#Fandom spaces shouldn’t be created by the makers of that fandom and I’ll stand by that even if it’s a little wobbly in wording

[degenerate-perturbation]

Chapters: 8/? Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening Relationships: Female Amell/Female Surana Characters: Female Amell, Female Surana, Anders, Velanna, Nathaniel Howe Additional Tags: Established Relationship Series: Part 2 of void and light, blood and spirit Summary: Amell and Surana are out of the Circle, and are now free to build a life together. But when the prison doors fly open, what do you have in common with the one who was shackled next to you? What do you have in common, save for the chains that bound you both?

The young man arrived unassumingly, much like all the rest.

The Ferelden Wardens had been so depleted since the Fifth Blight, that if any good had come of the siege, it was that the Wardens’ fame was growing. Recruits were flowing in, from Amaranthine and beyond, from as far as Gwaren. Men and women from every walk of life came to pledge their lives to vigilance.

Yvanne had placed herself in charge of recruitment. She appreciated the bitter irony of it, but the importance of that paled in comparison to what she would do as the self-appointed head of Warden recruitment. She could tell people what they were getting themselves into—exactly what would happen during the Joining, what would happen if they got unlucky, what their approximate chances of surviving was. She could describe the life they would have afterwards—the dreams, the shortened lifespan, that constant feeling that something was scratching at the back of their heads.

Yvanne had the sense that she wasn’t supposed to tell civilians these things, that they were secrets. But she figured that if the First Warden wanted to come and make it her problem, she’d deal with him then, and not before.

Some of those that came turned away and went home when they understood what they would be signing up for. But, most stayed.

She set herself up in the Great Hall, sitting behind an oaken desk she’d had dragged into the space where the Arl’s throne had once stood. There she met with each recruit personally, recording their names and professions and where they had come from. This kind of administrative work should have been Garavel’s—he was the new Seneschal, after all—but somehow Yvanne could never get used to him. He looked so young. He didn’t know the system she and Varel had worked out together. It was easier to just do it herself.

So when the broad-shouldered young man came forward to meet with the Warden-Lieutenant, at first he seemed completely unremarkable.

“Name?” she asked, not quite looking up.

“Rolan.”

“Place of birth?”

“Jader.”

“Previous occupation?”

“Templar.”

The scratching of Yvanne’s quill ceased abruptly, blotting the sheet she was writing on. Her breath caught. Rolan only continued to smile blithely.

She lifted the pen, scattering sand over the blot.

“I don’t think so,” she said icily, not looking at him.

His light brows drew together in confusion. “I swear, ser, it’s the truth. I served in—”

“I’m not accusing you of lying,” she corrected. “I’m denying your petition to join the Grey Wardens.”

At first he stared at her, uncomprehending. “What?!” He slammed his hands on the table, rattling it. She suppressed the flinch. “But the Wardens need skilled warriors! I’ve trained in arms and armor, I understand discipline, I’m an able warrior. How can you turn me away?”

“Like this.” She took the parchment on which she’d written his name, crumpled it up, and incinerated it. She enjoyed his obvious fear as he startled backwards, eyes wide. She brushed the charred remains off her desk. “I wish you a pleasant journey home to Jader.”

He struggled to master himself. “Can’t I at least know why?”

“Certainly.” She smiled. “Many of the highest-ranking and most valued of our Ferelden Wardens are mages. I cannot ask them to tolerate your presence, given your abilities and your prior occupation.”

“Is that what you’re concerned about?” His lip actually trembled. Pathetic. “It isn’t like that at all. I’m not here as a Templar. I’m not a Templar at all anymore! I came here because I wanted to do something noble with my life, something heroic.”

“Oh, I see. You didn’t finding standing over helpless imprisoned children with a sword too rewarding? Wanted something a little more personally fulfilling, did you?”

He sputtered. “This is completely against—this isn’t—I thought the Grey Wardens took anyone. I thought you were desperate for recruits.”

Not that desperate, she thought acidly. His raised voice and the small fireball she had just created were drawing attention. Some of the Vigil’s soldiers had their hands on their weapons, watching the situation carefully. Yvanne gestured for them to hold, but Rolan was still talking.

“I thought anyone could come here and turn over a new leaf. You shouldn’t be able to hold my past against me.”

“Maybe not,” she said cheerfully, “but I am. Good day, ser. ”

He stood there gaping. Then he straightened, his jaw twitching. “You don’t have the authority to turn me away.”

“Oh? How interesting,” Yvanne said, disinterestedly. She demonstratively paged through some of the documents on the desk, not looking at him. “And here I thought I was the ranking recruitment officer.”

“ You aren’t the Warden-Commander.”

Yvanne’s smile disappeared.

“ You’re not the one who slew the Archdemon and lived.”

She felt her eyebrow twitch.

“ She’s an elf; I know that much.”

She vividly imagined what it would be like to fill this fool with lightning.

“I want to talk to her .”

“You do, do you?” Yvanne said, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her. “I’m afraid the Warden-Commander is very busy, and unfortunately can’t take time out of her day to talk to every fool that demands her attention.”

“Fine, then.”  Rolan crossed his arms. “I’ll wait.”

Yvanne’s fingers tightened over her knuckles. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “I’ll camp outside the walls until she has time to see me. Every day I’ll come in here and ask to join the Wardens and every day I’ll ask to see the Commander until I get a no directly from her lips. Then I’ll leave. But not before.”

She could tell he meant it, too. She’d have to deal with him every single day until he finally got the rejection from the person he wanted, and every one of those days was another day that a Templar was within smiting distance of her. Within smiting distance of Loriel. And Anders. And Velanna. Yvanne felt a flare of the old hatred, not in her heart, but somewhere in her gut, that pool of brewing roiling viscous bile that for so long had laid quiescent.

She needed to get rid of him.

“Fine,” she snapped. “If you are so desperate to be turned away by the Warden-Commander herself, I’ll oblige you. This way. Garavel, tell anyone still outside to wait. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

She rose from the high-backed wooden chair, so abruptly that its legs scraped horribly on the stone floor, and marched off towards Loriel’s office. She would end this quickly and never deal with this cockroach again. He followed her dutifully through the halls, at least doing her the service of remaining silent.

She banged on the Commander’s office doors, waiting hardly a second before barging in. Loriel startled, looking up from sheets of parchment covered in glyph diagrams and arcane symbols beyond Yvanne’s comprehension. Her brow crumpled when she saw her and she opened her mouth to say something before catching sight of Rolan.

“Yes?” she said smoothly, her puzzled expression schooling into glasslike neutrality. “How can I be of assistance?”

Before Yvanne could say anything, Rolan dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “I wish only to pledge my life in service to the Grey Wardens. I wish to protect the innocent, to fight the darkness, to be the shield that stands before the night. I would give my life to it.”

Loriel allowed a drop of confusion to enter her expression. “I see. And is there a problem?”

“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Yvanne said, dripping with every bit of her old venom. “This man is a Templar.”

Loriel’s expression did not so much as twitch. “Is that true?”

Rolan hesitated. “I was a Templar,” he said, “in my old life. But no longer. I seek a different path.”

“I see.” Loriel laced her fingers together in front of her and looked down at them.

“Oh, come on!” Yvanne burst out. “Surely you can’t possibly—”

“Yvanne,” Loriel cut her off. “ Please.” Yvanne caught the tight, desperate plea in her eye. She bit her tongue. Rolan was still kneeling.

“You understand,” Loriel said finally, leaning forward, “that the Joining is often fatal.”

“I do.”

“And you understand that should you live, I will be your Commander. Warden Amell, as Warden-Lieutenant, would also be your ranking officer.”

“I do.”

“You realize I am a mage. As is she.”

“I do, ser.”

“As well as several other Wardens that have my complete trust. Free mages, whose actions you may not always agree with.”

“Yes, ser.”

“You aren’t uncomfortable with that?”

“No, ser.”

She pierced him with that deep inky gaze of hers. “Knowing that any disloyalty, any failure to comply with orders—any intentional disruptions of the Wardens under my protection—may mean that your life is forfeit?”

“Yes, ser.”

“You would abide by the oaths and customs and bounds of the Grey Wardens? You would sacrifice yourself, if need be?”

He had been nodding along, and now his head bobbed up and down like a clucking chicken. “I would. Ser. I so swear it by the Maker.”

She kept silent a while again. Then she sighed. “Very well. If you wish it, you will be Joined along with the others at the end of Harvestmere. You may report to the recruit barracks.”

He thanked her, and bowed his head again, and thanked her another time, and exited the room practically backwards, and didn’t even ask where the recruit barracks were.

Yvanne waited until the sound of his footsteps was well out of earshot, then slammed the door so hard the hinges rattled.

“What the hell was that !” she shouted.

Loriel noticed that the cap was off the inkwell, and carefully replaced it.

“That’s a fucking Templar, you realize?”

Loriel started cleaning the tip of the quill pen she’d been using, examining the tip as though to check whether it needed sharpening.

“I mean, Andraste’s bleeding tits ! We’ve spent how long trying to get away from these bastards, and you’re inviting one of them over for tea and biscuits? To stay in my Keep? To be part of our Wardens?”

Loriel put down the quill and started organizing the sheets of parchment littering her desk.

“I don’t understand! Have you lost your mind? Are you possessed by some demon of discord and confusion? Just what are you playing at?!”

Loriel left the parchments in three neat stacks on the desk, placing the quill and inkwell in their proper places.

“I can’t believe you’d do this to me! To all the Warden mages! To us. ”

Her voice caught. She collapsed into a nearby chair, exhausted. “I— I just—” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Finished?”

“Yes,” Yvanne said morosely.

Loriel rose and stood in front of Yvanne’s chair, where she sat hunched and twisted. She bit her lip, rubbing the knucklebone of her thumb.

“I understand how you feel,” she said carefully. “I’m not entirely comfortable with it either, but my position is—” She hesitated.  “—precarious. My people value me more than they fear me, but if I started to behave politically like a mage and not a Warden, that might change. I need to be seen as neutral. The Wardens are meant to be a clean slate. A chance to atone. If I deny that chance to a Templar, how does that make me look? Besides, wouldn’t you rather he be a Warden than a Templar?”

“I’d rather he be dead. ”

“We don’t get to choose that.”

“Since when?” Yvanne demanded. “We’ve killed lots of people. Duncan killed Jory, just for being afraid. Why shouldn’t I kill Rolan now?”

Loriel looked evenly at her. “You won’t do that.”

“No,” she said savagely. “But I ought to.”

“Oh, Yvanne.” Loriel took her cold dry hands in hers. “How long are we supposed to stay afraid?”

“That’s not—” Yvanne sputtered, pulling her hands away and standing. “It’s not about that.”

How she hated when Loriel turned those big sad eyes on her. She held her elbows close to her body, looking small. “Isn’t it?”

“It isn’t about who he is. It’s about what he can do.” Yvanne flashed back to every smiting bolt she’d ever felt, to the warehouse, how they’d barely survived...

“If we need to fear that man because of what he can do, then why shouldn’t everyone fear us for what we can do?”

“Maybe they should fear us,” Yvanne said darkly.

“You don’t mean that.”

“You don’t know what I mean.”

“I do know.”

Yvanne said nothing.

“Look,” said Loriel, sighing again, “we aren’t Circle mages anymore. If we’re going to live— really live—we’re going to have to accept that.”

“What are you talking about?” It came out sharper than she meant it to.

She threw her hands wide. “I mean, we aren’t prisoners anymore! And that man isn’t our jailer. Don’t you understand? We’re out of the tower. We have to knock down the walls or we’ll never be able to live.”

“I thought we were living. I was. Weren’t you?” Yvanne swiped her thumb over the ring on her finger.

“I’m—” Loriel faltered. “I’m doing my best. It isn’t easy.”

A steady gaze. “You didn’t tell me.” But I knew, Yvanne thought. I knew, but I thought, with enough time...

“Because I don’t think it’s any easier for you.” She took a breath. “If I choose to be a frightened Circle mage rather than the Warden-Commander, I’ll never escape. Neither of us will. We’ll always be looking over our shoulders, waiting to be caught. If we can’t move past that, we’re doomed.”

“You can’t make that choice for me.”

Loriel looked down. “Maybe not. I’m sorry. But I stand by my decision.”

“I…” Yvanne sighed. “Maybe you have a point. But I might need some time.”

“Alright.” They stood not quite looking at each other. Yvanne’s fingernails dug into her palm. Loriel fiddled with her wedding ring until it chafed. “I love you,” she added.

“I love you, too. But sometimes I don’t understand you at all.”

A faint smile. “Isn’t that the joy of it?”

Yvanne went to her and kissed her lightly, to show that she wasn’t angry, although she was, and left the office. And Loriel was left alone to sit and idly review her diagrams and consider all that had been said and done.

She hadn’t lied, exactly. It was true, all that she’d said. She had pinned her life, and Yvanne’s life, and so many other lives, to the Grey Wardens. If she had done that, it had to mean something. She had to make it mean something. Otherwise she was a monster, wasn’t she?

And it was true, that they had to stop being afraid. That was why she’d done it.

But really...

She’d done it because she’d seen a Templar kneeling before her, and known that his life was in her hands. Known that she could kill him, if she wanted to. Yes, her position was precarious, but not that precarious. Yvanne was right about one thing: Duncan had killed recruits. At least one that she knew of, for such a petty reason, and there were probably more. And who was Duncan, compared to the Hero of Ferelden, the most famous Warden-Commander in centuries? Who would have stopped her? Who would have breathed a word against her?

He’d been at her mercy, and it had felt so good.

It had shocked her, just how good. All these years she’d been a little mouse, afraid for so long that she had not realized what it had been to not be afraid. She’d feared her parents’ anger, she’d feared the shemlen outside the alienage, and she’d feared the Templars, always the Templars. It had made her into what she was, the fear. Now that it was gone, its absence was intoxicating. She wanted more of it, that un-fear. The way she felt watching an ogre barrelling down at her and knowing it would not touch her, the way she felt consorting with darkspawn and knowing she had the upper hand—that was how watching Rolan kneel before her felt.

Yes, she was ashamed, but it was a perfunctory sort of shame. She knew she ought to feel it, anyway. Ashamed enough that she did not want to tell Yvanne, did not want her to know. Yvanne thought her better than she was, and she loved her for it. Maybe she needed someone to see the best in her—else all the worst in her would come up and choke her to death. So she felt just enough shame for that. But only just.

How pathetic it would have been to send him away. To let him win. To admit that even now—as Arlessa and Commander and blood mage and the greatest necromancer that had lived in centuries—she was still afraid of a man for the symbol on his armor.

No. She was done. The Templar could stay if he wanted. and maybe he’d die, and maybe he wouldn’t. And maybe he would be a good and loyal Warden and he would do good things with his life, and that would be good.

And then again, maybe he wouldn’t. And Loriel would boil his blood inside his veins, and that would also be good. But she would never be afraid again.

Not ever.

—

“Did I hear correctly? There’s a Templar among the recruits?”

“Yes,” Yvanne said moodily. “You heard correctly.”

Anders shook his head. “Are you sure? It could be that I’m having spontaneous massive bleeding in the brain.”

“I could give you a once-over, I guess,” she joked weakly.

“You have to talk to her.”

“I already did.”

“Well, can you do it again?” he demanded.

“I could, if I wanted to invite additional strife into my marriage.” She snorted. “But I won’t.”

He rounded on her. “You’re going to allow a Templar into the Wardens to avoid a little marital strife?”

“Step off,” she snapped. “I’m not happy about it, either.”

Anders fumed. “You know this is obviously an attempt by the Chantry to spy on us. I’m sure of it. It wasn’t as though they were going to stand for this many free mages in the Wardens. It was bound to happen.”

“Right, well, I don’t know about all that—”

“What, you think I’m being paranoid?” Anders demanded.

“No? I just meant—”

“And what about Justice? You think this Templar isn’t going to notice a possessed corpse walking around?”

Yvanne threw her hands up. “I don’t know! Half the time, I have no idea what Loriel’s thinking. But she’s always come through before, even when I didn’t understand what she was doing or why.”

“Yeah, well,” Anders said darkly, “You weren’t at Drake’s Fall.”

Yvanne’s hands tightened on the bannister. “Don’t remind me.”

“No, I just meant…you didn’t see her.”

She had, though. She thought about telling him. She’d told Loriel, who claimed it hadn’t bothered her, that she had nothing to hide, but she’d told nobody else. Even thinking about it gave her an unpleasant sinking feeling in her stomach, like she was doing something shameful that needed to be hidden.

“What, exactly, happened at Drake’s Fall?” she asked instead.

He raised an eyebrow. “She didn’t tell you?”

“She did. She told me everything,” Yvanne said, more defensively than she meant.

“So you know you she made a deal with it,” said Anders. “That darkspawn, the Architect.”

“Yes, I do.” Yvanne drew herself up. “And what about it?”

Anders shook his head, staring off like he was struggling to understand. “She talked to it like...I don’t know, like it was a colleague! An old friend, or something!”

“Doesn’t shock me. She’s always been diplomatic.” Her expression darkened. “Even to the worst monsters.”

“You don’t understand,” Anders insisted. “You didn’t see her. It was like she was a completely different person.”

“You don’t know her like I know her,” Yvanne said smoothly, but inside a little voice wailed, She was, she was different! Who was that woman I saw? I didn’t know her.

“I s’pose I don’t,” Anders muttered. “But it was bad. I mean, I’m not one to judge, personally—Loriel’s a big girl, hey? She can wheel and deal with ancient darkspawn magisters all she wants, no skin off my nose. But Sigrun and Justice didn’t feel that way.”

Alarm bells rang. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they really didn’t feel that way. I almost thought we’d end up fighting to the death about it.”

Loriel had vaguely mentioned their disapproval. Yvanne had even seen part of the argument, in a fashion. But to the death?

Anders was still talking. “It didn’t come to that, thank the Maker. She talked them both down. But for a second there I really thought I’d have to...anyway, it didn’t come to that.”

Yvanne couldn’t help but notice that Anders had failed to mention who he would have sided with, if it had come to that.

But it hadn’t.

“Nothing would have happened,”   Yvanne said, less certainly than she would have liked. “They wouldn’t. She’s their commander. Their friend.”

“She was , anyway.” He paused. “Justice probably doesn’t have any hard feelings. You know how he is. Doesn’t really hold grudges. Funny, isn’t it? A spirit of Justice that doesn’t hold grudges?”

“Right. Funny. Ha, ha.” Yvanne had probably never pronounced a hollower laugh.

“In that case, we should figure something out for Justice before the Chantry’s little lapdog goes crying all the way to a Revered Mother about the revenants the big scary mage commander is hiding in her tower of horrors.”

“Probably,” Yvanne muttered, pushing past him.

—

Yvanne roiled deep in one of the worst moods of her life.

She’d been in a lot of bad moods in her life, but never this particular awful combination of contradictory feelings that overlapped and bled into each other like oil swirling upon water. It was giving her a headache. Every time she tried to be angry at Loriel, she felt guilty. And every time she felt guilty, she felt self-righteous at the very idea that she had anything to feel guilty for when she was so obviously in the right. And every time she felt self-righteous, she felt pathetic. Why did she possibly need to be so defensive here in her castle where she and her wife were the rulers?

She and her wife, she thought. Who’d have ever thought such a thing? Who could have ever imagined?

And yet still here she was, roving through her castle like a caged tiger, heartbroken and pulsating like a poisoned vein of lyrium.

She didn’t understand, she just didn’t understand. What Loriel had said made sense. They did need to let go of their past, fully become Wardens and not mere Circle mages. It all made perfect sense and Yvanne still didn’t understand. She thought again of the strange cold woman she had seen in her visions, who she recognized but did not quite know, who was not her Loriel.  If only she hadn’t looked, she could have brushed off Anders’ words like so much goosefeather down. But as it was….

She found herself, almost against her wishes, making her way to the new recruits’ barracks.

When she got there, a few of the recruits, two human women and an elven man, were playing dice and chatting about something. Yvanne almost barked at them to get back to their duties before realizing that it was the middle of the night, it wasn’t their patrol, and they didn’t currently have any duties.

“Have you seen Rolan?” she asked instead as they all hurriedly rose to salute her. They didn’t know. He’d gone out less than an hour ago. He hadn’t said where he was going.

What was he playing at? Did he think she would not notice? Did he think her so stupid? She couldn’t stand for that.

She thanked the recruits and turned on her heel. It was late and dark and the lit sconces provided only barely enough light. She could have lit a magelight, but didn’t. This wasn’t a mood to be lit.

The Templar was not in the kitchen. He was not in the entrance hall. He was not in the courtyard.

Finally she found him, in the little chapel at the edge of the Keep. She hadn’t quite finished renovations here yet.

He jerked as she approached, as though startled out of deep prayer.

“Hello, Rolan,” she said, sliding into the pew beside him. She smiled broadly and clasped him on the shoulder.

“Good evening, Warden-Lieutenant,” he said, although it was well past evening. “Do you need me for anything—ser?” He remembered just in time.

“Are you a pious man, Rolan?” Yvanne asked, ignoring the question.

“I like to think so, ser.”

“One would have to be quite pious to be in the chapel this late at night, wouldn’t you say?”

“I enjoy the quiet,” he said, nervous. “It’s peaceful.”

Her grip on his shoulder tightened. “Is this piety why you joined the Templars, Rolan? Did you feel it was your duty?”

“I...suppose so, ser.” His voice wavered. Only slightly, but it did. Good.

Several times he appeared to try to speak, but every time he thought better of it. “I think I’d like to return to the barracks, ser. It’s late.”

She released him. “Yes, so it is.”

He rose and made for the exit, made to escape.  

“Wait a moment, Rolan,” she said softly. “That’s an order.”

He stopped and turned around, his head lowered. “Ser?”

“I just wanted to make sure we both knew exactly where we stand,” she said. “After all that unpleasantness from before.”

“Yes, ser.” He bowed his head in contrition. “I’m sorry for how I behaved before. I hope we can put that behind us.”

She regarded him. “You’re very good at being deferent, Rolan. I suppose they taught you that in the Order.”

“Yes, ser.”

“But it won’t help.”

He straightened anxiously. “Ser?”

“I don’t know why the fuck you’re here,” she hissed, advancing.

“I explained—”

“Shut up. You know, one of my Wardens thinks you’re a Chantry spy here to report on the Commander’s activities. What do you think of that, Rolan?”

“I—”

“I said, shut up!”

He tried to speak, but whatever he had meant to say, he suddenly found his magically tongue leaden in his mouth.

She scrutinized him. “I don’t think you’re a Chantry spy, Rolan. You should find that encouraging. If I thought you were a spy, you’d already be dead. But lucky for you, I don’t think that. I think you’re probably telling the truth. I think you really believe all that garbage about a second chance.”

He gave a series of tiny, desperate nods.

“But it doesn’t matter what you fucking believe. While you are here you are a danger to me and mine. So mark my words, Ser Templar—”

He tried to take a step back. He moved quickly enough that it looked to her like an attempt to get away. A wordless gesture sent him slamming backwards against the stone walls, not enough to injure, but enough to hurt.

“Did I say you were dismissed, Ser Templar? We were having a conversation.”

She held him pinned against the wall with the force spell, his feet several inches off the ground.

“I suggest you stay still,” she said. “If I had to paralyze you in order to finish our conversation, I might accidentally stop your lungs.”

He gave the fainest suggestion of a nod, sweat pouring from his temples.

She strolled up. He was a big man, round-shouldered and burly, and she had to lift her chin to look him in the eye. “The Warden-Commander may have granted you permission to remain here. And I will not go against her decision. If you wish to stay, then by all means, stay. But let me make something perfectly clear.” She bared her teeth. “If you give me so much as a hint that any of your loyalty to the Order remains, I will kill you. The Commander could kill you painlessly, easily, with barely a thought, but I am not her equal. If I decide to kill you, I may well get sloppy. It may take you many minutes to die. And what long minutes they will be. If you give me so much as a hint, a breath, an inkling of a suggestion, that you are more trouble to my people than trouble to the Commander’s reputation, you will die, and no one will question your death, and that will be that. If, of course, you decide to stay. Do you understand, Ser Templar?”

She released her hold on him just enough to let him nod. Tears sprung to his eyes. They were a watery blue. He was terrified of her.

It suddenly occurred to Yvanne that this boy was probably younger than she was.

She stepped back, a ringing in her ears. He didn’t move. Of course not, he wouldn’t dare. “You—You may go,” she said.

He fled before her fury like a mouse before a lion.

She could have killed him, Yvanne realized. She could have killed him right then, and nobody would have stopped her. Not that she’d never killed anybody before, but never anybody helpless. And he had been helpless.

Shame filled her, hot and acrid. She shouldn’t have come here. Loriel had been right about everything.

Yvanne half-hoped her threat had worked just so she wouldn’t have to see anybody so afraid of her again. And hoped that he’d live, if he stayed, so that she’d have a chance to make up for it, somehow. No light, save from the candles, filled the chapel, and that was just as well. She felt sick and ugly.

She went to the courtyard, taking deep gulps of night air. Her lungs hurt. She drew water from the well, cold clear water, splashed it on her face, then stood gripping the cistern until her heart slowed. She lowered herself to the ground, her back against the stone, looking up at the stars.

Maybe she’d never fully escape the Tower. Maybe a part of her heart was still locked in it. Maybe she’d spend her whole life still trying to escape it.

But she had to try.

She sighed and stood up to go back inside and to bed. At least now she could stop being angry with Loriel. She hated being angry with Loriel.

Yes, she’d been right. Time to move on. Time to live.

—

Rolan lived through his Joining. Yvanne lived to be glad of it, then lived to regret it.