Kirkwall's eastern gate glowed orange with torchlight as Mihra's party stumbled toward it a few hours past sunset that evening. There were only a handful of times Mihra could remember feeling more relief at the sight of a human settlement: one of those times had been the discovery of Skyhold.
The heavy doors of the city gate were cracked open to allow the occasional foot traffic through, though from the look of the sleepy city guards manning the post, travelers had been few and far between. Dimly, Mihra recognized the lasting marks of the siege of Kirkwall a year prior. Scorch marks lashed up and down the heavy wooden doors. To her left and right, Mihra could see the sections of the city wall still crumbling and damaged from Starkhaven's trebuchets.
Three guards stood posted at the gate, the most experienced-looking of the three visibly starting as Mihra and her companions approached. As he straightened, Mihra noticed one of his peers move to rest her hand on her sword pommel, her eyes narrowed behind her helm.
"Hold," said the older officer, holding a hand out to Dorian. Dorian glanced at Mihra, who scrubbed an exhausted hand over her face. Seeing the gesture, the officer frowned and turned toward Mihra.
"What's your business here?" he asked Mihra stiffly. Mihra blinked, an uneasy prickle running down her neck that she couldn't immediately place.
"An inn," she said cautiously, her eyes sweeping across the guards' faces for the cause of her tension. "It's been days since out last—"
"Find it somewhere else," snapped the woman with her hand now gripping the hilt of her sword. Mihra frowned, peering back towards the other two guards as the officer silenced the guardswoman with a sharp gesture. Mihra's eyes narrowed.
There it was.
The two guards standing on either end of the city gate weren't looking at her, or even at Dorian. Their eyes were fixed on Bull. Mihra looked over her shoulder and shared a brief glanced with Bull before turning back to the officer.
"Is there a problem, ser?" she asked, before quickly correcting herself. "Serah?"
"I'd ask you the same question," was his terse reply.
"The Qunari have no business in Kirkwall," piped the sandy-haired guard standing opposite to the woman. "Not anymore."
"Quiet," hissed the officer. Mihra exhaled, trying to push aside the prickle of irritation growing in her stomach.
"Are you going to let us in?" said Mihra, more harshly than she meant to. But she hadn't slept for over two days, and so couldn't work up the energy to particularly care. The officer turned back to meet her eyes, his orange-emblazoned chestplate glowing in the torchlight.
"That depends," he said coldly. "What is your business here? All of it, and best be truthful this time."
Mihra felt her jaw tense, but Dorian jumped in before she could say anything. "Varric Tethras is a friend of ours," he said quickly. "Surely he can vouch for us."
The officer narrowed his eyes. "Tethras had many friends," he said dismissively. "From many circles, not all of them wholesome. Which one are you from?"
Mihra bit back an exasperated sigh as Dorian hesitated. The officer's gaze turned back to her icily, then up at Bull.
"What say you, Qunari? You have yet to speak for yourself."
A muscle twitched in his neck as Bull adjusted the strap holding his greatsword to his back. Immediately, all three guards had their hands on their swords.
"You expecting poetry?" Bull grunted, looking at the officer. The officer's frown deepened.
"Elgar'nan," snapped Mihra, fully aware of her companions and the three guardsman turning to stare at her. "We mean Kirkwall no harm. If you have a problem with Bull, take it up with Varric. Beyond that, our business is our own."
The officer drew himself to full height. "On the contrary," he said. "I see two elves, a human, and a Qunari—all equipped for battle—stumble to my gate hours past when any typical traveler should be on the road. They proceed to evade every question posed to them. Tell me: should I not be suspicious?"
Mihra stiffened and turned very slowly to glance over each shoulder as Dorian said, "No need to get your feathers ruffled. We've been on the road for days; we're exhausted. As my friend here said, I'm sure Varric can smooth over any wrinkles for you. In the morning."
Only half listening, Mihra had to hold back a smile as she finished taking inventory of her companions. Harding had disappeared from sight, Mihra could only presume to find them a suitable alibi. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she was filled with admiration for the scout.
"Wait—" said the sandy-haired guard by the gate. "I know that accent. He's Tevinter!"
In almost perfect unison, both the officer and Dorian gave a load groan.
"You know, to the rest of the South I hardly have an accent at all."
"Quiet, all of you!"
The officer glared at Dorian. "Only one reason I can think of for a Tevinter to be this far south."
"Do tell. Though I'll point out—present company being what it is—that it's highly unlikely I'm a slaver."
At this, Solas gave a loud snort from behind Mihra. The officer swung his gaze toward him. When Solas offered no further comment, the officer let out an impatient exhale.
"Your names, then."
Mihra shot Dorian a look that quickly silenced the mage before he could say anything. She had faith that Scout Harding would be able to resolve this for them, and didn't want to surrender their anonymity without cause.
The officer let out another frustrated sigh. "Fine," he muttered through gritted teeth.
"Take them to the Guard-Captain, if you won't turn them away," called out the guardswoman.
Faith in Harding notwithstanding, Mihra found herself quickly losing patience with the whole situation. At the very least, the Inquisition had dealings with Kirkwall's Guard-Captain in the past.
"You do that," she snapped. Dorian shifted, touching Mihra's elbow lightly. Mihra shook him off.
The officer's eyes narrowed. He swept his eyes over Mihra and her companions, his gaze lingering on Bull, then again on Dorian, for a full two seconds longer than the others.
"Kurt," he barked. "Sanders. Escort them to headquarters, and have the Guard-Captain decide what to do with them. None of them leave your sight until she says otherwise, understood?"
"Understood, serah," said the sandy-haired guard even as the guardswoman's expression twisted nastily under her helmet.
"Did you just get us arrested?" muttered Dorian as the group was ushered through the city gate. Mihra rubbed her eyes.
"Harding will figure something out. At least we're in the city now."
"I noticed."
In retrospect, an armed escort through the city streets was perhaps not the best method to maintain anonymity. As they were led up a seemingly endless flight of stairs, Mihra noticed more than a few curious heads peering out of windows to get a better look at their party. And if Bull noticed the number of doors that were quickly slammed shut at their approach, he made no mention of it.
Eventually the guards led Mihra and her companions into what was obviously the city's wealthy district. The last straggling merchants of an evening bazaar paused packing their stalls to watch Mihra's group move through the square up toward a prominent, white marbled building standing tall in a sea of similarly distinguished architecture. Sharp, glinting beaks of golden gargoyles flashed overhead as they were lead into the building's entry courtyard.
A very small part of Mihra was now regretting that she hadn't taken up Varric's offer to visit Kirkwall in an official capacity before this. She had no clue where she was, or how long it might take Harding to track them down. From the richly embroidered Kirkwallian heraldry covering the wall hangings, it looked like they were being lead into the center of the city's governance. Was that typical?
Mihra frowned, rubbing the back of her neck to try and alleviate the knotting tension at her shoulder. The guardswoman tensed at the movement, her hand twitching toward her sword pommel as she and Mihra met eyes. Mihra sighed and let her hand fall.
At least Mihra was fairly sure their anonymity was still intact. That was something.
"You'll wait here until the Guard-Captain can deal with you," said the guardswoman icily, gesturing through an open door to a sparsely adorned room with a single table in its center.
"We'll be right outside," said her fair-headed partner.
"So don't try anything," the guardswoman finished nastily.
As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind them, Mihra wasted no time before sinking into one of the roughly-hewn bench seats pushed underneath the central table. She rested her elbows heavily on the tabletop, staring at her lap.
"Bit of a departure from our usual methods," said Dorian, his tone a forced light as he leaned against the edge of the table and peered around the room curiously. "Can't say this has ever happened to me before."
Mihra couldn't help the wry twitch of her lips as she felt Solas settle himself into the bench cattycorner from her.
"I aim to please, Dorian."
Dorian snorted, but his response was cut off as Bull scraped one of his horns loudly against the room's ceiling as he attempted to lean against one of the walls. Bull straightened, scowling, but made no further comment.
A long moment passed where no one spoke to each other. The muffled murmur of guardsmen voices outside the room's door was stupefying. More than once, Mihra had to catch herself as her head began to dip toward sleep. She rubbed her thumb idly over her left palm, brushing across the parts of her hand that still prickled with energy from the night before.
Mihra didn't realize that she had fallen asleep in earnest until Solas nudged her foot under the table. Mihra's hand slammed down against the table as she straightened, blinking, casting a dark gaze in the elven mage's direction until Solas looked pointedly toward the door.
The tenor of the voices outside had changed, becoming sharp and insistent where once they had been soporific. Mihra shifted in her seat, swiping a hand over her face to clear her eyes as the door swung open.
"You know, when I got that letter from Ruffles I assumed I would be coming to you, not that you'd just show up on my doorstep a few days later."
"Varric!"
"Master Tethras, you cannot—"
Varric waved away the protests of the guardswoman still standing post outside the door impatiently. He quickly slid his foot in the doorway, blocking the guard's attempts to shut the door.
"Kid, make yourself useful and go get Aveline. I know for a fact she doesn't leave her office for another hour or so, at least."
The guardswoman scowled, but with a pointed look from the other guard reluctantly stomped off toward what Mihra could only assume was the Guard-Captain's office. As Mihra craned her neck to watch her retreat, she noticed Scout Harding's familiar form inspecting a posted parchment innocently at the other end of the main room. Varric chuckled, then turned back to Mihra.
"Seriously, though, would it have killed you to give a little warning? I get travelling incognito, but this whole thing could have been avoided if—" Varric seemed to choke on his words as he caught sight of Solas sitting in the corner.
"Oh. Well—shit. Wish I could say it was good to see you, Chuckles."
"And I to you, Varric."
Varric looked back at Mihra. After a moment's hesitation: "Why do I get the feeling that—"
"Varric."
Varric winced theatrically, then glanced over his shoulder as the imposing form of a broad-shouldered, flaming-haired woman came into view. She dismissed the sandy-haired guard with a gesture, one hand on her hip and the other immediately going to massage her temple as she approached. Mihra noted the insignia on her chestplate marking her as a commanding officer. The Guard-Captain, then.
"Why is it," she began through gritted teeth. "That whenever anything even the slightest bit off happens in this city I can always trace it back to you?"
Varric gave a sort of guilty chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "After beating the rest of Kirkwall into submission, Aveline, you need me to keep things interesting."
The woman—Aveline—was not amused. "Who are they?" she demanded.
Varric cast a glance back toward Mihra. "I take it you aren't here in any official capacity?" he muttered. Mihra shook her head, her eyes flickering from the Guard-Captain's form.
"If it can be avoided—"
Varric sighed and looked back at the Guard-Captain.
"Aveline—" began Varric endearingly. The woman scowled at him, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
"Varric."
"Look—Let's all just close the door, take a seat, and calmly introduce ourselves. You'll get your answers and my friends here will be free to—do whatever it is they are planning on doing."
"You can't be serious."
Varric winced again. "Please?"
The Guard-Captain's scowl deepened as she glared at Varric for a long moment. Mihra watched as the woman's critical gaze drifted over Mihra and her party. Then with a sharp exhale, the woman stepped inside the room and closed the door behind her with a sharp snap.
"You owe me," she growled, shaking a finger at Varric. "And I'm only doing this because you've kept better company as of late, and chances are one day it'll be someone actually important."
A beat of silence passed, during which the atmosphere seemed to seize up with unspoken tension before:
Dorian let out a bark of laughter as Varric sputtered and went into a mild coughing fit. Mihra refrained from elbowing Dorian, choosing instead to look at the rough-hewn wood of the table top as she fought the rush of blood to her cheeks.
"What?" asked the Guard-Captain suspiciously. Varric gave a final cough and wiped a hand over his eyes. He gestured toward Mihra vaguely.
"This is Mihra Lavellan, the—"
The woman's gaze snapped to Mihra quickly, nostrils flared and face a shade paler than it had been before.
"What?" she sputtered, then seemed to catch herself. She inclined her head. "My lady—"
"Please," said Mihra quickly, standing up. She shot Varric a reproachful look. "Officially, I'm not here, so we can dispense with the titles. I'm Mihra Lavellan."
"Aveline Vallen," said the woman automatically.
"I know who you are," said Mihra, dipping her head. "Our forces returning from Kirkwall last year were impressed with your handling of Starkhaven's incursion, Guard-Captain."
"I could say the same for your men. Though if we are dispensing with titles, it's Aveline."
"Mihra, then."
Varric was rubbing his temples as his eyes flickered between the two women.
"Have a problem, Varric?" asked Aveline, her waspishness from earlier returning.
"Me? No. It's just when I imagined this meeting, I thought there'd be more explosions."
Dorian laughed. "Give it time: I'm sure we can arrange something."
"He's kidding, Aveline," said Varric quickly. "Sparkler, tell the Guard-Captain you're kidding."
Aveline rolled her eyes, then turned back to Mihra, regarding her for a moment. She exhaled, her palms pressed against the tabletop as she leaned forward.
"I respect that you're travelling anonymously, but I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't ask at least one question. Is Kirkwall in danger? I know Varric's type—Maker, I was part of it for years—so I know the warning signs."
Mihra blinked, her thumb worrying a knot in the table as she contemplated the Guard-Captain. She glanced at Varric, who had broken out of his theatrics to look at her with a sort of veiled trepidation. Seeming to sense her question, Varric nodded as Mihra looked back at Aveline.
"Not the city," said Mihra delicately. The Guard-Captain frowned, pushing off from the table to fold her arms across her chest. Mihra sighed. "But we think there will be an attack on the alienage."
Aveline's frown deepened. Mihra caught a significant glance exchanged between the Guard-Captain and Varric.
"When?"
Mihra hesitated, before shooting Solas a pointed look. His lips grew thin as he shifted, folding his hands over each other. "It difficult to say with precision. I suspect we have days, possibly a week. Within the month, certainly."
"Who? How?"
Mihra held back a hiss, pulling back her hand as a sliver of wood from the table embedded itself under her thumbnail. She pressed her fingers together, watching as a small bead of blood collected under the nailbed. Mihra brushed it away as she looked up.
"I am sorry," she said quickly, before any of her companions could speak. Her mind was racing. For all she wanted to trust this woman—from Varric's stories to the Inquisition's interactions with her—Mihra did not know Aveline Vallen. "But we're still trying to get our bearings. I don't have the answers you're looking for, not yet."
Next to her, Mihra felt Dorian stiffen slightly. Mihra's jaw tightened, praying his expression didn't betray his surprise. Mihra glanced at Varric as he cocked his head at her from his position behind Aveline, but said nothing.
"I promise, as soon as we have information to share, it'll be passed on to you and yours. But until then—"
Aveline was frowning again. "There's something you aren't saying." Mihra sighed.
"You're right," she said simply.
The Guard-Captain glanced over her shoulder to look at Varric. For a moment, the two seemed to have an unspoken conversation, before she turned back to Mihra. Mihra returned her gaze evenly.
"Go, then," she said brusquely. "Do what you came here to do; I won't stop you, out of respect for your organization."
Mihra swallowed, once again pushing back the nausea that was all too close to the surface these days. "Thank you."
Aveline nodded, still frowning. "But this is my city, Inquisitor," she continued. "I won't allow the guard to stay on the sidelines if its people are in danger."
"Of course not, Guard-Captain," said Mihra quietly. "I—I'm sure we'll be in touch, soon."
"Then we have an understanding," said Aveline stiffly, opening the door and gesturing Mihra's group on their way. Mihra swallowed, stepping over the bench seat as her companions filed their way out of the room. She caught Varric's eye as she passed him.
"I assume they'll be staying with you, Varric?" asked Aveline as she moved back toward the still-open door to the Guard-Captain's office. Varric shot a surveying look towards Mihra.
"Not really sure where else they'd go," he said.
"Good."
At this, Aveline snapped her office door shut behind her, leaving Mihra, Varric, and the rest of the party standing somewhat awkwardly in the center of the sleepy guard office. At the far corner, Harding broke away from her reading and went to join them.
"Harding," said Mihra breathlessly. "Did you—?"
"Already sent," said the scout smoothly. "But you'll probably want to send a follow-up tomorrow, knowing the commander."
"Maker's balls," muttered Varric, looking wildly between Mihra and Harding. "You'd think the world's ending by the way you lot are—" He stopped mid-sentence at the stricken looks the group shot him. Sighing, Varric scrubbed a hand over his face.
"Shit. Fine, all of you, follow me and we'll get sorted for tonight. Then someone owes me a damn good story."
Author's Note: Apologies all for the unscheduled blip in my upload last week. Surprise travel plans around the holiday royally screwed my usual write-edit-upload schedule BUT hopefully I'm back on track now. In the future, check my profile if I haven't uploaded by Tuesday evening - I'll try to post there if I'm running late.
Thanks, as always, for KelseyHeart for the love on the last chapter. I really appreciate it!
Sesshou's ward: Dammit. There are so many things I want to say in response to your review, but I /can't/ without rampant spoilers for at least the first arc of the story, and probably a few spoilers for the whole damn plot. So, congratulations on picking up on some of it, but I can't/won't tell you what it is you picked up on! :D Seriously, though, it's awesome to know that this story is being read so carefully.
So, instead of commenting on the story content of your review, I'll just say congrats for getting to play Trespasser! I'll say that it was a very intentional decision on my part to write with Tal-Vashoth Bull rather than one where the Chargers were sacrificed, but then I won't say any more. :)
I've also got this picture of Dirthamen finding all of those Dalish codex entries (the ones where they talk about how awesome the elven gods were) scattered throughout DA:I's Thedas and just... slipping them into Solas's papers/books/notes/everything. Because he can. Like, Solas is deep in heavy research and he grabs a stack of parchment he thought were his notes and really it's just six pages on why Fen'Harel will avoid any good elf who throws an elfroot leaf over their shoulder each dawn.