Chapter Text
For the first month she is confined to her room. It is small and dark, and smells strongly of the harbour, but it is hers alone, and the first night a young man with eyes like clear cut-glass shows her how to wedge the chair up under the door handle, to keep out unwanted visitors.
Varania finds this surprising – not that it is necessary but that the mages dare.
She is not left alone; there is a constant attendance of enchanters and senior enchanters, asking her questions and making her cast this thing or that. The spells are not difficult though the names are unfamiliar – she will have to learn a whole new language of spellcasting – and they are shocked to learn that while her spoken Arcanum is flawless, she cannot read it.
And then there are the other mages, slipping in one by one to bring her things. Harmless things: a salted pastry, a wooden comb, handkerchiefs and slivers of soap. A paper envelope containing the mildest of sleeping powders – powder, she is told in a whisper, because an empty phial is too difficult to explain away. She knows what this is, and knows it for more than simple kindness. You are one of us, they say, without anything so crude as words, and, you are not alone, but also, we can be your allies, and, soon you will have to choose a side.
It is the same everywhere, in this Circle or the slave quarters back home. Always, always, the shifting sands of allegiance, so treacherous underfoot.
This is something her brother never understood.
When she is released they take her first to a bathing chamber that is pitiful in its extent, and then to a room where they tell her she will face a demon.
It is a test. The other mages have whispered as much, warned her in murmurs and mutters, and she is supposed to be afraid.
Varania is not afraid of the demon. Nor, honestly, is she afraid of failure. The penalty for failing their test is death. As though they have never used that before.
So she drinks from their cup, lies down on the slab, and waits while they conjure a way into the Fade -- then it is just another dream, with a Fade-scape and a demon that is, frankly, disappointing. It offers her freedom. Freedom, she knows, is a lie. Then it offers her power and that, too, is a lie – there is no power to be had from letting a demon ride you, only another kind of slavery.
When it offers her Leto she becomes angry because this lie, at least, cuts like a knife, and then she finds that her talent, unsophisticated as it is, can be stoked by her anger into an inferno.
The demon burns. Varania lives.
She wakes to find a Templar (the blunt one; her brother’s friend) peering into her face, and she lies still, waiting for the sword, because either she has passed their test or they had meant to kill her all along.
The sword does not come. She is free to go.
Such as freedom is, here. She cannot leave the Gallows. She cannot wander the halls after curfew. Still, it is freedom enough that she is permitted to walk unheeded during daylight, though the other mages warn her not to be caught alone.
This proves difficult. In order to avoid being alone she must tag along behind the others. It is unusual, she discovers, to come so friendless into the Circle. The years spent in the apprentice quarters forge a network of bonds with peers and mentors alike, and even mages transferred from other Circles know how the hierarchy works and how to find their way amongst their own kind. (It is, she thinks, the difference between a slave born into her slavery and one taken from her freedom; this is something she can comprehend.)
A Harrowed mage (for that is what they call the ones who do not fail their initiation) who was never an apprentice, Varania is without anchors, without context, without friends. So she endeavours to remember the ones who were kind to her before she was Harrowed, and seek them out.
Selwyn is the first. He is hard to miss, boisterous when the Templars are not watching, quietly mischievous when they are. He pranks them; they do not seem to know it, though they all look at him with suspicion. He takes what she thinks are dangerous risks, fanning ice across the backs of their helmets where it melts and drips down their necks, slicking the stones of the corridors so that they slip and stumble. Always when they look for a culprit, he is innocently engaged, and he plays so well at his innocence that they nearly always overlook him.
At first Varania despises him for this. Someone will be blamed. It is selfish to endanger one's fellow slaves (because that is what they are, all of them, just slaves, though no-one says it aloud) to put them at risk of punishment. Still, when this does come to pass, she is surprised by how he deals with it.
It happens in the library. She does not see how it happens, but everyone hears the crash as the Templar goes over in a clatter of armour. Selwyn is, of course, buried in a book, but the faint blush of magic lingers around his hands as he peers up over the cover, and she knows first that it was his doing, and second that all the other mages know this too.
Still, when the Templar rallies himself, struggling to his feet in a fury, no-one calls Selwyn out. Further, when the Templar rounds angrily on a quartet of apprentices, fat little things in their robes, giggling hysterically, no-one names Selwyn as the culprit.
And Selwyn, wonder of wonders, stands up.
“Ser Knight! Are you hurt? Maker, that was quite a fall. Do you require healing?”
The Templar turns on him, and even through his helmet she can feel the heat of his anger.
Selwyn does not flinch, simply holds up his hands, letting his sleeves fall back to bare his fragile wrists. “Are you well, ser? Not dizzy, are you? It must get hot in that armour; I know I'd feel dizzy from just an hour in it. Maybe you ought to take it off.”
And she sees the way he leans back, lifting his chin to expose his throat, so weak and vulnerable that it is almost painful to look at.
The Templar hesitates. “I'm not dizzy. One of them pushed me,” and he jerks a thumb at the apprentices, gone quiet and fearful in a cluster together.
“Them?” Selwyn seems utterly bewildered by this. “But they're so small. I don't think … no, you must be mistaken. There's no shame,” and he lowers his voice to a whisper that carries throughout the quiet of the library, “in fainting. It happens to us all. On a day like today I feel faint myself.” He fans his face with one hand, and there is such audacity in it that she cannot help but be impressed.
“I didn't faint,” the Templar protests, but Selwyn has stepped in and taken his arm, and despite the helmet and the armour, it is obvious how disconcerting this is for the knight, towering over the mage like a steel giant.
“There, ser, there. If you need help getting to the infirmary, allow me. Come away, before anyone is foolish enough to think you foundering in his heat.”
“I'm perfectly all right, you idiot!” The Templar yanks his arm out of Selwyn's grip, hard enough that when Selwyn does not hold on at all the knight has to stumble to keep his feet.
Selwyn steps forward at once, hands fluttering like birds. “Oh! Be careful, ser, or you'll fall again! It would be so embarrassing if you--”
“Maker! Keep off, I'm fine!”
And the Templar strides out of the library, leaving Selwyn standing alone in the middle of the floor.
It is absolutely silent. Varania is acutely aware that there are still Templars about, though she notes that none of them seem particularly concerned.
Selwyn plants his fists on his hips and shakes his head dolefully. “That poor, poor man,” he murmurs, though again it is loud enough to be heard throughout the room. “Perhaps it is the flux. I can only hope that he doesn't shit himself before he-- oh, well.”
The apprentices are practically smothering themselves trying not to laugh, and Varania notes that many of the mages are likewise staring down at their books with a hand over the mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Selwyn sits down again, sighing to himself, but when he glances up and catches her watching he flashes her a grin that is thoroughly unrepentant.
She turns back to her book. It is a useless exercise, a camouflage, just a means of fitting in, and perhaps this is obvious to the others, where it is not obvious to the Templars, because presently another book is placed carefully next to hers and flipped open at a page with an illustration of a dog chasing rabbits.
She looks up. Selwyn smiles, and sinks into the chair beside her. “Hullo,” he says. “Thought you might like something a little less tedious than Musings of Geriastus the Elder.”
She glances down at her book. She has no idea what it is about; perhaps Selwyn (she does not yet know his name, though she recognises his cut-glass eyes) is telling the truth. Then again, perhaps he means to make a fool of her. It would be petty of him. Perhaps he is petty. The pranking seems to suggest it.
“Do you dislike Geriastus?” It is hard, sometimes, speaking to humans. A lifetime of ingrained subservience attempts to finish every sentence with 'Master' or ‘Magister’ or ‘Citizen’, but she is, they tell her, no longer a slave, and even in Tevinter there were enough humans sold into slavery that this ought not to be such a difficult habit to break. These humans, however, are unlike the human slaves she has known. Even though they bow their heads to the Templars, she can sense the roiling disquiet in them, the rejection of their lot that foreshadows rebellion.
Dangerous. It would be best not to become involved. And yet.
“Geriastus is a dreary old git,” Selwyn tells her, speaking out of the side of his mouth and bending over the page until his hair brushes the paper. “He always sounds like he's talking down his nose at you. 'That which cannot be fought by fire must be bound by fire, though fire is not in the least or in the most the answer to all things under the eye of the Maker, may His song be sung in the highest, and so it cannot be held to have the efficacy of,' uuuurgh,” and he tilts his head, rolling his eyes up at her dramatically.
It is thoroughly ridiculous, but she has been starved of companions long enough to find him entertaining, and some of it must show in her face because his mouth quirks up on one side.
“Oh, good. You are human. Er, sorry.” And he blinks very quickly, inexplicable shame washing over his face. “I meant … well, I wondered if you might be some kind of, ah, automaton. But I didn't mean ...” and he pulls a remorseful grimace that makes him look very young. “Forgive me, please, I'm an ass.”
Ah. It is amusing to realise that a human is apologising to her for her own inability to be human, and again this must show because he wrinkles his nose.
“Can we start over? I'm Selwyn.”
He holds out his hands, both of them, with the palms down, and Varania isn't quite sure what to do with them so she holds out her own, palms also down. “I am Varania.”
This seems to be not quite right, because Selwyn lets out a small sound that might be laughter but might also be exasperation, and flips his hands over to take hers. “I know,” he says, “everyone knows,” and then he pushes a little magic against her fingers in a way that is both intrusive and not, though she can't define how.
Still, it is startling, like a man putting his palm on her thigh, and she snatches her hands away.
This, it seems, was the wrong thing to do. “Oh!” He closes his hands into fists, and something in his expression tells her that he is hurt. “Well, then.” He bites his lip. “Sorry, I thought--” but he breaks off, and then he leans away, and she knows he is about to get up and go, though she doesn't know why.
“Please,” she says, though once the word is out of her mouth she can't fathom why she would have said it. But. If he goes, then she will be alone again, and that is something she does not want, not when he has made such an effort to introduce himself. “Please, don't go.”
He turns back. The confusion in his face is not even slightly comical. Then he places a hand on the table between them, dark fingers flat against the wood. “All right.”
“I do not mean to offend,” she says, and the effort it takes not to end that with 'Master' is almost physical.
He is very still for a moment, and then he shakes his head, that small smirk curling the edge of his mouth again. “Well, I know how that feels.” Then his smirk broadens into a proper smile. “Hullo,” he says again, and there's such humour in it that she can't help but smile back at him.
Later, he explains the Circle greeting and she takes his hands and they share magic, and it is actually very pleasant, and not something she has ever done before.
Much later, she realises that this was the moment in which they began to become friends.
Selwyn, she discovers, is a creature of distracting words and smiles, practised in his deceptions, but he turns them mostly on Templars because, as he puts it, the Templars are an acceptable target. “And I'm so bored,” he tells her, lolling on a bench in the sun on a day they have a little time to linger in one of the gardens. “What else am I going to do?”
“Exist,” she says, smoothing her robes over her hips. The robes are a still-new luxury, not exactly new themselves but elegant. She loves the feel of them on her skin, the fresh-laundered smell of them, the silky decadence of clothes that are clean and well-tailored. Selwyn chuckles and tweaks her skirts, spreading his legs in a thoroughly shameless manner as he reclines against the bench, half shoved up against her arm.
The physical closeness of the Circle mages is another new thing. Slaves know they have no privacy, but they do not invite closeness in the way that Circle mages do by default. Selwyn does not seem to think that keeping his hands to himself is expected; rather he will loop an arm around her neck and pull her in to whisper, or tuck his hand about her waist and laugh against her shoulder and it is so very … pleasant. Perhaps because when she does slap his hands away, he holds them up, eyes shining, accepting his guilt with an even temper.
He does not press. She likes this about him.
And then, one night, he lingers in her doorway, eyes dancing, and she knows this, and it would be such a small thing to give him.
“Will you come in?” she says. He hesitates, suddenly shy, glancing up at her from beneath such long dark eyelashes that she wonders why he would bother with someone as insignificant as she.
“I won't,” he says softly, “if you don't want.”
It is hard to tell if she wants or not, but she is not unwilling, and so she offers her hand and he grins at her, and then--
This is something that is done, something slaves do, to forge a bond, and so she will let him rut against her if that is what it takes to secure his friendship. But he surprises her with his soft, sweet kisses, and then surprises her again when it seems that all he wants is to curl against her and play with the scant bounty of her breasts. He does play, though, easing her robes open and tucking his hands inside, and then he teases her, pinching the pink peaks of her flesh until she has to smother a cry against his shoulder.
“Shhhh,” and he kisses her cheek. “You beautiful thing. Do you trust me?”
Does she? She tells him yes, regardless, and then he does something that reverberates through her flesh, leaving her gasping.
“Do you like it?”
This time, when she tells him yes, she means it, and he does it again, and again, his magic travelling down every nerve until she cannot bear it, and shudders oh so helplessly against him.
He strokes it out of her, and then, another surprise, is happy to rub himself off on her thigh.
It is so unexpected that she tells him so, and he does not laugh, though she can feel him quivering, because this is not a time for laughter.
“You don't want the rest,” he says, eyes bright in the dimness of her room. “And I don't need it either.”
He mops up his mess with a handkerchief drawn from his sleeve, and then offers her another for herself. “I always carry two,” he says, and the ludicrousness of it makes her giggle, and then laugh, and then they are laughing together, hands pressed against their own mouths for the sake of silence, and
it is
lovely.
But it isn't love.
It becomes something they do, time to time, and afterwards he will curl against her and run his fingers through her hair – sometimes she protests because his hands are sticky, and he sniggers and presses his face into the hollow of her throat. “You were going to wash your hair in the morning anyway,” he says. “I never met anyone so obsessed with baths.”
“I would not call what you people do bathing,” she argues, squirming around to nestle in his arms. It is comforting. He is comforting, and part of that is because while they do these things together he never pushes too far, never asks for the thing that she would let him have but which she does not want herself.
One night, a night in which they do not touch each other salaciously in the dark, he tells her some of the things that have been done to him that he did not want. They are trivial, she thinks, given the excesses she has seen, and heard, and known herself in Tevinter. But they have hurt him, and regardless of the extent of them they are of the same kind. He does not seem to want comfort, and she does not know how to give it, but their hands brush against one another and there is a companionship in this that is a comfort.
There are things she does not want, and things she does want, and the things she does with him are wanted. This, she thinks, makes all the difference.
Being his friend has other benefits. He introduces her to enchanters, to mages, to apprentices, and many of them accept her, despite the stigma of Tevinter that hangs over her like a shroud.
Though, not all.
“Don’t worry,” Selwyn tells her, offering a handkerchief (she resolutely does not wonder where it has been). “Marylind hates Orlesians, too, if it’s any consolation.”
“It is not,” Varania hisses. And-- “I am not weeping, Selwyn.” I am not so weak.
“You can if you like.” He sits up on the windowsill, leaning back against the bars and kicking one heel against the wall. “It’s just us, and I won’t tell anyone.”
They are tucked away in a study that has not been cleaned in some time, disused and dusty. Selwyn has impressed on her the importance of knowing where these places are, forgotten nooks in which to take refuge, and how important it is not to be caught alone. (But, also, not to be caught in groups larger than three; without a Templar to supervise it is ‘unauthorised private congregation’ and whatever happened next would be up to the discretion of the Templar who caught them.)
“I am not upset.” It is a lie. “I am furious.” True. “Her remarks make no sense. The stink of fish is from the harbour, not me. It is a slander. I bathe.”
“I know.” Selwyn takes her hand, pushing his fingers between hers and smiling. “More than that Fereldan bitch. You know, you could just fling it back in her face. Tell her she’s probably smelling her own smalls. Or mention fleas -- she hates that.”
This. It is not that Varania has never played this game, it is simply that she has no context for it. In Tevinter the distinctions had been different: house slaves against field slaves; freeborn against slaveborn; body slaves against drudges; pets against everyone, because no-one could hate or be hated like a pet. Slaves who had borne children that were useful, and slaves who had borne children that were not.
And, always, her brother who had been something else again.
Still, it makes Varania think. “Does she hate me because I am Tevene, or because I was apostate?”
“Both, probably. Tevinter Magisters are everybody’s favourite fantasy, of course. That’s why,” and he makes a series of chopping gestures that are clearly meant to embody the grand farce that was Magister Danarius’ execution. “ ‘Don’t get any funny ideas,’ is what they mean. That’s why your friend is wandering about with his third eye.” The twitch of Selwyn’s mouth wars with the nonchalance of his tone. “An ugly reminder.”
“And I am evidence of that fantasy’s flaws,” Varania concludes. It rankles, but it makes sense; a cherished dream shattered, and the pieces spat upon. No wonder that some might blame her for it. And yet. “Perhaps this is something I ought to embrace.”
“Oh? Cordial from lemons, hey?” He cocks his head, lifting his eyebrows and smiling -- so many smiles from him, all so careless.
“If I am believed to be … infamous in my apostasy, then perhaps I should wear my infamy as a cape.”
“You could do that.” He lifts a shoulder, looks her over in his quick, clever way. “Could be risky. Might draw attention.”
She meets his gaze steadily, keeping her face carefully impassive. “As though you do not.”
“Ah! Yes.” He grins. “There is that.”
“I cannot imagine it makes you popular with the Templars,” she says, and regrets it for the shadow that passes over his face.
“Well. It’s a good idea to have a Templar or two on your side.”
It makes perfect sense. “Are there any?”
He hesitates, smoothing his robes over his thighs. “Of course, Cullen’s all right, as far as it goes. He puts a stop to things he can see. But he hates us, and sometimes I don’t think he looks very hard. Kinloch Hold,” he says, as if she ought to understand. “Agatha’s a terrier when she smells a rat. She doesn’t like me much, but she’s saved my skin a few times anyway. She’s such a stickler for rules, both ways. Thrask is decent enough, but he’s about as useful as a spent cock. Emeric looks out for the girls as best he can, though Ser Alrik,” and his mouth twists. “Stay away from Ser Alrik.”
“As you have said.” Selwyn likes being touched, so she touches him, stroking the side of his face until the scowl smooths away. “I will avoid him.”
“Some of the junior knights are pretty good, but again … you need someone with clout. Someone who’ll make sure you’re all right. Someone who’ll look out for you.”
Which has its price, she is certain. “Someone is looking out for you.”
“No-o … not presently. I had thought,” and he shrugs, “or hoped, I suppose, but … it didn’t work out how I planned.”
It is a fragile existence. Varania can feel the tension in it, the fear spiking like lightning through the mages when a Templar turns their way. And they are everywhere. There are Templars in the dining hall, the library, the hallways, the bathing rooms, the latrines. It is familiar. She can do this.
“And in the absence of protectors,” she says, covering Selwyn’s hand with her own, “we should hold fast to one another.”
“Yes.” He tips his hand up, lacing their fingers together. “Mages together against the world?”
She takes his advice. It the wisest course.
The part she has chosen is not difficult to play. She is meek and dutiful when that is expected, but whenever another mage makes mock of her she arches easily into a fair imitation of a haughty freeborn-turned-lady’s-companion, strange as she likes and proud of it. The others tend to back down. Selwyn seems entertained, but he does not commit to an opinion on whether or not it is wise. She likes that.
And he continues to introduce her: wild-eyed Jarissa, over a tray of chopped herbs; rakish scarred Liam, as they file into the commissary; two women with hair as grey as her mother’s but still tall and strong; another elf, his hands deft but naturally curling into round spools, as though the bones have been broken and left unset time and again. They have a familiarity to them that Varania recognises and does not want to associate with. Malcontents. The ones who run.
Running is too dangerous and she will not risk it. She has heard what happens to the ones who run.
Keili is not like the others. She is quiet, meek, unobtrusive, and Varania feels certain that Keili has no idea how beautiful she is, hidden under that cowl. She is not the only one to wear a cowl, of course, many of the Circle mages do. Selwyn always shoves his back, letting it hang uselessly against his shoulders, but Keili wears hers like a crown.
Keili is a teacher. She is too inexperienced, apparently, to take particular apprentices of her own, and yet she teaches them, taking them through the rudiments of magic with an ineffable patience that Varania can hardly comprehend. They are so stupid, so careless, but Keili coaxes them until they can manage themselves, can harness the force bubbling at their fingertips into something that should be feared.
This is how they meet. Selwyn takes Varania into one of Keili's classrooms, blunders in as though it is his right, and Varania is struck by how calmly Keili takes this intrusion, how quietly she tells the apprentices to be still. Moreso, how easily the apprentices obey her. This woman is so gentle. Surely the normally rowdy apprentices will run roughshod over her like soldiers in a flower garden, and yet …
Keili holds up a hand. The children stop crowding around Selwyn, clearly abashed, and settle back in a circle on the floor as quickly as though they had been shouted down by a Templar. Faster, perhaps.
Varania takes a seat at the back, outside the circle, and Selwyn looks faintly ashamed of himself for having made such a scene.
Keili does not raise her voice, just holds out her hand, inviting this time. “Tamika? Will you show everyone how to make a barrier?”
The girl, a lanky, dark little thing, stands up. “Yes, miss.”
So, one after the other, the children show off how well they can take a moderate portion of magic and channel it into a harder-than-rock barrier. Keili guides them every step of the way, even the ones who can barely manage a shield the size of their palm; she shores them up until they can manage it on their own, small but solid, and Varania feels oh so envious of them for having a teacher who seems bent only on seeing them succeed, and not on displaying her own strength.
When the lesson is done and the children dismissed into the care of the Templar in attendance, Selwyn asks Keili to show Varania her own shield, and Keili looks up.
Andraste's kiss, she is beautiful.
Varania looks away, but she glances back again in time to see the faintest of smiles on Keili's face, and then Keili stands. She is tall – well, she is human, of course she's tall – and graceful in her stance, one foot forward, the other braced behind her as if to take the force of a blow.
“Mage Varania,” she murmurs, and it shivers down Varania's spine like the brush of fingertips. Maker, her magic. Oh, holy Maker, what is this?
“Varania,” Selwyn says, perched on a stool against the wall, hands clasped loosely in his lap, “is a spirit mage.”
Keili's eyes flicker sideways, and there is a fondness in them that makes Varania feel oh-so-insignificant, so very external to this, whatever it is that they are doing. The outsider, again. But, she is used to it, and so she steels herself.
“That is unfair,” Keili says softly. “Selwyn, don't be cruel.”
“I just want to see what you two do,” Selwyn protests, though he does it lazily, leaning back against the wall and grinning. “Come on, you won't brutalise each other. And, if you do, I'll heal you. You know that.”
Keili shakes her head, very gently. “Mage Varania, you don't have to put up with this. He's a monster.”
Something about this is so familiar, so very right. They are going to duel, which is, Varania thinks, something that Magisters do. And … why shouldn't they? They're mages, after all.
Suddenly, she realises that they are three mages alone, together, with no Templars to tell them what they should or should not be doing. Three mages, alone.
It's just right.
“Do not discount me,” she says, sliding off her stool and spreading her arms. “I may be a spirit mage,” whatever that means, “but I am not afraid of you.”
Keili seems surprised, eyes widening, and then she smiles. “Did he tell you that the arcane school isn't all I do? I teach it, but … he didn't tell you anything, did he?”
Varania doesn't care. This talk of schools means nothing to her, all the words are wrong. Spirit mage? Varania is Tevene, and in her tongue what she can do is the Death of a Thousand Cuts, the Rending of Souls, the Burning Plague … and she hesitates, because none of those things are anything she wants to do to Keili.
She doesn't know what she wants to do to Keili, but it isn't that.
“If you are too weak to face me, then I will accept your surrender,” she says, and it is only when Keili's brow creases that she realises that she did not speak those words in Common.
But the intent must have been clear because Keili shifts her stance, ever so slightly, and then--
It feels so good to do magic, here in this place where magic is allowed. The crackle of Keili's casting gusts across Varania's skin and it is so easy to duck and call a bolt of soul-fire to toss recklessly into the air.
But. Whatever Keili has cast snuffs it out, and then there is the sudden thud of force as Varania is yanked off her feet and dragged heavily across the floor. Another thud, and the world slows to a crawl, and it hurts but it is good, and oh-so-slowly she tumbles into Keili's arms, just a wisp of mortal flesh tugged off its axis.
Everything happens so slowly, inexorably, the warm press of a body against her own, turning to look up into the face of a woman who could destroy her. If she wanted. If she needed.
And then, in a small thunderclap, it's gone. Varania is loose, helpless, caught in this human embrace that is so very--
The magic judders and snaps, two things coming suddenly into alignment like, like, she has no idea but it is perfect and
Holy Andraste it is
just
this
The door slams open, there is a Templar, and Varania twists, hands ready to go down onto the floor and why? but also of course because she is surrounded by humans and she has been so very, very bad.
A bad slave.
“What the void?”
The knight is a woman, hair cut short and functional but still a woman. And yet she is a knight, and Varania feels again the urge to curl up on herself, to be as insignificant as possible, to present the smallest target for the anger of a human. But Keili is warm and solid at her back, the halo of her magic spreading to slide over Varania’s skin like armour, like a whisper, You’re safe, don’t worry, I’m here.
And there is Selwyn. “Moira! You gorgeous thing. How's your sister? Leg doing better, I hope.”
The knight looks at each of them in turn and then makes a sound that is very near to a laugh. “Selwyn. Tell me I didn't just walk into a catfight over you.”
It makes no sense, but Selwyn chuckles. “Maker, please let me one day be so fortunate! Sadly, no. It's just a lesson.”
Ser Moira snorts, and lifts a hand as if she might be intending to ruffle Selwyn's hair. “You’d try it if you could, eh?” She casts an amused glance at Keili and Varania, which smooths out into something else. “What kind of magic are you teaching, Keili?” She sounds … Varania is unsure what that is, but Keili’s hand is on her hip and it tightens, just a little.
“Force, ser,” Keili says, her voice smooth and steady.
Varania does not know why the woman flinches, nor why she takes such a deep breath, but it does not matter. “Right. Carry on, then. Just … keep the door open, so no-one thinks you’re up to anything.”
When she has gone, leaving the door swung wide, Selwyn turns to them with such a lewd grin Varania can’t help but frown at him.
“Well, well. That went off all right, I think.”
“Only because she knows I have a teaching pass and a perfect record.” Keili doesn’t sound angry, just mildly exasperated. “You’re always trying to get me into trouble, I should never listen to you.”
“Oh, that. No I meant this,” and he gestures, gaze angling down to where Varania realises she has covered Keili’s hand with her own and not even noticed. It is the magic, she thinks; enveloped as she is it is hard to tell where one of them begins and the other ends, and her own magic has billowed up like smoke to twine through Keili’s until they are entangled.
Kelli laughs, her hand and her magic curling around Varania in a possessive twine. "Wasn't this what you intended, all along?"
"I didn't know it would be love-at-first-sight, no," he says, grinning like a madman. Maker, Kelli's magic feels like home. "But I did think you'd like each other."
Varania can't look up. She doesn't have to, feeling the firm press of magic against her flesh, clean and kind and refreshing. Kelli tucks her face into Varania's neck, and it is wonderful.
"We do," Varania says, though she has nothing to compare this to, is lost in the feel of it. "We do."
Kelli hums against her throat, and Varania looks up and then oh, the line of her jaw, her nose, her cheek, and, like a shock, her eyes.
"At first sight," Selwyn says, sounding deeply satisfied. "How romantic!"
Varania cannot, smothered in magic. Maybe he's right.
Kelli smiles, offers up her other hand. "For you."
It might be a question. Varania takes it, nevertheless. "For you."