Strings Attached - a There and Back Again side story

Part 4

Leliana had watched, spellbound, until the nature of the service the Mother was going to perform was revealed. Still occasionally streaming tears, the older woman had lifted a new, clean cloth from the bowl of water and begun bathing Andraste's statue, gently washing first the pedestal, and then the toes. She had wiped each inch with deliberation and careful attention to detail, before using a towel to dry it again, leaving it looking unchanged to the naked eye – but purified in the eyes of the Maker. It was a penance often inflicted on the newest initiates, the most troubled applicants, the ones who had difficulty seeing and holding onto their faith through everything in their past that had brought them there; it was intended to be mindless, to encourage self-reflection – but also to be mind-numbing and unpleasant, so as to not-so-gently encourage the disruptive penitent to conform.

It was a penance no one would ever assign a Revered Mother, something everyone would assume was far beneath her. Some in the Chantry would assert that it diminished the dignity of a Chantry official to perform such a menial service, though others would do such things in an ostentatious attempt to demonstrate their 'humility' to the Maker; this was neither. It had been clear the Mother had not intended to have an audience, was not doing it at the behest of a superior or to flaunt her devotion, but instead as an act of selfless service, a private penitence, a balm to her own faith. And it had touched something in Leliana, in a way no perfectly sung Chant or golden shimmering Cathedral ever had – this was personal, and genuine, an honest expression of belief and dedication, not a display for the benefit of others.

Drawn forward inexorably, Leliana had stepped into the small chapel. The only response from her mentor had been a brief pause before she had returned to lovingly washing the statue's feet. Afraid to speak and break the spell that had weaved itself around the little sanctuary, clear-headed for the first time in months, mind entirely devoid of the noisy tumble of emotions she hadn't been able to escape as easily as she had escaped the dungeon, she had stayed silent, quietly divesting herself of her robes before kneeling beside the older priestess reverently. Dorothea had nodded at her without a word, before returning to her work.

Reaching down, Leliana had picked up a spare cloth and begun the ritual cleansing, something she'd done countless times since coming to the Chantry but had never really connected with. She'd shivered as she recited the prayers in her mind, not out loud, not using her well-trained voice to try and impress, but instead truly feeling the meaning and the purpose those words gave her. When she was done, when she felt pure for the first time she could remember since her childhood, she had wrung out another cloth, shuffled around the side of the statue Dorothea was painstakingly cleaning, and begun washing the statue's marble knees. The two women had worked together all night, in the flickering candlelight, never speaking, occasionally weeping silently but never stopping, moving around each other effortlessly until they were both satisfied it was done.

Leliana sighed as she considered the memory fondly. That had been the day that had started her on her current path. She'd stumbled, exhausted, into her bed, but when she'd awoken she'd felt content – not impatient for the next assignment, not desperate for something or someone to fill the void within her, but quietly satisfied, confident, certain of her direction and her faith. She'd gone to Dorothea that day and requested to be transferred – somewhere quiet, remote, where she could be of service to the Maker's children, but also contemplate and pray in peace. It had taken very little time before she'd found herself in Lothering – and the rest was history. The Maker had seen to it that she'd been where she was needed, that she was given the time to develop the mental fortitude to walk this path – and then placed on a collision course with someone who would need her and her specific background.

She watched Nathaniel silently for a little longer as he vented his emotions on the defenceless dummy; he didn't seem the type to take solace in the Maker or the Chantry – and indeed Leliana had seen some things over the course of the Blight that had opened her eyes to just how far the Chantry had strayed from Andraste's teachings – but the initial step was going to be the same for Nathaniel's recovery as it had been for her own: clarity. Quiet. Focus. The bard gazed at the musculature visible in the shoulders of the raven-haired noble, and rubbed the callouses on her own fingers that matched those she could see on Nathaniel's.

The man was obviously an archer – a skilled one, from what she'd seen.

Leliana knew archers. She'd trained with them, lived with them, pretended to be one of them. Become one of them. She knew how they thought – and she knew how they achieved clarity.

She reflected once again on the night she'd found the Maker in a small chapel. In retrospect, when she'd had time to consider it, the fact that it had been a set-up was obvious. There'd been four cloths available, not the two Dorothea would have needed for herself. The room had been warm, and too well-lit – and the mission had been a waste of Leliana's talents, so her frustrated night-time prowling was quite predictable. Dorothea was a not-inexperienced bard in her own right, and she'd known how to draw Leliana in, had guessed what she'd needed to see. She had obviously been aware of Leliana watching long before she'd gotten the courage to enter the room. Dorothea – who'd always told Leliana that she had to heal herself, not that Leliana had listened – had skillfully manipulated Leliana through the initial steps with Leliana none-the-wiser – and the redhead couldn't have been more grateful if it had been Andraste herself doing the guiding. Just because you have to heal yourself doesn't mean others can't help you along when you need it.

She smiled. She withdrew silently, turning to the range and choosing a practice bow. She rattled the arrows just a little too enthusiastically, cleared her throat a little too loudly, drew back her aim and sent an arrow purposefully flying off behind the target, cursing under her breath a little too vehemently. She took a breath and drew the bow again, suppressing her smirk when she heard the footsteps behind her. She released the arrow a little too soon, and it rebounded off the stand of the target to land on the ground.

She nodded silently as the damaged man stepped up beside her, his own bow in hand. He nocked an arrow and drew, and she synchronized her breathing to his, just loudly enough that he could hear it. They both released, and then drew again, not having to think about the rhythm of it, falling effortlessly into the pattern: inhale; draw; exhale; release; nock. Again and again they fired, neither bothering to even check their results on the target, and he started synchronizing his breath to hers even when she slowed the pace.

She had learned the lesson well: sometimes people needed help to find their way back. She smiled at him softly and turned back to her target, taking aim again.