Sve's Notebook

[Deleted]

MY WRITING MUSE MUST BE UNLEASHED
YOUR FEELS MAY NOT BE SAFE; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

He hated her.

Completely, utterly, and totally despised her. The way she sashayed into the club like she owned it. The way she would lean against the body of the piano, arms folded under her bosom to make her obnoxiously large breasts even more apparent. The way she laughed, and laughed so damn innocently, whenever he said something she found funny. He even hated the way her lips caressed the rim of her wine glass.

Graceful, elegant, refined, those were words that defined Nicoleta Daciana, but Niklaas knew; he knew that she was a snake underneath the make-up and refinement and breath-taking beauty.

He hated how she would invite him to her table every now and again, offering a glass of wine and asking how his day had gone, pretending that they were such good friends, that they were on such good terms. The only thing keeping Niklaas from shattering a glass of wine over her head was that he wasn’t allowed to. She was a customer, and he was an employee. Assaulting her would only earn him a one-way ticket to unemployed land. The instant she set foot in this establishment Nicoleta was invincible, an untouchable goddess among these poor mortal souls. Maybe that’s what Niklaas really hated, the control she had over him, and how she waved that power over his head whenever she could.

“Come on,” Nicoleta would taunt, leaning over “their” table, one frustratingly perfect finger gesturing him to come closer. “Hit me. You know you want to~” and he did. Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus he wanted to, but that was what she wanted to happen. She knew he had to restrain himself from smacking that smug grin off her face. That’s what made the game fun to her.

Niklaas hated her. Hated her with every fiber in his being, and he tried to show it to her whenever they were alone and the tension between them became unbearable. Teeth nipping and tugging and pulling at lips, hands clawing and grasping and tugging at hair, sweaty and vulnerable skin being bruised and tarnished, bodies tumbling over one another as they fought for dominance, hands gliding over every inch of flesh the other presented to them. Niklaas would be lying if he said he didn’t find some sort of triumph in seeing the purple-red blotches bloom on Nicoleta’s immaculate skin, or how those perfectly shaped lips of hers would be bloodied and gaped open in pleasure. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t get anything in return; no, no, no. The angry red claw marks down his back were proof of that, left by fingernails that caused his skin to crawl under their touch. Sometimes Niklaas wondered if Nicoleta laced her nail polish with a teeny little bit of poison, nothing lethal, just enough to make the scratches sting hours after she had left. That sounded like something she would do.

The next morning they would wake up, covered in bite marks and scratches and a small amount of blood. She would steal the covers for herself, like the selfish bitch that she was, and he would go take a shower and lament over the fact that he would need to wash those sheets twice to get her stench out of them.

The cherry on top was that, every time before Nicoleta would leave, she would caress Niklaas’ face like a lover would, and smile that sugary-sweet false smile that she had been known for.

“I fucking hate you,” Niklaas would mutter under his breath. Nicoleta would smile knowingly, fingers sliding down the column of his neck and lovingly tracing the bite marks she left on him as she placed an almost-but-not-really-tender kiss on his lips, letting it linger long enough for the embers from the previous night start crackling to life before pulling away.

“I know~”

SPOILER: Click to show

“Last chance to change your mind.” Monaco warned playfully, snapping the cards in her hands together sharply. She looked over the frames of her glasses at her opponent, who only scoffed lightly and blew out a cloud of smoke.

“You’re not very intimidating, you know.” Netherlands responded flatly, tilting back precariously in his chair. Monaco smirked faintly before shuffling the deck with as much finesse as possible, although it wasn’t on purpose, not entirely. Cards snapped, and fluttered against one another, dancing in between the young woman’s highly experienced hands before slid Netherlands’ cards over to him. He sat up right in his chair, rolling his eyes at the overly-fancy display before taking his cards up, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips when he saw his hand.

“Bad hand?” Monaco trilled, placing the deck aside and folding her hands one atop the other, and resting her chin on them. Netherlands half-glared up at her, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible, seeing as how the woman’s smile grew wider, it didn’t seem to work.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He deadpanned, looking back down at his hand, moving one to a new place as if that would magically make it better. Monaco giggled and picked up her cards, making a neat little stack, tapping it against the table, and then spreading it open like a fan.

“I already do. Your face is very easy to read, Monsieur Pays-Bas.” Netherlands’ brow creased, but he didn’t look up to see whether or not Monaco saw the change. “Not that having an expressive face is a bad thing,” she continued, placing her cards down smoothly. “It’s just terrible for Poker.” She laced her fingers together pleasantly, waiting for her opponent to place his down. Netherlands took a long drag from his cigarette, letting it out in a slow, deliberate exhale as he slapped his cards on the table.

“We can’t all be stone-faced.” He muttered, jamming his smoke into the porcelain ashtray on the table. If the situation had been different, Monaco would have taken that as some sort of insult, seeing as how this was Poker, she calmly waved the words away and re-gathered the cards.

“Not stone-faced,” she corrected. “Experienced.” She nodded her head curtly, and Netherlands frowned again, digging into his pocket for his pack of smokes.

“Whatever.” He replied, his dismissal much sharper than hers had been. He lit up as Monaco shuffled again.

At the end of the evening, Netherlands had smoked almost his entire pack and, somehow, had lost his scarf to the brunette across the table. Monaco tapped the deck against the table before sliding it lovingly into its case.

“We should do this again sometime.” She commented as she snapped the case shut. “You actually did pretty well.”

“I won three rounds out of thirty.”

“Better than most.” The young woman stood gracefully and walked over to Netherlands’ side of the table, claiming his last cigarette as her own.

“That’s mine.” Netherlands said sharply, grabbing her wrist and glaring up at her.

“You have one,” Monaco pointed to the lit stick in Netherlands’ free hand. “And you’ve had all those,” she waved a hand to the butts assembled in the ashtray (a perfect circle around the rim, she noted bemusedly). “I think I’ve earned one, don’t you think?” Netherlands scowled but let her wrist go, folding that arm across his chest and cradling his other elbow as he took a drag.

“Fine.” He breathed out after a few careful seconds of consideration.

“Merci.” Monaco half-curtseyed, one hand reaching for the lighter next to the ashtray before her hand stopped suddenly. “Look over here for a moment, please.” Netherlands quirked a brow and looked at her sideways before complying, turning to fully face her. That was when she made her move, leaning in to press the end of her cigarette to his, inhaling deeply once it had been lit. The tips flared brightly before Monaco pulled away.

“A cigarette kiss? Really?” Netherlands asked, looking up at her with a smirk as he lowered his hand. “Well, aren’t you just a woman after my own heart?” The question was meant to be dismissive and sarcastic, just like most of everything he said, but it didn’t seem that way to her. She blew a large, perfect smoke ring against his face and shrugged faintly.

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” The male scoffed at that, turning his head away again and rubbing a thumb against the filter of the cigarette idly.

“At least you’re a better flirt than France is.” He said absently before looking back up at her, holding a hand out expectantly. Monaco blinked, meeting his eyes, silently asking for conformation. “My scarf. Give it back.” The young woman stepped back, placing a hand under her chin in contemplation as she hummed to herself.

“No, I don’t think I will. It’s rather comfortable. If you want it back, you’ll have to win it from me.” She flipped one of the ends of the scarf over her shoulder with an air of finality. “Interested?”

[Deleted]

SPOILER: Click to show

Berwald could sew. And sew rather well, if he did say so himself, although he never did; was was never the type for self-praise). One of the maids could have easily sewn Soren's toys and clothes back together, but no, Berwald was always happy to do it. The re-attached arm on an old teddy bear here, a carefully applied patch to his shirts or trousers there, all the while his little son would watch him, wide dark blue eyes looking at his Mama's work like it was the most amazing thing in the entire world. That Berwald was the most amazing person in the entire world (next to Papa of course) because he could so effortlessly fix what had been broken with a simple needle and thread.

If only the real world could be fixed in the same way. If only hearts and feelings that had been torn asunder could be sewn back together so easily. The sad fact was that it wasn't that easy; any attempts to tell himself otherwise were just bold-faced lies. However, that didn't stop him from trying regardless, it didn't stop him from trying to stitch the fabric of his entire life back together the very best he could. He spent so much time trying to fix the world around him, however, that he failed to noticed that he was coming apart at the seams; that the threads holding himself together were rotting and breaking, and his trusty needle was starting to wear out and rust from years and years of continued use. Yet Berwald still continued to try.

He helped stitch back together the fragments of Antonio's memories. He tried to mend his shattered, lonely world, one little stitch at a time until Antonio could smile again. He tried to sew his family back together when Antonio's memory loss was pulling them apart. Berwald sewed, and sewed, and sewed until he was sure that his world --his happiness-- was stable again. How could he have been so blind? Why could he see what was happening around him? Why didn't he noticed that, slowly, Antonio was tearing away from the world Berwald had painstakingly sewn together for him? That he was slowly moving towards a much more shareable world? One where a foul-mouth figured of Grey ruled his heart, and a calm, compassionate figure of Black helped make the pain go away. No... that wasn't it. Berwald knew; he knew that he couldn't keep this perfect world held together with old, rotting string. He knew that Antonio, bright, vibrant, amazing Antonio, would want to reside in a world that wasn't made of patchwork; that was made up of bright, new fabric and thread that showed more promise of a happy future. The red thread that Berwald had used to stitch their hearts together was fading and breaking, and he knew it, and yet he still persisted. He wanted to do everything in his power to keep Antonio close to him, so he used the thread that was keeping his own heart held together.

It turned out to be a fool's errand, since soon his heart fell to pieces, the thread keeping it together wasted on a lost cause, and he was left alone. His son had been ripping himself apart, and Berwald didn't notice it. Antonio was getting further and further away, just one step away from leaving this patchwork life behind him forever. So why did Berwald keep trying to fix it? Why did he bother trying? Whenever it seemed like he had fixed his happy world, the pieces fell off and fluttered away, threadbare from the countless times he had tried to fix everything. In the end, it was only him in his tattered, torn up world, holding the pieces of his heart and trying to put it back together. His needle dulled to the point of uselessness, the thread finally crumbled away and he was left completely alone. He did the only thing he could do to keep himself from falling apart any more than he had; he ran. Ran away from the world he had failed to fix, ran away from the calming Black figure who had stolen Antonio away. What else could he do? Wallow in his own despair? Beg the Goddess to somehow reverse the hands of time so he could go back to how everything used to be?

So he ran away to a world of Grey, hoping to find comfort and solace while he tried to find a way to mend his heart. Until, one day, someone stepped into his life and started putting his heart back together with calm, gentle stitches. Every day, a little more of Berwald's tattered, torn heart would be carefully mended, each stitch placed with the express purpose of soothing the anguish that threatened to rip it apart whenever thoughts drifted to sun kissed skin and and emerald green eyes and a luminous smile that was no longer for him. He could only hope this gentle figure could mend the gaping whole Antonio had ripped in his heart, but that time would come when it did. If it did.

...He hoped it did.

[Niklaas de Vries]

Right, so it's almost 2 in the morning and I shouldn't be writing (since my writing isn't as good when I'm tired), but screw it. Our favorite Derpnesian inspired my Write-Muse, specifically the Angst Muse, with her most recent fanfic idea. Blame her for feels, especially when she gets around to writing her version. (And spoilers tags are being jerks. BU)


A single windmill sitting on a tiny little patch of land, submerged in at least three feet of water. Not nearly enough to sustain a nation's existence. It was the only remaining remnant of a nation that had been claimed by the sea years ago. A nation whose name was only spoken in mournful whispers and in the pages of textbooks. Although even that was being drowned time marching forward; events far more interesting overshadowing the nation.

The windmill no longer worked properly, the mechanisms long since rusted from the salty air and the years that passed by. The structure itself seemed like it would collapse sooner or later, the stones starting to erode and crumble away. How much longer could it possibly last? Belgium and Luxembourg had kept it maintained over the past few decades, but their attempts to keep it preserved had become more out of a need to preserve a historical monument than anything else. Something to tell future generations that, yes, the nation did exist at one point.

Belgium wore a scarf these days. A faded, old, white and blue scarf. She never could explain why she wore it, why she treated it like it was a personal treasure. All anyone knew was that, sometimes, she would look at it and start sobbing her eyes out. The nations also knew to never smoke around Belgium or Luxembourg, not unless they wanted the two sisters to fall into hysterics. Mentioning “Netherlands”, for the same reason, was completely out of the question.

Indonesia herself would make point to sail to visit the rusted windmill that seemed to echo with memories. She brought tulips with her most of the time, in some sort of vain attempt to make the memories stirring in the back of her mind become something more than blurred images if discrimination and war. The lost nation's history was so deeply entwined with her own, and it frustrated her to no end that she couldn't remember. A face, a name- something that Indonesia could associate with the nation that had worked with the VOC. Something other than just a nation's name in a history book. She left tulips by the windmill, although she knew that they would be claimed by the sea before she left. Pulled under the waves and lost to the world, just like the nation had been.

What did the nation's voice sound like? What were his hobbies? What kind of people did he love? What kind of food did he like? Did he eat rujak with bumbu rujak? Those tiny little facts most people looked over so easily, but Indonesia used to create a person's identity with, why couldn't she remember? She could vividly remember her childhood, and her time with Yolngu like she had experienced it all yesterday. Why were Netherlands' face and personality the only things that eluded her?

“Can I remember his face, at least?” Indonesia found herself asking aloud, looking up at the windmill like it would somehow provide the answer. It remained quiet and un-moving, as it always did, as she always knew it would. No matter how much she asked, she was starting to doubt if she would ever remember. [/spoiler]

[Niklaas de Vries]

Based on plot threads Mona and I discussed the other night.

Niklaas had heard life described like a mountain climb once, years ago when he was still young and ignorant to the harsher ways of the world. His mother had gone on to explain that, at some point in his life, he would meet someone that made that climb up life's mountain come to a sudden standstill. Time would pass, and eventually he would tumble back down the mountain as he fell in love with that person, the only way to get back up to try and do it with his loved one. Looking back at it now that he was a man who had grown bitter and pessimistic, the entire metaphor seemed like complete rubbish. He had fallen down life's mountain several times in the past, and each time he clawed his way back up with increasingly bloody hands. Love didn't have anything to do with it, and the men and women Niklaas had taken to bed hadn't helped in that ascension any. Ciel, on the other hand... he hadn't fallen for her, oh no, he had tumbled and rolled down the side of the mountain, cutting his hands as he tried to stop himself from falling too far, from reaching the point where he was so battered and bruised that he needed Ciel's help getting back up. When he crashed to the bottom and looked dazedly at the sky, he realized needed her like he needed nicotine and air. He wanted her like he wanted to return to his home country a free man and spend the rest of his days enveloped in peace and the perfume of sea water and tulips.

A part of his mind, the professional killer, the devil on his shoulder if you wanted to call it that, tried to pull Niklaas back up as he started his tumble downwards, screaming and yelling and cursing that falling in love with Ciel was the single most idiotic thing he could ever do in his life. Stupider than distancing himself from Charlotte when she needed him most, more moronic than taking that god damned contract in the first place.

In Niklaas' defense, he had never intended to let himself fall. Their relationship had started as awkward as they came, Ciel just barely remembering him from the scarce amount of time they spent together in Monaco. She laughed at the fact that their first conversation had been her stating how funny she found his accent to be. Niklaas had wanted to keep his distance, regarding the young princess –the young woman-- like she was the omen of his impending death. Her finding him marked the end of his life, Niklaas thought. It would only be a matter of time before he would face the punishment for taking so many lives, deserving or their fates or no. But Niklaas was a man of many vices, and attractive young women just happened to be his Achilles heel. No matter how much he wanted to keep her away, at arm's length so she wouldn't know and he wouldn't die, it seemed fate had other plans in store. Sera's teasing didn't help matters much either, with her constantly teasing him over his growing affections for “that cute French girl”.

The assassin part of his mind all but condemned him to die when he had taken Ciel to his bed, but he was far too gone to pay it any real attention. Too enthralled by soft hands tangling in his hair and the perfect set of lips that was ravishing whatever part of his body they could. Too intoxicated by what was purely Ciel to consider the possibility that he was having sex with the emissary of his demise. But god damn it, he was a selfish creature. If he was going to die, he would much prefer it if one of his final memories was of the one night where he allowed someone else to see past the cold facade he put up for the rest of the world. Just for one night, he would let someone break through all of his walls. But she didn't break them, no, she walked through them like they never even existed.

Niklaas tried to recall when it was he first started falling. Was it before, or after their first night together? Was it when they first reunited? Who could even know? He wasn't even aware of it himself until he realized that he had no hope of climbing back up his life's mountain without Ciel there to help him back up. He hesitated, of course, not wanting to drag her down into hell with him. If she ever found out who he was, what he did, it would destroy her. Tear her apart from the inside out, until the husk that was left wasn't even Ciel anymore. Did he want to risk that? Did he want to be the one who completely and utterly tore her entire world to bloody little pieces?

“I love you.”

Three words. Three god-damned fucking words. They were overused and abused, “love” being tossed around like confetti whenever a pair of teenagers suddenly realized their primal urges to fuck and reproduce. “Love” was used as an excuse for the most ridiculous things in the world; it had no right holding so much weight. A three word long sentence shouldn't feel as heavy as the burden Niklaas carried as an assassin. They shouldn't hold enough meaning to make his heart clench and his stomach flip and twist in ways he never thought possible.

His hands were bruised, bloodied and tired. Hell, Niklaas was tired. Climbing back up his life's mountain to continue on as he was seemed like impossible to do by himself now. Could Ciel ever possibly forgive him? Accept him? Embrace him when anyone else would spit on him in disgust and label him a cold-hearted murderer who cared only for money? The cons outweighed the pros, and it would be better for both of them if Niklaas turned her down. But, again, he was a selfish creature. A selfish creature who wanted Ciel and everything that she was willing to offer. Her warmth, her heart, her life; everything.

Love was an overused word. A dead word. A word that had lost its meaning a long time ago, so he didn't respond in kind. Instead he approached and embraced Ciel more intimately than he had ever embraced someone in his life. Niklaas breathed in the scent of her hair and placed a light kiss on the crown of her head. She was as smart as a whip, his little princess. She would know his response, so there were no needs for words. She would also know when to start hating him, but he could pretend. For now, in his greed to covet all the love and affection Ciel was willing to offer a man like him, he could pretend. He would pretend that his hands weren't irreversibly stained with the blood of her family.

[Deleted]

wHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT

I'M GOING TO CRY OH MY GOD WHAT THE FUCK NO JFC SVE I CANNOT WHY DID YOU DO THIS ASWIFJKKEOROTK

I AM DEAD

[Niklaas de Vries]

HEY GUYS. YOU REMEMBER THAT THING I MENTIONED WRITING?? 8B


The skies of London were almost unnaturally clear today- not a single cloud in the sky. Considering that the previous night there had been rains storms on and off, this just seemed like even more of an anomaly. However, nature seemed to compensate by making the day unbearably humid. The air was heavy with moisture, and Ciel could practically feel the water on the pavement evaporating. Now was not the time to contemplate the weather; she had much more important things to worry about. She adjusted her glasses and set her lips into a firm line, the poker face that she had perfected so many years ago, and focused on her destination. The third floor of the Milford Flats building, down the immediate right hall after coming out of the lift, fifth door on the right. She could have walked there with a blindfold if she was forced to, she had walked the path so many times. They used to be innocent visits- a few drinks from a bottle of wine he had procured from his work, a few hands of cards, and she would perhaps stay the night. In hindsight, her visits weren't always, since a fraction of the time they ended with clothes strewn on the floor and a warm body next to hers. Ciel cursed her ignorance. She had been drawn in by the Dutchman's charms, just like every other woman who came in contact with him. Blinded by his musical proficiency, good looks and unusual charisma, despite his general pessimism. No more. It was time to remove the veil from her eyes and finally obtain peace.

Despite her resolve, Ciel hesitated at the door. She looked down at her purse over the rims of her glasses, her facade cracking ever-so-slightly. A bottle of poison was nestled within the faux leather confines, hidden inconspicuously in a nail polish bottle that had been emptied out and thoroughly cleaned for this purpose. He would be cold in his bed by the morning, just like her parents were- a quiet poetic death. Niklaas would probably appreciate it, he did love poetry. She steeled herself and knocked delicately at the door.

“Nijntje, come here.” Niklaas' deep voice sounded from the other side. A few seconds later the door opened, and there he stood, clutching his ever-curious rabbit to his chest with one hand. “Hello, Ciel.” He greeted pleasantly enough, standing aside to let her enter. “I thought you had plans with Charlotte today.”

“Sudden change,” Ciel replied automatically as she stepped inside. “That woman cannot sit still when her mind is set on something. Her most recent plot involves trying to get Marianne away from her work.” She wasn't trying to hide the distaste in her voice when it came to the youngest of the three siblings.

“A nearly impossible task,” Niklaas said, closing the door and shifting his grip around Nijntje, who was trying to wiggle free and greet Ciel properly. “But Charlotte isn't going to give up until she gets what she wants.” A statement that was as obvious as saying the sky was blue. Ciel could actually count the number of times her partner had come up with a way to pull off an “impossible” job, and it usually involved her staying up all night formulating a plan. The woman was brilliant, if not a little over zealous, but you had to be so in their line of work. “I'll put Nijntje back in her cage, help yourself to-”

“She's fine, Niklaas.” Ciel cut in, a faint smile on her lips. “Don't confine her on my account.” If there was one thing Ciel held over Niklaas, it was his weakness to a pretty smile. By his own drunken confession, her smirk was the sexiest goddamn thing he had ever seen in his life. It was empowering in its own right, to be able to charm the infamous charmer.

As soon as Nijntje was set down, she instantly hopped over to Ciel, putting her front paws against her legs, her way of asking to be pet or held. “Do you want anything? Tea, water?” He cocked his head towards the coffee pot on the counter, “coffee?”

“I just wanted to talk. It's very important.” Ciel replied sharply, looking at the Dutchman with equally sharp eyes. He seemed to be taken aback at the sudden glare, and blinked in confusion.

“Oh. Alright then.” Nijntje hopped after Ciel was she walked to the couch, clearly disappointed that she didn't get her pets from her favorite guest. When Niklaas sat down beside Ciel, the rabbit pawed at the couch, and he lifted her up and put him in his lap. She almost instantly hopped into Ciel's and made herself comfortable. “So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” Ciel bit down the fury growing inside her by gently stroking the creature in her lap.

“Lars van der Burg,” she began. Niklaas shifted slightly. “There was a gardener who worked on my family's estate who went by that name. Born in Amsterdam, recently graduated from university with a degree in Business Economics. Does this sound familiar?”

“Not particularly.” Niklaas lied. He had always been a terrible liar. How he had managed to lie all this time -to her face- was an unsolvable enigma. “Where are-”

“No? Let me go into more detail. He was the eldest of three, his youngest sibling was studying abroad in Germany. He left the estate a few months after Mother and Father died. I didn't know why, nor did I necessarily care, until I started having suspicions that he was an instrument of their murder.” Niklaas glanced away. Nijntje hopped out of Ciel's lap to snuggle up to his side, sensing her owner's discomfort. “I had sources that tracked him to London. They were hardly reliable, but it was all I had. After years of searching, I finally found him.” Niklaas took out a cigarette and lit it. His hands were trembling slightly. “He pretended to be my friend, and perhaps something more. Lied to my face on numerous occasions.” Ciel folded her hands gracefully in her lap. “Does this all sound familiar to you now?”

Niklaas took a drag and let it out in a long, heavy sigh, leaning his head back and watching the smoke drift lazily above him. For once, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Him. Niklaas always seemed to be ready with some sort of sarcastic comment, and sharp words on the edge of his tongue. Where were they? This was so unlike Niklaas, and a tiny little part of Ciel's mind wanting him to retort. To say something, anything, to make her suspicions dissipate even slightly. To convince her that he didn't do it, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, yet there was nothing. Say something. Ciel thought, say something you son of a bitch.

Niklaas slouched forward, elbows resting on his knees and his forehead on the back of his hands. “...I knew you'd find out. Sooner or later.” That small part of Ciel cried out in despair, but she ignored it. “So,” he turned his head to look at her. He looked completely and utterly defeated. “What happens now?”

“Now?” Ciel stood up abruptly, marching in front of Niklaas and glaring down at him. He didn't lift his head, which only made her angrier. “First, you are going to look me in the eye,” she began icily. He obeyed without a word, looking several years older. “Next you are going to tell me why,” she practically hissed. “Why them?! What did they ever do to deserve that?! For god's sake, Niklaas, you knew them!” her facade was breaking, she was looking control. She took a mental step back in order to compose herself, taking a deep breath through her nose, and letting it out in a controlled sigh. “Did you get close to me just so you could kill me, too?”

“No!” Niklaas finally looked up. He licked his lips and took another drag of his cigarette. Nijtnje pawed desperately at his leg, and he rubbed the base of her ears nervously. “God almighty, no. What would I gain from that? I-I mean...” He paused to take another drag. “...I'm not that man anymore. I got tired of it.”

Ciel sneered and crossed her arms over her chest. “Conscious finally catch up with you? Finally realize that you were a glorified murderer? Well isn't that nice for you. However, that isn't going to bring my mother and father back, or the life you destroyed. Your regret won't bring back the lives you took, will it?”

“I know, okay?! I fucking know!” Niklaas, exclaimed, standing up suddenly. He took a few deep breaths and took a step in several directions, like he wanted to start pacing, but didn't quite know where to go. He licked his lips and ran both hands through his hair. “It wasn't supposed to go that far. God I just- It was only supposed to be- ...I need a fucking drink.” He walked over to his kitchen with slouched shoulders, rummaging through his alcohol cabinet and pulling out a bottle of orange vodka.

Ciel had found his obsession with all things orange flavored oddly adorable, once.

He came back and slammed a large bottle of vodka on the coffee table, set down two glasses, filled one of them, and knocked it back in a single gulp. He sunk back onto the couch miserably, pouring himself another glass and looking down at the alcohol like he was trying to find an answer. Nijntje hopped into Niklaas' lap, and he offered a weak smile at her attempt to comfort him. “I just wanted to make enough money to get my old life back. I wanted things to be normal again. I wanted my family back.” He sounded so hopelessly broken, that any retort Ciel might have had for his justification died on her tongue. He downed another shot of vodka and stood up again, gently cradling Nijntje in his arms. “I'm going to put her back.” He muttered, turning and walking towards his room. Once Ciel heard the click of a door closing, she took a deep breath through her nose, and let it out through her mouth. She poured herself some vodka and took a sip, less for the actual taste, and more for the liquid courage. She took out her poisonous little bottle and unscrewed the cap, looking at Niklaas' half-full glass. All she had to do was pour a little in his drink, then revenge would be hers. She could finally have some peace of mind, for the first time in years. So why was she hesitating then?

She thought about Charlotte, how much happier she seemed now that Niklaas was back in her life, hoe they joked and prodded each other like they had never been apart. He even came along with them during some of their jobs. Ciel thought about how she and Niklaas laughed and drank and masqueraded as a newly wed husband and wife on numerous occasions. The Dutchman had dragged Ciel out on the dance floor and tangoed with her one night, a rather odd action coming from someone so aloof. She was horrible at it, and Charlotte had a good laugh about how much she botched the steps, but it was a fond memory. One of many she had of him. Of them.

Ciel sighed heavily and replaced the cap. It's for Charlotte, she reasoned with herself. I don't want to be like him, and take her family away. It wasn't a justification she really believed in. A rather weak one for letting a murderer go free, but it was better than his She saw herself out wordlessly and marched outside, her face as stoic as she could muster. The only sign of her frustration was the bottle being tossed aside so harshly it shattered on contact with the pavement.

[Niklaas de Vries]

SPOILER: Click to show

{Look, I can write things that arent sad!}It was Christmas Eve, and Charlotte had insisted that she, Ciel and Niklaas “attend” a Christmas party that was being hosted by a relatively minor businessman. They had attended with forged invitations and fake names, easily blending into the crowd of blue-bloods like they belonged there. The story of the evening was that Niklaas and Charlotte (Jean and Monique) were a happily married couple from France. Charlotte played the role of a complete besotted bride perfectly, giggling in jubilation with other women while she flashed her “engagement” ring to envious eyes. She had stolen that ring from some sleeze ball during their last job, along with several other shiny trinkets she had since pawned off for a pretty little penny. Ciel seemed to slip in and out of existence, occasionally providing the two with crucial information before disappearing into the shadows. They had danced, he and Ciel, perhaps around ten-a-clock that evening. A casual meeting between to complete strangers as they were whisked away onto the dance floor.

“Such blatant flirting won't go over very well with your wife, monsieur,” She teased as she was twirled gracefully.

“I am a lover of fine things, she knows that.” He replied with a faint chuckle. Thew drew together, and the facade of a young woman being flattered by a charming French gentleman melted as quickly as it had been put up.

“The documents we need are in his study. I'll call as soon as I have a plan to get in.” Ciel said in a whisper. They drew apart as the song ended, Ciel acting nervous and flustered as she fussed with her hair. She was a fantastic actress, switching between roles as easily as she breathed. She curtsied before vanishing into the crowd. Charlotte marched up and played the role of the jealous wife, dragging Niklaas off to a secluded corner to “scold” him for fraternizing with a younger woman.

The plan had gone out without a hitch, and the three left the party with rather damning evidence about the party's generous host. They would sell it to the highest bidder, and congratulate themselves rather lavishly once they each had their cut. Twas the season, after all. At the end of the night, Niklaas ended up carrying a particularly buzzed Charlotte out to their car, although he wasn't any better than she. Ciel seemed to be the only one who wasn't drunk, who was waiting patiently in the limousine they had hired for the sake of keeping appearances. Charlotte liberally stretched herself out across Niklaas and Ciel's laps once she was in the car, taking the stolen documents from Ciel,

“Hee~ illegally bribing other businesses,” Charlotte giggled, as if it was the most amusing thing in the world. It would be, once the bomb dropped, not just for the man and his team of lawyers. When the limousine stopped in front of his building, Charlotte all but demanded that Niklaas come to her home to celebrate Christmas. She was even going to try and get Marianne to come over (good luck, Niklaas thought bitterly), and simply would not allow it if either one refused to spend Christmas together like an actual family. That also meant, of course, that Ciel wasn't allowed to fight with Marianne. They were going to have a nice, perfect Christmas, so Charlotte claimed before she leaned back onto Ciel and curled up for a nap.

It was probably sometime past midnight when he finally got to his flat. He opened the door and leaned heavily against the frame as the world spun around him. He rubbed at his eyes to make the colors stop blending together and stepped inside, fumbling with the lock before it clicked routinely into place. With an uncharacteristic disregard to his clothing, Niklaas shed off his thick coat and slung it across the back of one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter, before walking to the couch the unceremoniously falling down upon it. He was too long for the couch to accommodate him, but he was too preoccupied in how blissfully weightless he felt to notice. Something small and warm pumped his hand, causing Niklaas to lift his head up just enough to spot Nijntje, standing with her front paws against the couch as she tried to boop his face with her nose. It boggled the mind how the rabbit found a way out of her cage, time and time again, but so long as she didn't hop out of the flat, he didn't have much of a problem. He flipped onto his back and picked Nijtnje up by the scruff of her neck, putting her on his chest. She clicked her teeth in appreciation before diving under the folds of Niklaas' scarf and finding a nice, comfortable place.

What seemed to be only an hour later, his cell phone rang shrilly from the coffee table beside him. He groaned and tried to block out the sound, but it only seemed to get louder the longer he ignored it. He groaned in resignation and grabbed it, muttering a few curses in his native tongue before answering.

“What?”

“You sound horrible,” Charlotte's voice came from the other line, sounding as prim and perfect as it always did. How was she not hung over? She drank more than him last night. “You promised to come over for Christmas. Don't make me drag you out of your flat, I already had to tear Marianne away from her desk.” The Dutchman sat up, rubbing his throbbing head with a faint hiss.

“I will as soon as the world stops fucking spinning.”

“Don't be such a baby,” Charlotte tutted, “I've got something that will help, The sooner you get here, the sooner you'll feel better.”

“Hmmm,” He ran a hand through his hair, making a mental note to actually make time to get it cut one of these days. “Fine, fine. I'll be there soon.”

“Good,” Niklaas could practically see Charlotte's bright smile. “I can't wait to see you,”

“... yeah. Same here.”

[Niklaas de Vries]

SPOILER: Click to show

{OhmiMakrr, Durgon Arge}When she was seven years old, Elea Surana discovered that she had magic.

She had been living in the Denerim Alienage at the time, too young and ignorant of how badly life was for the elves who didn't find a consistent way of bringing in coin. Her mother worked for a horrible woman named Goldanna, slaving away over tubs of clothing while her boss barked orders and made excuses as to why she didn't work as hard or pay as much. Goldanna had five human children, each one worth more than the two filthy little urchins Sypha Surana had brought into the world. She didn't make much, four coppers a day at the most, but sometimes some generous soul would offer her ten when they discovered that she had done the cleaning and not Goldanna.

They didn't have much, they were frugal with their food, and their roof leaked. But Sypha told them stories of the time she and their father spent in one of the wandering Dalish clans, and taught her children the beliefs of the Dalish. It was a simple, life. Playing with three year old Tobias, or their neighbor Darrian Tabris- it was a happy enough existence, Elea and Darrian often spoke about how they would get married and find one of the Dalish clans one day, but the fantasy shattered just as easily as it had been formed. Elea and Darrian had been arguing over something petty and childish, and when she pushed him her hands scorched his flesh. His screaming was heard all throughout the Alienage, and would haunt Elea's dreams for several years to come. She drew her hands away in horror, and accidentally burned her right eye. Her screams of anguish were, perhaps, louder than Darrian's had been, but the templars cared little as they dragged her out of the only home she had ever known.

“Monster,” they called her, “filthy, disgusting abomination.”

The only one who seemed to offer her any sort of kindness was Ser Otto, who dried her tears and tended to the purple and black bruises on her arm as they rode towards Lake Calenhad. He gently rubbed a healing poultice into the burn to try and sooth the pain, and although he didn't say anything, he knew that her sight in that eye would probably be compromised for the rest of her life. Perhaps she would go blind in that eye one day, he could not say.

Elea, on the other hand, just wanted this nightmare to end. She wished that she would wake up with Tobias snuggled in her arms and everything would be back to normal. She closed her eyes and covered her ears, trying to make the Fade go away so she could wake up, but it never did. She cried for her mother, she cried for her father, and even tried to squirm her away out of the moving carriage so she could find her way home. Ser Otto held her firmly, telling her that everything would be alright when they got to the Tower. That she would be well fed and warm and receive the kind of education the Alienage could never provide her with.

“I want to go home,” Elea chocked out, looking up at the templar with bloodshot eyes. “Please let me go home. I'm sorry, I won't touch anyone ever again.. just please, Ser, let me go home.”

“I'm afraid... that isn't possible, child.”

“But why?”

Ser Otto paused, unsure how to explain it to a hysterical child. How did one tell a little girl that she could become a monster if she wasn't monitored closely? How could anyone explain that she had the potential to kill everyone she ever cared about, without even knowing it? Otto had seen an child become an abomination once before, a child in an apostate camp that he and his brothers had tracked down deep in the Brecillian Forest. The child's flesh had blistered horribly as a demon of rage entered took refuge in his body- and Maker screams. Ser Otto shut his eyes to be rid of the memory, it seemed that the Maker would never forgive him for such a tremendous failure.

“It is to keep you safe,” Ser Otto supplied in the gentlest voice he could muster. Either his words resounded with the girl, or she was simply too tired to argue anymore, whatever the case was, she curled into a little ball and fell into a restless sleep.

She was a quiet, introverted child, rarely interacting with any of the other apprentices her age. Some of the older apprentices taunted her and tugged on her ears, mocking her for being an elf and commenting that it was a good thing that she remained quiet. Elves were meant to be seen as something pretty, not things meant to be heard. Not that Elea was even considered cute, with the tattoo under her left eye and her overly prominent cheekbones.

It was only during the morning prayers did someone try to befriend her. A young boy slid next to her on the otherwise empty pew, causing her to raise her head slightly.

“Hello,” he said, barely above a whisper. Elea glanced around cautiously, knowing that the Sisters weren't above smacking any apprentices who didn't listen during the sermon. She chewed her bottom lip before whispering back,

“hello.” As if called by the sound of her voice, one of the Sisters shushed them harshly, making Elea jump in her seat and bow her head even lower. The Sister smacked the boy upside the head for good measure before she turned her attention back to the Mother at the front. When the service ended the and apprentices were dismissed for breakfast, the boy followed Elea out casually. “Um... why are you following me?” She asked the boy finally. He shrugged faintly,

“Breakfast is that way,” he explained, and Elea felt incredibly foolish for assuming that she was being followed and turned her head away. “I've also noticed that you're always by yourself. Don't you get lonely?”

“No,” she answered, too quickly to be genuine. The boy frowned and pointed at her accusingly.

“Liar,” Elea felt her cheeks and ears burn in shame, and tried to pull her hair over her face. “I want to be your friend,” the boy continued confidently.

“Why?”

“Why not?” the boy grabbed her hand cheerfully and led her down the hall towards the great hall. “You seem nice, and everyone needs a friend.”

“B-but I don't even know your name!”

“Jowan,” he smiled back at her brightly, “there. Now tell me yours.”

“Elea...”

“I like that.”

The two continued to banter back and forth through breakfast, with Jowan doing most of the talking as he animatedly talked about anything and everything that was on his mind at the moment. He was ten, three years older than Elea, came to the Tower when he was five. He wanted to become the First Enchanter someday, and show his family the world that mages weren't the monsters that everyone thought they were. He wanted to visit Orlais and Antiva- see the entire world one day. His dreams made Elea's seem pathetic in comparison, since her ambitions didn't extend past going back home to her family one day.

Breakfast ended far too quickly, causing Elea and Jowan to part ways. “We'll talk later!” He promised as Elea was ushered away by one of the Sisters to join the rest of the children for their afternoon lessons on the dangers of magic. She smiled the entire time, despite being accused of mocking the laws of the Chantry when it came to the arcane, but found herself not caring in the slightest.

“So, how come you never told me you could braid hair?”

“What, and give everyone even more of an excuse to make fun of me? No thank you.” Jowan and Elea (now sixteen and thirteen respectively), had met in the apprentice quarters in order to study, but after seeing her her fuss with her hair for so long, Jowan offered to help her with it. She sat cross legged in front of him as he skillfully wove the top layer of her hair into a braid, fiddling with the hair pins in his mouth with his tongue.

“It's good for finger dexterity,” Elea informed, “and that's important for the more complicated spells.”

“Try explaining that to some of the other apprentices, I doubt they'd be inclined to listen,” He spun the braid into a tight bun and stuck in a hair pin to keep it in place.

“That's their loss,” Elea said with a faint frown as Jowan put in another pin.

“As true as that is, I'd rather not mention it. 'Hello, my name is Jowan and I braid hair to practice spell casting,' doesn't exactly make me sound very masculine.” He tapped Elea on the shoulder to signal that he was done and stood up. “Any better?” Elea reached back to gently touch the bun, marveling at how tightly woven it was without being uncomfortable.

“It's much better, thank you so much.” She smiled as he sat back down before her, picking up his previously discarded book, licking his thumb, and turning back to the page he was on. “Can you teach me how to braid?”

“After you teach me more about Entrophy,” Jowan frowned and scratched his head in frustration. “Runes really shouldn't be as hard as they are,” he lamented with a sigh.

“You're thinking too hard about the theory behind it,” Elea said, pulling over a blank sheet of paper and a quill. “Think of it like you're writing. Too much pressure, and the ink starts to run, right?” She pressed the tip of the quill harshly against the paper, a dark blue blotch bleeding out onto the paper. “Too little, and your lines aren't strong enough,” she readjusted her grip on the quill and drew a faint line. “You have to find a balance where you can keep it from bleeding, but still make it visible,” she drew a misdirection hex on the paper, the image sloppily drawn at best. “Replace the quill with your magic, and the paper with where you want to cast it, and the rest should come naturally.” Elea concluded, putting the quill back in its inkwell. “Does that make sense?”

Jowan squinted his eyes at the paper, as if looking for an answer within the scribbles and stains of ink. “I think so...” he said after a few seconds on contemplation.

“If it helps, do what you do when your casting your Primal spells, but manipulate the mana differently. It's easier to cast Entrophy spells when you're calm, so if you feel nervous, take time and breathe. The last thing we want is for you to set something on fire because you're so nervous.”

“Gee, thanks,” Jowan deadpanned, dropping his chin into the palm of his hand.
“You are welcome,” Elea giggled. “So now that we've discussed that, can I practice braiding on you?”

“On second thought, maybe you should go over it again,” Jowan said hurriedly, his voice cracking. He flushed when he realized how laughably high pitched he sounded and all but buried his face in the tome he held. He was thankful he and Elea were some of the only people who remained in the apprentice's quarters, although he could hear some girls giggling from their side. Probably at him. He groaned and cursed the erratic changes his voice was going through. The elf patted his shoulder comfortingly, but he was far too embarrassed to find any comfort in it.

Earlier that evening, it had been announced that Elea, along with a handful of other promising apprentices, had been chosen to taught by First Enchanter Irving himself. Only four apprentices ever had the honor of being taught by a First Enchanter during their time in the Tower, but Elea didn't feel honored. Well, perhaps that wasn't the right way to say it; she was incredibly honored to have someone as wise and powerful as the First Enchanter teach her from now on, but she was the only elf who had been chosen. She hadn't ignored the nasty looks the other apprentices gave her during their classes, and even Jowan seemed to force himself to be happy for her. What could she say? No? That wasn't an option.

The eighteen-year-old sighed and ran a hand over one of the braids that hung behind her ears nervously. She had been burdened with a huge responsibility; she would be one of the mages others would look to as an example of everything a Circle apprentice stood for. Couldn't the First Enchanter have chosen someone else? Even Anders, despite his constant attempts to escape, was Wynne's prized student. He also made it no secret that he abhorred the First Enchanter, so perhaps it was for the best that he wasn't chosen. She sighed again and pushed the heavy oaken door to the chapel open, nearly dropping her book in surprise when she found someone else, kneeling before the statue of Andraste. The other person, a man perhaps a year or so older, lifted his head to look over his shoulder.

“I-I'm so sorry,” Elea stammered, trying to reorganize herself. “I didn't know anyone else came here so late. I'll just, um...” she drummed her fingers against the book, “go.”

“The chapel is for everyone,” the man replied simply. “Stay, I don't mind.” Elea worried her bottom lip for a few seconds before silently sitting on “her” pew in the very back, slowly opening the book in her lap, as if she feared the turning of pages would somehow disturb this man's evening prayers. It was much more serene without the Mother preaching at the front, much more peaceful without the templars and Sisters breathing down her neck. Elea could feel the Maker's warmth in the candles that had been lit, and felt some of her previous tension melt away under Andraste's benevolent gaze.

The minutes seemed to blur together, and it was only when Elea started nodding off did she theorize that it must have been sometime past midnight. She muffled and yawn and rubbed at her eyes, looking up when she heard someone clear his throat.

“I can walk you back to the apprentice's quarters. If-if you don't mind, that is.” The man offered, standing a few paces away from her.

“You say that like you don't live here,” Elea responded. She wondered if, perhaps, he was a new apprentice, newly brought to the Tower without being told which way was up or down.

“I haven't, not for long. I'm a-” he coughed into a fist, “-one of the new templars who have been assigned here. Arrived this morning.” Suddenly Elea felt foolish for speaking so freely to a templar. Mages who spoke out of line, in the eyes of the templar, were punished with varying degrees of severity. She had once seen an apprentice be dragged out the room, kicking and screaming, because he had mocked a templar when he thought they couldn't hear him. The apprentice had been put in solitary confinement for the entire day, and hadn't spoken a word for nearly a week after. There were horrible stories about what templars did to the females, but no one dared to confirm or deny it.

“I'm sorry I spoke so freely, ser,” Elea said, bowing her head lowly. She hoped that whatever punishment she received would be minor, since this man was new.

“What? N-no, no, you didn't,” The templar shook his head. “How could you have known?” The elf raised her head slowly, placing her palms against her chest to show that she had no intentions of attacking him suddenly. “B-but my offer still stands. You don't have to.”

“...Can you tell me your name, please?”

“Cullen, and you are?”

“Elea. It's a pleasure, Ser Cullen.” She stood up slowly, hugging her book tightly to her chest and looking directly into his eyes. Always look a templar in the eyes, never break eye contact, not unless you want to be struck. “And I would be honored if you accompanied me.”

The walk back to the apprentice's quarters was painfully quiet and awkward, a stark contrast to the serenity that had been found in the chapel. A few templars on their night rounds looked at the two inquisitively from the shadows of their helms, but otherwise said nothing. With Elea constantly keeping her gaze on the floor, the others might have suspected that she was being taken to face a punishment of some kind. She shuddered, hoping that she wasn't about to experience the rumored atrocity that the templars inflicted on the female mages. Ser Cullen seemed nice enough, but anyone could act nice in order to lower one's guard. She gripped her book tighter to her chest and wished she could disappear.

Much to her relief, she wasn't pulled into a dark corner to be ravished, as some of the darker rumors suggested, but found herself in front of the door to the apprentice's quarters, as promised. She blinked in surprise before looking to Cullen, who seemed to be be just as uncomfortable as she had been. He stammered for a while, before sighing heavily and bidding her goodnight, and hurried down the hall before she could wish him goodnight in kind. Elea slipped into the the chamber and leaned heavily on the doors as she closed them behind her, her shoulders slacking as she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Elea!” The twenty-year old was grabbed by her shoulder and spun around, and she blinked rapidly at the sight of Solona Amell, looking haggard and desperate. “Have you seen Daylen anywhere?” She asked, sounding like she would break down in tears at any moment. Daylen and Solona Amell were twin brother and sister, and perhaps the brightest students who had come to the Tower in this generation.

Elea shook her head no, and Solona dropped her hands from the elf's shoulders in defeat. “I haven't seen him since yesterday,” she began, wringing her hands nervously. “We-we both surmised that we would be taken for our Harrowings sometime soon, b-but he should be done with his by now, right?” Deep blue eyes, shining with un-shed tears, looked at Elea desperately.

“I'm sure he is,” Elea tried to comfort, “I'm sure he's just resting somwhere-”

“Then why won't anyone tell me where he is?!” Solona interrupted hysterically, pacing back and forth and running her hands through her hair. “All-all I get are these looks from the Senior Enchanters, but no one is telling me anything!” She rubbed at her eyes furiously, her chest heaving. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes before slowly running them down her face. “I need you to come with me to the First Enchanter's office. Irving knows something, he has to.” Solona stepped forward and grasped both of Elea's hands, her face streamed with tears.

“Of course I will. We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise you.”

Solona tightened her grip on Elea's hands, “Maker bless you,” she said barely above a whisper. The two of them walked solemnly towards the First Enchanter's office, Solona never once letting go of Elea's hand. She pushed the door to Irving's office open without awaiting an invitation, which was unheard of for someone usually so polite, and gasped at what she saw. Daylen was alive and well, standing in between First Enchanter Irving and Knight-Commander Greagoir, staring blankly at the wall in front of him. “Daylen,” Solona whispered, tears streaming down her face. She rushed over to him, “thank the Maker, I thought the worst had happened.” She said, placing her hands on either side of his face.

“Sister, it is good to see you, as well.” Daylen said in a monotone voice. A cold chill shot down Elea's spine when she realized what that most likely meant. She looked away from the two and clutched her fists.

“What? Hah, very funny, Daylen. Acting Tranquil to scare me,” Solona slapped his cheeks lightly, “you can stop now. You got me.”

“I'm afraid he isn't acting, child,” First Enchanter Irving spoke, putting a comforting hand on her back. Solona looked at him,

“First Enchanter I-I-” she swallowed thickly before continuing, “I don't understand.”

“We have gradually noticed that he's been becoming unstable these past few years,” Knight-Commander Greagoir said sternly. “At the First Enchanter's request, we have been monitoring him for any signs of improvement, if anything he became worse. This was the best option.”

“This?!” Solona screeched, turning to the templar and glaring up at him. Greagoir didn't flinch in the slightest. “Turning him into a soulless husk was the best option?!” She turned back to Irving, her hands mana sparking across her fingertips dangerously. “And you! All that talk about how he was one of the finest mages you had seen, how he had the potential to be a Senior Enchanter, it was all a lie?!”

First Enchanter Irving closed his eyes solemnly, “I wish it wasn't so. I had hoped that he would re-stabilize over time. When he did not, I had to consider the safety of everyone else, over my trust in him.”

“Liar!” Solona screamed, lightning sparking from her hands and hitting Irving in the chest. He did not move an inch, but Knight-Commander Greagoir had begun to draw his weapon, the other few templars in the room moving towards the hysterical mage. “Stay away from me!” Solona cried again, a powerful shockwave pulsing from her body, pushing the templars back a few steps. She held her hands up, fingers curling around the lighting emanating from her palms. “Or I'll- I'll-”

Anything she might have said was cut off when a glyph of paralysis appeared under her feet, lighting up brilliantly before the magic froze her in place. Elea sighed and lowered her hands.

“I'm sorry,” she said, loud enough for the paralyzed Solona to hear. She wiped the tears from her eyes as Knight-Commander Greagoir cautiously approached the human mage and put his hands on either side of her head. His hands began to glow a brilliant white, and a second shockwave emanated from him dispelling the glyph and knocking all the breath from Elea's lungs. Solona slumped forward into Greagoir's arms, and he gestured for one of the templars to collect her.

“Knight-Commander,” Elea spoke up, taking a step forward. “What are you going to so with Solona?”

“She attacked my men and the First Enchanter,” Greagoir began coldly. “Chantry Law states that she be executed, you know this.”

“That's too far!” Elea said, covering her mouth with both hands when Greagoir glared at her.

“To attack a templar is to attack the servants of the Maker,” Greagoir stated, “what do you think would happen if we let someone to violently unstable go?” He glared at Elea, and she bowed her head in order to avoid his gaze, hands folded in front of her. “She could tear the Veil asunder and become an abomination. I will not allow that to happen. Do you understand?”

“Understood, Ser.” The templars marched out of the First Enchanter's office, Solona held in between them, and Elea drew her shoulders up, keeping her head down.

“It would be wise to avoid this in the future, Irving,” Greagoir said before nodding his head sternly and following his men out the door. Daylen followed obediently, completely apathetic to what had just happened, and bid Elea good day before he left.

Irving sat at his desk and rubbed his temples, “I am sorry you had to witness that, Elea.”

“...it isn't fair...” Elea said in a small voice, her shoulders trembling, “execution is too far. That's her brother, or at least it was.” She sniffed and quickly dried her eyes on the sleeve of her robe.

“I am no happier about it than you are,” Irving laced his fingers together, “but sometimes extreme measures must be taken to ensure the safety of everyone.”

“There had to be a better way...”

“I do not see how that would have ended happily,” Irving shook his head solemnly. “I am not proud for letting it happen, but I could sense how close Solona was to tearing the Veil,” Irving closed his eyes again. “She would have become an abomination, and the situation would have been much worse. That said, you have my thanks for your help.”

“I don't feel like I helped.”

“I know, child, I know.”

Jowan poked his head out of the chapel, looked this way and that, before stepping out cautiously. He looked back to Lily, who smiled beautifully at him and blew him a kiss goodnight. He closed the doors and leaned against them, pressing a hand against his chest in an attempt to stop his heart from bursting out of his chest. He felt like the luckiest man in the world, despite everything in his life saying that he should be mediocre, at best. It seemed like the rubbish romance novels that Elea read had some truth to them after all; he did feel like he was flying.

“Jowan?” He jumped, Elea's voice forcing him out of his euphoric state of mind. He turned his head rapidly before settling on the elf, who looked at him with a quizzical stare. It was amazing how much taller than her he had gotten within a few short years. He had spent his late teens barely a head taller and had resigned himself to a life of being short, before he finally shot up like a bean-stock during his twenty-third year. It was the one thing he had over her (Maker, pun not intended), and he'd be lying if he didn't feel a little proud of the fact.

“G-good evening,” Jowan said, running his hands down his robes in a pathetic attempt to look casual. “How are you? Nice weather, isn't it?”

“There's four feet of snow outside,” Elea replied.

“Oh. Right.” Jowan coughed into a fist, mentally slapping himself for making such a huge mistake.

Elea touched Jowan's arm gently, “is everything alright? You seem frantic.”

“Me? I'm fine! Perfectly,” Jowan swallowed, “fine.” Elea blinked, clearly not believing him, but shook her head and took her hand away. She was clutching another book to her chest, and Jowan hoped to the Maker it wasn't that horrid Swords and Shields novel that had been circulating. He had dared to read a few paragraphs of it, once, and ended up feeling like he needed a hot bath afterward. Elea was too sweet to read garbage like that.... or was she? Jowan shook his head to be rid of the thought.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” Elea continued, waving a hand towards the chapel door. “You never pray unless forced.” Ah, if she was there to read, then there was no way that book was Swords and Shields. No one in their right mind would read a book like... that... with Andraste leering doing at them.

“Well, there's a first time for everything, right?” Jowan said lamely, “so what are you reading?” He asked, eager to change the subject. Elea shifted awkwardly, suddenly becoming interested with a sconce on the wall.

“A book.”

“Clearly. What's the title?”

Elea blushed all the way to the tips of her ears, “SwordsandSheildsVarricTethras.” She said in a single breath, her blush deepening.

“Seriously?” Jowan balked, feeling his big brother instinct start to kick in. “Elea, you're better than that!”

“I was curious!” She defended quickly, “and-and everyone said it was good, so I figured I'd look at it a little...”

“Is it good?”
“Yes. ...No... I'm not sure.” Elea looked at the cover of the book like it would help decide what she thought about it. She sighed and tucked it under her arm, “I'll just give it to Lydia, she's been wanting to read it.”

“Wynne's going to find out when she comes back,” Jowan warned, ushering Elea away from the chapel. “And then we're all going to get in trouble for passing erotica around,”

“Anders brought it from the outside,” Elea said, running a thumb along the hard, leather-bound cover. Jowan scoffed and rolled his eyes,

“I am not surprised in the slightest.” It was almost fascinating to see Anders' decline over the years. He had gone from being one of the best healers in the tower, to a sex maniac who taunted the templars on a daily basis with his increasingly intricate plans to escape from the tower. Maybe he was going insane. Mages in isolation were given only enough lyrium to prevent them from becoming raving mad, maybe the deprivation had done something to his brain. It was kind of depressing, to be honest, since Anders used to be one of Jowan's biggest idols when he was growing up.

Thoughts of possibly insane mages and the naughty books he brought from outside aside, Jowan and Elea found themselves in the library, where he plucked the book from Elea's grasp and casually slid it into an unoccupied spot on the shelf. No doubt Finn would rant about how a “disgusting blight on the written word” was left amidst the Tower's collection of Fereldan history, but anyone could easily tune his long, long speeches out. “Now then,” Jowan brushed his hands off, “as long as we're together, did you want anything?” He turned back to Elea, who was picking at the ends of her sleeve nervously.

“I think that I'll be called to my Harrowing soon...” Elea admitted in a quiet voice. “But I don't think I'm ready yet, I only just turned twenty-three!” The other apprentices in the library turned to look at her, curious about the sudden increase in volume, and she ducked her head to avoid their gazes. “First Enchanter Irving said that I wouldn't have to wait much longer, but I....” She blinked the tears from her eyes and looked up at Jowan. “I'm terrified.”

“Hey, hey,” Jowan drew her into an one armed hug, holding her close at his side. “You'll do fine. You're brilliant and everyone here knows it,”

“Desmond was brilliant, too, and he never came back,” Elea replied in a choked voice. “If he didn't come back, what hope do I have?” She buried her face in her hands to muffle her sobbing. Jowan carefully lowered them to the floor, and she slouched against him at as soon as she could. Soon her sobs died down and she pulled her hands away, rubbing at her tear-stained face to try and erase the ugly redness.

“All better?” Jowan asked gently, rubbing her back in small circles.

“Not entirely,” Elea sighed. “I wish I could ask someone what the Harrowing is. But... Jowan... in case I don't come back,”

“Stop right there,” He interjected, grabbing both of her shoulders and turning her to face him. “You will come back.”

“You don't know that,” Elea put her hands over Jowan's and squeezed faintly. “I don't know that. So I need to say this before it happens.” She took a deep breath through her nose. “You're the best thing that's happened to me. You're the best friend I have in this world,” she paused to rub at her eyes, voice choked with tears. “The only one who doesn't look at me like I'm a monster because of this scar on my face,” she brushed her fingers across the burn scar under her right eye, “and the only one who doesn't glare when I say my parents came from a Dalish clan.” She licked her lips and struggled to find her words. Jowan swallowed thickly at the lump of his throat, knowing that he had to be the stronger of the two of them. For her sake, and for his. “I can't thank you enough for everything. Just.. pray for me when my time comes. Please?”

Jowan wasn't a religious man, no matter how had the Andrastian faith had been shoved down his throat all these years. He had a hard time revering a woman who seemed to condemn mages centuries before he was even born, and seemed to be the mother of the hatred against them. The Chant of Light sounded like rubbish to him, but Elea... was as devout as anyone could be. Perhaps by her own choice, perhaps because the Sisters had told her that her parent's beliefs were evil. Whatever the case was, she dedicated her life to the Maker and His Prophet, and to deny her request would be unforgivable.

“I will.” Jowan said in a small voice. Elea smiled gratefully at him between her tears and hugged him like he was the only thing keeping her in this world.

Late that night, he was studying via candlelight, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and swearing to himself that he'd actually succumb to the Fade once he had finished this chapter. The apprentice chambers opened with a groan, followed by the sound of heavy plate armor marching against the stone floor. Jowan blew out his candle and crept over to the wall separating the men's half from the woman's, squinting his eyes in the darkness. He could make up First Enchanter Irving kneeling in front of someone's bed, and Jowan's blood went cold when he recognized it as Elea's. The elf was gently shaken awake, and she and Irving shared a few hushed words before she got out of bed and followed him out of the chamber, the templars walking on either side of her. It seemed more like a funeral march than anything.

“Maker preserve you.” Jowan muttered under his breath. True to his word, he sat on his bed, clutched his hands together, and bowed his head in prayer.