05

One: Nathaniel

The first time Nathaniel saw her, he thought he'd never seen anyone so beautiful in his entire life.

The fact that she was rescuing him from weeks of literal torture had nothing to do with it, he was sure. Not that he wasn't entirely, embarrassingly grateful for the rescue, of course, but he was certain if he'd first seen her on the street at the market in Markham, he'd have been just as awestruck. She had hair like flame, a few little braids with beads decorating their ends, and the sweetest smile he could imagine – though the first expression he could remember seeing on her was one of horror and, unfortunately, pity.

Not the most auspicious beginning, he couldn't help but think. He'd have given much to meet her in other circumstances.

How she had taken up so much of his thoughts when they clearly had other, rather pressing matters to attend to was ridiculous. After all, he'd just made up his mind to kill someone – someone who had never harmed him, who in fact had gone out of her way to help him, someone who didn't deserve what his father was going to do to her. Or, really, force him to do to her – because that had been the catch. He didn't just have to watch the woman who'd nursed him for a month be raped or tortured – he had to do it. To be the one to rape her – or to return himself to the torture chamber, and let his brother have her. She'd begged him to kill her – and he'd finally, reluctantly, said yes.

And now he was being rescued by an angel, and instead of standing up and taking a weapon, instead of boldly leading the charge to confront his father, he was limping along – probably only upright thanks to the mage they'd brought with them – unarmed, barely able to keep up. And to his utter mortification, she'd had to help him, both down the stairs into the dungeon and through the labyrinthine hallways underneath the estate.

Seeing his father, hearing the bastard taunt Aedan – the only one who'd escaped from the slaughter that had been perpetrated on his castle and his family – had been too much. He'd found the energy from somewhere – sheer rage, he thought – to face his father, and to ensure that he could never harm anyone again.

And the entire time, he could feel her eyes on him, as palpable as a touch. But this wasn't market day back in Markham, and he had no right to feel that way about her. His shame was overwhelming, and he turned his face away to hide it from her. He was the son of a monster, too weak to stop his father, too weak to endure the torture any longer, too weak to end it himself so he couldn't be used any more. He couldn't protect Thomas, or Kallian, or any of the other countless innocents his father had harmed. He didn't deserve to escape from the dungeon alive, never mind to pine over a pretty girl he could offer nothing – not even his own integrity.

Two: Leliana

Leliana had been concerned about the brooding, dark-haired noble. At first, she'd worried Aedan, enraged, would put the man out of his misery, and then she'd worried that the smelly, injured, traumatised, damaged man they'd rescued would save Aedan the trouble and get himself killed by his father's guards. He could barely walk – several badly healing broken bones had been set and mended by Anders, not to mention the dehydration, malnourishment, scrapes, bruises, and contusions his ruined clothes barely covered, but no healing could substitute for the time and energy needed for a body to really mend – and yet he'd bullheadedly insisted on following them, on fighting, and on ending his father himself, rather than leaving it to another.

He had a strength to him, an inner drive that surprised her somehow, even after months of travelling with some of the strongest people she'd ever met. He was also broken, she could see that – and there was more here than just victimhood, or shame at being related to the monster. Something else. His eyes were hollow and sunken, something Anders' healing hadn't affected, and he refused to make eye contact with any of them except Kallian – the poor, terrified elf they'd found in his room. Leliana had offered support, feeling drawn to the tragic figure despite his parentage and his current unfortunate odour.

She had some experience with recovering from trauma, she thought. She might be able to help him.

Having him help fight the palace guard, then drag their unconscious, badly wounded leader across the city under cover of stealth was not what Leliana'd had in mind. Despite that, he was there, holding Aedan's arm over his shoulder, cradling his head, hiding in the shadows as effortlessly as she did when he went ahead to scout. He moved with undeniable grace despite his injuries, helping her manage the mage's blundering, borrowing her bow and taking an extremely difficult shot at a guard who'd been about to raise the alarm. Weeks of captivity had taken their toll on his body, but the muscles were still there, and it was clear he was well-used to drawing a bow.

He held the door for her and Kallian when they arrived back at Eamon's, silently reassuring the elf girl with a gentle smile, careful not to touch her even when she helped him, careful to avoid stepping into Leliana's personal space. He was always so careful – Leliana couldn't help but wonder if he had always been so deliberate and thoughtful, or if it was a response to his ordeal.

She'd offered to help him get settled at Eamon's once Aedan had been taken care of – he needed someone to show him around and get him what he required, she reasoned – and he'd followed her to the room she shared with Wynne, gratefully accepting a large healing potion, borrowing the bathtub and the remarkable little hot water 'rune' that she had retrieved from Sierra's room down the hall, agreeing with a wry smile when she suggested he burn his current clothes if she brought him something else to wear. He thanked her over and over, to her embarrassment, and she finally left him to get ready while she made do with changing quickly in the barracks.

His story, once he'd gotten the chance to tell everyone, was worse than she'd guessed – worse than her own frightening history of imprisonment and torture, if she was honest – and explained the haunted look on his face. But he didn't shy away from it, didn't hide the worse details, didn't try to paint himself in a more heroic light than he deserved. If anything, he downplayed the remarkable perseverance he'd shown in resisting for as long as he had in the face of what had been horrific injuries.

The others might not have seen what he didn't say – how he suffered, how he was still suffering, how his physical injuries were the least of his current ailments...

But she did.

Three: Nathaniel

He had dreaded telling his story, dreaded the inevitable revulsion he so richly deserved, especially when he finally opened his eyes and met her gaze. But what he was greeted with was not what he expected; he faced only sympathy and understanding, despite everything. Mixed with some pity, there was no way to hide that, but the overwhelming disgust he'd braced for never happened.

Her reaction was the most surprising. She knew. She looked at him, had listened to him, seen right through him, and she knew.

He wasn't sure he wanted to know how that knowledge had come to her, but there was no mistaking it, amongst those who'd been through similar things. In fact, as he'd come to realise, everyone he'd met since being rescued had significant tragedy in their past – Aedan's loss, of course, but also the dwarf's oppression growing up Casteless, the would-be King's obvious childhood neglect, the mages' long battle with their Chantry overseers; even the unknown woman who'd known his name had a traumatic past, he was sure – but it was different, for those who'd been through torture. The blond elf understood, he made no attempts to hide his familiarity with it, but Nathaniel hadn't expected to see that look of pure empathy from the beautiful bard.

It unnerved him, actually; he didn't quite know what to do with knowing that she knew. He certainly didn't want her pity – though that didn't seem to be something she was offering, anyway – but it also felt like he couldn't wall it off, his grief and guilt and suffering, couldn't lock it away when she knew. Her knowledge was a breach in his defenses, and he scrambled from the room after he told his story to get away from her too-knowing gaze.

Four: Leliana

She found him in Eamon's barracks, destroying a sparring dummy with a sword. It was clear it wasn't his preferred weapon – his musculature was all wrong for a swordsman, his attacks lacked some of the grace he so effortlessly displayed in other tasks – but he seemed to find some solace in the physical strain of the activity, working up a sweat as he hacked pieces off of his target through sheer determination instead of skill.

Leliana allowed herself a small, wry smile she'd never have allowed anyone else to see. She'd been where Nathaniel was now, newly escaped from what she'd been sure was a death sentence, betrayed and hurt and damaged, unable to see beyond her own pain – the emotional pain didn't heal, no matter how many elfroot drafts she'd swallowed. She had thrown herself at the first available opportunity – first working with some of the Chantry's Seekers, people Mother Dorothea had introduced her to, and then resuming her spycraft, only with Dorothea, not Marjolaine, as spymaster – but had found that no matter how ceaselessly she worked, no matter how she pushed herself past the point of exhaustion, no matter whose bed she threw herself into, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop the images that played out on her eyelids every time she closed her eyes, couldn't stop the frisson of fear down her spine that she'd be caught again, betrayed again, hurt again... She'd learned the hard way that physical exertion and meaningless sex could not substitute for emotional health.

She'd also learned that someone couldn't be led to that conclusion; it was something they had to learn for themselves. Dorothea had tried to counsel her, to hold her, to heal her – to stop her self-destructive search for the next fight with which to distract herself – but it wasn't something that even the most devout, the most caring person could do for someone. It had to come from within.

It had come for Leliana, when, late one night after a mission that had been too easy, had gone too well and hadn't allowed her to purge the mass of feelings crushing her chest with casual violence – and a brief dalliance with another lay sister had failed to distract her adequately from the dark memories she'd suppressed – she'd found herself wandering through the empty Chantry disconsolately. She wasn't even sure what she was looking for, just trying to burn the restless energy that wouldn't let her sleep, when she came across light spilling out from a small, rarely-used chapel. She'd crept to the door, feet silent as a breath, and peered into the room uncertainly, wondering what was wrong that someone was both up so late and occupying a room she'd never seen in use before.

What she'd seen initially hadn't seemed like much. Mother Dorothea, her saviour, her mentor, naked on her knees, tears streaming down her face as she gazed up at a statue of the Beloved Andraste, lips moving in silent prayer; Leliana had stayed still and watched as she had prayed, watched her face as she laid her soul bare to the Maker and his Bride, the tears never stopping. Dorothea had alternated verses of the Chant with silent reflection, clearly begging forgiveness from the higher power she'd sworn to serve.

She'd stayed there for an hour or more, her hidden watcher unnoticed; Leliana had stayed rapt, watching, never tiring – until finally with an audible sigh, the older woman had glanced down, and Leliana's attention had been drawn to the bowl resting in front of her. The Mother had reached into the water and pulled out a cloth, wringing it out thoroughly before she had begun washing herself, genuflecting and pausing for moments of prayer between each part, a ritual Leliana was by-now familiar with. Most of the priestesses performed this part of the ritual in their own quarters, alone, purifying themselves before performing either some sort of service, or a penance inflicted upon them by their superiors for mistakes or confessed sins, but whether the cleansing ritual was public or private didn't really matter – what mattered was the mental clarity needed for the service to be truly meaningful, the repentance sincere.

Leliana had watched, spellbound, until the nature of the service the Mother was going to perform was revealed. Still occasionally streaming tears, the older woman had lifted a new, clean cloth from the bowl of water and begun bathing Andraste's statue, gently washing first the pedestal, and then the toes. She had wiped each inch with deliberation and careful attention to detail, before using a towel to dry it again, leaving it looking unchanged to the naked eye – but purified in the eyes of the Maker. It was a penance often inflicted on the newest initiates, the most troubled applicants, the ones who had difficulty seeing and holding onto their faith through everything in their past that had brought them there; it was intended to be mindless, to encourage self-reflection – but also to be mind-numbing and unpleasant, so as to not-so-gently encourage the disruptive penitent to conform.

It was a penance no one would ever assign a Revered Mother, something everyone would assume was far beneath her. Some in the Chantry would assert that it diminished the dignity of a Chantry official to perform such a menial service, though others would do such things in an ostentatious attempt to demonstrate their 'humility' to the Maker; this was neither. It had been clear the Mother had not intended to have an audience, was not doing it at the behest of a superior or to flaunt her devotion, but instead as an act of selfless service, a private penitence, a balm to her own faith. And it had touched something in Leliana, in a way no perfectly sung Chant or golden shimmering Cathedral ever had – this was personal, and genuine, an honest expression of belief and dedication, not a display for the benefit of others.

Drawn forward inexorably, Leliana had stepped into the small chapel. The only response from her mentor had been a brief pause before she had returned to lovingly washing the statue's feet. Afraid to speak and break the spell that had weaved itself around the little sanctuary, clear-headed for the first time in months, mind entirely devoid of the noisy tumble of emotions she hadn't been able to escape as easily as she had escaped the dungeon, she had stayed silent, quietly divesting herself of her robes before kneeling beside the older priestess reverently. Dorothea had nodded at her without a word, before returning to her work.

Reaching down, Leliana had picked up a spare cloth and begun the ritual cleansing, something she'd done countless times since coming to the Chantry but had never really connected with. She'd shivered as she recited the prayers in her mind, not out loud, not using her well-trained voice to try and impress, but instead truly feeling the meaning and the purpose those words gave her. When she was done, when she felt pure for the first time she could remember since her childhood, she had wrung out another cloth, shuffled around the side of the statue Dorothea was painstakingly cleaning, and begun washing the statue's marble knees. The two women had worked together all night, in the flickering candlelight, never speaking, occasionally weeping silently but never stopping, moving around each other effortlessly until they were both satisfied it was done.

Leliana sighed as she considered the memory fondly. That had been the day that had started her on her current path. She'd stumbled, exhausted, into her bed, but when she'd awoken she'd felt content – not impatient for the next assignment, not desperate for something or someone to fill the void within her, but quietly satisfied, confident, certain of her direction and her faith. She'd gone to Dorothea that day and requested to be transferred – somewhere quiet, remote, where she could be of service to the Maker's children, but also contemplate and pray in peace. It had taken very little time before she'd found herself in Lothering – and the rest was history. The Maker had seen to it that she'd been where she was needed, that she was given the time to develop the mental fortitude to walk this path – and then placed on a collision course with someone who would need her and her specific background.

She watched Nathaniel silently for a little longer as he vented his emotions on the defenceless dummy; he didn't seem the type to take solace in the Maker or the Chantry – and indeed Leliana had seen some things over the course of the Blight that had opened her eyes to just how far the Chantry had strayed from Andraste's teachings – but the initial step was going to be the same for Nathaniel's recovery as it had been for her own: clarity. Quiet. Focus. The bard gazed at the musculature visible in the shoulders of the raven-haired noble, and rubbed the callouses on her own fingers that matched those she could see on Nathaniel's.

The man was obviously an archer – a skilled one, from what she'd seen.

Leliana knew archers. She'd trained with them, lived with them, pretended to be one of them. Become one of them. She knew how they thought – and she knew how they achieved clarity.

She reflected once again on the night she'd found the Maker in a small chapel. In retrospect, when she'd had time to consider it, the fact that it had been a set-up was obvious. There'd been four cloths available, not the two Dorothea would have needed for herself. The room had been warm, and too well-lit – and the mission had been a waste of Leliana's talents, so her frustrated night-time prowling was quite predictable. Dorothea was a not-inexperienced bard in her own right, and she'd known how to draw Leliana in, had guessed what she'd needed to see. She had obviously been aware of Leliana watching long before she'd gotten the courage to enter the room. Dorothea – who'd always told Leliana that she had to heal herself, not that Leliana had listened – had skillfully manipulated Leliana through the initial steps with Leliana none-the-wiser – and the redhead couldn't have been more grateful if it had been Andraste herself doing the guiding. Just because you have to heal yourself doesn't mean others can't help you along when you need it.

She smiled. She withdrew silently, turning to the range and choosing a practice bow. She rattled the arrows just a little too enthusiastically, cleared her throat a little too loudly, drew back her aim and sent an arrow purposefully flying off behind the target, cursing under her breath a little too vehemently. She took a breath and drew the bow again, suppressing her smirk when she heard the footsteps behind her. She released the arrow a little too soon, and it rebounded off the stand of the target to land on the ground.

She nodded silently as the damaged man stepped up beside her, his own bow in hand. He nocked an arrow and drew, and she synchronized her breathing to his, just loudly enough that he could hear it. They both released, and then drew again, not having to think about the rhythm of it, falling effortlessly into the pattern: inhale; draw; exhale; release; nock. Again and again they fired, neither bothering to even check their results on the target, and he started synchronizing his breath to hers even when she slowed the pace.

She had learned the lesson well: sometimes people needed help to find their way back.

She smiled at him softly and turned back to her target, taking aim again.

Five: Nathaniel

Nathaniel woke slowly, his mind foggy, his head aching and his stomach roiling. Really, he thought it should be much worse – he'd started drinking early, and while he didn't remember how much he'd had to drink, his actions the previous evening indicated that he should have stopped much sooner than he had. Given that he'd apparently drunk until enraged, then pathetic and sloppy, and then blacked out, he was surprised he wasn't feeling more ill – he would have expected to spend the day with his head in a chamber pot.