Amayian’s fingers strummed the lyre, the sound lightly curling upward in the silent air of night. The lurid orange-golden flames of the bonfire roared, sending flecks of embers into the darkness, like flaming stars streaking across the darkness of night. The wind kissed the back of his neck, grazing it’s cool lips against the warmth of his skin. It was pleasant, a ray of normality in the seas of chaos and disorder.

The lyre was light in his hand, and he leaned back against the stone that he rested on, strumming the cords with gentle tugs. The music danced and waned, kissing the air in with the softest of whispers before fluttering into silence once more. He’d found the lyre in the Dalish camp when Surana had ordered the camp to treat with the wandering elves. It had been tense, a layer of uneasiness filling Amayian into his core. He knew of the hostile relations between the elves and humans - especially the one between the Dalish and human settlements. But, the Dalish were uncharacteristically cold toward Surana. Amayian saw it in their eyes; the disgust, the unbridled hatred. Amayian knew little of Surana’s past, but even the Dalish discontent toward another of their kind confused Amayian. Yet, in through that, he felt a kinship with Surana, an understanding. Surana had easily shrugged off the harsh words and coldness of the elves with easy smiles and jokes, and Amayian could not help but admire the man for that.

He plucked another string and the music whistled in his ears. It had been long since he had last picked up a lyre. Mother had wanted a song, he recalled distivility. She believed that the music was the true voice of the Maker, and would help the baby grow. It had been a trouble pregnancy for his mother, and Amayian had been all to eager to display his meddling talents. It had gotten mother to smile. She hadn’t smile in so long. She had seemed so tired, with purple-black bags beneath her eyes. To see that light-glimmering smiles of her’s was a sign that he’d must have done something right.

Something stung his eyes, and Amayian raised a hand to wipe it away. He pulled his hand away, and saw the clear liquid glazing his skin. He stared at it for a moment, but then he shooked his head. Wiping the tear-stained hand on his tunic, Amayian set the lyre down and pulled his knees to his chest. He watched was the green grasses flecked the brown earth, swaying like strands of hair. A heavy tug pulled at his heart, and it took all his might to hold it up. I’m sorry, Mama. I wasn’t strong then or now. He could have done something, Aunt Lasaire had said. But he didn’t, he simply stood there, as frightened as a sow at the killing bed than a noble Trevelyan, while his mother bled out.

“Do you play?”

His eyes flickered upward, and he felt his cheeks warmed. The lay sister’s face was brightened by a smile. Her cut, jaw-length, copper red hair glimmered crimson and orange and gold with the dancing of the flames. The color of a sunrise. Her eyes were flecked with a light brown, so little that it almost seemed non-existent as it was swarmed with waves of blue. Amayian tried to find his words, and when he did, it came out stumbling and jarring to his ears. “I-uh. No. No I don’t. Play, that is.” He cleared his throat, glancing away to hold some marginal of his dignity. When he glanced back up, he saw amused doubt glimmer faintly in her brown-tinted blue eyes. His lips thinned. “Fine. A little. When I was a child.” He ignored the way his heart threatened to jolt out of his chest. He never felt this way. The warmth that seeped in tendrils all across his body whenever she walked past; the breathlessness of her smile; the urge to smile that threatened to broker across his cheeks whenever he had gotten her to laugh. It was a strange feeling, pleasant, even. Yet it terrified him, more so than he dare admit.

“Well,” she said, settling down beside Amayian. Her warmth seemed to radiate off her, pushing away the chill of the night air away from his bones. A sense of calm and peace filled him, and all had to push down the desire to move closer to her; to feel that heat that he had never felt before, “I do.” She thrusted out her hand, her sweet smile blossoming on her cheeks. “May I?”

He nodded, feeling the warmth dousing his cheeks. He delicately lifted the carved wooden lyre, and passed it to Leliana; their hands brushing one another, sending a tingle up his arms.