My Love

by Sabrina Zbasnik

  Cullen patted his back, trying to soothe out the explosion building below the surface. In the rain, Gavin sniffled against the tears drenching his cheeks. He jammed his elbows into his thighs, staring hard at his hands as if in shock that they existed.

  As if he could see blood on them.

  "What happened?" Cullen asked, breaking the ice.

  "The chickens," he began, his voice distant. "I'm supposed to watch 'em, feed 'em, protect 'em as you said. And, one day I see there's feathers everywhere. And blood, like a-like a fox got to them."

  Oh dear.

  Gavin slunk lower in his seat, as if his head grew heavy with the sins weighing upon him. He couldn't look at his father, but Cullen kept trying to rub the pain out through his back. "So I follow it, the feathers and blood, like a hunter into the woods. Like I was taught. I see one of the chickens, Belinda, dead on the ground and the white tuft of the fox dragging her under the tree."

  His son told him about the dead chicken days back, but that discovery was rather commonplace. Accidents, disease, creatures, and sometimes the chickens wandering off because they got it in their tiny heads to do it happened. He hadn't thought much of the loss, nor that his son would have tracked down the source.

  "I took my bow with me," Gavin continued his tale, his face curdled like sour milk. That would explain why Cullen hadn't seen his son playing with it much lately. "And...and I shot the fox, the fennic. That's what it is, right?"

  "Yes, they're fennics."

  "Shot her right through the heart, instant kill." It should have been a proud moment. It probably was when he accomplished it. Saved the chickens from further deaths and ended the fox's life quick and clean. "But when I went to gather up the body, I heard...there were these little." Gavin fell quiet a moment, his eyes tearing up again, "I didn't know it was a mum. I didn't, I wouldn't have..." His tale vanished in a wave of crying.

  Taking pity, Cullen tugged his son to his chest for a hug.

  "I'm sorry," Gavin begged, his hands clutching tighter to his father. "I didn't want to. And the babies, they were all alone without their mum. They cried a lot and were hungry. I wanted to help. I had to help. It was all my fault!"

  "Shh..." Cullen wrapped his boy tighter, trying to knock away the blame and pain sitting on his heart. He carried it alone without telling either of them of the guilt nestled like thorns inside of his body. Had to right his mistakes even as the world conspired against him. Maker, how was his son cursed to be so much like him?

  Cullen whispered, "It's okay, Gavin." He moved to try and clean off his son's cheeks but found his hands shaking as they hadn't in years. His heart cried out in harmony with the boy's, both carrying the burden of blame for things that were their doing but they couldn't change no matter how hard they prayed. "It's okay."

  "No, it's not!" he cursed, a hand swatting at his nose as he continued to beat himself up.

  "If you hadn't killed that fennic, how many more chickens would she have gotten?"

  His son's eyes glanced over a moment, but his face remained contorted in pain, his body hunched to try and hide away from the good of the world he thought he didn't deserve. "I dunno."

  "I know, it's not easy, but...sometimes in life we have to make hard decisions. We have to protect those important to us and that requires extreme measures."

  "But killing's wrong!" he cried, a hand swiping through the air as if he held a sword. It was a good thing the boy was all but crumpled into his lap as he missed the look of horror his words dredged on Cullen's face.

  How many...?

  He thought about it sometimes, in the middle of the night when he'd wake drenched in sweat and sliding out of bed to not wake his wife. How many people, innocent people, had he cut down? Doing it on orders was no excuse. That was what created the red templars, what destroyed the order itself. They followed orders to their doom and the near doom of thedas. How many souls weighed upon the scales of whatever good he could do in the world?

  There was nothing in his power to change the past. It took a lot of prayer and reflection to reach that point, to cease holding his hands to the fire in the hopes it would burn away his guilt. All he could do now was try to help. To save the orphaned.

  Cullen sifted his fingers through his son's hair, wiping a smudge against the boy's forehead. "Right and wrong are easy when it's the bad guy who's kidnapped a princess or it's a dragon burning down villages. But the stories never mention if the bad guy has children that he dotes upon, or the dragon steals food to feed starving orphans."

  "Dad?" Gavin crinkled his brow, confused at the introduction of grey morality into his simple world. It was easy out here in this idyllic farm away from the politics of the world. But even in remaining apart, they made a choice. They left the fighting, the death, the hard decisions to someone else. Washing your hands of something was still a choice that bore consequences.

  "All you can do is try to be your very best," Cullen sighed, well aware he wasn't capable of explaining these confounding thoughts to his son.

  "But..." Gavin glared at his hands, the same fingers that drew back the bow, notched the arrow, and let it fly into the fennic's chest. "But how do I know? What if it's wrong and I hurt people?"

  Cullen swallowed hard. He hid his hands shaking with sin by bundling his son's into his. "Trust in Andraste and the Maker. They gave you your heart; your loving, caring heart. Listen to it, and it will guide you to the right choice. Not the easiest one perhaps, but the right one."

  Eyes surveyed his dad's face, no doubt looking for the lie or trick. But this was the openest Cullen had ever been with his son, all but exposing his sins laid out in order for the child that looked up to him since he could walk. He wasn't perfect, his past was littered with pain and deceit, but he had to try.

  "Father?" Gavin whispered. "Can I...can we pray for the kits?"

  Cullen smiled, "Of course." Folding his hands up, he watched Gavin follow the same, the boy's eyes closed so tight as if his belief would save them. "Blessed Andraste, bride of the Maker, look after the two baby fennics placed into my son's care. Keep them safe, give them a chance at life, heal them with your everlasting love."

  "In the name of the Maker, we pray," Gavin recited, gripping tighter with his palms.

  Watching his son with head bent, begging for the Maker to shine his light upon him, Cullen was struck by the memory a decade ago. When he too was down on his knees begging Andraste and anyone listening to keep them safe. Even though he felt unworthy of Her assistance, of Her love, he pleaded for it because he couldn't live without his wife, or his boy. Wrapping his arms around Gavin, Cullen pulled the still praying boy tight to his chest. He tipped his head up to the sky, letting the rain wash away the tears stinging in his eyes.

  The door opened and Cullen released the tight hug on his son. Slowly, Lana emerged out into the rain, her fingers gripped tight to her cane. Gavin twisted impatiently to his mother, "Well...?" He gulped, afraid to continue, "Are they?"

  "They're going to make it," she smiled at them.

  Gavin sprung off the seat and dashed into the room so fast he nearly toppled over his mother. Luckily, Cullen was there to catch her, a hand sliding along her back to keep her safe. "What was that all about?"

  "I'll explain later," he promised, pressing his lips to her head. Lana must have spotted the tracks of tears as she caught Cullen's cheeks and pressed her thumb against them. The question of his pain hung in the air. Trying to shake it off, Cullen whispered, "Gavin's more like me than I feared."

  "Oh," she locked her hands around his shoulders, tucking her cheek to his chest, "honey eyes."

  "Mom, mom," Gavin rushed out into the rain, his cheeks stretched into a great grin. Both hands grabbed onto her fingers as he pulled her inside.

  "Go careful, Son," Cullen reminded him.

  "Yes, Father," his vibrancy subdued a bit, allowing Lana to limp at her speed back inside.

  Within an old wooden box two pairs of little black eyes poked up from their nest. G
avin giggled, his fingers reaching over towards the first kit. "Ah..." Lana moved to warn her baby boy away from the wild animal, but the kit rubbed its face against the child that saved it from death. Smiling, he began to scratch both babies at the same time, a happy chittering emerging from the tiny fennics.

  "They were a bit malnourished, but nothing terrible. It was mostly the cold, I think," Lana surmised, snuggling tighter to her husband while tears of joy dripped off her son's cheeks.

  "Mom, Dad," Gavin plucked the first baby out, the fennic clinging the length of his tiny forearm. "This is Snowy," he said, so proud of the kit he worked hard to save. While Snowy nuzzled against the boy's sleeve, Gavin unearthed the other more quieter of the twin, "And this is Corn Chowder."

  "What?" Cullen blinked in confusion, "Snowy I can grasp, but why Corn Chowder?"

  "Because I like corn chowder," Gavin explained in the way only children could. It made sense to him and that was all that mattered.

  Cullen tentatively reached a finger over and gently brushed back Snowy's huge ears. The fox glanced up, seeming to smile at the attention. "Son," he patted Gavin on the back, "it's going to a big responsibility for you to feed and clean up after these two."

  "Does..." he turned, his mouth agape while staring up at his father, "does that mean I can keep 'em?"

  "At least until they grow up and are strong enough they can head out into the wild," Cullen said.

  "Oh, thank you Daddy! Thank you!" He tried to hug his father while his arms were full of foxes, which only made Cullen chuckle. "Thank you Mummy for saving them," he added, smiling up at his mother.

  Cullen slid back to his wife, who watched her boy carefully place both fennics back into the box. But Gavin wasn't finished with them. He gripped onto the table and placed his chin right upon it in order to stare eye to eye with his babies. In a gentle voice, he began to talk to them, telling the fennics about his room and all the luxuries they could enjoy at the abbey under his care. Lana wrapped a hand around Cullen's arm and whispered, "You know they're never going back to the wild, right?"

  "I assumed, but...they're his," problem, responsibility, penance. Gavin took them on because he had to, his heart told him it was the right thing to do.

  "Cullen?" she turned her head, a hand reaching up to cup his cheek.

  He patted her warm fingers that nursed the kits back to health and sighed in contentment. Tipping down to his wife, he whispered in her ear, "Our son's a good young man."

  A sweet smile lifted her cheeks as she whispered back, "Just like his father."

  #

  13 Years Old...

  "How many saw?"

  Myra clung tight to her shins, chin perched onto her knees as she stared through the night air of Denerim. Her fingers stung as if she'd frozen them in ice, and her hair stank of old ash. She barely noticed the streets traffic trickling to a standstill in the dark because her ears were honed in on the conversation below.

  "It wasn't too bad," her dad didn't answer her mom. "We put it out fast, and no one got hurt. That's all that matters."

  "For fuck's sake, Alistair, that is not what matters."

  Her mother's half smile twisted to rage when Myra returned home with her father clinging to her shoulders saying they had to talk. Whatever mom was going to ask died in her throat as she spotted the burn marks against the hem of Myra's dress. Instead of comforting her daughter, she grabbed Alistair's hand and marched him straight up to their room, telling Myra to get cleaned up. Never one to listen well, Myra snuck out the back window to climb to the roof. If she sat quiet, she could hear her parents, often eavesdropping on them when she was bored or waiting for them to fall asleep before sneaking out.

  "Shh," dad whispered, "do you want Myra to hear?"

  "Maybe she should hear. For the love of the Maker, I told her to control it. She swore she could, and this. Now. In front of..." Her mom's voice drilled down into dangerous ice territory. The one criminals and the like got just before the sword came out, or Myra heard whenever she left half eaten food in drawers on accident.

  "You haven't told me how many people."

  A groan echoed from her dad, it sounded as if he was pacing in the apartment below her. Smart as her mom was, she never figured out that the chimney flue could amplify voices giving Myra a perfect was to listen in. "The cousins," he spat out, "and a few Banns, and some other kids of the higher society types."

  "Maker damn it!"

  "But," Dad raced to protect her, "it's not that bad. Spud was quick to step in, to laugh it off and say it was all a big party trick."

  "And you think that worked?"

  "You've met the nobility. Call a dragon a puppy, put a collar on it, and they'll all be fricasseed while lined up to pet it."

  Her mom sniggered a moment before sighing, "That doesn't make it better. It'll happen again and again unless she learns some Maker damn self control. Why'd it even happen? Do you know?"

  "No, I was...I missed that part."

  Myra lifted her fingers and flexed them. A puff of smoke erupted from the palm followed by three tiny flames. It was the cousins. Rossie and Cailan's cousins. They weren't any relation to her, as they were always very quick to remind her of. Her siblings...half siblings were fine to visit with, but there was a pack of cousins a little older than Myra that adored sharpening their claws on the bastard half-blood. She was so good at shaking it off, using the techniques Lunet taught her to bite back with her tongue instead of her dagger. Plus Mom wouldn't let her go to a castle party armed, she was pretty strict about that one.

  But those, ugh, those thoses kept prodding at her. Maybe it was because Rossie had fancy crown things to do, maybe it was because her dad was busy inside, but they wouldn't stop talking about her mother. Elven concubine when they were trying to be polite, knife-eared whore when Myra's back was turned but they knew she could hear. When that didn't work, they'd turn on her. Half-blood, they'd all but holler it at her from across the garden in their frilly voices and frillier skirts. When one of 'em asked if she didn't have points to her ears cause someone cut them off, Myra lost it.

  The fire was an accident, a direct response to her anger. But it was almost worth it to see the look of total fear rise in that shem's eye. She grinned in pride as the girl shrieked back, flames rising up to burn her fancy silks. When the vengeance faded from her blood, panic set in. Myra tried to pat out the flames, kicking dirt at the girl, which sent the entire flock of cousins into a tizzy.

  It was all a blur after that. Someone summoned the king, her dad looking frazzled and angry until he heard the full of it. Then that always smiling face shattered into a pity that wrung Myra's veins ice cold. Her dad never looked like that unless something life shattering was about to happen. The last time she saw it her mother nearly...

  "I swear to the Maker, that girl is impossible. I told her, warned her if she couldn't keep a lid on this it'd be catastrophic. But does she listen? No, her smart mouth takes over for her ears." Reiss continued on, pacing opposite Alistair. If Myra held her breath she could count the steps in ten seconds and approximate the size of their gait. It was better than sitting there waiting to find out what her punishment would be.

  "Reiss," Dad's voice softened and his steps slowed, "it's not..."

  "Don't defend her from this. She's thirteen, she knows how this works."

  "Yes, fine, she's thirteen, and she's...Reiss, she's a mage."

  "I know that. Do you think I don't know that? It's a little hard to miss when she's running around setting girls on fire."

  Alistair snickered to himself, "The way Spud tells it, I think they deserved it. A little bit."

  "No one," her mother began before backtracking, "Yes, there are plenty of people who deserve to have their shoes set on fire on occasion, but not like that. Not in front of...before so many people that can destroy her life."

  Myra curled her evil hands up over her ears, not to shut out the voices, but to feel them. Round, round as a humans, as her dad's. There was a lit
tle nub at the top, but nothing like her mom's, or Lunet's, or her other friends. She looked human, as far as anyone cared she was human. But all her mother could see was an elf, an elf that had to be on her best behavior at all times or some shem would come sweeping out of the walls to cut her ears off.

  Shit, even her elven friends could miss curfew, or get caught sneaking sweets and worst they had to worry about was a cuffing to the ear. If Myra was ever implicated for doing those things it'd be no leaving the house, no attending to the palace for anything but seeing your father in the dark dungeon, and writing up two hundred pages of notes into files for a week. It wasn't that she didn't do them, she was just very careful to make certain her mother never caught on.

  "We can't expect Wheaty to control her powers by wishing really hard," her dad spoke up. "It doesn't work that way."

  "Why not?" Mom continued to pace, no doubt Dad trying to get her to stop for two damn seconds. "There are books, she's been reading them."

  "Reiss, it's...she needs to be trained. Properly trained," Dad's voice dropped low and sounded as if he was walking over glass barefoot, "And not just because of the occasional fire."

  The dreams. When she woke that first night to find her pajama's smoking, her mom insisted it was all an accident. Faulty lamps or some rune Myra forgot in her pocket. Reiss used her force of will to convince herself and her daughter that it couldn't be the most likely cause. But her dad began to pry about her dreams and the whispers. They weren't loud or coherent, it was like trying to hear through custard or see around a hedge. There were snippets of something but it made no sense. Myra told him the truth because she didn't think anything of it, but her dad snapped rigid and they began talking about her being a robe.

  "No, no, my daughter, our daughter is stronger than that. She's too smart to be possessed, to give in to demons."

  "I've seen some damn strong adults fold when demons crawl into their brains. You expect a teenager to have the same fortitude? She needs someone to teach her how to protect herself. How to navigate the fade safely." A sigh reverberated up the flue before Dad continued, "She needs to go to the college."