Janiculum Part 9
Part 9 of my story Janiculum, based on @feynites LGBaby!AU, in which Olwyn has a nightmare and attends a wedding.
Lavellan does not tell her the full extent of her assassination plans, which is just as well.
Despite how secure Olwyn has been making their small corner of the Dreaming, there is still the chance some wayward spirit might hear something crucial and deem it important enough to tell someone.
But she knows that it will happen soon, before Andruil can do anything more to Uthvir. And so she waits, and frets, until one night Lavellan visits her.
“It’s done,” Is all she says, voice steady and expression grimly satisfied. Then she sags against the wall; exhausted. It isn’t a tiredness of the body, though she’s obviously drained herself dry killing the Huntress, but a fatigue of the spirit. Tired of all the death and the killing and the corruption that fuels this society.
Olwyn slides down beside her and leans close. Their arms touch, and Lavellan leans her head on Olwyn’s shoulder and sighs softly.
“Good,” Olwyn murmurs, before she begins to hum an absent tune.
---
It takes a full month before anyone begins to suspect something is wrong.
Victory is talking with Aelynthi in their rooms when Olwyn returns from her glass blowing lessons. She has finally managed to make something she thinks Aelynthi would approve of—actually approve of, not just say he likes because she is the one who made it—and wants to show him before he leaves for Sylaise’ summer palace to restore some frescoes before the area is suitable for habitation again.
She can hear them talking from the small hallway that separates her room from Victory’s.
“She has been missing overlong. My mother has been out searching for weeks. Have you heard anything?”
“No,” Victory sighs. “There have been rumors among the others in Elgar’nan’s upper ranks that something is amiss. I am not privy to such things. Information gathering and spywork are not my strengths.”
No one will find anything, Olwyn thinks smugly. Lavellan made sure of that. She knocks, and both Aelynthi and Victory turn and smile, as if they were not just discussing the sudden disappearance of one of their leaders.
“El’ena, I thought you were at your lessons,” Aelynthi frowns thoughtfully.
“I finished early. I wanted to show you what I made,” Olwyn smiles, holding up the object in question. It is a glass fish, delicate but simple because she could not make anything more elaborate. She’s infused it with a spell that will keep the magic flame she’s placed inside of it burn with no heat. It flickers, and makes the scales of the fish shimmer.
“Oh it is beautiful.” Aelynthi breathes, “Look at what our daughter has made, Victory. It is perfect.”
Olwyn thinks the spellwork is far more complicated and impressive than the glass itself, but she won’t argue with him. She’s in far too good a mood over Andruil’s demise to care too much. She simply smiles and lets Aelynthi pepper her face with kisses and coo at her like she is five again.
Nothing can spoil her mood today, so she’ll indulge him.
---
It is not often she dreams of her Harrowing, or her life at the Circle. It was not particularly brutal, or challenging. A Desire demon had preyed on her want for freedom and acceptance. But fear…fear had been a part of her life from the moment she’d been taken to the Circle at seven. That terror had pushed her forward. She had known that if she did not pass this test, they would kill her. The Templars were just waiting for a chance, for a sign that she was a threat.
The Circle at Ostwick had not been as bad as Kirkwall, if rumors were to be believed, but neither was it a kind place.
Especially not for a pretty young woman.
Perhaps it is the knowledge of what Andruil had done to Uthvir, and likely Faunalyn, that reminds her of searching, grasping hands in the dark. She is not certain, but when she goes to sleep that night she awakes in her room in the Circle.
She can smell the lavender soap they use on laundry day, and hear the shuffle of bodies as the other mages in the room toss and turn in slumber. It is still dark outside. She can just see a sliver of moonlight from the high, barred window on the opposite wall.
She hears the lock on the door turn, and it swings open with a groan and the scrape of wood against stone. She pulls the covers further up to her chin and forces her eyes shut. I am asleep, you do not want me, I am asleep, she chants silently.
She is sixteen, and come into her womanhood, and she knows that Henrik, one of the new Templar transfers, has been watching her. She does not like the look in his eyes, and some of the older mages have tried to shield her from his gaze. Do not be Henrik, do not be Henrik, she can feel tears begin to prick the corners of her eyes as the sound of metal-tipped boots echoes in the silent room.
She has lain awake before and heard the creaking of beds and muffled sobs. She knows what nightly visits from Templars entails. Go away, go away. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to calm her breathing as the footsteps approach.
A gauntlet covered hand comes down on her mouth and her eyes spring open. Metal bites into the corners of her lips, and her heart crashes against her ribcage as she forcibly stops herself from fighting. If she does they will kill her. The will say she is a dangerous mage. They will make her tranquil.
She sobs against chainmail, hands grasping tightly at the sheets as a heavy weight settles over her, crushing and smelling of sweat and iron and lyrium.
The Templar leans forward and she can make out his face in the murky darkness.
Henrik.
Wake up! Someone wake up! She pleads, as his other hand pulls back the blanket. The air is cold, and his armor is colder. But no one will come to help her, even if they are awake. How many of them are lying in their beds even now, listening as she often has, sick to their stomachs but secretly relieved it is not them?
He gets a hand under her sleeping gown, metal-tipped fingers biting into the flesh of her thighs. She wants to escape. She wants to kick and thrash and scream. But if she does, they will kill her.
It will be over soon. Close your eyes and thick of something else, she shudders as his hand nears her smalls. No no no please, someone, ANYONE. The fabric tears, and the sound echoes in the silence.
She awakes with a stifled scream, limbs flailing, grasping for purchase, as terror and panic lace the air and the fireplace in the corner of the room bursts into frantic, wild flames.
The door to her room swings open and Victory charges inside. “El’ena!” He sees her curled up on her bed, trying to catch her breath and still the beating of her heart as she sobs. It is just the lingering terror of a memory, she knows. She is safe here. No one is going to hurt her.
“It’s ok,” She gasps out, tears sliding down her cheeks in torrents, “It was a bad dream, I—”
Victory gathers her close, and begins to hum softly as he rocks her back and forth in his lap. Even now, when she is fifteen and nearly grown, he holds her like she is made of glass. He smooths down her hair and continues to hum as they both wait for her tears to subside.
Henrik never raped her, in Ostwick. One of the older Templars on patrol had seen the door ajar and gone to investigate and had pulled Henrik away before he could do more than tear her clothes. Old Emil was kinder to the mages than most, and kept them relatively safe from some of the others when he could. And really, most of the Templars used the Tranquil for their pleasure if they wanted it, rather than risk a mage deciding to defend themselves and turn into an abomination.
Sometimes she wonders what would have happened if Old Emil hadn’t been there that night. She remembers feeling grateful and relieved that he’d come to her aid. Grateful that a Templar had felt generous enough to save her from one of their own. And yet…and yet he was still one of them. Still willing to lock mages away with cruel people like Henrik and Betina, who had once ground her hand into the stone when she’d bent to pick up a fallen book and had broken three of her fingers. She had still not been human to Old Emil. A kicked dog worthy of pity, perhaps, but not a person.
It makes her think of Mythal. “She was the best of them,” Solas had once said, as if that made a difference. Old Emil had been one of the best of the Templars, too. He didn’t rape or beat the Circle mages, but he kept them imprisoned, and treated them like they were lesser. A kind owner is still an owner.
Olwyn is no one’s possession. She refuses to be. Sometimes she wishes that she could go back to that time. To show her old self that she did not deserve that kind of treatment. To convince herself that she was worth of respect, and demand it.
But no one had told her that then, and she spent nearly all her life believing she was the one at fault for being born a mage. That others had a right to hate her for that. She wants desperately to let these people know that isn’t the case. That their worth is not determined by the rank they hold and the vallaslin they wear and the benevolence of their kind masters.
“Are you alright now, little heart?” Victory murmurs.
“Yes,” Olwyn swallows. “Yes. I am…don’t tell papa. He will worry over nothing.”
“It did not seem like nothing,” Victory pulls back a bit to look her in the face. “What kind of dream could have made you so distraught?”
“It was an old memory,” Olwyn shakes her head, “That’s all.” And she pauses, as realization dawns on Victory’s face and he winces, and pulls her close again. “I’m sorry,” He murmurs against her hair.
Oh.
There is only one memory traumatizing enough to cause her to scream that Victory knows of. When she ate the poison meant for him and nearly died. She grips him back in a fierce hug, regret hanging in the air, and she does not know whose it is.
“It is not your fault, babae. You have done nothing wrong. I am alright.” And she begins to sing softly the song he had been humming before. Victory laughs, “I am supposed to be comforting you, little heart.”
“We can comfort each other.” Olwyn kisses his cheek. “I am fine now, babae. You can go back to sleep.” It takes fifteen more minutes before Victory is convinced she is alright. She stares at the closed door for a long while, before she sighs and stands.
She will not be getting any more sleep tonight.
---
Olwyn is training with Desire in the outer courtyard when the news reaches them.
Andruil is dead, the Huntress has finally been killed by her dangerous quarry. The barracks are utter chaos, as everyone gathers near Victory’s office as he reads the missive. His expression is dark and serious.
“Silence!” Victory barks, as the peacekeepers begin to talk among themselves about what this means, and whether or not it was a beast that killed Andruil or something else. Someone else.
Desire’s expression is grim. Olwyn had expected her to look more relieved at the news. She knows how close Desire and Uthvir are. Instead, Desire’s frown deepens as the peacekeepers around them continue to guess as to what happened to the Huntress and Victory begins shouting out orders.
“What’s wrong, Des?” Olwyn murmurs, touching the older woman’s arm.
Desire shakes her head, “What will happen to Andruil’s hunters?”
Olwyn blinks. She had not really thought of that. What indeed? They must go somewhere, obviously. Surely they will not be blamed for Andruil’s death. Lavellan had worked hard to make certain that the death could not be placed on anyone.
Olwyn steps forward, “Her people,” she begins slowly, looking at her father. “Where are they sending them?”
“Is that what you are worried about?” Victory snaps, not at her but at the situation. “The city is in chaos. All of the peacekeepers are to be present at all times. Do I make myself clear?”
The assembled group nods, faces set, but Olwyn can see the unease and worry in the air.
“You are going to live with your Papa until the city has settled again. He has returned from Sylaise’ summer palace at the news.” Victory announces, and Olwyn’s face falls.
“I am more useful here,” She insists. “Papa will be busy with preparations for the funeral.” Likely he will be carving some great monument for her.
“You are going.” Victory replies, in a voice that says there is no room for debate. Olwyn bites her cheek to keep from saying more, as Victory tells her to go to her rooms and pack what she will need. He wants to get her away from the talk of death and speculations of murder. These are not things a child should hear, and at fifteen she is still considered a baby. She knows that if the other peacekeepers were not in shock over such an unprecedented revelation they would never be caught speaking of such things in her presence.
Whether you speak of them in my presence or not, the bad things will still happen, she thinks petulantly as she does what she is told, murmuring a goodbye to Desire who seems lost in her own thoughts.
Her satisfaction at Andruil’s death is tampered by her worry of what will come next.
It is alright, she thinks as she begins to throw together some clothing. Everything is going according to plan. It will be alright. We will come up with a solution, whatever happens.
---
Desire comes to her in Aelynthi’s workshop. The air around her is a tumult of emotion, and it looks like she has debated whether or not to come at all. Likely she thinks that Olwyn, as a child, should not be privy to any distressing news. But she does come, and Olwyn promises Aelynthi she is just stepping outside to get some fresh air.
They walk to a secluded garden behind the workshop. “They are sending them to Falon’Din,” Desire chokes out. “All of the high-ranking hunters.”
Olwyn’s stomach plummets. Falon’Din. Falon’Din. They are being passed from one monster to the next…and this one is not so secretive about his nature. “And the lower ranks?” Lavellan is new to her vallaslin, she has no real rank yet. Olwyn knows that Desire is worried about Uthvir, Lavellan’s parent. And Grandma Faunalyn…being sent to Falon’Din? No. No she will not let it happen.
She will need to act quickly. There are still so many things she must do…she will have to find Purpose, and see if it can procure the items she will need.
Lavellan comes to her in her dreams that night, and tells her that she is safe. Mythal has announced that Lavellan will become one of her followers instead of being sent elsewhere. She will remain with Thenvunin. It is Uthvir and Faunalyn they must worry about now.
“I will do it this time,” Olwyn says resolutely, and Lavellan offers little resistance. She simply asks, “Do you think you can?” And when Olwyn says yes, that is that.
Many elves begin to throw together weddings, so that their loved ones can be protected from the cruelest of the evanuris. Thenvunin proposes marriage to Uthvir. It is one less casualty she and Lavellan must worry about. Uthvir will be safe.
But her grandmother is not.
Faunalyn comes to visit them, and the look upon her face tells Olwyn she thinks she will not be returning. She tries to remain cheerful when Olwyn is present. But Olwyn knows now, how to listen when she should not be.
Later that night, when she is meant to be in bed, Melarue comes to Aelynthi’s rooms, and the three of them talk while Olwyn leans against the wall, fists clenched tight. The door is ajar, and she can see inside, to Aelynthi pacing back and forth while Faunalyn and Melarue stand still and quiet. Purpose curls around her, a comforting warmth, as she listens.
“I have found what you asked for,” Purpose had told her earlier that night. Half of the battle has already been won then.
“You were one of Andruil’s highest ranking servants,” Aelynthi frets, concern sharp in the air. “They cannot send you. Surely you could be an asset to Mythal, or Elgar’nan. Perhaps I could ask Our Lady Sylaise—”
“There is no reason for them to make a claim for me.” Faunalyn shakes her head.
Melarue steps forward, “There is another way,” They say, softly.
Faunalyn blinks, and her expression softens, but she shakes her head. A wry smile twists her lips, “Marriage would not suit us, Melarue. It would be a terrible end for us both. And everyone who knows the two of us knows that we hold little love for one another.”
“I do not hate you.” Melarue offers. “You are Aelynthi’s mother and El’ena’s grandmother. I would not see you go to Falon’din if there was something I could do to prevent it.”
“No,” Faunalyn shakes her head. “I will survive this. We are tenacious, us hunters. We have survived many trials. This is but another one. I would not tie you to me for this. We would be miserable, at best.”
“El’ena, come inside. Eavesdropping is unsightly.” Melarue drawls. Olwyn sighs. Melarue always seems to know when she is sneaking about. She opens the door with a sheepish, worried smile.
“El’ena!” Aelynthi frets, looking at his parents and then back at her, “You should be sleeping.”
Olwyn swallows, fixing her gaze on Faunalyn. Her grandmother’s pensive stare turns to a tired smile as she reaches out and ruffles Olwyn’s hair, “Do not look at me with that face, beastie. Everything is fine. Your papa is simply a worrywart.”
Aelynthi is so distressed he can’t even agree with her.
“Let me look you over,” Faunalyn sighs, “It may be a while before I can visit. Falon’Din does not let his attendants leave him often. I will try and find a position within his Arlathan holdings if I can.” She looks over Olwyn as if she is trying to memorize what she looks like. Like she does not expect to come back.
Olwyn’s throat tightens, and she grabs the taller woman in a tight hug. She blinks away the tears that threaten to fall, and whispers, so that only Faunalyn can hear, “I will save you, grandmamae. I will come for you, do not worry.”
She pulls back and sees the confused furrow of Faunalyn’s brow but merely gives her a watery smile in return, “Do you have to leave soon?”
“After the funeral.” Faunalyn answers. She seems to be trying to decide if she misheard Olwyn’s earlier words. “At the moment I must help Uthvir organize the others and keep them in line.”
“Will you be going to Uthvir’s wedding?”
“It is truly time for you to sleep now, little one,” Melarue steps forward, and tucks Olwyn’s arm into the crook of their elbow. “Come, I will walk you back and make sure you go to bed this time.” Olwyn glances back one last time at Faunalyn, and the hunter sends her a reassuring smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, before the door closes.
---
Desire chalks up Olwyn’s sudden interest in Falon’Din’s lands to her worry over Lavellan’s nanae and her grandmother, which isn’t untrue. She tells her about what she knows, of the few times she has been there. Falon’Din guards his lands jealously, and rarely allows followers from other evanuris to come and go. Elgar’nan has ordered his peacekeepers into his territory on a few occasions, and Desire has been there for those.
That, along with what she has seen of his estate and followers within Arlathan, paint a sordid picture.
The desire and the urgency to kill him increases exponentially.
The entire city is in mourning for Andruil still. All the artisans churn out images of grief and sorrow and loss; of Andruil’s great accomplishments in battle and the hunt. Aelynthi looks ragged and hollow-cheeked whenever she sees him at home. All of the artisans at the workshop are being worked to the bone, rarely sleeping. She is the one that reminds them to eat, and brings them food from the dining hall down the street. Victory she sees even less of. The peacekeepers are out in full force at all times before the official funeral and tribute for Andruil is to be held.
The entire city is tense. How many people and spirits will be sacrificed to appease the hunger of the dead huntress?
None, if Olwyn can help it.
Lavellan tells her of her parents’ hurried wedding plans, their need for witnesses and guests for propriety’s sake. Olwyn speaks with her father, and Aelynthi agrees to come, and even manages to set aside some time to sculpt a gift for them in-between carving the massive effigy he has been tasked with (“It is nice, to create something with meaning,” he says, when he thinks no one is listening but Subtlety).
Over the course of raising herself and Lavellan, he and Thenvunin have become better acquainted, and are even kind to one another when not constantly bragging about how their child is far superior to the other. She learns that her grandnanae has already been invited by Thenvunin’s mother. Victory will not be attending; the head of Arlathan’s peacekeepers is not allowed out of the city until the funeral is over.
And while Olwyn helps the artists, and listens to the hushed gossip and rumors about the state of their leaders, she plots the death of another.
After the wedding she will kill Falon’Din. That way, if she ends up viciously murdered in the attempt, she’ll not be absent for such an event. That would just be rude.
---
The wedding is breathtaking. It is difficult to describe, the emotion behind it, and the look upon Lavellan’s parents’ faces as they say their vows. For a moment, Olwyn forgets that she will be killing a man within the week. A monster, she reminds herself. A monster who would have looked upon this wedding and felt nothing.
The sculpture that Aelynthi presents to them makes her heart ache. It is one of his signature pieces, the kind he was originally known for. A portrait that is not a portrait. And as she looks at it head on, it seems to simply be just that. A portrait. But then the perspective shifts—or the stone does?—and Uthvir and Thenvunin become more than themselves. They become affection, and perseverance, and a deep, lingering sense of completeness. And sometimes it shifts even more, and there is just Thenvunin, insecure and haughty, graceful as a swan, or a loving father who sings his child to sleep, or a whistling blade in the midst of a battlefield. And in the next moment there is just Uthvir. Fierce and predatory, hawke-like, sharp, who fretted over Lavellan’s childhood cough, who is soft under their spikes, and something else, that even Aelynthi does not seem able to understand or articulate.
Some people find Aelynthi’s portraits unsettling. They show things people do not always wish to see.
But there is nothing here that is new, or unfortunate. It is simply Thenvunin and Uthvir as they are, and as others know them, with a new connection between them that perhaps they themselves were not fully aware of before.
Thenvunin stares at the sculpture, and his throat bobs. He looks to Aelynthi, who is pale and tired and so, so worried for the fate of his own mother, and whispers a strangled, “thank you,” before he turns back to look at Uthvir, and the wonder upon his face hurts a bit.
Olwyn remembers her own wedding, and has to turn away.
She had once looked at Cullen like that.
“We must return, I am afraid.” Melarue’s hands come around her shoulders and pull her close, as they look to Thenvunin and Uthvir. “Aelynthi must finish his latest piece, and there is much to be done.”
Lavellan appears out of the crowd of guests then, and grabs Olwyn’s hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. “I will see you later,” Lavellan states. The surety of her words bolsters Olwyn’s resolve. That is right, she must focus on the task at hand.
Lavellan knows her plans. Knows the urgency of them. They make the same promise, before Aelynthi and Melarue take her back toward the road and the eluvian and Arlathan. If Olwyn fails, Lavellan will kill Falon’Din in her stead and get Faunalyn out of there as quickly as possible.
A second death of an evanuris so close to the first cannot be seen as an accident. There will be no coincidence assumed in this case.
Instead, they’re going to make a statement.
This is a declaration of war.
And Olwyn knows just how to sign it.