Ashes to Embers

Chapter 2: Marshmallow Rivalry

"There we are..." Ember retracts her hands from an Inquisition soldier's now-healed wound, smiling in encouragement. "It will still feel tight and stiff for a few days, but it will pass—sooner rather than later if you stretch."

"Thank you, your Worship." The uneasiness in the soldier's eyes is gone, and he salutes her before marching off. She has yet to get used to the saluting; even the suspicion over her magic is more comforting and familiar—she knows what to say and do to ease the fear, then.

Looking around, Ember searches for her companions. Varric and Sera are passing blankets around with Whittle, and Cassandra oversees the training of new Inquisition recruits. The mage wipes the sweat off her brow and wipes her hands off her sash as she meanders around the village to see where she can pitch in next. The bulk of the injured and sickly visit the elven apothecary's hut instead, stealing guilt-ridden glances at Ember when she passes by.

People still don't know if they can trust her, forget magic. What frightful tales have been spun of her? She looks at the sky and turns to face the breach, stretching her hand out towards it. Sealing it will be the only way to gain trust. Nobody trusts mages—they're all guilty until proven innocent.

Everybody trusts the templars, though. Ember watches over the crossroads from the top of the hill, thoughts still spinning in circles as to what the right decision is. Shouldn't the path be clear? What does her conscience—faith—demand? A gloved hand falls on her shoulder, firm voice settling the jump in her nerves.

"I believe we have done all that we can here, Herald." Cassandra announces, patting Ember as she passes by. "We should return to Haven. The others will want to hear how the 'negotiation' with the mages went; and hopefully find out how to deal with the tevinter magister."

"If we should even deal with him and ally with the mages," Ember blurts, surprising even herself. She cards a hand through her hair when Cassandra twists with a puzzled expression. "I don't know where I stand," the mage sighs, "we need people to trust us—the Inquisition. The templars will secure and solidify that trust. Mages won't. And if they're already sold to servitude, then it's too late to save them. We're in no position to usurp Tevinter and invite another war."

"That is... Correct. But are you sure you want to go to the templars?"

"I'm not sure of anything," Ember confesses as she crosses her arms, turning to overlook the village. "These people depend on me for answers." She glances over her shoulder at the Seeker. "They depend on the templars for answers too." She studies the action among the bustling refugees, frowning when conflicting thoughts collide. "But then the templars abandoned the Chantry—abandoned and mocked the very ones they were bound by oath and sworn to serve. They are no more trustworthy than the mages right now."

"That is also correct. That is why the answer now lies not in your mind, but in your heart—and where you feel you must go."

Every direction is pulling Ember apart, no matter where she faces. The mages are the biggest threat to her own safety—and themselves, and therefore the Inquisition. The breach makes it far easier for plenty more demons to lure and tempt every night. Without templars, an abomination could run rampant and deal devastating damage before it's stopped.

She could run rampant before she's stopped.

"Templars," she states, readily meeting Cassandra's gaze. "We cannot allow the Order to fall victim to the Lord Seeker's whims and ambition. The rank and file beneath him are stuck in Therinfal and have no idea they have another choice besides obeying Lucius. The rebels still have a choice to come to their senses and can seek out Corporal Vale if they wish to serve the Inquisition; we can have the scouts spread the word in Redcliffe—quietly—and see what comes of it."

"A sound plan." Cassandra nods in agreement, though she still seems to regard the mage with a mix of curiosity and concern. The Seeker comes closer, lowering her voice. "Forgive me if this is offensive, Herald, but are you not sympathetic to your own kind?"

"I am. I would be even more so if the rebels had a reasonable plan in place and unified in their desire for freedom. But how much freedom? The fact of life as a mage is that we are dangerous since we're susceptible to demons. Precautions need to taken—not just for others' safety, but for our own as well. Without proper instruction, how can we expect to remain safe? We would be even more susceptible to demons than we already are if we just let anarchy make decisions and not be aware of warning signs. Even gifted mages under instruction fall victim to demons. How can we possibly expect no consequences whatsoever without any sort of safety net?"

Her chest kicks against her ribs, lungs starved of oxygen. She takes a few deep breaths, trying to settle down, but this is one of many topics she's far too passionate about. She's been on the run since the Circles dissolved and treated like a demon even among her own kind, now that all the fraternities have free reign to war against each other as well as the world; all with magic—instead of words—in the ultimate battle royale.

Ember's tongue shoots farther than her mind, muttering darkly. "Ironic, isn't it? This war was about freedom, and they sold themselves into servitude; literal slavery."

Cassandra's lips thin in a frown. "I had wondered how that could have been seen better than being in a Circle—but they are desperate, and this was their last choice. There are no Circles to return to. They cannot turn back time. We learn from our mistakes, and sometimes fear obliterates thought, guiding our hand."

"And that is the moment where we must stand against fear." Ember gestures to the refugees below. "How many widows or orphans are there because of a scared mage?"

"The same could have been said for templars." The way the Seeker scrutinizes her makes her uncomfortable. She diverts her gaze when Cassandra reaches out and tentatively squeezes her shoulder. "I have no doubts about your faith in the Maker, Herald, but the Chantry sermons at the Circle..." The warrior hesitates, groping for words, and sighs heavily. "I have heard what they preach to mages, and I am starting to wonder if you truly do regard your magic as a gift, as you stated to the thief. I cannot imagine what drivel they have fed you, but—"

"Not drivel—truth. Magic is a curse, but confirming that will only solidify the peoples' fears of us, which is why I told Sera it's a gift."

Hypocrite, her mind whispers. She casts the thought out.

A crack of a smile catches her attention and she looks at Cassandra, who's eyes are filled with pity. "Your faith is at the crossroads. Believe in your heart, Herald. It will guide you better than the Chant of Light, or what the Revered Mother in the Ostwick Circle said. Those were their words and feelings. Heed your own."

But their words are all the mage hears.

Ember avoids her eyes and forces herself to move, using Varric and Sera as an excuse to run away from the topic. She jogs down the hill to meet them, forcing a smile on her face. "We've done all we can to help. We should start heading back to Haven." After they investigate the Grey Warden. It's too easy to get swept up in the tasks piling on here, but Ember believes there's a lot to gain if they find Blackwall. Especially if he knows the woman she looks up to.

"Ugh, back to the middle of a frigging ice storm," Sera groans, shuddering violently—even though it's warm here.

Slowly, Ember inches closer and focuses on radiating warmth, distracting with light conversation. "I agree, the breach chose a terrible place to destroy the world."

Humor dies when Cassandra speaks up from behind, cutting down levity with the sharp sword that is her tongue. "It took away the best of us."

"Best of us? Nuh uh." Sera grins sloppily. "I'm here." That earns a heated glare, and Ember steps between the rogue and warrior as she holds out her hands, ready to urge them not to fight—especially when Sera pushes closer to Cassandra and douses the fire with fuel. "We ain't leftovers. Take a look around, Cass." Sera flippantly waves at the villagers. "The best of us are here. You're here. Varric's here." She thumbs at Ember. "Marshmallow is here."

Marshmallow?

"So somebody made things go tits up at some big meeting. So what? We big-meeting them, and we make them go tits up. Yell real loud we're the best and they suck."

Big-meeting them? It's a verb now, it seems. Sometimes it's challenging to keep up with this rogue.

"Did you hear that, Seeker?" Varric asks, a sly smirk growing. "She said I'm the best."

"I heard, Varric. Unfortunately." Cassandra sighs, "I'm not deaf."

"Hear hear, I'm the best of the best." Sera grins brightly—the sight riveting and inspiring hope. Ember wishes her smiles could do the same, make people believe everything is going to be alright. "Any pissbag that says otherwise gets an arrow."

Cassandra groans, shaking her head as she leads the way back to camp. "We should go back to Haven, there's no time to waste."

"Wait, Leliana also mentioned that there's a Grey Warden by the name of 'Blackwall' in this area." Ember takes out her map from her sash, tapping the spot the Spymaster marked for her. "She wanted us to question him and see if the wardens' disappearance have anything to do with the Divine's death."

"Leliana put you up to this?" Cassandra sighs, "I thought we all agreed—"

"That her suspicion was disregarded," Ember blurts, wincing a little when she braves a glance and sees the Seeker's furrowing brow aimed at her. "It won't take long and won't hurt to check it out, right? It would do us good if we find out why all the wardens have disappeared, despite the breach in the sky. Blight or no blight, they cannot ignore something that threatens the entire world just as darkspawn and archdemons do."

"Very well, but we cannot afford to be sidetracked any longer after we speak to this Blackwall. Lead the way, Herald."

Rolling up the map, the mage struggles not to let her smile show on her face. She's read plenty of stories about Grey Wardens in the Circle library—though her favorite tale was the Hero of Ferelden, a Circle mage herself. What was she like? What did she believe? What Circle fraternity appealed to her most?

There's a spring in her step.

And she notices the spring that's lost in Sera's.

-—-—-—-—-—-

Scouts bustle about in the Inquisition camp and raven caws are among the chatter. Sera sits by the campfire, lost in thought and memory. She lifts her head and looks behind when a hot hand squeezes her shoulder. The Herald.

"May I join you?"

Sera's gaze falls on the hand, and the mage reluctantly takes it back. "Sure," she shrugs, twisting back to stare at the flames, mumbling. "Just don't do nothin' weird again."

Warm chuckles grace her, provoking a subtle smirk, but she bites her tongue and wills it away. She shouldn't be smiling at a mage who's very being is all magic, just like how hot her hand is; that's definitely not normal. Not when it's bloody cold. She watches the Herald warily as the woman sits on a patch of grass across from her—thank Andraste—and watches her back. That's not normal either.

"I said don't do nothin' weird."

"Oh. Forgive me. Is eye contact not allowed?"

"You making fun of me?" Sera frowns at that, unable to gauge the even tone and determine if sarcasm is veiled or not. She still hasn't decided on the range and type of smiles the Herald makes; like the one she has now. It doesn't look like it's a mocking one.

"Not at all, it was a genuine question. I only wish to converse with you—get to know you; and to ease your fear of me."

Well, at least she doesn't beat around the bush.

"Not scared of you, Marshmallow." Sera scoffs, taking the shovel to roll a charred log back into the fire. "Scared of magic. You're alright." She smirks wickedly when she sets the shovel aside in favor of a small stick, looking up at the mage. "Would be better if we had marshmallows."

"I'll see to it personally if Flissa knows how to make some," the Herald shoots back with a smile of her own. "And then I can roast it for us anytime, anywhere."

Sera laughs at the mental images in her head; the holy Herald of Andraste, breathing fire like a dragon on their marshmallows. "You're daft, yeah?"

"I'm serious is what I am. Magic exists to serve man, after all." Finally, a smart mage; not so scary now. But then the mage's gaze flicker to the scrapes on Sera's hand, and she tucks it between her thighs to hide them. "I could heal—"

"Nope. Don't need it." Sera throws her stick in the fire, narrowing her eyes at the Herald. "No magic near me, ever. Got it?"

Time seems to stand as they stare at each other, the action around them all but ignored. It's making Sera's skin crawl. The mage eventually nods, her eyes dropping to the campfire. She stretches her legs out and lays down, folding her hands under her head, mumbling. "Back in Haven, you said you're from Ferelden."

Hello, left field. "Yeah, so?" Something doesn't sit right, and Sera's guard is up. "What about it?"

"This Grey Warden business does not sit well with you." She could use some beating around the bush. "I've noticed you seem to be down because of it."

"Still haven't said what about it."

The Herald pushes up to rest on her elbows, meeting her eyes. "What was it like, living during the blight?"

Muscles spring into action and Sera rises, ready to storm off, but there's something about the mage's gaze that makes her stay. Not pity. Not curiosity. "What's it to you?"

It takes a moment, as if the Herald is weighing her answers. Sera doesn't trust the one that comes out of her mouth. "I'm concerned."

Or maybe she shouldn't beat around the bush.

Ugh, this is making Sera's head hurt. "About what? Spit it out already. Quit talkin' in circles!" Glares are cast her way from the other soldiers—especially Cassandra. Sera doesn't care. She glares herself, and the mage seems to cave, quietly retreating to a tent without giving an answer. There's no way it's going to be left at that. Sera stomps after her, mind racing with the worst of possibilities. They're obliterated the moment she steps into the privacy of the tent.

"I'm concerned for you," the Herald whispers, unafraid to come face to face and pull Sera all the way inside. Her hand is still hot—still weird, but it's the least of the rogue's worries. "You were reckless in the fight with the bandits. Had Cassandra not pushed you aside, you would be dealing with worse than a scrape from your fall. If the Grey Warden bothers you, reminds you of ill times, then I must know."

"Why? Gonna sit me out, take him instead? Saw the eyes you were makin'. Wardens are heroes, yeah, sure," she huffs, rolling her eyes. "They take whatever they want because they need it. Well, I needed shite too. So I stole back what was mine. Got caught. Y'know what they do to 'knife ears' who steal, Herald?" She thrusts her scraped hand out. "Worse than this. So soooorry 'bout the stupid bandits. You try and fight something outside when you're fighting inside too."

The Herald's mouth opens. "You think I'm not?" Closes. Opens. Closes.

Sera has no idea what in the world the mage is talking about, or thinking. She doesn't want to know. She doesn't understand what they're arguing about, or if this is even an argument at all. The whole world is upside down and even the simplest things are so bloody confusing.

With a sigh, the mage gives in. "I apologize for my outburst." This is what she considers an outburst? "I'm just worried for what plagues you." Lots of things. Talking doesn't fix it. Arrows does. "I know I'm not your first choice, but I'm a good listener. Should you ever need a shoulder, you've but to ask when you're ready—I will always have your back." She smiles small, but warm, kind. Sera's not used to it; not used to someone just accepting shite without a fight.

But Trevelyan's still refusing to piss off, no matter how hard Sera pushes her away. Frigging stubborn weirdo.

"Words are words, anybody can say them," the rogue mutters. "Not the first I've heard shite like that."

She never gets an answer. The Herald bows her head, her small smile growing just a tiny bit, and takes her leave.

-—-—-—-—-—-

Haven. Sera will never get used to this frozen hovel. She immediately takes off for the tavern, desperate to warm her belly with mead, and catch up on any rumors that sound like they might be worth a chase. A glance over the shoulder shows she's not alone, and she rolls her eyes. Marshmallow doesn't know how to take a hint—even when they're no longer bloody hints, smacking her in the face instead.

Sera stops and turns around, crossing her arms as she puffs her chest out. "What do you want now?"

"From you? Nothing. I just want a drink. Am I not allowed?"

Ugh! If she's hiding her sarcasm then she's doing a bloody good job of it, and it annoys Sera to no end. She scoffs and continues her march to the tavern, skin crawling as the cheeky mage follows after her. Every time she looks back, Marshmallow takes on a new level of comfort—folding hands behind the head, whistling cheerfully, smiling away as if the ice-cold temperatures don't bother her a single bit; stupid magic. She's not even wearing a frigging shirt. Unfair—for several reasons.

Meanwhile, Sera shivers after shiver after shiver—also for several reasons. She rubs her arms furiously, minding the burning throbbing burrowed in her scraped palm, throwing heated glares behind her with every cheerful whistle. "You sure are in a bloody good mood," she grumbles, "the heck happened to you?"

"If I'm to open up about myself, I would expect the same courtesy from you."

"As if!"

"Which is why I won't tell you a single thing." Marshmallow is asking for arrows, she is. She doesn't seem at all put off by the killing intent Sera knows she's giving off, especially when she reaches behind and thumbs her bowstring as a hint. The mage is either pretending to be stupid, or is stupid.

Stupid, regardless, for pissing Sera off.

"Here, allow me." The Herald jogs ahead and opens the door; she sure is bloody persistent, Sera will give her that.

"I can open the door myself. My hand ain't that bad."

"I'm just being courteous. Am I not allowed?"

Right.

Okay.

"What the shite is with this 'am I not allowed' rubbish? Why the frig are you always askin' me that?"

"Ah, ah, ah—as I've said, if I'm to open up about myself, then—" the mage holds up a hand when Sera snarls and whips out her bow, ignoring how several soldiers inside the tavern immediately spring to action and come to the Herald's aid. "It's alright, she's with me." The mage looks over her shoulder and belays worries with but a reassuring smile. Liar. "We're just joking around. Put your weapons away and return to your meals."

"I'm not joking," Sera hisses quietly, itching to pull an arrow out of her quiver. She knows it'll be the end of her if she does. Shadows of Birds is no doubt watching, and the rogue will be riddled with arrows faster than she blinks; but she can't tip the Herald off that she knows she's lost.

"I know you aren't," Marshmallow is still as aggravatingly calm as ever, and that warm smile is only pissing Sera off even more. "But neither am I." The mage dares come close, face to face—and though Sera wants nothing more than to run away before she's roasted like a marshmallow, she stands her ground and puffs out her chest to show she's not afraid. "You look at me and see a demon, a monster. Am I not allowed to show you otherwise?"

Before Sera has a chance to retort—that no, in fact, Marshmallow isn't allowed—the Herald spins on her heels and weaves through the crowd with grace and confidence, her head and spirit always held high. It's infuriating. She's toying with the rogue, she has to be. No one is like her on purpose.

Why the hell is she trying so hard to change Sera? Everybody else who's tried—failed. Some of them got arrows for it. This one's lucky she and her glowing hand are needed to close the hole in the sky. Blessed by Andraste or not, she's an arse; the only way Sera can get back at her now is with pranks. So she puts her bow away, marches to the bar—shares a sweet smile when Marshmallow looks over at her. Poor sod doesn't know what's coming.

"Oi, Flissa. Got any pies?"

The moment one's in her hand, it's smushed right in Trevelyan's face, and Sera takes off cackling.

"Eat that, Marshmallow!"

-—-—-—-—-—-

Well, that backfired rather spectacularly.

Ember pokes her tongue out and licks the whip cream sliding down to the corner of her mouth. She still hasn't figured out why her nickname is Marshmallow, of all things. Her penchant for fire has earned all sorts of labels that related to the more dangerous aspects of fire, and instead it's been turned into a harmless pet name. It makes no sense if Sera sees her and her magic as inherently terrifying.

Maybe it's the rogue's way of trying to make it seem less scary?

At this rate, Ember is never going to find out.

"H-Herald, here..." The nervous bartender offers a wet cloth, doing a horrendous job of hiding her smile. Her voice shakes with mirth instead of anxiety. "I'm sorry, this is my fault. I didn't know that's what she wanted a pie for. I should have asked."

"It's not your fault. I also assumed she'd want one to eat, and not share it like this." Ember wipes her face, taking the hit with stride and grace—if only to lessen the impact of the jokes that will surely arise from this moment. The silent tavern is proof of that. Hushed whispers dare not make a show of themselves until the mage throws a quirky smile at the bard. "If you're going to write a song about this, save what dignity I don't have left and make up a line where the Herald of Andraste threw a pie back at the Red Jenny."

Maryden stiffens with her lute, then nods and smiles nervously. "O-of course, your Worship. Erm... So I have your permission to write a song about this?"

"Why not? I see no harm in it. All of us could use a little laughter." Ember shrugs off the slight sting veiled behind the pie—poor wounded pride—but maybe this will work in her favor, to show the people of Haven that she isn't someone to be terrified of. It may damage the Inquisition's reputation in more esteemed company, but oh well. She's the Herald. Not the Ambassador.

Another idea hits her when Maryden takes out a notebook to scribble something down. Ember turns to Flissa with a devious smile. "May I have a pie? And do you know where the Red Jenny usually goes to sleep?" She looks at the bard. "I take it back, that line won't be made up anymore."

Part of her whispers what a hypocrite she is, negotiating for peace among her own companions, persuading to set rivalries aside. Now she's sparking a rivalry of her own, with a rogue part of an organization infamous for exacting petty revenge. Just because Ember's called to something greater doesn't mean she can't partake in something lesser; it reminds her of the Circle's informal rite of passage where mages who have just passed their harrowing must prank an enchanter. She participated in more than her fair share of such an informality. This is a war she's confident she will win.

It's invigorating to have a rival once again. She's been sleepwalking through life for too long.