two: the Sten
It is difficult, to be in a strange land.
This is a true thing. But his perception of it has shifted, and he does not know if what he sees is closer to the truth or farther from it. There are no Ben-Hassrath here to ask.
Take, for instance, the Amell.
She is a woman. She is a saarebas. She is a warrior.
Two of these three things cannot be true.
He thought at first that she might be like the Tamrassan, the administrators and judges of the young. But she shows no aptitude for dealing with children, and her decisions are questionable at best. If she were clumsy with her blade, if armor weighed heavily on her shoulders, he would consider her a misguided saarebas and recommend that her tongue be cut out, just to be sure.
But the Amell is good with the blade, and her heart beats with a warrior's rage. So it follows that she cannot be either saarebas or woman, but he has seen her cast spells, and though she is small and sickly-thin, she is in fact female.
He meditates upon the Qun, which has no insight other than those who live in blindness may break themselves upon necessity.
"Tell me more about how children are raised among your people," the Amell says to him one night.
So he does, judging that it falls under the Qun's command to speak the truth when truth must be spoken, even to those who do not follow. He tells her of the Tamrassan, of the constant tests, the education that all are given. All are equal, in the Qun; all have their places, their roles.
The Amell is caring for her mageblade, called Spellweaver. She works at a nick in the edge with a sharpening stone. "In a way, it is like the Tower," she says. "When we show the talent, they remove us from our families and bind our memories of them. Then we are taught obedience, and discipline."
The Sten considers this information gravely. "This is not how it is usually done, here."
"No. It's not." She uses a soft cloth to rub away small spots of dried filth from her blade. The weapon flares and quiets. "It's simply what they do to mages, here. Probably better than cutting out their tongues."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Better for who?"
She looks down at her blade. "A fair question." But she does not answer it. Instead, she raises her blade, and scrutinizes the metal in the flickering light of their campfire. Then she asks, "Does the Qun encompass roles for all thinking beings, or just qunari?"
"All." The response is automatic. "There are no omissions in the Qun."
"And yet it was written for your people." She applies whetstone to metal once more. He watches her, and aches for Asala, his missing soul. "Does the Qun speak about Grey Wardens?"
He has to think about that question for a time. "Not directly."
"I wonder if there have ever been qunari Wardens." She is apparently speaking to her blade, not him. "You are correct. There is no order among humans. We all long to be something we are not. And sometimes, we are made into things we should not be."
She rises then, nods to him, and departs for her tent. Along the way, she stops and speaks briefly to the other Warden. He follows her; doubtless they will mate for a time, as is their habit.
The Sten is left to tend his own blade, a poor substitute for Asala. He considers the Amell, as he considers all of those he travels with.
We are made into things we should not be.
She understands, as much as an unenlightened human can understand. And perhaps she is a bent sword, a hammer of glass, forced into a shape she is not suited to. That, he can understand.
These humans have a word in their tongue, content. As he understands it, it carries a meaning that combines the qunari terms for well-led and properly placed.
As much as he can be with his soul missing, he is content.