"Perhaps you don't understand the meaning of 'come here'."

The man circles around Terrel, lazily drawing the knife under my companion's ornate leather armor. The chest piece alone had taken Craftsman Arren days to complete, and although I bare no love for Arren, nor he for me, it wouldn't do well for us to arrive at the Conclave with scrapes and tears.

"What're you anyway, hm?" My hood is yanked down from behind, the bandit's accomplice catching strands of red hair. I hiss, but remain still, quiet. Brother and Sister lay just within the folds of my cloak, but I will not draw them unless need be. "You got the look o' a human, but us shems don't got no pointed ears."

"Hollyn, do something!" Terrel pleads quietly, and the knife once dancing along his armor comes to rest along his throat.

"Not this close to the Temple."

"Hollyn, burn-"

"Terrel, look at me." I say calmly when his gaze begins to drift with the threatening knife. My clansmate quickly straightens, hand falling beneath his cloak in prepared understanding, but another tug in my hair breaks our gaze.

"I asked you a question, knife-ear." The man behind me hisses, twisting his fist so my hair drags my face near his. "The void are you?"

"I am a mutt." Is my simple answer.

With a cry of surprise, the man behind me finds his knee broken with a solid kick when I find substantial purchase and spin. My cloak falls as I throw Brother to Terrel and use the hilt of Sister to smash the man's temple. He crumples face first into the mud of the road, blood streaming from the wound.

Terrel already has the second man on the ground, arms pinned with his knees and a knife to his throat. Calmly, I fold my cloak over my arm and walk to them, peering down at the man.

"You bitch! Knife-eared bitch!" The bandit stutters. "Damned mutt! You and your elf pet-"

"Where are his weapons?" I ask Terrel, ignoring the vehement curses. "Please, give them to me."

Terrel draws a dagger from a smaller sheath at the bandit's thigh, then gestures to the man's sword, lying towards the side of the road where it had fallen after Terrel brought the bandit down. I take both, fastening them loosely to the belt of my leathers.

"You gonna kill me, huh? Sacrifice me to your heathen gods-"

"For the love of the Maker, why does everyone assume I worship the Pantheon?" I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Nevermind. Look: I don't want to kill you, alright?"

"You dare utter the Maker's name, you daughter of a whore? Your mother must have fought hard when a human man-"

I drop to my knees, placing Brother's blade against the bandit's throat. Just enough pressure, and I could draw blood. The man gasps, pink flesh raising against the metal, pressing, until he exhales. A thin red line now kisses his throat.

"I don't want to kill you." I seethe, still calm, but inside my blood boils, hands itching against Brother's hilt. "But you are very quickly changing my mind, and I'm sure Terrel here would gladly run you through. To avoid that, I suggest you shut-" I press a bit harder. "-up. Am I understood?"

He can't nod, but the look in his terrified eyes says all I need.

"Good. So, here's how this is going to work: We will take your weapons. You will be tied up, left with food and water on the side of the road until a caravan comes along. With the traffic this road has been getting, your wait shouldn't be very long. You will not pursue us. You will not speak of us. And you will not repeat any of those foul curses as we walk away. I want silence."

Wisely, the man does not argue.

"Are you sure about him, Hollyn?" Terrel asks me after my plan has been enacted and we have begun our journey down the road. The young hunter glances back, eyes falling on the bandit.

"We are venturing to holy ground, lethallin. I won't spill blood near the Temple of Sacred Ashes."

Terrel scoffs, wiping dirt from Brother before handing the dagger back to me. "Their temple isn't our sacred place. This isn't even our fight. I don't see why the Keeper felt the need to send us. And why result to blades back there?! Hollyn, you have-"

I stop walking. Terrel continues on for a moment, hands waving as he talks, until he finally notices my lacking presence at his side.

"You will not question the Keeper, and as her First I will not tolerate your whining. While we are in these lands, I am merely a hunter, and I will remain so until we return to the clan. Am I understood?"

This is the same tone I used with the bandit when explaining our deal. Terrel has heard it many times before, when in talks with nobles and lords whose lands we were passing over. It is my 'compromise' voice, and he has just had a very firm reminder of what happens when someone does not heed it.

"Yes, Hollyn."

Three days later, Terrel died in the first blast when the Conclave exploded.

/*/

Those interested have always been curious as to how this will begin. How should it begin? How can anyone-author or otherwise-hope to do Hollyn Lavellan justice?

There is always the obvious beginning, a description of her physical form: red hair, mid-length and kept down so she could run her fingers through it; green eyes that contained more emotion than her laughing smile ever did; a slim nose, strong jaw and high cheek bones that were so uncharacteristic next to her small, elf-like ears; frame short enough to look dalish, but tan enough to make someone question if she didn't have some human in her.

And she does. Part of the reason most started calling her Mid, in fact...but only part.

The part that made up the rest of their reasoning was less tangible; constantly slipping past, like the shadows she lingered in, and yet never seeming out of place because it was her, through-and-through. The confidence in her eyes when meeting someone new; the curve in her smile that made all the difference between a jest and pure honesty. It was the small shake in her voice when she was scared; the place she put you in, and the threats she wielded if you tried to move; the secret she held so close that even those closest to her missed it until well into their 'adventure'.

It was the perfect balance she held between human and elf, shadow and fire, mage and templar, Orlesian and Fereldan, serious and mocking, that made storming the Black City itself seem like a perfectly reasonable request to all of Lavellan's companions, as long as that request came from her.

But how to capture that in words, there is no clue. What Lavellan managed was remarkable-no. She was remarkable. Full stop.

But this is the thing she hates: speaking as if this is over, as if she is only part of a past that will inevitably be mixed and jumbled until future generations compare her to Andraste herself. We can't let that happen, though. We won't.

So the impossible must be done once again.

~Tethras-