The bells had woken her, every morning, since she had fled. They found her in her sleep, chiming away with an intensity that roused her from the depths, pulling her back into the waking horror of having seen Rene swallowed by the darkness that she had been running from, the sad smile fading some as eyes closed in resignation, or was that her mind, playing tricks on her? Time had slowed then, as it did now in those first moments of wakefulness, bringing her back to her new morning ritual of sobbing herself awake. Isenam, and the small cat that she had recently started to feed in the gardens there at the University were her only companions other than the horse, and the book.. Zenovia. The liar. She had the Godsdamned book, but she had lost everything in the process. Yes, Ophelia was still in the beginning moments of grief, knowing her brothers, her sister in law, her nephew, they were all gone, all of them. And then it trickled down into Vincent, Rosealie, all of them were dead now. She had kept in front of the spread enough to know that she had been one of the only ones who had made it out in time.
Before the bells had stopped ringing and where once there had been a lively city, there was just, silence.
The griffon stirred beside her each morning, as soon as the animal felt her move, the large beast the only warmth she had, too far wallowing into the sudden loss, she didn't even remember how to make a fire, only that she had to keep moving north, through Nevarra, into Tevinter. Once she was across the border, she could try and barter her hairpin for a message to be sent to Minratheous, to call to her friend, to Malachai, the Chancellor she knew, to come get her. He ... he would take her in, wouldn't he? He would come get her, he would, she knew he would. He had taken her into his care before, and he would now too, she was sure of it -- but as the days drew on, a raven had begun to follow her, and then another, and then another. Soon they were so many following her that Isenam had taken to the air to scatter them away, to keep the black birds from bothering her on her forward advance.
She rode when she could, finding plants along the way she knew would feed her, at least she didn't think she'd starve, between Isenam bringing her birds and fish, and her own foraging, she .. she thought she'd survive well enough, and she did. She was hungry, but she knew she had to move north, had to keep ahead of the advance, had to make it across the Fields, she could skirt around the Silent Plains, and then on the other side of Nessum she would find the Imperial Highway. She knew she should have taken it the whole way, but that would have taken her straight through the middle of the Plains -- and that would have meant no water or food for however long it took her to get across. And she was no fighter. Better to keep to the grassy areas that allowed Isenam to protect her along the way, that kept the tired old mare under her going.
The bells rang in her ears as she skirted around what she knew was Nessum on the eighth day, one raven back, insistent, and cawing loudly from above as she tried to push for the Highway. She was tired, oh so tired, as they kept ringing, over and over, urging her to rush forward, to keep going.
The bells rang, and the raven cried. She cried too, most of the time.
On the eighth night, she made the Imperial Highway, and her tears had stopped. The horses hooves set a slow and steady cadence, as she held the cat and the book, the griffon walking beside them, and the raven crying overhead, almost like he was alerting someone, or something to where she was. She never did stop, to send a message, she had realized, as she had come across Vol Dorma, could see the Reaches in the distance. She knew where she was no, close to the sea, well inside Tevinter, a safe enough feeling that she kept riding into the night, listening as the raven would fly on ahead, no longer calling out, and then return some time later.
It was with one of those cries that she saw the rider on the road, heading towards her, a raven and wolf keeping strides, she had been being hunted, this entire time then.
So be it. Survive Blight to be killed so close to being safe.. she should have sent that message ahead.
Ophelia stopped her horse in the middle of the road, and slid down from the animal's back as she saw the rider draw nearer and nearer, the wolf peeling off and heading into the tree lines as Isenam put himself in front of her, the large male roaring as the horse broke free of her hold and took off into the night. She fussed at him, the griffon, trying to push him on, as she put the cat on his back, Go, run, you two run away, I've nothing they'd want to take.
The bells rang louder in her ears, as the raven landed nearby, calling louder, louder than before, louder than the whole flock had been as she dropped the book and pressed her hands over her ears to drown out the ringing, the calling, the roars and the sounds of hooves drawing ever closer.
And when the most of it stopped, the hooves stilled, the cawing gone, and the quite rumble of the griffon warning away a rider, the bells kept ringing. Make them stop!
The spies he had entrusted with her safety had been useless, nothing but weak-willed cowards who had let her slip through their fingers as Orlais fell to ruin. By the time word reached him, Ophelia had already vanished into the chaos, swallowed by the same darkness that had consumed so many others. A failure like that could not go unanswered—his anger had been swift and merciless. A few of those responsible still rotted in the dungeons, their backs striped raw from the flogging he had ordered, a warning to any who thought incompetence would be tolerated.
Yet punishment did not bring her back.
It was Malik who had done that. The shapeshifter had taken to the hunt without hesitation, slipping into the wilderness like a shadow, his ravens scouring the land for signs of her. Malachai had followed close behind, knowing it was only a matter of time before the trail led them to her. And now—finally—he had her in his sights.
She looked like a ghost of herself. Hollow-eyed, thin, the weight of loss pressing down on her shoulders. He should have felt relief, knowing she was alive. Instead, all he felt was cold. When they made it to the nearest village he would see she was cared for, bathed, clothed in better garments than the rags she now wore.
The gryphon was the first to react, stepping in front of her with a deep, rumbling growl, its massive wings shifting slightly, ready to strike. Malachai kept his movements slow as he reined in his horse, his sharp eyes flicking between the beast and the woman behind it. Questions came to mind, but for the moment his concern for her wellbeing outweighed the curious sight.
Easy now. Stand down, he murmured, though whether he meant it for himself, the gryphon, or the fury that still burned beneath his skin, even he wasn’t certain.
Dismounting, he landed with deliberate ease, gloved hands flexing at his sides. Ophelia was trembling, yet defiant, the book discarded at her feet, the raven perched too close for comfort. Malik had done his work well, but now the task fell to him.
Enough running, Little Dove, Malachai said, his voice quieter than the rage still curling in his gut. Reaching to his mask he slipped it down to his chin. You're coming with me. I’m here now. His approach was steady, eyes drifting between the beast and her small frame ready to back away if the gryphon decided he was foe and prey, not her waiting sanctuary. I’m here. I found you.
The bells where still ringing in her ears as she felt Isenam push against her, almost knocking her off her feet as she put her hands tighter over her ears. And maybe it was the authority in the tone that had the younger animal backing off, or the sudden howl from the side of the road, but Isenam went off after that howl, with a vengeance, disappearing into the tree line, as Malik did his job of making the woman easier to secure. The cat, however, stayed, curling itself around the woman's bare ankles from where her dress had been torn during her flight.
As for the woman herself, she finally was able to look up, to him, and not through him. The outstretched hand, and the soft words, even when she could physically feel the anger telegraphing off him, even at the distance, there was an authority in his bearing that she hadn't felt since the night they had found the murdered servant at the Archon's palace. It was familiar at least, familiar enough that it was recognizable.
And there was finally silence in her head, in her ears, the bells no longer were ringing.
You found me, she struggled out, somewhat in awe, mostly in reverence that he would come for her.
No, there was the quiet chirping of crickets, cicadas in the back ground, a source of water near by, the world was loud and boisterous, but it was.. quiet. For the first time since the bells had started to ring, she was left with the silence of just her own heart, and the creatures of the forest. When Mal pulled his mask down, to see the rest of his face, she relaxed, slightly, hands moving to brush over her wrecked robes. She must look an absolute mess, and no one would blame her for it, she tried to reassure herself, silently, as she choked down a quick breath, holding back the involuntary sob that was rising in her throat.
It's gone. They're gone. All of them.. Malachai, it's all gone. It wasn't hysterics that took her, it was the cold detachment of a scientist, finally taking over as she swallowed a few times, trying to keep that sob under wraps a while longer, her hands going to smooth her robes down gently, trying to get herself to look presentable, even if she knew, somewhere in the back of her head, knew that it wasn't something she needed to be worrying about at the time. The entire city, I, the driver got me as far as he could, gave me his horse, and then went back.. Rene.. Luce.. It was as far in as the University, and it moved quick so quick, I should have gone back in, I should have turned around to help too, but truth told she had been terrified in that moment. Botanist she was, the blight was ... death. And as that momentary terror seized her again, the sob finally broke free from her, anguished -- hastily composed mask crumbling as fast as it had been created. There was no hiding the terror those minutes had struck in her now, but the bells stayed silent. At least they were silent now.
Isenam forgotten for the moment, she forgot about the book, about the cat, about her bolting horse and sought out the comfort of him, closing the space left between them, face pressed into the familiar scent of him, the strong chest that was housed in clothes beneath her cheek. With the absence of the bells, she needed the sound of his heart beat, the steadiness there beneath her ear to help tell her that the world wasn't ending, not now, not for a while, but that this moment would wash over and pass eventually.
I knew you'd find me. Even when she had been questioning if he would have a place for her, she had the surety that he would come for her. She hadn't even needed to send a note, hadn't needed to make it all the way to Minrathous, he had come to find her. Later, when she had sleep, and a good meal, and was clean, she would examine that, but for now, there was nothing else in that moment than the grounding he offered -- through touch, through smell, through sound -- the world had gone a little side ways on her, there for a little while, but he was pulling her back, quickly, to her senses. She couldn't help the tremble that went through her, as she tried to compartmentalize as fast as possible, but it hurt. The sting of loss, the terror and the guilt, of nearly having died, and being a survivor eating at her. At least the guilt was familiar, survivors guilt was something she had experienced before, knew, intimately, knew how to compartmentalize it quickly, for her own sake.
The rest?
You're here. I'm safe now. It was more for herself, than for him, that she reminded herself of these things. She could stop running now. Malachai had found her.
Malachai caught her as she pressed into him, arms closing around her before she had the chance to collapse under the weight of her grief. She was trembling, exhaustion and sorrow threatening to pull her under, but he wasn’t about to let that happen. Not now.
Wordlessly, he lifted her from the ground, her weight slight in his arms, and carried her a few paces to a nearby rock, settling her there as if she were precious glass. His grip was firm, steady—something solid to hold onto in the midst of the storm still raging inside her. You did what you had to do, Ophelia, he murmured, his voice quieter now, no longer laced with the sharp edge of his earlier anger. You survived. You were brave. You did as your brothers instructed.
He took her wrist in his hand, fingers pressing lightly over the delicate skin there, feeling for the unsteady rhythm of her pulse. Too fast. She was dehydrated, her body running on the last shreds of energy she had left. With a quiet exhale, Mal nicked his finger with the edged ring, letting his magic flow into her, a steady warmth of blood magic easing through her veins, taking the worst of the edge off. It wasn’t much, just enough to dull the aches, enough to remind her body that it was safe now, but not enough to enrapture her mind under his will.
I have her, he sent through the link to Malik. We’ll make for the nearest village. She won’t last long in the saddle like this.
The acknowledgment came swift and wordless, a sense of understanding passed between them. The wolf, once slipping the gryphon’s pursuit would already melt into the darkness, scouting ahead for the best path.
Malachai pulled away just enough to shrug off his heavy cloak, the thick fabric still warm from his body as he draped it around her thin shoulders. It swallowed her up almost entirely, but he didn't care. She needed warmth. She needed something that smelled of familiarity, of comfort, of him.
You're safe, he said again, his voice softer this time. Not a command, not a demand—just a fact.
Then, without another word, he gathered her back into his arms, lifting her easily as he moved towards his horse. Hold on, I’ll be right behind you. He mounted smoothly, settling her in front of him, one arm securely around her waist as he took the reins with his free hand. The gryphon was still out there, somewhere, the cat and few belongings would be gathered by his subordinate, but for now, the priority was getting her to shelter.
Rest, he murmured, lips pressing softly against her ear, just for her. I’ve got you now.
And with that, he nudged the horse forward, carrying her away steadily until finding firmer ground he could urge the beast into a faster pace.
I left them, she breathed, the words feeling like glass in her mouth, the pain of the statement more than just mental anguish, it had slipped into physical pain that she had left so many people to probably die. She knew they were probably all dead, the logic in her mind knowing that there was no way for that many people to have escaped the city, especially with how quickly the blight had moved. But then the hunger and pain started to lift some, lessen, it allowed her to breathe easier, even as she started to feel the exhaustion of her flight start to take hold. He was right, she was safe, he was safety in this madness that was happening, and she realized belatedly, that she felt warm, her fingers going to grip the edge of the robe he had set about her.
The familiarity and the scent of him was enough to lull her into allowing him to handle her up onto the horse, in his arms.
The wolf had indeed, circled back around and gathered the woman's horse and the dropped book, driving them, and the still tailing griffon and cat following once the wolf had regained human form and used his magic to compel them to obey. Everything would be set for them, once they arrived to the village, a room already secured, a bath already drawn, and meal already delivered to the room. Eye's already signaled to send a carriage and appropriate clothing for the lady.
But Lia was aware of none of that.
All Lia was aware of was the warmth of his robe around her, the fabric draping around her as she settled into the saddle with him, head turning to rest on his shoulder, so she could close her eyes. The bells didn't ring when he was there. They weren't there in her mind even as her lips parted, in a relieved sigh, as his lips touched along the lobe of her ear. Another time, another circumstance, and she would have been begging him for that touch, for more touches. But there was too much exhaustion and sadness to think of anything really, except trying to stay awake long enough to be free of riding.
How did you find me? I'm assuming the birds were relaying messages.. Someone on his staff had to be adept in zomancy, she knew it, with as many cats as their Archon had, someone on his staff had to. She had read that some mages well enough versed could transfer their vision into another animal. She was fairly certain that's how that worked. If I fall asleep, you'll wake me, won't you? If something happens, you won't let me sleep through it? She was entirely certain that now he was there, that she would sleep through the end of the world if he allowed her to. She couldn't think about anything else. If she stopped to think about anything, she was going to drive herself back to the fear and upset and that wouldn't solve anything. All she needed right now was to get herself put back together properly and then she could take some time to be sad and upset, like when the attacks had happened all those years ago. She had taken a little while to be sad, only allowed herself so long, and then she stopped.
I'll be okay. You're here. I'll be fine. It was more for her, than him. Where are we heading?
The steady rhythm of the horse’s hooves filled the silence between them, the quiet hum of his magic still lacing through her veins as he held her against him. He had no certainty to offer her—no reports, no whispers from the Eyes that spoke of survivors. The Blight consumed without mercy, and Orlais… Orlais had already been teetering on the edge long before the first wave of darkness rolled in. By all accounts, she should not have made it out. The fact that she had was nothing short of a miracle.
But he wasn’t cruel enough to give her the truth. Not now. Not while she trembled in his arms, clinging to the sound of his heartbeat like it was the only thing keeping her from shattering.
Nothing is certain, he said finally, his voice low but steady. Not every variable can be accounted for. The Blight isn’t reasonable, and escape—no matter how well planned—never goes smoothly in such chaos. He tightened his grip on her waist, his thumb brushing softly against her side. If you made it out, others may have as well.
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. There was always a chance—however slim—that someone else had survived. And if that fragile thread of hope was the only thing keeping her from breaking completely, he would give it to her without question.
The warmth of her body against him was too light, too fragile, and it pulled at something in him—a cold, unfamiliar ache he didn’t often let himself feel. He wanted her safe. Truly safe. And yet, the moment he’d found her, crumpled and exhausted in the road, a knot of rage had twisted itself tight in his chest. Not at her—but at everything and everyone that had failed her. His spies. The fools who let her slip through their grasp. The gods-damned Blight itself. There would be a reckoning of some sort. Soon.
But not tonight.
Yes, well, he murmured, his tone shifting to something lighter, teasing, I’m not Chancellor of the Psychic—otherwise, I’d have stolen you sooner.
A smile would be a small victory.
Her fear of sleep hummed through the blood-link, sharp and raw despite her brave words. Malachai let his magic pulse deeper, weaving a thread of calm through her frayed nerves. His power curled warm and protective around the fragile edges of her mind, reinforcing the promise in his words.
You will rest tonight, he assured her, pressing his influence just enough to anchor her further. I’ll make sure of it. It’s not far now. Once we reach the village, I’ll have you better situated. I will tend to you—you’ve had enough adventure for a while. You’re grounded, Little Dove.
His lips brushed against the crown of her head, a touch that was both reassuring and possessive. She was his to protect now. No one would touch her. No one would take her.
He urged the horse into a quicker pace, the beast’s muscles bunching beneath them as the scent of woodsmoke began to drift on the night air. He kept talking, if only to gauge how she was faring.
When the village lights finally flickered into view, Malachai wasted no time. He brought the horse to a halt just outside the waiting inn, and with the ease of a man who had done this many times before, he slid from the saddle—taking her with him. Adjusting his cloak to wrap her up, shielding her from prying eyes, Mal pressed her face into the now-damp fabric of his shirt. The heat of the ride clung to him, breath hot against the cooler night air and the door to the inn swung open silently. One of his Eyes stood waiting, their posture rigid with respect. No words passed between them; there was no need. Everything had already been carefully arranged.
Malachai crossed the threshold with her still tucked against his chest, sparing only a brief glance to confirm the final orders of the night before the door shut behind them with quiet finality.
The rooms were small but warm—lit by the flicker of firelight, the scent of fresh bread and herbs filling the air. A bath steamed gently in the corner, the water faintly shimmering with the magic Malik had undoubtedly woven into it.
He moved to the couch first, settling her down with a gentleness no one outside of this room would ever suspect him capable of. No one will disturb your rest, he promised, kneeling beside her as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. Not while I’m here.
His expression softened into a wicked, teasing smile as his eyes swept over her ruined robes. Let’s get you… well, not comfortable, but at least fed and smelling better.
In uncertainty, lay hope, Ophelia decided, to herself. Under normal circumstances her mind would be rallying against her that uncertainty was neither logical, nor a safe way to estimate anything in and sort of science, and yet…
She felt the small blossom there that, the now clearly remembered back of Rene, he hadn’t been consumed, had found the woman he loved and they had run. That her brother, sister-in-law, and nephew had been able to make the harbor and just the reason they had not been there was that they had assumed her dead, after all, she had been in the part of the city that seemed to be swallowed up the fastest. All safe and logical assumptions, and she would not have wanted them to put themselves in danger, for her. A few months from now, there her family would be.
It was a nice way to slow the impact of the pain. And a lie, she decided, and she was loathe to lie to herself, especially about this. If anyone else made it, then I will rest only slightly easier, and if they didn’t, I’ve already spent the last week blaming myself for something I probably could have done nothing to prevent. Her words were soft, a murmur as she let the feel of his arm, the light stroke of his thumb over the crest of her hip bone, ease her from chasing the rabbit once again.
She felt like her mental state hovered somewhere between inescapable madness, and the unwavering need to keep hope alive in her breast. This was what going mad truly must feel like, Is there one of those? Chancellor of the Psychic? I would so like to have a word with him and put his methods to a test. She herself had been blissfully unaware, nothing in that small inkling of precognition that she sometimes got had prepared her for any of it. No, what she had saw, was embroidery, a bee, on a hair ribbon, in an unfamiliar garden. A fresh wave of something trickled through her, not quite ice, and not quite heat, something different, like tendrils that flowed through her, and then finally around her.
Magic — it had to be, and for now, she was thankful. She dozed off, in that comfortable cocoon that seemed to even extend to her mind, helped chased off the images of the blight wrapping around the bell tower, even as the bell continued to ring, as long as it could. It wasn’t until she felt him moving back from her that she realized they were stationary, the sound of her griffon keening outside, in a horse stall making her head turn a little to look, and then her attention was pulled back to him.
You spend a week in the wilderness and we’ll see how fresh you smell. Not that I think anything could pull that alluring scent from your skin. She rose to the tease, glad for the distraction as she saw a book set on a table near-by. His ever present Eyes must had prepared everything. Placing her hand on his shoulder, Ophelia stood on her own two legs, shrugging out of his robe and placing it down neatly on the couch. She could smell the clean bath water in the corner. Don’t, she started, as her free hand went to curl into the rags that were what was left of her dress, Don’t leave me, please.
The vulnerability, the fear, the absolute terror that the moment he wasn’t there, to tease her like he did, that everything would rush back — he wouldn’t need his magic to tell it, no, it was written in her body, the way she trembled, the wild look in her eyes, the way her lower lip was drawn between teeth and bit, to give her a sharp sting of pain that helped her focus on what she needed to do.
She needed to bathe, and then eat. Those she could do. He wasn’t asking her to sleep, yet, so what he was asking her to do were things she could do. That was how she would start. She could do what she could, a little at a time. Not wanting to draw it out any longer, she moved to the tub and dropped the rags to the side. They needed to be burned — who knew what she tracked in with them, and there was no amount of mending to save the fabric. So, burned, or used for.. something, anything but being the dress she wore to flee with her life.
Her stomach growled as she stepped into the copper bathing tub, hands trembling as she held the edge and lowered herself into the warmth of the cloudy water, oils and something else instantly starting to seep into her weary muscles. It was.. she would never have a bath like that again, the exhaustion that hit her as she slid a little too fast into the water, and had to catch herself. Lia would probably need his help getting out, her mind already supplying what was needed. She’d not ate, regular meals for nearly a week, and had survived on what little fat on her bones, and what little mouthfuls of food she was able to scavenge… I’ll need salt, and honey, mixed in water, to help ease the dehydration, and as much as I want an entire loaf of the bread I can smell downstairs, if I start eating again too quick, I might get sicker.
Textbooks, she had textbooks to go on. And this wasn’t something a healer could just bring her back from, she’d have to take it slow. This was much easier to think about, than what had happened, steps forward. She slid under the surface of the water, to wet her hair, eyes closed and hands still on the edge of the tub, before she pulled herself back up. She eyed the meal sitting on the table. It was thoughtful, but she hadn’t had regular meals for a week. If she tried eating a whole meal she’d most likely get very ill. Do you think they’d toast a slice of bread for me, so I can nibble on it? She didn’t want to go into the reasons why — her text books she had studied when she had been researching her thesis, they’d shown where someone had studied how long a prisoner could go without food before dying, and also, what had happened to people who tried to eat again too soon after not having regular wholesome meals. She didn’t want to spend the next day on horseback, or in a carriage being ill, or a worse mess than she already was.
She tried to comb a hand through her hair, to loosen the knotted braid there, before giving up. As much as the magic in the water, and what ever else there was, he just didn’t have the energy for it right then. I’m afraid I’m going to be rubbish at trying to do my hair, would you mind helping me? Anything she could do to delay him asking her to try and sleep.
Malachai sighed softly, his fingers continuing their slow, reassuring stroke over the crest of her hip. Even his own people were scattered—Eyes caught in the chaos, information unreliable at best. There had been no certainty in the reports that had reached him, no glimmer of hope he could offer beyond what scraps she could cling to on her own. In truth, it was likely she was the sole survivor of her family. And while it wasn’t in his nature to make false promises, he could vow to her this: I will guard you, I will keep you safe. An oath, binding and absolute.
She murmured something, more to herself than him—words tangled in the edges of logic and sorrow. Exactly, Malachai agreed, his thumb tracing the arc of her hip again. You are blameless here. Survival relies on a great deal of luck, as well as planning. His words were matter-of-fact, firm but not unkind. If she could not absolve herself, then he would do it for her.
Her response, when it came, was unexpected. Malachai chuckled, shaking his head. No. The future is clouded behind shadows. We might gain some insight, but it's only one of many possibilities. His voice dipped into dry amusement. Not that I have much faith in mystics. If they were truly useful, we’d have far fewer surprises in this world. His own methods were simple. Facts. Calculations. Strategies formed from things that could be measured, observed, trusted.
The change in her was slight, but he felt it—her exhaustion pressing harder against him, the weight of safety sinking into her bones. She wasn’t steady, but she was standing, and that was enough for now. "Don’t leave me, please." The words landed with a weight that curled deep inside him, something visceral and dark stirring in response. It was written in her body—her trembling, the wildness in her eyes, the sharp bite of her teeth against her lip. She was holding herself together through sheer force of will, clinging to whatever control she had left. His grip on her arm squeezed gently. Of course not, Malachai said, voice lower now, steady. Absolute. She wasn’t ready to be left alone, and so he wouldn’t leave. It was that simple.
Mal shadowed her as she moved, kicking the shredded fabric of her dress aside. It would be burned—there was no saving it, and even if there were, he wouldn’t let her wear it ever again. That life was gone.
Steam curled in the air as she stepped into the bath, gripping the sides as she lowered herself into the warm water. He expected it—the way her body sagged almost instantly, exhaustion hitting her in full now that she had a moment to stop running. He remained close, not looking over her, only moving to find a cloth. Her slide under the water made his body tense—hands poised, ready to pull her up if needed. When she surfaced, gasping softly, he exhaled.
She explained about the meal set out, but she didn’t need to. He understood the logic, the medical precision of her thoughts. I’m certain my aids have already handled it, he replied, unbothered. I’ll soak the bread in the broth, and you’ll have a few bites. Nothing too strenuous.
The sound of her hair catching against itself made him glance back, watching as her fingers tangled, trying to loosen the braid. He could see it—her patience fraying along with the strands, exhaustion making even this small task impossible. He reached out, fingers brushing softly against hers. Lucky for you, Malachai murmured, lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. I’m quite adept at knots. Allow me.
His hands were careful, skilled as they worked through the tangles—steadily undoing the last remnants of the past days' chaos, thread by thread. A lullaby, from the deep recesses of his mind came to hum from his throat while he worked, eyes drifting between the threads between fingers and her general state.
Oh, he was one of the Sainted, she decided, as he didn’t pry, and didn’t try to man handle her for her own “good”, he let her set the pace, and speak her fears and needs, and then, he reassured, comforted, pressed where needed, and even caught that she was at her absolute limit in that moment, and offered to help. Patient, and not at all seeming like he was disappointed in her. It was far more than she could say of some from her past. She would remember it later, of course, once sleep finally took her and she would wake later, but for now, now, she carefully in threaded her fingers from her hair and let him take over working the snarls from the length free. Adept with knots, you say?
But there was no heat behind her words, no tone that could cover the exhaustion that reeled in and over her as she let her head be moved, let his fingers card through hair and then patiently work a knot free before moving on. It was because her hair came down nearly to her knees that was the problem. She could braid it up and pin it to her head, but at the end of the day, her hair was just too long to be manageable when tired. The humming, a melody she might have known in another life, let her close her eyes. He was there, grounding her, as she drew her knees to her chest and hugged them close. With her eyes closed, she didn’t have to see the way his eyes darted over her, checking to see if she was whole still.
Hells, she must have been a wreck when he came across her on the road, filthy, her dress torn from the flight towards safety, wild hair and eyes red from tears and little sleep. The fact he had recognized her at all? Remarkable. When he had worked the last knot free from her head, she leaned her head back into his hands, enjoying the feel of fingertips along her neck, face going red as she got a picture in her mind of sitting atop the man, those same hands wrapped around her throat. It should have terrified her, but it made her feel more calm in the moment. There was a future for her, with him around still, and she hadn’t felt fear in the moment, no. She’d work out what it might have been at a later time. A song from your youth? she finally asked, before she reached to the side for soap to later her hair up with.
She dipped a hand into the water, and then turned the bar in her clasped hands, over and over, to get enough lather to start to soap the locks up, running on auto-pilot through the motions she knew she needed to make. Clean herself to presentable, a bit of food, mainly water, then she could rest on the bed until day light. It was a simple plan, one that she could stick to, rather well. One hand went to each side of her head, pushing soap through her roots, behind her ears, along her neck, not her face yet, she wouldn’t bring dirty hands back to her face, she would do that last, with clean water. This smells wonderful, I think… it was the same soap I had when I was invited to the Archon’s Palace for the ball, wasn’t it? Did you have someone bring it with you? Or is this just a standard smell for people in this country?
Malachai’s hands moved with steadiness born from experience, fingers threading patiently through the cascade of wet hair as he teased apart another knot. He could feel her surrender—bit by bit—not the kind of surrender that feared consequence, but the kind that trusted him not to break her any more than events already had. Her voice had lost all pretense of strength, her words a whisper softened by bone-deep weariness.
Yes, adept with knots, he echoed her earlier murmur with a low chuckle, hands continuing their slow, methodical work. I have... a fondness for knitting, let’s say.
That wasn’t true, not in the conventional sense anyway. His use of them had usually been practical, often painful, occasionally deadly. Ropes had their lessons, just as steel did. Some bindings held. Others choked. Some knots were meant to be unraveled gently, others to be cut cleanly—and for those and his blood magic, he carried the ring on his finger. Sharp enough to draw red across his skin with a flick. It had saved lives. Ended many of them, too.
This, though… his hands in her hair, tracing the shape of her head, the smoothness of her scalp beneath the roots, loosening strands that had knotted together from days of flight and neglect… this was a far gentler route to the truth than any of his more brutal methods in gathering intelligence. Magic and torture had their uses. But they didn’t tell you the truth of a woman’s state like the way she sank into silence, or how her shoulders slumped as her tension gave way to sleep's edge.
She sighed, leaned into his hands. He took the cue, offering a soft massage to her scalp before working out the next twist in the long river of her hair. The braid, the knots, the weight of it all—it could go, if she chose. But it didn’t need to be now. Not tonight.
The humming continued, low and deep in his chest, the tune lacing through the quiet of the room like a protective charm. She asked about it finally, voice barely more than a sigh. From my soldier days, yes, he replied. His voice didn’t falter, but he didn’t elaborate either. She didn’t need to know it was a death song—a final farewell, whispered on cold nights before one more charge into slaughter. It had once given him comfort. It did still, in strange moments. Perhaps it would give her some, too.
When the final knot slipped loose, Malachai let his hands rest at the base of her skull for a moment, supporting her gently as she leaned back. He didn’t rush her, just shifted his grip slightly so that as she slowly sat upright, his palms lowered to her shoulders, stabilizing her with quiet strength. He could feel how fragile she was—how fine the line between collapse and function was. So he held her there, his body a quiet presence behind her. Letting her know he wouldn’t let her slip beneath the surface, not even by accident.
She reached for the soap, and he let his hands drop respectfully to his sides, content to watch her take up the rhythm of small, grounding tasks again. Her question about the scent broke the stillness. Mal chuckled, the sound warm and unguarded. Same supplier, yes. But this is from my estate, not the Archon’s. Malik likely had my household prepare a knapsack of things. That her memory could draw back to something as simple as a soap scent from a ball—months ago—was a testament to the sheer strength of her will. She was clinging to facts and sensations, building a path back to herself with whatever fragments she could hold. The lingering familiar scent would hopefully help set her mind at ease, remind her she was in safe hands while she clawed those pieces back. Acquaint her somewhat with the scents of his own home where she would now dwell in.
I’m certain the housekeeper has already prepared your chambers, though I can have a cot set up for you in mine if you prefer.
I enjoy embroidery, although. I think I would like to learn to knit, some day. The woman in the kitchen who was as much of a mother to me as possible said she would teach me some day, before she had perished in the raid on the manor, the fire that had claimed most. Even the other servant that had lived through the initial onslaught was most likely dead now. It... it would be better if she let herself believe that she was now fully an orphan in the world. She would heal faster either that belief. But grief was a funny old thing, and she couldn't help the hope that sank back into her chest, into her bones, that one day she would see her family again.
Her fingers went into her hair, pulling the rich lather through the locks, and scrubbing out the filth that had accumulated over several days in the road. You didn't happen to have that soap delivered to my room then, did you? I wouldn't blame you if you had. The moment she had scoured herself clean, she sank back under the water and then rosed back up, steam rolling off her as she did. And the moment she could, she fit her shoulders back under those steadying hands once again, rubbing the bar of soap along her arms and across her chest as she sought out normalancy. Thank you for letting me bather on like this. The illusion.
She knew that she had broken in front of him, but he had allowed her the grace to do so, that wasn't something she was going to forget, when she fully came back to herself. She would hold to that -- when her world was ending, he had made space for her to lose her mind, to experience her fear, and now, he was gently picking up the pieces and fitting them back together with lacquer and gold. Not denying she was broken, but rather, more beautiful because of it. He wasn't trying to feed her platitudes, or give her false hope -- he accepted her current state, and then offered an avenue forward.
The cot, maybe, for a night or two, until I don't wake up thinking I am in Orlais still. Then again, you may want to shove me in a library somewhere and just let sleep find me in it's own time. She finished with her arms and scooped water up and over to rise the soap away. Her next bath, she would take the time to clean properly, scrub her skin with a brush, loosen away dead skin, oil her limbs until they were soft and pliant once again, for now, she needed to be clean enough to eat something small and sleep, before he could take her where ever she was meant to be. Find a mystery for me to solve and I'll be right as rain in no time.
Wasn't that what she had done the first time she had experienced something cataclysmic? Thrown herself into trying to solve every little mystery and question there was about everything? It did well to distract her, to keep her mind occupied so that she didn't dwell on the things she could not change. She raised a leg out of the water and soaped it, then the other, and then she worked the suds back around her neck and the parts she could reach of her back. The water was looking less like a bath and more like a wash tub that had just seen a load of laundry ran through it. Tell me about your house? She asked quietly as she finally reached for a cloth to start rolling her hair up, it was like to strangle them both if she didn't at least roll it, since she didn't think she had the energy to braid it tonight.
Malachai watched her quietly as she spoke, her hands gliding through her hair with habitual care, though weariness dragged at her arms. The water around her was gray now, the last several days slowly rinsed away in warmth and soap. She was still there—damaged, exhausted, haunted—but alive. And aware. A remarkable thing, really.
At her question about the soap, a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Likely, he admitted. My housekeeper also added it into the batch of books I sent afterwards. Something about you appreciating something familiar. There had been no discussion about it—his staff simply acted, quietly attentive in ways he didn’t always notice until after the fact. He was used to efficiency, not sentiment. But maybe sentiment had its place, too.
Her words settled into the room slowly, heavy but unburdening at once. Malachai listened in silence, his hands still resting lightly against her shoulders when she returned to them. When she thanked him, not just for the presence, but for the illusion—his jaw tightened briefly. He shook his head. I’ve done little, he said quietly, too little, too late in some cases. Listening is all I should do right now. And he meant it. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t pale beside what she’d endured, no words that would hasten her healing. But he could listen. Be present. And that, for now, would have to be enough.
At her musings of a cot or a library, he chuckled softly, not unkindly. We’ll see how the nights go. Either way, I’ll keep you safe. Library or cot. My own bed if it suits you.
He had no shortage of mysteries for her, of course. His work bred them like flies in rot. The Archon’s health, in particular, loomed unsolved and dangerous—a puzzle layered with intrigue, lies, and whispers of something darker. But that could wait. Tonight, she was the only priority. He moved away briefly as she washed, returning with a soft, clean nightgown. Nothing lavish, but comfortable, well-made. He hung it on the screen beside the tub, just within arm’s reach.
When she asked about his house, his answer came with a hint of self-awareness and resignation. My home? a soft scoff fell, a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. I’ll admit—you’ll be the brightest thing about it. I don’t spend much time there. It’s too large. Too quiet. Too… He paused, searching for the right word, then exhaled. Lonely. The price of the rich and infamous, I suppose. His father had built it to impress, not to live in. Wide halls and cold marble, sprawling gardens and a library no one reads in but me. Beautiful, yes. But empty. Until now, perhaps.
When she was ready, Malachai turned away without a word, giving her privacy to leave the tub. He offered his arm without hesitation when she stepped out, steadying her with a strong grip that never lingered too long. Helping her into the robe was done with the same quiet efficiency, fingers swift but respectful as he guided the fabric into place and tied it for her.
Here, he said gently, leading her back to the sitting room, where the sofa’s cushions still bore the faint imprint of her earlier rest. He helped her sit, then drew the heavy blanket over her shoulders, tucking it around her like a protective shell. Let me check on the food, he murmured, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek before turning toward the hearth and covered dishes.
If anyone had told her that some day she would sit in a tub of dirty enchanted water, laid bare and raw with physical and emotional turmoils that seemed to slough off her lile the dirt she just freed from her, she would have laughed. Deep and rich. And perhaps a little indulgent on the sides of a personal joke.
She had been a shite servant, kept more like a precious treasure by those who paid care to her.
And so when he called her the brightest addition to his home, she did laugh. A little scoff at first, to imagine herself some big of sunshine in an otherwise gloomy sounding existence, and it blossomed into something more.
She laughed, because she feared she would cry otherwise, and she didn't feel like she had enough left in her for tears. Not yet, maybe not ever. She had screamed her throat raw on that ledge already, the worst of it worked through in mad flight.
Just close your eyes, the sun is going down, it had been something she had hear somewhere, maybe a bards song, but the humming had stirred it loose in her brain, and her mind returned to it after she finished the laugh, Oh Malachai, if I am to be the sunshine, I fear the forecast will be a bit overcast the next few days at least.
She sighed, as she felt the nightgown and robe settle on her frame, heavy, heavier than the grief that was settling into her bones now that she was safe and sound, I exist. That is.. all I can offer now, and it is nauseating
She could exist though, for now, claw her way back to something good and pure, maybe be a light for him. A light. A simple thing. And that only required existing. For now at least.
She wished she had died with the rest, because she didn't see a way free of the guilt, not right that moment, but she had tore her way through wilderness, towards him. On what? She hadn't thought, she had just gone with a singular drive to make it to Tevinter.
Fear? Of course. Friendship? That wouldn't account for how hard she had fought to keep herself together on her flight. Safety? He offered her that, and more. But he would have offered her that had she just had a spat with her brother and wanted to run away for a while.
The touch though. Gentle, reverent even, adoring.
When he turned away a few moments later to check the food, she was already letting the darker thought slide free from her mind, there would be time for the flip flopping emotions to make their way through her system, slowly, as she examined each with a semi-detacted fascination.
As a scientist it was what she could do, would do, to survive. And if what ever small light she could bring him would be taken in exchange to keep her safe from the outside world?
An insignificant price to pay. She would owe him so much more, and she was certain he would tell her to clear it from her mind, but for now, it was a line to cling to.
A rope tossed into the darkness that she only needed to grasp and start to climb.
She had to. There were still so many questions that needed answered.
A tiny smile came to her lips, as he checked the food, her hands moving to pull the blanket tighter around her form. She was safe with Mal. She had always been safe with him, and he would protect her. That's all there was to that. Marble is cool in summertime though, with the heat of your home country, I bet that marble would be a blessing to lay on during a particularly warm day.
Ophelia pulled her feet up onto the couch, hugging her legs to her chest, cheek resting against her knees as she watched him move about, And I promise you, I'll make good use of your library given enough time.
