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anoras · 1 month ago

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Limbo rating: gen words: 2355

Rivka Surana dreams, and wonders, and speaks to a friend.

Her vision seemed to shimmer at the edges, like rippling glazed windows, where frost gathers at the edges. It felt as if she once more gazed out a tower window in Kinloch, trying to discern specks of the hinterlands on the distant shore, freshly fallen snow leaving the outside world a hazy, dream-like place. Leafless branches tangled on the horizon, like hands reaching to grasp at the chimney smoke that curled from distant homes, trying to capture the warmth in their gnarled fingers.

Warmth. Warmth in the tower, warmth in a home. A small home, with thin walls and shutters instead of glazing in the windows, where wind would blow through the cracks in winter, and hot summers brought with them the smells of mud and animals. Yet a fire still burned in the hearth, there was food in her belly every night, and she had parents who doted on her; who kissed her cheeks and taught her letters, who tended her scrapes and sang her lullabies in an ancient tongue.

The warmth coalesced her vision, condensed it into something resembling that home. Her mother, red-haired like her, tattoos dancing in the firelight like the halla they represented; her father, arms strong from the potter’s wheel, holding her on his knee, hearty laughter rumbling in his chest. She was there again, watching her mother place the tiny slice of honey cake onto the rickety old table in front of her; her name-day gift, a rare and costly treat in the Alienage.

She knew what came next, and she willed herself to wake, willed herself to leave this dream, even as the shouting began. It played out as it always did, the memory that haunted her from her first nights in Kinloch, until even now, seventeen years after the fact. There would be a knock at the door, metal fist against the brittle wood, hitting it so hard it splintered. There would be no time to move, for her to hide like she had been taught (behind the wardrobe, through the loose slat, run like a mouse in the walls until you reach the alley), no time but for the span of a breath.

The templars had seemed monstrous to her then; were monstrous even now. Great metal beasts with blazing swords upon their chests, voices echoing inside their helms; a storybook monster to her child’s mind. She screamed; a shrill, piercing shriek, that brought with it the smell of ozone. Her skin prickled, static making her shift cling to her woolen stockings for a brief, brilliant lightning-flash of a moment before a gesture of the templar’s gauntleted hand made the air stand still.

That was how it had felt, at least, as her heart stuttered against the bird-bones of her chest and the air settled thick and stagnant over the room. Like suffocating, she thought, like a sense had been taken away.

In her dream, she felt the templar grasp her by the wrist, yanking her to her feet. He dragged her, stumbling, out of their little house — out of the warmth, out of her father’s arms, away from her mother, pleading — out, out to the cold streets, to the half-frozen slush that seeped into her stockings, to the biting cold of the winter air that set her teeth chattering and made her tears freeze against her cheeks.

“Mama!”

Her last shout echoed in her gasping breaths, eyes flying open as Rivka pulled herself from the nightmare at last. The sheets were tangled around her legs and she kicked them away, wriggling until she lay supine on the bed, cool night air bracing against her clammy flesh. She swallowed thickly, letting her breaths come steady and deliberate, her heart rate slowing. For a long moment she stayed like that, fingers tapping out a steady metronome on the mattress as she grounded herself back in reality. What year is it? She asked herself. Nine Thirty-Five Dragon. Where are you? I’m in Vigil’s Keep, in Amaranthine. Name five things in the room with you. Breathe. Steady, slow. Alistair, he’s still sleeping. She could hear him snoring softly, warm and present beside her. Kelev is at the foot of the bed. The mabari had moved when she had awoken, resting his massive head atop her calf as she settled, like some strange, fuzzy anchor to her storm-tossed raft. What else? The fire’s out. No one bothered to stoke it, because the nights are getting warmer. My dressing gown is on the bedpost. There’s a teapot on my desk that’s gone cold.

Her heart rate slowing, and the panic ebbing from her body, she sat up, pulling her leg gently from beneath her mabari’s head and swinging her feet over the edge of the bed. She could scrounge up a cup of tea from the kitchens, or find someone willing to play a hand of cards to distract her. Maker curse it all, she thought, maybe I’ll just walk into the fucking sea. The thought made her grimace, shame lancing through her. It would solve nothing and help no one — least of all herself.

Kelev wriggled closer to her, as if sensing her distress. Perhaps he did; a mabari’s bond with its master was often said to be near magical. She reached out and scratched his ear, rubbing the velvety fur on it, the smooth scar tissue where it had been cropped. Her fingers traced the dog’s scarred head, his wet nose that snuffled against her palm, the velvet muzzle that hid a war hound’s snarl.

“You wouldn’t let a single one of them near me, would you?” She let her body cant to the side, pressing her cheek against the top of the dog’s head. He snorted in response. “Good boy.”

She knew she should wake Alistair, for the comfort of his presence at the very least, but she couldn’t bring herself to do so. It felt like admitting defeat, like a weakness she couldn’t bear. A nightmare, that’s all it had been, and nothing in it could hurt her any longer. “— Should have let the past stay there,” She sighed against Kelev’s fur, “Could be dead for all I know, and then what? I’ve bought myself more heartache?”

Dead, or perhaps worse, they had forgotten her, moved on after their mage-child had been dragged away to the circle. She had never been allowed to write them, and if they had written her — she would never have been allowed the letters, even if they had. She knew they had left the Alienage after the templars had taken her away, about a year later, if the memory of one of their former neighbors held true. But where they had gone — and whether they had stayed there — was still a mystery. What remained of their friends and neighbors in the Alienage hadn’t heard from them since, and neither had her aunt, still with the Dalish.

She had put out feelers with her newfound connections, but they weren’t primed to dig up the location of two elven peasants. Even Leliana had been of little help. Her friend was in Val Royeaux, working for the Divine, and while the net she cast was wider and sunk deeper than Rivka’s own, she had little time to chase down an old friend’s whims. Rivka groaned. Leliana would spend every spare moment on this hunt if she felt even a hint that it was what Rivka wanted, that was simply the kind of woman she was, the way she doled out her love to the lucky few that earned it. The thought of pressing the matter still made her itch.

Dragging herself back to some pantomime of verticality, she stood from the bed, feet sliding into her slippers. Judging from the dim moonlight beyond the window, it was still hours yet from dawn, and hours yet from the hustle and bustle of a castle shaking off the shroud of sleep. She grimaced; solitude rarely did her well. Still, she shrugged on her dressing gown, tying it tight around her middle, before retrieving parchment, quill, and inkpot from her desk. Insurance against excuses, at the very least.

Kelev followed her as she shuffled from the bedroom, sliding with shocking grace from the bed to lope beside her. This was hardly the first time he accompanied her as she wandered the castle grounds, walking off a nightmare or a painful memory. He’s good company, She thought, he doesn’t talk back.

“We’ll see if there’s a beef bone the kitchen can part with.” Her palm fell to rest atop his head as they made their way down the keep’s empty halls. She rarely set guards to patrol the halls, keeping only a nominal cohort making their circuits along the outside walls. Any more than that hadn’t been necessary in years — not between her own hard-won control over the Arling, and the simple fact that at least one of her wardens would be just as sleepless as she was now. It was not a job that allowed for much restful sleep.

Blight dreams had subsided considerably since the final retreat of the darkspawn hoards, but they still came, snippets of the groaning, pulsing heartbeat of it, calling out to her own tainted blood. They all felt it, she knew, some worse than others, but always there; an aneurysm ready to burst at any moment.

Tonight, at least, had been a mundane nightmare — one that left her shaken and sleepless, but mundane nonetheless. It was for that reason she was pleased with the solitude. When Blight snuck its way into their dreams, they all knew to check in; to warn one another, and if need be, to send patrols down to the Deep Roads entrance beneath the keep. Nightmares about templars and stolen children could be kept all to herself.

She would feed Kelev and write to Leliana when she got to the kitchens, she resolved (though the dread seemed to grow legs and scuttle like a bug in the pit of her stomach).

The kitchen fire was burning in the hearth, and there was a kettle of something fragrant on the stove when she and Kelev arrived. It seemed she wasn’t alone in her sleeplessness; Velanna was seated at the trestle table, a half-darned sock and a cup of whatever was steeping on the stove, in front of her.

Neither woman spoke, letting the interruption of their individual solitudes hang heavy in the air between them for one long moment.

“Tea is on the stove,” Velanna murmured, nodding toward the kettle. “Herbs for sleep.”

If she had to run into another person as sleepless as herself, she was glad it was Velanna. It was like sitting with a less cryptic Morrigan; just as curt, and just as unlikely to pry when it wasn’t wanted. She nodded at the other woman, setting her writing supplies on the table. Kelev was already sniffing at the crate of dried scraps he was fed from, and she fished a few strips of meat out for him before pouring herself a cup of tea. It smelled good; floral and hoppy.

The darning was back in Velanna’s hands when she returned to the table, tidy stitching making quick work of the threadbare heel.

“Dark dreams?” Velanna didn’t look up from her darning, though she paused to scratch Kelev behind the ear as he passed her chair.

Rivka made a noncommittal sound, taking a sip of her tea. She didn’t look at the other woman, choosing instead to peer at her blank parchment, as if staring at it could will a letter into existence. “When are they not?”

Velanna let out a soft chuckle, “For us? Never.”

They lapsed back into a companionable silence, broken only by the occasional scratch of Rivka’s quill on her parchment. It was just as frustrating a letter as she had anticipated, each word of her request feeling like it was being dragged out with a rough cord. Begging assistance off of anyone never felt good, but it particularly rankled when it was a close friend. What a world it would be, she thought, if I could simply send a missive giving her some pleasant news for once. Maybe ask about the nugs, without using it to couch some need of my own.

Velanna had moved on to a second sock when Rivka finally looked up from her letter, practically throwing the quill away from her as she signed off with an “ever your friend, Rivka.” She groaned. Velanna raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s earned your ire tonight?” Velanna asked, a hint of amusement in her tone.

“Myself,” Rivka said, leaning back in her chair, “I have a personal request for a friend, and actually writing the letter is like pulling my own teeth out.”

“Dream related?”

“In its own way,” She sighed, “It’s mundane, at least. I’ve… had her searching for someone for me. It’s been weighing on me enough to leak into my dreams, apparently.”

Velanna nodded, hands stilling for a moment. “I dreamed of my sister again.” Rivka knew how often images of Seranni plagued Velanna; the last sight they had of her, blighted and ghoulish, trailing the Architect like some loyal servant hanging in her own mind as well. Another innocent that she could not save.

They never spoke of it, though her wardens all knew of the handful of dealings Rivka had had with the blighted Magister over the years. It was a silent, tacit agreement between them all; whatever it takes, whatever we must do. One tool among many. Yet still, she could sense the ever-present question that weighed on Velanna’s mind, and the desire to ask that warred with the fear at what the answer would be. To voice it would be to invite in the possibility of an answer she did not want to hear, to let it fester at least allowed her hope.

“Don’t live wondering,” Velanna let out a short breath through her nose, mouth tight. An expression, Rivka knew, that was directed inward. “Better to know and mourn, than to sit in limbo forever.”

Rivka closed her eyes, and nodded.

#rivka surana #mara.pdf #ough. anyway.

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