A/N: Just a quick note here. This story is AU Dragon Age: Inquisition. I woke up a few days ago with the opening scene in my head, and decided to write it down and see where it led. And I just kept writing. I'm not sure how long this'll be, but I do hope you enjoy it.

The AU aspect is unclear to even me. At the moment I'm working on the assumption that the Inquisition never happened. And for those who liked my Warden, she is here!

All characters and countries and such belong to Bioware... except Solona. She's all mine. :)

The Meeting

They raise all manner of things against her: stones, cutlery, their very fists. As one they come down, and a pitiful scream reverberates through the chamber.

The tall woman strides through the room. "Enough!" she calls.

Immediately the others – elves, all – back down, lowering their makeshift weapons. Their eyes are downcast as befit their station. This was not a display meant for humans to see. Where has this woman come from?

The dusky-skinned woman with the scars upon her face and a warrior's weapons upon her hip moves closer, looking upon the one the rest have attacked. She lies naked, bleeding. They tore away her clothes before they attacked her, leaving her wearing only a leather collar at her throat. She is a young woman, short-cropped hair like the warrior's own, black with a shock of bright-white near her temple. She has the markings of the Dalish upon her face, though where the red tattoos end and the bleeding cuts and gouges begin the warrior cannot tell.

She looks nothing like the other elves, with her tattoos and hunter's physique and scars. Was this the reason for the attack?

Squatting, the warrior gathers the half-delirious elf into her arms as if she weighs no more than a child. Standing with her burden, she exits the hall, having said no more words than that first one. The other elves watch her retreating back, astounded.

She knows only pain. She screamed as their weapons came down upon her. They called her all manner of unpleasant things, none of which she could understand. She was the only one in that room with the vallaslin. They do not speak her language, nor her theirs. She is a stranger in a strange land. She is a captive.

That she understands perfectly. It has been beaten into her often enough since she was captured while on the hunt.

She does not gain full awareness until she finds herself laid gently on a soft surface. It is the first soft thing she remembers since leaving her clan many months before. Since then it has been hardness and pain, hunger and thirst, surrounded by people who do not speak her language.

The smooth, familiar creak of leather recalls her attention. Looking around, she finds she is in a lavish room, gold and ivory affixed to nearly every surface. Lush sofas and overstuffed chairs are tastefully arranged around the large room. It is utterly foreign to the Dalish elf.

Completely out of place is a dark-skinned woman in a warrior's leathers. She is human, that much the elf can tell immediately. She rummages at a washbasin, silent, back tall and straight even as she leans over the counter. As the elf watches, the human takes a moment to remove her weapons' belt, setting it carefully on one of the plush chairs nearby. Then the woman picks something up, turning around, her dark eyes meeting the elf's.

She says something the elf cannot decipher. The elf shakes her head, trying to communicate that she does not understand. The woman's brows knit, and she, too, shakes her head, walking with bowl and jug of water in-hand and kneeling next to the bed.

It's a bed. The elf has never slept on a bed, but she understands that this is one. As the warrior kneels, she realizes two important details: one, that the warrior's face is kind, her expression showing concern; and two, that she herself is utterly and completely naked. She'd had clothes! Where had they gone?

Hand stealing absently to the collar about her neck, she attempts to cover up, curling her body into a fetal position, only to cry out feebly when such motion causes pain to course through her body. The warrior's hands are on her immediately – warm, callused, strong. The human makes reassuring noises, her brows knit in concern, her brown eyes warm like honeyed halla milk. Her words are still not understood by the elf, but she uncurls, looking up into those eyes and knowing in her heart of hearts that this human means to help.

It is the first offering of kindness she has received since leaving her clan months before.

They are both quiet as the human begins to clean her wounds.

The elf sleeps. The warrior sets aside the bowl of warmed water, now stained red with elven blood, and sits back on her heels. She sighs. This place is so strange. Why must she be here? Why must she accept this "gift" of an elven slave to serve her while she is a guest here? It is despicable. But at least she can use it to save this poor, wretched, beaten creature now lying naked upon her bed.

She gets to her feet when she sees the elf's skin pucker with the cold. This is normally a hot land, but it is winter here, and the warrior has not asked for the fires to be lit. She cannot bring herself to make use of the slave labor here. Elves are not treated well at home, but they are at least servants, paid for their labor, if not enough to truly be fair. Retrieving her cloak, she covers the elf, knowing she'll eventually need to speak with the slaves here, as she cannot do everything for herself – they simply won't let her. She must play along, or none of this will work.

Sighing, she slips out the door, leaving her weapons where they are for the moment. Walking crisply, back straight as it always is, she makes her way to her colleague's room.

She is allowed entry immediately upon knocking.

"Ah, Cassandra. Did you make your selection?"

The warrior frowns at her colleague, Sister Nightingale, the Left Hand of the Divine - and when they were alone, Leliana. They use Orlesian and veiled terminology, for they can only assume they are being listened to at every turn. "I… yes, I did. Much to my disgust." Looking around the room, she spots a dark-skinned woman, darker even than her own skin, readying something in the corner. "And how is our friend living up to her role of scholar, Sister Nightingale?"

The Left Hand of the Divine smiles coyly. "She knows her place," the redhead jokes.

Cassandra scowls. "Keep your bedroom humor to yourself. I have already walked in on you two enough. You do not need to tease each other in front of me, as well."

A snort of laughter travels across the room from the "scholar" in the corner. "You were perfectly happy to join in that one time, Cass."

The warrior's cheeks flush. "Yes. That one time. And that was it. Never again, with the two of you. Leliana lives and breathes discretion, but you, Solona, would not know it if it ran you through with my sword."

"Oh, do give me your sword, proud warrior," Solona quips, causing Cassandra's cheeks to flare further.

Leliana tuts. "Solona, really, this is entirely inappropriate. It was only the one time, and we all did agree not to talk about it ad nauseum."

"It is alright, Leliana," Cassandra says, before either of them can carry on. "I know how to shut her up if I truly need to."

They both raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Cassandra smirks, slowly annunciating every word. "I believe last time all I needed to do was shove your own smallclothes in your mouth."

Solona merely stands, her mouth gaping like a fish as she stares at Cassandra. Her eyes have immediately dilated with desire. Leliana giggles. Cassandra inwardly sighs. The two of them will be at it within seconds of her departure. But she can at least finish this discussion before she lets them at each other.

"I came by to inform you that I have chosen my… gift. But she does not understand me. Perhaps between the three of us we can find a language we have in common with her?"

The other two quit looking to each other with looks of lust and focus on the Divine's Right Hand. "What made you choose her?" Leliana asks.

"The other slaves were attacking her. They beat her into semi-consciousness as I was walking in to make my selection."

"That's terrible!"

Solona knits her brows. "Why do you think they would turn on her specifically?"

Cassandra can only shrug. "I have no idea. She bears the mark of the Dalish on her face, the physique of one of their hunters, though badly undernourished. I do not know why the other elves would turn against her. But I took the opportunity I had to save her the fate of being trampled by a mob."

"Oh Cassandra, ever the hero," Leliana teases.

"I do what my conscience commands, Leliana. Now, Solona. Will you come heal her please?"

The arcane warrior nods, hurrying after her as Cassandra turns to leave. Leliana's voice halts her before she gets to the door, however. "She is only a gift while we stay here, Cassandra," she is reminded. "We cannot save her. She will remain as a slave to the Imperial Chantry of Tevinter."

Shaking her head, Cassandra resumes her exit of her friend and colleague's rooms, the woman's lover in-tow. "I know."

A low whistle sounds. "Damn, they really don't like her, do they?"

Solona is examining the elf from afar. The young woman's – Cassandra thinks so, anyway; it can be difficult to tell age with elves – face is lacerated multiple times, some of them so deep Cassandra could see the glistening white of bone through the blood as she cleaned. The rest of her body fared a little better from the beating, the cuts and bruises not going so deep. Cassandra had seen a foot or two land upon the poor creature, though, so she knows there could be damage internally that is invisible to the eye.

"If she wakes up she may need to be restrained," Solona warns, kneeling next to Cassandra's charge. "This is a lot of damage, Seeker. It will take time."

"I am most concerned about internal injuries we cannot see. She tried to curl up and then cried out in pain. Do what you can with what time you have. Please."

Her eyes lighting up and her voice taking on its strange arcane cadence, the arcane warrior pulls back the cloak some. "Save your manners for Val Royeaux, Seeker. We have an image to keep up here. Not even the Left Hand's room is completely free."

Nodding, Cassandra settles back to watch and offer any assistance. The arcane warrior's hands light up, and then that strange, blue liquid-light is pouring from her hands and into the elf's body. At first there is no change outwardly. Cassandra can only assume Solona has started with any internal injuries that might be present.

Cassandra takes this moment to study the elf she saved. Her short hair is ragged, as though it were cut unevenly. The shock of white suggests an old injury; were she to look more closely, Cassandra bets she would find a scar leading from her face onto her scalp. The collar about her neck draws the Seeker's eyes. Such a blatant sign of captivity, yet brilliant in its simplicity. The slave cannot get it off on her own, not without special tools, and no one in this land would do it for her should she escape. She is stuck here.

The elf's physique suggests the wiry strength of those living off game and whatever else can be foraged in the woods, though it is clear the poor elf has not had enough to eat in quite some time. Weeks, more likely months. How had she come to be here? Why were there no others like her, of the Dalish clans? Why did the other elves despise her so?

So many questions that cannot be answered just yet. But the elf is not waking, allowing Solona to work uninterrupted. Cassandra can see the wounds upon her face now beginning to mend. Solona's job will be done soon, and then perhaps Cassandra can get some sleep. It will be tricky, when the girl wakes. Maybe… maybe she shouldn't sleep until they tried communicating with the elf?

She does not know the right answer, to any of these questions. She hates it when she does not know the right answer.

When Solona leaves, Cassandra strips, pulling on a sleeping shift and pulling the covers back on the ridiculously large bed. The elf stirs momentarily, but then she lies still, peaceful, her visage no longer marred by cuts as it falls still in the dim light from the candle. The Seeker stares for time uncounted, eyes roving over her face, her shoulders, lingering on the collar more times than she is willing to admit. Finally, she rolls over and blows out the candle.

She is captivated by the elf's face. It holds so much depth the Seeker can only guess at.

She hopes they can communicate with her on the morrow.

Something awakens her. She is not sure what it is, but years of wariness and sleeping light cause her eyes to snap open and take in her surroundings. She is in an utterly alien room, and yet it is also familiar. With that familiarity is a strong impression of a tall warrior, scars upon her visage. She is human.

Why would I dream of a human warrior? Why is there warmth around her image?

Another sound causes her head to snap to the side, and she sees elves, the flat-ears, bustling near a table. They do not see her. Of course they do not see her. They are flat-ears, unaccustomed to listening to every sound for details of the hunt, or of danger. They finish whatever they are doing at the table, moving to the walls and-

"Ah!" she exclaims, holding her eyes shut tight against the bright light now allowed in the room. They had been windows. Drapes were drawn. She thinks those are the correct words. They have only been words to her until now. The Dalish have no windows, no drapes. She desperately misses them.

A shout beside her. The bed shifts, causing her head to snap in that direction instead. Someone lies next to her in the bed, sitting up now, a look of alarm on her face as she brandishes a long, wicked-looking dagger, her head darting wildly, looking for the threat.

"What?" the elf yells, pushing herself away from the weapon. Where is she? Why is she in a bed next to a woman with a dagger?

Her thoughts are derailed when she runs out of bed to move across. She tumbles to the floor with a yelp, tangled in what she now realizes is a massive cloak covering her. She tries in vain to disentangle herself, the image of the knife firm in her mind. She remembers knives, fists, feet, all coming down to meet her body.

She doesn't hurt as much now as she did then. Was that only the day before?

Something is said she does not understand, but the voice is familiar. She realizes it is the warrior – the one who calmed her, cleaned her wounds, took her from the hateful mob and brought her to this room of luxury – just as the warrior's face appears over the edge of the bed. There are scars upon her face, just as the elf remembers, and concern etched into her brows.

It is still the only kind face the elf has seen since leaving her clan months before.

The elf allows the human to gather her up, still not understanding her words. Tone she can understand, however, and she almost smiles at such a tall, strong woman with rough, callused hands fussing like a wolf mother over her cubs.

She is placed back on the bed. The other elves, the flat-ears, are dismissed with an impatient wave from the warrior. Then they are alone, the two of them, the warrior standing tall in a light linen sleeping shift, the elf curled in the massive cloak upon the bed.

More words are said. The elf shakes her head. She likes the cadence of the woman's voice, the timbre of it. It is already associated with warmth and caring, with safety. Knowing the woman sleeps with a dagger to pull seems only to endear her to the elf.

What is wrong with me?! A shem?

You are in a world of shem and flat-ears. Take what help and kindness you can get. Your clan will not save you here, lethallan.

The warrior gives a sigh, goes to the table, comes back with…

A feast.

The warrior holds a platter with all manner of food on it: fruits, breads, cheeses, olives, cold smoked meats, and other things the elf cannot even identify. The human places the platter in the elf's lap, placing next to it a wineskin. She says something else, and the elf somehow knows she is being invited to indulge in this lavish spread.

Her stomach rumbles with hunger. It feels as though she has not seen so much food in one place since her clan's celebration of the summer solstice. She goes for the wineskin first, taking a large drink. The wine is dry, stronger than she is accustomed to. But her throat is parched, and the drink sings a song of relief as it travels down her throat.

She doesn't notice the warrior leave her side, but she does notice the human return, now adorned in tunic and trousers, a tabard cinched into place with a weapons' belt. She wonders if the large eye in the middle of a sun emblazoned on the tabard means anything. She is sure it does, but she has no context.

The warrior gestures to her, palm up and out, a clear indication to stay put. The elf does not know why, but she agrees, nodding her head in what she knows is the universal sign for "yes." The human answers in kind, turning and exiting the room. The elf can only continue to eat. Fruit and cheese never tasted so good.

Cassandra knocks on Leliana's door. She has given them as much time as she can. Even still, she likely will either catch them naked and entangled in sleep, or actually in the act of their depraved sort of lovemaking.

Relax, Cassandra, it was only one time you actually caught them. Leliana would not be so irresponsible on such an important mission as to sleep in or destroy the room with their… shenanigans.

To her surprise, the door opens on a well-lit, tidy room. Leliana and Solona are both seated at the table – dressed – breaking their own fast. Cassandra's stomach rumbles. Perhaps she should eat something, as well…

"Good morning," she says, striding into the room. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very," Leliana replies, casting a glance toward Solona.

Cassandra barely manages to keep from rolling her eyes. Really, one would think they would no longer rut like dogs in heat after so many years together. But you do admire their passion, Cassandra, so strong after so many years. It is just that you do not have a corresponding passion for anyone in your own life.

Perhaps I should go to their bed again?

No. It was fun, but it lacked the feelings behind it that you seek, that they share with each other. You want more than fun.

This is true.

"My ward is awake. I was hoping to try communicating with her as soon as possible. I was also hoping for clothing for her. Leliana, you are not so much bigger than she. Perhaps a pair of leggings, a plain shirt, just until I can have something found for her. I do not wish to draw more ire from the other slaves here, not before we get a chance to possibly speak with her."

"How is she?" the Left Hand asks after nodding her assent, genuine concern in her eyes. The Left Hand and Spymaster might be cold in all else, but with these two people currently in this room, her heart is open, and her manner is warm. She does have feelings, and feels them passionately, but she must compartmentalize them if she is to survive the position she now occupies while serving their beloved Divine Justinia. She is willing to do much for their mentor. Cassandra knows the feeling well.

Cassandra's expression softens. "She is well, I think. She is breaking her fast as we speak. And from how she eats, it was quite a fast."

"Well, she's certainly had some food while she's been captive," Solona interjects. "That was not the body of someone starved. So that is something, at least."

"They feed them like dogs when they are on the road," Leliana murmurs, coming to stand next to Cassandra with the requested clothing items in her hands. "They just throw them food and let them fight it out. I would bet all the coin in my purse that she could not get to food often enough."

"I'm not willing to take that bet," Solona says with a momentary smirk, scrubbing a hand over her short hair. She then sighs, her expression turning serious as she pushes her chair back from the table. "Lead on, Seeker. Let us see if one of us knows a language this elf can understand."

Nodding, Cassandra turns, leading her companions down the hall and to her door. Giving a slight knock so as not to surprise the poor elf, she enters the room, her companions right on her heels. The door closes and the other two spread out, though Cassandra knows not what they do, for she has eyes only for her charge.

The elf still sits wrapped in the Seeker's cloak, though she no longer eats. Her eyes are wide with fear, darting from Leliana to Solona a few times before settling on Cassandra. The Seeker can hardly help it. She is hurrying to the bedside, trying to comfort the elf before she quite knows what she is doing.

"It is alright," she says, kneeling to be on a level with the elf. Somehow she knows the young woman trusts her. She has not yet tried to run, at least. "We are here to help you."

The elf shakes her head again, just once, indicating her lack of understanding. Cassandra huffs in frustration.

"Perhaps it is time to try?" Leliana suggests. She is keeping her distance, her inquisitive eyes on the elf, but her body language making it clear she means no harm. Placing a hand on her chest, she simply states her name. "Leliana."

The elf furrows her brow, glancing back to Cassandra. The Seeker imitates her counterpart. "Cassandra."

Solona walks closer, calling the elf's wide eyes to land on her. "Solona."

They all look to the young woman expectantly.

"Z- Zanneth."

Her voice is cool and rough, the lilting accent Cassandra has heard about, unique to the Dalish, swimming within that one word. Zanneth. It is an interesting name. The Seeker has not heard its like.

She tries to say their names, but gets them wrong. But it is alright. They repeat them until the elf can say them confidently. Then the true challenge begins.

"Can you understand me?" Leliana asks in Orlesian.

The elf's – Zanneth's – head shakes, her expression regretful. They try Antivan, Ferelden, Rivaini, and even what few words of the elven language Solona knows. Still the young woman cannot understand them.

Then Cassandra tries the last language any of the three of them command. Leliana does not know it, nor does Solona.

"Can you understand me?" the Nevarran princess asks in her native tongue.

The elf perks up, her voice tentative as she responds, "Yes."

Cassandra sits back, absolutely shocked. "Nevarran? You hail from Nevarra?"

Leliana puts a hand on her shoulder. "Elle vient de Nevarra?!" Cassandra can only nod, unable to shake her shock.

"Bien sûr," Solona remarks, her voice dripping sarcasm. For once Cassandra does not shut her up. She is absolutely right. What kind of sense does that make? The Seeker was not even aware of Dalish clans in Nevarra.

The elf nods. "And you as well?"

The Seeker inwardly smirks. To tell a Dalish elf that she is technically Nevarran royalty, albeit very distant, would do no good. That is, at least, refreshing. The only person who would not even know to remark on my name. "Yes. I am Cassandra Pentaghast. You are Zanneth…?"

"Of the Lavellan Clan," the elf supplies, leaning forward eagerly. "I have not spoken to anyone in months! This is… I do not even know what to say, and yet I would speak more, and hear more. Please."

"Alright. What would you know?" Cassandra asks.

"I…" Her eyes dart to the bard and the mage once more, distrust clear upon her face.

"Would you like some privacy, Zanneth?" The elf nods, eyes now on Cassandra.

The Seeker sighs, looks to her companions, speaking in Orlesian once more. "Our guest would like to speak with me in private."

Leliana's eyes flash, a smirk pulling at her lips. "Don't do anything we wouldn't do," she cautions, handing over the clothing she had brought for the elf.

Cassandra gives her a sardonic smile. "There is very little you wouldn't do, Leliana."

The bard's eyes twinkle. "I know, especially with such a pretty little thing with such provocative adornment at her throat," she says, turning, exaggerating the sway of her hips. Like a well-rehearsed dance, Solona is immediately behind her, hands straying to the bard's hips. Leliana's seductive giggle reverberates through the air as the two leave.

The Seeker sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. The two of them are impossible.

"They are lovers?"

Cassandra looks up quickly to see Zanneth's eyes on the door. "Yes, they are." Pausing, she holds out the clothes. "Leliana is only somewhat bigger than you are. She has donated these for your use, until we can find something better for you."

The elf's eyes move to the bundle of clothing. Taking it with a nod, she stands, utterly unselfconsciously letting the cloak fall. Cassandra stands and turns, her face suddenly burning. What she saw makes her want to look all the harder, and it confuses her. She already saw the young woman naked the night before! The curves of her body, her face framed by that collar, did nothing to call forth the desire within her. Why would it suddenly spark desire in her now, when before there was no such reaction?

She nearly jumps at the touch of a hand on her arm. Turning quickly, she sees the young elven woman standing there, coming just past Cassandra's chin. She is dressed, Leliana's tunic falling loosely from her shoulders. Her face with the red tattoos upon it is framed so intriguingly by that collar… Her hand still rests on the Seeker's arm; it feels as though her skin is on fire where they touch, despite the fabric between their skin.

"Thank you Cassandra," Zannath says, her eyes large as they look up at her.

Cassandra can only nod, turning and going to the table, trying to calm her suddenly wildly beating heart. "Come. We have… much to discuss."

"You know you are in captivity? That you are a slave?"

Zanneth merely nods her head. It had not taken long for her to figure that out on her own. Then the humans had put a collar around her throat, and the full gravity of her situation sank in. The collar will not come off, is there for all to see. The collar is a sign of her servitude even if she manages to get away.

"There is more. You… are their gift to me while I am their guest." The warrior's eyes darken, her expression growing guilty.

Her heart sinks. "I… am to serve you?" Of course this human isn't really here to help. You should not be so surprised, lethallan. What kind of service will she require? Zanneth is not entirely stupid about such things.

"Yes, though it is not my first choice. I hope we can have a more equitable relationship than that when we are on our own. But… outside of this room, the farce must be maintained. I will not abuse you. You need only to… ugh, I hate the idea, but you must obey me outside this room, or if anyone other than Leliana and Solona are around. It is imperative. Do you understand?"

Zanneth is unsure. She does not wish to use the elf, but she must? "Why… why can you not take me away from here, if you disapprove of this practice of slavery?"

The warrior – Cassandra – sighs, looking away. "It is complicated. At its core, the reason is political. Suffice it to say that we will be here for weeks on an important errand. I cannot share more details than that."

"Does it have something to do with that symbol on your chest?" She does not know why she gravitates toward it, but she does. She wants to know what it means. Why is this one question so important to answer when so much else in her life is chaos?

The warrior's brows knit in confusion as she looks down upon her tabard. "I… yes, it does. Do you know the Eye of Truth?"

Zanneth shakes her head. "No, I do not. Should I?"

Cassandra sighs. "I suppose it is no surprise. You are Dalish, are you not?"

"Yes."

The human nods. "And you know little of the Chantry, if anything, correct?"

Zanneth's brows knit as she thinks. "I have heard stories, but…"

Cassandra nods again. "It is alright. You do not move in the world of humans. I understand." She pauses, seems to collect herself. Zanneth merely studies her as she does, admiring the line of her jaw, the way she bears her scars so proudly. She is all stoic strength, but there is a gentleness underneath that Zanneth finds herself utterly drawn to. "I am a Seeker of Truth. The Eye symbolizes this. Above that, I am the Right Hand of the Divine in Orlais. The Divine is our church's leader, for lack of a better way of explaining it. She guides us spiritually. And I do for her what she cannot do, go where she cannot go."

The cadence of the human's voice is captivating, delicious to hear. 'Delicious' is the word. I want to swallow it up, drink it down. What has come over me?

Surely it is hero-worship only? She cannot deny that the warrior cuts a striking figure, but it is her face that Zanneth cannot stop gazing upon. The juxtaposition of her soft features with her hard expressions entrances the elf. The scars marring the human's visage serve only to intrigue her further.

But she cannot keep staring. She must say something. "I am afraid I do not fully understand…"

Cassandra nods. "I know. It is alright. Suffice it to say, while you are to 'serve' me while I am a guest here, you still belong to the Imperial Chantry of Tevinter. And for political reasons… you will continue to belong to the Imperial Chantry when we leave this place and go back to Orlais."

A/N x 2: Please excuse my shitty French. I had to run it through a translator, which I realize is, like, the worst way to come up with phrases in other languages. But saying "she said in Orlesian" was getting old and gunking up my sentences, so I just put a few French lines in. Hopefully it's simple enough you don't even need a translator for it if you don't know any French.