#also I like the word petrichor because it means more or less stone('s) ichor and that's pretty fuck rad

[the-eldritch-it-gay]

Petrichor for Amal?

I recommend reading another drabble I wrote a bit back, Soak, for context before reading this because it lowkey is heavily related to that. Also one of the songs I was listening to while writing was Waste by Foster the People, and a few lines are directly inspired by some of the lyrics.

It was the small things Amal noticed about life outside the tower, at least what they could notice when their senses and mind weren’t numbed and foggy. All the mundane things their companions hardly noticed, but nearly brought them to tears at how foreign and new it was.

Conceptual things like freedom, and all that entailed. They could move around as they pleased, they could choose when to sleep, when and what to eat, what to wear, what they did. At first it was paralyzing, and it still was in a sense. Freedom almost felt containing and useless, like trying to fly with broken wings, like trying to move a muscle atrophied from years of disuse. They found themselves trying to do what they had done in Kinloch Hold, because they couldn’t do anything else--they didn’t know how to do anything else. Freedom felt like nothing had changed, only the painful knowledge that there were other options they couldn’t make use of. Like they were still in a cage, but know they knew there was a life outside they were missing out on. Everything had been fine before, they had thought.

It hadn’t though. All that happened in Kinloch Hold was not fine, was as far from fine as possible. They had just not known anything else, they hadn’t had anything to compare it to. So now with each new experience, a wave of sadness crashed over them and they were finally able to see with growing clarity just how bad life in Kinloch Hold was.

The price of freedom was the sickening realization that they had been in captivity. That, they decided had been worse than the Warden dreams or the knowledge that their years were now numbered.

It wasn’t always bad though.

The feeling of earth beneath their feet. The indescribable warmth the sun gave. Sunlight, pure sunlight, not filtered through tiny, dusty, high up windows. The vibrant colors of grass, trees, and flowers. The impossibly blue expanse of the sky, dotted with clouds. The way the colors of the sky turned to reds and oranges, pinks and gold that bled into each other at sunset.

They were sure one of these days their companions would grow sick of them, of their fascination at the sight of common things like birds. Often they waited for it, waited for reprimanding, for a slap on the wrist or worse, for the others to leave them, or make fun of them, or try and abuse their naiveté. It never came, though. 

Leliana always seemed eager to point out things, to share stories and show them new things. Zevran would smile as he watched them, had even spent some of his gold buying numerous beautifully illustrated reference books. Sten even seemed more patient with them than others, more likely to at least answer their questions. Ane’lun was by far the most accepting--he had been since they met on the way to Ostagar--and was more than happy to teach and show Amal new things. He talked of his clan, of what he knew of their mother, of things he learned as a ranger, showed Amal how to better care for their hair, taught him more of the elven language. For as stoic and sad Ane’lun was, he never seemed to be upset spending time with Amal, or watching them come to enjoy certain aspects of freedom, of nature.

Sometimes Morrigan seemed tired of their curiosity and questions about simple things, and maybe she had truly been at the beginning. She had changed a lot since joining their party, though; never raised her voice or used a harsh tone. At least not towards Amal. For as much as she hated answering others’ questions and seemed uninterested in any sort of romance, she hardly seemed to mind their countless questions or the nights they spent in her tent.

It had bothered her--or at least surprised her--when Amal stayed in her tent until morning, they could tell, and initially, she had taken to dismissing them. Maybe dismissing wasn’t the right word, she would just tell them that they were allowed to leave if they wish. It wasn’t an order, but after 21 years of being in Kinloch Hold, they treated such statements as orders. Not on purpose, maybe. Amal wasn’t entirely certain why they did, why they followed any order without thinking. 

Morrigan had noticed, maybe that was why she stopped dismissing them. She wanted to allow them to choose for themselves, they reasoned. They never imagined it was the other possibility, that she wanted them to stay, that she liked their presence.

That was the other pitfall of freedom. No matter how easily they adjusted to sunlight, to walking long distances, their mind was still at its base the same. They had spent ages four through twenty-seven in Kinloch Hold, at the mercy of Templars, hearing over and over again how mages were dangerous, how mages were monsters and unlovable. They had spent ages seventeen through twenty-seven nothing more than a ghost, being bled and manipulated by someone who claimed they loved them.

A thrall could be broken, the same with a lock, but decades of conditioning couldn’t be broken. At least not easily. 

They still flinched and cowered away from touch, from noise. Their mind still slipped out of their grasp for hours at a time. Their thoughts were still scrambled and disjointed. They were still a mage, and couldn’t shake the feeling that the world outside still just a cage, however larger and brighter.

Sometimes, though, they could manage to enjoy the moment. Enjoy the feeling of moving water when they bathed in streams, enjoy the colors of the sky, enjoy the sight of birds in flight. Enjoy the sudden joy of something new and wonderful and free before despair caught up to them and stole their mind.

It was a while into their traveling--Amal couldn’t tell, it was hard enough keeping track of the hours in a day--when it first rained. The thunder had woken them, frightened them, but after a few minutes, they found themselves sitting outside Morrigan’s tent, wearing nothing but their leggings. 

They remembered the feeling of warm rain, of their leggings soaking through, of mud beneath their feet. They remember Morrigan eventually coming out in the rain, coaxing them back inside. They remembered how they hadn’t flinched when she put a hand on their shoulder, how soft her words seemed, far softer than she usually spoke. She was warm too, like the rain, like the sun, and they couldn’t help how they leaned into her touch.

When morning came, Amal almost thought it had been a dream--they didn’t really have dreams though, nightmares on occasion, but never dreams. Their hair, though, was slightly damp, as was Morrigan’s, and she was sleeping closer to them than she normally did. As the morning light filtered in through the fabric of the tent, Amal slowly noticed a foreign, but pleasant smell.

Morrigan woke after them, she always did, as they always were up early for prayer. Usually, they went over to the main firepit and started one to cook breakfast, but today they waited outside Morrigan’s tent, sitting on a small stone.

“Morrigan,” Amal started when she eventually emerged from her tent.

She almost startled, seeming almost nervous, but Amal hardly noticed.

“D- do you know what that smell is? It’s- it’s like, something earthy and- and fresh,”

“‘Tis what some people call petrichor,” She said, seemingly avoiding looking at Amal, “It comes after the first rain in some time,” 

Petrichor. Later they would write the word in their notebook, along with Morrigan’s definition. Far too many pages of their notebook were filled with similar points, definitions or descriptions of new things they enjoyed. Things they discovered with their freedom. Every day the list seemed to grow.

Rain. Petrichor. The warmth Morrigan’s body radiated. The softness of her voice when she spoke to them that night.