My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  "You still owe me," Jowan whined while plopping down in the ground beside her. The others didn't sit like that, but he did. She tried to ask him why a few times, but either he didn't understand the question or he had no intentions of answering it.

  "What do I owe you?" Lana began, but Nathaniel interrupted.

  "The Commander requires your help, and yet you demand recompense. That is uncivil, Ser."

  Jowan glared up at the man standing stock still in place. "Right, because you don't get a thing off her. I brought the spider."

  "Which I already paid you for," Lana said.

  "Cheaply, that was nothing before. Barely anything. I deserve more. You got your meat and more venom out of it. That's easily a double rate," Jowan bargained, his fingers jabbing into his hand as if he was counting out coins. Maker, that would be much easier for her to part with. "Or, do you wish you hadn't let me have the one before..."

  "Fine," Lana sighed, interrupting him before he went on a never ending tangent of asking her what she'd rather do. "I'll let you have one, but only if you finish drying out the meat."

  Jowan whipped his head at the cooling corpse, a sneer twisting up his lip. Damn near same one he had when he learned the truth of Lana working with the First Enchanter. "I am not your errand boy. Get the soldier to do it."

  Snickering at the idea of Nathaniel attempting it, Lana tipped her head back. Sleep seemed to court her often now, far more than she expected but what was there to do beyond it and surviving? "That's my offer. Take it or leave it, spirit."

  She rarely thought of him as an it anymore. Whether that was due to trying to maintain sanity or a growing familiarity Lana was uncertain. For many sleeps she wavered on the question of if she remained in the fade itself or if this was some afterlife. The chantry kept vague on the details of the beyond aside from the Maker sitting in a big chair and Andraste near him. Some people liked the idea of being in the clouds but Lana was never a fan. Having Nathaniel and Jowan walking beside her and talking to her didn't do much to kill her "I'm dead" theory. It was her stomach screaming for sustenance and her exhausted limbs that tipped her off. If the afterlife was more of the same drudgery of existence, then the Maker was a crueler creator than she'd thought.

  Jowan's thin lips puckered up from her lack of an offer, but he dipped down and she felt his fingers rifling through her mind like it was a stack of parchment. It wasn't painful, but still unsettling to have the spirit yank out small moments of her life she'd all but forgotten about and then slip them back away. His fingers lingered over a section and Lana shouted out, "Not that."

  "But there is so little left, I've taken most of my fill already."

  "I don't care, you're not touching that. Anything else."

  Sighing, the spirit let her guarded memory fall back into the void and he plucked upon an old one. She wouldn't mind his fumbling around in her head so much if she didn't have to relive every memory with him. With the stone wall pressing against her back, Lana's mind yanked open the file on her life.

  Scared. She was so scared because everything was wrong. There wasn't any grass, no baby lambs crying for their mother's milk. It was all stone, hard and mean. The kind that stood up high in the cities far in the distance that they never went to. She hated it and she was alone. Her mummy and daddy, they weren't here either. They should have come, they always came with her. But now...

  "Hey," one of the tall men in metal dropped to his knee. She shied away, shrinking deeper into the cloak too long for her. Mummy got mad when it dragged in the mud. "It's okay," he said, his voice echoing like the time her brother shouted into a bucket.

  "Get the kid in there already. We have things to move on to," the other one said. She didn't know either of them, but she knew she didn't like that one. He was cold, colder than the ice she wasn't supposed to make, wasn't supposed to dream about. They told her to be a big girl, but she didn't want to be. Not if it meant having to leave everything she knew, everything she cared about. Tears rolled down her cheeks, the sloppy wet ones her dog used to lick away. When would she get to see him again?

  The metal man on his knee reached a hand out to her. He didn't grab her arm, just held it extended as he spoke, "I know it's scary to go somewhere new. I don't like it either. Sometimes I need to take a moment before I walk into a place to steady myself. Take a deep breath. They're real nice in the tower, and lots of other children to play with."

  She had her hands buried in her pant's pockets, the baggy ones that used to be her brothers her mother hemmed up to fit. After losing her belt, her father tied a string from the sack of grain around her waist and laughed at how many times it went around. She searched for the words to explain why she didn't want to do as told but nothing would come, only her teeth chattered as if she was freezing cold.

  Inching closer to her, the metal man dropped lower to meet her small height. "Will this help?" he asked. Pulling his hand away he yanked off his head. She started from the move, stumbling back into the immoveable legs of the mean one, but the man didn't fall down headless. Underneath that metal was a smiling face. He tried to pass the helmet to her, but she was drawn by the palest hair she'd ever seen. Reaching on her tiptoes, she ran her fingers through the straw upon his head softer than the tips of wheat. Laughing, the man tipped his head lower so she could tousle them back.

  "I'm Grayson," he pointed at himself. "It's a long name, but yours is even longer. Solona." At that name her nose curled up like she walked past the barn. It was hers but she didn't like it. No one liked it. The man watched her face and chuckled, "I'm guessing that's not what they call you."

  "I'mlana," she sputtered, her bottom lip jutting out to cover over the top as she mumbled.

  "Sorry, I missed that," he said.

  Sighing the way only an impertinent six year old could, she pointed at her chest and said, "Lana. I'm Lana."

  "Well, Lana," he held out his hand again. She watched it for a moment and then gingerly placed her own inside of his. It looked like a doll's in his great grip. Closing around her, he shook their hands up and down in a greeting. "I know the tower can seem scary, it's big. Bigger than even I probably know about. But you're going to make lots of friends here and learn things. You could become a great enchanter even."

  "No!" she shook her head, "they're bad. Andraste doesn't like them."

  He dipped his head down, and she felt shame curling in her gut from something unexplainable in his eyes. So close now without the metal in the way, she could see they were a golden brown just like her puppy's. "Andraste loves us all, whether we're touched by magic or not," he said. The mean one behind her scoffed, earning him a glower from the nice one. "Now, how about we go and introduce you to Miss Abby. She's really nice and sometimes she smell like orange marmalade."

  "M'kay," she agreed unable to think of any reason to not go.

  "Finally," the mean one stamped his feet into the stone and knocked against the door. "I swear to the Maker, Grayson, you get wetter every trip."

  "She's just a kid, barely older than..." he didn't finish his thought, but he smiled down at her and reached into the bag against his back. In his hand he held a stuffed griffin. The toy was made from old burlap and stuffed with straw, but someone took the time to paint each feather along the creature's back. Her eyes followed the toy, drawn to it. "Here," he held it out to her fingers, but she was scared to touch it. "Go on, it's yours."

  "Mine?" Nothing was hers. Everything she ever had was either passed down from her brother or something she'd later share with other siblings. It all belonged to the family. With the barest touch, she ran a finger along the griffin's under-stuffed beak. The man smiled and pushed it to her. Unable to take the torment, she wrapped her arms around the toy tugging it tight to her chest.

  "You head on in there and they'll get you a warm bath and some food," Grayson gestured to the now open door and another metal man glaring down at them. With one arm wrapped around the toy, she grabbed onto his metal finger. No, he couldn't go. "I'm sorry,
I have other duties to attend, but don't worry. You'll see a lot of me around here. I promise, Lana."

  Gripping tighter to her griffin, she nodded to him and entered the tower for what was supposed to be the rest of her life.

  Lost in the fade itself, the older Lana -- the one who'd been scraped raw by life six year old her couldn't imagine -- opened an eye. She spotted Jowan curled up on the ground recuperating from whatever he feasted off her. Her emotions or memories or whatever it was hit them harder. They didn't cry or laugh, the spirits seeming to not have the means to express a range of emotion, only laid on the ground until the rush of it passed. Patting the tuckered spirit on the arm, Lana tipped her head back and found peace in sleep.

  Chapter Six

  Blindspot

  9:44 Waking Sea

  "Raise the mains, we're past the worst of it!" the admiral's voice rang out through the ship. A collective groan echoed from every pirate's lips as they released their death grip, arms sagging while water sloshed across their feet. They were bedraggled, sopping wet, but they were alive. Cullen turned back to watch the storm they passed through, the sky not black and cloudy but the horizon up to the ether appeared impenetrable as if a wall of water rose out of the sea to smash them apart.

  "First big one?" a bear paw bashed across his shoulder and Cullen winced from his lack of armor to siphon off the blow. Nodding carefully, he turned to catch the bronzed face with a white rose tattoo stretching across the right eye. It must have meant something to the man, but Cullen had no idea. A week on the ship and he'd barely spoken to anyone outside of Honor -- who released her bite on the securing rope and settled at his feet.

  "I am not a fan," Cullen answered carefully.

  "Shit, ain't no one big into squalls. Lessen you love drowning, I suppose," the pirate said. "You can let go, ya know."

  "Of course," Cullen nodded as if he meant to cling for his life even out of danger. Rope, scratched apart from years of use, bit into his exposed forearms. It seemed smart at the time to roll the cuffs up to his elbows when the waves soaked through them. As he unwound his grip off the sidewall rigging, deep red grooves remained coiled around his pale skin, etched deep into his flesh like a crimson snake. Cullen's freed hands ran down his stomach checking to make certain he was yet alive and in one piece. In the process, he pressed his drenched tunic even tighter to his skin. He'd be less soaked if he'd dived overboard before the storm began. Poor Honor fared about as well. She lapped at the seawater, that pink and black tongue scraping along the deck. "Don't, that's bad for you," Cullen called. Her tongue dangled out but frozen, hovering just above another lap of the salty puddle. "I mean it," he chided and now she slipped her tongue away. Suddenly noticing she was wet, Honor twisted the muscles along her back wetting her master and the other pirates standing near. They all reared up from the small addition of water to their drenched backsides, but no one said a cross word. The pirates gave him and his mabari a wide berth and were even damn right respectable at times. It was surprising and made life partially livable, but he had a suspicion he knew why he received the royal treatment.

  Sliding down the mast as if the man was born on a ship, the king of Ferelden landed barefoot upon the deck. He'd tossed off his shirt once the threat of storm rang out through the decks. In retrospect, it seemed the wiser move seeing as how he had dry clothes waiting for him down below while Cullen was left bearing what soggy rags he wore. Still, the man strutted about with his chest thrust out and a shit eating grin etched deep across his face. "That was something else, right Abby?" Whoever Abby was called down from the mast in a mix of Rivain and Orlesian. The pirates had their own bastardized language that Cullen could probably pick up on if he cared. A week and a half in and he hadn't mustered the ability to do so yet.

  Alistair dug his fingers through the back of his hair, trying to squeeze off the water blasted against him from his perch in the sails. What kind of king climbs up into the crow's nest in the middle of a blighted storm at sea? The mad kind is an easy answer, yet despite how much Cullen wished it so, he seemed to be of sound mind. Not sharp, but sound. The other is the kind of king who dreams of adventure and thinks himself some great hero, but this one had fought in a blight, knew what true battle was. His gleeful strut around the deck helping the pirates secure lines and trade gentle barbs unnerved Cullen even more. The man was enjoying this for reasons he couldn't understand.

  "How we doing, Admiral?" Alistair shouted while turning back to the woman at the helm.

  For all his misgivings about her, Cullen had to admit Isabela was a competent captain. No, that was unkind. She breathed the ship, kept a tight control of her crew, and had been civil to him. Mostly civil to him.

  "We're damn well alive, which calls for celebrating. Get your ass up here and grab some bottles. Oh, and check on our little greenie."

  That was him, the green one. He'd thought it a joke about him not having sea legs until they all started making vomit sounds whenever he'd walk past. It was particularly atrocious during mealtime. Cullen hated the sea, hated being on ships, but he didn't get seasick - not easily anyway. His problem was the sound of water slopping against the hull, dredging up an old anxiety he kept thinking he grew beyond, hoped he'd buried. The king, unaware of Cullen's internal struggle over his nickname, slapped him on the shoulder.

  "You good?" Alistair asked. In a week's time, he'd already managed a hearty burn across his shoulders, chest, and upon his cheeks. The sun wasn't kind to the king, though it was even crueler to Cullen, which was why he preferred the hold while Alistair traipsed about on deck getting in the way.

  "I have survived," Cullen answered. An unsettled turn scurried up his skin and he turned to catch Isabela peering through him with an almost famished look in her eye. "What is it?" he shouted to her.

  "Never noticed before how damn similar you two look. Swept up blonde hair, pronounced cheekbones, biceps that could break glass. Somebody could work through a few twin fantasies with you both, assuming somebody didn't already."

  Cullen growled, folding his arms over his chest and twisting away from her to scowl at the calming sea. Beside him, Alistair harrumphed as well. That surprised him - to find the king as off-put by Isabela's comment as he was. She'd often make inappropriate remarks about Alistair and insinuate something about borrowing him for the summer, which he'd smile and hand wave away. Cullen assumed Alistair was paying for this trip with more than coin, but now the man blushed brighter than his sunburn and he glared at the deck.

  Either unaware of the wound she struck, or not caring, Isabela shouted to her crew various boat orders. They were probably important in keeping them alive, but Cullen didn't care. Far past awkward and needing to escape, he slid towards the hatch door, his feet splashing against the inch deep water that flooded the deck. Honor barreled past him to dive down into the hold. It took a few days before the mabari felt comfortable climbing up the ladder, a week going down. Now she was a damn pro at it. Even his dog was a better sailor.

  After blinking his eyes to adjust for the low light, Cullen took the rungs quickly to slide back into the safety of the hold. He stepped around the crates jostled from the ship crashing through waves taller than Skyhold. It felt strange to think, but in some ways the underbelly of the ship was almost comforting. Pressed in tight, with other men and women sharing his quarters, he felt like he was a child back in Denerim training to become a templar. They'd piled the children up ten, sometimes twenty to a room. The only separation was by gender, so all ages shared the same space. It was uncomfortable when you wanted to be alone, but welcoming when you feared being alone.

  Dipping down, Cullen picked up his bag and watched water drip off his body in sheets raining across his few belongings. The beads rolled down the canvas to splatter against the floor. Sighing, he moved to pull the shirt off his back. It was so soaked the fabric clung tight to his skin, refusing to slide away. With those glass breaking biceps - whatever that referred to - he tugged and pulled against the force of water, his
tunic freeing his chest to the whispering cold. Wadding up the shirt in his hands, Cullen wrung the first inch and a puddle's worth of water splashed onto the deck. His pants were in an even sorrier state, but those were staying on.

  "My first storm at sea, they lashed me to the wheel and said I wasn't to move for anything."

  Cullen didn't look up at the voice, instead he continued to try and wring out his shirt. Unfortunately, nothing could stop Alistair when he wanted to talk. Even with his back turned, Cullen felt him jauntily lean up against the freight, the king's elbow slipping through the slots as he picked at the lantern.

  "Lanny ever tell you about her family?"

  Unable to stop himself, Cullen's head snapped up and he turned to face down the man, but Alistair bore that same curious puppy look even Honor was above using. "What of them?" Cullen settled for.

  "I was just thinking, after the thing Isabela said about...you know. Awkward." He waved his hand in the air as if that would break apart the tension instead of increase it. Cullen felt even more exposed than his naked chest watching the king of Ferelden loiter around shirtless as if he didn't have a care in the world. He'd been told kings grew doughy after time on the throne, they had little reason to remain in shape so settled for stout, showing the nation that it was a safe and secure time to grow fat on luxury. He'd been grossly lied to.

  "Your point," Cullen prompted wishing he had a spare shirt that wasn't sopping wet.

  "Just something I heard once. The funny thing about Lanny's family is they run one of two ways. Either that lithe, svelte package like her, or scary hulking muscle like Hawke. That's pretty much it in the Amell line, tiny and terrifying or huge and terrifying. And her father is the former. I swear, the first time I saw him I thought he was a shaved bear that could talk and wear pants. Man crushed my hand in the palm of his massive paw for what was a friendly greeting. I asked Lanny if they had any qunari in their blood."