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She was done!
Rosemary put her hands on her hips and looked around the apartment in satisfaction. It was small and empty and utterly, totally, and completely hers. There were no Keepers, parents, sibs, cousins, aunties, uncles, grandparents, nieces, or nephews anywhere to be seen. There was a mattress on the floor with old, soft sheets and the quilt that Baba had made just to send along with her. There was a closet where her scant selection of clothing hung neatly. There were scuffed, creaky floorboards and a dripping sink, a refrigerator that did not work and a hot plate that did, and a really unpleasant stain in the corner that she didn’t want to think about.
And it was all hers.
Absolutely perfect.
That night, she woke up to screams.
They were desperate, sobbing, deep chest-wrenching screams, enough to yank her out of a sound slumber into full on panic. Heart racing, she leapt out of bed. Who? Where? The sound was coming from everywhere and nowhere, flooding her with fear, overwhelming her senses. She threw open her doorway, ran out onto the tiny landing-
There was no one there.
The sound-
It wasn’t coming from downstairs. But she was the top apartment in the house. There was no one else on this floor. It was coming from… her apartment?
It was gone.
Suddenly cold, she went back into the tiny studio and turned on the only light, a dim lamp that had seemed cozy before. Now it wasn’t enough, just shifted the scene from pure darkness to a deep gloom.
The screaming was gone. Everything was quiet once again. There was only the water rumbling through the old building, the sound of her own breath in her lungs.
Rosemary took a deep breath, brewed a cup of tea, and did not fall back asleep until nearly sunrise. The sense of panic made itself welcome, burrowing into her chest and keeping her wide-eyed, staring into the shadows. There were no parents in the other room, no sibs to steal the covers, no cousins or Keepers. Here, she was utterly alone.
It was wonderful, before. Now… she was not so sure.
When she did start to drift, it wasn’t pleasant. The panic came along, bubbled up through her lazy dreams until she jolted awake, desperate for air. The slightest blanket seemed too constricting, but the air was frigid and cold.
When the sun rose, it reached gently through her window. Exhausted, she blinked slowly, watching the square of sunshine make its lazy way across the worn floorboards. Seeing it was soothing. She drifted off gently.
Then her alarm started to beep.
~*~
“You must be my new neighbor,” the dwarf said, a kind smile on her face.
She blinked, looking at the woman, keys in her hand. “I’m sorry?”
“Harding. I’m in unit three, just below you.”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “Rosemary. I’m Rosemary. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Same. Let me know if you need anything. Here.” Harding reached over with her own keys and unlocked the front door.
“Thanks, I, uh. I think my key sticks.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.” They started up the old staircase, side by side. “You liking the place so far?”
“It’s pretty nice,” she nodded. “But, um.”
“Hmm?”
“Have you been hearing that… screaming at night?”
“Screaming?” Harding blinked.
“Yeah.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. “It’s pretty loud.”
“No,” Harding said slowly.
“Um, right. Sorry, then.” She wouldn’t even mention the dreams.
“Have you talked to Varric about it?” asked Harding.
“Who?”
“Varric. The landlord.”
“Mr Tethras?”
Harding laughed, a cheerful sound. “Please call him that to his face. Please.”
“I-”
“I’m sorry. You should talk to him. He’s a good guy.” Harding smiled, and it went all the way into her eyes. “It was nice to meet you.”
“Yeah,” she said. “It was nice to meet you too.”
“Stop on by if you ever need anything!” Harding waved and headed into her apartment. The door swung behind her with a crash.
All alone, Rosemary walked up the creaking stairs to her door. She took a breath, slapped on some cheer and optimism, and walked in.
It didn’t help.
Every time she fell asleep, she woke to the sound of screaming. Every time she dozed, she was panicked, trapped, stuck, terrified, alone. Her dreams were always the same, crammed into a tiny space, no room to breathe, scratching, banging against the walls. She sobbed and shouted and woke.
Her beautiful, solitary apartment in the city… she had dreamed of it. She had worked so hard to get here and now her paradise was its own tiny hell. Even awake, she was uneasy within the patched plaster walls. They were small and felt smaller every time she woke with the sobbing screams in her ears.
Rosemary spent very little time at the apartment. It didn’t feel like home.
She had a job, thanks to her mother’s friend’s nephew’s boyfriend (in the way of such things). He desperately needed help in his newly opened diner, one with a fancy bakery and coffee shop. It was work, which she was thankful for. But as she was finishing her fourth shift washing dishes, the manager was having conniptions – who was going to run the food out? They were down an expo and two bus boys, they would never-
“I can do it,” she said, and pulled a bakery apron over her head. “Where do I start?”
The diner was perfect, all consuming, and took as much time as she was willing to give. She came in before dawn to help bake, smell the warmth and the yeast and the fresh pastries. Cullen always greeted her with a soft smile, no matter how frazzled he seemed over some errant scones.
When the morning rush picked up, she would jump on the line. The head chef went by Bull, a Qunari, and he was absolutely terrifying for the first two hours she worked prep alongside him. Then he fixed her with one enormous eye and winked broadly. “If you swear at the food, it tastes better. Old Qunari trick.”
“It tastes better if you stop burning the pancakes too,” Krem said, needling.
“Hey, that was a deep golden brown. They had no reason to send it back,” Bull scowled, flipping hash browns. With his other hand, he tore off a piece of the neglected pancakes and handed it to her. “See? Perfectly cooked.”
They were warm, just fluffy enough, and a dark golden-brown. The mouthful melted on her tongue, sunk into her belly which reminded her that breakfast had been a very long time ago.
“Better eat them,” Krem said, plating two omelets. “The chef hates food going to waste.”
Bull nodded seriously and deposited two sausages in the middle of the maligned pancakes, rolling the top one up like a burrito. She took it. The sausage was sweet and spicy, and the pancake around it- yeah.
It was a good place to work. It only took a few days before she could successfully dodge manager Josephine’s questions about how long she had been on shift, when she had last taken a break. A day later Dorian, their barista, showed her how to use the espresso machine.
The hope was if she worked for long enough, she would be so exhausted that she could sleep through the night. Not that it worked, but she tried.
“Cullen, something’s burning,” she hollered as she stepped into the bakery from the main room.
Cullen, who had the world’s worst case of fall allergies, swore under his breath. By the time she had fetched more cream for Dorian at the coffee counter, Cullen had hauled a full tray of loves out of the top oven. The edges were, indeed, starting to blacken.
Cullen said some more impolite things and lifted the heavy tray, swinging it over to the trash can.
“Don’t throw them out!” she yelped.
“We can’t sell them-”
“Put them in a bag, I can take ‘em?” she said, tilting her head at Cullen. The blond gave her a look, fully aware of her poor attempt at being cute, but set the tray on the cooling rack anyway.
Which is how she ended up walking home fourteen hours later with an entire garbage bag full of partly-singed cranberry walnut bread. It was. A lot. Of bread. And it was heavy.
She was exhausted in the best way, arms and back and legs aching, but there was still a humming knot of anxiety that grew with every step towards her apartment. Taking the long way around wouldn’t be so bad, even with her extra burden.
And besides. She could use the fresh air.
She loved the river that wound its way through the cities, loved the wide gray ribbon that cut through buildings and trees, under bluffs and over a dam. It wasn’t too far of a stretch to make her way to the riverwalk boulevard on her way home. The part of the trail on her route stood on a rise looking over the river, stretching over trees and bracken and the sandstone hill that swept down to the water below. The official path was smooth and paved, next to a major road, and an eternally popular destination for runners, bikers, walkers, and all manner of pedestrians.
But drop off the path, slip over the fence, and the busy city became a different world. The trees and greenery of the steep hillside swallowed up the noise of the street. The light turned into dappled shadows which faded into the dark.
Deep in the heart of the city, Rosemary loved the taste of the wild.
The path to the water was slightly treacherous, depending on how one went. Her favorite route wandered in wide switchbacks, snaking down to where the water shone in the moonlight. She sat on a large concrete block for just long enough to toe off her non-slip shoes and worn-out socks, slipping the former into the latter and tying the laces so she could wear the whole mess slung over her shoulder. There. She always felt better with her bare feet on the ground, with the grass and mud underneath her toes. When the shore allowed, she would walk in the shallows of the water and let the pull of the current sweep her fears away.
It was only a room, after all.
Rosemary lost herself in the soft sounds of the river, in the silver shine of the waning moon, in the shapes of the rocks beneath the surface of the water. Lost herself so thoroughly that when she turned around the side of a little grove she was utterly unprepared for the sight of a small campfire, flickering by the shore.
It was tucked into a curve of sandstone, a little hollow that shielded it from sight or intrusion. It burned small and hot, with very little smoke, and its keeper was sitting beside it, still, seemingly as surprised as she was.
“Oh,” she breathed. “Hello.”
“Good evening,” said the figure by the fire. They wore a heavy coat in green canvas, and the hood obscured all features but that voice. It was a warm voice, calm and deep and courteous.
“Good evening,” she said for lack of anything better to say. “Your fire is beautiful.”
The hooded figure nodded slightly. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t see it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the shoreline. “You’re hidden very well.”
“There are not many who come down this way,” the figure pointed out, shifting. She caught a glimpse of high cheekbones, a set mouth. “Most travel either on the river or above it.”
“I guess I’m lucky,” Rosemary said. Anxiety began to weave its way into her mind, gripping. Stories of women who went into dark, inaccessible places. Stories of women alone-
“Would you like some bread?” she asked.
The figure by the fire was silent for a moment. “Bread?” they repeated.
“Sure.” She fought down the panic that was rising in her throat. Kindness pays its own way, her grandmother had always said. Do not forget to be kind. “I work at a bakery. The loaves are a little singed, enough that we couldn’t sell them. They’re still good, though, cranberry and walnut. Do you want some?”
The waves lapped her toes, up to the tops of her feet.
“I would,” the figure admitted, and she caught the edge of a smile. “My thanks.”
She scrambled out of the water, onto the large rocks of the shore. The person by the fire pulled down their hood – perhaps to be less intimidating.
It didn’t work.
They were a he, absolutely a he, and he was striking in the firelight. He had a stubborn jaw and pale skin, uninterrupted by any hair on his face or his scalp. His ears rose to elegant points – an elf, not a Dalish elf – with full lips and a faint dust of freckles across his nose.
But his eyes-
She had never seen anything like his eyes.
But. She had offered him bread. And so, feet dripping on the stone, shoes slung over her shoulder, hair styled in a way she called “fourteen hours in a hot kitchen, shut up Dorian,” she opened her garbage bag of bread and took out two nearly-perfect loaves, each with a slightly blackened edge.
He rose – he was tall – and stepped around the fire. His clothes were plain, worn, durable. Their hands brushed as she passed the bread. And he smiled-
Oh.
His whole face came alight when he smiled.
“Thank you,” he said, taking the loaves. “It is generous of you.”
“I’m just glad it’ll get eaten, instead of being tossed in the bin,” Rosemary admitted.
“Indeed,” he nodded. “Will you eat with me?” He got a peculiar look on his face as the words left his mouth, slightly surprised.
“Yeah,” she said without thinking. “I’d like that.” Upon further examination, she realized, it was even true. She would like that.
The man produced a knife from a heavy canvas bag and cut two thick slices. The crust was slightly tough, as it should be, and the bread itself was nutty and sweet, packed with walnuts and cranberries.
Her host smelled the bread, then broke off a small bit and ate it. His eyebrows rose in appreciation. “This is very good,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said smugly. “I helped make it.”
“Are you a baker?” he asked. “You have skill.”
“No, not really. Cullen’s the baker. I just help.”
“Learning the trade?”
“I guess,” she shrugged. “I’m trying to learn everything. The bakery, the coffee, prep, dishes, bussing tables. Not serving or cooking so much, not yet. I just do what needs doing.”
A flicker of a smile, only visible because she was watching. “And so you learn everything.”
“Yeah.” The fire was hypnotic, the flames dancing. “I like to be useful.”
“A valuable person indeed.”
She flushed – she didn’t know why – and changed the subject. “Do you live down here?”
“On occasion,” her host said mildly. “Unless I am someplace else.”
“It’s beautiful. Don’t you get cold in the winter?”
“Ah. That is an occasion in which I am someplace else.”
Rosemary smiled. “Makes sense.” For a moment, there was no sound other than the lapping of the waves on the water. “If you live around here, do you- Do you know anyone else who needs some bread? People who are hungry?”
He stopped eating, and his gaze had a physical weight. “I do,” he said slowly.
“Do you want to take all the bread? Give it to them? I was going to try to find a soup kitchen, but what if they didn’t want it either?”
That caused a soft laugh. “I can think of no one who would turn away bread such as this,” he said. “But if it is a burden, I will take it from you. It will be well welcomed.”
“Perfect,” she said, and popped the last piece of crust in her mouth. “I’m glad.”
“As am I,” he smiled. That smile.
The fire crackled between them, and the river lapped at the rocks. It felt like a moment plucked out of time, something so different than the hot panic of the kitchen during dinner rush. Something about this place, the river and the fire and the waning silver moonlight – it did not seem real, in a way. Like a page plucked from a story book.
“I guess I should go,” she realized, after a minute or an hour. “Thank you for sharing your fire.”
“Thank you for the bread,” he said.
“You should come by sometime,” she told him. “The Skytown diner and bakery. We’ve got good coffee.”
He nodded. “I shall.”
“Oh.” She grinned. “Good. Good night.”
“Walk safely,” he said.
She made her way back to the shore, to continue her way home. When the water hit her toes, she stopped. “Hey. What’s your name?”
Again, the surprised blink, the slight pause. “Solas,” he said, with the flicker of a smile. “My name is Solas.”
“Solas,” she nodded. “I’m Rosemary. See you around, Solas.”
“Good night, Rosemary.”
She made her way home slowly, thinking of nothing but the fire by the river, and the moonlight shining down. It was almost enough to ward off the panic that rose as she climbed the steps to her apartment.
Almost. But not quite enough.
~*~
“Ah, Rosemary,” Dorian called as she slipped in the side door a few days later. “There you are. I was beginning to think you had fallen down a hole.”
She grimaced. “Josephine didn’t want to see me today until nine.”
“Stay here too late last night, did you?” Dorian shook his head. “A lovely young woman such as yourself should not contain herself to this place. Why, the opportunities-”
“Yes, Dorian.” She walked into the back without looking at the barista.
Dorian stuck his head through the door. “Well, if you are in that sort of mood, I expect I shan’t tell you about your visitor.”
“Huh?”
“Your visitor.” Dorian gave her a winsome smile and disappeared back into the front as the bell on the door jangled. More customers.
Rosemary scrunched up her face, sighed, and went to work.
A few hours later, the flood of people had settled into a quiet trickle, mostly students and business folk peering into their laptops. Rosemary went to coax Dorian into giving her a mid-morning boost.
“Shift drink?” she said with a slight smile. “Four shots, heavy cream, please?”
“Well, as long as you said ‘please,’” Dorian said with a mock sniff, turning to his beloved espresso machine.
“You said a visitor,” she reminded him, leaning on the bar. “Did someone come in looking for me?”
“Ah yes, the hobo. Rough looking fellow, but spoke nicely enough. Asked for you, not by name, said you had given him some bread. Ring any bells?”
“Yeah, I met him by the river. He took the bread we were going to have to toss.”
“Of course, the mark of a true gentleman.” Dorian scowled at the milk frother. “By the river, you say?”
“Yeah.”
“There are some strange sorts who linger in that area. I would hope that you are careful.”
“He’s not strange,” Rosemary argued. “He’s nice.”
“Nice.” Dorian tasted the word in his mouth. “Yes, that’s what I thought when I saw him. My, what a nice-looking fellow for a hobo. I hope he doesn’t rob the store, it would be such trouble.”
“He’s nice,” she said. And, “Coffee?”
Dorian was painting fancy shapes with the foam. “True art-”
“Dorian.”
He gave a long suffering sigh and passed her the cardboard cup. “Barbarian.”
She inhaled the rich steam of the drink. “Thank you, Dorian.”
Dorian waved her off with a half smile, and she went into the back to do some organizing before the lunch rush came in.
Solas had come by.
For some reason, the thought warmed her belly more than the coffee did.
~*~
The next day was her day off. Not that she needed one, but Josie had made a few very interesting faces when she suggested that she come in. None of the faces were good ones, so, here she was. Day off.
In a kind world, the bone-chilling screams that continued to wake her night after night would also be forced to take a day off. She had no such luck. So, exhausted and yawning, she packed a bag with sandwiches, water, and a blanket. She would find somewhere else to nap, somewhere in the sun. Somewhere with (hopefully) very few dreams.
The morning air was still crisp enough to make her re-think the nap, at least for a few hours. Instead she turned toward the river road and joined the morning walkers and bikers on the pavement. There was a little coffee shop she wanted to dry, a couple miles down. Worth a small hike.
It was a beautiful morning in the early part of summer. Bikers zipped past, and runners who huffed and puffed like wolves. There were power walkers, with exercise gear and fierce expressions, and dogs taking their people for a morning walk. Cars rumbled by on the street, slow and calm.
It was a beautiful day. The morning sunlight filtered down through the trees. The sky was a perfect blue, with puffy white clouds bobbing here and there. The leaves rustled in the breeze, the same green as a perfect cut emerald. They seemed to call, beckoning, and her feet suddenly ached to walk in the soft dirt instead of over hard pavement.
She ducked through the bike lane into the underbrush, passing through the wall of trees. There, that was better. Even just a few feet away from the rush of pedestrians, she felt more calm. She-
Something caught her eye. Something fluttering in the leaves. What was it? A scrap of cloth, something lost? Rosemary walked forward, curious. Was it an artwork of some kind, or a little camp? Was it-
Panic hit her belly, a low, cold, blow. Her heartbeat raced, bile rising in the back of her mouth. They were, it was, it was nothing, nothing. Just a few dolls. Someone had hung some dolls, little dolls made of cloth, little red dolls, bits of twisted dolls, hanging from the trees. It was fine, it was nothing, it was fine, it was fine, it was-
It-
She turned and ran.
She ran through the woods as fast as she was able, slipping through the undergrowth, overcome by fear. Her heart beat in her mouth and dread followed after, she ran without screaming, without any air, horrified, terrified, confused and panicked she ran, tripped, fell and kept running, blood on her palms, trickling down her knee, run, run-
She broke out of the woods, down by the river bank, sun on her skin, and still she did not stop. Did not stop, would not stop, don’t stop-
A shape – oh! “Solas!” she cried and, without thinking, buried herself in his arms.
“What has happened?” he said, voice sharp with concern, but he held her close as if by instinct.
“Something,” she gasped, “something in the trees, Solas, someone put something in the trees and it, it, it-”
She was crying, she shouldn’t be crying, she felt a fool, crying, sniffing into the soft cotton of his shirt. “Breathe,” he murmured, and there was a hand stroking her hair. “Breathe. You are safe. In.”
She shook with adrenaline, pulled a shaky breath into her lungs.
“-and out. Focus on yourself. The feeling of your clothes against your skin. In. And out. Feel the cool air on the back of your throat. In. And out.”
Gulping, her shudders subsided. After a long moment, she let go of his shirt which she’d bunched between her fists. He wasn’t wearing his canvas coat, just a plain, soft T-shirt and a long vest with large pockets. Now it was a plain, soft T-shirt with some snot and tears on the front. Oops.
But he didn’t seem to notice, wrapped his strong hands around her shaking ones. “Rosemary,” he said softly.
She shook her head, but didn’t pull away. “It was- I don’t know, it wasn’t anything, I was just so scared, and I ran-” She blinked, feeling her palms sting. “My hands.”
He turned them over, studied the scraped palms with a frown. “Sit,” he said, and he led her to a largish rock that provided a more comfortable seat than it otherwise appeared. He pulled his bag from his back and quickly produced large cotton pads in sterile containers, wet wipes, antibiotic cream, and duct tape. He knelt before her and, with gentle efficiency, he cleaned and bound her scratches.
“It’s not elegant,” he said, surveying his handiwork. “My apologies.”
“No, no. It’s perfect.” She touched the silver shine of the duct-tape. “Thank you.”
He looked up at her, and his eyes were gray in the light. “I must ask.”
“I don’t know.” She cast back over the memories, shuddering. “It was, it was nothing. There were… I don’t know. Dolls? I guess? Hanging. And it was- I got so scared, it was… and I ran.” She rubbed her forehead. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“No.” She peeked at him. His face had set like stone, looking off in the direction from which she had come. “I fear I must ask you to show me.”
“What?” Her heartrate jumped. “What? No.”
“You do not have to go back there,” he said, and it was not unkind. “But you must show me the way.”
“No.” She shook her head, curls flying. “No, it’s dangerous.”
He looked at her with a small, bemused smile. “I will be fine.”
“No,” she said, and she grabbed his shirt again. “What if something happens to you? What if you don’t come back?”
Solas’ face seemed frozen for a moment. Then his brows untangled. “And what of the next person to come across it?”
Rosemary shook her head. “It’s just dolls, though, just, just dolls on the trees. It isn’t, it’s not, it shouldn’t-” She looked at him, and there was no hint of a smile, no amusement written in his eyes. “I’m coming too.”
Solas’ eyebrows flew upwards. “There is no need-”
“I’m coming with you.” She stood up from the rock, frowned at him in her best intimidating frown. “The whole way.” And with that, Rosemary marched off into the woods from the direction she had come.
Fear shivered down her spine. She acknowledged it with a nod. She was afraid and she was going to do this. She wasn’t going to let him go, go back. Back there. Not alone.
He fell into step beside her. “There is-”
“I’m going.”
He fell silent. Smart.
It was easy to retrace her steps, going upriver until her heart started to crash against her ribcage, until her breath caught in her lungs. Solas did not say a word, his face setting into stone as they walked.
Rosemary’s stomach began to twist, the panic bubbling in her gut. There was a flash of red fabric through the leaves. “It’s here,” she murmured, no louder than a whisper.
Solas held out a hand, motioning her to stillness. He seemed… different. Like his footsteps should ring out on the ground as he walked. His shoulders were set, wide. He did not look like a hobo. He looked. Different.
The summer air was too cold, not on her skin, in her bones. And the fear, the fear built, it built and built, gathering in the back of her throat, in her gut, in her arms and legs, crawling across her skin. Clothes on your skin, remember, grounding. Breathe in and out.
She followed him. Followed him in. Where the tiny scraps of cloth hung from the trees, twisted with twine, twisting in the wind. Solas crossed over to the nearest with long, heavy strides.
A short blade shone silver in his hand.
He cut the thing down, every scrap of twine, and left it to lie on the forest floor. She shivered. Then he moved to the next. And the next.
There were so many. Dozens.
One was not far, only a few feet from where she stood. She had no knife. She had her hands.
Her fingernails were short, and the knot tying the thing to the tree was tight. She twisted and plucked and pulled, and the harsh twine hurt her fingers. This close, she could see the thing too clearly. It had no eyes, only a mouth. A twisted, lopsided thing in black marker. It bobbed on the branch, grinning at her.
Rosemary stepped back, turned, and threw up at the base of a young maple tree.
Solas was halfway around the clearing.
She kicked dirt over her mess and turned back to the twisted thing. Her mouth burned with bile, and her hands shook. The knot was tight, almost slippery, almost resisting her efforts. It would be easier to wait. For Solas and his knife.
Rosemary kept working.
The knot gave way. Twine slithered through her fingers, fell to the ground.
She stared at it, blinking. Then she turned to the next one.
She was on her third by the time Solas had finished the others. He made a move as if to cut the thing and she shook her head. His brows rose. He paused, then offered her the handle.
She took it and cut it down, careful not to nick the tree branch underneath.
They burned them, in a large hole Solas dug in the earth. He produced a small jerry can of gasoline first, soaking the dolls in the stuff. Then he produced a carton of matches.
“I want to do it,” Rosemary said.
Solas’ eyes flicked up to her, measuring. Then he nodded.
The matches were cheap cardboard, the kind you get from a bar. The first one would not light. Her hands shook, and she dropped the match, unlit. She blew out a breath, gripped the second match firmly, and pulled.
It sputtered to life. She dropped it in the pit.
Flames leapt into the air, crimson and angry, at least four feet high. Rosemary stumbled backwards, losing her balance, but a strong hand at the small of her back kept her from falling. She did not pull away as quickly as she could, unnerved by the anger of the fire, the way the flames stretched, tendrils leaping out towards any fuel it could find.
And then, just as suddenly, the fire went out. There were only a few pieces of ash, fluttering down to the rich earth.
She could hear the leaves, rustling softly in the wind. Rosemary let out a breath she was unaware she had been holding.
“I…” she swallowed. Solas was refilling the fire pit, mixing the ashes with the misplaced dirt. “What happened?”
“That depends,” Solas said. “What did you perceive?”
She shook her head to clear the clouds. Her heart had slowed, the panic receding like a bad memory, like a half-remembered dream. “Something was wrong,” she murmured. “Those, those things. They were-” She looked to Solas to supply the correct noun, but he was bent to his task. “Bad,” she finished. “They were bad.”
“A simplistic analysis, but you are not incorrect,” Solas said. “They were unpleasant at best, and dangerous if left. You did well to bring it to my attention.”
“And we fixed it?”
“Indeed.” He patted the last of the dirt back into place.
“What, what was it?”
“A curse, of course.”
“A…”
“A curse.” He looked at her. “Ah. But you do not believe in magic.” This had a bite to it, on the edge of mockery.
“Magic?” she blinked. “A curse?”
“Do not concern yourself,” he said, and it was as if a shutter fell over his features. “It is likely too much for you to understand.”
She shook her head, unhappy, confused. Where was the man with such a kind smile, who had thanked her for the bread? “I don’t – why are you angry at me?” she asked, drained and blunt. “Why are you mad?”
“This is a world you are ill-equipped to deal with,” Solas said, straightening. “I advise you leave it behind you.” And with that, he walked off into the underbrush, vanishing with hardly a rustle of the leaves.
Rosemary stood in the forest, with the sun streaming through the branches. Exhausted, overwhelmed, and hurt, she began to cry.
~*~
Dear Solas, the letter said in simple, plain script.
I am sorry. I don’t know what I did, or what I said, but I am sorry for it. I meant no offense. I was curious. I’ve always been. I-
She tore the paper off of the pad and crumpled it into a ball. She didn’t do anything, she didn’t need to apologize. Whatever had gotten under his nerves, it was nothing she had done. Nothing she could have done.
Solas,
I don’t know what happened in the forest that day, but I want to. I didn’t. I don’t. Fuck.
The paper tore.
Solas,
I think my apartment is haunted.
This was stupid. She was stupid. She had a headache, she was so tired.
Beyond her window, the sun was slipping under the horizon.
I want to know more about you. Where did you come from? Why do you live by yourself in the forest? What were those things there, and how did you know how to deal with them? Who are you? Why were you so angry? What-?
Argh.
In the end, she scribbled a few words down onto the page and stuffed it in an envelope. Then she ripped it out again and added a post script. The letter went in a bag with a few well-chosen pastries – part apology, part bribe. Perhaps it would be enough.
Dear Solas,
You’re right, I don’t know. But I want to learn.
Yours, Rosemary.
P.S. I think I need help.
~*~
Hypothesis: Nothing was easy when it came to Solas. Further validation came two days later in the early evening when she was in the back, up to her elbows in flour and dough. The door to the front swung open and she caught the edge of her name.
“-mary?” Dorian was saying in a tone that made her instantly suspicious. “No-”
And the door swung shut. Rosemary blinked and tore herself away from the bread dough, standing on tiptoes to see through the window set into the door. Dorian was scowling at someone on the other side of the counter, someone out of her field of vision. She pushed the door open only to see the edge of a green coat vanishing outside.
“Dorian, was that?”
“The hobo again, yes.” Dorian grimaced. “He asked for you by name this time, don’t worry. I told him you don’t work here.”
“Dorian!” she cursed and ran out of the store, leaving the barista sputtering behind her. “Solas!”
He froze on the street corner, surprised. “Ah,” he said as she jogged up to him. “I was informed that you had gone away.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry that’s, it’s just Dorian.” She wiped her forehead, flour going everywhere. Damnit. “He thinks he’s being helpful, trying to protect me.”
“Where as you-”
“I don’t need protecting,” she interrupted, rudely, damn, and shook her head. “I just need help sometimes.”
“I see,” Solas said. It might have even been the truth. He looked at her in one long gaze that seemed to sear right through her skin.
She wasn’t optimistic about what he saw. Her clothes were wrinkled, a few days due for a wash, and her skin had developed a sallow sheen in the daylight. She had dark circles under her eyes that even the most expensive drugstore makeup couldn’t banish, and a tremor in her hands that would not go away. The headache was the worst, though.
She closed her eyes to avoid seeing his face. That backfired. She wobbled in the sudden darkness behind her eyelids and there was a hand on the back of her arm, steading her.
“m’ fine,” she muttered but she leaned into him anyways, grateful for his support. He smelled nice, like the sunshine and wood smoke. And he was warm. It was nice.
Solas’ voice rumbled in his chest. “You are unwell,” he said. “You should be resting.”
“Ha. No. But yes, that’s-” she opened her eyes and found that she was leaning on his shoulder. Not the plan. Nice, but not the plan. She pushed away. “I can’t. Rest. I can’t rest. I need your help.”
“You said as much,” Solas said, but he did not let go of her. She deliberately took a step to the side and he watched as she wavered, suspicious.
“I think my apartment is haunted,” she said frankly. “Will you come look at it with me?”
She finished the bread first, of course, while he lurked outside, doing whatever one does while lurking. Josephine was glad to let her go. Dorian was suspicious, loudly writing his number on her arm “in case she needed anything.”
When she left, still covered in flour, he was still there, waiting. Rosemary couldn’t help but smile. “You’re here,” she said.
“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Solas said. He offered her his elbow and she wrapped an arm through it, charmed despite herself. “I promised you my aid.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But that might have been because of the chocolate croissants.”
“They make a powerful bribe,” Solas agreed, then took a breath. “I wished to apologize. I was-”
“It’s fine.”
He shook his head. “My attitude-”
“Solas,” she said quietly. “Really. It’s fine.”
“It is not,” he said, but he dropped the subject. “Where are we going?”
“My apartment.”
“And where would that be?”
“Huh. Right. It’s that way.”
Now that he was here, that they were walking together towards her place, she was worried. They were dreams, nightmares. What if she was just imagining it, they reached her apartment and he told her it was nothing? What if he left her there, all alone in the screaming, just the screaming and she couldn’t, she’d be trapped there, trapped alone forever-
She tripped on a piece of uneven sidewalk and would have gone sprawling if not for his firm grip. Rosemary. Take a breath. You got this.
They walked the rest of the way in silence. It didn’t help. By the time they got to her front door, she had focus on sucking the breath deep into her belly, then out again. In, then out. It was fine. It would be fine. They were walking up the stairs to her apartment and it would be fine.
She turned the key in the lock and stepped through the door. “Sorry for the mess-”
“Get out.”
She turned, bag on the floor, blinking. “Huh?”
Solas stood in the door and all the color had drained from his face. His freckles stood out, bright flecks of color on his skin. “Get out.” He snapped. “Come back to the hallway now.”
She was almost angry, almost offended, but his voice cracked on the last word. She picked up her bag soundlessly and padded back to join him on the landing.
He let the door close behind her with a heavy thud. He stared at her apartment, and his eyes were blazing. “That-”
“That’s my apartment, yeah,” she agreed. “Is it, uh-”
“I will handle it.” He looked at the door, through the door. “You must leave.”
“I- what?” Rosemary shook her head. “No.”
“You asked for my help and I am providing it. Now what you must do is listen.” Where was the softness, the kindness? He was hard, brittle and burning. “Leave here and let me tend to this.”
“No,” Rosemary said, baffled. “This is my apartment, this, it’s my home. I’m going to help you.”
Solas shook his head, finally turning away from the door. “It is dangerous-”
“So?”
“There is nothing you-”
“It’s. My. Home.” She folded her arms and glowered at him. “My home. And I’m going to help fix it.”
“Do not be foolish,” Solas snapped. “It is far beyond-”
“No.” She watched his anger rise. Future note: he hated to be interrupted. She switched tactics, letting her shoulders slump, letting her weariness show. “Solas, I’ve… I’m afraid. I’ve been so afraid. Every day. Every night. Just walking up these stairs is, it’s hard. And I’m scared. But if I let you just come in and, and sweep all my problems away,” she let her hands fall, empty, to her sides, “I’m still just as helpless. I’m not trying to be, I’m not trying to make problems. But I need to do this, or I’ll, I’ll just keep being afraid.”
Solas shook his head, lips pressed tight. “Rosemary-”
“I don’t need a savior,” she said softly. “I need a friend. Please, Solas. Will you teach me?”
He closed his eyes, let out a soft huff of air as if her words had been a physical blow. Then he ran a hand over his smooth head. “This is foolish,” he grumbled.
She did not jump for victory, despite the lurching in her stomach. She only smiled and, with a wicked little impulse, lifted herself on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss onto his cheek. “Thank you,” she said.
A faint rose bloomed on his cheeks – oh, he blushed so beautifully. He cleared his throat, looked away. “There is a spirit,” he said, and his voice grew stronger as he regained his focus, “A spirit trapped within the walls of your room. It is… suffering.”
“It feels stuck,” she contributed. “Trapped and panicked, desperate to get out, desperate for air... Is it a ghost? Did someone die here?”
“I am unsure,” Solas said. “It is something we must discover.”
“How do we talk to it?” Rosemary asked. “What do we say? Can we talk to it? We’re not going to burn it out.”
“It would be effective,” Solas said dryly.
“No-”
“From your descriptions, it sounds like the spirit is most easily reached in dreams. We must sleep, then, and attempt to communicate with it in such a way.”
Rosemary shuddered involuntarily. “Right.”
“You do not have to do this.”
“I said okay.” She rubbed her arm nervously. “Do we do it now? Just, go in and go to sleep?”
“There seems no reason to delay.” Solas studied her.
“What?”
He slipped a cord of leather from around his neck, where it had invisibly hung under the line of his shirt. “Take this,” he said. Dangling from the cord was a stone, smooth and flat and cool to the touch.
“What is it?” she asked, slipping it over her head. It sat in the hollow of her breastbone, a noticeable weight but not an unpleasant one.
“A talisman of protection,” Solas said. “If you insist upon joining me, I would have you be as safe as I can make it.”
“That’s sweet,” she smiled, touching the stone. “Thank you.”
He gave her a look just a heartbeat too long. She suspected it had been a long time since someone had called him anything close to “sweet.”
“Are you ready?” he asked. “I cannot dissuade you?”
“No,” she said. Then paused. “What does dissuade mean?”
He hid a smile, she saw it. “I cannot persuade you to leave the matter to me?”
“I have to do this,” she said, determined. “This is my home.”
“I understand,” Solas said, and perhaps he did. “Then let us begin.”
He swung open the door and walked through as if preparing for battle. She followed after him, waiting for a blow from the spirit or – anything. But one never came. There were no screams, just the golden pink of the sunset pouring through her windowsill. It was nice. Peaceful, even.
Except, oh no, the pile of dirty laundry had escaped from the closet onto the floor, including a pair of lacy pink underwear and her favorite bra that had the little red cherries on it. Oh no. She subtly (hopefully subtly) sidled over and kicked the mess back into the closet, closing it with a muffled slam. “Sorry for the mess,” she said weakly.
“You have had other things on your mind,” Solas said gracefully, but the small, wicked smile at the corner of his mouth told her that he had probably seen the bra. Maybe the panties too. Shoot.
“So, uh, you can have the bed,” she told him, flustered. “I’ll grab a pillow and take the floor.”
Solas raised an eyebrow. “In order to dream together, we will need to be touching in some way.”
He didn’t look flustered. She wouldn’t be flustered. “Both to the bed, then?”
“If that is what you are comfortable with.”
She shrugged, frantically trying to remember if she had put on deodorant that morning. “A ghost-chasing snuggle between friends. Sounds good to me.”
That caught him by surprise. His eyebrows rose and he looked like he was about to say something. Instead he extended a graceful arm towards the bed.
The bed which she hadn’t made this morning, of course, just thrown off the heavy confronter and her grandmother’s quilt. She took the spot closest to the wall, lying down towards the room. Gently, with the strangest expression in his eyes, he lay down beside her, a respectable handful of inches away. Respectable until he turned towards her and his blue eyes flicked across her face.
“We…” her lips were suddenly dry. “We should be touching, you said?” She extended her hand across the space towards him.
He reached across and met her, clasping her fingers loosely. His hand was warm and calloused and somehow soothing.
“Like this?”
“Yes.” The puff of his breath brushed her cheek.
“Are you cold?”
“I am fine.”
“Kay.” She took a breath and screwed up her eyes. Sleep, sleep. After days and days of total exhaustion, she had never felt more awake. And it was cold without the covers. She thought about sleeping. She thought about it. Then she shivered.
She peeked an eye open. Solas’ eyes were closed, and a faint smile played at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps I am a little chilled.”
“A blanket wouldn’t be weird?”
At this he opened his eyes. “I would never to anything to bring you harm.”
Oh.
She pulled up her grandmother’s soft quilt until it covered their shoulders. Underneath, she found his hand again. “Ready?”
“I am.”
“Good night,” she whispered. “Sweet dreams.”
~*~
Dark. It was dark. And when she took a breath, she could taste the scents of pine and dust and old wood. Her legs were folded tightly to her chest, and her cheek was against something rough. She was compressed from all sides. Then she tried to move.
She tried to move, but nothing gave.
Trapped. Trapped, she was, she was trapped. Trapped in the dark.
Her breath caught. Trapped, no, no, she wasn’t, she, she could get out. She cracked her fist against the wooden box that held her but it was too small, she couldn’t get any leverage, any power. She tried kicking and pain radiated up her legs.
Trapped. Alone in the dark.
No, no. She had, she had to stay calm. Deep, deep breaths. Stay calm. The air was musty, stuffy, she felt light-headed. Was there enough air? Would she suffocate? Or would it be lack of water, she’d die of thirst and they’d find her, a dried up corpse in a box, mouth open in a silent scream, fingers worn away as she tried to claw her way free, to freedom and fresh air and sunlight-
She’d never see the sunlight again. She was trapped, here in the dark. Alone-
Alone.
There was a weight, nestled into her breastbone. A weight, smooth and heavy.
She wasn’t alone.
Her grandmother had said, when she left, when she left for the city, her grandmother had said, “You take us all with you, so you won’t be alone.” She was her father’s laughter and her mother’s wit and the careful joy her sibs took in their crafts. She was her aunts and her uncles, she was her cousins and her sibs, all of them. She brought them all with her, that’s what it meant to be Dalish. And even now, even here, there was a heavy, smooth stone hanging on her breast.
She was never alone.
“I can get out,” Rosemary told herself softly. “I’m not alone.” She smiled. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Her body shifted, but it wasn’t her body, not really. It never had been. The legs were too long, too gawky, and her fingers too spindly and pale.
Trapped, lost, lost in the dark, I’ll die in here, I’m afraid, I’m so afraid, lost in the dark, trapped, alone in the dark-
“You’re not alone,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
So tired, so thirsty, just water, just a little, please, then I’ll keep shouting. Someone has to come sometime, someone has to hear.
“I heard,” she said. “I’m here.”
Keep going, keep scratching, fingers on the boards, find something, something loose, a nail, I have to get out. I don’t want to die here, die alone in the dark.
“I think you did.” Her breath caught. “I’m so sorry.”
So tired. Keep shouting. Someone, someone has to hear, someone has to hear, I’m here, I’m here, I don’t, please, please, help me, help me-!
“It’s okay,” she said, and there were tears dripping down her nose. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”
So tired.
“You can sleep, now.” She wrapped her arms around him, around the poor, lost boy who had died here, locked in a chest with no one to find him. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, stroking his hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” And she started to sing.
“Close your eyes,
And I’ll sing you a song.
Lullaby,
Sleep until the dawn.
The cricket’s serenade,
Echoes softly through the night.
The stars are on the lake,
And the moon is shining bright.
Don’t worry,
I’ll be beside you if you call.
Just go to sleep now, close your eyes.”
And the boy, the ghost, the spirit, sighed a soft and sad sigh, and drifted away in her arms. Safe, now, wherever he had gone.
He was safe. And she was so tired. The echoes of the lullaby still hung in the air, soothing, slipping, leading the way to slumber and safety and sleep, sleep. So tired, she thought, floating. So tired.
“Rosemary!” someone shouted, shouted too loudly and grabbed her hand. Too loud.
‘m tired, she yawned. ‘m sleep. Ahead of her lay something warm and deep and welcoming.
“Do not go that way, not yet. It is not your time. Come back, Rosemary, come back.”
Finished, she murmured. Sleep.
“You are not finished,” the voice snapped. “Do not be fooled, it is not sleep you go to now. Come back, Rosemary,” and there was a hitch in her name that she found unaccountably fascinating. “Come back to me.”
The voice. She liked that voice. And she didn’t want it to sound sad. She sighed, irritated, and let the deep, warm dark slip away from her. When she cracked an eyelid, it was worth it. Solas was there, close enough to kiss, and his face was drawn with worry. “Hi,” she smiled up at him.
He let out a long, relieved breath, closing his eyes, pressing his forehead to her own. “Hello,” he said quietly. “Please do not do that again.”
“Oh,” Rosemary blinked, and he was so close that her eyelashes brushed against his skin. “Can I do this?” And she kissed him, softly, gently.
He froze, like statue underneath her. “It would not be… wise,” he whispered. “Not here.” But he did not pull away, and his lips brushed against hers with every syllable, seven more tiny kisses.
“Then I’ll stop,” she murmured slowly and he was kissing her so fiercely it made her gasp, his hand buried in her hair, his lips strong and sweet and full of fire, he tilted her head back and it felt so perfectly, wonderfully, absolutely right.
He broke off before the heat became too much to bear, and she wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her face in his collarbone. “Am I still dreaming?” she asked absently.
“Yes,” he said into the top of her head, amused.
“Oh.” She peeked over the top of his shoulder. It was her apartment, in the way things are in dreams – there but less substantial, without the firm stubbornness of the waking world. Lights were gleaming below the floor, outside of the window, little golden lights bobbing like spirits, stretching out farther than she could see. Enough for a city full of people.
She pulled away from him and turned – he gave her up reluctantly. There, on the floor around them, were the remnants of an old wooden chest. They had a pearly shine, like the moonlight. And they were fading.
“Are you dreaming?” she asked Solas.
“Yes,” he said. “And I am glad. I almost did not reach you in time.”
“Oh.” She thought of the spirit’s weariness, of the great, welcoming warmth that she had felt. “Solas? Will you remember this, when we wake up?”
“Yes,” he said, fervently. Then, more softly, “Will you?”
“Of course!” She jumped to her feet. “I met a ghost! I saved a ghost! And we’re here, we’re talking and we’re dreaming and is this, is this what a dream looks like? Do all dreams look like this? What are those golden things outside the window? Why was the spirit trapped here for so long? Didn’t the last person who lived here know something was wrong? And what-”
“One, one at a time,” Solas said, but he was laughing. “This place is not going anywhere.”
“No,” Rosemary said, and she reached over and took his hand. “Neither am I.”
When they woke up, she cooked him breakfast. Tried to cook him breakfast. After all, getting kisses was much more interesting than minding the eggs.