Temper, Temper
You somehow do sleep… or rather, you pass out. You don’t dream, which inevitably means you didn’t get anything resembling real sleep. No contact with the Fade, no mana, no rest. All it really serves to do is give you a start upon waking; at some point during the night, the Vashoth had climbed into the tent. The sight of him curled against the edge of the tent sends a bolt of absolute terror through you, and you’re scrambling out of the tent in blind panic before you can remember that this is “your” Qunari.
When you stumble out of the tent, you realize why he climbed in… it’s raining: a light, fine mist that’s chilly in the pre-dawn air.
Well, you’re up now. So are a few other people. Kelsie is miserably trying to prepare breakfast over a fire that struggles and sputters in the misting rain. Katari looks like he’s keeping watch, Emilio is with the horses, likely realizing you’d done all of his work for him overnight. And Solas…
Solas is doing those stretches of his, barefoot and barechested in the rain.
Oh, Maker bless.
You’re very aware that it’s not fair of you to stare. You’d been an ass to him yesterday, and the chances of him still being mad at you are high. You won’t win yourself any points by ogling him. You distract yourself by helping Kelsie with breakfast. The fire is dying fast in the drizzle, but you show her how to wrap up food in the corn husks from last night and bury them in the coals and ashes of the fire. At the very least, you manage to give everyone a hot breakfast despite the chilly drizzle.
No one’s happy about the rain, least of all you. It’s fine right now that it’s just a steady misting; the wagon is covered. But if it starts raining much harder, you’ll have to start worrying about the books, and you’re not entirely certain what you can do to keep them dry. Perhaps you can fix something with the tents…? But you’d have to shred the material from several tents to have any hope of keeping all the books dry, and even then, moisture could seep through and ruin them. You should have thought about this before leaving Val Royeaux. But you’re a fuck up—no surprise there.
Camp is broken down effectively, the horses are saddled up, and your group is on the road again. You’re no longer happy to be positioned near Solas, who is either suffering from his early morning grumpiness, or giving you the silent treatment… or both. Both, probably, you admit miserably to yourself. Adahlen is saying something insipid about aravels and Kelsie is chatting on and off with the Vashoth. Your eyes are on the sky, however.
Within an hour of travel, it’s starting to rain harder, and you’re officially worried. It takes a few more minutes for your fear for the books to overcome your fear of Katari, but in the end, you break formation to speak with the giant Qunari.
“Ser, I’m concerned for the books in this rain,” you tell him nervously. His glare quails you, but you press on. “I need to get them under cover. The books are the whole reason we’re doing any of this.”
Katari opens his mouth and you’re already flinching. Seems like everyone will be mad at you today. But, surprisingly, it’s Solas who comes to your rescue… sort of.
“I believe I may be of assistance. I can put a barrier over the wagon that will keep the books dry,” Solas interjects.
Katari eyes the mage sourly. “That will leave you weakened if there is an attack.”
“Yes, but it allows us to keep moving and ensures the safety of the tomes, which is paramount,” Solas points out. You give him a very grateful look, but he doesn’t even glance your way.
“Very well, mage,” Katari says with a sigh. “Trade positions with the elf’s pet. You, elf, keep an eye on him.”
Great.
As the two of you ride back into formation, you try your best to be less of a bitch to him. “M-ma serannas, Solas.”
“It would be a waste were the books damaged after all the effort you went through to obtain them,” he replies, his voice cool and clipped. It makes you want to jump off a cliff.
“I… yes, of course, I—”
“I will need silence in order to concentrate on the spell,” he says shortly, and you flinch.
“…Of course, ser. Ir abelas.”
You keep a close eye on Solas while he rides, eyes closed, hands up and glowing. As always, you’re impressed by his ability to stay on Ashi’lana while otherwise occupied. The barrier is a physical, palpable thing. You watch the rain slide off the invisible force and pour around the sides of the wagon. It’s incredible. You could never maintain a physical barrier like that. You don’t know the first thing about making one. He’s obviously using his mana wisely to make it last; you’d probably be drained bare within half an hour.
It’s raining hard now. All eleven of you are drenched, including Solas. It pains you to see him sitting unresponsive in the rain, his mind occupied with carefully maintaining his spell. What if he gets ill? How much is this spell draining him? You can’t tell. You keep wishing Katari would find a cave or a roadside inn or something, anything to let you cover the wagon in a more mundane manner. You fret endlessly over Solas, and when Adahlen opens his mouth to make some stupid fucking comment about Dalish magic, it’s all you can do not to chuck a throwing knife right at his stupid Maker-damned vallaslin-marked face.
You’re strained and soaked and generally miserable by the time lunch rolls around. Katari announces that the caravan will continue onwards to avoid exhausting Solas unnecessarily. There just isn’t shelter enough to get the books out of the rain, and it’s really coming down now. You fret next to Solas as the others pull out food. You have enough presence of mind to pull food out of your bag for the Vashoth, handing him the softest bread you have and a half-full jar of honey, emphasizing that he needs to go easy on the sweet honey. Then you turn your focus to Solas.
“S-Solas… Ir abelas, Solas, but you need to eat,” you stammer, riding close enough to place a nervous hand on his shoulder. He opens one eye to look at you. “You’ll exhaust yourself otherwise,” you beg, holding up what you’ve prepared. You’d opened a jar of hard boiled eggs and used one of your throwing knives to cut them onto a torn off piece of biscuit, carefully bite-sized.
Solas frowns, but you persist. “Vennam1, Solas,” you beg, voice taking on a whining quality. “Ma nuvenin halani ne—2”
“Enough,” he says, his voice somewhat strained. You fix him with what must be the most intense, dejected, puppy-dog eyes you’ve ever managed to conjure to your face. “Fine.”
You brighten immediately and offer him the first bite of food. You had hoped he might take it directly from your hand, but instead, with a grunt of effort, he switches to supporting the spell with one hand. You feed him chunks of biscuit and egg as fast as you can, delivering them ready-to-eat to his hand as soon as he’s finished swallowing one. Too soon, he’s done, having barely eaten two eggs and two biscuits.
“Solas,” you begin, but he shakes his head firmly, and brings his other hand up to begin casting the spell with both again. You let out a frustrated, quiet groan, but insist no further. At least you’d gotten something into him.
You grow increasingly stressed as noon stretches to afternoon with no sign of the rain letting up. If the other guards are in any condition similar to yours, they’re freezing and miserable, but your foul mood goes beyond that. How long could Solas possibly keep this up? You can tell it’s wearing on him… he’s beginning to look peaked, and you swear he seems to be sweating, though it’s hard to tell in the rain. His arms are getting a definite tremble to them.
You keep a watchful eye on Solas. Every time someone so much as tries to talk to you, you’re snapping at them like a snarling dog. Adahlen opens his mouth about Keepers one too many times and you actually snap, “tace, spicaurisger!3” at him. Fortunately no one here has any idea what that means, least of all Adahlen. He seems a bit startled, but not offended. The Vashoth, at least, has the presence of mind not to pester you after the first time you snap for him to be silent in Qunlat.
On into the afternoon, it becomes too much for you to bear. You kick Revas into a faster pace until you’ve caught up with Katari near the front of the progression. “We need to move faster,” you pester him. “Solas can’t keep this up, and we can’t allow the books to be ruined. We need to find shelter.”
“The mage can endure,” Katari says coldly, and your frayed nerves unwind the rest of the way.
“Ari va; maraas va saarebas!4” you snap, your voice loud enough to carry. “As-eb vashe-qalab!5”
“Va maraas imekari,6” he replies, looking at you with pure disgust.
“Real mages are not like your broken dogs!” you all but shout, your voice cracking around the rough sounds of Qunlat. “If I tell you he cannot do it, he cannot do it!” This time, when he levels you with an angry glare, you match it despite the terror pounding in your chest. He could snap you in half without trying, he could run that sword through your gut without—
“Watch yourself, vashedan bas,7” he says, his voice a low threat. Then he turns to the others. “We’re increasing speed!” Emilio and Argent immediately move to work the draft horses into a faster pace, and Katari turns back to you. “If we exhaust the horses, you will be the one who pays,” he promises.
“If you exhaust my pride, everyone will pay,” you snap back in Qunlat, not caring if it translates, not caring if he understands. Then you wheel Revas back around and trot to the rear of the progression to continue your worried vigil next to Solas. Everyone save Argent and Solas is staring at you with wide eyes, but you ignore them. You will have time for the realization of what you just did to sink in later. When Solas is taken care of.
As the afternoon wears on and Solas looks worse and worse, you find yourself drowning in self-loathing. You know few things as a mage, but the manipulation of mana is the one thing you can do. It would be child’s play for you to feed your aura into his, to give him power for his own spells, spells you could never cast. You’re not using your own strength. You don’t need it. He does. But to do so would be to give yourself away, and you simply can’t. All you can do is ride the horses ragged and pray to nonexistent gods. Gods who have never listened and certainly won’t start now.
It’s hours before your group finds suitable shelter. The rain has become a full blown thunderstorm, complete with teeth-rattling thunder and blinding flashes of lightning. It’s Argent who finds it; Katari had sent her and Emilio out on either side of the road to scout. Argent leads you to a large cave… large enough to get the horses and wagon in, in any case, although it takes a great deal of coaxing. Revas and Ashi’lana go right in, possibly because they can tell that your temper has long since been lost. No one’s even risking talking to you.
Solas is exhausted by the time he can let his barrier drop. He’s good at hiding it, but you can tell. His skin is even paler than normal; he has a persistent tremor in his limbs. You recognize the slightly foggy look in his eyes and the icy coldness of his hands as symptoms of a mage low on power. Despite your insistence of a faster pace, he’d still exhausted himself. You hate to think of what would have happened if you hadn’t increased speed.
You stalk around Solas like a furious mother bear, snarling at anyone who comes too close. You order your Qunari to set up Solas’s tent as you help Solas dismount from Ashi’lana.
“I am fine,” he says shortly, yanking his freezing hand out of yours.
“I have told that lie enough times to recognize it, Solas,” you say firmly. “Halath ar melara8, lethallin. Please.”
Solas lets out a frustrated grunt, but leans on you for support. “Anything for you to stop butchering the language of the People,” he says, and you crack a thin smile.
“Thank you, Solas.” You glare at Adahlen, who’s obviously listening in curiously. “If you have time to eavesdrop, falon9, then you have time to light a fire.”
“Unless you want me to burn some of those precious books, I doubt we’ll find much in the way of dry tinder,” Adahlen replies.
“Ah, forgive me,” you say darkly. “I mistook a Dalish hunter for someone competent at wilderness survival.”
Adahlen flushes with indignation, but turns and stalks away. Hopefully, to find some fucking wood.
Solas goes to climb into his tent, but you stop him. “You’ll soak it,” you protest. “You need to change first.” Solas lets out a dissatisfied grunt. “It’s that or dry by the non-existent fire. You’ll regret it if you get the inside of your tent wet now, Solas.” Indeed, Emilio has already stripped out of his armor and is wearing naught but trousers. Elaine is similarly scantily clad, and the two of them are hanging up a line on which to dry their clothes near the back of the cave.
Solas hands go to his shirt and you quickly look away. Unfortunately, the shake in his limbs is persistent. Halfway through peeling off his sweater, he teeters dangerously and you catch him, hands on his bare side. You would be more embarrassed and flustered if he wasn’t so frighteningly cold. Adahlen had better get that fucking wood, or you’ll warm Solas by burning the Dalish’s corpse. With your support, Solas manages to yank his sweater and shirt the rest of the way off. His wolf-bone necklace thuds against his damp, bare chest.
You feel another pang of guilt. He’s in terrible condition, and it’s your fault. If you’d made better preparation in Val Royeaux… if you weren’t such a selfish coward. You could have helped him. Instead, you’d let him do it all himself until he was exhausted. He’d done this to himself just to keep your stupid books safe, and you… you…
“You’re bleeding,” Solas says, sounding alarmed through his exhaustion.
“What?”
His shaking hand goes to your face—his fingers are like icicles. You’d bit your lip so hard it’d begun to bleed; his fingers come back from your face stained bright red.
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, shaking your head. “Just a cut lip.” Solas frowns, but doesn’t press. “Can you stand on your own? I want to fetch you some dry clothes,” you fret, your eyes tracing over towards Ashi’lana, whose huddled to the back of the cave with Revas and the horses. They all need to be unpacked and cared for, before chill sets in. Garrick is starting, but he’ll have trouble caring for all thirteen mounts for himself, and you doubt Revas or Ashi’lana will consent to be touched by him.
“I am not an invalid yet,” Solas replies sourly. You don’t reply, simply make a beeline for the mounts. You tear the bags off of Ashi’lana quickly, placing the soaking saddlebags off to the side before doing the same for Revas. You’ll have to come back and care for them properly before long, but first… Solas.
The cave is a flurry of similar activity. Now that Elaine and Emilio have a line up, damn near everyone is stripping out of soaked clothing. You’ll need to do so as well, you realize. There’s no time or room for modesty here. Adahlen is nowhere to be seen, and you damn well hope he’s finding tinder. Katari is barking out orders, Kelsie is setting up tents… the whole place is like a swarming hive. You carefully pull dry clothing out of one of Solas’s bags, holding it away from your body to keep it from getting wet. Revas gives a distressed snort, and you kiss him briefly on the nose.
“Ir abelas, Revas. I promise you I’ll be back to care for you as soon as I can.”
You dodge swiftly moving bodies as you dart back to Solas’s tent. You squat by the entrance; Solas is inside and wearing no more than his undergarments. You find it impossible to look directly at him, but you thrust the clothing in. “H-here. Bundle up in the bedroll as soon as you can. I’ll be in momentarily.”
“There’s no need for you—”
“Please don’t make this any more difficult for me Solas,” you say, displeased by the way your voice cracks into a whine. “I already have to wrestle two miserable harts and a furious Qunari.”
Solas sighs. “I do not require a sitter. Focus on your actual charges.”
“Ma banal.10”
“Emma—”
“Ir banal!11” you snap, and stand, walking away to prevent more argument. At least he’s feeling well enough to be a pain in your ass.
You go to a quiet corner, or what passes for it, in order to strip out of your dripping clothes. To your frustration, your Vashoth follows you. You want to snap at him, but you realize just before you do that he looks… worried? Nervous, perhaps? And he’s soaked, as well. You bite your tongue and attempt to reel in your temper.
“You need to strip, but I have no other clothing that will fit you,” you say in Qunlat with a sigh. “I’m not s—” As you’re speaking, however, something comes flying towards you. You instinctively raise your hand, which prevents you from being smacked directly in the face, but the thrown cloth wraps around your head. You splutter indignantly as you yank it off of you.
“Dress your pet, elf,” comes Katari’s voice. “We don’t have time for illness.” You look down at the thing you’d “caught.” Pants. Katari had thrown his fucking pants at you! You want to snap back, but you know better. He had done you a kindness, wrapped up in assholery. You turn to your Vashoth, only to find he’s already stripping out of his pants. You let out a strangled noise and turn to stare at the wall. There is far too much stripping going on in this fucking cave!
You face the wall and hold the pants out, not turning back around until you’re certain he’s dressed again. The pants fit him much better than the half-assed ones you’d sewn together, although they’re almost comically large, both around the waist and length-wise. “There is rope in my pack you can use as a belt, vashoth,” you say, amused. “But for now… Stand here, and face that way.” He does so without asking why, of course. You probably shouldn’t be ordering him; it would be too easy for him to fall into blindly obeying. You’ll need to watch yourself in the future. But for now, you use him for a bit of privacy, stripping out of your soaked clothing hidden behind him. Scrawny for a Qunari he may be, but he’s still much, much larger than you.
You strip out of everything but your panties, unwilling to put on dry clothing over your soaked breastband. As it is, you yank on one of the sillier things you bought in Val Royeaux… a dress. Impractical, but for this situation, it’s much easier to get into than pants. Let the guards judge you if they want. Of course, you’d bought it with the intention of wearing it with leggings…it only comes just past your knees. But given all the bared flesh on display right now, you doubt anyone will mind the sight of your scrawny legs.
You place a nervous hand on your Vashoth’s arm when you’re done. “Thank you,” you say. “I’m going to check on Solas now. Try to get warm. If Katari or one of the others asks you to do something and it seems reasonable, feel free to assist them.”
You rush back to check on Solas, climbing into his tent without so much as asking first. He’s bundled into his bedroll. You place a shaking hand to his forehead. “Your hands are no warmer than mine,” he says sourly.
“I’m going to prepare your dinner,” you say, ignoring him. “Are you still cold? I can bring some of the blankets I bought in Val Royeaux.”
“I simply need rest, Emma.”
“And food, and care,” you say shortly.
“Care from someone who cannot even care for themselves?”
“I don’t see anyone else lining up,” you reply, forcing your temper down. You’re not in the best of humor when out of mana, yourself. “Hamin12, Solas.”
You crawl back out of the tent and go back to Revas and Ashi’lana, unsaddling them the rest of the way and beginning to brush them down. By the time you’re done with the two of them, Adahlen has successfully managed to start a fire in the entrance of the cave. Essentially everyone is shirtless or changed into fresh clothing; there’s not a single man wearing a shirt, and Elaine’s only addition to their immodesty is her breastband. How are they not cold? You couldn’t be more uncomfortable with the amount of flesh on display, but you settle by the fire to prepare Solas some food anyway. This requires you being in close proximity with Adahlen, unfortunately.
“Your Elven has a peculiar accent,” Adahlen comments as you gather rainwater in a pot for some broth.
“I learned from writing,” you reply shortly.
“I thought you might have been raised Dalish—”
“I was not. I’m from Denerim.”
“And your companion?”
“Feel free to ask him.”
“I thought you might—”
“Adahlen, you really need to learn how to tell when women are uncomfortable,” a low voice interjects with a chuckle. It’s Korbin, come to warm himself by the fire. He’s shirtless, leaving you free to notice that his chest is as tattooed as his face, and that most dwarves are apparently as hirsute as Varric.
“I was just…” Adahlen flounders, glancing at you and seeming to notice for the first time just how displeased you look.
“I know, buddy, but give it a rest,” Korbin says, clapping him on the back. Korbin is short enough it’s almost an ass-slap, which makes you smile slightly. “How’s your friend?” Korbin asks, addressing you.
“…Worrying me,” you say with a sigh. You bring the pot over and place it on the frame over the fire. You’ll have to boil the water before anything else. “I’m going to try and get him to eat. This rain had better be gone by morning…”
“Will you threaten our illustrious leader again if it’s not?” Korbin asks with a chuckle. You flush slightly.
“I didn’t threaten him.”
“I’ll take your word for it; I couldn’t understand a thing you two were saying. Never heard an elf speak Qunari before.”
“Qunlat,” you correct automatically. “I’m a linguist.”
“You speak Dwarven?”
“No, actually. I’ve never had the chance to learn.”
“I’ll teach you dwarven swears if you teach me Qunari swears,” Korbin offers.
A smile cracks your tired face. “Deal.”
Korbin keeps you well-entertained while you prepare food for Solas and your Vashoth. You had known the ancient dwarves spoke several languages, and that they had been the ones to invent the Common tongue. But Korbin teaches you a few creative terms that you can’t wait to use on Varric, and even uses a stick to mark some Dwarven runes into the dirt, old ones you don’t know. You’re surprised by the breadth of his knowledge. You’d assumed him Casteless… Perhaps you’d assumed wrong. You’re uncertain of how to ask politely.
“Your tattoos,” you begin, deciding that’s the best way to start. “Where did you get them?”
“They’re called grim tattoos,” he replies gamely. “All the Legionnaires have them. They’re applied at our funerals.”
“I… Pardon me?” you say, blinking.
“The Legion of the Dead? You haven’t heard of it?”
“Oh! I’ve read a little bit of it… not much, though. You have funerals? I mean, before you actually…?”
“Once you join the Legion, you’re pretty much considered dead,” Korbin informs you. “So they give you a big funeral send-off before you go marching into the Deep Roads.”
“Wow… That must be… something,” you say, trying to imagine it. To be that resigned to your own fate? The thought gives you chills… But given the choice between a death now or a death later, you would opt for later. No doubt many dwarves feel the same. You had read that only criminals were sentenced to the Legion of the Dead, but you decide not to bring that up.
Thanks to Korbin, you’re in a somewhat better mood when you bring Solas his soup… But that’s quickly dashed to pieces at the sight of him. His lips have a frightening blue tinge to them. Once again you’re assailed by an endless string of self-loathing. This is your fault. You could have prevented this.
“Solas?” you say quietly, wondering if he’s asleep. One eye cracks open to glare at you. “Can you sit up? I have soup.”
Solas shifts slightly, and you move to help him as he struggles to rise. Even after he’s in a sitting position, you sit close. His hands are trembling less now, but you’re certain he needs time in the Fade to recover. “You should use that enchanted blanket tonight,” you suggest, hands ghosting near his to ensure he doesn’t drop the bowl of hot soup. He won’t let you feed him, but the weakness in his limbs makes you worry.
“Perhaps you are right,” Solas concedes. “I worry for my inability to wake in case of incident, but I doubt I would be much use in this condition, regardless.”
“I’ll fetch it for you once you’re done eating,” you promise.
“I note you have none for yourself.”
“I prepared enough for myself and the Vashoth,” you promise. “I just wanted to ensure you were feeling well enough to eat.”
“You needn’t fret,” Solas informs you. “I will be fine.”
“If I looked as bad as you do, Solas, you’d lay me out,” you counter. He can’t seem to argue with that. You nag after him to finish the entire bowl of soup, and then fetch his enchanted blanket—locating it amongst his things is embarrassingly effortless—before finally letting him alone to sleep. The guilt is clawing away at your chest, however, and combined with all your stress and the strain of having two Qunari so nearby… You’re in a very poor state. You can barely stomach any food at all, and wind up giving your portion to the Vashoth, whose stomach seems to be recovering quickly from his all-liquid diet.
You wait until everyone but the first watch—Katari—is asleep before sneaking out of the cave. There’s screaming in your ears that you simply can’t ignore. Guilt is threatening to overwhelm you entirely; you’re one hurled insult away from a complete meltdown. So you flee into the rain, making a stammered excuse to Katari that you need to relieve yourself.
You bolt into the woods as far as you dare before collapsing by a tree, finally allowing sobs to overtake you. Your fault your fault your fault! You struggle to your feet in the torrential rain, clawing at the tree for support. And then you let your frustration out on the trunk. You beat your fists endlessly against the rough bark, crying your frustration, your rage, your self-loathing to the uncaring sky. Your throat tears raw, your endless screaming masked by the constant rolling thunder and howling wind.
You don’t know how long you’re out there, only that your hands are bloody and raw. The water pouring off of you is tinged red; there’s bark and splinters embedded into your hands. The only reason you stop is because a hand catches your fist as you’ve drawn it back yet again to punish yourself against the tree.
You spin to see who grabbed you. The sight of a Qunari, lit by a flash of lightning, does nothing for your chaotic state of mind, and you draw your other hand back to strike him. The Qunari catches your other arm effortlessly—your muscles are limp as cooked noodles. It’s only then that you recognize him as your Vashoth.
“Kost13, Valo-kas,” he says, voice a low grumble that you can barely hear over the wind and rain. “You have punished yourself enough.”
You collapse limply to your knees; the Qunari follows you down to the ground. He has bandages… from your own bag, no doubt. He cleans the splinters from your raw flesh before bandaging your hands. You sob the whole while, self-loathing still not satisfied by your punishment.
“You performed your duty satisfactorily,” he informs you. “You are a sword; you wish to protect. You have done so today, even in the face of that which you feared.”
You should be alarmed at how well Qunari can comfort you. They understand you. They shouldn’t. You should have nothing in common with them. But first Bull, and now this nameless Vashoth. How much had your time in Seheron affected you? You try to shake that unsettling thought from your mind.
“I picked my sword well,” the Vashoth continues. “So did the mage.”
“I’m not his… Never mind,” you say with a sigh. “Thank you…” You trail off, gazing at the Qunari. Both of you are kneeling in the mud as he finishes wrapping your battered hands. The two of you will have to change and dry off all over again. And yet you can’t even bring yourself to be surprised that he followed you into the rain. Why wouldn’t he? He’d followed you everywhere else.
“Sataareth,” you say softly, running a thumb over the back of his hand. The Qunari tilts his head, not comprehending your meaning. “That which upholds.” An enforcer. A defender. A… foundation. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Vashoth.’ How about Sataareth?”
The Qunari pauses, then nods.
“Alright then… Sataareth. Let’s get back to camp.”
- Please ↩︎
- I want to help you ↩︎
- shut up, elf! ↩︎
- He is a person; he is not a dangerous thing (saarebas)! ↩︎
- This is bullshit! (Lit: “This is akin to qalaba excrement!” ↩︎
- You are a child bleating without meaning ↩︎
- Lit. “shitty thing,” used as an insult similar in concept to a gender neutral “bitch” ↩︎
- Hate me later ↩︎
- friend ↩︎
- I will not. ↩︎
- Absolutely not! ↩︎
- Rest ↩︎
- Peace ↩︎