I'm not hiding any more.

It was always quiet in Lothering, of course, backwater as it was. Elliot just felt particularly aware of it at present.

Will I feel it when he dies? the boy wondered dully. They said spirits went through the Fade to be with the Maker when they died, and Elliot had long since begun to realize that his connection with the Fade was of a different sort than…maybe anyone’s. That he could feel everything pressing twice as close around him…

Will I feel it when Father dies?

He’d find out, soon enough. Malcolm was dying by inches, the slow steady progression of the taint. Stray darkspawn sometimes drifted through the village; it was said they had some sort of nest in the area, near Ostagar. One of these had found Malcolm before the town militia could drive it off. Hampered by the inability to cast magic without drawing attention to himself…he’d grown careless and the blood had touched him.

Mother said he might still get better, of course, but that was just because Mother didn’t want to see the truth of it. Elliot and Bethany and Carver all knew better. They’d heard the stories. Either he’d die or he’d turn into one of those…things. Dying was better.

He sat outside on the steps of the house, his arms on his knees and his head on his arms. He ought to go in and try to talk to Father…again…but it never did any good. They always ended up angry. Better to let someone else say better goodbyes.

Footsteps behind him jarred him from his thoughts but he didn’t look up. “Go ‘way,” he muttered.

She’d done the same for him today, sitting on the edge of his mattress and trying desperately to draw a smile out of him. It had worked for Father, but only just. For Bethany, it was a painful realization rather than a happy memory: he hadn’t been able to cast in days. They were closer to the end than anyone wanted to think.

He’d cupped her cheek when the shades went down over her eyes, there, and pulled her into a hug with the strength he had left. “Daffodil? Listen to me. I’ve always loved you just as you are, and I’m proud...so proud of who you’ve become.”

For a few moments, there, she’d cried against him. Then Mother’s hand was on her back, urging her up: “Be a dear and send Carver in.” She’d kissed Father, told him she loved him, and gone to do as asked.

The house felt stifling now, as if it were pushing her out. Though she hadn’t meant to go far, Elliot’s voice brought her to a stop even before the steps, and it took the space of a few breaths for her legs to start working again.

“I need some air,” was all she said, barely a murmur, and took a seat next to him. Distantly, she was sure she looked a mess, but what did it matter? Elliot certainly wasn’t going to comment.

“She’s an Amell, you know,” Alistair says with a soft smile as he pokes at the fire with one of the logs. “The Hero of Ferelden, I mean. I don’t know if that story made it all the way out here. She used to talk about trying to find her family. I didn’t make the connection at first, until you mentioned your uncle Gamlen in Lowtown.”

It’s been so easy, getting to know her. Bethany isn’t like anyone he’s ever met before, and while he wants so desperately to ease the pain he can see she’s holding onto but won’t share with him yet, he’s at least able to make her smile. And what a smile it is. He’s spent more time grinning than is usual, even for him, and the other Wardens haven’t had any qualms about teasing him for it when Bethany’s not paying attention. At least, he hopes she hasn’t been paying attention. Maker, I wish I knew whether it was all right to tell you.

There are things that help, of course, even if nothing takes it away. Fighting helps, but talking is better - it keeps her present without forcing her to dwell on where they are. Talking with Alistair most of all. He’s...well. He makes the unpleasant parts of the life they’re in melt away, not bother her so much. She can’t help hoping it does the same for him.

“I heard the stories, but I never met her,” she admits, raising a hand to play with the flames almost idly. It’s still strange being able to cast spells so freely, not caring who sees - but that part, at least, she can get used to. “Our home was destroyed when we left Lothering. There wouldn’t have been anything for her to find.” All evidence of the decade they spent there, wiped away so quickly - everything but the staff Father left her when he died.

“Do you still write to her? All the stories said she vanished once the Blight was gone. I always wondered...”