The shadow of a distant storm darkened the Sun.

Apotheosis 2, 1-4

As Josephine Montyliet's carriage approached the city gates with the rest of the Antivan delegations' carriages, the woman couldn't help but recall some of Varric's more choice descriptions of the various troubles she and her companions had gotten into, and wonder if this one was to be the greatest yet.

For all that had come and gone, though, some things were still beyond belief – such as, say, the fact that her first sight of the great city of Minrathous was the undeniable view of its dragons. It was said that the White Spire was visible from anywhere in Orlais, and she wagered that the same legend would be spun of the Old Gods as well, for the sight of the two monstrous bodies resting atop a gigantic wall, upon the shoulders of stone giants that legends said could move on their own…

One could see them miles away from making port.

Minrathous itself was a sight, she thought – flowers bloomed everywhere, even the grass that grew amid the cobbles of the road was spliced with silvery veins, and for one who had once loved Val Royaux and found all cities inferior to it, Josephine found it…

Charming.

Alive.

Neither word could be used to describe Val Royaux, Denerim or Antiva City, at present; and, Josephine Montilyet thought, one could scarcely dismiss the sight, because it stood in stark contrast to all accounts that southern travellers had given of the Imperium's capital, over many decades. In these, Minrathous had been unfavourably compared to every capital on the continent, and even to Dorian Pavus' native city of Quarinus, which, as Phillam! A Bard! Had adroitly written, 'was as wretched and decaying a hive of villainy, but at least a sunny one.'

And still, as a Phoenix rising from its ashes, the city about her was waking up to spring. Its skies were still a bit cloudy, but that was merely weather; its buildings still looked old and patched many times over, but that was merely age. What was striking was the sheer…insouciance? Josephine thought, with which the city went about its business.

The markets had a bustle to them that had long deserted the southern capitals. The people looked healthy, the stalls were laden with fresh and vibrant early spring produce, and, Maker have mercy, Josephine considered, stealing a quick glance at the sky, as if to assure herself no flying cows were passing overhead, even the livestock seemed fatter…

And who could wonder why? Josephine bitterly thought to herself. Eight months had passed since the events on Seheron, but despite the Chantry's assurances, the plague of fatigue and sudden possessions in the South had not truly eased – the possessions were fewer, true, but Josephine had begun to suspect this was not due to the fact that the veil was mending, but rather to the fact that those who could be possessed were dwindling in numbers.

Still, children who grew of the age of manifesting magic were oft victims, and there was no pattern that one could discern. Parents regarded their own offspring with great fear, and wedding bells had ceased to toll throughout the lands. People were wary of all others, even of those that they knew best, so there had been no spring harvest to speak of – fields and orchards lay fallow and overgrown, cattle and sheep ran half wild, and no peasant worked for more than was absolutely necessary for subsistence. Venturing to trade in the cities seemed like madness, as all kept to themselves; even at court, cherries had become a luxury worth its weight in gold.

The stone giants came to life indeed, parting the gates of the inner city to allow the delegation passage, and though the dragons seemed completely undisturbed by the fact that the wall upon which they slumbered was moving, Josephine felt fear such as she had never experienced in her life.

Good Maker, she thought, realising that the creatures were so enormous that they could not be fully seen from up close. What if it is true? What if…

Josephine Montilyet's official purpose in Minrathous was to send Antiva City's congratulations to Divine Victoria, who, in a time of such turmoil, had united the Chantries of the continent under one banner. Her secondary, and more shameful purpose was negotiating some form of trade agreement with the Imperium, on behalf of Antiva and Rivain. If anyone had ever told her that Antiva City would have to beg to buy fish from Quarinus, she would have laughed in their face, and yet now…now, this was precisely what she had been tasked with. She suspected that it would not be long before Orlais realised that they could not outright eat gold either; perhaps they already had.

And soon, all too soon, the Imperium would not only have its Old Gods. It would regain something that was even more dangerous than that – it would recover its wealth.

The carriage pulled to a halt in the inner courtyard of a large mansion that had seen better days, but still looked as if it would survive the next couple of weeks, if her delegation trod carefully upon its stairs. And they would have to, she told herself, descending, and immediately circling the carriage to once more look at the sleeping dragons. Maker, they would have to tread carefully in more ways than one.

'Hey there, Ruffles!' she heard, from behind; her heart almost gave in.

'Varric!' she exclaimed, spinning on herself. 'What are you…'

'Yeah, yeh,' the dwarf warmly laughed. 'If you're surprised to see me, you're not half as surprised as I am for being here. Shit never stops being weird, ey?'

'Indeed, no,' Josephine responded, gladly yielding to the dwarf's strong hug. She should have been glad to see him – no, she reconsidered, she was glad to see him – but, she should equally been relieved, and that she was not. 'I was just thinking of you…What are you doing here?' she asked, with a little frown.

'What else?' he shrugged, trying to look at ease, but nonetheless extending his arm to guide her away from the company of servants who was now offloading the carriages, and not stepping as lightly as Josephine might have liked. 'Same as you, I think, congratulate Cassandra on being the Chantry's latest and greatest, and all that crap...There's a really nice garden, if we walk this way,' Varric said, making his intent of evading all others even clearer.

'You know this place?' Josephine asked, falling in step by his side.

'Yeah,' he nodded. 'Got here two days before you did – had a bit of time to wonder 'round. Had time to get a drink or twenty with Sera and the Bull too,' he added, with a wink.

'Are they about as well?' she asked, feeling there was no end to her astonishment.

'Not here-here, but they are in Minrathous,' Varric answered. 'They're staying at that place with the broken bell on top. The one with all the showgirls,' he put in, as clarification. As neither description nor clarification made any sense to her, Josephine shrugged, and he shrugged in return. 'Doesn't matter, really,' he conceded, opening a rickety, wrought iron gate for her. 'Better place than this,' he sighed.

Josephine chuckled – the garden they had just entered was small, but well-tended, with neatly cut grass, intricately layered rows of colourful flowers, and a little water-fountain at its centre. No shrubs or hedges, though, she noted, as the dwarf sat rather heavily on the fountain's edge. No place where anyone could hide within earshot.

'You know that the Magisterium won't need actual ears and eyes to watch us,' she said, sitting by his side; the sun was peeking out of the clouds, and she raised her face to bathe in the light and warmth. 'If there's even an enchanted stone in this garden, neither of us would feel it…Maker,' Josephine whispered. 'I am assured you don't feel the rest, either, but since I've crossed into the Imperium, I have the sensation that it is the first time I've truly breathed in months.'

'I guess,' Varric softly said. 'And, yeah, I know that the Magisterium can hear us everywhere,' he slowly conceded. He sounded sorry to steal her moment of peace, but it did not matter; a little, ragged cloud had veiled the sun anyway.

'But it's not them you fear?' she asked, in a low, concerned whisper; he gravely shook his head, looking more serious and burdened than Josephine had ever seen him.

'I told you shit's weird,' Varric said. 'And it's about to get a whole lot weirder, Ruffles…'

'I don't think I can handle weirder than this,' Josephine whispered – the dwarf humourlessly laughed.

'Yeah, well, when did shit ever consult us on whether it should happen or not?' he quipped. 'I'm even starting to wonder if we're, like, some sort of weird catastrophe-attracting combination of folk. Whenever more than two of us run past each other…'

Josephine thoughtfully nodded. 'And this is starting to look dangerously like a reunion,' she said. 'Did Vel and Dorian join you for those drinks?' she asked.

'Vel did,' Varric replied. 'Dorian is into drinking alone these days, I gathered.'

She sorrowfully lowered her glance. 'I would be too, if…'

The dwarf cut her off with a decisive shake of his head. 'It's not that; I…I think that on account of those,' he said, tilting his head to the side to indicate the dragons, 'both him and Vel are either resigned, or have the sensation they know what they are doing. Maker knows why, but…'

'So, no, I don't think it's a guilt induced drinking binge. I think it's personal, if you gather my meaning – Vel wouldn't say much, but made a face to sink a thousand ships, and Mae Tilani warned me about pressing, so…I didn't.

'How did you find Veldrin?' Josephine asked.

'Surprisingly sound.' He earnestly answered. 'Unsurprisingly heartbroken. Determined. About a century older. Polite, but a bit distant…I mean, she tried to hide it as best she could, but while she had time for a drink, she was not having fun. Something heavy was on her mind, something she said she could not yet speak to us about – I did not have the heart to burden her further, so…'

'It's Vel that got me into this select neighbourhood,' he followed, switching subjects. 'This charming and cosy little quarter boasts only the best and brightest – Marquise Briala, Arl Teagan, Ambassador Van Markham from Nevarra, you…Now, I…I would have settled for the broken bell and the showgirls,' he wistfully ended.

'You do represent the Free Marches,' Josephine said; he looked into her eyes and smiled.

'C'mon, Ruffles,' Varric said, narrowing his eyes. 'You know diplomatic protocols inwards and outwards…I shouldn't be speaking for the Free Marches.'

'Hm,' the woman said, feeling slightly taken aback, 'after Starkheaven invaded Kirkwall, I should think that Sebastian Vael lost all right to claim himself Prince protector of the Free Marches. But,' she reluctantly added, 'on paper, at least…'

Varric silently nodded. 'I can still speak for Kirkwall,' he slowly said, 'but I am really not sure if that's a good idea, at the moment. I'm here for myself alone, Ruffles, and as glad as I am to see you, I really wish that Vel hadn't put me here.'

She shook her head in confusion. 'Why not? I mean, you're clearly not under guard, and you yourself admitted the Magisterium would watch us all wherever we are. Who are you in peril from?'

The dwarf bitterly pursed his lips. 'Everyone but them, Ruffles,' he said, in a low whisper. 'Perhaps, even you.'

'Never,' she earnestly breathed out. 'Varric, you know I am your friend – you can always, always trust me!'

'I do, I do,' he rushed to say, taking her hand in his, and warmly patting it. 'Sadly, that won't be the problem. The problem will be how much you trust me.'

'Always and fully,' the woman decisively said. 'What is it, Varric?' she asked, feeling truly frightened. 'What's happening?'

He sighed, and bit his lower lip. 'Do you not wonder how I made my way here faster than either you or the Van Markham guy?'

'I can imagine a Van Markham dragging his feet over congratulating a woman who undoubtedly is the greatest of the Penthaghasts,' Josephine said. 'As for me, my mandate was only accepted now, and it is rather narrow. But it does look as though you hurried over; Cassandra's nomination is barely a week old…Which means you started out from Kirkwall before you heard about it,' she suddenly realised. 'You're not here to congratulate Cassandra.'

'The fact that she got nominated while I was on the way was the only non-shitty thing that's happened to me in a long time, Ruffles. Gave me an excuse to be here; I'd have come anyway. The kind of warning I need to deliver cannot be entrusted to paper, and I needed to beat the official Free Marches delegation to the punch.'

'You're truly worrying me, now,' Josephine said. 'If anything, Prince Vael should hail the unification of the Chantry; by what we are told, he's a most pious man…'

Varric smirked horribly, and scratched his chest. 'Yeah,' he said. 'A most pious lunatic who's lost his final marble. As in, he thinks he's witnessed the rebirth of Andraste…'

'What?' Josephine exclaimed, jumping to her feet, then promptly blushing at her outburst. 'How…Could it be true?' she uttered, in a whisper. 'The Maker's Bride would be a sight so many have prayed for…I mean,' she followed, 'the unification of the Chantries, then, Andraste herself! What breath of hope…Why did he not speak of this? I would have shouted from the rooftops!'

'And in a couple of days, he will,' Varric muttered. 'A lunatic he might be, but he's not stupid – the squabble over Cassie's nomination as head of the Imperial Chantry was loud enough to be heard in the Arbour Wilds, I'm very sure its significance even penetrated Vael's thick skull. He will come to proclaim Cassandra's success a divine miracle, and reveal his Andraste just in time for Cassie to kneel to her on behalf of the entire continent.'

'He means to bring her here?' Josephine said, eyes wide in shock. 'To the city of her martyrdom…A miracle indeed, a challenge to…' she added, her voice dropping to a whisper as she cast a sideways, fearful glance at the dragons.

'See, Ruffles,' the dwarf sighed, 'this is exactly what I feared would happen. That everyone is gonna get all excited, and start raving before they even set eyes on this…thing.'

'You doubt, then…' the woman said, the stern look in his eyes giving her a deep chill.

'Oh yeah, I doubt.' Varric said dryly. 'And with good reason. He didn't shout it from the rooftops, but Vael would not be Vael if he could resist a boast – or in this case, a threat; he basically told me that he wants the Free Marches to speak as one for the Maker's Bride. I did tell him we would do no such thing, to which he offered to provide me with shall we say…armed escort?'

Josephine frowned deeply; the dwarf merely shrugged.

'I was in no mood for a re-run of the last time Stakheaven's armies decided to take in Kirkwall's wonders, thus…I went. As such, I have had the dubious honour of meeting the Maker's Bride in the flesh already.'

'And?' Josephine breathed.

'And,' Varric sighed, 'here comes the part when you will need to really really trust me, Ruffles, because I've not even managed to tell Veldrin about it – fuck knows how she's going to take it... The woman that Sebastian Vael honestly thinks is Andraste is not the Maker's Bride. She is not human, and she is most certainly not good.'

The first human words Andruil had learned were the words of the Chant of Light. It was, admittedly frustrating, as they were of no use for basic needs, or nowhere in the Chant were words that meant I am hungry, or I am thirsty, or indeed, I need to bathe were written.

She had been a diligent study, however, diligent enough for the non-people to not punish her as harshly as they might have, when they caught escaping their dead temple; she'd not stopped trying to walk outside it, though, she'd merely grown careful and, in the night, spread wings that carried her far from their vigil to fulfil these base needs on her own. She had learned quickly, too, that stew of rabbit was not welcome if it was cooked upon the Maker's hearth, and that not making a rabbit into stew before eating it was even worse of an offence.

The ageing man with the kind voice returned to ascertain himself of her fate one or twice a week. Sometimes, he'd brought her garments that were not weaved of cloth so rough that it caused her skin to itch. She had accepted these, gratefully, but they had been roughly torn off her body as soon as the ageing man left; that was how she had learnt that his gifts of figs and raisins, sometimes cubes of cured cheese and smoked meats were to be eaten on the spot, and not saved for a night when the non-people forgot to feed her.

'All of these things they take from you…' Rylan Ostwyn had said.

'Ahll?' she'd uttered out loud.

'All. Remember, an 'a' is not always followed by an 'h'. Try,' he'd enticed.

'Ah..Aaaa..All? All?'

He's smiled and nodded, and pressed a plump fig in her hand as reward; she was dead hungry, so promptly swallowed it, whole.

'Chew it first, girl,' he'd warned, then laughed as she chocked, and spat tiny seeds in all directions. 'Chew it first.'

'See me now, Andraste, daughter of Brona!' Andruil had replied, thinking the phrase was authoritative enough to show her displeasure at being scolded, to the one person she could afford showing her displeasure to.

To her surprise, the still chuckling man had shaken his head. 'No, leave Andraste this time. Just…chew the thing.'

He'd held a hand under his chin and made like his hand made his jaw move.

'Chew, no choke?'

Rylan Ostwyn had mimicked her gestures in just showing the fig down her throat, then shaken his head. 'No. No choke. But, no chew funny: ha-ha,' he'd conceded.

She'd learned other words of the non-people, too, when she had watched him speak to the madwoman who had held her face to a fire. Not all the words, yet…

'I bring this child fresh clothes each week. Why do I keep finding her dressed in a sack?'

'There are more worthy causes for the cloth you bring,' Andruil had heard the madwoman say. 'Causes' and 'worthy' she knew from the Chant – the rest she grasped by context - it was clear that the man knew what she, too, suspected: that both of them were being robbed blind. The clothes he brought were no fineries, or rather, they were poor indeed when compared to the things the great huntress had once worn, but they were far better than what she was made to wear, here.

It was nonetheless true that once the garments were taken from her, they were not seen upon any of the sisters or Revered Mothers – rather, they were passed on, as Temple gifts, which Andruil had not truly grudged, in the beginning. It'd just occurred to her that they could at least let her keep a couple of the outfits, so that wearing such rough cloth would not be just another of her chores. Of which, of course, there were many, menial and demeaning.

She guessed, however, that if they had indeed let her keep a few of the items, the man would have stopped bringing them, and thus the Temple's unusual magnanimity towards the human women of the hamlet might have come to a premature stop. She had not grasped, at first, why the females of the non-people were so much worthier of charity than herself – dirty and foul smelling, the rims of their skirts perpetually drenched in muck and animal droppings as they might have been, they were, at least, not actually naked.

The reason for this, however, had swiftly come clear to her, even before she'd learned more than he first two words; whatever society the non-people held for themselves, she was at its very bottom. Even the lowliest of maids were above her, and spitefully slacked on their tasks just to pass them her way. Since she'd arrived, all mistakes made were blamed on her too, and she'd fast learned that attempting to defend herself led to being mocked or punished. She'd also noted that, no matter how poor their service, the human maids received some small coin at the end of each week – not so for her. For chores accomplished, her reward was scraps from their table, sometimes not even that day's scraps. If for anything she was blamed, even those were withheld; but for her nightly hunting trips, she might have starved, or weakened to the point where her growing powers would become too heavy to wield.

And her powers had been growing by leaps and bounds.

Alarmingly, however, so did her appetite – Andruil did not share the specific kind of Fade attunement of those past Gods that had been outright considered mages, for she had chosen to shape her powers differently than the rest. Yet, even she had gone for decades, if not centuries without truly experiencing hunger, and she too had walked the beyond in uthenara. Still, as her body had started to reclaim its prowess, it was clear that the energies which had once sustained it had now been reduced to a mere trickle, and that she needed far more physical nourishment than she ever recalled needing before.

It was thus that which each stinted meal time, with every vile glance the sisters passed her way when Mother Petunia was not watching them, her despise of them all was turning to hate. Not the explosive kind, that might have made her forget her purpose in this loathsome house of fake worship, but the far more dangerous kind, the slowly burning kind that would wait until it could be unleashed – and it would be, she knew, beyond doubt.

She daydreamt of it while scrubbing floors and polishing pews which smelled as if the non-people thought water was a lethal danger and bathing, a carrier of disease. She dreamt of it when she was carrying out swill from the kitchens, or when she went to fetch water, and the filthy non-people rasped angrily to her, and spat at her feet, when their sprogs tripped her or pushed her from behind for fun…

Despite it all, she stayed, learning the Chant, and their unmelodious, shallow language along with it. Sometimes, she wondered at her own endurance, but while such fancies of leaving this place for good, one night, and returning to her woodland realm did often plague her, for she had never been one to prize patience, Andruil remained.

Because, while she did not prize patience, she overall prized power, and she had seen what form it took, in this stinted word. The same people who spat at her took off their cloaks to cover muddy puddles, when Mother Petunia passed. The women, in their dirty frocks, kneeled to the dead paintings of magic-less Andraste and whispered prayer upon prayer. Sometimes, they wept, leaning their foreheads on the false goddess' painted skirts, and raised their hands to their face in imploration.

Fools, she wished to say to them, upon the witnessing of such displays. Can you not see, not feel that she is dead? That she, most likely never truly lived? Fools, fools, desperate fools…

Andruil had pitied them, at first – then, as her hatred of them had solidified, another thought had begun to form, gaining substance along with her hate. If these non-people, she'd reckoned, could be fooled so easily into worshipping dead rock, how little would it take for them to worship true power? How little would she have to show of herself, for temples to bear her image on their doors, her statues on their altars? How little would it take to raise an army in her name, and find the one…oh, the one…that had brought her so low?

Wolves were no match for well-aimed arrows. Even less so for millions of them – this thought too, had given her strength to endure. She would find him, the man that had taken from her everything, and, in good time, she would kill him and take…She would take all.

One night, when the one non-person that she did not hate, the one she inwardly called aging, but whose name was Rylan visited, to sneak for her some food and a kind word, Andruil had thought to share with him her plans; if anything, he did not seem to like the Mothers and Sisters of Andraste. He did not raise his voice or hand to her, and maybe he did not even like Andraste, for he never knelt before the pictures on the walls.

It would be him that she'd show first – thus, on that night, behind the kitchen door, and but a foot away from the pig sty, she'd shown him the least of her power that she had – she'd made a spark of veil fire rise from her hand, a little tiny one. His terror had been striking and immediate, his gaze suddenly clouded as if in a moment he'd imbibed barrels, and at the very next one sobered. He'd neither fled nor struck her, as she'd for a heartbeat feared he would, but instead closed his hand over hers, quenching the little flame.

'No,' he had emphatically said, shaking his head. 'No.'

'No?' she had asked.

'No, no,' Rylan had repeated, in a panicked rush. 'If they see this…'

'Eyes open'd, shining before me, greater than mountains, towering mighty, hand all outstretch'd, stars glist'ning as jewels?' Andruil had questioningly recited.

'If they see this, they'll kill you, girl,' Rylan had said.

'Kill me!' she had protested; these words she knew, but the human before her did not understand that she did. His features cast in fear, rather than anger, he'd squeezed her hand before letting it go, then slowly, as if not to cause her fear in turn, he'd reached out for her throat. Andruil had nonetheless flinched, for the madwoman sometimes grabbed her by the throat as well, and it was never pleasant.

He'd raised his hands, as if to reassure her, so she had stood still, allowing him to touch her. His hand went all the way around her neck, but he did not squeeze. 'Hang…choke you,' he said. 'Not ha-ha choke. It is enough that you're an elf, if you're a mage too…'

'Elvhen?' She'd queried, frowning. This word she knew for sure, and it was him saying it wrong.

'Elf,' Rylan had said – she did not try to repeat after him this time, so he thought she did not understand. Slowly, gently, he reached though her hair with both hands to touch the pointy tips of her ears. 'Elf,' he repeated, then lowered his right hand to keep her fist closed, and decisively shake his head once more. 'No. Elf. Mage. No.'

It had been thus that they were found, upon an unlucky heartbeat – one of the other kitchen maids, had stalked out of the kitchen door, balancing the pig feed on her hip; she had not dropped it, at the sight of them, she'd merely looked at them for the blink of an eye and saw precisely what she wanted to – one of the man's hands in the elven woman's hair. The other, on her wrist, him, leaning in to whisper.

It was enough to make the maid wickedly grin, as she went on her way. Rylan Ostwyn cursed, and hastily stood well away from Andruil, but the damage was done already. She had tasted the whip for the first time that night, as shouts of anger filled the hall where she was finally allowed reprieve. She could not grasp much meaning, in it all. She barely heard what was spoken, but the word whore was said many enough times, and then, once more, as the maid who'd so wickedly turned a moment of trust against Andruil had passed her, and spat upon her filthy bedding, joy shining in her eyes.

'Whore,' she'd repeated, in gurgling satisfaction. 'That'll teach ya…Elven whore.'

Too grievously wounded, Andruil had merely turned her back to the other woman, and, in between sleep and waking, she had tried to stop listening to the voices, which were still loudly echoing through the hall. In the end, for pain would not allow sleep to descend, she had tried to drown the words out and merely listen for his footsteps. The sound came, at long last, and the man did not rush past her, as she'd assumed he would; he had not felt the whip, but Mother Petunia had screamed at him for the best part of the night. Despite the fact that he too had had a lashing, and provoked ire with the person in power, the man stopped by her side, and gently pulled the bedding aside to see her shoulders.

He'd cringed at the sight, and rushed to look away. 'I will not leave you, girl,' he'd whispered.

'No?' she had weakly asked.

'No, not to these crazies.'

There was another new word, there, but she nodded, and weakly said 'Yes.'

'Good girl,' Rylan had said. 'I won't come see you for a while,' he started.

She nodded her head. 'Yes.'

'But you be good,' the man said, swallowing dry. 'Be good. No mage,' he whispered to her. 'No mage. No elf.'

'Elvhen,' Andruil corrected.

'No elf,' he corrected in turn, then, under Mother Petunia's stark gaze he turned and left.

She was not strong enough to hunt that night, nor was she strong enough to hunt on the next. On the third night though, she hunted and ate her fill without bothering to make fire, then, nude, she stood above a clear lake and took in her form, no longer thinking how to change her body into that of the lynx or of the deer, or of the tiny dormouse.

Andruil had stood above the water's mirror, in the still of night, and looked at herself: her coal black hair caressed the back of her knees.

'No elf,' she had spoken out loud, and tilted her head so she could see the tips of her ears shift to round. It was an effort, but she thought she could do more, so she closed her green eyes and thought of her hair, from root to tip.

She made it gold and wavy.

'No elf,' Andruil had said to the mirror of the lake. 'Andraste.'

No elf, hear me now? Andraste!

Uhhh, we's in trouble now!

Thank you for reading and commenting,

Abstract & IvI