A Letter to Bethany, #2
Mar. 17th, 2011 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bamftastikTitle: A Letter to Bethany, #2
Characters: Hawke/Anders, Hawke/Fenris
Rating: T
Words: 850
Summary: The aftermath of "All That Remains."
Dearest Bethany,
There is no easy way to tell you what I suspect you already know. I have failed you, failed Carver and have tried to live as best I could with the guilt that Mother laid at my feet. She spoke otherwise, of course, but we both knew that such denials are a hollow thing. Had it not been for me, we would be a family still. But even in the end it was me that you looked to, me that you bid make one simple oath. And I was not strong enough to keep it. Mother is gone, Bethany.
Does she stand beside you now, welcome at the Maker's side? I do not know what to believe anymore, do not even trust to the comfort of these words.
I could have saved her. I do not second-guess my haste or strength, do not seek to blame forces that were beyond anyone's control. It is merely simple fact. I could have prevented this and I did not. A man named Gaspard DuPuis also hunted Mother's killer. He knew the man's habits and planned to stop him. But DuPuis was a mage and, to my mind, this was evidence enough of his complicity. Rather than accept his aid, I drove my blade through his chest. Had I but dared to trust... But the problem was not my own then. It was simply another task for another wanting soul and I solved it as quickly and as simply as I could.
But it was a mage that took her. Another man, yes, but a mage still. He cut her, Bethany, piecing her together with the stolen bodies of other women to create a shambling sort of half life. You cannot imagine the horror. I dare not imagine it now.
Could a normal man have done such a thing? Men may kill and they may hurt, but they are limited by the rules of this world. Mages are limited only by the bounds of their minds and I cannot help but wonder if such power is a breeding ground for madness. How many times now have I been called upon to stop an evil that did not have magic behind it? Once perhaps?
This house is so empty now. Even with the dwarves and Orana, it does not have the feel of home. Nor do I dare show my face to Gamlen. Had it not been for him, I may not have even noticed her disappearance. Mother knew, too, in the end. As she lay broken and fading in my arms, she told me that I was now alone. It was not her pride or her relief that reached my ears, nor even her sadness. No, it is that one simple truth. I am alone and the fault is my own.
Fenris came to me that night. He remembers little of loss, despite his history, and the moment was awkward at best. Mother never truly approved of him. She trusted my judgment, so she said, but she never hesitated to remind me that he is an elf and a slave. Still, he offered what comfort he could and I am grateful.
Would she have approved of Anders, I wonder? Would she have smiled to see her daughter with a hunted apostate, living a life of fear as she once did? Is this why I went to him again?
He would have offered his condolences, but I did not let him speak. It was a mage that did this. I was angry, throwing the blame at his feet, repeating the words like a sickening mantra. Again, they had taken everything from me but this time he could mount no defense. All he could do is wrap his arms around me, hold his ground as my fists fell feebly against his chest. We hurt each other there, there in some filthy Darktown alley, all my anger and fear released in a fit of tangled limbs, in the deep gashes of my nails against his back. And I took him while Fenris slept unknowing in my bed.
Worse still it is the mage's words that linger, the look of fevered certainty as he stood beside his corpse bride. Love, he said, is the most powerful force in all the world. It was not magic that kept mother and the others alive; it was simply love. And in this he did what I could not. You, Carver, Mother... perhaps I could not save you because I did not love you enough.
Or perhaps this is merely one more horror. I have seen men kill. I have seen the dead walk. I have found myself hurting a friend to fall into the arms of my enemy. Tell me, Bethany, is this love?
I dare not ask you now to give such a thing to Mother in my name. I only pray that she is with you wherever you are and that, if there is love in the Maker's sight, it is better than the kind that we know here.
Yours,
Alara
Characters: Hawke/Anders, Hawke/Fenris
Rating: T
Words: 850
Summary: The aftermath of "All That Remains."
Dearest Bethany,
There is no easy way to tell you what I suspect you already know. I have failed you, failed Carver and have tried to live as best I could with the guilt that Mother laid at my feet. She spoke otherwise, of course, but we both knew that such denials are a hollow thing. Had it not been for me, we would be a family still. But even in the end it was me that you looked to, me that you bid make one simple oath. And I was not strong enough to keep it. Mother is gone, Bethany.
Does she stand beside you now, welcome at the Maker's side? I do not know what to believe anymore, do not even trust to the comfort of these words.
I could have saved her. I do not second-guess my haste or strength, do not seek to blame forces that were beyond anyone's control. It is merely simple fact. I could have prevented this and I did not. A man named Gaspard DuPuis also hunted Mother's killer. He knew the man's habits and planned to stop him. But DuPuis was a mage and, to my mind, this was evidence enough of his complicity. Rather than accept his aid, I drove my blade through his chest. Had I but dared to trust... But the problem was not my own then. It was simply another task for another wanting soul and I solved it as quickly and as simply as I could.
But it was a mage that took her. Another man, yes, but a mage still. He cut her, Bethany, piecing her together with the stolen bodies of other women to create a shambling sort of half life. You cannot imagine the horror. I dare not imagine it now.
Could a normal man have done such a thing? Men may kill and they may hurt, but they are limited by the rules of this world. Mages are limited only by the bounds of their minds and I cannot help but wonder if such power is a breeding ground for madness. How many times now have I been called upon to stop an evil that did not have magic behind it? Once perhaps?
This house is so empty now. Even with the dwarves and Orana, it does not have the feel of home. Nor do I dare show my face to Gamlen. Had it not been for him, I may not have even noticed her disappearance. Mother knew, too, in the end. As she lay broken and fading in my arms, she told me that I was now alone. It was not her pride or her relief that reached my ears, nor even her sadness. No, it is that one simple truth. I am alone and the fault is my own.
Fenris came to me that night. He remembers little of loss, despite his history, and the moment was awkward at best. Mother never truly approved of him. She trusted my judgment, so she said, but she never hesitated to remind me that he is an elf and a slave. Still, he offered what comfort he could and I am grateful.
Would she have approved of Anders, I wonder? Would she have smiled to see her daughter with a hunted apostate, living a life of fear as she once did? Is this why I went to him again?
He would have offered his condolences, but I did not let him speak. It was a mage that did this. I was angry, throwing the blame at his feet, repeating the words like a sickening mantra. Again, they had taken everything from me but this time he could mount no defense. All he could do is wrap his arms around me, hold his ground as my fists fell feebly against his chest. We hurt each other there, there in some filthy Darktown alley, all my anger and fear released in a fit of tangled limbs, in the deep gashes of my nails against his back. And I took him while Fenris slept unknowing in my bed.
Worse still it is the mage's words that linger, the look of fevered certainty as he stood beside his corpse bride. Love, he said, is the most powerful force in all the world. It was not magic that kept mother and the others alive; it was simply love. And in this he did what I could not. You, Carver, Mother... perhaps I could not save you because I did not love you enough.
Or perhaps this is merely one more horror. I have seen men kill. I have seen the dead walk. I have found myself hurting a friend to fall into the arms of my enemy. Tell me, Bethany, is this love?
I dare not ask you now to give such a thing to Mother in my name. I only pray that she is with you wherever you are and that, if there is love in the Maker's sight, it is better than the kind that we know here.
Yours,
Alara
