That ripple of something, a siphoning quality hooking into the edges of the spell. Making her push harder, exert more energy to wreathe Marcus in a barrier.
It is not immediately clear to her whether something is wrong, when Marcus' spellwork drops. The runes burn still, even when the demon is a twitching, oozing corpse on the grass. The ichor of its blood is scorching the earth, staining everything it touches black.
And it is quiet, apart from the slap of footsteps as Derrica hastens down to him.
"Let me see," she is saying already, slightly breathless even with sparks and lightening leaping between the locks of her hair, along the curve of her neck. "Are you alright?"
After an irritated movement that dislodges blade from a demon corpse beginning to sink into the earth as unstable sludge, Marcus roams in the opposite direction, a restless pacing motion designed to rid himself of his own adrenaline. Grass hissing against armor, folding underfoot. A sort of plodding out of the sharp sensation of an injury opened between overlapped metal and leather.
But he hears Derrica's advance, her voice, gusting out a breath and turning, moving to meet here some of the way. His expression is tense but far from agonised, rolling his struck shoulder as he stops for her.
"Aye," Marcus says, although it's more a sound than a word, panted out of him. Lifts a hand to reach for her, fingers twitching on nerve-instinct at the mild snap and bite of electricity, a thing he pushes through to curl fingers around her arm. "I'm alright."
"Let me see," she repeats, insistent. The electricity sparking around her quiets by degrees, soothed by the wrap of his fingers but not dispelled entirely. "Did it draw blood?"
A bruise would be preferable. Easier smoothed away with a pass of her palm, if he would allow it. But the kind of gouge claws leave behind worries her. The ichor eating away the earth alongside them worries her, in combination with that possibility.
But Marcus lets his staff drop beside him, a lazy kind of toss aside, runes slowly dimming and then diminishing entirely once the weapon leaves his hand. There, unbuckling some complicated attachment of the leather that protects his shoulders, letting this flip backwards to reveal the dark blue linen of his shirt beneath.
There, a tearing of fabric with a hint of blood, and pale skin beneath. Marcus helps with his other hand in tugging cloth aside for her inspection, where the impact of the strike doesn't show up the black and blue it will be tomorrow, but does show a thin pink line where a laceration has already been halfway healed.
"I can heal what's left of it," she tells him, fingers coming to rest at the battle-warmed surface of leathers beneath the opening. "You don't need to carry it back with you."
Looking up to him, eyes moving over his face. Finding traces of exertion, perhaps deeming whatever she finds there acceptable. Mendable.
"Do you think that's the only one?"
They had only been made aware of the one roaming demon, but that doesn't mean there's no possibility of others.
Marcus nods his permission for this first thing as he gets his breath back. There is a prickled quality to his flesh of a hasty and imprecise healing, just enough to stave off acidic or poisonous intrusions, just enough to knit skin closed. Something in that tug of magical energy Derrica had felt pull at her Barrier, in the blinking out of Marcus' magic.
A trade, of kinds. A constant checking and balancing of magical ability, protection, physical ability, more entropic than the healing she recognises.
"It's not usual," Marcus says, as she administers to him. "But may it was the worst of them, if any others've gone unnoticed."
He returns his hand to her arm, resting there, feeling the last of prickling energy of her magic cooling back down, replaced with something else.
The warmth of his hand coupled with the assurance as to his well being is enough, for the moment. They're in the open, and they aren't entirely certain the job is complete.
She can look him over properly when they've finished, and made their way back to whatever hayloft or attic room or, if they are unlucky, tent serving as their lodging for the evening. Her fingers smooth over now-unblemished skin, before she gives a nod.
"Yes, we should."
Here, she brushes his fingers aside so that she might secure the leather plate herself.
"This one left tracks, it shouldn't difficult to trace back."
The odds of finding something gruesome left behind, high. But they might deal with that too, if they have the opportunity.
He lets her, hand hovering initially as if to locate a job for it to do, but eventually resting against his breastplate as she ably navigates the buckles involved in securing the more flexible leather. Chin tucked down, watching her hands work, just for the sake of it. The slight itch of healing, and whatever other quality of response that occurs at the feeling of Derrica's fingers on his skin.
Nods to her. Picks up his staff out from the grass, once she's done.
They have their horses not too far away, who are making much of the springtime bounty of Free March greenery, unbothered by the distant sounds of demon screams and flung magic, save for maybe some ear swivels in that direction to determine those sounds would stay distant.
Likely, before they'd found each other, Marcus and Derrica would be walking at an amiable six feet apart. Here, without really intending it, Marcus stays near, as if by gravitational pull, keeping them well within arms reach. He doesn't have to speak up too loudly, then, to say, "I think I'll make it out of my time with Riftwatch with less scars I might have had otherwise."
No credit to his insistence on melee combat, is what his glance to her suggests.
Of course, she is familiar with the jagged scar across his face. It has occurred to her that if he carries that wound, there will be others to accompany it. Perhaps less visible, obscured from daily view, but inevitable that they exist.
"We might find you plate to wear," is a little joke. Plate doesn't lend itself to the way Marcus moves, even if the protection it affords may deflect the injuries he attracts in return.
He is so close that it is very convenient to lay a hand on his forearm, as if she needs to prompt his attention. There is a little flicker of surprise, however misplaced, at finding herself already so clearly in full possession of it. (A marker of how things have shifted: the nearness of him, the specificity of his attention—)
"We've more healers to our name than most places," she assesses, though in the same breath adds, "And I prefer traveling with you, when we have work to be done."
Yes, they have many capable healers. It is not quite the same as the way she attends his injuries, with a very particular kind of attention.
"Find me plate to wear, and you'll have killed the demon yourself by the time I get to him."
It is probably true that there has been a small yet marked shift in his manner around her, more since that day riding to Ostwick than the party itself. An uncharitable interpretation might be that his attention is only motivated by the promise of what else they might share, but the truth of it is simply finding welcome, and less inclination towards the distance necessary between even good friends who are colleagues.
Marginally quicker to begin conversation, rather than waiting to receive it. Here, this nearness, knowing she would welcome it, or breach the gap with her hand on his arm. His arm folds to accommodate it, as though they were walking the halls of the Gallows rather than windswept, demon-infested field.
Well. Perhaps not the halls of the Gallows, not yet. He knows he would like to.
"The other healers we have don't wear your concern half as well."
Knowing that perhaps her concern is more frustration than comfort to those she directs it towards.
Hooking her hand securely into the bend of his elbow, they proceed forward more closely knit together.
"Did you teach yourself to fight this way?" shifts them slightly from the easy, teasing lilt of their conversation thus far. She hasn't asked. But she knows his reputation, has seen him fight. Has felt it when all that strength has been directed towards her, and how insurmountable it felt to survive it.
Who had taught him to use his ability that way? Was it so different in the south, when Derrica had grown up in Dairsmuid with the barest capabilities for combat?
She asks her question, and first he nods, before reflecting.
"By necessity. Anyone without magic, fighting mages, knows to move in close. We needed some of us willing to stand between them and those who couldn't fight that way, and my Circle produced no Knight-Enchanters. I don't know that I taught myself anything beyond trusting that the mages behind me would protect me, and staying on my feet."
But it's different, now, he knows. Rushing in, doing more than acting as a shield. It's why Marcus presses on, and adds, "I learned more from friends I'd made, after. Apostates. And the spellwork is new."
This, she feels in her chest. A sharp thing, almost a knife of feeling in reaction to what he describes.
It is not a surprise, really. Only the details of it, not the outcome. Of course he did this. Of course he made himself into a shield.
Her fingers tighten around his elbow.
"You're very brave," she murmurs, more noting it herself than telling him what he must already know. Was he ever frightened, or did it come easy to him? "I wanted to do that, when I was very young. But the Enchanters never thought a healer should be that close to anything that might keep them from their duty."
And it had always been very clear to her what her duty was, even before the Annulment, when a battle was a far off fantasy, improbable and unlikely.
Maybe he senses something in her murmur, his other hand coming to lay over hers as they walk together. Does not dispute this assessment of his bravery—because he supposes that's so—but does set about thinking of what a more truthful framing of this information might be.
He isn't quick to get there, listening instead. "There's wisdom to that," he offers, mildly. "But there's a wisdom to knowing how to defend yourself, if you must."
It's not as though Marcus has forgotten the things she's been through, and so if his comment grazes against those recollections, it's only because there is only so much two mages speaking can do to step around the realities of their own history.
So he adds, "It might have been brave, but it was also satisfying. Standing in place, you know. There were plenty of times prior to that when swinging my staff at someone could only be a fond fantasy."
A tightening, there and gone in the span of a breath, in her face.
Yes, it would have been better if she'd been more adept at defending. Not just herself, but the others. Maybe she would not have been alone in her escape if she had been more skilled.
She has thought this before. Felt some quiet, guilty bitterness for it, and long since let it go.
All her teachers, they had taught her as best as they knew how. Who could have foreseen what had come to them?
"It doesn't diminish it," she tells him. "I understand some of what it must have been like, to be able to push back."
The southern Circles were cruel. She has had all the ways of their cruelty explained to her, demonstrated time and again when they speak together and she sees all the ways her life was different from theirs.
is the kind of agreement that comes with recognising a close call. There was a wave of newly-freed southern mages who were immediately drunk on new found power, and Marcus cannot say he didn't sympathise. Didn't feel its potential edge, the way so much anger suddenly given outlet could twist around. His thumb smooths over her knuckles.
Feeling her tension, in some small way, the distant shapes of things unsaid. He knows her well enough (and understands it well enough) to guess at their dimensions, a little.
"Better we never needed to learn," he offers, after some steps. "But you're good at it. Quick, strong. Did you come by your lightning, at Dairsmuid?"
She has spoken of this on the crystals, the experience softened down to soothe rather than convey the whole of the experience. It would frighten people, she knows, if she gave voice to what it felt like in truth to wrench lightening down from the sky. Bending an element to her will, and sending it onward to strike down those who would do her and her people harm.
"I was very small," she tells him. "I would make sparks dance on my hands, they said. I almost remember it."
But it's the kind of memory that is cobbled together from retellings, she thinks. It is only partly hers.
"I had to wrestle with it, as I grew. It didn't come as easily as the rest."
Whether Marcus likes it or not, he's sure, is far from the point. And what that means, to like it, to know some adrenalised thrill at the sound of it, crackling energy and bright white flash, the sort of primal danger that should make the animal in him, as it should in anyone, flinch back, but knowing so well he needn't—well, he wouldn't know where to begin in articulating it, strolling with her.
So, I like it will have to do, near-muttered and a little self-deprecating for how unhelpful a comment it is. It is a complicated thing, wielding the kinds of magic that have justified their histories. And present. Perhaps future.
"I had some difficulties when I was young, as well. I don't know that I properly mastered anything until I was grown."
Digging up memories from the days prior to the Circle feels, likewise, a little like piecing together a story he was more told and otherwise only half-remembered.
"I produced some cinders in a fight with a sibling, I'm told, but to the best of my knowledge, no one was hurt. It wasn't long after that that I was brought to the Circle, which I didn't take to very well. It was a place that demanded obedience, full of other children I had no desire to be friends with, and I had a growing instinct for magic that outstripped my skill in controlling how I felt."
This is all said plainly. He has, before, been frustrated with mages who speak of their experiences of Circles in vaguer terms, like I was a poor student, as though it were all so normal. She is curious, and he doesn't mind sketching that picture to some small extent.
Not for the first time, she wishes he had grown up in Rivain.
But it is a hard thing to wish for truly, properly. Because what would have become of him had he been raised in Rivain? Would he have been at the tower? Would he have been cut down like so many others?
"Did you love it?"
Drawing him to a halt, so she can look up into his face. Dulcinea huffs, dancing a finnicky little side-step but coming obliging to a stop before the reins pull taut.
She stops him, and asks him so earnestly. Marcus feels no compulsion to lie, but can imagine doing so. Yes, he loves his magic, and always has.
Instead, he says, "We weren't taught to," even, quiet. "It was in equal measures a thing to be afraid of, like a sickness, or a responsibility we never asked for, that we weren't permitted to indulge." His hand comes up, settles fingers gentle at her neck, a tender touch as if to say that he is well, how long ago it all was. "But I think I made allies with it despite everything, even if I couldn't make it my friend."
It never felt like the enemy, magic, no more than unbridled rage could be beaten back. Tamed, over time, honed, and his.
That pang in his chest makes the warmth of fingers at her neck into something incongruous. Even while they speak of something so weighted, she feels the way heat prickles on her skin in response to this soft, reassuring touch.
"I loved it, as long as I can remember."
What was there to fear? No one had ever taught her to flinch from what she could do, even when her emotions outstripped her self-control. (She had been an even-tempered child, not given to temper. That had helped.) She had grown into it. She had always cherished the way magic felt, cracking sparks in the palm of her hand.
"I'm sorry it wasn't that way for you."
Yes, he is well. She understands that he is not grieving. But she wishes—
Well, it is a wish she has for all the mages she knows. He is no exception.
It can't be grief all the time, paralysing force as it is. In another world, he'd sat on the banks of a river and tried to explain it to a rifter, which is a unique absurdity, but it felt important to explain why he'd been weeping at the time, and isn't certain he'd truly honed in on it, too quick to reach for anger. It isn't all the time for the injustices done, but for the absence of what could have been theirs. What a revelation it had been, to meet Derrica.
And it hurts, sometimes, to hear of Derrica's experience, and hurts, always, to remember how it had been stolen from her too. She should have grown more into it. She's still so young, in the scheme of things, and nearly a child still when it was all destroyed. A happy childhood doesn't mean that grave injustice wasn't done to her too.
But she always loved her magic. That, the Chantry couldn't take.
The hand at her throat sweeps a gentle touch of the pad of his thumb against her jaw and cheek for her apology, accepting it.
"I became better with it, later," he says, "in part because I realised so many of those other children I'd hated felt as I did. Children that would become men and women in a rebellion, but it was enough at the time to have them as brothers and sisters."
He goes to take her hand, to pull her back into walking with him.
"I'd have wanted something different for us all, but we didn't have nothing."
They are alone, moving through the hilly stretch of land here. There is no one to see the way he takes her hand. It is for her, and the moment of uncertainty is only out of long-held habit.
The points of time in which she has entertained someone simply keeping hold of her hand on a long walk are few and far between. It takes her a moment to link her fingers through his, as they wind their way back the way they came.
"Do you love it now? Or is it still something like what you are describing?"
An uncertainty.
Power that flows through them, infuses them, comes forth into the shapes they will it to manifest their hopes as much as their fears.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It is not immediately clear to her whether something is wrong, when Marcus' spellwork drops. The runes burn still, even when the demon is a twitching, oozing corpse on the grass. The ichor of its blood is scorching the earth, staining everything it touches black.
And it is quiet, apart from the slap of footsteps as Derrica hastens down to him.
"Let me see," she is saying already, slightly breathless even with sparks and lightening leaping between the locks of her hair, along the curve of her neck. "Are you alright?"
no subject
But he hears Derrica's advance, her voice, gusting out a breath and turning, moving to meet here some of the way. His expression is tense but far from agonised, rolling his struck shoulder as he stops for her.
"Aye," Marcus says, although it's more a sound than a word, panted out of him. Lifts a hand to reach for her, fingers twitching on nerve-instinct at the mild snap and bite of electricity, a thing he pushes through to curl fingers around her arm. "I'm alright."
no subject
A bruise would be preferable. Easier smoothed away with a pass of her palm, if he would allow it. But the kind of gouge claws leave behind worries her. The ichor eating away the earth alongside them worries her, in combination with that possibility.
no subject
But Marcus lets his staff drop beside him, a lazy kind of toss aside, runes slowly dimming and then diminishing entirely once the weapon leaves his hand. There, unbuckling some complicated attachment of the leather that protects his shoulders, letting this flip backwards to reveal the dark blue linen of his shirt beneath.
There, a tearing of fabric with a hint of blood, and pale skin beneath. Marcus helps with his other hand in tugging cloth aside for her inspection, where the impact of the strike doesn't show up the black and blue it will be tomorrow, but does show a thin pink line where a laceration has already been halfway healed.
"Should be alright?" he asks. Unable to see.
no subject
Looking up to him, eyes moving over his face. Finding traces of exertion, perhaps deeming whatever she finds there acceptable. Mendable.
"Do you think that's the only one?"
They had only been made aware of the one roaming demon, but that doesn't mean there's no possibility of others.
no subject
A trade, of kinds. A constant checking and balancing of magical ability, protection, physical ability, more entropic than the healing she recognises.
"It's not usual," Marcus says, as she administers to him. "But may it was the worst of them, if any others've gone unnoticed."
He returns his hand to her arm, resting there, feeling the last of prickling energy of her magic cooling back down, replaced with something else.
"We should do a ride around anyway, to be sure."
no subject
She can look him over properly when they've finished, and made their way back to whatever hayloft or attic room or, if they are unlucky, tent serving as their lodging for the evening. Her fingers smooth over now-unblemished skin, before she gives a nod.
"Yes, we should."
Here, she brushes his fingers aside so that she might secure the leather plate herself.
"This one left tracks, it shouldn't difficult to trace back."
The odds of finding something gruesome left behind, high. But they might deal with that too, if they have the opportunity.
no subject
Nods to her. Picks up his staff out from the grass, once she's done.
They have their horses not too far away, who are making much of the springtime bounty of Free March greenery, unbothered by the distant sounds of demon screams and flung magic, save for maybe some ear swivels in that direction to determine those sounds would stay distant.
Likely, before they'd found each other, Marcus and Derrica would be walking at an amiable six feet apart. Here, without really intending it, Marcus stays near, as if by gravitational pull, keeping them well within arms reach. He doesn't have to speak up too loudly, then, to say, "I think I'll make it out of my time with Riftwatch with less scars I might have had otherwise."
No credit to his insistence on melee combat, is what his glance to her suggests.
no subject
"We might find you plate to wear," is a little joke. Plate doesn't lend itself to the way Marcus moves, even if the protection it affords may deflect the injuries he attracts in return.
He is so close that it is very convenient to lay a hand on his forearm, as if she needs to prompt his attention. There is a little flicker of surprise, however misplaced, at finding herself already so clearly in full possession of it. (A marker of how things have shifted: the nearness of him, the specificity of his attention—)
"We've more healers to our name than most places," she assesses, though in the same breath adds, "And I prefer traveling with you, when we have work to be done."
Yes, they have many capable healers. It is not quite the same as the way she attends his injuries, with a very particular kind of attention.
no subject
It is probably true that there has been a small yet marked shift in his manner around her, more since that day riding to Ostwick than the party itself. An uncharitable interpretation might be that his attention is only motivated by the promise of what else they might share, but the truth of it is simply finding welcome, and less inclination towards the distance necessary between even good friends who are colleagues.
Marginally quicker to begin conversation, rather than waiting to receive it. Here, this nearness, knowing she would welcome it, or breach the gap with her hand on his arm. His arm folds to accommodate it, as though they were walking the halls of the Gallows rather than windswept, demon-infested field.
Well. Perhaps not the halls of the Gallows, not yet. He knows he would like to.
"The other healers we have don't wear your concern half as well."
no subject
Knowing that perhaps her concern is more frustration than comfort to those she directs it towards.
Hooking her hand securely into the bend of his elbow, they proceed forward more closely knit together.
"Did you teach yourself to fight this way?" shifts them slightly from the easy, teasing lilt of their conversation thus far. She hasn't asked. But she knows his reputation, has seen him fight. Has felt it when all that strength has been directed towards her, and how insurmountable it felt to survive it.
Who had taught him to use his ability that way? Was it so different in the south, when Derrica had grown up in Dairsmuid with the barest capabilities for combat?
no subject
"By necessity. Anyone without magic, fighting mages, knows to move in close. We needed some of us willing to stand between them and those who couldn't fight that way, and my Circle produced no Knight-Enchanters. I don't know that I taught myself anything beyond trusting that the mages behind me would protect me, and staying on my feet."
But it's different, now, he knows. Rushing in, doing more than acting as a shield. It's why Marcus presses on, and adds, "I learned more from friends I'd made, after. Apostates. And the spellwork is new."
no subject
It is not a surprise, really. Only the details of it, not the outcome. Of course he did this. Of course he made himself into a shield.
Her fingers tighten around his elbow.
"You're very brave," she murmurs, more noting it herself than telling him what he must already know. Was he ever frightened, or did it come easy to him? "I wanted to do that, when I was very young. But the Enchanters never thought a healer should be that close to anything that might keep them from their duty."
And it had always been very clear to her what her duty was, even before the Annulment, when a battle was a far off fantasy, improbable and unlikely.
no subject
He isn't quick to get there, listening instead. "There's wisdom to that," he offers, mildly. "But there's a wisdom to knowing how to defend yourself, if you must."
It's not as though Marcus has forgotten the things she's been through, and so if his comment grazes against those recollections, it's only because there is only so much two mages speaking can do to step around the realities of their own history.
So he adds, "It might have been brave, but it was also satisfying. Standing in place, you know. There were plenty of times prior to that when swinging my staff at someone could only be a fond fantasy."
no subject
Yes, it would have been better if she'd been more adept at defending. Not just herself, but the others. Maybe she would not have been alone in her escape if she had been more skilled.
She has thought this before. Felt some quiet, guilty bitterness for it, and long since let it go.
All her teachers, they had taught her as best as they knew how. Who could have foreseen what had come to them?
"It doesn't diminish it," she tells him. "I understand some of what it must have been like, to be able to push back."
The southern Circles were cruel. She has had all the ways of their cruelty explained to her, demonstrated time and again when they speak together and she sees all the ways her life was different from theirs.
"And you didn't lose yourself in doing so."
no subject
is the kind of agreement that comes with recognising a close call. There was a wave of newly-freed southern mages who were immediately drunk on new found power, and Marcus cannot say he didn't sympathise. Didn't feel its potential edge, the way so much anger suddenly given outlet could twist around. His thumb smooths over her knuckles.
Feeling her tension, in some small way, the distant shapes of things unsaid. He knows her well enough (and understands it well enough) to guess at their dimensions, a little.
"Better we never needed to learn," he offers, after some steps. "But you're good at it. Quick, strong. Did you come by your lightning, at Dairsmuid?"
no subject
She has spoken of this on the crystals, the experience softened down to soothe rather than convey the whole of the experience. It would frighten people, she knows, if she gave voice to what it felt like in truth to wrench lightening down from the sky. Bending an element to her will, and sending it onward to strike down those who would do her and her people harm.
"I was very small," she tells him. "I would make sparks dance on my hands, they said. I almost remember it."
But it's the kind of memory that is cobbled together from retellings, she thinks. It is only partly hers.
"I had to wrestle with it, as I grew. It didn't come as easily as the rest."
no subject
Whether Marcus likes it or not, he's sure, is far from the point. And what that means, to like it, to know some adrenalised thrill at the sound of it, crackling energy and bright white flash, the sort of primal danger that should make the animal in him, as it should in anyone, flinch back, but knowing so well he needn't—well, he wouldn't know where to begin in articulating it, strolling with her.
So, I like it will have to do, near-muttered and a little self-deprecating for how unhelpful a comment it is. It is a complicated thing, wielding the kinds of magic that have justified their histories. And present. Perhaps future.
"I had some difficulties when I was young, as well. I don't know that I properly mastered anything until I was grown."
no subject
How different that must have been, to be taken into a Circle in southern Thedas.
Derrica doesn't recall it as a terrible thing. But then, she was always allowed to walk out into the world when she pleased.
no subject
Digging up memories from the days prior to the Circle feels, likewise, a little like piecing together a story he was more told and otherwise only half-remembered.
"I produced some cinders in a fight with a sibling, I'm told, but to the best of my knowledge, no one was hurt. It wasn't long after that that I was brought to the Circle, which I didn't take to very well. It was a place that demanded obedience, full of other children I had no desire to be friends with, and I had a growing instinct for magic that outstripped my skill in controlling how I felt."
This is all said plainly. He has, before, been frustrated with mages who speak of their experiences of Circles in vaguer terms, like I was a poor student, as though it were all so normal. She is curious, and he doesn't mind sketching that picture to some small extent.
no subject
But it is a hard thing to wish for truly, properly. Because what would have become of him had he been raised in Rivain? Would he have been at the tower? Would he have been cut down like so many others?
"Did you love it?"
Drawing him to a halt, so she can look up into his face. Dulcinea huffs, dancing a finnicky little side-step but coming obliging to a stop before the reins pull taut.
no subject
Instead, he says, "We weren't taught to," even, quiet. "It was in equal measures a thing to be afraid of, like a sickness, or a responsibility we never asked for, that we weren't permitted to indulge." His hand comes up, settles fingers gentle at her neck, a tender touch as if to say that he is well, how long ago it all was. "But I think I made allies with it despite everything, even if I couldn't make it my friend."
It never felt like the enemy, magic, no more than unbridled rage could be beaten back. Tamed, over time, honed, and his.
"How was it, for you?"
no subject
That pang in his chest makes the warmth of fingers at her neck into something incongruous. Even while they speak of something so weighted, she feels the way heat prickles on her skin in response to this soft, reassuring touch.
"I loved it, as long as I can remember."
What was there to fear? No one had ever taught her to flinch from what she could do, even when her emotions outstripped her self-control. (She had been an even-tempered child, not given to temper. That had helped.) She had grown into it. She had always cherished the way magic felt, cracking sparks in the palm of her hand.
"I'm sorry it wasn't that way for you."
Yes, he is well. She understands that he is not grieving. But she wishes—
Well, it is a wish she has for all the mages she knows. He is no exception.
no subject
It can't be grief all the time, paralysing force as it is. In another world, he'd sat on the banks of a river and tried to explain it to a rifter, which is a unique absurdity, but it felt important to explain why he'd been weeping at the time, and isn't certain he'd truly honed in on it, too quick to reach for anger. It isn't all the time for the injustices done, but for the absence of what could have been theirs. What a revelation it had been, to meet Derrica.
And it hurts, sometimes, to hear of Derrica's experience, and hurts, always, to remember how it had been stolen from her too. She should have grown more into it. She's still so young, in the scheme of things, and nearly a child still when it was all destroyed. A happy childhood doesn't mean that grave injustice wasn't done to her too.
But she always loved her magic. That, the Chantry couldn't take.
The hand at her throat sweeps a gentle touch of the pad of his thumb against her jaw and cheek for her apology, accepting it.
"I became better with it, later," he says, "in part because I realised so many of those other children I'd hated felt as I did. Children that would become men and women in a rebellion, but it was enough at the time to have them as brothers and sisters."
He goes to take her hand, to pull her back into walking with him.
"I'd have wanted something different for us all, but we didn't have nothing."
no subject
The points of time in which she has entertained someone simply keeping hold of her hand on a long walk are few and far between. It takes her a moment to link her fingers through his, as they wind their way back the way they came.
"Do you love it now? Or is it still something like what you are describing?"
An uncertainty.
Power that flows through them, infuses them, comes forth into the shapes they will it to manifest their hopes as much as their fears.
Does Marcus love it now?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
slides under your doorstep
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
hits fast travel button
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)