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[acreage]

WHO: Holden, you!
WHAT: A catch-all for the month(?)
WHEN: After Satinalia and onwards
WHERE: Kirkwall, Gallows
NOTES: There'll be post-murderhaus stuff in here, so there may be references to some of the horror movie occurrences!

Starters will be in the comments! I'm sorry, I'll write a real log one day.

Comments

[acreage]

Like inventing gods, stories, to explain natural phenomena. It's an explanation that makes sense. He considers the loss of Arlathan, the reality of elves' lives as he's seen it since being here. Alienages, the bodies in Medrod's basement, the funeral Athessa insisted on giving them.

"When you said," he asks slowly, "those elves we found were Dalish, what did that mean?"

He speaks carefully, gently, as he alludes back to the Silver Lamp. Those elves, not those bodies.

[sulahnan]

As he speaks, whatever hint of a smile that played at Athessa's features before fades. She doesn't frown, per se, but it's a reversion of her expression from something warm to something a little more distant.

"Elves used to live in a place called the Dales. It was a concession given to us by Andraste's sons after she and an elf called Shartan led a slave rebellion against the Tevinter Imperium.

"But the Chantry doesn't like it when they can't control people. So they sent missionaries into the Dales to try and convert the elves, and when the missionaries were turned away, they sent Templars. When relations got worse, the Chantry led an Exalted March against the elves, overwhelming their forces and in the end, forced them to convert to Andrastianism and give up centuries of tradition and beliefs to live in Alienages and be treated like shit."

Athessa glances at the tattoo on her wrist, the reminder she got of where she came from, who she's lost, how far she's come.

"Those who didn't assimilate have been living in nomadic clans ever since, clinging to a history that has been mostly lost or destroyed, scraps of a language we can barely use to communicate with one another, traditions that are passed down from generation to generation. And if we're very lucky, we get left alone. If."

She doesn't realize that she's switched to saying we rather than they, but it's not much of a secret that she's Dalish. Not among Riftwatch, anyway. She looks over at Holden, not sure what to expect from him after this monologue.

"Those are Dalish elves. They mark themselves with tattoos that symbolize the gods they serve. Mythal. Sylaise. Andruil. June." The tattoos on the ones they buried.

[acreage]

Once he knew about Alienages, it was only a matter of time to guess she was Dalish. She'd told him once, after all, that she was born in forests outside of Kirkwall; that I came to Kirkwall under less than ideal circumstances when I was thirteen. Her recognition of the bodies of the Dalish elves, knowing what to do for them. She doesn't share the tattoos of her people, but that's not something he'd ask about. If she wants to explain that, she will.

He listens to the story, and he thinks, I really fucking hate this place sometimes. But the worst part is that this story is familiar, has played out across his own system's history countless times. He can't blame these cruelties on Thedas. It's depressing to consider them a universally human trait.

"I'm sorry."

He shifts an arm so he can put it around her shoulders, give her a quick sideways sort of hug.

[sulahnan]

The briefest flicker of a wince crosses her face, thanks to some lingering soreness in her shoulder, but nevertheless she leans into his side-hug, nodding acknowledgment of his sympathies. Athessa exhales, blinking rapidly to try and dissuade herself from crying. It's cold. The last thing she needs is to have tears and snot frozen to her face.

"Yeah. Me too."

Sorry that it happened, sorry that he's having to learn about more cruelty, sorry to her clan for not giving them their dues sooner. She may not be responsible for their disappearance, for their deaths, but she can't help but feel like she's let them down ever since then. She's become so distant from both sects of elvhen that at times, it feels like she's betrayed them all.

Tears well up, fall, and before Athessa realizes it's happening, she's speaking to why what they saw in murderhaus has affected her so personally. Not the deaths of her kin, nor the horror at what people are capable of.

"One of them...one of them looked like my mum."

[acreage]

"Jesus."

He lets his hand drop till it's closer to her elbow, away from her wound. Then, as she starts to cry, he starts moving his hand up and down her arm, gentle and soothing.

"I'm sorry you had to see that."

Christ. Like seeing her own people butchered and mutilated isn't awful enough.

[sulahnan]

She nods again and wipes at her face with her sleeve, trying to stem the flow before it gets any worse.

"I didn't expect it. I've seen a lot of shit and that shouldn't have been any different, but she looked just familiar enough, I guess."

[acreage]

"You know, if there's anything I've learned from experience, it's that seeing something awful doesn't make the next thing easier. Often, it's harder."

And things have a way of hitting hard, and unexpectedly. See: this exactly.

[sulahnan]

"Right," she scoffs, "Well, hopefully we'll have a reprieve for a while. Maybe you can volunteer in the stables, and I'll help Mhavos in the library. Nothing more harrowing than papercuts or getting trod on."

With any luck this winter will pass without any similarity to the last. A nice, calm, easy winter, please.

[acreage]

Thinking about the future, imagining it here, still doesn't come easily to him. Homesickness lives under his skin, more than ever since murderhaus, and a part of him would still like to believe that Naomi and Alex will show up any day now with an evac.

(Would he be able to just leave now, even if they did, even if his shard were somehow removed? Debatable. Irrelevant, though, to fantasy.)

But he doesn't voice any of that. Just breathes out an amused sound, almost a laugh, and leans into her fondly.

"Yeah," wistful, "that'd be nice."

[sulahnan]

Athessa lets the conversation lull on that note, which seems like as good a note as they can hope for, really. His lean brings a subdued smile to her face that reflects the fondness of the gesture.

After a while, she'll let her head rest on his shoulder, and several moments after that, she'll doze off. Comfortable, despite everything.

[acreage]

She's welcome to rest as long as she wants. He'll keep still as soon as he realizes, gently rearranging the blanket to better cover her, and generally trying to keep her warm and comfortable. Any notes of complaint from his midsection at the cold or stillness can be summarily ignored; this is nice, and he's comfortable enough, keeps an arm around her so she doesn't fall in her sleep.