimed it, and we escaped before Corypheus could get there, sealing it shut behind us. We've been here in Skyhold since the battle."
An eluvian... he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised there was one in the Temple of Mythal. He shouldn't have been surprised that Amalia and Lia had been able to pursue Marcus inside, or that they would have been able to kill him and keep him from the vir'abelasan. He felt a fool for doubting them.
Breaking away from Lia, she offered him her chair at Amalia's side, which Ithilian gratefully sank into. He reached out, sliding his fingers over her hand and squeezing. "Lethallan. I'm here."
She stirred slowly, a soft noise passing from her as her body shifted under the sheet. That brought on a trembling of eyelashes, and then slowly she blinked her eyes open, the contrasting colors dulled by sleep or pain or perhaps both. They cleared a little when she found his face, though, and her fingers curled softly around his. "Kadan," she murmured, voice thick. There was mottled yellow and brown bruising around her, disappearing into a layer of bandage wrapped around her neck and otherwise-bare shoulder; no doubt it made speaking more difficult than it would have otherwise been.
Amalia turned her head towards them; clearly she'd been in the infirmary long enough for someone to wash her hair, but there wasn't even half of it left. The strands ended abruptly just at her shoulders, somehow more unusual than her state of injury. The latter at least had been common enough in the time they'd known each other.
"It's done. He's dead."
The hair was insignificant. She looked different with so much of it gone, but then... everything was different now. They lived in a world without Marcus Alesius in it. No one hunted them anymore. There were, of course, always people to fight. But their fight was done. It was won.
"Are you..." He didn't know what he wanted to ask. Was she all right? Physically? Mentally? She was alive and she would recover, and he would think that Marcus's death would bring her some measure of peace, and yet... he couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. That he was actually dead. Gone.
Amalia's eyes brightened; he could recognize the film of unshed tears even if it, too, was different. "I'm alive," she whispered, her hand tightening where it still held his. "We're alive." She swallowed tightly, expelling a shaky breath; a discontented expression passing across her face. "Help me sit?" This clearly was not a conversation she wanted to have laying down.
He found his one arm inadequate for the task, as it required rather more delicacy than he was capable of. Lia was more than up for it, however, winding around to Amalia's other side and acquiring another chair for herself, before she carefully helped Amalia into a seated position. Ithilian stole a pillow from the neighboring bed and slid it behind her, an extra to keep her supported. The healers were bringing others from the army into the infirmary, but Ithilian found he didn't much care. No one was going to bother them. Not right now.
It took Amalia a few moments to settle after the movement; from the way she shifted around, he could tell that her legs were particularly painful, but as always she gave only the barest hints of discomfort for someone in such obviously-weakened condition. With a soft sigh, she leaned the crown of her head back against the headboard of the narrow bed, regulating her breaths until they were steady and even. The sheet fell to pool in her lap; though she wore no shirt or gown, the sheer volume of the bandages was more than enough to preserve her modesty. Probably further fabric would only have irritated the minor wounds, the ones being left to heal in the open while the healers saved their magic and potions for those closer to death's door.
Her thumb, worn and callused, brushed over his knuckles, but it was to Lia first that she directed her attention. "I have not yet told you," she said, speaking more clearly now, and careful to enunciate, "how well you did. I would not have slain him without your help, Lia. You have much reason to be proud." A pause, and then: "I certainly am."
His daughter's eyes fell for a moment, clearly unsure where they should rest. "I..." she started and stopped. It seemed she was uncomfortable accepting the praise so readily. "I didn't feel like I did all that well. I only hit him the one time. He hit me a few times and I was almost out of it. I keep thinking about if I'd done things a little differently, a little quicker or quieter or smarter, that maybe you wouldn't have..." She gestured vaguely at Amalia's injuries. Implying she could have lessened them if she'd been better.
"You need not linger on it," Ithilian assured her. "You will likely never face an opponent like Marcus again. You followed Amalia's lead, you navigated the battle, and you did enough to help her finish the hunt. I am proud of you, da'len." Pride was a tricky thing, one that had led him to dark places before. But he felt no guilt when he felt it for his daughter. He knew not how much of what she'd become was his doing, but whatever he'd contributed, he was happy for it. There was nothing quite so perfect in Thedas as she was. Not from where he sat.
She sniffled, wiping tears from her eyes before they could escape and run down her cheeks. "Thank you. Both of you. I'm... I'm happy I could help." She smiled a little, but it faded as she recalled something. "There was one thing he said that I've been thinking about. That I wasn't even a killer. Not like you." She frowned, turning her eyes on Amalia. "I know I don't have your experience, but... I've killed. I've had to kill since I was a girl." She didn't sound remotely proud of the fact, but it was fact nonetheless.
Amalia pursed her lips, dropping her eyes to her lap for a moment before she lifted them again. "Marcus intended a distinction between people who have killed and killers," she said quietly. "What makes one does not always make the other. It is... a fact of temperament, not acts alone." No doubt he had believed Amalia and himself to be in the latter category. Probably Ithilian, too. "Difficult to explain, but simple to notice, once you understand the difference." She shook her head.
"It is no matter anyway. The words of a dead man should trouble you not." There was something in the way she pronounced it, though—as if she were reminding herself just as much.
"It is a line you should never have to cross," Ithilian said. "Even doing what you do. You fight, and you kill when you need to, but you've done it for the right reasons. You had a far better mentor than either of us in the instruction of morality. That mercenary commander of yours."
"You mean the Emperor?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Ithilian nodded, slightly amused. "It is difficult to see someone as something new, when you have known of them as something completely different for so long."
"You've got that right," Lia agreed. "I don't think I could ever be quite like him, but then, he doesn't demand of us more than we're capable of."
"Will you continue as a mercenary, then?" Ithilian moved to cross his arms, only to find that he couldn't quite do that anymore. Still something he'd yet to get used to. "When your work here is done?"
"I'd like to." She thought on it for a moment. "We still have battles to fight here, and I'm not about to leave my friends here until they're won. Too many people I care about are wrapped up in this. But afterwards... I find meaning in what I do. In fighting, in helping others fight, fighting for those that can't." Her expression grew solemn. "I was one of those people once, and the two of you were there to fight for me. Always. I want to be that for others."
Amalia nodded as though she'd expected it. Probably she had. "It is an admirable path to walk," she said, shifting to push a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Know that no matter where it takes you, you'll always have our support. And if there is anything further I might do for you—all you ever need do is ask." A heartbeat of hesitation, almost, and then she released Ithilian's hand and opened her arms, an invitation without expectation.
Lia didn't hesitate at all, except for the necessary slowing of her end of the hug so as to not cause Amalia any pain. "Thank you. So much."
Amalia stroked the hair at the back of her head with one hand, a tender gesture matched by the softness in her words. "Thank you."
"Will you come to visit?" Ithilian asked, the question not demanding it, but kept light, almost humorous.
Lia waited until she'd broken the hug to answer. "In Kirkwall, you mean?" Ithilian nodded. "Are you going to go back soon?"
"They have need of a hahren, as I recall, and somewhere in this life of mine they seem to think I've acquired some wisdom." He looked to Amalia. "I'd like to go as soon as you're well again, if you're of the same mind. The Inquisition is more than capable of finishing this job without us, I think."
Folding her hands back into her lap, Amalia met Ithilian's eye, lips thinned thoughtfully. "I—yes. I think you are right about that." Her brows drew together, though, and for a moment her expression clouded. "Though my own role is... less clear, I admit. I have lived so long anchored by the presence or even the mere threat of Marcus; it is hard to imagine what I will do without that." There was no obvious job or role waiting for her in Kirkwall. Though by this point she was welcome enough in the Alienage, she was still not an elf, something that almost all of them who met her had to take the time to accept before they came to think of her as belonging in the way an elf just would automatically. She'd never directly spoken of it, but it was something that didn't take much effort to notice.
Perhaps, without some overriding goal to render those kinds of things unimportant, she was no longer sure they were. Or perhaps it was more general than that: Amalia had always aimed herself at the completion of tasks, this one in particular. But now the last item on the list was firmly crossed off, never to disturb them again.
"Then we'll just have to find out what your role will be, together. We have the freedom, and the time." Besides that, Ithilian hardly imagined he would want the responsibility of guiding an entire city's elves alone. He'd never guarded them alone. In Kirkwall they knew Amalia as a protector, just as he was. Her presence had remained long after the Qunari were gone, and the association had faded with time as well, until she was known only as a denizen of the Alienage. Kirkwall's Elven Quarter, as he heard it was being called now. And if she decided she wanted to go somewhere else, do something else, he would do his best to support that.
"I promise I'll visit when I can," Lia said. He knew she'd keep her word, though at the same time... he also knew that Kirkwall wasn't where she wanted to be. He could have requested she work with the Lions still there, but he knew her heart took her elsewhere. Kirkwall held no wonders for her anymore. And he wouldn't deny those from her just for the sake of keeping a closer eye on her. She would find her own way, and she would find her way back when she chose.
"As often as you like," he told her. "Wherever we are, you will find a home ready to welcome you."
The Venatori had broken through to the Temple of Mythal, they said. A small party had accompanied the Lady Inquisitor inside, and they had not returned. Lia and Amalia had fought their way inside, in pursuit of Marcus. They had not returned.
He left the Arbor Wilds, feeling utterly alone.
They waited as long as they could before they began the march back. The Venatori forces were still about, and they could not risk another confrontation, not while their army was so battered. Corypheus had taken many losses as well, but with no known way to slay him, no guarantee that they could survive another confrontation with his army, they had to leave. Ithilian wasn't sure how to feel about the hope that lingered in his chest. He did not know how his kin could have survived, but he also could not declare them dead until he saw their bodies for himself. And even then... death and Amalia were old friends.
So he rode back, in silence and solitude, observing the others. Morale was low. The Qunari girl and her fellow healers had their work cut out for them, trying to save the wounded on the move. The Inquisitor was good at keeping a straight face, but he had to be nervous, with his counterpart potentially slain. Then again, Ithilian had heard from Lia that something similar had once happened to him, and the fiery-haired Dalish riding at his side.
Days and nights passed, and Ithilian spoke not a word to anyone. His thoughts paced around him like a pack of wolves circling prey. Thoughts of what he would do now. What he would become, if his lethallan and his daughter were dead. If Marcus had taken them from him, on his way to the Well of Sorrows. Would they know already, if he or Corypheus had claimed it? Would they even still be alive? There was so much unknown.
His legs were weak and weary as he ascended the path to Skyhold near the head of the army. He'd begun to feel almost unwelcome, just a one-armed elf that had never been an official part of this Inquisition before. Unable to fight, unable to help. Unsure what else to do. And then a scout from Skyhold met with the Commander at the front of the column. Ithilian overheard a few words, and then picked up his horse's pace slightly.
The Lady Inquisitor was alive and safe in Skyhold, the scout said. The Well of Sorrows had been secured. The Venatori general was dead.
Marcus was dead. Slain by the one known as Amalia and their very own Scout Captain.
"Where are they now?" Ithilian demanded to know, urging his horse into a trot. The scout hadn't been aware he was listening. If the Commander or the Inquisitor had bothered to say anything, Ithilian didn't know or care. "Where?"
The infirmary, he said, at least last he knew. It was enough. Ithilian kicked his heels in, spurring his horse on until the hooves were clacking across the bridge to Skyhold. The gate was opened in preparation for the army, and he was the first inside, dismounting swiftly and leaving the horse to the stablehands. He ran as best he was able to, ignoring old pains and making his way to the infirmary. The door was already open there too, expecting a hefty increase in patients as they were. But there were relatively few now, and his eyes were drawn to only one place.
Lia sat at Amalia's bedside, half asleep, out of her armor and armed only with Parshaara. She was whole and intact, with no grievous injuries that he could see. Amalia was in significantly worse condition, no doubt limited to the bed she was in, but she too was very much alive. She rested, with Lia watching over her.
A young elven healer said something to Ithilian upon seeing him enter, but he ignored her entirely and walked towards his daughter. She jumped to her feet when she caught sight of him, wincing from some leftover pain. It didn't stop her from wrapping him in a hug when she reached him. He still wasn't sure this wasn't a dream, but the feel of her arms around him, her hair in his face... that had to be real.
"How..." He found he couldn't even phrase the question.
"An eluvian, at the Well," she answered. "Cyrus claimed it, and we escaped before Corypheus could get there, sealing it shut behind us. We've been here in Skyhold since the battle."
An eluvian... he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised there was one in the Temple of Mythal. He shouldn't have been surprised that Amalia and Lia had been able to pursue Marcus inside, or that they would have been able to kill him and keep him from the vir'abelasan. He felt a fool for doubting them.
Breaking away from Lia, she offered him her chair at Amalia's side, which Ithilian gratefully sank into. He reached out, sliding his fingers over her hand and squeezing. "Lethallan. I'm here."
She stirred slowly, a soft noise passing from her as her body shifted under the sheet. That brought on a trembling of eyelashes, and then slowly she blinked her eyes open, the contrasting colors dulled by sleep or pain or perhaps both. They cleared a little when she found his face, though, and her fingers curled softly around his. "Kadan," she murmured, voice thick. There was mottled yellow and brown bruising around her, disappearing into a layer of bandage wrapped around her neck and otherwise-bare shoulder; no doubt it made speaking more difficult than it would have otherwise been.
Amalia turned her head towards them; clearly she'd been in the infirmary long enough for someone to wash her hair, but there wasn't even half of it left. The strands ended abruptly just at her shoulders, somehow more unusual than her state of injury. The latter at least had been common enough in the time they'd known each other.
"It's done. He's dead."
The hair was insignificant. She looked different with so much of it gone, but then... everything was different now. They lived in a world without Marcus Alesius in it. No one hunted them anymore. There were, of course, always people to fight. But their fight was done. It was won.
"Are you..." He didn't know what he wanted to ask. Was she all right? Physically? Mentally? She was alive and she would recover, and he would think that Marcus's death would bring her some measure of peace, and yet... he couldn't seem to wrap his head around it. That he was actually dead. Gone.
Amalia's eyes brightened; he could recognize the film of unshed tears even if it, too, was different. "I'm alive," she whispered, her hand tightening where it still held his. "We're alive." She swallowed tightly, expelling a shaky breath; a discontented expression passing across her face. "Help me sit?" This clearly was not a conversation she wanted to have laying down.
He found his one arm inadequate for the task, as it required rather more delicacy than he was capable of. Lia was more than up for it, however, winding around to Amalia's other side and acquiring another chair for herself, before she carefully helped Amalia into a seated position. Ithilian stole a pillow from the neighboring bed and slid it behind her, an extra to keep her supported. The healers were bringing others from the army into the infirmary, but Ithilian found he didn't much care. No one was going to bother them. Not right now.
It took Amalia a few moments to settle after the movement; from the way she shifted around, he could tell that her legs were particularly painful, but as always she gave only the barest hints of discomfort for someone in such obviously-weakened condition. With a soft sigh, she leaned the crown of her head back against the headboard of the narrow bed, regulating her breaths until they were steady and even. The sheet fell to pool in her lap; though she wore no shirt or gown, the sheer volume of the bandages was more than enough to preserve her modesty. Probably further fabric would only have irritated the minor wounds, the ones being left to heal in the open while the healers saved their magic and potions for those closer to death's door.
Her thumb, worn and callused, brushed over his knuckles, but it was to Lia first that she directed her attention. "I have not yet told you," she said, speaking more clearly now, and careful to enunciate, "how well you did. I would not have slain him without your help, Lia. You have much reason to be proud." A pause, and then: "I certainly am."
His daughter's eyes fell for a moment, clearly unsure where they should rest. "I..." she started and stopped. It seemed she was uncomfortable accepting the praise so readily. "I didn't feel like I did all that well. I only hit him the one time. He hit me a few times and I was almost out of it. I keep thinking about if I'd done things a little differently, a little quicker or quieter or smarter, that maybe you wouldn't have..." She gestured vaguely at Amalia's injuries. Implying she could have lessened them if she'd been better.
"You need not linger on it," Ithilian assured her. "You will likely never face an opponent like Marcus again. You followed Amalia's lead, you navigated the battle, and you did enough to help her finish the hunt. I am proud of you, da'len." Pride was a tricky thing, one that had led him to dark places before. But he felt no guilt when he felt it for his daughter. He knew not how much of what she'd become was his doing, but whatever he'd contributed, he was happy for it. There was nothing quite so perfect in Thedas as she was. Not from where he sat.
She sniffled, wiping tears from her eyes before they could escape and run down her cheeks. "Thank you. Both of you. I'm... I'm happy I could help." She smiled a little, but it faded as she recalled something. "There was one thing he said that I've been thinking about. That I wasn't even a killer. Not like you." She frowned, turning her eyes on Amalia. "I know I don't have your experience, but... I've killed. I've had to kill since I was a girl." She didn't sound remotely proud of the fact, but it was fact nonetheless.
Amalia pursed her lips, dropping her eyes to her lap for a moment before she lifted them again. "Marcus intended a distinction between people who have killed and killers," she said quietly. "What makes one does not always make the other. It is... a fact of temperament, not acts alone." No doubt he had believed Amalia and himself to be in the latter category. Probably Ithilian, too. "Difficult to explain, but simple to notice, once you understand the difference." She shook her head.
"It is no matter anyway. The words of a dead man should trouble you not." There was something in the way she pronounced it, though—as if she were reminding herself just as much.
"It is a line you should never have to cross," Ithilian said. "Even doing what you do. You fight, and you kill when you need to, but you've done it for the right reasons. You had a far better mentor than either of us in the instruction of morality. That mercenary commander of yours."
"You mean the Emperor?" she asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Ithilian nodded, slightly amused. "It is difficult to see someone as something new, when you have known of them as something completely different for so long."
"You've got that right," Lia agreed. "I don't think I could ever be quite like him, but then, he doesn't demand of us more than we're capable of."
"Will you continue as a mercenary, then?" Ithilian moved to cross his arms, only to find that he couldn't quite do that anymore. Still something he'd yet to get used to. "When your work here is done?"
"I'd like to." She thought on it for a moment. "We still have battles to fight here, and I'm not about to leave my friends here until they're won. Too many people I care about are wrapped up in this. But afterwards... I find meaning in what I do. In fighting, in helping others fight, fighting for those that can't." Her expression grew solemn. "I was one of those people once, and the two of you were there to fight for me. Always. I want to be that for others."
Amalia nodded as though she'd expected it. Probably she had. "It is an admirable path to walk," she said, shifting to push a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Know that no matter where it takes you, you'll always have our support. And if there is anything further I might do for you—all you ever need do is ask." A heartbeat of hesitation, almost, and then she released Ithilian's hand and opened her arms, an invitation without expectation.
Lia didn't hesitate at all, except for the necessary slowing of her end of the hug so as to not cause Amalia any pain. "Thank you. So much."
Amalia stroked the hair at the back of her head with one hand, a tender gesture matched by the softness in her words. "Thank you."
"Will you come to visit?" Ithilian asked, the question not demanding it, but kept light, almost humorous.
Lia waited until she'd broken the hug to answer. "In Kirkwall, you mean?" Ithilian nodded. "Are you going to go back soon?"
"They have need of a hahren, as I recall, and somewhere in this life of mine they seem to think I've acquired some wisdom." He looked to Amalia. "I'd like to go as soon as you're well again, if you're of the same mind. The Inquisition is more than capable of finishing this job without us, I think."
Folding her hands back into her lap, Amalia met Ithilian's eye, lips thinned thoughtfully. "I—yes. I think you are right about that." Her brows drew together, though, and for a moment her expression clouded. "Though my own role is... less clear, I admit. I have lived so long anchored by the presence or even the mere threat of Marcus; it is hard to imagine what I will do without that." There was no obvious job or role waiting for her in Kirkwall. Though by this point she was welcome enough in the Alienage, she was still not an elf, something that almost all of them who met her had to take the time to accept before they came to think of her as belonging in the way an elf just would automatically. She'd never directly spoken of it, but it was something that didn't take much effort to notice.
Perhaps, without some overriding goal to render those kinds of things unimportant, she was no longer sure they were. Or perhaps it was more general than that: Amalia had always aimed herself at the completion of tasks, this one in particular. But now the last item on the list was firmly crossed off, never to disturb them again.
"Then we'll just have to find out what your role will be, together. We have the freedom, and the time." Besides that, Ithilian hardly imagined he would want the responsibility of guiding an entire city's elves alone. He'd never guarded them alone. In Kirkwall they knew Amalia as a protector, just as he was. Her presence had remained long after the Qunari were gone, and the association had faded with time as well, until she was known only as a denizen of the Alienage. Kirkwall's Elven Quarter, as he heard it was being called now. And if she decided she wanted to go somewhere else, do something else, he would do his best to support that.
"I promise I'll visit when I can," Lia said. He knew she'd keep her word, though at the same time... he also knew that Kirkwall wasn't where she wanted to be. He could have requested she work with the Lions still there, but he knew her heart took her elsewhere. Kirkwall held no wonders for her anymore. And he wouldn't deny those from her just for the sake of keeping a closer eye on her. She would find her own way, and she would find her way back when she chose.
"As often as you like," he told her. "Wherever we are, you will find a home ready to welcome you."