Atheril was pulled forward, having lost control of her own hand. The mark on her left palm pulsated and crackled with raw force, amplified by the focused power of the templars lined in neat rows behind her. She cried out as a stream of radiating green light burst from the mark, connecting with the Breach.
An explosion shook the temple ruins as the Breach shattered in a blinding blast, throwing everyone away from the centre and momentarily rendering them deaf with the thunderous crack of uncontrollable magic. Atheril's back collided with the hard ground, knocking the wind out of her. Her hand was on fire and her heart threatened to follow the fate of the Breach, judging by the frantic beats that tried to break their way out of her chest.
The pain lessened. She pried her eyes open, staring at the clear sky in front of her.
The Breach was gone.
They had done it.
Only a blue scar in the sky served as a reminder of the tear that used to be. The joined power from the templars and her mark had healed the garish green wound in the Veil, sealing it for good.
Atheril let out a jagged breath of relief as she pushed herself up. Her hood had fallen to her shoulders, so she pulled it back in place, tucking the hair neatly in the dark folds of the fabric. The people around her were getting up as well, looking around in awe.
"The Herald has closed the Breach!" The shout from a templar prompted the crowd to burst out in cheers. People started shouting her name. No, not her name. The Herald of Andraste. Atheril hunched her shoulders and stepped back, unsure how to react to that.
Cassandra approached her with a rare smile, though her eyes remained cautious. "You did it." She sounded as if she didn't quite believe what had happened. Atheril was not surprised. Even after the months she had spent travelling and gathering troops under the constant scrutiny of Seeker Pentaghast, there was a certain distance between the two women, a level of distrust neither was willing to let go.
They remained quiet on their way back to Haven, despite the chatter of the troops following them. Atheril tugged the hood closer around her head, feeling the piercing glance of her companion. She knew the most probable reason for Cassandra's poorly veiled resentment towards her, but it wasn't anything she could fix. She had no way of going back in time to change the present, to swap her survival for someone else's life.
Atheril felt relieved when Cassandra excused herself after they had given a report to the advisers in Haven's chantry. The day had been exhausting enough without another interrogation about whether she could remember anything about Divine Justinia or what were her real ambitions. She leaned against the wall and let out a sigh, cupping her forehead in her palm that was still covered in sweat from her exertion at the temple.
"You should join the celebrations."
The soft voice startled her. She looked up at the weary face of Commander Cullen, exhaustion showing in the deep ridges on his forehead and wrinkles around his eyes.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought everyone had left." Her normally throaty voice was a bit higher due to being surprised by his presence. She wiped her palm in the modest dark outfit covering her, shoulders hunched with stress.
"I was just about to do that, but you looked like you could use some company." Cullen gave her a small smile, the scar on his upper lip moving along. "You seem unnecessarily deflated for someone who just closed the Breach."
"And you bear a similar look." Atheril shook her head. "I guess I'm not ready for celebrations yet. We still don't know who did this or why. And whether they could repeat it."
"I had similar ideas. But you should join the celebrations anyway." His hand brushed away a stray speck of dust from her shoulder, his touch fleeting and gentle. "They all want to see the woman who saved them."
Atheril sighed. "I wish people would stop saying that. It was the templars and the mark. My only role was being the unfortunate person who has the mark attached to her, that's all." She raised her left hand to stare at the gentle green glow still emitting from it. Cullen clasped her hand in his calloused ones, closing it into a loose fist to hide the mark. Atheril wasn't sure what warmed her more – the touch or the soft smile that was meant for her alone.
"You are selling yourself short again. This mark would be nothing without the person who decided to use it for the good of everyone in Thedas. Whether you like it or not, you are the symbol of hope for a lot of people. Relax for one evening. Go enjoy your party."
She raised her glance to meet his eyes. "Are you not joining?"
"I'm afraid not." He released her hand and she felt the cold seeping back immediately, feeling disappointed that he had let go. "Go, they are waiting for you."
And she did go, despite the tinge of anxiety in her stomach. The tavern was a chaos of half-drunken people, music and laughter. It was like a messier version of Comtesse Marguerite's parties when they stretched late into the night, though with considerably less masks and tiny cakes. Atheril was grateful for both, since one gave her chills and the other cravings that were never satisfied.
Atheril found a seat near the fireplace, stretching her fingers towards the fire. The warmth eased the pain in her left palm, soothing her fraying nerves almost as effectively as Cullen's touch. She stopped her thoughts there, focusing instead on the way the light from the flames danced on her tawny beige skin, creating patterns that changed with every moment. She let out a content sigh, savouring the heat for a while before turning her attention to the people in the room.
She recognised some familiar faces in this sea of celebrating people. Blackwall gave a nod and some words of praise before retreating to a corner, his drink as his only companion. The reclusive Grey Warden seemed to enjoy the general chaos of people around him, even if he chose to not actively partake in the festivities. A barely noticeable smile crossed his face as he cradled the beer in his hands, making Atheril wonder what was on his mind.
A strong musky scent pulled her attention away from Blackwall. The Iron Bull was grinning down at her, a tankard of beer in each hand. "Congratulations, boss! Here, something to quench your thirst." He set one of the tankards on the table in front of her, spilling some froth with the movement. The Bull clapped his giant hand on her shoulder, his grin still firmly in place, before moving on. He had a drinking competition with Sera to attend to.
"Enjoying the party?" Varric smiled at Atheril as he made a templar scoot over, freeing a spot next to her. "Please tell me you are not about to join that competition though. It would be a sorry end to the Herald of Andraste, dying of alcohol poisoning."
"Not you too," groaned Atheril, arranging her hood again despite the warmth of the tavern. "I'm no herald."
"You don't believe in the Maker?" Varric had no judgement in his voice, only genuine curiosity. "I guess that makes sense, he's not exactly the god of your people."
She didn't respond immediately. The words took some arranging in her head before she felt comfortable with expressing them out loud. "I think all gods can exist together in some way. What you call the Maker, the elves call by several different names. However, I don't believe I'm the herald of anything. I was just unfortunate enough to be at the wrong place at the wrong time."
Varric's eyes widened in mild surprise. "It almost sounds like you don't count yourself as one of the elves. Pardon the bluntness, but it's a rare sight." His gaze darted to the table where Sera and Bull were drinking and bantering in equal measure. "I mean, there's some who don't seem to care who they are, but most of them can't seem to shut up about their heritage and the injustices they've endured."
He paused, jerking his head backwards as if he had just realised what he had said. "Sorry. That was unkind of me. I assure you I have nothing against elves. Just meant to say I'm surprised at your attitude towards being one."
Atheril gave a rueful smile. "It's difficult to count yourself as anything if you don't really know where you belong. Can I really claim the culture of the people I've barely even met in my life?" She took a sip of her beer, wincing at the bitter taste. Varric rubbed the light stubble on his chin, eyes locked on Atheril.
"You know, it strikes me that I don't really know that much about you. What's the story of the non-herald Herald?"
"I'm not sure there's anything very fascinating to tell." Atheril shrugged, absentmindedly massaging the mark that was flaring up again. "I spent my life serving the family of Comtesse Marguerite du Bois. Did the hair of her and her daughters, delivered tea and cakes to her, entertained with reading and singing when needed… it's not really anything special."
"So the saviour of Thedas was a Lady's maid in Orlais?" Varric quirked his eyebrow in amusement. "Can't say I've heard of such duties involving entertainment though."
"It wasn't really that bad." Atheril gave a small smile that was quickly replaced with a grimace as she took another sip. "As opposed to this drink, I should say. The Comtesse never really let me drink anything alcoholic, which I should be grateful for."
"Not all drinks are as horrid as the swill here," chuckled Varric. "Just wait, I'll get you a proper one once we're out of this ass end of the world. Your duties though… it's rather rare for a noble to choose an elf as her personal maid. No offence."
Atheril let out a short laugh, her low voice rumbling in her chest. "None taken. It's not like I saw many of my kind around where I lived. Comtesse Marguerite was the first in her circle of nobles to get an elf. She gathered exotic things, so as a child I was shown around, much as a toy or a family pet would be. As I grew older, duties were added. Later on, her friends started finding elven servants for themselves as well, so I wasn't a novelty anymore."
She almost didn't pull a face as she took her third sip of beer, a deep one this time. She didn't like the pity that had appeared in Varric's eyes.
"Shown around? "Get an elf"? Atheril, that's…" He frowned, at a loss for words. "That reminds me of another elf I know. And that's probably not a good comparison."
She focused her glance on the fireplace and tried to give a nonchalant shrug. "It really wasn't that bad. I had a pretty easy life compared to the other servants. Her collection of exotic things was untouchable, at least as long as they still offered her intrigue. Once she grew bored…" She paused and pushed her hair further under the hood, even though it had been sufficiently covered. "Well, that's when she got creative. But it was still easier than being among the kitchen help."
She rubbed the back of her neck before turning towards Varric, a suspicious look on her face. "Why are you interested in this anyway?"
Varric waited until a particularly loud roar from the Bull had died down before responding. "Why? For the chronicles, of course! Someone has to put the story of the hero who sealed the Breach down in writing at some point." He glanced towards the centre of the room, where Sera was triumphantly perched on the edge of a table, mocking the Bull who sat drenched from horns to boots. Someone had clearly decided he should bathe in the bitter swill the tavern labelled as beer. "I'm not sure what the rules of their game were, but it seems that Sera has emerged victorious in this particular contest."
He let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head at Sera's antics. "Well, remind me to never-"
He didn't get to finish as he was cut off by the sharp toll of the alarm bell. An uneasy quiet hovered over the crowd for a moment, before erupting in a discord of worried voices. Atheril jolted up, hands reaching for her daggers. Without waiting for Varric, she pushed her way through the crowd, trying to reach the outside before everyone else started to move and block her path.
Cullen rushed from the chantry, looking even more tired than before. His voice strained to be heard over the noise of the bells. "Forces approaching! To arms!" His eyes met with Atheril's, her grim dread reflecting back to her from his look. She joined his race towards the gates without a word, running past groups of refugees and templars who had been celebrating just moments ago.
They met with Cassandra near the gates. Their group of three quickly expanded as the rest of the advisors joined them, Josephine's normally meticulously set hair dishevelled by the wind and Leliana's expression an unsettling mixture of steely determination and uncertainty. Josephine and Atheril exchanged a worried glance before their eyes darted to observe the chaos that had descended upon Haven.
"Who are they, Cullen?" enquired Cassandra, the only one who did not appear to be out of breath. He shook his head.
"No way of telling. They don't have any banners. But whoever they are, their forces are overwhelming. We do not have sufficient defences to stand against this kind of assault." His hand was closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers flexing in anticipation.
"Perhaps we can negotiate with them," offered Josephine, though even she did not seem convinced of the plausibility of that idea.
Leliana responded with a humourless smile. "Someone with such a force and no banners is not here to negotiate. They are out for blood."
Atheril felt a chill stealing all the warmth she had soaked up, icy dread taking hold of her heart and holding it hostage. That was it. Sealing the Breach had bought them some extra time, but it hadn't been enough. They were doomed.
An agitated voice from behind the gates interrupted the discussion. "If someone could open this, I'd appreciate it."
Atheril rushed let the stranger in, knowing that the unknown army was nearly upon them. The heavy wooden gates refused to budge as she tugged on the latch, her boots helplessly sliding on the snow as she tried to find her footing. Cullen's gloved hands joined her effort. Together, they pulled the gates open, revealing a dark-haired man. He had fallen down on one knee, gasping for air. She was about to offer her help to get him up, but noticing the staff he was leaning on made her stop in her tracks. Cullen stepped up, sword unsheathed in caution. "Who are you? State your business."
The man pulled himself up with the help of his staff, his movements showing a mixture of exhaustion and elegance. "I'm here to warn you. Fashionably late, I'm afraid." He faltered, prompting Cullen to catch him and set him back on his feet.
"I have news from the mages at Redcliffe, but unfortunately not of the pleasant kind. They are under the command of the Venatori, in service to something called the Elder One." His glance fell to Atheril, whose hand was flaring with an angry green glow, reacting to her fear. "The Herald of Andraste. They are coming for you."