I know this update took forever! Sorry! Traveling knocks me out of my routine.


Act VII: iv

An audience with the Divine was a rare privilege. Faithful worshipers of high rank could go their entire lives without a personal introduction, let alone a private conversation. Yet as Cassandra walked into the well-appointed chamber that she'd been in not a week before, she realized that not a soul present felt they were doing anything other than meeting with an old friend. The jovial air had not a trace of solemnity or devotion. Or silence.

"I have always admired the stamina of the Wardens, their endurance is legendary," Zevran was trying his luck once more with Bethany, "Coupled with the powers of a mage means that you, lithe and lovely as a flower though you are, must be truly tireless."

"And yet, I find I'm getting tired of you." Bethany's smile was sweet as roses and twice as prickly. Her smart retort brought applauding laughter from Isabela and Hawke. The Champion wasn't hovering protectively as she had a week before. It was possible that she was learning her little sister could take care of herself. More likely, however, it was simply because she and the pirate had found a bottle of brandy to share.

"Give it up, Zev. She likes rippling armor and shining muscles," Hawke paused with the drink raised halfway to her mouth, "Or was it the other way around?"

"That, sweet thing, depends entirely on what's making the muscles glisten. Firelight? Fragranced oil skillfully applied? The sweat of a long night's exertions and other delicious moistures exchanged against skin?" Isabela took the bottle from Hawke, pulling a long swig before her tongue darted across the feral shape of her lips, pleased with her own imaginings. She handed the brandy off to a third drinking partner.

"Can it only be one?" The elf grinned, dropping into an armchair as if she were subduing an enemy. Her face was pink from recently being scrubbed clean but there were remnants of smoke and blood near her hair. They'd all come from battle, Cassandra could smell it.

"Sweet cheeks, in my experience nothing good stops at one." Isabela grinned, a bronzed hand snaking expertly over the chain of Hawke's armor, poking into a familiar gap in the mail and making the Champion jump. When the Fereldan rogue caught the offending digits, she used her grip to pull the pirate closer, forcing Isabela to spill halfway across her lap before she could right herself.

"If you want that kind of attention you just have to ask." The pirate purred, pushing herself off Hawke with a grip on her thigh that didn't release.

The teasing offer was typical of their blasé flirtation, a seductive dance that usually culminated in both women forgetting anyone else was present. Cassandra was embarrassed and irritated at the display, but somewhere beneath the surface she applauded their open ease. She could not – would not – ever wish for such blatant exposure in her own romance; she did not need the world to know who she loved, or when or how. But she was gradually beginning to understand that the two rogues weren't simply trying to make people uncomfortable, they weren't being confrontational or deliberately offensive (most of the time). They were merely expressing their affection for one another in the way that was most natural for them; ie, by being wanton, blasphemous and constantly inappropriate. Cassandra might delight in hurling rebuke and insults at the slattern and all her carnal narcissism but that only hid the warrior's recognition of the glow in Isabela's eyes. Real love was always pure, no matter how filthy and corrupt its source. It was the last touch of the Maker's own blessing in their world and the Seeker would always wonder at the power of its reach.

The thought of divine touches and romance moved Cassandra's eyes away from the trio of profanities and their indulgence. She found her own piece of the Maker's will standing near the open windows, wreathed in late afternoon sun that turned metal to skin and skin to gold.

"So then Morrigan gets annoyed and decides to take matters into her own claws," Varric was busy debriefing the Inquisitor in his own imitable, inaccurate way, "Before the ox-men know what's happening a dragon is bearing down on them and setting fire to everything on deck. Black powder kegs were exploding on all sides and there were horns flying in every direction – one of the sailors took one right between the eyes! Rivaini is cussing so hard you'd think she's creating the storm that's bucking the ship. Then the other two dreadnoughts start loading canons -,"

Aveline was standing right beside the dwarf and finally lost her patience. She sighed and clamped an arm on his shoulder, effectively interrupting the exaggerated narrative.

"One dreadnought under clear blue skies. Everyone fought. Morrigan did turn into a dragon to save us and there were no casualties, just a few close calls." The Guard Captain corrected every false fact, casting the writer a tired rebuke with her eyes.

"Stick to your crime reports, critic." Varric frowned, eternally disappointed by his friend's lack of imagination.

Cassandra caught the Inquisitor's eye, a private exchange of amusement passing between them along with promises of more stories once they were alone. Trevelyan's glance slid past the Seeker long enough to spot Solace in her shadow, a subtle lift to her brow asking the obvious. Cassandra gave an answer with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head; she would explain later. The mage couldn't be left to her own devices. When the Chant was done for the day there had been a glimpse of hollow sadness in the blonde's eyes. For the space of a breath the Seeker had seen darkness sucking the color out of her gaze, the silence echoing a louder emptiness within. Then the spark of mischief reignited; a stubborn, willful fire that filled up all the spaces and wrapped around her thoughts like armor.

Cassandra had grabbed Solace's arm before she could do anything stupid, blasphemous or licentious. The mage had tensed at first to flee, then she saw who caught hold of her and the fire dimmed, revealing once more the hints of fear and worry that lay beneath. Where the mage got feistier with Trevelyan, she grew calmer with just the Nevarran noble, drawing strength from the warrior's stillness. Whether it was the trust they'd formed in the Arbor Wilds or simply the common ground of devoted faith, Solace seemed comfortable and controlled only so long as the Seeker was near. Yet another mystery for future unraveling.

The only member of Hawke's company that Cassandra hadn't yet seen was Morrigan. Ordinarily the witch had a presence like a dagger of ice scraping over the back of your neck, impossible to miss and preferable to avoid. Right now, however, she was having trouble finding the apostate. Not until she noticed an empty corner of the room that was strangely less empty than it appeared. Squinting her eyes and concentrating allowed the Seeker to penetrate the cloaked effect secreting Morrigan. The deliberate aura of elusive presence radiated off the witch's companion, enfolding them both with a skill known only to assassins. Was the privacy intentional or a side effect of the stranger's agitated state?

"'Twas foolishly impulsive." Morrigan chided as she examined a row of cuts on the other woman's arm, healing charged in her fingers.

"Then you're the only one permitted to have a temper?" the Antivan retorted, more tease than argument in her tone. Her eyes followed the witch's touch hovering over her skin, fingers twitching against the impulse to grasp the hand holding her own.

"I do not waste my ire on worthless whores. I should leave these marks to fester and scar so that you might learn the same lesson." The apostate had yet to begin healing the wounds, the arch of her brow making the threat real. What did Isabela do this time? Cassandra's glance darted toward the sailor who was completely oblivious to being a subject of conversation.

"Are you certain? Because if you leave me scars from your touch it won't be the pirate I think of each time I see them." The assassin met the threat with a sultry smile, the taunt of her words curling into flirtation with a turn of her lips.

Cassandra watched, stunned to see the famed Witch of the Wilds pause at the thought, the gold of her eyes flamed with inner wars. The battle passed as swiftly as a breeze, any hints in her expression vanishing like the marks on the Antivan's wrist as the healing spell glowed along her skin. The assassin didn't hide her disappointment, her frown nearly crossing into the territory of Isabela's own famous pout.

Then Morrigan raised her fingers to the other woman's face, brushing the spell against a cut that was still livid red. What should have been a routine healing was suddenly warmed by the tilt of a tanned cheek pressing instinctively closer, turning the clinical touch into a caress. The gesture would have seemed boldly intimate if not for a line marring the Antivan's brow; that single wrinkle confessed she'd fought temptation and lost horrifically. Telling lines appeared on the witch's face too, on either side of her mouth as she refused to yield to a smile. What in the Maker's holy name is going on?

"Damnit, woman, am I telling the story or not?" Varric's outburst dragged Cassandra back to the rest of the inhabitants of the room.

"Apparently not since I have no idea what tale you're spinning. There were no demons on the docks today and the only blood mage was on our side." Aveline refused to be intimidated by the dwarf's irritation.

"And she's off with her own personal demon right now." Isabela's throaty chuckle earned a mildly nauseated look from Hawke. The Fereldan still didn't deal well with the shattering innocence of her younger friend. It wasn't hypocrisy precisely. But, when the Champion's pirate lover decided to wipe the frown off her face by kissing her with a mouthful of brandy that dribbled slightly from their joined lips, it was hard to think of any other word for the gross double standard.

"Can we at least agree that Hawke dangled the smugglers' ringleader off the edge of the dock by his ankles and let me take shots at him until he wet himself?" Varric refused to sacrifice even one more narrative detail. Particularly not one that sounded like it was most probably true.

"You grazed him twice before she dropped him into the water." Aveline surrendered the fact, a hard set to her jaw suggesting that she might store it for future prosecution. The dwarf accepted this compromise with a rumble of laughter as rough as the stubble on his face.

Cassandra had been forced to attend family gatherings for Satinalia precisely three times in her life – all when she had no immediate excuses. It was a torture that she dreaded would become more frequent if the Ostwick Trevelyans had their way with the youngest of the clan. There wasn't a snowball's chance in a dragon den that the Inquisitor would be guilt-ridden into going home for the holidays without dragging the Seeker along for protection. Yet the Nevarran's limited experience now made the air of this current room familiar. Flirtations in the corner, drinking in the open, lies and laughter echoing off the walls; all that was missing was for someone to burst into a song or bitter argument to complete the scene.

Divine Victoria herself did little to alter the mood when she arrived, slipping out of the persona of Most Holy as soon as she crossed the threshold. All the otherworldliness and sanctity was set aside, shed like a skin, and she was Leliana once more. Bard, spymaster, connoisseur of Orlesian fashion and mistress of the Game; as comfortable in the company of heroes and thieves as she was amongst kings and priests. No rogue or royal ever had the upper hand over Sister Nightingale.

The Hero was at her side – or was for the first three steps into the room before she was accosted by both Bethany and Morrigan. The two mages dragged the Warden to the far side of the chamber, losing themselves in detailed interrogations and suspicious examinations; most of which involved Solona not being able to get a word in edgewise. The Seeker didn't know precisely what might be involved in curing the Calling but the process must have been weighing heavily on Morrigan's mind, very little was important enough to delay her seeing Kieran. The younger Hawke's face was lined with worries that slowly alleviated, suddenly bursting apart like sun rays breaking through clouds; Morrigan had complimented her work.

"You have all been quite busy, yes?" Leliana's eyes turned away from the Hero's checkup, fondness warming her gaze even as she cast a smirk at her bizarre company of allies. The amused sparkle that danced behind cerulean blue promised she already knew everything that had happened with all of them in the last week. Her body might be trapped in the Grand Cathedral but her eyes roamed all Thedas.

"The harbor wasn't actually damaged; no matter what all the guards keep whining. The only loss was a recently arrived clipper ship," Varric offered an unembellished version of recent events, the broad crack of his smile hinting at larger stories, "And I have it on good authority that the captain hadn't been planning to return to sea anytime soon. There'd been mention of an early retirement, I think."

"How comforting to know your victorious return wasn't overly dramatic." Wry humor tugged at the Divine's lips. There was a way she had of curling her accent a little more elegantly around particular words, hitting unconscious strings of melody and danger in every ear. In this case it was the word 'victorious' that made every person's spine pull straighter, the question implicit in her subtle cue.

Hawke recognized the unspoken command and got to her feet; ignoring protests from the pirate who'd been comfortably resting half her body across the Fereldan. Cassandra was pleased to note that the Champion had enough respect to bow slightly in greeting to the Divine. Even those without a shred of faith felt the need to pay homage to Leliana's subdued dignity.

"As per the request of Andraste's Own: one decipherer, quite deadly," Hawke gestured to the assassin in the corner, "One thief, possibly rabid," another wave of her hand encompassed the elf that stuck out her tongue, "And one record book, fully intact. Except for the pages said thief tore out yesterday so that she and Isabela could draw a couple Qunari taking horns up the ass."

So much for homage and dignity.

"They were blank." The blonde elf protested petulantly as she pulled a massive, leather-bound folio from her oversized satchel. She held it out to Divine Victoria and the woman took it with barely a glance, eyes riveted instead on the carrier.

"So you are the thief of Par Vollen? Interesting." Leliana took in the elf. Blood stained clothing, deceptively small size, crazed hair and – under the Divine's intense scrutiny – cocky smile beginning to waver.

"Elani's fine, thank you, Holiest." The thief mumbled as she rubbed one hand over the back of her neck, leaving sooty finger marks. Cassandra could feel the woman's growing discomfort. The only person she'd ever seen completely immune to Sister Nightingale's soul-stripping eyes was Isabela; the whore had sold her soul years before for a ship full of half-naked men and rum with never a twitch of regret. No one else withstood that penetrating gaze. Not the Inquisitor, not Empress Celene, not even Varric.

"Very well. After so much effort I imagine everyone is eager to hear the secrets they have captured. Lady de Vici, if you please?" The Divine handed off the volume to the assassin before settling into a grand armchair. She pulled off her headdress, unburdening herself of the weight of office.

"You wish me to decipher right now?" de Vici stared at the record in her hands, eyes alive with delight at the possession but terrified of the sudden task, "I had expected a day or more to do my work. At least a few hours to form a rudimentary summary -,"

"The contract was commissioned by the Chantry, therefore I already know its gist," Leliana brushed away the Antivan's concerns with a simple wave, "Of greatest import would be the most recent records. Research into the last of Andraste's descendants. It would be in your mother's own hand, would it not?"

Sister Nightingale, flashing all her store of secrets once again. The assassin set her mouth in a thin line, resisting the temptation to reply with any emotion to the intimate insight. Instead she busied herself in the book, thumbing to the final pages and scanning the text. In the ensuing silence Cassandra was pleased to find the Inquisitor stepping casually into her space.

"There is more going on here than meets the eye, Seeker." Trevelyan murmured quietly near her ear. The observation would have seemed innocent to anyone overhearing, but Cassandra heard the whispering tone that deliberately hinted at a hundred other words spoken in the same notes over countless private nights. Decades of life in the Order came to the Nevarran's aid, keeping her face still as a statue.

"The Divine is smirking." Cassandra agreed, equally quiet as she scrutinized Leliana's enigmatic expression. Her own hoarse whisper had the added benefit of retaliating against the teasing intimacy of Eve's voice. The Inquisitor loved playing this game, maintaining the pretense of their professional façade around friends while teasing the edge of its limits. Their own version of Hawke and Isabela's dance.

"I fear we are in for an upset." Treveylan's soft groan of complaint was tinged with the breathy stutter of a chuckle. The Seeker found a smile answering the sound, immediately forcing her lips back to their neutral line. There was some sort of magic in the Inquisitor's indomitable humor, the charm of her casual wit ever determined to make Cassandra forget herself.

"As usual." The brunette warrior replied in perfect deadpan, relishing the pleased turn of smile that graced her lover's mouth. Seeker Pentaghast was not humorous; not silly, nor ridiculous, nor witty. But sarcasm slid across her tongue as easily as a blade into her hand. The first time she saw the Inquisitor laughing at her barbed words she had felt warm pleasure suffusing her cheeks. Yet it would still be a year more before she understood that she loved being able to make the woman smile.

"The former Lady de Vici's research traces Andraste's blood line through the last four known generations," the Antivan woman's throat tightened on her mother's name, choking any personal thought out of her voice as her fingers traced the last page of writing, "She identifies descendants reaching all the way into the Dragon Age."

"So recent?" The Inquisitor's surprised question echoed Cassandra's own disbelief. The assumption - even among Chantry priests and rebel scholars – was that IF Andraste had children (if, if, if; they couldn't repeat it often enough) they would surely have died out centuries before. Leliana's smirk was beginning to take on a worrisome shade of smugness, a victory hiding behind the placid pleasure.

"Beginning with Mabrila of House Gaviot, the lineage continues to Hesine in House Fachere." The assassin began translating the genealogy, concentrating on her work and only a twitch at the corner of her eye betraying her annoyance at the voices trying to distract her.

"You reading that right, Killer? Gaviot is a dead house." Elani the thief suddenly spoke up, already too pleasantly warmed by brandy to notice the deadly glare that shot across the room. If nightshade poison could seep through the color of de Vici's eyes the elf would already be foaming at the mouth.

"Sure about that, Cuddles?" Hawke had noticed the twin purple daggers in the noblewoman's stare and leaned forward, positioning herself between the two.

"Course I am," the elf snorted, fingers clutching at the air in the universal 'gimme' gesture, delighting when Isabela surrendered the brandy once more, "'S an Imperium house. Died out before this age because they didn't have heirs. Estate in Minrathous has been empty for decades. Me and some other rabbit kids used to go nick berries from the garden."

"I imagine more names might provide an enlightening answer." Leliana was unperturbed. Eerily so. She was not bothered that the names tracked to families in the Tevinter Imperium. She wasn't astonished to find that Andraste's blood had touched their own lifetime. She was an enigma of confidence and that, more than anything, betrayed the truth to Cassandra.

"She already knows what the book says." The Seeker exhaled the sudden realization. That was the only reason the famed keeper of secrets feigned such disinterest in the record. This decoding wasn't for her benefit. She'd assembled an unimpeachable audience of witnesses: The Inquisitor, the Champion of Kirkwall, Hero of Ferelden, a famed writer, a respected guard captain, a Seeker of Truth, the Empress' own advisor. Thedas might ignore the testimony of any single one of this modern pantheon but couldn't deny them all. Leliana wanted them to hear the truth. She wanted them to end the secrets.

"From Hesine of House Fachere," Lady de Vici pointedly ignored Elani's contradiction and continued her task, "The next in line was Wylone of House Janvies."

"This isn't about the contract. It never was." The Inquisitor leapt past Cassandra's own insight to an even greater revelation. The way Leliana's eyes tracked her audience, completely disinterested in the decoding of the record, watching for reactions; the book didn't matter. Something else was more important. The de Vici record was a means to an end and Divine Victoria – ever Sister Nightingale at heart – had used it to get what she really wanted. The surging sparks of delight flashing like lightning in her gaze guaranteed that what she wanted was right before her eyes.

"Wait – Killer, say again?" Elani managed to pause her drinking long enough to recognize another name.

"After Wylone is Kalia, also of House Janvies." De Vici completely disregarded the question but none of them could ignore the abrupt explosion of glass when a brandy bottle hit the floor, shards and droplets of liquor flying in every direction like the blast of a broken spell.

"Right, what bollocks kind of game are you playing?" Elani was on her feet with reflexes far too fast for the inebriated stupor of seconds before.

"You are familiar with these names, yes?" Leliana's expression was too guileless to be real, faking surprise at the outburst but with amused triumph bleeding across her face.

"I don't know what shit you lot are playing at but it's not funny. What does this say? For real this time, what does it actually say? You must've deciphered it wrong." Elani tried to grab the record book from de Vici but the assassin had a grip like iron. For a brief moment both women clung to the edges of the book, a battle of histories and wills taking place as nightshade met cold steel and charged the air of the room.

"It says that Andraste's last known descendant was Kalia of House Janvies. Ciphers are meant to confuse but they cannot lie." Lady de Vici refused to surrender either the records or her decoded translation. If anything, the elf's reaction merely verified that the name had import.

"What is it that so disturbs you?" Leliana rose from her chair now, artfully pushing both women away from each other with little more than a brush of her fingers. Elani continued to glare at the leather volume as though it had tried to steal all her worldly possessions (which she had rightfully stolen first).

"I came from House Janvies. They owned my parents and grandparents." The elf was fitfully pacing now: two steps to the left, three steps back; an agitated rhythm that exposed the confusion of her mind.

But you knew that already. The Seeker bit the inside of her cheek until she could taste blood, adamantly holding her tongue. A similar coiled tension radiated off Trevelyan beside her, equally agonized in the discipline of silent patience. If this were the war room, a table of operations spread before them and advisors arguing on all sides, then the Inquisitor would take control. She would seize facts, force decisions, laughing and commanding until every objection disappeared. But this wasn't the Inquisition; it wasn't her turn to hold all the power in the room.

"I suppose then that these names must mean something to you, no?" The Divine had the coy, lazy manner of a deadly jungle cat watching trapped prey. She was savoring the revelation as it gradually unwound into everyone's mind, most importantly the elf she was watching pace.

"Kalia -," The thief was clawing at walls closing in on her own thoughts, trying to escape the redhead's inevitable final blow, "Kalia and Wylone . . ."

"Your mother," Leliana took pity at last, lowering this last devastating fact with a tone like fingers brushing thin ice: gentle but precisely shattering, "And your grandmother. If you could read that record book you would find the names of every woman in your family line."

"Ok, Nightingale, you've got our attention," Varric rose and put a hand on the stunned elf, pushing her into a chair, "Now you feel like explaining?"

"Tevinter slavers keep the most accurate records in Thedas. Blood lines are traced and documented for features, parentage and defects. Important, I suppose, if all you care about is breeding a stronger slave or prettier eyes," the Divine's smile vanished in a fleeting scowl of distaste, "Thus it was not difficult to identify a lineage of daughters, born only of daughters for nearly a thousand years."

Daughters only. Cassandra recollected the letter that they had once found from Sister Galenna, outlining the research and suspicions of the Augustan Order. Had that tiny clue really been all Leliana needed to piece together the Chantry's greatest enduring mystery? There had to have been more.

"You cannot be serious." Aveline was having just as much trouble accepting the overly simplified facts. She voiced the same doubt that created lines around every eye in the room – all except the serene, sparkling sapphires that stayed fixed on Elani. The thief was motionless now, all the activity taking place behind the numbed confusion on her face. Shock and panic were vying for control of her reaction but chased each other so mercilessly that her thoughts couldn't actually capture either.

"I am. As was the Chantry long before me and our friends in Antiva who were so determined to do their job." A nod here; a tilt of acknowledgment toward Lady de Vici that expressed the Divine's gratitude to her family's generations of dogged obsession.

"You're fingering the wrong hole, Songbird," a rich voice chuckled in the throaty notes of Rivain and rum, "This one's nuttier than an all-male special and nearly as naughty. If she's Andraste's blood then Her flaming sword's been between my legs."

"Eloquent as ever, Isabela." Leliana's smile was patient, amused by the pirate. The redhead even looked pleased. Someone had to bring Andraste's name into the conversation; how atrociously ironic that it came from the tongue of the most blasphemous person in the room. Yet there it was, the words hanging over them all as a reality they had to either accept or reject. Andraste's blood.

"I'm an elf." Elani protested. She reminded Cassandra of the soldiers who continuously tossed a coin in hopes of forcing it to land on the answer they wanted, growing desperate as control drifted further away with each flip.

"Yes. It is interesting, no? Shartan was as well." The Divine turned the argument on its ear. Or ears, as it were.

There it was. The Seeker saw the same gleam of success in Leliana's eye that usually accompanied a thrust of a dagger, an exchange of sealed papers, a final word - her last card was being played and (naturally) she was about to win. Shartan. The elf that joined his followers to fight alongside Andraste in battle, dying in his failure to save her from Tevinter's flames; erased after the passage of time and politics made the Chantry ungrateful and made history disappear. Apocryphal though he was, Shartan refused to vanish. He remained a source of debate, of irritation, shame and – above all – scandal. Rumors grew louder when whispered in a hush. Titillated lay-sisters pretended to be horrified as they fed on the romantic ideas that bloomed so dramatically between the lines of their scriptures. He was Andraste's ally, her champion and – as the gossip salaciously insisted – her lover.

"That is hardly evidence, dearest," Zevran spoke up, drawn into the conversation by the inevitable ropes of race rather than religion, "In that era of history every elf woman claimed a child by Shartan. It is used even today among city elves when a mother has no husband."

"Very true, and the Tevinter Imperium – in their traumatized and paranoid wisdom – kept track of each one. The children of Shartan were captives and slaves; criminals easy to execute the instant they showed sign of any truth in the claims of their blood. Then an Exalted March on the Dales made all elves enemies. A schism in the Chantry robbed Andraste of her divinity in Tevinter. The name Shartan lost its meaning to anyone without the ear for it and the children vanished. Until the day the Chantry decided to contract assassins." Leliana managed to summarize a millennium of history into a few pertinent sentences, the only facts that mattered in the discussion at hand. The ones that could be digested by everyone present.

"Then there are dozens of Shartan's kids. Maybe hundreds. Nothing you said ties me to red hair or a weird habit of talking to the Maker." Elani got to her feet, grasping at the information that had brushed past her mind like a lifeline on stormy seas.

"Nothing," the Divine agreed with a shrug, the sort that always offered graceful surrender right before a lilt of absolute triumph filled her voice, "Except Tevinter records dating as far back as the beginning of the Imperium and including every detail of the year 1025. Records identifying each child with Shartan's name and only one without a mother. Only one line that would go on to create a genealogy of daughters born to daughters traceable to you. You are not redheaded, Elani. You are not human and you are not touched by the Maker. But you are the blood of Andraste."

"Shit." The elf sank into a crouch, the way an overwhelmed drunk braces against the upheaval of nausea.

"Just remember," Leliana knelt now as well, a delicate, porcelain hand reaching out to draw the thief out of her sickened shock. The tender touch was diametrically opposed to the sharp edge of her gaze, "A name is more than a life. I will use the records and identify you as Andraste's last descendant. Whether you are alive or not at the time? That is up to you."

Cassandra knew it wasn't a toothless warning. Sister Nightingale had shaped a suspected murderess into the Herald of Andraste. She could work miracles with an elf of Andraste's blood. Particularly if said elf wasn't around to contradict, defame or profane the holy lineage. Leliana had a vision of the Chantry's future; it did not demand willing cooperation. There was a reason religions loved stone icons – symbols were easier to work with when they weren't breathing.

"You aren't killing me, Mother," Elani answered the threat with a newfound spark of will, determination pushing her to her feet, "You still haven't paid me. Fuck if this isn't going to cost extra."


As I said, apologies for taking so long. Part of the problem is too many distractions interfering with voice and continuity - hard to keep everything sounding right when I only can grab half an hour at a shot to work on it. So please, as I always request: review and comment so I can see if everyone is still coming across right.