"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you. -Flemeth

A/N: The next chapter will be another Solas POV and things will finally start rolling along with that one. In the meantime, read and enjoy. This is one of about three scenes that really gave birth to this monstrosity of a story I've got going on.

Chapter Three: Goodbye

"Men and women squeezed their torches one last time, remembering the lives for whom they had been lit and then they, too, cast their flames back into the very fires that had given them life. Their voices rang out as one. "Dareth shiral," they whispered, paying homage to the Dalish elf who had guided the passing of their loved ones into the Light."

Cullen

Dusk was falling quickly over the Haven camp, bathing the cabins and hillsides in a dull orange glow. On any other evening, there would still be scouts scurrying to and from the spymaster's tents, filing their reports, checking their ravens; soldiers would still be swinging blows at dummies or parrying steps with one another, though by this time of day, their arms and feet would have grown sluggish. So few of them were decently trained men. In a few years' time, he might have had an army to reckon a minor arl's retinue; in a decade, a force to challenge even a templar legion. But they did not have that much time. He knew it as well as his men. But what the farmers and sell swords and ruffians lacked in training, they made up for in spirit, practicing well into the night, pushing themselves, never making the same mistake twice. They were quick learners, most of them; they had to be. One needed only to look up at the sky, at the deathly green whirlpool of clouds circling the Breach, to remember how much was at stake.

Tonight, though, the practice fields lay empty and only a few of Leliana's people could still be seen scurrying about their tents. Everywhere, men and women were rushing to finish the last of their duties, all preparing for the vigil that would take place at nightfall. The ceremony had been Josephine's idea, a sort of sending off for the troops that would leave at first light, for the Herald and Cassandra who would ride out with them, and for those who had perished at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. "A way to honor those we lost," the ambassador had said, "and a way to say 'goodbye' to those we may yet lose."

His men had already dug out the fire pits, eight of them in all, in three rows. The last row had to be limited to only two pits, one on either side of the massive gates that were the only barrier between their camp and the demons that still roamed the pilgrim's walk. A third pit dug in-between the other two would have only been buried in snow when the gates were drawn shut that evening. The men had rolled out logs to be situated around each pit to serve as makeshift benches. Thirty people could fit comfortably around each fire, but with only eight such pits, everyone knew there would be those who would have to crowd in, to find room to stand or sit where there was none. And so as soon as their duties for the day were finished, men quit the practice fields and left the tavern; some set down the Chant of Light, while others laid down hoes and axes. From where he stood on the steps outside the Chantry doors, Cullen watched as men and women from every walk of life poured out into the field. They found open seats where they could and huddled in close together as the fires had yet to be lit, and they spoke to one another, many of them for the first time. He could hear them, even now, swapping stories of how they'd come to join the Inquisition, of where they were when the hole tore open in the sky, of those they'd lost, of the families they hoped to go home to when this was all over. For the first time, Cullen felt that they breathed as one and, for the first time, he allowed himself the smallest hope that they may yet succeed in their endeavor.

"Josie was right." Cullen didn't need to turn to know it was Leliana, her accent gave her away. "The people needed this."

He absently nodded his agreement, still watching the men and women sitting around their unlit pits.

"We should begin soon," another voice added in, this one unmistakably Cassandra's. "These people need to rest before tomorrow. Who knows when they'll get another chance."

Cullen shifted to make room for the two women. A part of him wanted to make his way down to the fires, to find a seat among the Inquisition forces. It was something he would have done three years ago, shared a drink and toasted the lost with his fellow comrades. But that was before he had been the one to lead those men to their deaths, before it had been his orders the men were carrying out and not him simply carrying out the orders of another. No, the soldiers deserved this night, they had earned the right to feel free, to be able to speak their minds and to relax among one another. That was not something they could do in the presence of their commander.

"Let them have this night, Cassandra," Leliana said, echoing his own thoughts. "This is the rest their hearts need." The spymaster's reproach took him by surprise. In the few years he had worked with her, the woman had seldom come across as compassionate, and in the days since the Divine's death, what little spark of empathy left in her seemed to have all but extinguished. He could not help but feel comforted now by the realization that there was still some humanity left in their spymaster yet.

But Leliana's thoughts had already turned elsewhere. She was watching the small crowd that had gathered at one of the unlit fires. It was the center pit, in the first row, the one closest to the Chantry.

"Tell me, Commander," Leliana said, her voice returned to its usual, placid coolness, "what do you think of our Herald?"

Cullen followed the Orlesian's gaze to where it rested on the woman in question. He had not even noticed her, sitting half-turned toward them, little more than a frail silhouette as the sun fell back behind the mountains. She had her elbows propped on her knees and her chin cradled in her hands as she watched Varric and his wild gesticulations, apparently enraptured with whatever story the dwarf happened to be telling at that moment. The others around her kept their faces turned toward the dwarf as if they, too, were listening to his tale. But Cullen knew better. Even though he could not see it for himself in this light, he knew their eyes were not on the dwarf. They were watching her, the elf with the marked face and the glowing hand. The Herald of Andraste. The Maker's Chosen, who could seal the Breach. The one who would save them all. And she had no idea.

Cullen let loose a sigh, turning his thoughts back to the spymaster's question. What did he think of the Herald?

"I'm still not convinced sending her the Hinterlands is the best idea." It was the truth, even if it wasn't necessarily an answer to her question. "She's not Hawke, you know. Mark or no mark, the people are only following an idea."

"And?" the Seeker raised a brow, not following his meaning.

"And given her … people skills it might be best to keep it that way." Cullen bore the Herald no ill will, but the woman was not a leader. Not like Hawke, the thought crept in, unbidden, and he pushed it away. He had seen leaders, men and women who could rally an army with a single well-put word. That was who they needed. It was who Leliana and Cassandra had been searching for for years, someone to lead their Inquisition, to guide them in what was to come. Their so-called Herald was not that leader. In the two days she had spent at camp, the woman had kept almost entirely to herself. The few times he had actually heard her speak, it was only to proclaim that she was not the Herald of Andraste. More importantly, the realization of her elven—not to mention Dalish—heritage had so far managed to drown out any mention of the fact that the Herald of Andraste, the Maker's supposed Chosen, was also a mage, a quality he thought far more damaging than a pair of pointed ears ever could be.

Before either Leliana or Cassandra could disagree, and he was certain both women were poised to do just that—he was always outnumbered when it came to these things—another voice cut in.

"I beg to differ, Commander," the ambassador remarked, "I believe our Dalish guest may just surprise us all."

"Josie, I was beginning to think you weren't coming!"

"I apologize, I got carried away responding to a particularly…nasty letter from one of Chancellor Roderick's many delightful acquaintances."

Josephine gave Leliana a quick half-hug and a peck on the cheek in that Orlesian way of theirs, but Cassandra's eyes had not left the Herald.

"I agree," the Seeker said, tone as hard as ever, "the Maker sent her to us for a reason. Most Holy called out to her in the vision at the Breach. She is not Hawke, that is true. But Lavellan is not our Inquisitor, either. She is the Herald of Andraste. The people need to see her."

"That's all fine, Seeker," Cullen found himself conceding…again. "Let the people see her. Just don't let them talk to her, or we may be doing the Chantry's recruiting for them." He had a little laugh at that, but one look at Cassandra told him the Seeker had not thought his joke the slightest bit funny. Clearing his throat, Cullen tried a different approach, "At least see if the girl can handle a bow, or even a pair of daggers. Sending her to the Hinterlands carrying a staff will raise more unnecessary questions. Few people outside this yard know the Herald is a mage, and the longer we can—"

"Oh please, Commander," Leliana interrupted, scoffing, "you of all people know the Chant of Light, you have memorized the Maker's Commandments: Magic exists to serve man. How better to serve man than to mend the Breach, than to save us all? What else could the Herald of Andraste be but a mage?"

Cullen had his mouth open, ready to argue, when Josephine cut him off. There was no winning with these women.

"If you will both excuse me," the ambassador said curtly, "this is a riveting academic debate, but night has fallen and if the people are as cold as I, they will not last out here long without the fires. Shall we begin?"

"Go ahead, Josie." Cullen thought there was the slightest hint of victory in the spymaster's tone. "The mages know what to do."

The commander rolled his eyes. That had been Leliana's idea, having the mages light the vigil fires. "A show of good faith," she had said. Even Cassandra had argued against her then, but the spymaster rarely failed to get her way. And when both Leliana and Josephine agreed, arguing was rendered an immediate waste of breath.

"Good." Josephine moved forward a few feet toward the closest of the fires, raising her hands for silence. It took some time, but those nearest to the Chantry caught her gesture and swatted at their unseeing neighbors. Eventually, the little crowds around each fire fell quiet and faces across the yard turned to watch the ambassador. Those in the furthest rows stood on their logs, craning their necks to get a better view.

"Thank you all for coming," the ambassador called out. Her voice carried better than Cullen expected. The woman was generally so soft-spoken. "We have gathered tonight to remember those we have lost, to honor their memory, and to say a prayer for the hard days that are yet to come. Sister Nightingale has prepared a few words that she will share with you all now."

Josephine turned to walk back toward Cullen and Cassandra. Leliana nodded her thanks as the two women passed, swapping places. There were no cheers or applauds to welcome her; the yard was eerily silent. Even the refugee children seemed to hold their breath.

As Leliana stepped forward, Cullen caught sight of the Herald moving out of the corner of his eye. The woman stood from where she had been sitting. Across the yard, a few others moved as well. He could just barely make out the bald head of the elven apostate, Solas, standing at the middle pit in the second row. Others moved around the furthest two fires as well, allowing two more mages to stand. One of the 'mages' was little better than an apprentice. She had been tending horses when the Conclave exploded. It was her inferior rank that had ultimately saved her life. The other was a mage from Kinloch Hold who remained loyal to the Circle, and had begun his solitary trek to Haven long before the Conclave had been destroyed. As it was, he arrived not long after the initial blast, pledging to offer what little aid he could.

"Brothers and sisters," Leliana began, her voice transforming into that of a Chantry Mother. She had been a sister in the Chantry, after all. That she should speak with the cadence of the Mothers should not have surprised him, but Cullen found himself surprised all the same. "Most Holy is dead. Thousands are dead, and thousands more may yet perish. But the Maker teaches us to be strong. In His name, in the name of Divine Justinia V, and in the name of all those we have lost, we will triumph over this evil. The Maker has sent us his Chosen to seal the Breach, to save us from this madness. Stand with her as I stand with her now. Stand with her as she leads us from Darkness. Stand with us, brothers and sisters, stand in the Maker's Light."

For the briefest moment, no one moved. Then slowly, one by one at first, then tens and twenties at a time, men and women stood from where they sat on their makeshift benches. As they stood, flames slowly licked at the timber in the pits. By the time everyone in the yard was standing, all eight pits had erupted entirely in flames, washing warmth over the soldiers and refugees alike. Cullen could feel the heat of the fires even from where he stood by the Chantry doors, and the templar in him could feel the mana that had stoked their flames to life.

Leliana did not give the people time to be surprised, she continued on, bellowing over the roaring of their newly-lit fires. It was from the Chant of Light that she spoke. Across the yards, heads bowed in reverence, and eyes watered with tears. Leliana's cadence rose with each word, and Cullen could feel the hearts of the Inquisition beating, finally, as one:

"Many are those who wander in sin,
Despairing that they are lost forever,
But the one who repents, who has faith
Unshaken by the darkness of the world,
And boasts not, nor gloats
Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight
In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know
The peace of the Maker's benediction.
The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go towards Light.
The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,
And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker
Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword."

Leliana spoke the words, her voice never wavering, though heavy tears rolled down her cheeks. She wore them proudly, her head held high, as she continued. "Beside you, you will find torches, brothers and sisters. Take one now, and join me," Leliana moved toward the fire where the Herald and Varric stood. Before she could reach for a torch of her own, Varric extended one to her, and Leliana accepted it gratefully.

"Light your torch," she called out to the masses, "and remember those for whom you carry this Light. Carry their Light with you always. May it guide you in the months to come." Leliana thrust her torch into the fire before her. Flames leapt to its oiled end, and she held it high, for the entire yard to see. "To the Divine, to the Mothers who gave their life with her, to the mages and templars who came here seeking peace and found only death." Leliana paused, allowing the weight of her benediction to settle upon her audience. Then, more quietly, she added, "May their Lights guide me."

Across the Chantry yard, others moved to find their own torches. Men and women reached for their wooden handles. Smiths and maids, footmen and templars, mages and the lowliest Chantry clerics held their torches to the fires. They spoke as one as the flames of their torches rose up. They spoke the names of those they had lost and the names of those they feared to lose. They shed their tears together and held their torches high. Cullen's heart throbbed in his chest, beating with masses. After a time, the prayers began to quiet. Only a few could still be heard speaking the names of those whose Light they carried. From one of the furthest fires, a voice rang out over the others, shouting as one would in battle, bellowing words that would steel the heart for the carnage to come: "To the Herald of Andraste!" Torches around that fire shot up even higher, and other voices rang out, adding their prayers, their battle cries to the first: "To the Maker's Chosen!" they bellowed, "May the Maker guide her!" "The Herald of Andraste!" "Light see her safely!" "To the Herald!" All across the yard, torches were thrust into the night sky, proclaiming their defiance, announcing that they were unshaken, that they would stand together, that they would face this Darkness, and that they would emerge victorious.

Then, almost as one, faces began to turn. Even without the yard bathed in the light of the torches and the fires, Cullen would have known where they looked. His own eyes followed theirs to where she stood, the Herald of Andraste, her own torch lit and held high above her head. When she moved, Cullen suspected it might be to run, to retreat back into her cabin as she had done in the days past, to escape their stares. But the Herald walked, head and torch held high, to the centermost fire. Men and women fell over one another to help her onto one of the logs and as she stood there, holding her torch defiantly against the swirling clouds of the Breach, the yard fell silent, holding its breath.

For a moment, she hesitated. For a moment, Cullen could feel her uncertainty. But then she spoke and her voice rang out louder and clearer than Josephine's and even Leliana's. "There is a prayer among the Dalish," she said, her voice strong and steady. She paused, giving them the chance to cry out in protest, to condemn her for blasphemy that she should speak of prayers to Dalish gods during their holy ceremony. But none did. Their eyes did not waver, their breaths did not falter. They watched her, their Herald, sent to them by their Maker, and they listened. After a moment, she continued, her voice still clear and strong over the blazing fires: "We say this prayer for those who can no longer speak the words themselves, we speak the words when we must become a keeper for the fallen. So many—" for the briefest moment, her voice wavered and Cullen could hear the breaths of those around him catch with her, he could hear the quiet tears they shed, "so many have fallen. And so I speak these words now that you might help me to keep their memories, to guide their souls to peace: Lethanavir, Friend of the Dead, guide my feet. Calm my soul. Lead me to my rest." Across the Chantry yard, heads bowed and tears fell, other heads nodded their approval, and torches were raised even higher. When she spoke again, the sound of tears caught in the Herald's throat, but her voice rang out all the same: "I speak these words to say farewell to those we lost. I speak these words to say dareth shiral." Without warning, the Herald cast her own torch into the bonfire, its wood disappeared into the flames. "I speak these words," the Herald concluded, "to say goodbye."

What happened next, Cullen thought even the Herald could not have expected. Across the Chantry yard, others began to cast their torches into the flames and the sound of their voices rose up over the fires. Some whispered "goodbye" as their torches crumbled in the fires, but far more spoke the elven words, foreign though the sounds were on their tongue. Men and women squeezed their torches one last time, remembering the lives for whom they had been lit and then they, too, cast their flames back into the very fires that had given them life. Their voices rang out as one. "Dareth shiral," they whispered, paying homage to the Dalish elf who had guided the passing of their loved ones into the Light.

Cullen watched the scene through eyes blurred with tears of his own. So many. And so many more to follow.

Beside him, the ambassador whispered her own"dareth shiral" into the night, though she had no torch of her own to return to the flames. Leliana's voice echoed the elven farewell.

For a long time, none of them spoke. When Cassandra finally turned to him, her own eyes were glassy with unshed tears and her voice was so low, so vulnerable, Cullen might not have believed it belonged to her if he had not seen her lips move with the words. "What do you say now, Commander? Is she not the Maker's Chosen?"

But he was not ready to let this moment go, to slip back into the politics and the titles and the mythos. Cullen's eyes held onto the Herald a moment longer. So many. "I say 'dareth shiral,' Seeker." His words were as hushed and reverent as Leliana's. "Dareth shiral." And so many more to follow.

The commander turned toward the Chantry, leaving the flames and the tears behind him. There were prayers of his own he wanted to say before morning.