Fern comes to sit with Sina often, in between the time she devotes to practicing magic with Nell Voss, or working through her letters with Gwenaelle, or tending to Rooster, or any number of her other duties for the Inquisition. She doesn't have much downtime these days, but what little she has, she feels compelled--for some reason--to spend sitting next to Sina's bed. Sometimes she practices her reading assignments in the intervening quiet; at other times, she mends her worn socks and shirts brought with her from Ansburg.
Today, however, she just sits in despondent silence, gazing out the nearby window with slightly wet eyes. It's not fair. None of this is bloody fair.
It's a while before Sina wakes, and it's as she usually does, her little body suddenly convulsing with the effort it takes to cough. The spell is long and unpleasant, but does end eventually, and Sina lies back as though spent from a marathon, only now noticing Fern with her. She smiles faintly, even apologetically, trying to catch her breath.
The coughing fit attracts her attention immediately, and she tugs her chair closer to Sina's bedside with a look of worried helplessness written all over her face, until the coughing subsides. Then, when Sina smiles at her, she allows herself a weak smile in response, and reaches out without thinking to tuck the blankets back into place.
Sina's expression is one of gratitude, and pain-- always pain now, despite how she tries and has always tried to mask it. "You didn't," she says, so quietly she's practically mouthing it. A deep breath sighed in and out, then, "how are you?"
Wretched, part of her wants to say. Horribly depressed, and exhausted--but excited, too, for some of the new changes that have begun to shape her life. She wants to share all of these things with Sina, to tell her about Nell, and Gwenaelle, and Maedhros and his strange cousin Fingon... but she doesn't. The words won't come together into a coherent whole.
So instead, Fern tries for another smile and shakes her head. She rests her hands near Sina's atop the blankets. "I'm all right," she assures her. "I've gone back to work in the Chantry garden a bit, it's so peaceful there."
She grows quiet then, but it's clear from her face that there's more she wants to say, if she could just get the words out.
Though Sina can see the conflict in Fern's expression, she accepts her answer. Perhaps the reason is selfish; perhaps it's that she doesn't want any more reason to be worn out and upset, and asking might bring that upon her. But Fern seems to know this already, and for that Sina feels a little guilty. "I wish I could be there," she whispers, "what's it like, now that it's colder?"
Fern smiles a little, some brightness returning to her eyes. She'd always loved this time of year back on the farm--and distantly, back in Ferelden, too. "The leaves have changed colours," she begins with a thoughtful tilt to her head. She fiddles with a loose thread in the blanket. "Lots of reds and yellows now. You know, I think there's more sunlight now than before, just because so many of the leaves have fallen. Now the light can get in."
She pauses and lifts up a hand to discreetly rub her sleeve against one of her eyes. "The last of the summer green is gone, but it's just dormant for now. It'll come back in the spring, like it never left."
Sina closes her eyes, not to go back to asleep, but to imagine what she's being told. Autumn, by the sound of it just like autumn in the Planasene, in a much more limited way. She smiles placidly at Fern's last statement, and opens her weary eyes again, fixing them upward and unfocused. "I dreamed of it," she rasps, "the garden or somewhere like that. I haven't had a real dream in years." Always on that beach, always with the ocean, the pounding waves, the desolate sky. "It was midsummer. I walked behind Keeper Dhavihal, wanting to see his face." Her eyes have a far-off quality, and though she's clearly lucid enough to converse, Sina is beginning to reach a point where dreams are becoming harder to distinguish from reality. "It was... so warm, the air so sweet with pollen floating about, but when he turned back to take my hand--" Here she falters, blinking away tears. Taking a deep breath, her lungs audibly protesting, she sighs it out in an attempt to keep from getting worked up. "It was winter. Everything was gone. I was alone." Her eyelids flutter rapidly as she suddenly seems to remember Fern is there, and looks plaintively up at her, full of emotion and questions but with no energy to act on any of them. "My garden was dead," she concludes, in a shaky, mournful whisper.
Listening is a learned skill like any other, and not one Fern has ever been especially good at. (Just ask her mother or father, or any of her assorted brothers, or her Aunt Lorna especially.) She hears the words Sina shares with her and follows them, but it's her face that Fern focuses on more than the words themselves; the glassiness of her eyes, the sickly tinge to her skin, the dreamy, raspy quality of her voice. All of it together, punctuated by that dreadful rattling in her chest as Sina inhales, her face contorting as she struggles to breathe--she's dying, and nothing can be done to stop it from happening.
(She doesn't realize that she's crying until the wetness of her eyes makes it difficult to see, and she blinks back the tears furiously.)
A desperate, emotive look flung Fern's way, an unsteady whisper of, "My garden was dead," and all Fern can do is hastily shake her head and lean close to find Sina's hand on her blankets, clasping her cold fingers between her warmer palms.
"No," she insists firmly, tearfully, "it won't die. I won't let it, Sina, I promise." Fern sucks in a shaky breath and squeezes her eyes shut, then brings Sina's hand up to her face and gives her knuckles a very quick kiss.
Sina grips back as best she can, a tear falling, then another. A small, reassured smile returns, and she watches Fern kiss her knuckles with knitted brow. Holding her silence for a moment, she takes a few breaths as if working her way up to the one she can use to speak. "A Keeper," she whispers, her smile broadening despite the pain in her face. "You'll do... wonderful things."
Keeper magic; Sina had wanted to teach her, hadn't she? She'd called it Fern's birthright, something she'd have learned under the tutelage of another Keeper, had she been born among the Dalish. The thought of a life that could have been makes her heart clench tightly, without warning. What would it have been like to grow up in a clan like Sina's--or as a part of Sina's clan? If they'd been young children together, or come to know each other just a year or two sooner, maybe--maybe--
"You'll do... wonderful things."
"I wish--" Her voice catches on a swell of emotion; she hiccups and blinks away her tears, keeping hold of Sina's hand. "--I wish I could share those things with you. Sina, you're--you're so lovely, I've never met anyone else even half as good as you before, so gentle and clever and kind and--it's not bloody fair--! I wish.."
It's too hard to speak, all of a sudden. This isn't a grief that anything else in her life could have prepared her for; her heart hasn't had the time to develop the kinds of scars that toughen a person up enough to endure loss. Numbness has begun to settle in, giving Fern's eyes a distant, glassy quality. "...I wish we had more time," she settles on, the words whispered almost too quietly to hear.
Visibly troubled by Fern's distress, Sina watches her, but can only echo it so much within herself. She's so tired, every breath is a task within itself, and crying seems such a waste. Not that her own eyes aren't still damp. "Don't despair," she rasps, still gripping Fern's hand, and tries for the smile again. "There's so much good. ...so much." Sighing, she lets her eyes close a moment, and angles her head back toward the ceiling, a more comfortable position that affords better access to her lungs. "...I'm... out of time." Blinking slowly, her eyes seem to glaze over as sleep threatens to claim her again. Perhaps it should; it's the only respite she gets from the pain and labor of being awake. "But you're with me." Closing her eyes again, she speaks distantly, gradually falling unconscious. "We're up so high." An unexpected, barely-voiced giggle that transitions into a deep sigh. Still breathing, Sina has checked out for the moment.
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a visit to Sina's bedside, when she is still lucid
Today, however, she just sits in despondent silence, gazing out the nearby window with slightly wet eyes. It's not fair. None of this is bloody fair.
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"I'm sorry if I woke you," she says earnestly.
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So instead, Fern tries for another smile and shakes her head. She rests her hands near Sina's atop the blankets. "I'm all right," she assures her. "I've gone back to work in the Chantry garden a bit, it's so peaceful there."
She grows quiet then, but it's clear from her face that there's more she wants to say, if she could just get the words out.
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"I wish I could be there," she whispers, "what's it like, now that it's colder?"
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She pauses and lifts up a hand to discreetly rub her sleeve against one of her eyes. "The last of the summer green is gone, but it's just dormant for now. It'll come back in the spring, like it never left."
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"It was midsummer. I walked behind Keeper Dhavihal, wanting to see his face." Her eyes have a far-off quality, and though she's clearly lucid enough to converse, Sina is beginning to reach a point where dreams are becoming harder to distinguish from reality. "It was... so warm, the air so sweet with pollen floating about, but when he turned back to take my hand--"
Here she falters, blinking away tears. Taking a deep breath, her lungs audibly protesting, she sighs it out in an attempt to keep from getting worked up. "It was winter. Everything was gone. I was alone." Her eyelids flutter rapidly as she suddenly seems to remember Fern is there, and looks plaintively up at her, full of emotion and questions but with no energy to act on any of them. "My garden was dead," she concludes, in a shaky, mournful whisper.
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(She doesn't realize that she's crying until the wetness of her eyes makes it difficult to see, and she blinks back the tears furiously.)
A desperate, emotive look flung Fern's way, an unsteady whisper of, "My garden was dead," and all Fern can do is hastily shake her head and lean close to find Sina's hand on her blankets, clasping her cold fingers between her warmer palms.
"No," she insists firmly, tearfully, "it won't die. I won't let it, Sina, I promise." Fern sucks in a shaky breath and squeezes her eyes shut, then brings Sina's hand up to her face and gives her knuckles a very quick kiss.
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"A Keeper," she whispers, her smile broadening despite the pain in her face. "You'll do... wonderful things."
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"You'll do... wonderful things."
"I wish--" Her voice catches on a swell of emotion; she hiccups and blinks away her tears, keeping hold of Sina's hand. "--I wish I could share those things with you. Sina, you're--you're so lovely, I've never met anyone else even half as good as you before, so gentle and clever and kind and--it's not bloody fair--! I wish.."
It's too hard to speak, all of a sudden. This isn't a grief that anything else in her life could have prepared her for; her heart hasn't had the time to develop the kinds of scars that toughen a person up enough to endure loss. Numbness has begun to settle in, giving Fern's eyes a distant, glassy quality. "...I wish we had more time," she settles on, the words whispered almost too quietly to hear.
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"Don't despair," she rasps, still gripping Fern's hand, and tries for the smile again. "There's so much good. ...so much." Sighing, she lets her eyes close a moment, and angles her head back toward the ceiling, a more comfortable position that affords better access to her lungs. "...I'm... out of time." Blinking slowly, her eyes seem to glaze over as sleep threatens to claim her again. Perhaps it should; it's the only respite she gets from the pain and labor of being awake.
"But you're with me." Closing her eyes again, she speaks distantly, gradually falling unconscious. "We're up so high." An unexpected, barely-voiced giggle that transitions into a deep sigh. Still breathing, Sina has checked out for the moment.