Ashes to Embers
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Chapter 4: Crossing the Line


"Why does this keep happening to us?" Ember sighs, crammed inside yet another closet. She rolls her eyes when a deft hand slaps over her mouth; it's already too late if she was heard. That's the least of her problems. This closet is shorter and stuffed with way more clothes than what the Ambassador had—shocking, actually, now that Ember thinks about it. She still has no idea what Sera's intentions are, but at least the mage knows she's only being dragged along so that the blame can be pinned on her if they're caught.

When. Not if. There's no way either of them can last in here. Sera will freak out over the heat and Ember will freak over how small and constrictive it is in here. Her neck's sore from the awkward angle it's bent at, and she has no idea where to put her hands so that they stay far away from Sera.

"There's no room," she grumbles in the rogue's palm, though muffled. She flinches when she's pinched just above her hip.

"Shut it," Sera whispers, "or we're gonna get caught y'daft tit." Yes. They are going to get caught. It's a guarantee regardless of what Ember does or does not do—because Sera giggles, and it's not quiet, nor does it even sound like she's putting in any effort to restrain herself whatsoever. "That's grand, she fell for it!" Light engulfs them when the closet doors open of the rogue's volition, cackling maniacally as she runs out of the cabin. "Herald's idea!"

"Oh, come on!" Ember groans, looking over to see on what was so grand. And then she freezes. "C-Cassandra..." She smiles nervously, mustering what's probably the fakest laugh to have ever existed. The Seeker holds out her hands—and at first, Ember thinks it's just to gesture 'what the fuck?'

But she takes a closer look at Cassandra's hands. There's something stuck to her palms.

"What... Is that? It almost looks like fur." She wrestles the clothes out the way as she steps out of the closet, grateful that she can finally stretch and straighten. The effort is all for naught as she comes closer to the silent stewing Seeker.

"At least this is how I know it was not your idea," Cassandra sighs, but her angry eyes are telling an entirely different story. Ember isn't sure if she should approach or not, so she lingers, stuck in limbo between what she's starting to sense as a life and death situation. "What did I do to deserve this?" The Seeker tries to pluck at what's on her hands, and the mage realizes that it's a whole bunch of feathers.

And then Cassandra has a reason to be angry at Ember too when she bursts out laughing.

-—-—-—-—-—-

"Aw, c'mon, Cass. Lighten up a bit. Was just a joke!" Sera's proud grin has not ceased to be on display for the better part of the hour; she's brave to have chosen to sit behind the warrior on horseback—though, Varric can't ride, and the mage thinks of a hundred reasons why she wasn't chosen.

Ember's certain they're not even going to get to the stronghold before their heads are all lopped right off—especially when Varric takes out his notebook, ready to write down whatever juicy tidbits he might be able to work into a story. That idea is promptly suffocated the moment the Seeker glares at him.

"It was not a good one," Cassandra grumbles, "jokes are typically funny."

"You know what jokes are?" Varric earns a groan at that, but it doesn't discourage him—the very opposite. "I'm shocked! And proud."

"I'm sure you are," the Seeker deadpans, rolling her eyes when Sera—cheeky and definitely a daredevil—bravely rests her chin on the warrior's pauldron. Cassandra steers their horse off the path, and Ember exchanges worried looks with the rogue. This isn't the plan. "There's a shortcut this way."

"Shortcut to a grave?" Varric quips, and against better judgment, Ember's head drops dejectedly. She adjusts her hold on the reins when the horse reacts.

"I give up on trying to keep the peace between you all. It's like I'm the group nanny, or something."

"Speaking of, you remind me of Aveline; she's Guard-Captain of Kirkwall." Varric holds on to her tighter as he leans to the side, and she reluctantly looks over her shoulder. His mischievous smirk tells the real story. "She was the only one capable of keeping all of us in line, made sure we—and by we I mean Hawke and Isabela—weren't up to no good. She was the group mom."

Uh huh. Interesting.

But.

"I'm not a mom."

"You're definitely a mom."

"Am not."

"And we are not kids," Cassandra scoffs—then she glances behind her, sighing when she corrects herself. "I know I'm not, at least."

"No shame in being a mom, Marshmallow." Lovely. Varric's taken a liking to the nickname too; and judging by the notebook, this is going to be one for the history books.

"C'mon, I'm not a mom! I'm barely twenty summers old!" Ember steals a look at Sera; she's remarkably quiet. There's that distant look in her eyes—just like the Grey Warden—like she's here but not here. Worry brews. Varric and Cassandra's bickering is tuned out. Ember doesn't know what to say or do to snap the rogue out of her reverie, and doesn't want to venture too close to the line in case if all it takes is a simple misstep to cross it.

She can't do nothing though.

Ember pulls on the reins and guides the horse closer; it's enough to garner Sera's attention and she looks over, smiling, but it looks lost and dazed like she's confused. The mage pretends she's suddenly interested in the lush forest instead, where a look to the right features trees, and a look to the left features...

More trees.

"I love places like this," she mumbles, smirking a little when the rogue's face screws up. "It's relaxing."

"Oh, yeah. I can see it." Even if it can't be seen, Sera's sarcasm can definitely be heard. "Someone could scream real loud and nobody would hear."

Awkward silence falls. Ember stares at the rogue, deadpanning. "Well, that's unsettling. It's not relaxing anymore."

"Not bloody relaxing in the first place. We're lost."

"We're not lost," Cassandra interjects, "I know the way. We're on the right path."

"What path? We're trotting on frigging leaves and more leaves!"

"I could fix the leaves part." Ember suggests absent-mindlessly, stiffening when the razor sharp eyes strike regret in her like an arrow. She struggles not to drop her head or react expressively—so as not to give the horse any conflicting signals—when Sera grimaces in disgust, and Varric chuckles. The mage fails to see what's so funny about Sera being repulsed by the very essence of what makes her, her. Something tells her that having a hangover is what would have made this journey bearable for Sera.

Today is going to be a long... Long day.

-—-—-—-—-—-

"You know how you've started being more playful and fun since we've started working together?"

"Heh," a large grin sweeps Sera's face without any hesitation. "Yeah!"

"I hate it." Ember tries not to smile when the contagious giggles fill the air. She wades back into the lake, resigning herself to a few extra minutes of bathing before the inevitable walk of shame back to camp in nothing but her gloriously soaked undergarments. It's tempting to get the rogue back by using her magic to warm up the lake—or at least their area—but Ember doesn't want to cross the line and lose a fun friend.

Who else is going to play with her? Everybody else is thrice broodier than her. There's Varric, but card games and exaggerated stories have worn out their appeal.

"Did you even take my clothes to camp or did you just toss them somewhere?"

"Tossed. Dunno where." Sera dives under the water, and the mage braces herself when ripples come towards her.

"You're like a shark," she chuckles, rolling her eyes and ignoring the slithering around her ankles. The rogue surfaces behind her and playfully shoves her shoulder.

"Yer no fun."

"It'd be scarier if I didn't know that was you."

"What was me?"

Uh huh. "I'd also fall for that if you didn't have that smile all over your face."

"What smile?" Sera makes a sincere effort to suck in her cheeks and wipe the smirk off, but she ends up laughing. She swims back to the middle and twists to float on her back. "So, you really gonna go talk to the helm-polishers, huh? Ain't you nervous? Most mages don't like templars, yeah?"

"Then I suppose I'm the minority." Ember wades to shore to grab her bucket of cloths again, scrubbing herself down. She tosses a cloth over when Sera comes to her, drawing a circle in the air to gesture for the rogue to turn around. "I'll scrub your back." Ember isn't surprised to get the skeptical frown, but she is surprised when Sera actually complies. Ember moves deliberately, not wanting to waste the chance and trust put in her—and a part of her struggles not to laugh at how pathetic this all is.

Her loose tongue puts trust to the test.

"If I wasn't a mage, would you have allowed me to do this sooner?" She soaks the cloth in the water, bringing it up to the rogue's shoulders. Tense shoulders. She doesn't shy away when Sera turns her head to look behind her, sharp eyes narrowing. At least she makes no move to move.

"Why you askin' summin you already know the answer to?"

Ember locks her sigh inside and focuses on the task at hand, gently sliding one bra strap off to give the shoulder a thorough scrub. Her eyes wander, studying the lean muscles of the rogue's back. It provokes curiosity. "How long have you been shooting for?" She works the strap back on and sets to the next shoulder, catching another set of suspicious eyes. "May I feel your shoulder?"

"What? What for?" Sera sniggers, twisting and fixing her strap. She filches the cloth from the mage and draws the same circle in the air, smirking. "You're weird."

"I'm well aware that you're weirder," Ember retorts lightheartedly as she turns around, wondering if her first question was ignored intentionally or not. She bunches up her hair and twists it, pinning it up and holding it to her head to make it easier for Sera. When curious fingers run along and grab the muscle belly of her shoulder, she arches her brow and glances behind her. "So it's weird if I ask, but it's perfectly okay if you actually do it?"

"Y'said it yourself: I'm weirder."

Lovely. Ember should've known she gave an easy out. "It's not like I have anything there—compared to you, anyways."

"Don't lie." Sera squeezes the mage's dominant shoulder, catching a couple achy knots. "This ain't from throwing fire. Swinging summin heavier, yeah?"

"How am I lying if you didn't ask? I said I don't have anything there, compared to you." Ember's lips thin in a frown, which is immediately met with resistance. She refuses to play nice this time though; not when she's constantly attacked regardless of what she does or says. "And even if you do ask me, why should I share when you have repeatedly avoided sharing anything about yourself? You have trouble trusting me, but have given me no grounds to trust you other than—oh, she's not a mage, but she's a Red Jenny, an infamous organization built upon thievery and petty revenge. What could possibly go wrong?"

"It ain't just the mage thing that I don't trust ya for, y'daft tit." Again with the insults. This is exhausting. "It's because of shite like this when yer an arsehole."

Of course she's the bad guy. She's always the fucking bad guy, might as well actually be one then—to see why crossing the line is appealing.

"Oh, and you're a rosy peach?" Ember huffs, breaking away from the rogue. "Loving the double standards here. I call you out, and I'm a demon. You call me out, and you're a saint. I'm done trying to cater to you people." She marches back to the shoreline and climbs out with her head held high, even without any clothes; not like she was wearing much to begin with. She doesn't hide her magic anymore, heat flushing to the surface of her skin to evaporate the water.

Why bother hiding, or compromising? Sera clearly won't, and it's also clear that the mage will always be hated no matter what she does. She knows she can't change minds and yet she's foolish enough to try anyways; suppose she really has earned the 'daft tit' after all. She freezes when Sera's frigid voice hangs in the air.

"What's that supposed to mean, huh?" Sera sarcastically quotes with her fingers. "You people?"

"It means everyone." Ember snaps heatedly as she whips around. Guilt pricks her when she sees just how pale Sera's gotten over the blatant display of magic, and yet the rogue still does her best to keep up. "Everyone hates mages. You keep asking about the templars—what else am I supposed to do? Ally with mages, make everyone hate the Inquisition too? I can't even gain your trust, so how in the world am I to garner trust from entire nations? Everyone is only playing nice with me because they have to. I'm the 'Herald', the only one with the means to seal the breach, and not every mage has the immunity that I do—thankfully they also don't have the scrutiny chipping away at me with every bloody Andraste breath I take."

"Don't play stupid like y'dunno why people hate mages." Sera spits back, stomping up to jab a finger in Ember's chest. "Our 'people' ain't the ones that turn into demons."

Maybe not physically into demons and abominations; did the rogue already forget what troubles plague her over what she had learned of templars?

"You really think it's that easy—that I'll just oops into a demon if you look at me sideways? You'd know how it actually works if you just took the time to understand me the way I'm trying to do for you. And you of all people should know what it feels like to be persecuted just because you were born with something you would've never asked for if you knew this was the kind of life you'd have."

"What life? I'm just fine."

This stubborn haughty woman is going to be the reason the mage will actively seek out a Maker damned demon soon.

"Forget it, it's just a waste of time and energy debating this with you and hope you'd be at least somewhat empathetic." Ember spins on her heels, storming back to camp. The entire time, her mind races to solve the puzzle as to why Sera refuses to budge on her stance, remaining close-minded. Ember was sure the rogue would be sympathetic if her ears were brought into question—albeit in a roundabout way—and she's sure Sera understood what she meant.

Something tells her she's not the only one struggling to accept herself.

-—-—-—-—-—-

"Herald, where are your clothes?" Cassandra blinks incredulously, watching the mage storm straight to her tent with but a dismissive wave.

"Dunno. Ask the stubborn thief."

Great. It was only a matter of time before Sera went too far.

Trevelyan disappears in the safety of her tent, and soon enough the thief also emerges from the woods. Cassandra sighs. "Sera, where are your clothes?"

"Dunno. Ask the sobby mage."

Ugh.

There's a pattern here. The Seeker hates patterns—they almost always mean something bad instead of good. Routines are good. It goes without saying the Red Jenny will not appreciate or start one, but the Herald might. Now is not the time to whip Trevelyan into shape, though, and Cassandra stares at the tents; she's at a loss of who to go to, or what to even do and say. Should she shield the Herald with a blanket? She did not appear to mind her lack of... Decency. Cassandra's gaze flickers to Varric, and the dwarf is already smirking. He's satisfied with her misery.

As much as she hates to admit it, she needs his help.

No doubt there are going to be strings attached, but the Herald needs to be at her best when they present themselves to the templars and Lord Seeker Lucius. Cassandra holds her head high and starts walking to the dwarf, who holds up his hands and pushes off from his seat on a stump, making way for the safety of Trevelyan's tent.

"Mom! I'm about to be punched and shackled again!"

"Ugh..." Cassandra's head drops dejectedly, trying to swallow the urge to defend herself. She is not a child. She is not a child. She is not a child like all of them.

"The Seeker of Truth is a bully!"

"And the Purveyor of Lies is—" Cassandra bites her tongue to stop, huffing in frustration when the cheeky dwarf pokes his head out the tent with a mischievous smirk.

Another head pokes out above Varric's. "Hey." Trevelyan looks down at the dwarf, then at Cassandra with the same accusatory look. She's lumping them together?! "Stop fighting." Big words from someone who's fighting someone herself.

Ugh!

Cassandra will not point this out because she is not a child.

"Whatever you say, mom." Varric grins.

So does the Seeker, when his series of ow's echo in the camp—but the knowing smiles they share is what sets her at ease. She mouths a silent "thank you" to him.

He gives a thumbs up.

...After he runs away from mom.

-—-—-—-—-—-

Ember creeps back to the lake with her sleeping bag rolled under her arm, looking behind her every now and then to make sure no one is following her—at least, her own companions. Leliana's agents are probably hiding somewhere. That's fine. As long as she's left alone and gets to swim in peace and quiet, she's happy. She lights a small flame on her fingertip and searches the brush for her clothes, uncovering the branches she used to hide the rogue's pile as revenge.

Petty urges tempt to burn, but Ember sets the clothes aside so that she can return them in the morning. She extinguishes her flame and unrolls the sleeping bag by the shoreline, taking one last cautious look around to determine if the coast is clear before she sheds the last of her undergarments. It's been too long since she's felt free, not needing to worry about any sort of attention—good or bad.

Stress melts away as soon as she dives in, extinguishing the last of the flames burning inside of her. She's too worked up to sleep—and even if she does, she'll be an easy target for the demons that torment her every night. The pull has been getting stronger the closer they get to the templar stronghold, as if the demons know and are getting desperate to lure her into their temptation. They've been getting craftier too. Closer. It terrifies her that the line between reality and the fade is becoming thinner.

Ember resurfaces and slicks her hair out of her face, looking up at the moon, it's gentle light fighting to break through the clouds. An ominous feeling is brewing, screaming, and she doesn't know why. Is she missing the writing on the walls?

If only she could run, to go back to the life she had before she decided to join the conclave; but what life would that be? Alone in the woods, true to herself—or with her family, fake and 'noble', whatever that means? Their customs and concerns confused her—but she definitely understood the disdain for magic. Hers numbered one of many of their worries, like all of bloody Thedas.

Ember sighs dejectedly, kicking her feet up to float on her back. Something tells her allying with the templars won't be enough to make people trust the Inquisition if Andraste's Herald is a mage. Sera is proof of that. She represents the countrymen—the real beating heart and lifeblood of every nation, yet Ember can't gain trust despite her best efforts to show she's just like any person with hopes and fears. Why would the Maker employ her to be the spokesperson when she burns as bright as a candlelight instead of a hearth, or a wildfire?

She is no Fiona, nor Vivienne.

Crunches snap to the side, and she immediately dives under with only a paltry amount of air held in her lungs. She summons her magic to her fists—warming them as much as depleted energy allows—and braces herself as she kicks to the surface, ready for a fight.

But not for a puzzle.

"Whoa, calm yer tits!"

Ember squints for what little good it does, unable to see into the darkness. She charges a flame in her palm and holds her arm up high enough to cast shadows stretching from the trees—holding fast to faith and hope that this isn't painting an easy bullseye on her. "Sera? Is that you?"

"Yeah, now shut that thing off!"

"Shut... The thing?" The mage takes an educated guess—not that she actually needs to be educated for this part—and extinguishes her fire, smiling ruefully when she hears a sigh of relief; sounds like it's near where she left her things. "What are you doing here?"

"Should be askin' you that. Came to give your stuff back, saw not you or yer bag instead. Why the shite are you campin' out here? Wolves are gonna getcha."

"I'm the most dangerous thing out here," Ember replies monotonously, languidly wading towards the shoreline. She bites her tongue before venom reprimands the rogue for her impenetrable fear—but fear that is justly so; after all, Ember never exactly asked and investigated why Sera is this afraid. The mage bumps against the edge, flinching back when a match is struck directly in front of her nose. Sera balances on the balls of her feet, an odd smile tugging the corner of her mouth.

"You're lucky yer easy to look for. Woulda woken Cass up otherwise, and she'd be punchin' all the frigging bears for ya."

Punching bears? What?

Curiosity has other questions in mind. "How did you find me?"

"Not hard, yeah? Y'reek of a campfire. Still need marshmallows." Sera taps her nose, then blows out the match's flame. "Make some room for me." It's a lake. "I'm comin' in."

"It's going to be ice-cold without me keeping it warm, though." Ember strokes backwards, being painfully reminded of her naked state when she leans back enough for her chest to break the surface and feel the nip of the breeze skirting over her skin. The chill is chased away with a renewed effort to warm her area, trying to get a good look at Sera's face, but the clouds still shield the moonlight.

Apologies rest on the tip of the mage's tongue, her fiery temper finally doused by the waters of guilt. Moments later, a splash cuts through the air. Ember bites her cheek so as not to grin like a fool; not only has Sera come to return the mage's clothes—a silent apology?—but she's giving a fighting chance to see how magic can be and do good too. She's taking time even in the godawful hours of night, trying to understand magic and mages, or so Ember hopes.

"Toasty." Sera mumbles, always swimming near Ember. "Better than earlier."

...Maybe crossing the line isn't so bad after all.