#lemet

“He’s coming.” Enansalas glanced up from his work, his old hunting bow resting across his knees as he polished it to a high shine. The bow was a simple but sturdy thing, the draw intended for a young man…but it would do. Archery was both meditative and a necessary skill. He breathed a soft sigh and sent up a quiet prayer to Mythal that it might help ground his wayward daughter.

“Who is coming, Sythaeryn?” He absently ran the cloth back over the curve of one of the bow's limbs. His son stared through him with blind eyes like silver coins, glinting oddly in the diffuse light from the narrow windows.

“The Hahren you don’t like. It’s about Lyca.” Enansalas felt both a chill and ambient sense of annoyance. Of course it was about Lycanae and of course it would be Hahren Mathen. He set the bow aside and rose from the old chair, pulling at the back of his neck and striding across the room to the door.

Mathen staggered back, one fist raised in the air in preparation to knock and a look of shock on his face. The shock was gratifying, common in the city elves with more skittish personalities. A savage Dalish elf living among them was something that was difficult for most of them to wrap their heads around. Better yet, a Dalish elf who anticipated the arrival of unwanted guests. Enansalas folded his arms over his chest and glowered at the short, older elf.

“What do you want, Mathen?” He muttered curtly, glancing around to see if any other disgruntled elves had followed Mathen to his doorstep.

“It’s...it’s your delinquent of a daughter! She climbed the Vhenadahl and now she’s just...sitting in it! It’s unacceptable!” It took Enansalas a moment to puzzle out the familiar wording and when he did, he snorted and went to close the door in the other elf’s face. Mathen braced an arm against the aging wood and grunted. “Enansalas, this is serious-”

“She climbed a tree and this is grounds for concern? For Mythal’s sake, it’s a tree, Mathen-” Enansalas half-heartedly ceded his grip on the door and stood in the threshold instead, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. Mathen let out another blustery scoffing noise at the sacrilege and launched into one of his frequent tirades:

“You Dalish never take anything seriously unless it’s about your precious history! This tree is important to us-”

“Which I’m sure is why you let the drunks piss at it’s base-”

“She’s disturbing the peace of the elven quarter and don’t think I don’t know who she works for! The guild will get us all killed by the shemlen and you Dalish never think about the consequences such actions can have on a community and it’s about time-”

“Mathen.” Enansalas spoke in a low, threatening voice. Mathen’s mouth snapped shut and he took an almost involuntary three steps backwards off the doorstep. It was good to know he could still enjoy, if not respect, than a bit of fear in Mathen’s precious ‘community’. Enansalas pulled the door closed behind him and stepped down off the doorstep to glower at the backpedaling hahren. “Use the phrase ‘you Dalish’ or insult my People one more time and I will call upon Dirthamen and silence you permanently.”

“Maker preserve me, I’m too old for this. Just...just call her down from the tree, Enansalas. Please. You Dal-I mean, your People respect the old ways, belief in the Creator’s. The Vhenadahl is all we have left of that belief. Understand that.” The hahren’s words wakened a guilt inside Enansalas’ heart and he watched the old elf shuffle off defeated. It was so easy to break the will of these elves, too beaten down by the shemlen to even put up much more than a token fight before showing throat. Enansalas let out a deep, long sigh and ran a hand down his face as he stood alone in a shaft of meager sunlight. It had been years and still he missed his own People with a deep, profound longing.

He set out for the Vhenadahl, traversing the winding alleys of Halamshiral’s elven quarter with ease as he made his way towards the tree that towered over some of the tenements in it’s majesty. He never bothered with the Vhenadahl...but it’s presence nearby was comforting. Growing tall and strong amidst all this urban refuse as a symbol of suledin to the elves who lived and died within the walls of the city. Or that was it’s intention, at least. In reality, the only reverence the elves really held in it was to reach out and touch the bark on occasion, leave tokens beside it’s roots. Sometimes they carved things into it’s scarred trunk, red and white ocher slapped over the healing wounds. As he entered its shade, he wondered how Lycanae had even managed to reach the lowest branches. No doubt it had been through some death defying feat of acrobatics to impress her friends...two of whom were now standing at it’s base and craning their necks to see her.

“Come on, lethallan! Come down! The guards-” A young elven man named Lemet was trying to coax her down again, hands cupped over his mouth as he called up into the canopy. His dark hair had been cut in a shorter, more respectable shemlen style since the last time Enansalas had seen him. Enansalas frowned as he approached with silent steps, the look didn’t suit an elf but the shemlen were choosy about who they would trade with. The more an elf acquiesced to look ‘respectable’ the more likely they were to be hired for honest work. Lemet was apprenticed to a cartwright and apparently he’d been doing well for himself...despite the repellent haircut.

“Don’t be silly, Lemet. The shemlen don’t care if some Lapin falls out of a tree-” Enansalas let out a deep sigh...he’d been hoping that maybe Mathen had been full of it but his daughter’s voice was unmistakable: A soft Dalish cadence with her mother’s Orlesian lilt.

“I never said you’d fall...just be careful, lethallan. If your father finds out-” Enansalas stepped up behind Threnn, the russet haired youth leaning against the low stone fence that surrounded the Vhenadahl and wolfing down a chunk of crusty Orlesian bread. Thren was a fairly typical city elf, deeply enamored with the idea of Dalish elves...but a bit intimidated by actual Dalish elves.

“If I find out about what?” Enansalas interrupted smoothly, searching the twisted and verdant branches of the tree for a glimpse of Lycanae. Threnn, for his part, leapt up from the fence like a startled halla and inhaled the mouthful of bread he’d been eating.

“Oh merde!” He choked, staggering sideways into a stricken looking Lemet.

“Merde? Why merde what’s happening down-” Enansalas waved as his daughter came into view, poking her head up and then immediately recoiling. “Oh baise moi-”

“Da’len!” He called sternly, interrupting the stream of Orlesian epithets. “Language!”

“Fenhedis!” She called back down with laughter in her voice. He grinned, patting Lemet’s shoulder apologetically as he walked past.

“Better. What are you doing up there, Da’len?”

“Thinking. What are you doing down there?” Enansalas sighed and pulled at the back of his neck in an exhausted fashion. He glanced back at Lemet and spoke:

“Why is she up there?”

“She...she had a bad day.” Lemet answered noncommittally, looking uncomfortable. “Some of the guild caught her spending her wages on food for some of their couriers-” Enansalas felt a stirring of outrage that the guild had objected to such a charitable action. “-and you know how they use food to motivate the orphans. If they’re not going hungry, why should they work? She had it out with Nicolan in the middle of the marketplace.”

“Nicolan shouted a lot and she just talked but in...that way she has of talking where everything she says is a slight. They went on about the usual things they fight about. Doing more to help the elves and stuff, how the guild’s failing the People...it was making the shems and flat ears kind of nervous so Julianne had to break them up. Still, Guild leaders probably going to threaten to dock her pay.” Threnn added, unable to meet Enansalas’ furious gaze with his own.

“They’ll punish her for feeding orphans? Elvhen’alas lath’din…” He swore bitterly and glanced up at one of the wider boughs where Lycanae was reclining against the trunk of the tree, one leg swinging off the edge of the branch and the other bent and tucked against her chest.

“She said the Dalish would never let children starve for some coin and a pat on the back-” Enansalas waved away anymore explanation, Threnn shutting his mouth and taking a respectful step backwards.

‘The Dalish would’ was such a common phrase in Lycanae’s repertoire that he was surprised this all hadn’t come to a head earlier. How many times had Felicienne counseled him not to encourage ‘Dalish ways’ of thinking with the walls of Halamshiral’s elven quarter? And how many times had he told her their children deserved better than the life of a flat ear? Just because Thelhen had been obsessed with making use of Sythaeryn’s gifts didn’t mean they couldn’t try and find another clan...one far from Orlais. Living like this was supposed to have been temporary but Felicienne had stalled him until Sythaeryn was old enough to travel and they’d needed money and what should have been a two year stay was now creeping up on eight years. Father and daughter had both resented it, but Ly had been keeping up hope that they’d eventually return to their people.

It had always been a feeble dream of his, returning to the clan, one that given any amount of conscious thought did not withstand scrutiny. But to Lycanae it had never seemed an unattainable goal. She remembered clan Virnehn and for months she had wept bitterly at the loss of them, the loss of her Dalish identity. It had been hard to convince an eight year old that there might be danger, that living amongst the clan was not the best thing for her or her brother. Because of my mistakes, because of what I am. Enansalas heaved a deep sigh and cast his gaze to the run down buildings surround the Vhenadahl, trying to determine the route she’d taken to reach the canopy.

“I wouldn’t. She barely made it-” Enansalas ignored Lemet’s warning and took a running jump, catching ahold of a ledge and scaling the wall with ease. He reached the top and turned so he was facing the outermost branch, judging the distance. It would be better with more momentum, taking a leap from the edge was not going to suffice. He twisted and hefted himself onto the roof with a small grunt of effort. How Lycanae was able to do this regularly and not hurt herself was a mystery to him.

He backed up and took the running leap necessary to clear the distance. It was not an elegant maneuver but it paid off nonetheless, his fingers finding purchase in the rough bark and using his momentum to swing up onto the branch. He didn’t bother to look down at the amazed faces of the two young men standing at the base of the Vhenadahl as he stood and walked towards the trunk where Lycanae was sitting, avoiding his gaze and holding a small basket of strawberries in her lap. As he neared, she proffered the basket without saying anything, the sunlight through the leaves casting dappled shadows across her carefully neutral face. He took one and settled himself beside her on the branch with a groan, biting into the firm, sweet fruit.

“So.” He murmured after a moment, savouring the strawberry and glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Lycanae still held one knee bent to her chest, her blue green gaze focused anywhere but on his face.

“So.” She parroted, the linguistic rapport reminding him keenly of Felicienne. Her mother had been training Lycanae how to respond to even light questioning since she was old enough to speak and it showed. He sighed deeply and stole another strawberry, refusing to engage in the game of back and forth without a clear goal. She’d give in...being raised as a city elf had made her impatient. After a few moments of silence Lycanae let out a frustrated sound and glared at the ground far below them.

“You said we’d be back with the Dalish by now-”

“Running away from your problems is no way of solving them, Da’len-”

“Oh, of course not. It certainly doesn’t seem to have solved any of your problems-”

“Lycanae,” He growled, silencing her but not actually humbling her. She was right and she knew she was right and it hurt him. He took a large bite of strawberry and chewed and swallowed without really tasting it. She watched him and the resentment behind her seemingly untouchably regal glower was palpable. “We can’t go back.”

“Not to Virnehn, maybe. We could find a new Clan-” Enansalas shook his head at the unconquerable hope in her voice...a voice that had all but lost the Dalish accent of her childhood in favour of the Orlesian overtones of her adolescence.

“You have no idea how hard that would be, Lycanae. How they would treat you-”

“Anything is better than being here! Don’t you see!? We’re dying here...this place will kill us! Every day your breathing get worse! Mamae was almost beaten to death by the Valmont’s guards because another elf accused her of stealing-”

“Lycanae, don’t shout-”

“I’m not-!” She let out a deep, angry breath through her nose and passed him the whole basket of strawberries. She took a moment to breathe and when she straightened, the bardic veneer of calm was back in place. “I’m not shouting. We don’t belong here and you know it. Why have we stayed? Just tell me.”

“I can’t go back. The Dalish probably would not have me even if I did-”

“You were important-”

“I was important, Lycanae. Was. It is different now...my vallaslin would afford me acceptance but you, your brother, your mother-” At the mention of Felicienne, Lycanae’s fists balled up on her knees. “-would suffer distrust and countless trials to prove your worth.”

“I’m your daughter. I’m the daughter of a scion, I am the best with a bow, a master of shem’shiral-”

“Which is useless in the woods, Lycanae-” She was the best with a bow here, where there were relatively clear shots and no twigs to snag underfoot. How to tell her that the culture she felt closest to would reject her, perhaps even openly mock her? Lycanae looked at him and there was a desperate pleading in her gaze.

“You think that I don’t know how hard it will be. I do know. I don’t care. I don’t want to work for some shemlen noble for the rest of my life-”

“Well yes, your propensity for larceny has made that quite clear-”

“Don’t do that, you sound like Mathen and you know it. We don’t belong here, father. Please. Just consider-”

“We’re staying here-”

“It’s not safe. For you, for Sythaeryn! The templars-”

“Have not found us yet, nor do they seem particularly inclined to bother scouring the quarter for us. I am sorry your day was difficult, da’len, but that is not a reason to go running into the woods at the first opportunity in search of Virnehn-”

“I know about the letters.” She laid out her trump card with a flat eyed glare of challenge and Enansalas felt the soothing words die in his throat. “Keeper Thelhen is begging for us to come back.”

“Thelhen is desperate for mages to help him with...listen, Lycanae, it doesn’t matter. Thelhen wanted things that could get the whole clan killed, things that would endanger Sythaeryn. Is that what you want?” As he spoke, Lycanae leapt to her feet and stalked across the branch. Her feet were bare in the Dalish style and bloody for it, bruised purple in some places. It was an unsafe practice to neglect to wear shoes within the bounds of a human city and she was defying good sense by doing so.

“I want to be Dalish. I want to be free. I can protect Sythaeryn. I can protect you-” Even if she spoke the words with all the confidence of conviction, the desperation behind them squeezed his heart like a vice.

“I know you were eight, Lycanae, but you do remember how they treated your mother-”

“She can stay here, then! I don’t want to be here anymore I want to-” Lycanae raised her voice, the Orlesian accent she always tried to downplay thickening in her distress, her fists balled at her sides. Incensed, Enansalas threw aside the basket of strawberries and jumped to his feet, looming over her.

“WE ARE NEVER GOING BACK!” The words ripped from his throat as he bellowed them at her, watching her ears go flush against her head and her face pale. “You are a flat eared criminal and they wouldn’t want you! They don’t care about the elves here! Thelhen doesn’t care about anything but the glory of his clan! We are not going back to the Dalish and if you tried they would kill you...or else use you to bring your brother and I back. We are not going back, we are not leaving. That’s final!”

Now that he’d calmed enough for rational thought, the words he’d so hastily uttered hit him like hammer blows. Lycanae no longer looked so much like her mother, the fierce defiance that had made her glare at him had been replaced with something like surprise. She seemed smaller somehow, her shoulders slumped, her gaze downcast. The fury went out of him as quickly as it had come.

“Da’len, I didn’t mean-”

“You tell them all stories about how great the elves used to be. Lemet, Thren...everyone who comes into the tavern. You encourage them. Why do that if there’s nothing for us but this? This, for the rest of our lives.” The words were like a kick to the stomach and Enansalas took a step towards her.

“Lycanae-”

“Just...don’t.” She turned away from him and took a running leap, landing in a roll on the adjoining rooftop before he could even so much as tell her to wait, to let him apologise. He glanced down and found himself looking into Thren and Lemet’s upturned, hopeful faces. “Encouraging Dalish ways of thinking is what gets city elves killed. ‘We are the last of the elvhen, never again shall we submit.’ How much do you think that phrase will mean when a parent holds a dead child in their arms, a lover a murdered partner? You’re hurting them, Enansalas.” Felicienne’s voice rang in his head, clear as a bell and he ran a hand down his face.

“Oh, fenhedis.” He leaned heavily against the trunk of the Vhenadahl...all these city elves had left to worship of their own culture. ‘It’s just a tree’ now seemed exactly as sacrilegious as it should have sounded when he’d first uttered it.

She hadn’t climbed up here because it was ‘just a tree’. She’d climbed up here to feel closer to what she was, to what she believed the elves to be. What he’d always told her they were. His own fear had blinded and deafened him to his daughter’s belief, to the prayers she’d whisper to the Creators when she thought no one was there to hear. His entire body felt heavy with weariness and he felt his breath catch in his lungs as he sighed.