This piece is about Fenris's first writing lesson. But is it really about it?
Underwater
Hawke sits beside me and explains how to hold the quill and how much ink is needed so as not to blot the page. I like the way she talks about it; she doesn’t waste time.
'Now, let’s try,' she says, nodding at a white feather lying in front of me. It looks like a piece of cloud, and I hesitate before taking it.
It's a strange feeling.
The quill is much lighter than a sword; that much I can tell.
My hand is not used to holding such delicate objects. I try to fit my fingers around it, but the grip is awkward. The feather wobbles in my hand, and I wonder how it is even possible to write with it. The line bleeding into the paper is uneven and unsure.
I adjust and readjust my fingers, but no matter how much I try, and how many times she explains how to hold the damned quill, it just doesn't work. I start to think it a waste of time.
'Here, let me show you,' she says, and brings her hand over mine, her fingers gently aligning with my own.
And it sears through me, blinding, binding me to the chair. Lyrium flares, and I strain to force it back inside. The effort it takes me not to yank my hand away is enormous. This touch.
The touch.
A touch. One of the many.
I remember it. All of them.
Danarius used blood magic on me. Afraid of what a weapon created by his own hands could do, he controlled me during moments of forced education.
If one could call violence education.
Usually, he kept me pinned to the wall and steadily beat the misbehaving out of me. Every time I did something that was not expected of an obedient slave, the beating followed. This was all the touch I ever got in that tower. For years, it was the only kind of touch I knew.
But she's not him.
I am not in his tower.
I am in my room. Danarius is not here. But it takes time to remember that.
My body is still rigid and, of course, Hawke feels it. She's too smart and attentive not to. The soft pressure on my hand dissolves. She murmurs something, trying to smooth the awkwardness of the situation, and I sit there like a fool saying nothing, holding the lyrium in me from bursting out. It's easier to breathe underwater.
I am not looking at her. I don't want to see if she's scared, although she probably is. Rightfully so.
Maker knows, the last thing I want to do is scare her.
I concentrate on my breathing, which burns inside as if it were brandy set on fire, and slowly the surge recedes.
I can finally see things around me. First the dull surface of the table comes into view, then the tip of the quill, broken by the pressure I unwittingly applied. I sigh and shake my head. I did not mean to break it.
It's quiet.
She's not him, and still I do not look at her. I look about, and my sight catches a white spot—a spare quill.
I take it.
From the corner of my eye, I see her—how she opens her mouth to say something, but I am not ready for that. I dip the tip of the quill into the ink and ask in the calmest voice I can master,
'Can you show me again?'