#ever4asking

DISCO ELYSIUM // not accepting . @st4ysoft @ever4sking

   "A miracle?..."

Émilie's head nearly snaps when turning towards Tamara, a beginning of a snort forming in the back of her throat; she had expected to hear a joking tone, maybe a glint of mischief in her voice but when light eyes fall on Tamara she sees nothing but genuine warmth. It is disarming in a way that Émilie doesn't expect, it makes all words die in her mouth and her eyes.

The laughter just at the beginning of her throat and the mean edge on her lips feels awfully inadequate. Out of place. Of course. Tamara likely doesn't understand the intricacies of the Southern Circles, and truthfully, Émilie wished that she didn't have to learn them. Émilie wished to have that sort of ignorance also bless her "I don't think any mage would ever be called that in the south, Mara."

A curse, yes. Being a miracle of any kind was only for the fact that she was still alive.

Out of the thirteen that had planned to overthrow the White Spire she was the only one that managed to survive, by sheer luck. Perhaps the Maker had smiled upon her too on that day. From that standpoint perhaps Tamara was correct. In some ways, she was.

   "Maybe Andraste, if you believe the rumours." she picks back up, not noticing how long the silence had truly spread. Her right hand comes to rest on the pommel of the blade to the side of her body. Light eyes move to Tamara to give her a significant look: the rumours that Andraste had been a mage, that had been the reason why she was ultimately betrayed. The reason why she had eventually died - a sacrifice for them all "But I don't think they are real."

Émilie had never cared much to find out. Andraste and the Maker and the Chantry within the Circle were only places that she might slip by and gain a few moments to be alone with her thoughts despite knowing that she would always have eyes on her. She was never able to remain in that room for too long. The floors were scrubbed. The walls were reinforced. The seats replaced as they were needed.

But there was not a single soul that didn't know where the templars felt most at home in the Spire. The most comfortable to show the maker how they made their charges pay.

   "Not to mention, of course, that it is heresy." and with that, Émilie shrugged.

Whatever that meant to a centuries dead woman and all the names etched into books. It didn't mean anything to her, not more than the fact that once she had been able to walk free... Free to walk free since she had been such a young child that she had hardly remembered her life before? That the discussions she overhead and participated in when it came to religion, away from the templars ears, done in small notes and hand signals, made her feel terribly despondent.

As well as stoke an anger she had thought long dead.

  "As much as I would like to be convinced." and she did. Oh she did.

As much as she loved to travel there was no denying that there was a comfort to having a home to return to, a warmth that was missing even in the hottest of campfires. Even in the uncomfortable pit within her stomach, she could feel the bones of a home in the Lighthouse. If she were to focus on it too tightly she'd be able to put muscle to a thin and hungry frame and she'd know it by name. Perhaps not like she had always known it, but she'd know it and love it all the same. And perhaps that was one more reason to keep herself away.

Until the work was done, there would not be a home that would not prompt her to leave nor a home that wouldn't feel colder than the road "I'm afraid I need to stay."

The situation in Val Royeaux was deteriorating quickly and Celene was seemingly allowing her panic to get the better of her, not allowing - still - the elves of the alienage to be armed. Asharen's presence could, perhaps, hopefully, be enough to soothe her, enough to let her see reason.

And if she didn't, then Asharen would find a way that those in the alienage would still be able to protect themselves, if need arose. These were all rumours, the Ferelden crown was not the most reliable of sources but if there was one thing that she could trust Anora for was to see the worst in Celene - and to often be right.

  "It does not mean, however, that you must remain at my side." Asharen smiles softly, covering Tamara's hand and squeezing it gently. She had come to Asharen in one of the moments of her most need, and while she would never turn her away, there were so many that could do with that same relief. People that needed it more than Asharen herself. It was a wonderful place to be, even if it hurt her to admit it "In fact, I think you would be of great aid to Rook."

The elven's woman eyes raise to meet Tamara's and she smiles more openly, releasing her hand. From inside of her robes' pockets, she picks up her prosthetic and starts tying it. Mentally, she is thinking what would be the best roads, with the least amount of resistance. She could cut through the fade but would prefer to not run the risk. They were not terribly far. As far as she knew there was one eluvian at least available in the city, however, she had not been able to find it in the Crossroads and the time to search would be too long.

Finishing tightning the brass material against her flesh, Asharen turns to Tamara, indicating for her to bow her head. She gives the other a soft, light kiss on the temple, moving away almost immediately after, wrapping her worn red shawl over her head and shoulders.

  "And, if I am lucky, I will be back in the Lighthouse before you even miss me."

Émilie cannot stop herself from smiling at Tamara at the words. Pale eyes move from the herbs she was preparing and wrapping in her bedroll. The Inquisitor was just on the other side of the small fire they had going, though it was clear she was not listening. There physical tells, of course, but Émilie could tell too - from beyond the way that her hand absently touched the back of her ear and the furious writing on the notebook, that her mind was quite far from them.

   "I wish I could see the world like you do." her eyes return to Tamara, leaning closer as she works on rolling the bag. The bag was first, the second would be to make sure that they still had enough herbs for the trip. Running the list through her head, she glances towards Tamara whose eyes remain locked on hers. In that moment she truly wonders what it would be of them if she weren't there. The thought makes her shudder; they would likely be fine, but when you knew of a better alternative why would you choose to think about anything else?

It was hard, but being around Asharen and Tamara helped. They made her feel better by just standing around. They were not quiet per se, but it was a sort of lulling that made it easier for her mind to detach. Asharen because she was often thinking of so many things that it just sounded like white noise if she were to focus, never settling in one true thing for longer than a few seconds before sleep finally took her. Tamara because it was often warm.

   "My heart is all but too willing to accept how the rest of the world feels at any given moment." placing the roll to the side, Émilie picks up carefully the sheathe of her sword. Holding it briefly for a moment and allow for a small smile before that too is moved to the side. Opening her herbs bag, she started taking a mental tally on if.

Biting into her lower lips, she pauses, looking up to Tamara. Her face felt off, somehow, the scars often didn't bother but she guessed the constant travel and the lack of proper care was finally coming back to bite her.

   "That is a problem when most of the world really insists on being..." the word forms quickly in her mouth and yet she pauses. 'shit' would not be quite the term she should be saying when in kinder company "Unkind."

She glances briefly to the Inquisitor and then starts digging on her bag again. It was unfair, in a way, and the one reason why she was with the Inquisitor was because Émilie believed her. She wanted to keep believing and she would be there every single step of the way. It didn't mean that it was easy, however, being with the Inquisitor often also meant she got to see the worst that the world had to offer first hand. It also meant getting angry and wanting to put people in their place when she couldn't do it.

Émilie was glad that more leveled heads were leading the path on, suffice to say.

   "I know I can't trust it." she finally continues, closing the bag and placing it next to her belongings. She checks on the small kettle of boiling water. She needed to wait. Breathing out, she feels herself deflate "It is a glutton for its cruelty. It is hard to forget, at times, that there is anything but that."

The pull of the pain received and the pain inflicted. It felt that it was only fair that the same level of pain that she should receive she should feel... relief? Was it relief? Upon returning it to the world. It didn't belong to her to begin with, and (obviously) she did not wish to be the recipient of it. Ever.

   "But I love how you see it," her eyes turn to Tamara and she smiles openly, uncaring at how it twisted the right side of her face, or how uncomfortable it made her. Her hand covers hers over the other's bed roll, squeezing it softly "I think it is beautiful."

   "Don't do this."

It is the fear that pulls first at her, like a finger brushing atop her neck, her attention pulled like someone had pulled her hair to look in that specific direction. The longer they spent in the Crossroads, in the Lighthouse, the longer Émilie believed that spending more time than necessary within the Fade was a bad idea. She could see it though she had heard that humans wouldn't - shouldn't - be able to see the fade the same way as elves.

She had no doubts about that; From the way that Asharen spoke of it, her experiences and the number of hours she spent in and out of the Crossroads made it clear that it didn't react the same way to the Inquisitor as it did to Émilie.

   "What other choice is there?" the other voice rings and Émilie pulls her hand completely off the Eluvian, turning slowly to look upon two figures the blooming of the space around them makes the two figures look like nothing but two outlines, two ghosts of a time before (or after?) this one. She didn't recognise the voices, but it was clear that they two of them had been following her; her and the small group that had accompanied the Inquisitor into the crossroads.

They were following them into the Lighthouse.

   "We could leave, go far away from here."

   "Go where? There is no place that we could go that we would be outside of their influence."

Pressing her hand against her face, she takes a step down, away from the lighthouse's steps. The brightening burnt through her light eyes, closing her eyes, she takes another uncertain step down, closer towards the two figures.

   "We could go beyond, beyond the sea?"

   "No. I am not leaving. I am not going to run anymore. After all they have done to you?! To us?"

That anger, that anger she could feel. It re-vibrated up the stairs, in her chest as if it was hers. That gives her pause, thinking that it was a mistake, a mistake to approach to continue listening. She could hardly see anything, but she could hear them perfectly as if she herself had stood atop these same stairs when this happened. And there was the fear, the fear again clawing up her mouth, in the shaking of the voice, in the shaking of her own mouth "They will not hurt us anymore. Not after we are done."

The dead were loud. Had always been and this Lighthouse... It was a beacon for them too.

   "Come with me," the second voice continued. Attempting to sound reassuring but failing, failing just short of being enough. Her mouth mimics the words for she knows them "Let's finish this together."

She can almost hear it said in her words when the weight on her shoulder squeezes; Turning around, Tamara is the first thing that comes into full focus. Surrounded by bloom, it wraps her figure like a crown. Just beyond her, she can see the Inquisitor's red hair, hear the jingling of the glass charms on her staff.

   "Do you see them?" she asks Tamara, her light eyes squinting as she tries to adapt once more to the light. Looking over her shoulders the figures are gone. There is not even indication of their presence in the dust on the stairs "These... I don't know what they are. Memories? Spirits?" haunts. Scratching her forehead, she closes her eyes tightly, taking a deep breath "I'm sorry, I just... I just got distracted."

   "The depths of what I didn't know just keep going further and further," the Inquisitor stands before one of the many impressive murals within the Lighthouse. One of the few that had been unveiled by one of the statues.

She wondered, momentarily, briefly, what such statues were composed of. Perhaps pieces of the fade, holding onto particularly strong and terrible memories, regrets. And she wondered what it meant that she had found one herself. Without fight, without anything that she should just have found one. The thought lingers, briefly, and then it washes itself off her shoulders.

Asharen does not touch the wall; though that had long since dried; much like her time in the Rotunda, she holds her arms tightly behind her back. But Solas was not there, it was just the two of them. The Inquisitor and Tamara and the silence of the Lighthouse "the more I try to bring light to my questions and fears, bring some closure I just find myself looking into more of that same darkness."

   "How..." can we ever hope to reconcile this?

What hope could they have to patch over these old ancient wounds in a way that could be fair, that it could be enough? She had made the mistake once of believing that she could hold such a light and power in her hands and now she knew very little. The words die in her mouth and she attempts to keep the hope in her tongue, this stubborness that she holds onto because there is so little else that she feels she still holds true within herself.

The more they look into the abyss, the more hurt the abyss spills out and the more hurt she feels. Hurt for the Solas, for what he must have gone through, for the actions that he had followed through - for love, friendship or anything she had seen a glimpse of that ire when the spirit of wisdom had been twisted so many years back. She had not held him back.

And now, looking at these murals, she thinks that she should have. But who is she to dictate such things?

It now made a lot of sense, a lot of smaller things that she had found odd, a lot of strong emotions and opinions where she had felt - at a time - had been more than she had first anticipated. Her thought goes to Cole and the decision he made and Asharen cannot stop herself from thinking, from feeling this deep, awful pit in her stomach: Was this what you were envisioning when you spoke to me about it, when you asked to talk to him? The past happening again?

Asharen takes a step back from the mural, scratching the top of her head before tapping her closed notebook against the soft fabric of her chest. There was so much to think about, so much to consider, and yet all that she wished to do in that moment was walk. She wished to walk, continue walking until her feet couldn't feel anymore. How could things turn out like this?

And what of the titans? How could they ever fix this? Atone for this? For the pain that they had caused? And what did that mean for the dalish and the current day elves that had reaped its benefits? Or had too much time passed already? How can you hold onto hope to fix this when the pieces were laid out in such a manner?

She feared what else they would find. Looking at all the washed out murals she knew that the rest of the group would be happy to sit down and talk and yet she felt sick. Perhaps that too was a flaw, an indicator that she was simply too close but she was unable to dissect this in any other way that didn't make her shake in ire or in sadness.

Mara's hand is warm on her shoulder and with it Asharen gives a small smile as her head tilts downwards, resting her chin against her notebook. Her cold brass hand comes to rest atop it, giving her a soft squeeze before the Inquisitor turns her back on the wall.