The Prologue and the second half of chapter were once together, but I just like the succinct end of Brona's part. Leave a comment below when you're finished!

Echoes of Arlathan

The Chemist and the Warden

Eyes opened some time before dawn, a rhythm cultivated over years in the Circle tower.

Cold air, but a warm, heavy quilt. It was dark. The bed smelled of straw and was comfortable. The iron brazier had gone cold, justifying the low temperature of the room. It was unpleasant to rise from the bed and feel the cold air on hands and throat and feet.

The cold and rest made the muscles in his sides tight, his arms were heavy. Warm socks woven from thick wool protected his feet from the stone floor as he pulled one on, and then the other. He lifted his arms over his head and stretched his back, pulled one arm to the side to stretch his shoulder, and repeated the gesture on the other side.

Rose, turned, found knees and hands on the cold floor. Held arms straight and then bent to the floor, rose again without locking elbows. Repeated for three sets of seven. The exercise warmed his skin in the cold, as it was unwise to waste charcoal and time rekindling the brazier at the start of the day. He transferred his weight and sat on the floor, hands behind his head, and pulled with his gut to sit up and then ease back down. Three sets of ten. The room was no longer cold to him.

The water was cold. He drank some from the wooden cup, then used the rest to wash his face and hands. In the dark he combed his hair, and he was competent at parting the long black strands and folding them into a braid that ended at the base of his neck. It was not long and did not capture all of his hair, but it was sufficient. Soft wool was traded for good linen smallclothes, and then warm wool-woven trousers of grey. The linen shirt was white with long sleeves and cleanly stitched seams and hems.

The under robe was made of thick white wool, cream-coloured with sleeves cut close around his wrists and marked with several rows of dancing red stitches. It was buttoned down the front. The top layer was dark blue wool, sleeveless, with a dark hood. It was heavy and good with a row of wooden buttons inside and a set of white toggles on the outside. It was belted with simple leather which was notched to hold tools that were not present in this room. He found his shoes in their place beneath the frame of the bed and put them on.

From the small table in the room, which was not easily seen in the dark, he found the wooden box placed in the middle of it and the pieces resting inside. The first was a wooden amulet with a swinging face of the chantry's yellow sunburst. When the face turned, the inscription was clearly visible: 'May the Maker Guide you back to our love - Mother'. Not his mother. The woven cord was placed over his head, his hair pulled out of the way, and the amulet was tucked between the blue and white robes. The second was a ring of cut white quartz with the Formari pestle and hand, which was placed on the middle finger of his left hand. The third was a large iron ring with three keys attached, with a long leather strap. The strap looped through his belt, and the ring clipped to the belt as well in a different place, allowing him to remove the ring without becoming detached from the keys themselves. By drawing the dark hood over his head, he was now prepared to leave.

Hunger was his second priority. He left the cold room and the corridor was also cold, but was in the process of being lit by lantern light by a servant with a pot of oil. They did not address one another, and one of the keys locked the door to the room he had just exited.

He proceeded down the corridor and to the left. It was before dawn and first bell, Vigil's Keep was quiet and only the servants had cause to wander the halls. He found the drafty way through the castle to a cold hallway with an exterior door at the end: it was ajar to the drizzling rain outside. There was a door before the exit that was on his left again, and he inserted the largest of the three keys into this lock. It opened.

It was a workshop, clean, and as it was left yesterday. It was very cold with its wood countertops and stone shelves and hanging cabinets with their glass windows. The work-table in the middle of the room was clear but for a ledger, large basket, wide linen cloth, and several jars and parcels all left out intentionally. He approached the quiet, dark, cold fireplace in the far corner and knelt, drawing forth a large woven basket filled with pieces of tinder and wood. He transferred the larger pieces of tinder into the quiet maw of the hearth, followed by a handful of cast-off threads, soiled wool clippings, and bundles of dried grass and roots. The fire caught quickly.

He took one of the two great black cauldrons and filled it with water from the pump set in the back-counter's stone sink, under the bubbled glass window which was not yet lit by the sun. The pump was loud in the quiet, the wooden handle bore a heavy grain that marked his palm. Several thrusts of cold air resulted in a gurgle and splash of cold water. It was clean. It filled the cauldron and was heavy when lifted.

The cauldron was placed on the floor. A larger piece of wood was fed to the fire, and then the cauldron was hung by a strong hook meant to carry such weight. His first priority had been seen to, now he would eat.

The workshop was locked. He went back through the keep. He reached the servants' mess hall and found those who had been awake far longer than him and hard at work. The stones down here were always warm and the Vigil's cisterns were near the central fires which kept the kitchens running. Hot, fresh bread with a spoonful of soft salted butter and sweet jam. A fresh autumn apple. His hood remained up, his voice was not necessary: he took his food with a quiet nod and left the hall.

The workshop was unlocked. The food was consumed. From a drawer: soft doeskin gloves were pulled over his hands, and a folded bundle of paper in a tanned yellow skin folio was withdrawn. The ledger was reviewed, names and requests checked against the small folio, and each item was verified by his touch before being placed in the basket. Bundles of herbs, wooden jars, wax paper bundles, and glass vials were placed in the basket, and then covered by the linen.

The workshop was locked.

"Mornin', Compounder." Four quarter-pound blocks of soap, individually wrapped to prevent contact with water before necessary, were handed to the Kennelmaster and signed for. "He's eager for his walk this morning, as you'd expect. Mind he doesn't knock you over in the rain." One of the kennels was opened, and a great grey mabari hound was let out. Dirthamen. Dirth.

The dog panted, thick pink tongue lolling from its jaws. It scampered and danced with heavy feet, back end wagging. Large claws pressed on his toes, then the paws came up and pushed hard on his chest, necessitating a change in stance so he was not pushed over. Hot breaths washed up to his face. Unpleasant smell. Unnecessary attention.

"Sit." Obedient hound. "Thank you, Kennelmaster." To Dirthamen: "Come."

Out into the rain, with the clouds turning a soft blue and grey with the retreating night. Not heavy rain, but cold. A scarf would have been advisable but not necessary: it was not yet winter.

"This should have come yesterday." A large case of glue for the carpenters, heavy, delivered first to relieve the weight. "Off with you, elf." He left.

"This is the completely wrong dye!" Four pots of pigment for the seamstre- "Why would you bring me more green? Open those leaf ears of yours next time!"

"Heatherfrond dye was the request noted in the apothecary ledg-"

"We'll see what your master has to say on the matter when he returns!" That would not be for many months, but he did not make this statement. "Quit staring! The rest of us have work to take pride in- get!" He left.

"Out again without a cloak, I see." He was sufficiently warmed by his clothes and said as much as he handed the appropriate jars of salve to the Midwife, Mistress Valora. The old elven woman tugged off the lid of each one to check the contents and consistencies of the creams, and took her bottles of distilled snowdrop oil. She handed him a bushel of tangled elfroot gathered by her granddaughter with instructions to have the resulting salve brought to her when it was ready. A familiar red-woven satchel was passed to him without comment and placed in the basket. Dirthamen's nose snuffed at the basket in vain.

Mistress Valora shut the door and he left.

"If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times: you may not enter the chantry unescorted." He had not entered the chantry, he was standing presently at its doors to deliver the bars of incense for- "You may not have crossed the threshold but you are certainly within the gates. You will wait at the chanter's board for these deliveries: I will not have your presence cause the Maker's children to hesitate to attend their prayers. Andraste will give me the patience to forgive this transgression yet again, child, but you of all people should know better than to test the limits of that grace."

"…When the incense has run thin, Revered Mother, I will wait at the chanter's board to deliver the next supply."

"Walk in the Maker's Light, Compounder." He left with first bell ringing in the start of the day, Dirthamen's heavy paws splashing in puddles on the way back to the keep.

The workshop was unlocked. The fire was stoked. The water was boiling. His hands were cold. He tied an apron over his robes and replaced the doeskin gloves for rough work-gloves. The ledger was opened and looked over. Heatherfrond dye written in the seamstress' hand from yesterday, now crossed out. Tallow requested by the quartermaster. Salem seed glue for the library. Rat poison for the kitchen.

The satchel from the midwife was opened, he extracted a thick, clean beef bone, and handed it to the hound. Dirthamen took it and curled up into his basket under the table, content.

He began to work.

He fetched what he required: a vial of salem seed oil and the raw seeds as well. Several cups of salem seeds were measured into the mortar, and lightly crushed. An iron skillet was heated in the space between the cauldron and the embers, and the seeds were toasted in it. Some of the oil was added, the pan removed from the heat, and the mixture poured back into the mortar. Now it was beaten into a paste. The paste smelled like ash. The oil was grey and grainy, the proper traits. In an hour it would sit and rest.

"You there, where's the healer?" The salem paste had been beaten for only half that time when there was a voice at the door. Half that time and the oil was black, but too loose. Not ready. "Oi, I'm talking to you!" It was not ready. He stopped. He looked up. A human man he did not know, but his question was understood.

"Warden Guerrin has been dispatched from Vigil's Keep for the Anderfels," he stated. "He will not return until spring at the earliest."

"Well who'm I supposed to talk to then? You?"

"I am not qualified as a healer. I am the Vigil's-"

"What's that mess on your face?"

"I am tranquil, the brand is a mark from the ritual." He said. "I am the castle's chemist and in Warden Guerrin's absence the Acting Apothecary of Vigil's Keep. If you know what medicine or treatment you require then I am able to prepare it for you."

"Bloody useless you are then." The man left.

He resumed his work. When the paste was ready it was scraped and the contents placed in a large bowl which was then filled with water. The black dredges would sink, the fine oil would rise, the bowl was placed on one of the counters with a linen cloth over it.

One of the lower cupboards was opened. With great effort, the large block of rendered druffalo fat was dragged from the dark space. With a heated wire he sliced a large slab off the front end and pushed the remainder back inside. The tallow was softened with moderate heat and heavy kneading, then pressed into block molds to ensure an even amount to match the request, and then left to set.

Rat poison. The midday bell interrupted the preparations.

The satchel from Mistress Valora was opened, and a pie of spinach and cheese was placed in a clean and covered iron skillet to heat over the fire. Water from the cauldron was poured into a cup holding dried mint leaves and crushed berries for tea. When the pie was warm again, he brought it to the table, sat down, and ate it. The crust was crisp and flakey, the spinach leaves twisted and heavy with fat from the salted cheese. Shreds of onion gave soft bursts of flavour when he chewed. The tea, sweetened with a coil of honey, was hot and satisfying.

The workshop was warm from the fire and his work. The window was filtering dull light from the scattered rainclouds outside. He was not hungry. It was a pleasant day.

"Are you resting, lethallin?" A woman's voice and soft knock from the door drew his attention.

"For one hour, yes," he said. "Do you require my services, Warden Athras?"

"Only your company, if that's alright."

"It is."

An'eth Athras of Clan Zathrian, Grey Warden and Dalish hunter. Her mother had died during the Blight fifteen years ago, but her spirit had taken her to the Grey Wardens after a youth spent travelling and learning her craft. Her stature was average for elven women, shorter than most humans, but her training had given her great strength throughout her body.

Her bright orange hair was shaved clean across one side of her head, the rest brushed over and down the other side with three thin and beaded braids swinging from the front and then around one of her long ears. Bright grey eyes and strong, forward nose. Small mouth. Tattoos of Dirthamen bloomed from her top lip and circled up around her eyes, crowning her forehead. Her sword and shield and spear were all missing, as was much of her silverite warden armour. Instead she wore the black trousers and shirt of a warden, covered and kept warm with the layers of textured green fabric from her Dalish home. At least four different weaves of fabric were twisted over her shoulders, folded across her waist, and falling from her hips.

She was his friend.

"I brought these for us to share." She unhooked a satchel from her belt and opened it, folding the mouth down to reveal a cache of roasted chestnuts. The bag was still warm. "It's early in the season, but I thought it worth the effort anyways."

"Thank you for considering me." Taking one of the nuts, the shells had softened from the heat and peeled easily. The meat was soft and carried a faint sweetness.

An'eth hiked up one leg and then lifted herself to sit on the table, feet swinging as she reached into the bag.

"Do you like them?" She asked with a smile before peeling her own to eat.

"They are warm." He answered.

"I meant the flavour, do you like the taste?"

"It is pleasant." It was not the type of answer she desired. "I have little motivation to eat at present. I was given food by the midwife this morning."

"Did you eat before going to see her?" An'eth asked him, guiding another chestnut to her lips with a finger.

"Yes."

"Two meals today then, yes?"

"It is not my intention to deny myself food when busy, An'eth." That was her primary concern.

"No, but it's a bad habit of yours when Guerrin isn't home, lethallin." She frowned at him, and then reached towards him and pushed down the edge of his hood. The side of it caught on one of his ears and he gave a small shake of his head to make it fall. "You don't need to wear that all the time, it's warm in here."

Her hand withdrew, but her thumb brushed across his cheek. Cool, deliberate, and slow. It paired softly with her comment and the heavy look in her eyes.

"The output of the workshop does not change, but the workload shifts exclusively to myself and Mistress Valora when Warden Guerrin is deployed." He answered her first comment and not the second. Her unspoken meaning was understood but was not easily addressed. "I have adjusted my routine to accommodate the changes." An'eth folded her hands back in her lap, the chestnuts cooling between them.

"Please don't let the Vigil work you too hard, lethallin."

"Although my responsibilities are more numerous here, they are not as intense as my previous obligations within the Formari Guildsmen nor the Fereldan Circle." His explanation did not ease her concern and he was not certain how to proceed. "I am well, An'eth."

"I know. I just want you to stay that way." She was going to say more and then did not. He waited. He had nothing else to focus on.

The quiet extended. She would not speak.

"Jylan," she did speak and it was good. Others had a tendency to feel awkward or uncomfortable when silence lingered beyond an acceptable time frame. She was looking at her hands until she turned her gaze back to him. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No, you are my friend." His answer was a statement of fact and was answered by her placing a hand on his shoulder. At first the gesture was not easily felt, but once her touch grew warm it became pleasant. "Are you indicating that I should stand?"

"If it's alright with you." She was distressed and he was unclear as to the reason why. He stood and her hand trailed down his arm. He pushed the chair back under the table and faced her again. She was standing and there was a misted, tender look across her face. This was not unheard of, however Jylan was not aware of what infrequently prompted this reaction from her. Because he did not know, he asked.

"I recognize that you are upset, An'eth. Has an event transpired to cause you emotional pain?"

"No, not really." Her answer did not settle the matter. He was not convinced. She looked at him, then down, then up at him. He waited.

"May I hug you?" She asked her question abruptly but it was not unexpected. She had asked this of him before and been granted his permission.

"If it will relieve you of your present anxiety, then yes." She slid her arms under his and he lifted them to permit the gesture. An'eth was not wearing her hard warden plate armour, her embrace did not pinch or cut against him. She walked flush against him and pressed her face to his shoulder, distressed and pulling him tight with her arms.

He was incompetent at relieving her emotional distress. To hug was not a difficult or complicated task, but the nuances did not present themselves to him. Hugs before the Rite of Tranquility had involved a certain level of movement and adjustment; a tenderness that was drawn from clues he had learned since then to stop struggling to find. His arm knew how to fold along the curve of her back because it was comfortable, his hand could find the base of her neck so his elbow tucked down behind her. This was how two bodies fit together in an embrace.

Beyond this, there was nothing more for him to provide. She rubbed his back and it was wiser to remain still than to mimic the gesture. She took a deep breath in against him, but he was not suffering the effects of anxiety and did not copy her. Her embrace tightened again, and then she released him.

"You do not appear calmer." He observed very few differences as she stepped back from him. The embrace had not been successful. "I apologize, An'eth. Perhaps Hahren Velanna will be able to provide you with more sufficient care."

"No, I do feel better." He did not believe her words to be true, but did not correct her. Her eyes were red and tired-looking, her face told him she was sad. "Thank you, Jylan. I'll let you continue with your work now. Maybe I'll see you after the evening bell?"

"You need not pressure yourself to spend time in my presence." It was worthwhile to give this reminder at times. "I am not impacted by the reality of loneliness." Incorrect response. Her distress increased again with a deep crease across her brow.

"Jylan…" His words had the opposite effect than intended: it would be wise of him not to speak further. She held a hand out and he was obligated to take it, and then to let her squeeze it tightly. "The only pressure on me is to leave you alone so you can work. I'll see you after the evening bell."

He nodded to her and did not speak. She squeezed his hand again and then left.

He did not take time to reflect on the matter because he was no longer permitted to leisure: his hour was at an end. He prepared the rat poison, he updated the ledger, and he worked. He was warm and he was not hungry, he felt no concerning discomfort in his body.

It was a pleasant day.

"Y'know, sir, I don't think the Grand Cleric likes you very much." That comment, under the bright blue sky and cold autumn wind, made Soren laugh.

"Ah, Nathaniel," he said, stopping with one booted foot planted on the grey stone steps weaving up through Amaranthine City. "Whatever gave you that idea?" They were on their way together to the cathedral of Our Lady Redeemer. The great chantry cathedral was perched atop the high hill in the city's eastern quarter, close to Bann Talbind's great house where the three of them were walking from.

"It could be the fact that she hates you," Nathaniel Howe, Warden Captain and loyal friend, paused next to him in his quilted blue gambeson and polished silverite chest-piece. His armour was comfortable on his tall form, his long black hair combed and braided to keep out of his way. He'd shaved all but the tuft of black hair in the dip of his chin this morning, and his grave expression granted his light tone a well-received sense of irony and levity. "I mean, I know it's a bother to come all the way into Amaranthine for chantry services, but the few I have heard are… not exactly friendly towards your grace."

"Corrupting magic in the hands of a weak-minded elf?" Soren asked him, raising his gloved hands and stroking the air with each finger for emphasis. The human cringed before nodding. "Nothing I haven't heard before, Nate."

"Probably, but you'd think she'd lay off a little given who's in charge in Val Royeaux these days. Aren't you friends with the Divine?"

"That only serves to make him more of a threat, of course." Zevran, Soren's second companion for the day said from a step behind him. His black leather armour was undercut with fine gold fabric which hid the delicate chain mail beneath it, remaining true to an old and familiar preference for beauty that distracted from utility. His dark blue cloak was cut around the edges with black to match his outfit, and he kept a wary eye out as the three of them trotted along through the city. "Come now, you know how these things work. What's eating you?"

"It doesn't take a week to answer a letter from Vigil's Keep to Amaranthine and back again," Nathaniel complained. "That's what's eating me." Soren hmm'd to himself and carried forward, the wind catching the edges of his gold robe as he walked.

His robes were not a usual mage's garb. The gold and silver-stitched fabric was cut wide from the waist down and flared open to give his legs room to walk, black trousers and a set of silverite tassets protecting his legs and waist. The seam between his robe and his breastplate was pleasing to the eye, the Grey Griffon rearing proudly across his chest. A silverite gorget circled his throat and disappeared down between the robe's golden front and the shirt and mail he wore underneath, his hands protected by leather vambraces up his arms and silverite gauntlets keeping his fingers and wrists safe. He did not require or want his helmet today and had left it behind along with his staff.

If he was going to speak with the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine, then her Arl didn't need to bring a mage's weapon with him. He was quite capable of defending himself if need be with the heraldic shield hanging from his back, and the old elven sword strapped to his waist. If push came to shove, the small gold dagger tucked into his belt behind him would do more damage than the sword.

"As long as you two keep your gloves on," Zevran told Nathaniel in a bright, cheerful way. "I anticipate nothing more than the usual discomfort from Her Holiness."

"That's what I'm afraid of…" Nathaniel complained again, flexing his hands uncomfortably within his gloves. Soren regarded the action briefly, but then withheld a comment telling Nathaniel the tattoos on his hand were his own fault for consenting to a Dalish wedding ritual. As for Soren's own hands, the crawling, obvious red marks scarring his fingers and palms from many years of powerful and reckless magical practice would only offend the Grand Cleric's delicate sensibilities.

This would be a simple matter and he hushed them both as they approached the cathedral at last. Our Lady Redeemer had a proud façade of blue-black Amaranthine granite, a grand tower stretching up from her front wall and rising impressively high to hold the great starburst of Andraste in the autumn sunlight. The bronze was strong and old, but a clear sight from most parts of the city. Her windows were made of stained glass, an expensive luxury even for Amaranthine, but from the outside they were only dark, formless panels of iron-cut glass. The few shrubs and flowerbeds in high planters dotting the courtyard between the grand stairs and the cathedral doors hosted a few of the city's denizens, and a good number of the chantry's initiates and sisters in their white and red robes.

As it was his city, Soren was not required to announce himself days or hours in advance. He had every right, when in Amaranthine City, to wander as he pleased and go where he may. The cathedral had its private areas yes, but its grand hall brimming with light from those tall windows was open to all of Andraste's Faithful followers.

So it was that the Archmage strode forward into the holy place, inclining his head briefly to the Sister present to welcome worshippers for the quiet hours between prayers and songs. Nathaniel's hand deposited three fat gold coins into the pedestal of purified water standing next to the sister, one for each of them, and the pious display of wealth quieted the young woman before she could say anything.

Rich chantries had a particular sort of smell to them: sweet and smoky from burning bars of sandalwood and frankincense. Smaller ones found in country hamlets or lesser quarters of Ferelden's cities would also fill themselves with fragrance, but it never smelled quite the same. The husks of old imported cinnamon and dried fruits or flowers didn't have the right depth of aroma. Our Lady Redeemer smelled strongly of years of only the finest oils and dried herbs, the scent soaked into the heavy wooden pews and worn into the granite blocks holding her tall ceiling aloft. The Cathedral smelled like Andraste's Flame. It smelled the way the Circles once had, but without the same cold, metallic something to go along with it.

Soren, Zevran, and Nathaniel followed the red quartz tiles laid like a carpet from the front door through the long hall of the cathedral, reaching the high dais in its sanctuary that was proudly presided over by a bronze statue of Andraste herself. She held her sword and her shield, the blade held aloft with the promise declared in the cathedral's name: she who would redeem the lost peoples of Thedas against the wrath and corruption of the Tevinter Imperium. At the footstone of the statue was a plaque bolted to a misshapen piece of raw stone: the place where Andraste had first revealed the Chant of Light to the world.

This was a very holy place. Soren approached the stone, took a knee before it, and bowed his head. He selected a prayer, something simple, something to the point, and mouthed the words to make sure his time spent at the relic was neither too long nor too short. Then he stood and moved aside, doubting Zevran would kneel the same way but aware that Nathaniel probably wanted to and would give a prayer with a bit more feeling to it.

There was just enough time for Nathaniel to honour his Prophet before the Grand Cleric of Amaranthine was upon them. Brona was an older woman with a stout figure and her dark brown hair threaded with grey, all of it braided up behind her head. Her mouth was a constant frown, her nose blunt and her grey eyes were forever filled with reproach. Soren understood the Grand Cleric to be a very forward and forthright person, someone to be respected and her lapses in manners tolerated.

This was not a woman who had been plucked from a garden in Val Royeaux and cast into the Fereldan winter, she was born from this country and had served and suffered hard for her position. She had founded schools for the city's poor children, and during the Blight had spearheaded the effort to sway cold hearts and secure passage for countless Fereldan Refugees fleeing the darkspawn. Her chantry's walls had protected the city's militia against the Mother's army fourteen years ago, her Sisters and Initiates serving to stitch wounds, sooth the dying, and shelter the frightened and feeble. Soren remembered those contributions from the Thaw and her dedicated works since then, they were worth more than most of what people in power usually drew attention to.

"Grand Cleric, a fine morning to you." Soren clenched his hand and touched his fist over his heart, inclining his head as he performed the salute. He knew, before the gesture was done, that her thin mouth twisted bitterly at the sight of him. It was unfortunate to him that he seemed cursed with making enemies of the powerful people who had once been his allies.

"Warden Commander," she stated in a tone that struggled against her own ire. "Your presence here is unexpected."

"Then it appears my letter has been waylaid, your grace," Soren answered her pleasantly, with a slow nod to suggest a pardon on the messenger. "I have come today to discuss a matter of celebration for the Arling."

"I would have thought you more aware of your situation, Commander." She did not refer to him as Arl and that did not surprise him: she never did. 'Magic is meant to serve mankind, never to rule over him', a mage in a position of civil authority was considered by many to be a blatant disregard of Andraste's primary rule. "Sometimes silence is the most appropriate answer that one can give."

"Your grace," Soren uttered, drawing on the same virtue he named.

"Walk." The word was sharp and clipped off his armour, and the gilded priestess turned and clearly intended for him to follow her from half a step behind. Very well, he would do this her way.

The Grand Cleric wore a long dark grey coat which fell nearly to the floor and was cinched with a wide gold sash around her waist, a crimson belt cut with gold holding her long red gown closed under the coat. Andraste's sunburst came down from her collar and up from the hem of her gown, but it was not needlessly fine. Clean, certainly, and of good quality, of course, but not extravagant. Grand Cleric Brona was not a woman who had earned her position for the sake of lavishing in rose-water baths and decorating herself in glittering jewels. She was the spiritual leader of their Arling and she fulfilled that position with dignified severity.

She would have been such a good ally to have at his side, but Soren had played this game for fourteen years and knew that door wasn't just locked, it was bricked over on the other side.

"Warden Commander," She kept her hands behind her back as she walked, ushering away curious Sisters with a simple nod of her head. "We are two persons who hold an obligation to the people we oversee within our mutual realms. We are to uphold a standard of behaviour and strength that is to inspire the masses who come to us: to you, for matters of state and war, to me, for all else." Not quite, but he did not argue with her. The chantry did not control all else save statecraft and steel. "That said, I expect a certain level of commitment and virtue from you."

"You Grace, matters of commitment and fidelity are exactly my purpose in approaching you."

"Commitment to whom, exactly?" She stopped walking after successfully leading them away from the statue of Andraste. Zevran and Nathaniel held themselves back by a few paces but had clearly been following, and now Soren and the Grand Cleric stood in an alcove of the sanctuary that was still open to the light of the stained windows, but private enough for this talk. "And to what? Your own lust?"

Don't.

"Grand Cleric." He kept his voice smooth, and his intentions mild. "By taking the mother of my child and the only woman I have ever accepted as a partner as my legal wife, I mean to lead by example in the most direct way. This wedding will banish any whispers about my personal affairs and give my mistress the acknowledgement she deserves."

"You curry no favour for yourself by ignoring the matter before you," she told him shortly and with a lick of temper heating the back of her words. "You should have been rid of one another before your son was even born, Surana, only then might his mother have sparred him the truth his half-blooded nature." His temper warmed itself. No. Resist. "The recklessness of your engagement as a mage with another bearing the same curse expresses only an unspeakable flaw of character, and it is only by Andraste's Provision at the side of our Maker that the child escaped the same stain on his soul. You have been granted your boon by the Maker, Commander, do not tempt Him further."

His tongue curled, his lips were dry: he would not lick them.

"You decry actions well over a decade behind us, your grace."

"And now here we stand a decade later, and you approach me to suggest blessing such a poor match. To validate the reckless decisions of your youth."

"I do not suggest it," He felt his tongue grow sharp and reeled it back in, the burn of sandalwood thick across his pallet. "I tell you, your grace, I will marry her. As Arl of Amaranthine-"

"As Grand Cleric of Amaranthine I remind the mage before me to mind his tone." Her statement was sharp and sudden, a snake that bit fast through the thin cloth of his defense. "How dare you speak out of turn in Our Lady's Holiest of Halls? You are a son of Shartan, he who was dragged from his chains by Andraste's golden arms, and you will respect that debt when you speak in the place where she first brought the Maker's Words to mankind."

He curled his tongue, set his teeth together, and did not speak. He knew why he did not speak but he could not voice the reason, not with the frankincense in the air burning his eyes. Brona sighed to release her anger and shook her head to him in pity.

"The Maker crafted humans and elves as distinct from one another," she stated, quoting now from the scholars whose names had haunted the Circle's halls. "Whole and proper and worthy of His love, but distinct. When a child of both bloods is brought into this world through lust's painful burning, her el'vhen nature is veiled and all her parts and glory are as her human parent. That is the Maker's Will and you cannot argue against it, not you, not the Divine herself."

"Divine Victoria has ruled-" He did not have the letter with him, he had left it behind because he had felt he would not need it. Soren knew that even if he had brought Leliana's declaration with him however, it would not have changed anything.

"-incorrectly." The word came down on him hard, and he did not know how to answer it. "Her vote has passed by the barest of margins and the discussion has not ended, will not end for many years to come. You disgrace yourself and your office by jumping so eagerly to such a grotesque perversion of our chantry's holy sacraments. For shame, Surana, for shame." She dared-?

But she did it with those words. With this smoke hanging around him. With that statue looming behind them.

His temper froze, it locked and hurt in his chest, fragments of ice breaking off and splashing loud and awful into the calm current of his magic. He said the only words he could find and he spoke them much too softly to work against her.

"It is the Arl's right to be married in sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer."

"It is the Grand Cleric's right to defend the sanctity of Our Lady Redeemer." Brona's words cut him and he recognized now how tightly his hands were clutching his wrists behind his back. His fingertips were hurting in his gauntlets. "I will not allow this parade of disrespect to trespass across Andraste's holy gaze. Find yourself a partner from among your own people, free of magic's taint, loyal to the Chant and reverent to Our Lady, and you will have your wedding, Lord Surana. Until you have cleansed these abhorrent notions from your mind and cease to disrespect the distinctions crafted by the Maker Himself, this topic will bear no further discussion. Walk in the Maker's Light, my son, and repent."

She dismissed him with a hand and Soren… took that dismissal and left. He needed away from the smoke and weight of the Chantry air.

"Commander-" Nathaniel and Zevran were on his heels before he left the building, but they didn't speak until he was out again in the brisk autumn air. When Soren didn't acknowledge him upfront he felt Nathaniel's hand touch his arm in a sudden and unwanted manner. He pulled away from it automatically and stopped walking, facing the other Warden with a short stop and pivot.

"What?" He demanded, and Nathaniel's face was shocked before he pointed a hand back at the cathedral.

"What the hell was that?" The huma- Nathaniel. Warden Howe asked him.

"She said no," Soren told him. "I'm not going to embarrass myself by kicking up a fuss and yelling in a cathedral, Nathaniel." He felt cold. He felt brittle. He wanted to go home.

"I'm not asking why you didn't yell, I'm asking why you didn't speak." Soren took a breath through his nose, held it, and didn't answer. He felt a spark of offense when Nathaniel's stern gaze melted into a soft and worried gaze that tried to smother him. The heat over the cold made everything feel sticky and raw. He didn't like it. "No one talks to you like that and keeps their hide in one piece. Not one damn person from here to the Anderfels can make you shut up when there's something to be said. What the hell happened in there?"

"Do you expect me to stand in the middle of the Chantry and throw insults at the Grand Cleric?" Soren asked him with more heat than was right, thick bubbles of something foul filling and bursting inside of him. "Subtle or not, Nathaniel, I'm not going to alienate her even further."

"I've heard you take down that Shartan bullshit more times than I can count," his Warden growled back at him and it was badly timed. That grotesque sludge was dripping from his ribs, sweet with sandalwood and smoke. "And you just let her walk all over you with it! You've got the Divine Herself praising your engagement to Lady Morrigan- if this is just a ploy of yours then at least have the decency to say so!"

"Shut up-" -stop. "Enough." Nathaniel recoiled from him and Soren didn't immediately know why.

"Did-?" Nathaniel grunted, eyes tight with confusion. "Did you just call me human?" He-

How dare he? How dare Soren speak a distinction of the Maker's crafted will like an insult, a cut against the appropriate whole of His works? How dare he, lungs smothered from burning cloves, talk back beyond his place and-

"Well you are, aren't you?" He choked out the words, turned away from his friends, and left them.

Zevran did not let Nathaniel follow.