Then did I see the world spread before me,

Sky-reaching mountains arrayed as a crown,

Kingdoms like jewels, glistering gemstones

Strung 'cross the earth as a necklace of pearl.

"All this is yours," spake the World-Maker.

"Join Me in heaven and sorrow no more."

Andraste 1:12

It all should have given Leliana pause; it, in fact did, but not as much pause as it might have if she had not been living in pure, unadulterated mystical bliss, and complete, unquestioning reverence. She could not remember being so elated, not since her very first days in the Chantry.

Even then, however, the sensation of light growing within herself, even when she'd thought herself lost and too far removed from the Maker's path, had lasted only for a short while. The dream, the revelation of the Maker's mercy, had come to her in an instant, then, and though His warmth had had followed her since, allowing her to now see what not even Cassandra did, the past weeks at Andraste's side had felt as though she was living in a perpetual state of grace.

It was as if that first dream, that vision, was given to her every day, her spirit overwhelmed with joy, her heart refilled by His truths, her mind sharpened by His purpose.

How else might she have seen though all the fog of wicked lies that had begun to surround the Most Holy a mere week after the delegation that had so thoroughly insulted her had seemingly switched opinion? When, after such a short hiatus, letters of recognition for the Maker's Bride had begun pouring into Starkheaven from all the Chantries of the continent, and all crowned heads had bowed to Andraste – when even the Archon of Tevinter had hailed her re-birth?

Taken alone, the lines might have seemed innocent enough; it was between the lines that the poison lay, and Leliana saw it with such clarity as only the Maker could grant.

Tevinter recognised Andraste as the Maker's bride, Radonis wrote. He did not write, however, that he disavowed the false Gods – he merely provided assurances that the Northern Chantry, its temples and its worshippers would be protected by the Imperium's laws, that there would be no prosecution, no hindrance…

Therein, Leliana and Prince Vael agreed, lied the heretic's wily evil. His words meant no more than that the Chant would be a tolerated religion, and were, in fact, as close to an insult as anything could possibly be.

'He writes this out of fear, not faith,' Vael had pointed out, tossing the parchment on the stern, wooden table before him; he sat on one end of it, and the Maker's Bride on the other. 'He knows that once the armies of the faithful rise…'

Leliana, who stood between them, had nodded, and sat her glance on Andraste's resplendent figure.

'Once before have your armies laid siege to their city, Most Holy, and but for treachery, they might have triumphed. The Maker's children will not see the truth until Minrathous is taken, the false Gods slain, the plague brought upon us by their revival, dispelled. You must not heed such words.'

The Nightingale had lowered her eyes, in sadness.

'Nor should you listen to the proclamations of the Southern Chantry,' she had whispered, the words still catching in her throat. 'To our face, they bow, to our backs…'

'What do you mean, my Bird of Song?' Andraste asked, her beautiful eyes narrowed, in attention.

Leliana had shaken her head in dismay. 'My networks throughout the South inform that the Divine's own recognition of your Holy status is seen as a political movement too, even by those closest to the Sunburst throne. For what is worse, the Circles of Magi are in an unpleasant and unpredictable flux.'

'Why so?' the prophet had inquired.

'I've not yet learned, Most Holy,' Leliana said, 'but I will, soon. I have great faith in Vivienne, though we have not always seen eye to eye, but Enchanter Fiona and the non-aligned circles are a different matter.'

'Of course,' Vael had nodded. 'They owe their lives and continued existence to the false Herald, and the lassitude of the puppet she holds up as Divine.'

'Are they so great in numbers that they could become a concern?' Andraste asked.

'No, Most Holy,' he Nightingale replied, 'but without their full-hearted assistance, the armies of Ferelden might be weakened.'

Andraste considered for a moment, then lowered her glance and smiled, serenely.

'Our first Exalted March was one of faith; 'tis with the Maker love that true victory lies. As many arms as we have, He shall duly strengthen with His presence…'

'And yours, Most Holy,' Vael had said, bowing his head in reverence – and all had been good and bright on that day, just because the Prophet herself had found such words as to lift her followers' spirits.

As days passed, however, some darkness had begun to rise, and a tinge of sorrow had begun to taint even Andraste's heart, for not all her wishes were heeded. Ferelden aside, no other nation had been willing to outright refute the pact that Tevinter had struck with the Elvhen city state, and Antiva had squarely declared in its favour.

Arlathan itself had sent no recognition to the Maker's Bride.

With each hour, and with each increasingly threatening letter that went unanswered, it was progressively obvious that Andraste had been forgotten by the people of her Champion, and that Tevinter's claws had well and truly stretched over the Elvhen people's hearts and minds. If that was so, Leliana reasoned, it was not at all unlikely that Arlathan would either keep to its pantheon, or worse, adopt Tevinter's gods.

The Prophet's desire of marching on the Elvhen first had thus seemed justified – she'd freed them from Tevinter's chains once before, and once again she'd do so, and then, united in their faith, elves and men would lay siege to Minrathous. Logistically and strategically too, Arlathan was the easiest to reach target, and the weakest link of all. A victory there would remove all causes for discord amid the Southern Kingdoms, cow Antiva and push Nevarra openly into the fold. Thus reinforced…

However, if Andraste had been saddened by Arlathan's stance, the fires of her ire had only been truly ignited once the letter from Kirkwall had finally arrived to Starkheaven.

Not only did not Viscount Tethras and the city he ruled not recognise the Maker's Bride. They outright called her a malicious, warmongering imposter, and declared they would never fall under her vile snares while they still drew breath.

Varric's words had sent Prince Vael into a fit of rage, more so because the foolish dwarf had sent his poisonously well penned letter to all the crowned heads of the continent. Andraste herself had been visibly furious, while Leliana…

Leliana had fought her disappointment, and struggled to keep clarity, for Varric had cleanly thrown an otherwise straightforward offensive into complete disarray: Starkheaven could no longer march on Arlathan now, not in full force. Such a move would leave the city vulnerable to a counter-invasion from the south, which, given the tone of the letter, was not even unlikely.

Kirkwall's resistance would also hinder Ferelden's progress north, both by land and sea, and for as reverent the Thereins were, they would think twice before dividing their forces – not with a still non-committal Orlais sharpening its spears to its west.

The Maker's Bride needed Orlais' Chevaliers to advance on the Minrathous from the south. She also needed the Orlesian, Nevarran and Antivan fleets to blockade the city from the east. A pact between Tevinter and the Qun was almost unthinkable, yet only fools disregarded the unexpected. The Qun might have felt safe from a continent divided; a continent standing together, under the Maker's flag was a different issue altogether...

If that had not been cause enough for worry, both Orlais and Ferelden's rulers now had openly hostile forces whispering in their ear; tainted Cassandra remained in Orlais, by Celene's side, while Varric Tethras was a close friend to King Alistair Therein. Both boded ill for the supporters of the faith, and Leliana could feel some dark plan hatching in the shadows, though of its nature she could not eloquently speak.

The world, it seemed, was eager to proclaim its faith, yet not so eager to fight for it, and Varric's position had just made the plans for a divine inspired Exalted March look like a house of cards that might have crumbled in the weakest breeze.

Such thoughts, as well as guilt for her own lack of faith haunted Leliana's nights. On one side, she knew all too well that Andraste had had naught but her small tribe and the Maker's love to rely on, when she had started her first conquest. On the other, not even her haze of adoration could hide the fact that then, the continent had been ripe for such an uprising – heaving under Tevinter's boot, fearful of the shadows of its dragons, and, more importantly, with only one mentionable centre of power.

Could the same momentum be built now, when so many stood to lose personal power amassed over generations? Leliana wondered each night, tossing and turning between her sheets. There was no doubt in her mind that Tevinter's false gods, the ones that had been so evil that even their own kin had shunned them, would eventually spread the influence over Thaedas, and that continent would once more bleed under their rule. Did the Southern monarchs not see this, in their futures? If so, why did they dither?

Trying to get Celene Valmont to make a solid promise of troops and ships had been like attempting to catch water in a sieve; she wrote much, but said nothing. Antiva was reluctantly neutral, and now, Kirkwall was openly hostile, while Nevarran enthusiasm had sounded both cautious and contrived.

Have you come back to us too soon, Most Holy? Leliana asked of the heavens. Should the Maker have waited longer in pardoning our sins by sending you to us once more…waited until the world was ready for you…

When such thoughts came, guilt overwhelmed her. Often, she left her bed to pray – surrender to his wisdom eased her heart, but not her thoughts, and so, sometimes, sleep remained illusive for hours. At other times, it came, but it was dark and dreamless, heavy and stifling… for days, then weeks, Leliana dreaded the night-time. With Kirkwall's open desertion, one more thing burdened her, and it was only when she finally brought herself to confess her doubts before Andraste herself that some form of peace of the soul returned.

One day, a week after Varric's unheard of affront had still failed to push the South into making any commitments, or take any decisive positions, the Nightingale brought herself to speak her questions out loud to Andraste. She started out by begging forgiveness for the frailty of her faith, but the Maiden did no more than hastily allay such fears.

'It is not only in my heart that the Maker resides,' the prophet had said, kindly. 'He lives within us all, my child – the vastness of his power is too small for even me to contain. Speak to me unhindered, advise me freely…'

So Leliana did, laying a case for a different plan, one that she knew Prince Vael would approve of. Andraste listened, head tilted to the side, and golden tresses spread over her shoulder. When the Nightingale fell silent, she too remined so for a few moments, her fingers radiating soothing energies.

'You speak wisdom,' Andraste responded at long length. 'For as much as it ails us, not even wars of faith can be with faith alone be fought.'

Relieved, Leliana nodded. 'Alas, Most Holy. I wish it were not so…Yet, an offensive on Kirkwall is truly our best first step. Arlathan has no strength to boast, and Antiva will not move on their behalf. Our north is safe, thus taking Kirkwall and securing our south before we move on the Elvhen is the safest course of action.'

'I see,' the Maiden nodded. 'We shan't have to ask much of our Ferelden allies, not enough, at least, to make them fear for their own safety. And when the Maker's children take the city, and we show ourselves merciful to their inhabitants, who have been led on this false path by their leader, the flickering doubts the others harbour shall be stifled.'

Andraste gracefully stood, steely determination on her pretty features. 'We must not tarry overlong, then,' she said. 'Bring Prince Vael, and let us start to plan outright.'

In her turn, Leliana darted to her feet and nodded, yet her rush towards the door of the Prophet's antechamber was interrupted by the blonde woman's sweet voice.

'Tell me, my Bird of Song,' she whispered, as if in a dream, 'do you believe that all Starkheaven's forces will be needed to take Kirkwall?'

'I am unsure, Most Holy,' Leliana said. 'The more men Prince Vael offers, the less Ferelden will think it is put upon, not to mention the faster we will take the city. A prolonged siege would not demonstrate mercy, it will just cause many more innocents to die…'

'Oh,' Andraste sadly said, 'that was never and is not now our wish. It is just that perhaps we could create some confusion between our foes, by setting some of our men on the path north, at the same time. At the very least we shall scout our path.'

Leliana brought herself to chuckle, in relief. It was, she thought, too easy to forget that the Maker's Bride had not been a meek preacher, but a warrior, fully raised and prepared, in her first coming. She would be the same now.

'If that is your wish, Most Holy,' Leliana said, 'I approve of your thoughts; I also have a path, that might, perhaps, add to yours…'

Andraste looked over her shoulder, eyes playfully narrowed. 'Go on, my child. Where does our Maker guide your thoughts?'

'To the Imperium,' Leliana swiftly answered. 'Under the shadow of their Gods, they seem so steady – what if we broke that shadow, and allowed light to come through? What if we told them that their dragons are no dragons, but mere elves?'

'If one so high in the unassailable city would lend us his ears,' the Maiden sighed, 'yet…we know no such man, Leliana, child.'

'I know of one,' the Nightingale confidently spoke.

'Do you, now?' the Maiden asked, turning around in full, with curiosity rising in her gaze; Leliana nodded, and the Maiden smiled. 'Then proceed as you wish; may you walk the Maker's path, and may our Chant of Light reach the right ears.'

Leliana nodded, bowed and departed – firstly to reach out to her agents in Minrathous, and then, to summon Prince Vael, as the Most Holy had requested. Left alone, in her illusion of a chamber, Andruil laughed out loud, and gripped the windowsill to glance outside, seeing far more than the city she was brewing – seeing the non-people she was shaping, seeing…a chance to laugh in her own voice.

'You never saw this coming, Daren'thal,' she hissed under her breath. 'You never saw me…'

'Coming?' the response came, from one of her door-guards.

Andruil fully spun about, clenching her teeth; the guard sustained her furious scrutiny with hazy, purple eyes.

Not his own eyes.

The Huntress was furious enough to concentrate her energies in such a way that nothing more than dust was left of the man. She felt fear, for a moment but then breathed in and out. Her chambers were swept and scrubbed, as whomever Daren'thal had reached had been swept and scrubbed from existence easily.

One man, the Huntress thought, was not an issue; cities and countries were, and she'd have those...She'd have them, sooner than any of them even dared to imagine.

On the very other edge of the continent, Razikale exhaled.

'Such a thing,' Abelas said, his arms crossed belligerently over his chest, 'is beyond the realm of the conceivable. No human troops shall be stationed inside Arlathan, or even on its borders.'

Veldrin and Dorian sighed as if they'd shared a set of lungs.

'You've heard what Lady Mystery told us; despite Varric's resistance, Andruil is still angling for you,' the Magister impatiently replied. 'Are you truly suicidal?'

'The better question, Dawnbringer, is why you allow this creature any authority,' Lusacan snappily retorted, making Dorian roll his eyes, and stop wondering when and how he'd gotten so accustomed to having living Gods over for tea, in the Pavus library.

'He is, for better or worse, the ruler of the city,' Dorian responded, with courage he would not have possessed a few months prior. 'Given that we have a signed treaty with them, stationing troops on their territory without his permission would be tantamount to an act of war.'

'The humans in Halam'shiral also offered a signed treaty,' Abelas stubbornly repeated. 'Once troops moved in, it was not more worth than the vellum it was scratched upon…'

'Oh, Gods, again with Halam'shiral,' Veldrin caustically uttered. 'That's dead and buried, Abelas – no wonder you keep stumbling on every rock across your path, lethallin. All you ever do is look over your shoulder.'

'Those who forget their past are doomed to repeat it, Keeper Lavellan,' the Sentinel dryly spoke. 'There is no treaty in this world or the next that could convince me a human troop stationed anywhere near us will not turn with the wind of war.'

'So you would rather chance the human troop that's coming for you head on?' Vel quipped. 'Do you even have walls left?' she angrily muttered, setting her cold coffee cup aside.

'We do,' Abelas answered, 'and you shan't mock your legacy…'

'She's not mocking her legacy, Sorrow,' Lusacan growled, in boredom. 'By this point, she's probably wondering why she fought so hard to let you all live, when you slap away every hand that might help you out of your mire.'

He shrugged, and extended his legs on Dorian's desk. 'Maybe you all do deserve to die.' Lusacan indifferently concluded.

'Lord Watcher, please…' Veldrin intervened, with a little displeased smirk. 'He's perhaps right to fear…'

'We,' Abelas all but growled, shifting his weight from foot to foot in front of the eluvian, and looking more and more as if he were about to walk through it in a huff, 'are not afraid. You, on the other hand, fail to consider my position: yes, Arlathan's defences might be weak, but at least the city has found some form of peace. Do you, for one moment, think that I can chance unrest inside the walls, as well as outside them? We have already given you a third of our host, tearing our very flesh. How do you think my people will react, if I allow ten Tevinter phalanxes inside our gates?'

Veldrin grimaced, and scratched the back of her head. 'He does have a shadow of a point there, Dorian. If the Imperium's troops start pouring in, the people will think we've sold them all outright.'

The Magister groaned in dismay. 'Yes, Amata, but the alternative is that he defends the city with an army made of fifty Sentinels and two hundred Dalish archers...'

'…or he bows to Andruil, lets her get whatever she thinks that she can get from the city, and though this time, he knows his head will adorn the walls, he indirectly follows through with Pride's plan. I hope that none imagined that Andruil would let the Shem survive this, did you?' Lusacan asked, straightening slightly. 'She is as keen on the non-people as Solas ever was.'

Abelas audibly gritted his teeth, but did not answer, while Veldrin breathed in and out slowly, trying to still her temper.

'Is that what you are thinking of doing?' she tonelessly asked. 'Abelas?'

'Perhaps he's not thinking of that, specifically,' Dorian acidly replied, in the stubbornly silent Sentinel's stead. 'Perhaps he's thinking of reversing the wheels of time, and hopes that it will be the humans who are enslaved, this time around…'

The Sentinel measured all three with cold, golden eyes.

'I am thinking of neither,' he icily said, turning about and leaving, as he had been on the verge of doing since the moment he had arrived.

Veldrin covered her face in her hands.

'Well, shit,' she whispered – Lusacan's chuckles startled her.

'I wager you are now wondering why you let him live,' he maliciously said; his voice then unexpectedly softened. 'No, little sister, little brother, he is not thinking to do any of those things, and I don't need Mystery's voice to know it. Be at ease.'

'Ehh,' Dorian muttered, hoisting himself up from his armchair, and pouring himself a real drink. 'It's five o'clock somewhere,' he shrugged, to Vel's slight frown. 'What is he thinking, then, Lord Watcher?'

Lusacan straightened fully, and though one embodiment of himself remained behind Dorian's desk, another slowly shuffled to the drinks trey, and filled a cup, in turn.

'Abelas is not Solas,' the Watcher simply said. 'He is too honourable to betray, but he is equally too cowardly to ask for the protection he knows he truly needs.'

Seamlessly, the projection that carried the filled glass returned to the one which sat at the desk, and seated itself on top of it, one contour seamlessly melting into the other.

'Yours?' Veldrin asked; Lusacan silently nodded.

'To his mind, he has conceded enough to the humans already,' he continued, at long length. 'If humans – worse, Tevinter humans come to his city's aid, if the spilled blood of the Shem mingles with Elvhen blood, even if it is simply seeping into the ground…If Shem and Elvhen bones dry in the sun together, on the same side of any battle, he will have lost his world, or the idea of his world. Forever, this time.'

'Would it not be the same if you did it, though?' the Magister smirked. 'He does think you evil. He thinks,' Dorian whispered, 'all of us evil.'

'I am still Elvhen,' Lusacan lightly reminded. 'Elvhen like him – you, Lady Patience, are not, nor will you ever be one, in his eyes. Of this, I warned you, once upon a wall…'

'I'm beyond caring,' Vel murmured; she gathered her knees to her chest, and closed her eyes. 'If Abelas wants to brave Starkheaven on his own, and fears us more than he does Andruil, let him do as he bloody well wishes. I've had enough of him to last me a lifetime.'

'You don't mean that, Amata,' Dorian softly scolded, sitting back down.

'She does, at the moment,' the Watcher said, 'but it shall pass.' He took a sip of his wine, then thoughtfully looked to the ornate ceiling. 'I am sorry for you both,' he gently spoke, 'and it is long since I have felt such odd affection…'

'I find it odd, as well,' Dorian said, sounding almost resentful. 'You yourself said that the fate of mortals is of no consequence to you. In the end…'

Lusacan laughed, and looked to them both with an unreadable expression. 'The fate of mortals, yes, but…'

He cut himself off, once more before speaking anything of true consequence.

'No matter how you try, this time, there will be war, perhaps indeed the war to end all wars. Rebirth will follow, then. Such is history, such is time.'

'Can the Lady Mystery not spare us the suspense, and just tell us the outcome?' Veldrin sighed. 'Because if we're fated to lose, I'd rather surrender now, and spare all others; Solas has tortured them enough already.'

'Firstly,' Lusacan replied, eyeing her sternly, but with no anger, 'we cannot surrender. You, Lady Patience think as mortals do, still.'

'That's perhaps because I am one,' the Elvhen woman frowned. 'I am sorry, Lord Watcher,' she followed, uncoiling and darting to her feet. 'I'm dead inside, and have no fear of dying – if you want to turn me into an icicle, and dispatch me to Andruil in a suitable container, do it. Maybe it'll improve her mood,' she spat.

'I've no such thoughts, little sister,' the Old God answered, looking confused.

'Then can you bring yourself to help us with more than riddles?' Veldrin angrily rasped. 'For all our legends, and for however bad I've been at reading character in the past, you seem a good man. Sorry, God.' She mumbled. 'If war is coming our way, then let us make it swift – kill her, and…'

'Ah, child in time,' Lusacan said, smiling, 'I have explained what immortality consists of, and you yourself have seen proof of it, but you still cannot understand. It is no fault of yours, however, thus you stir not my anger…'

'While you're not hearing me,' the Magistra snapped back. 'Your anger is not what I am afraid of…'

'I think I understand,' Dorian said, out of the blue – she spun to face him so fast that her skirts all but swept all the cups off the low table they'd been sitting at. 'In vino veritas?' the Magister shrugged, with such a sad smile that her fury melted to despair once more. 'Look,' he said, patting the red velvet of the couch to make his wife sit back down, 'remember how at the very beginning of this catastrophe you feared that if we do kill Solas, we'll be helping him?'

Vel narrowed her eyes; behind her, Lusacan nodded in approval.

'It is the same with Andruil now, Amata,' Dorian followed, softly shaking his head. 'Let's say she's weak enough for the Lord Watcher and the Augur to kill her, in the very real, strictly physical sense of the term – what will happen? We've talked through the political and strategic implications of it lengthily. What we've not spoken of is that she actually made her way out of Solas' box. We also know she's eager to travel though the Veil again, that's why she wanted Solas and you…'

'If it was just war with the God of the false song, we would have crushed her already – if we do send her back to the beyond, she will just energise herself, little sister,' the Watcher kindly interrupted. 'Sooner rather than later, she will have enough strength to return. And then, she will come for Mystery and I, but she can no more kill us than we can kill her. So, we too will resurge.'

'Oh, Gods.' Veldrin said, no inflexion in her voice.

'Precisely,' Lusacan shrugged. 'This world of short lived creatures you so love will not see just one war, it will see many, one more devastating than the next, until upon the barren and scorched land only we and Andruil shall do battle for all eternities to come. Ironically, the very thing that Solas was trying to prevent, in a different lifetime.'

'Is this the future that the Augur sees?' the human Magister queried.

Lusacan breathed out and did not speak again in a haste. 'No,' he said, just as Dorian had put his arm around Vel's shoulders, in search of comfort. For himself, for her…it did not matter.

The Old God stood, and casually strode to the fireplace to gaze upon the portrait that hung above its mantelpiece. 'No, that is not the future that she sees. You ask me why I simply do not tell you our sister's mind,' he thoughtfully uttered, 'but this is just another of those things…The weave of history, or fate, as Mystery calls it, is frail and strong at the same time, like a spider's web; it can survive many a storm's wind, but not fingers running along its lines, even if such fingers have no intent of breaking it.'

'So, if you tell us what the Lady Mystery sees, we might change the outcome she sees?' Veldrin asked, shaking her head in angry incomprehension. 'Because, I'm sorry to say, Lord Watcher, stumbling around blindly has not gone our way for the past decade or so.'

Lusacan looked over his shoulder, with a little ironic grin. 'It is a matter of differing perspectives, I believe, little sister. If, in truth, things had not gone your way – if the fires of magic had not finally erupted from the false song's oppression, the Child of the Stone and his ally would not have woken the last of the Defilers. Pride would not have tried to use him to awaken his foci, you and him would never have met, and you, my little sister, would not have the power to both extricate the unchanging world from its predicament, and end the cycle of destruction that has been haunting all for millennia uncounted. You do have it, now.'

'You know,' he said, turning to the two stunned mortals, 'it is a pity our races cannot intermix. You two might have had such beautiful offspring.'

Well, well, hello again! Summer slow-down in posting again, but the writing is progressing rapidly. We have our armies aligned, and we feel happy :D

Thank you for reading and commenting, hope you all have a great and not overly sunny vacation :)

Cheers, Abstract & IvI