Character Narrative: 365 Days in Aeonar (Part Two) Who: Deidre "Dee" Aisli NPCs: Ser Casiah Castell, Ser Mark Abernathy, Sister Justine Where: The Northern Fortress-Prison of Aeonar, in an undisclosed location in Ferelden When: 9:42 Dragon; From 29th of Umbralis to 30th of Solis 9:43 Rating: Safe Summary: Part 2 of Deidre's stay in Aeonar at twenty years of age. Encouraged to finish her book, the archaeologist uses her research to keep her mind intact under a period of near-continuous isolation from the outside world. Ser Jonathan Vardic is replaced by Ser Casiah Castell as commander of the fortress, who proves to be a much more amiable man than his predecessor.
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29 Umbralis, 9:42
The long months have proven that Sister Justine's declaration was correct, that throwing her mind into something she loved would help. The days started to make sense again, despite having the tendency to blend together still, but the sheer amount of material she had to work with tested her brain's acuity thoroughly. There were times when she was so exhausted -- physically and mentally spent, that she had started sleeping through the dreadful hours past midnight when inhuman screams would occasionally shatter the Isolation Tower's false tranquility. Not even on the road did she experience so many bouts of deep and dreamless sleep; she had never been a heavy sleeper, not since she started traveling, but with the hours dedicated to exhausting herself in every way possible to keep herself from reliving the same horrors that plagued her since her confinement, it was easier than she expected.
She put the manuscript together with care, her penmanship as legible as she could make it. With a preliminary binding holding the pages together, she leaned back against her chair and stared at the compilation in front of her, one which comprised a few years worth of work, danger, and travel. The ruined Tevinter city of Marnas Pell was not a destination for the faint of heart...it was considered to be one of the most haunted places in Thedas, worse than the famous Nevarran necropolis that dominated most of the Silent Plains. Her heart beat faster at the thought of it, adrenaline pouring into her bloodstream and rendering her every sense alert and alive.
Deidre Aisli, by the next year, would be a published scholar.
The familiar sound of clanking metal tore through the silence, from the vicinity of the door. The young woman turned at her chair, her look expectant.
Right on time.
The door swung open, the grim-faced templar that was responsible for feeding her in the last few months marched inside and set her tray of food by the door. He never spoke to her, following Vardic's orders to the letter about minimal interaction with their Denerim-based suspect. Mark, they called him, and she only knew this because a comrade had called him that from somewhere down the hall, one day over the Autumn months.
"Mark," she addressed him, her hands folding on her lap.
The templar froze in his tracks, on the verge of turning his back to her and leaving. His hesitation was obvious, curiosity in his green eyes as he pivoted to take a look at her. How? was writ plainly on his face, and regardless of her detection of his silent query, she ignored it. As far as she was concerned, she owed no answers to anybody stationed in Aeonar.
"I would like to speak to your new commander," she continued, her chin tilting defiantly.
Ser Mark furrowed his brows. "That's out of the question, Sister," he replied. "Standing orders are--"
"Yes, yes, I know," Deidre interjected testily. "But I think an exception has to be made here." She nodded to the manuscript on the desk. "No matter my sentence, my work and the subject of the book I'm authoring is funded by the Chantry. It is due early next year. They gave me that deadline, not I. As you can see, I'm already in relatively hot water with my superiors... I don't intend to raise their ire further by missing it."
He appeared confused, scratching the back of his neck. If he was expecting any sort of request levied towards his commander, he certainly didn't expect this. "So...what do you want with him?"
"To talk to him." The cleric-to-be sighed. "He's the only one who can authorize sending something out from me. I'm not supposed to send nor receive correspondences while I'm here, remember?"
"...right." Ser Mark chewed on his bottom lip indecisively, his hands falling over his hips as he pondered the request. With a lift of his shoulders, he turned to go. "I'll pass it onto him, but I'm not giving you any guarantees."
* * *
30 Umbralis, 9:42
The hair stood up at the back of her neck and goosebumps rose over her flesh. She wasn't certain as to what woke her up exactly, but her room was suddenly cold -- its temperatures plummeting down to the point that she could see her breath in the dark. Mist curled out from her lips and despite the warm blanket that was provided for her to keep the growing winter's chill away, she shivered. She pushed herself off the bed in a sitting position, gathering her tangled hair and pushing it over one shoulder. Her hazel gaze, foggy with sleep, blinked rapidly in an effort to get used to the shadows that enveloped her whenever lights-out was called in the Tower.
She found herself drawing back from the edge her mattress, the curvature of her spine pressing against the cold surface of the stone wall behind her. The feeling that assailed her now wasn't just the sense that she was being watched, but rather something infinitely more disturbing.
Someone's in the room with me.
Deidre felt the depression at the foot of her bed, as if the unseen intruder was sitting on it. Her throat had gone dry and she swallowed thickly while icewater braided down her spine. Her ribcage tried its best to contain the sudden thundering within it, the hummingbird tick of her jugular trying its best to tear through her skin and jump out from her collarbones.
"Who's there...?" she said quietly.
Silence fell, the young woman listening intently at the shadows in an effort to gauge whether she was alone. However, when no response came, she willed herself to relax. The place had done its best to play around with her imagination like a sandbox, after all. She shifted on the bed again, turning slightly on one side to fluff her pillow.
You called me. I heard you, my darling love.
The voice was low, disembodied and feminine -- whispering close to the shell of her ear. A pair of chilled, invisible fingers slid gently over the side of her neck.
My poor little Julia...
She jerked backwards, a cry of surprise choked down her throat as she groped for something, anything, to defend herself with. All she found in the darkness was yet another pillow while she endeavored to press herself tight against the wall. Her other fist clenched, pulled back and cocked in the ready -- to launch when necessary. She may not be armed, her weapons may be far away from her, but the streets of Denerim were her very first instructors in the ways of survival. If someone -- something -- was about to kill her this evening, she wasn't going down without a brutal fight.
The instinctive and adverse reaction of her body, however, appeared to dispel whatever cause the phenomenon inside her room. The air was suddenly lighter, warmer. The presence around her bed lifted and vanished, leaving her alone once again. More than just a little bit unnerved, the priestess sunk back into her covers and drew them over her head while she willed her heart to try and stop its attempts from bursting out of her chest.
* * *
1 Cassus, 9:42
A scarred hand bearing a steaming cup of coffee moved across her vision, situating the heavy ceramic object on the space in front of her. Aeonar's newest commander, Ser Casiah Castell, was taller than the average Fereldan -- tanned, as typical of men who spent their days engaging in rigorous, physical activity. His appearance reflected hints of the Anderfels; his hair was a golden blonde, and the glacial irises of his eyes reminded her of the blue-white peaks of the country's mountains. Rumors have it that his mother hailed from there, and given she had been there a few years ago, it certainly explained the height to her. Well in his mid-thirties with broad shoulders and a friendly smile, the man had to be one of the most handsome that she had ever seen in the Brotherhood.
Good-looking and a perfect gentleman. Despite her status as a momentary prisoner, he pulled her chair out for her and insisted on calling her Dee -- a name which he knew she preferred. It made something within her ache, though for the life of her, she didn't know why.
"I've heard you've been all over," Casiah remarked, his face lit up with unbridled curiosity, making him look more boyish than the seasoned veteran the state of his hands implied. "And that you're well on your way to beating Brother Genitivi in the number of places visited. What's it like, doing the work you do?"
She entertained his questions and they were numerous, though the situation she found herself in was hardly unfamiliar. The last few days have made her grown accustomed to all sorts of inquiries; asking them, receiving them and answering them in turn. She rarely found others who was as well-traveled as she, and even rarer still were the ones who were conversant in as many languages as she had learned over the course of her travels. He listened with the sort of studious and unassuming attentiveness that was largely unusual for most templars -- intellectuals were few in such a martial profession, and to learn that Ser Casiah was one of them was only the second in the highlights of her stay at the prison.
To her relief, she learned that he was amenable to sending her manuscript back to Denerim, albeit he was hesitant at first. She managed to convince him through the explanation she gave Ser Mark a few days ago; that her superiors gave her a hard deadline and the project was Chantry-funded. He instructed her to package the parchment and give it to the templar meant to bring her supper....and once she was escorted back to her chamber, she had a small spring in her step. It was relieving to realize that she still had the ability to be cheerful -- to be happy over something that seemed small and inconsequential.
She used the satchel that Justine had used to deliver her things to protect the manuscript -- while the leather was beaten, it was oiled and weatherproofed. It would do the job. Grabbing another piece of vellum, she inked her quill quickly and scrawled a short note in her usual, hurried script.
Justine, It's done. I'd like it to be published under the title you and I talked about the last time I was in Denerim. Could you also take care of sending a copy to Rick at Kinloch Hold? He helped me with the background research. Thanks. I'll be home soon.
~D.
* * *
26th of Solis, 9:43
Ser Casiah was kind enough to escort her out to the gates, his hand over her own that was draped over his forearm. His old world charm was something she appreciated; the way they were walking reminded her of how pairs of Orlais's old aristocracy walked down their fine, cobblestoned boulevards. She felt more like a noblewoman than a servant of the Maker, which was odd enough in itself considering she had no claim to prestige. Their conversation while heading to their destination was an idle one that asked more about her travels and the nature of her work. At the course of it, she learned that his mother was an Ander, but that his father was Fereldan and he had always regretted not learning the country's language. His tone at that part of the story was wisftul, and Deidre wondered just how many opportunities he missed while he served his god. For someone who seemed cheerful in going about his duties, she got the sense that he harbored many regrets.
"Well, Sister, we part here." His golden head nodded towards the ox-and-cart waiting for her outside. She noted the unhurried shamble of a pair of tranquil preparing for their departure milling about the vehicle. "A few of the Circle's Tranquil were kind enough to send a few supplies over here before they made their way to Denerim. At the very least, you won't be walking all the way there."
Deidre nodded at that, and flashed him a small smile. "Thank you for everything, Ser Casiah." She inclined her head at him. "Even if your questions about my travels were a covert attempt to probe at my guilt."
Surprise rippled over his features. The templar sighed, a smirk playing over his mouth. "I thought that you might've picked up on it," he replied. "I hope you know it was nothing personal, Sister. And off the record, it wasn't as if I was wholly uninterested in your stories. I was. Interested, I mean."
He extended a hand for a shake. "As someone in my position, I'm often discouraged from enjoying the company of pretty girls, but..." He paused, and cleared his throat. "I'd like to say that I hope I see you again, but considering your oh-so-notorious disciplinary record, it's best that we don't."
Her fingers slid through his, clasping them momentarily. "Believe me, Ser Casiah, you're welcome to stay here without me around," the priestess replied, dryness suffusing over her tone. She angled her gaze upwards over the fortress's soaring parapets. "A year in here is more than enough for me." Her brows furrowed. "Though I do have a question for you."
"Hm?"
"Have you heard of anyone in Aeonar named Julia? She might have been held in the same chamber I was some time ago."
"Julia?" Aeonar's commander looked at her quizzically. "I don't think so. That Tower's had many prisoners in the past, but I don't recall anyone of that name being held in anywhere there, much less your chambers. Why do you ask?"
She was starting to feel a little foolish, remembering the odd occurrence that happened on her bed a few months ago and wondering whether it was her mind's own folly after all. "It's nothing, I thought I heard someone call the name -- one of the templars addressing another one of the prisoners, but I now I'm starting to think it was all a dream."
The sun rose to the center of the sky once their motley caravan started moving towards Denerim. In a few days, she would arrive at the capital city -- to partake in the smells of the Marketplace and feed off its daily, frenetic activity once again. While blindfolded again, she could sense the cart moving further away from the looming prison; it served to lighten her mood further, to feel its dark grasp on her vanishing slowly. The prospect of being free again was almost enough to forget about the foreboding shadows that blanketed her room, the screams that pervaded in the hours past midnight -- of the ghostly voice that whispered in her ear and caressed her neck like a fond farewell.
Almost.
* * *
30th of Solis, 9:43
Her room in the Denerim chantry's dormitories was just as she left it, everything in its usual state of organized clutter. Deidre was never one to meticulously keep her things in an order, preferring to be the only one who knew how to precisely navigate the myriad of maps, books, and journals that seemed to take up every inch of the room. Dropping her books and scroll cases on her desk, she moved towards the single vanity and peered at her reflection. Save for looking paler than her usual, the healthy tan she had developed from her travels having faded into a creamy pallour, she didn't look emaciated in any way. True to what Vardic ordered, she was nourished properly in her time in Aeonar. The punishment was never designed to be a physical one.
She took a deep breath and toyed with an unruly lock of hair from her right temple. It would be good to take a bath.
Turning around, she blinked at the sizable parcel left on her bed, pieces of parchment bundled together in twine and sorted carefully. She knew without any confirmation at all that it had been Justine's work -- she must have intercepted the letters sent to her from Denerim and placed it there so she would see them the moment she returned. Dropping heavily on the edge of her mattress, she cut the twine, and started looking over the sealed sheets. There were only a few that wrote her with any regularity, and handwriting served as a quick way to know who sent what immediately.
"By the Maker, Thren," she murmured, picking up the pile covered by his distinct script and sifting through them. He sent her around ten letters in the year she had been gone. She also identified correspondences from Aurin and Alderic -- more than a few. She started reading them with no small sense of awe, breaking wax seals and scanning each of them. All held the same pattern -- the usual greetings, new escapades, how life was going in their respective regions. Later letters grew more serious... Thren's in particular grew in urgency from within the last few months. She couldn't help but feel the lump forming in her throat.
She tore open Alderic's last letter. It wasn't much of one, as it only contained a single sentence:
Deidre - where are you?
A couple of stray drops spattered on the single sheet of vellum. The brunette took a deep breath and dragged her knuckles over her eyes. Grief overtook her -- harsh enough that her chest constricted and robbed her of breath. It wasn't over anything she endured in particular or even largely in part because of the fact that they had been worrying all this time (certainly, any person with a heart would've been touched by so much care so tangibly displayed). All the sensible and logical reasons for her current state of tearfulness paled in comparison to the fact that she would be spending the evening writing down the lies she was going to make up; to send to the people who held her in their sincerest affections.
"What are you going to tell them?" Justine's voice was quiet from the doorframe.
The younger Sister kept her back to her, tilting her head back and fixing her gaze on the ceiling. "Anything other than the truth," she replied. To her credit, her voice sounded steady. "I hate it. I hate this more than anything I've had to endure in the last twelve months, but you and I know the reasons why are good ones."
She folded Alderic's letter, returning it to the pile -- all of which to keep in a box that held others of their kind in the past. She heard the other woman move closer to her, stopping at the edge of the bed. Justine's fingers reached down, to gently ply them along the tousled strands of her hair.
"Ser Aurin was asked to report here later in the day," the cleric murmured soothingly. "He was sent to accompany you on your latest assignment."
Deidre's heart sank at her words. She hoped to offer her explanations, however untrue they were, through letters of her own. To lie to a close friend fresh from her ordeal, with his eyes staring right at her, would be a more difficult undertaking.
"Are you up to it?"
She squared her shoulders, exhaling slowly -- it had a calming effect, feeling her lungs contract as air from it was wrung out gradually. She stood up from the bed and turned to face her benefactress, taking in the concern that softened the matronly mien. Somehow, she found the capacity within herself to smirk confidently at her, her brows raised and every shred of her signature bravado put forward.