It seemed a strange thing to Elanna Lavellan how great a distance she felt from the religion of humanity, even in spite of her position. The Inquisition was a human made entity, reflecting the growing needs of humans as they addressed human crises of faith. Somewhere in all of that the First to Clan Lavellan's Keeper had been swept on the tide of piety and deposited onto a jagged throne. Ten thousand soldiers, entrenched in the valley below Skyhold, assembled as volunteers of the faithful, kissing Andraste's hands on her idols and thanking the Maker for sending her. An Elf. A Dalish.
The severity of it all was not lost on her, but it was too great a weight, too defining a moment in an epoch to think too greatly on. It was much like the sun, forever burning in its radiance and ushering in the day, but that did not mean that she could bear to stare at it for long. Therefore, so long as she was enclosed in the walls of Skyhold, surrounded by those she had come to depend on as her inner circle, she could remain flighty and ignore the implications of her exalted position.
The holy nature of the Inquisition could not be ignored during the end of the week, when the faithful would gather in Skyhold's chantry and hear the Mothers sermonize. They would sing songs together or sit in hushed silence in a display that intrigued Elanna nearly as much as it made her uncomfortable. She knew as a matter of course that chantries served a communal function in the small towns and villages, but it was different here.
When Haven fell the congregations were a sight of swollen fear. Trembling soldiers and volunteers crouched on shaking knees and implored for some sort of divine blessing to protect against the scourge they had witnessed. Even the comforts of Skyhold and its thick, high walls seemed to many as little more than an elaborate tomb where they would wait out their end.
Although it was a far cry from the babble of anti-Elven blasphemy she had assumed from her upbringing Elanna only felt more distant from her uncertainty. Watching the assembled receive their blessings she could hardly bring herself to stare down at them, feeling as though she were gawking at pets in a menagerie as they as they practiced their faith. She glanced over at them sidelong as she paced back and forth along the railing in the balcony that overlooked the keep's Chantry.
They were singing now, coming together in a hymn whose harmony was betrayed by the inexperienced voices trying to join in it. That made it sweet in its own way as farmers rubbed the elbows of chanters, pilgrims and scholars and had their own imperfect voices woven into the symphony of the skilled so that no one knew where the flaws began or where the beauty ended.
She thought of her own people and how their fireside songs showed no resemblance to this orderly state of affairs. As the Keeper watched atop his seat, face a stage for shadows from the fire to dance, the clan gathered around the bonfire and each adding their own voice to the mix in loud, rhythmic howls. Compared to the orderly song of the humans the sounds they made must have seemed like the yapps and japes of animals. It was more spirited, as the revelers would toss back their heads and shake their bodies in a state of near competition with one another.
The gods of the Elves were not so easily roused as the Maker, she had determined in her time with these people. Where they were content with one the Dales had need of nine gods, each with their own lusts and loves, each requiring their own songs and prayers to play their hand.
Footsteps creaked on a wooden stair before they became soft taps on the stone of the balcony. Elanna did not even need to turn to know that it was Dorian, drawn by the sounds of prayer below. The young man tried to make a show that he was living up to his Tevinter reputation by disappearing into the tomes of Skyhold's library, but it was apparent that it was as much a distraction for his own sake. The world of southern Thedas outside the Imperium's borders was just familiar enough to create an imperfect reflection, customs and styles so close that when he tried to interact he fumbled with imperfects steps to the southern waltz.
It was safer alone, in the library where he was responsible only for his thoughts. Elanna had recommended that he try finding a connection with Bull. So far from his home the Tevinter and the Qunari must have found something in common to discuss, if only their mutual contempt for each other and the rest of Thedas. She realized that although the Qunari was out of his element as well it was an entirely different experience, working fresh from a whole new world rather than trying to discover what was the same and what was different.
"It's peculiar isn't it?" Dorian asked as he rested against the frame of the doorway to the balcony.
Elanna stopped mid pace to turn and regard him. His arms were crossed and he was not quite looking at her, instead past toward the gathering below.
"What do you mean? Praying?" Elanna tried to scoff, but it came out weak and obviously for show. "I've seen my fair share of it since this all began."
Dorian continued as though she had never spoken. "You grow up one way, hearing all your own songs, participating in all your own prayers. Then you come somewhere else and see so many people doing something with such fervor that you're so certain is being done wrong."
The man's words were close enough to Elanna's own thoughts that she felt a tingle in her mind as though she felt him intruding there.
"It makes me miss home," Elanna said, confiding at least half of the truth.
"It must be even stranger for you," Dorian laughed with a soft shake of his head. "At least my home has a passing similarity to all this." He paused for a moment, furrowed his brow and twisted his lips, causing his waxed mustache to shuffle back and forth.
"What are your chantries like?" She turned and rested the arch of her back against the railing, focusing on his voice in an attempt to escape the unease of the closeness of the Maker's faithful.
Dorian did not even miss a beat as he stood up straight and tall, puffing out his chest. "Don't you know? First we have an orgy in the blood of slaves that failed to meet their quotas. Once all that mess is cleaned up we eat our lunch, salted with the ashes of Andraste. Your soul gets special bonus marks if you say, 'Mmm, she doesn't taste that divine!' When we're all done naked men parade around the aisles and talk about how great it is that there are no women here. The last part isn't that awful."
Elanna swung toward him in a slow, mocking gesture as though she intended to hit him, pawing at him to stop but smirking at him all the same.
"No really," she insisted.
With a shrug Dorian let out a melodramatic sigh. "It's different. There's a lot less Andraste. No Andraste, really. There are men in all the positions worth mentioning. They talk at us a lot more than with us. Morality sermons are big. I mean really big."
"Morality sermons from slavers." When she had first met the man Elanna would never have broached the subject so casually, but they had dispensed with the unnecessary etiquette and were now far removed from any care about cultural sensitivities. For every remark about the slaves that languished under the Imperium and Dorian's involvement in it all he had a dozen dry comments about the noble savages wandering the forests, looking for a kingdom they had misplaced. Her favorite was, "Did you try checking under your bedroll? That's where I look when things go missing."
"Baffling, isn't it?" he remarked back. "But someone has to tell us to respect our mothers and to avoid killing our cousins." Dorian leaned forward, speaking in a hushed tone as though he were sharing some close guarded secret that had to be hidden from the gathered below. "Sometimes we even listen."
Hearing Dorian speak of his home was nothing new to Elanna, indeed once the wine began flowing or the subject was breached it was difficult to get him to stop. Not that she ever wanted him to. Even the macabre and the dangers of the Imperium were pleasant to hear as they felt more like tales from a distant land, a place far away from responsibility and sorrow, a place where the sky wasn't ripped open and the air bled.
So close to the praying of the Chantry, however, sharing those stories only reminded her of home. It was difficult to long for it the way that Bull clearly did for his, even if she was not as restless or listless as Sera. Her yearning for the familiar animal skin tents and wild bonfire celebrations only coincided with the reminder that she had wandered so far from her roots, the rallying cry of armies and nations as the symbol of a faith that was not her own.
"What do the Dalish do when it's time to wake up a god and ask for the fish to bite?" Dorian asked, stepping closer and leaning with his hands against the railing next to Elanna.
"I can tell you what we do. We bring back a big buck, the hunter who slew it gets to wear the horns, then we dance and beat on drums around a camp fire. What do the other clans do?" Elanna shrugged. "That's a mystery to me. Even the Keeper probably only knows about our neighboring clans."
Dorian let out a hum noise. "How curious."
"Curious?" Elanna echoed.
"A people as old as time and yet you're one really bad plague away from no one ever knowing you were here."
Elanna's face narrowed as she looked up at him, pushing herself up from the rails. "Well that's a little morbid."
"Isn't it though?" Dorian mused with a wink.
