Dress torn and dark, tangled hair - tangled with thorns and fallen leaves. There is a wildness there, sewn into her like the blood writing on her skin.

Hair. Dark, tangled hair, tangled like the roots of a tree, smelling of honey in her tea, cinnamon in her cider, and Andraste's Grace in her perfume. She is beautiful, and her languid smile and lidded eyes show that she knows this, knows she will not be denied if there is something - or someone - she wants.

But that is not her face, not now; eyelids closed, breathing deeply, on the precipice of rest. Yet she shifts and sighs as electricity crawls over her skin, flickers in her palm, exciting itself as she sits, my head in her lap, against the rise of a stone tower in Skyhold.

"You would tell me if it hurts you, wouldn't you, Cole?" she asks so gently, purplish bursts of energy tickling her fingertips. I say yes - mean no - but she cannot hurt me, never can hurt me. Even as humanness breathes sensation into my body, Lavellan is, as a shepherd to a lamb, caged by needless caution for her charges. She is gentle, and kind, and would hurt no one undeserving of it.

She can hurt, but she hurts no one. She tends, she cares, she loves. She soothes and does not falter. She brings light to a world filled with shadows.

I love her, but she... she doesn't see me. She does, but she doesn't. Not like I want her to.

I hear Lavellan in her room, sometimes, and I'm afraid she's been hurt, but... she hasn't. She's with a man. Before I grew, I felt scared. But now?

I asked her, once, if she loved the men she kept in her bedroom. She frowned at me, asked if I was spying. I said no. Then maybe. Lavellan told me that was bad to do. She said she was fine, that I was too young to understand it. She told me to stop spying.

"But to answer your question, Cole, no; I don't love them. Well," she paused, stumbling over words, "I love everyone. It's important to love everyone. I just don't love them like that. Not like a man loves his wife."

"How does a man love his wife?" I asked. Lavellan's eyes, dark clashes of angry blue and spring lavender, flickered back and forth.

"A man and wife take care of each other," Lavellan answered. She sounded unsure, was unsure. "They're best friends, but they also… make love. Do you understand, Cole?"

I said no. Lavellan sighed. "It's just something you'll have to feel for yourself. When you do, you'll know."

Heartbreak. A long, slender man with a bow. A hunter. Blood writing staining his face. We were promised to one another, but he died. We made love in the forest, hiding from the rest of the Clan. Happy memories stained red. Neralan. My fault.

"It wasn't your fault," I sputtered, trying to stop myself. She didn't like it when I read her mind. But she didn't yell; not like before. She seemed sad. "I'm sorry," I said. She pet my head and smiled sorrowfully. I couldn't help her; she didn't need to be helped.