Melody greeted him at the door, hands on her hips and ostensibly disapproving as ever, and Ber mustered up a tired smile to offer her. “Sorry,” He began. “It’s been pretty cha—” But that was all he had time to say before Temperance flew across the cottage and he found himself wrapped up in a tight hug. Indeed, he was forced to bend over slightly into her hug, doing so without complaint as he somewhat awkwardly patted her back in response to her concern. He let her end the embrace on her own time, and when she pulled away, he obligingly stood still to let her look him over. Given her greeting, he found himself rather grateful that his ribs had fully healed.

“Not surprised you couldn’t get in,” He said, though he was touched that she’d tried. “Things have changed a lot, but you know, I really wouldn’t have been very good company anyway.” His gaze moved from her to glance around the cottage as he spoke, noting finally the cauldron over the flame in the hearth and the chair positioned beside it. In lieu of immediately answering her questions, he gestured toward the set up with a hand. “Did I interrupt something?” He had spent enough time around Temperance to know that some potions required more attention than others when they were brewing, and he thought he’d had enough trouble in his life lately without adding an exploding potion to the mix. Granted, part of it was of his own making, but still.

In this, he would follow Temperance’s lead. If she returned to her seat, he would grab a chair for himself from the dining table and follow her over. He would position his seat across the fire from hers, angled toward both the hearth and her, and settle into it with his hands in his lap. Otherwise, he would remain standing where he was when he offered her a small smile. “They weren’t holding me hostage.” Some humor crept into his voice, though it didn’t last long. “And no, I’m fine. Got the all clear about a week ago. I just haven’t been able to stop by because I’ve been too busy.” With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face before reiterating, “A lot has changed. What did Zev and Thom tell you about what happened?”

As he approached the hearth with the chair, Ber could feel the heat, and he winced sympathetically with Temperance’s plight. With her hair pulled back and sleeves rolled up, she had evidently done what she could to keep cool, and Ber wondered how long it would take him to resort to the same.

Thom was a lifesaver. If he had given Temperance all the details, that meant Ber didn’t have to. He couldn’t quite tell what she thought of his role in everything that had happened, but he figured that her preexisting knowledge of the story decreased the likelihood of any of those potentially uncomfortable conversations. Instead he focused on what she didn’t know: the changes in the military… except, he realized a moment later, that would have to include elaboration on why he had to train on his own time. Damn.

“They’ve reorganized all of us into new groups and implemented this new standard,” The soldier began, tugging absentmindedly at the top of his own shirt as the heat of the fire began to get to him as well. “We’re divided into groups of one hundred, and every three weeks, everyone’s going to be assessed. The bottom fifteen soldiers will be dismissed; the next lowest five will be placed on staff duty.” He glanced over at her, wondering if she knew what that meant, before deciding to briefly explain, “Chores instead of training and regular duties. Soldiers on staff duty will still be assessed with everyone else, so if they want to keep up, they have to train in their free time.”

As he spoke, Ber had leaned forward so that his arms rested on his thighs, and now he looked at his hands, pressing the pads of his fingers together. “I… am on staff duty,” He told them. “Because of what happened at the ball.” But that wasn’t entirely true, even if it was easier to think about. After a long moment, he added, “And being friends with Zevran. They, uh, didn’t like that.”

Even though his gaze was fixed on his hands, Ber caught the motion of Temperance standing from her seat in his peripherals, and he looked up to watch her move the cauldron from the flame to the stone. Her criticism of the king and the military surprised him a little, not so much because he doubted her sense of justice but rather the strength of her conviction. He hadn’t really thought of the events of the ball and Brekker’s decision in that light before, and the comment about magical muzzles had his brow furrowing. Ber understood, theoretically, that consistently practicing their magic took a toll on witches. It made them as dark as the witchcraft they performed, but Temperance spoke as if there was a certain inevitability to witches growing so bad that anyone would be willing to turn a soldier into a werewolf in the middle of a crowded room.

That was not a comforting thought. He scratched absentmindedly at the scars hidden under his sleeve.

Temperance looked at him with crossed arms and asked about Zevran, and he let his gaze fall back to his hands as he silently shook his head. Tapping his fingers together, he took a deep breath before leaning forward and running his hands down his face. “I haven’t seen him since the ball,” He told the leg of her chair. “The, uh— they said I can’t talk to him again or be friends with him anymore, so…” His voice trailed off. The hollow ache in his chest swallowed the rest of his words, and he took another deep breath, biting his lip. “I know— He told me he didn’t get hurt, and he was taken to his room after he brought me to the infirmary. They said he’d be dealt with, but I don’t know what that means.” Knowing that they would be keeping a close eye on him for the foreseeable future, he didn’t dare ask or show any interest in what fate had befallen the Dresmondi. There were rumors, of course, that ranged from him being held prisoner in his room to him being sent away, but the only concrete fact was that no one had seen him since.

In the face of Temperance’s righteous anger, Ber could only - inadequately - shrug. When he’d run into Brekker, of all people, in the market long before the ball, he had been expected to help her catch that thief even though he’d clearly been off duty - and he had. Woodwick had sent him on that unpleasant patrol with Terach even though it had still been Ber’s day off. And if they ever needed any soldier at odd hours of the day, the ones who slept in the barracks were on the top of the list. Though upsetting, their determination of who Ber could or could not talk to felt like a natural extension of what he already knew: even outside the military wing, his time wasn’t truly his own.

And there was something else, too.

“It is their business when it gets in the way of me doing what I’m supposed to.” With a sigh, he sat up, leaning back in his seat and casting his gaze toward the fire as he tugged again at the top of his shirt. Apparently, in explaining to Temperance what had happened, they would end up talking about everything he hadn’t wanted to discuss in any great detail in the first place. But he supposed it would really make sense without the full picture anyway. “The king wanted Zevran removed from the ball, and he sent Re— the Huntsman to do it. Zevran wasn’t happy, and I stood up for him.” In doing so, he’d nearly ruined a friendship and completely lost another one. Ber scratched at his arm absentmindedly before deciding that Temperance had the right idea: it was way too hot for long sleeves. “And I shouldn’t have done that.”

He wasn’t happy with the verdict, but upon reflection, he had started to understand what the captain commander had told him about biting the hand that fed him. And staff duty had given Ber a lot of time for reflection.

Temperance’s comfort was appreciated, though, and looking over, he offered her a small smile in return for the pat on the shoulder. He couldn’t be so sure he would see Zevran and Rune again - the world was far larger than he could imagine - but it was a nice thought all the same. Even if he wouldn’t be able to talk to Zevran, he would appreciate the confirmation that the other man was alright. When Temperance spoke of training hard, Ber nodded. “I am,” He told her. “It’s different because it’s on my own.” A shrug. “But it’s not that bad, actually. Don’t really have to deal with Woodwick or anyone, so that’s nice.”

Did that make him a good soldier? He didn’t know. Certainly Hadrian Usher didn’t seem to think so, and Ber couldn’t help but think that it was his approval or disapproval that could cost Ber his job, not Temperance’s. Still, he mustered up a small smile and watched as she aliquoted the potion into the little vials. The sight was a familiar one. Like he had many times before, he listened while she voiced her thoughts, and when she walked into the kitchen, he finally stood from the seat. His jacket went, belatedly, on the back of the chair, and he had just finished rolling up his sleeves and loosening the collar of his shirt when he gratefully collected the glass of water from her.

“You have to work by that all day?” He asked, sympathy in his voice, before taking a a few sips of the refreshingly cool liquid. Then he addressed the comparison she drew with another - likely inadequate - shrug. “Maybe,” Ber allowed, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced. “But that’s still a little different. I live in the barracks and eat their food. You don’t house and feed your customers.” There was, perhaps, something to be said about how Temperance’s customers weren’t as reliant upon her as many of the soldiers were upon the military, but Ber wasn’t thinking of that. He didn’t find their arguable overreach into dictating the more personal aspects of his life particularly surprising.

Instead, his thoughts latched on to her observation that the collective events of the ball had been a failure of leadership. He couldn’t refute that. “I don’t know how they missed her,” He said, shaking his head as he spoke of Brekker. “She’d just been promoted too. When we both spoke to her, she seemed normal, but that was just once. You’d think— You’d think people who interacted with her more would have noticed something, right?” Or was the darkness of witchcraft such that someone could be normal one day and unleash a werewolf the next?

And if that was the case, then how could they possibly hope to prevent something that could happen anywhere at any time? They couldn’t. He thought of Woodwick’s reminder, then, that he could only control his reaction to the world around him, not the world itself. Perhaps he ought to start thinking about how he could defend himself against a witch’s—

Temperance’s attempt at a joke jolted him out of his thoughts, and he groaned. “Don’t say that too loudly,” Ber entreated her. “Or he’s gonna start doing that again. I think, with everything else, he’s forgotten I exist, and there’s no reason for that to change.” Even as he smiled at her offer of potions, he added, “If you want, but I can handle it, really. My arm’s all better.” More or less. He had standing orders from the healers not to re-injure himself, but that heavily implied directive accompanied every healed injury. Still, Ber showed her how he could move his arm in every direction to make his point. “And stamina potions, they’re the ones that just give you more energy, right?” A somewhat wishful smile. “Is there anything that makes you stronger or faster? Or maybe splits you into multiple people? That would be useful for some of those chores.”

There was a reason Temperance was so good at her job, beyond the fact that the craft had been passed down from mother to daughter for multiple generations, and it shone in times like these. Where Ber’s rather more limited empathy served him well in many situations, Temperance’s understanding of other people and their emotions - and the importance she placed in them - led to answers that he never would have considered. Although the soldier didn’t know much about witch’s magic, what he did know made him think that her perspective regarding the build up of darkness, with no one to keep it at bay, made sense. An infected wound festered before it killed, and if someone noticed in time, they could try to treat it. The trick was to do so before it became too late.

Clearly no one had with Brekker.

When Temperance reached for his arm, the motion caught Ber by surprise, but he let her gently guide it toward herself easily enough. She turned it so she could see the scars along the outside, and as he felt her fingers running over the raised flesh, he watched the upset flicker across her face. In turn, a thin thread of guilt over something that wasn’t his to control coiled in him. “Yeah.” The agreement came quietly, and he glanced away as she cleared her throat and surreptitiously wiped away the water beading at the corner of her eyes. Ber had never been particularly vain; he didn’t mind the scarring, even if he preferred not to remember the night associated with it.

Her answers to his questions about the potions were easier to consider, if only because some of them had been somewhat in jest. “No strength enhancer, speed’s a possibility but it’s of questionable use, and nothing to split me in half,” Ber summarized, one corner of his lip quirking upward. “Got it.” A cringe accompanied her wince at the memory of another fateful night, followed by a matching shake of the head. “On second thought, I think I’ll survive as is.”