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The Fools gather around a camp with a small group of apostates and their families. Mira is bickering casually with Elyse over the spices in the soup, smirking and holding a wide-hipped bottle of thin, sour wine fit only for the pot above her head so the more petite woman can’t reach it, all while Elyse is insisting that the rabbit ISN’T too gamy for this soup, and she’ll damn well do what she wants, she’s been making this dish since Mira was knee-high on a druffalo IN CASE MIRA HAS FORGOTTEN who taught her how to cook in the first place! A flicker of frost (about the most frost magic the petite Rivaini woman can summon, to be perfectly honest; she has an affinity for fire and for creation, the frost is mostly a parlor trick, but it’s amazing sometimes how frightened ignorant un-magicked bandits will get at a little frost curling around their mustachioed faces) tickles at the pit of Mira’s arm, exposed by her light padded armor, and the tall Marcher drops the bottle with a high-pitched screech. Elyse catches it deftly, off-handedly, smugly.
“ELYSE SAFIYA BREDANI” the Marcher bellows in her sometimes-cultured tones.
The mage arches one perfectly-shaped brow, shakes her bracelets, clanking clacking rattling back on her slender dark honey wrists. “It’s not your fault you don’t have the taste the Maker gave a mabari, Tawny, but you are. not. ruining. this. soup. And I will thank you not to take my name in vain.” A smirk is plastered across her bow-curved lips, her cinnamon eyes sparkling in the firelight.
A small hand tugs at the mage’s divided riding skirts, and Elyse directs her gaze down after a wink at Mira. A small sun-bronzed face gazes up at her with rapt attention, haloed in raven black curls. The barest whisper of sound escapes the child’s pursed lips, and Elyse swoops down, cuddling the small girl close. “What’s that, my precious little pumpkin?”
“You’re purty, Miss Lyssie.”
“Why thank you! This is high praise from a princess!” Elyse says this with mock solemnity, before pecking the little girl with a kiss on her nose. Maker, blessed are the peacekeepers-–blessed are Your children. Keep them safe in Your hand.
Mira smiles to herself softly, stirring the pot, idly sipping from the spoon, wincing at the flat flavor, and grudgingly admitting to herself that Elyse is completely right OF COURSE about it needing more wine–-and probably more vinegar, for that matter. The mage continues her hushed conversation with the little girl, and Mira watches from the corner of her eye as her friend–-her companion, her damn near sister-of-the-heart–summons a small flame in the well of her palm, crooning a child’s hymn, encouraging the small girl cradled in the bend of her knees. Watches as a tiny flicker of flame, the barest hint of warmth, awakens in the child’s palm.
Elyse’s rich contralto, hushed, tender, croons: “This little light of mine…”
And the answering unfiltered purity of a piping little voice: “I’m gonna let it shine…”
Mira hunkers down so her height doesn’t startle the little girl, snaking the bottle from Elyse’s free hand with a stuck-out tongue at her friend, and comically crossed eyes at the little girl. “So, ma cocette, will you be a brave warrior like Mademoiselle Lyssie, and fight dragons, and defend villages?”
The little girl’s eyes go wide and awed. “Dragons??” she squeaks.
“Mais oui, cherie, the most fiercesome of dragons and beasties of the air and sea. Ma'moiselle Lyssie has battled against them all! She is a brave warrior!”
Elyse wrinkles her nose at Mira, then smiles down at the little girl. “All mages must be brave, pumpkin. Brave to fight away the dragons and the demons and the wee beasties that cross over from the Fade! Will you be brave with us?”
The little girl nods solemnly, her little flame flickering higher, clutched now in her hand like a brand against the encroaching night.
Elyse feels her heart clutch, and kisses the little girl right between her soft brows, smelling the soft, tender scent of a child’s skin, the oils in her hair, the lye in her freshly-washed clothes. The petite Rivaini lifts her eyes, finds the girl’s mother watching them, smiling with a heart-wrenching exchange of knowing, of certitude, of the sacrifices and trials ahead of this tender child. "Very good, my little pumpkin. Now! We'll stop with this profligate-–that means a lot, little dove, too much, more than you need-–display of magic and see if our friend Tawny has managed to make the soup tasty!“
Mira hops back up, leaving Elyse to her entertainment, pouring a healthy dollop of sour wine into the soup, stirring it again, watching the onions and carrots and elfroot stalks swirl through the thin but pungent broth, the buckwheat noodles curvetting around the pot. Elyse gives a last ruffle to the little girl’s curls, then returns to Mira’s side, pulling a pinch of hot pepper seeds from a pouch at her belt, and scattering them over the swirling surface of the soup.
Elyse throws her arms around Mira’s hips, giving her friend a squeeze, then disperses to the edges of the camp, circulating amongst the gathered apostates, chatting, conversing, discussing the latest news of the Circle politics, dropping in hints here and there of the Rivaini circle in Dairsmuid, of the permissive attitude there, the double speak hinting at the relationship between the head of the Circle and the resident Knight-Commander. "Children,” Elyse whispers in hushed tones, cautious of Mira’s ears, of Mira’s care, of Mira’s interest. “Children, families are welcome there. You may raise your mage child there, in safety. You may teach her, be near during the Harrowing; imagine walking her through the Fade, a guardian against the demons of the darkness.”
These are not the concerns of Mira, not the business of the Band of Fools. Elyse has her own business, the business of a Circle that Mira believes her to have rejected in apostasy.
When she looks back to the fire, Mira is ladling soup into ceramic and horn bowls, serving out the rich, savory broth to the apostates and their families. Elyse shudders sometimes, looking at her. At the glow around her, the Favor of the Golden Lady, as she thinks of it in her mind. Andraste has spoken for Mira, has claimed her. It will not be until much later that Elyse realizes, or understands, that she has also been claimed; that, in point of fact, Mira’s claiming is incidental only to her own.
The soup is served around the camp, and Elyse steals a sip from Mira’s bowl, makes a hesitant gesture, then nods approval, sprinkling a tiny bit of extra pepper into her own bowl.
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