Chapter Text
The posture she kept up slackened and the girl slumped sideways, head first into the rushing current. It was silent inside the river, an icy overwhelming embrace that soothed and cleaned. Warmth felt evil and bloody and she’d have none of it now. Sobering, Miko submerged one arm then the other. She blew bubbles instead of scream. No demons spoke to her. Her dreams were often just simple seasides with ruins and mystery knights. They had no claws or sharp teeth or dark offerings, though once in a while there were dragons. She never felt a pull to control the setting around her, mold it into a shape of her desire. The only need was trying to translate the books she read into pictures, so she could see Qunari jungles with too many pines, Orlesian courts full of elves picking their noses, and then there were dreams where she was in the courts of Halamshiral, where things felt realest and her brother was taller and smiled more often than not, and she wore real armour, twisting the ear of some fat lord who trespassed. Then there’d be the Provings, where everyone of the clan would gather to watch in a big hall, the goal to unmask the mystery foe who wore pitch black, jam her shield down his throat and press her sword against his sweating temple. Nothing was as tempting as the promise of making those visions into life, and if she had always been a mage, why didn’t any demons ever appear?
Miko made a straight path to the camp’s outskirts. A single tent glowed amid the darkness, still active. It wasn't empty when she ducked inside and laid down into the pillows, sneaking a glance at her own brother holed inside his tower of tomes, the same position where she left him, so much time ago. His lower face hid behind unmarked leatherbound book, head propped on a pillow. It was almost sad, how little he wanted to leave this aravel lately.
He greeted her behind the pages. There were shadows under his eyes. He must not have slept.
She grunted back, reaching over her own, far emptier corner with nuts and fruits and a blanket. Half-burnt books and forest fruit represented the entirety of their belongings, the true hero essentials.
“You must be hungry,” Miko said, lying on her stomach and chewing already.
Aien replied something, blankly. She recounted their food supply, then stared at him. He was reading as much as she was sleeping at the moment, eyes stubbornly set on some sentence, but never moving from it. The pale blues and greens swimming in his gaze, distant. “What?” she asked, scooping some berries. Her brother shifted in his seat, glaring at the pages. “I’m not hungry. I’ve had my fill.”
“No, you didn't have your fill,” she said, more stubborn. Her brows furrowed and she turned to pick up a green apple and then stretched herself to offer it to him. It was only when he recoiled away from her, as if burnt, and met her eyes did she realize. She let the apple drop. Her mouth stretched to a smile, bitter. “Dead bodies don't count, Aien. Unless you’re a ghoul.”
He squirmed deeper into his hole. “Don’t say that.”
“Or it might come true?” Miko tried to laugh, and failed. “This was only a dead man.” Only. “It could always be worse.”
She watched Aien’s fingers dig into the leather covers, like a shield. He said, disgusted, “It reeked of blood and my stomach nearly emptied.”
Mine did, she thought. And here the murderer was, starving to eat. The juices of the berries rolled red down her lips and it made her disgusted at herself but she was too empty to mind. Fall asleep satisfied and demons do not tempt with sweets, the old cook would say. She had to listen now more than ever, she thought and picked the apple again, rolled it into her brother's book tower. “So it was you Deshanna dragged there.”
He nodded and finally looked up from the cover. “Yes,” he said, meeting her defiant for a brief moment. As if he didn't see any issues.
“You know, sometimes,” she took a breath, “sometimes you don't need to do what she tells you.”
“I'm the First,” her brother replied. “I am her eyes and ears and will, I am hers until she is no more. And then I'm the Keeper.”
She narrowed her eyes at the recital. “What did you do when you went there, watch and gag? What did the old hag's sharp eyes and ears catch?”
Aien, for all the convinction and frustration brewing plainly in his gaze, fell back and reclined on his stack of books. He whispered low, and matter-of-factly, “Magic, first of all. Loose in the air and dangerous, like it could spark anew if we moved wrong. The knife was the source of it, as it shocked at the touch. Keeper had to clear the place,” he paused. “We arrived a while after it happened, so it was fortunate nothing else it off.”
Miko nodded. Without realizing, she lost her fury.
“The corpse was charred and. . . obviously human. Keeper recognized him as one from the Ferelden group following us. There was a pool of steaming blood and,” Aien paused again, swallowing. “Static, around him. Lightning struck twice, once through him, and then near a tree, but the second one might have been made on accident.” “Did that kill him?” Aien frowned. “Though the magic brutal, it was the blade that stopped his heart in the end.”
A solemn quiet fell between them. The stub of the candle was almost gone, the flame as if it knew flickered on and off more uncertainly, fighting hard to catch on to anything in its reach and grow. Miko stared into the desperate little white flame, then orange, then red, then white again, until her eyes strained. “It was just you and her?”
Aien nodded. “And the hunters. Only the ones that first saw.”
“Did they say what happened?”
“Not really,” he said with a sigh. “I imagine they shared everything to Keeper before I arrived. But no, they just muttered about leaving before daybreak. Then fools and kitchen knives, too.”
Miko smiled thinly.
Aien briefly looked at her. “It was one of our own, the knife, it bore the Hearthkeeper's sigil.”
“The cooking one,” she said. I left the knife lying there stuck in him. It came rushing back now like an angry river, the food and the guilt. The cricket noises grew louder outside, almost like blades set against eachother, a tell that this night would be seared and stitched into her dreams forever. Her stained fingers lifted to her chest and started tugging at the shirt she wore. Remains in the hearts of dead men, following them far past the Beyond.
“I attempted the spell, by the way,” Aien continued, and she was glad for that. He let his book down and there was an air of timid excitement about him as he leant forward. “It worked this time. I saw so much, sis. I can't recall now, but if you've asked me I would've told you how the boundary of the Veil felt against my skin, what sound it made, how people looked through it, I. . . I would've told you.” The shadow of a grin was upon him, and rightfully. She knew the sleepless nights he spent stretching his spine over the faded instructions of some old elf on how to detect magical patterns and recognize them. She was there, sprawled in her other corner, blinking at the candle that was much longer and throwing pillows in her half-sleep.
“Then tell me, next time,” she grinned for him. Only wished it happened for any other reason.
Aien went back into his book before she could stop him, but seemed to realize just like her how useless it was to deny rest. She blew the candle out with an unsteady breath, wondering if her dreams would really change now. Would she leave the clan?Would she learn spells, or was it the human cells that awaited her? In the darkness she saw her brother bind the tome back and tighten the leather strap around it, and fall down to his corner, grabbing the green apple only to place it dilligently back in their food corner. She elbowed him sharply for that.
“Ow.”
“Fall asleep bellyful-”
“-and the dreams don't tempt with sweets,” Aien finished. “That could be a lie for all you know.”
She yawned obviously for him, but her hands clutched the pillow tighter. “Do you think if we never saw sweets, that we'd ever dream of them?” she asked. “Can spirits show things you've never seen?”
The candlelight sparked again and died on its own, strength giving out and pulling the tent inside in smoke-scented darkness. It took everything not to leap outside into the river again. “Maybe ask the Keeper,” he answered.
“Moron,” she groaned, but kept it a whisper. “Maybe ask yourself. Once you've slept, if there are any kings or gods or monsters. Keepers that live forever. Templars who prey in the shadows. Deserts, snowmountains, and dwarven cities of fire.”
“I'll tell you,” her brother promised. “And you’ll tell me.” She heard a shuffling of fabric and felt a hand upon her fist. Cooling her knuckles, gentle, sapping the heat from hers. Her brother was quick on his word, seeking sleep, fingers around hers slipping.
When his breathing slowed, she closed her eyes and counted names until dawn.