For she who believes

Fire is her water.

Andraste, verbatim.

This was not how it was meant to go, Andruil thought, simmering with fury. This was absolutely…

She was ravenously hungry, though while her idiotic companions slept, she did slip out to feed on the odd hare, and unlike others, she knew how to drink from a sliced cactus. For the first week of her army's foray into Antiva, she had considered teaching her herd how to do so as well, but then she had realised there were not nearly enough cacti to quench all of their thirsts, so she had kept the knowledge to herself.

And there was only so far that she could currently stretch Sylaise's powers; her soldiers might have thought they were well watered and content, but as well watered and content as they thought themselves to be, they were still dropping like flies. Two weeks into the march, she'd lost five thousand men and as many horses – she still had two weeks' march ahead, and annoyances abounded.

That blasted, master-less woman from Ferelden. She bore no blood markings, thus Andruil could only assume that she was one of the wolf's pack; the Great Huntress might have made light work of her, had she stood alone, but she did not. Ever since she'd set foot in Kirkwall, Ma'alis Surana had all but eclipsed Andruil in the eyes of her Ferelden following, and though she did not set a single foot out of line in public, or within sight of the non-people, she…

Taunted.

This mistress of a miserable fool of a king, taunted.

More than once had Andruil seen her dismount to squeeze life-saving drops of water from a prickly plant in the mouth of a soldier who could still be rescued. More than once, she had summoned water out of rock, and ridden amid the foot soldiers' ranks distributing it, and excusing herself for the fact that there was only so little one mage could do…The implication, of course, being that if there had been more mages, there would have been more water.

Those rescued in such a manner thanked the Maker and his Bride, but Andruil knew all too well that when they opened their eyes and looked to the one who had rescued them, they did not see Andraste's face. They saw the face of the Hero of Ferelden, and though this clearly proved all, people and non-people alike, needed living Gods, Andruil did not like another heavenly mother stealing her glow.

Even worse, a heavenly mother who knew – and Pride must have seeded all over the continent – because Andruil herself had lost track of how many bitches he'd impregnated. She had been told that an elf bearing no vallaslin was a flat-ear? A city elf? Unintelligible babble, words not of the Chant. But Andruil understood it all better: non-people were stupid. All of the people who left their faces unmarked belonged to the Dread Wolf, and were a danger to her. Those within Arlathan's walls, and the one who had managed to ride by her side, unquestioned.

Andruil had seen her feeding and watering the dwarf she had taken along, for leverage, and more than once she had had to remove the shade this woman provided for that accursed ginger Child of the Stone's cage, only to see it replaced in a matter of minutes.

And how she rode by, this woman! Never without a smile, never looking as if her saddle gave her rashes in unspoken places, flaunting, taunting, persuading…Even Leliana loved her more than she loved Andruil.

And she knew, the wolf's other bitch, she knew; once as she had ridden away from Andruil, she had said dareth shiral. If they were the first to come into the commander's tent, she greeted with Andaran atish'an. She knew…and she was not at all worried about showing it.

Just like a humble pebble in one's boot could make one's feet bloody, if one was unable to remove it, Ma'alis Surana was starting to give Andruil serious headaches. Sebastian Vael was not yet swayed by her presence, but Leliana had shyly begun to hint that perhaps some mages and templars could have been trusted, and keeping her under control took a lot more effort than Andruil liked to invest. Making her thoughts stray from the obvious was a continuous struggle, for anyone with even half a mind could have seen that their advance was not at all glorious or inspiring – if there had been but a village to conquer, but a minor skirmish to restore morale…

There had been nothing but sand, lizards and cacti for as far as the eye could see, and even Andruil had started to consider taking a sharp turn east, to Antiva City, and giving the cursed Unnamed Queen a taste of the water in her own wells. The poisoned wells, the only ones that they had found since they'd entered Antiva. The only thing that had stopped the Great Huntress from doing it was the fact that Ma'alis Surana had been absolutely enthused about the idea, once Andruil had actually voiced it in small council.

'Would give our men something to sink their teeth into, so to speak,' she'd said.

'And command of the Felicissima Armada would be very useful,' Leliana had agreed. 'An advance on Minrathous, from Arlathan, would be greatly eased if we had them under control, now that there is clear that the Orlesian fleet will not support us.'

Therein, however, lied Andruil's salvation, but she had made Vael speak the words in her stead.

'Impossible,' he had said. 'It might have been good if we had headed to Antiva City after Kirkwall, but now, turning east would leave our backs exposed to the treacherous Orlesians.'

And that was nought but truth. Andruil had nodded to her own wisdom.

'Nevarran support,' Vael had followed, on his own, 'is also starting to look…doubtful. Sister Nightingale's eyes and ears inform us that never has an army been so slow in assembling. Whether it is treason or incompetence…'

'We can't go brandishing words like that around,' Ma'alis had said. 'I mean, if it were to get to our men that Nevarra too is opposing our Exalted March…'

'They are not opposing it, if their King's letters are to be trusted,' Vael had helplessly shrugged. 'I would be more inclined to mistrust him if he were not an old enemy of the False Divine, but he is one. Yet, I wonder how much use we will find in their soldiers, if they take two weeks to pack a tent on the back of a mule, while the Legion is formed and moving.'

He'd decisively moved some of the ridiculous chess pieces the non-people used to mark troop positions across the map.

'At their rate of advance, they will join with the Chevaliers and bar our path within days. The fact that Antiva City is easy to take also implies that it is hard to defend. We do not want to be trapped defending it; best to stay the course.'

'If you think Arlathan is more defensible,' Ma'alis had said, with that innocent little grin that Andruil had come to hate. 'There's no sign that it is. It's way beyond ancient, definitely pre-modern siege machines…But, it does have walls, weak as they may be. Your call, Most Holy. Perhaps the Maker drives you to Arlathan for reasons we, the humble, cannot understand.'

'For she who believes, fire is her water,' Andruil had replied, instead of the Dirtha'ma that was hanging there, just there, on the tip of her tongue and on her lips. 'Our Hero shows a warrior's heart in wishing to march on Antiva City – I regret she has no use for swords, for truly, she is a champion of her people…It is why the Maker drives me to Arlathan; we must unite the faithful.'

'Wouldn't it be just peachy if fire was water to our men too,' the Hero of Ferelden had shrugged. 'As it happens, it's not – the Unnamed Queen could not have poisoned Antiva City's water supply. We are,' she'd reminded, 'very lucky that our food supply lines hold and no one has thought to harass them. Or well, we should thank the Maker for it, but the fact remains that it would be easier to supply both food and water from Antiva City than from Starkheaven, if it is the Maker's will that we take Arlathan. I trust the Maker did not send us like…a specific time limit to bring Arlathan in the fold, yes?'

Andruil had had to grunt with the effort of taking over Leliana's mind, now.

'If the Most Holy wishes to march north, the Maker will shield us.'

'Yeah, yeah. Us, depending on who us is. Are? I never get that right.'

'Ask the dwarf,' Vael had spat. 'You are so friendly with him that…'

'That one might assume he is a friend of my husband's, most Enlightened Prince.' Ma'alis had replied with a thin smile, challenging Vael to say that Alistair Therein was no husband of hers, since before the Maker they had not exchanged vows.

It had taken a lot of effort and concentration for Andruil to keep Vael off that thought, too. Any further word exchange might have made her feel like a Child of the Stone in the presence of a giant, because if Vael had insulted the bitch outright, she might have reminded all that if she chose to turn tail, all of Ferelden would follow her. To defend their homeland against Orlais, and keep it to the true faith, no doubt, but they would follow her.

Never mind, never mind.

Andruil stood up in her saddle, and looked into the trembling depths of the horizon.

'I see a stream!' she shouted. 'I see a river!'

Her army roared at the sound of her voice – well, not the sound of her voice, entirely. At the prospect of clear water to drink, and perhaps take a bath in.

'Do you?' the pebble asked, riding to her side and lifting herself in the saddle in turn. 'All I see is Tevinter phalanxes and Chevalier shields, glittering in the unmerciful, fiery sun that will not turn into water just because you say so.'

'I did not say what kind of river I saw,' Andruil replied.

'Crimson tide it is, then,' Ma'alis Surana said. 'See how much they love you after you fuck this one up. Bitch.'

She had uttered the last word in a whisper – her next words were a shout.

'Ditches! Dig 'em low and sharp!' the Hero screamed at Andruil's men, as she rode up and down the ranks. 'Set up camp! We will have water, we will have food, we will have shelter, as long as we hold this line! Go, go, go!'

Respite from the heat was given only to those who stood under the fleeting shade of a dragon's wing; a small dragon, nothing like Andruil had been led to expect, but, as she looked up she saw Beauty soaring, higher and higher, into the sun, so high that she could no longer see him for Elghar'nan himself was shading the little dragon from view.

'Like what you see?' the closest of her personal guards asked her, with such irreverence that Andruil had half a mind to turn him into ash right then and there, in full view of the others – she shot a killer glance at the man, and instantly stiffened.

His eyes were purple, and a sweet, flirtatious smile, that was ill fitting on his ragged, bearded face was spread across his features.

'Daren'thal,' she hissed. 'How did you…'

'Get into your head?' the man chuckled, in the same, grating flirtatious tone. 'I didn't, it was a physical projection, and not one of mine. A few Magisters banded together and well…you'll be surprised what they can do, if they put their minds to it…'

'I still know it is not real,' Andruil snarled.

'You do,' the other replied, smoothly. 'But I wish you a merry time in convincing them,' she followed, gracefully gesturing towards the troops behind her, who were still staring into the sky, in awe and fear, 'that it isn't true. Yet.'

With that, the man's eyes returned to their natural colour, and he started blankly ahead for a few seconds, before coming to his senses.

'Most Holy?' he queried. 'Why do you stare at me so?'

'Nothing, my child,' Andruil answered, forcing a smile. 'Go see to that our troops fall not prey to vile intimidation…'

A shade of doubt passed through the man's eyes, but he turned his horse about and obeyed, for a moment leaving his mistress alone with her fury and frustration. She would bring her troop to believe her, Andruil thought, but it would be testing, and she had already been tested up to now… Daren'thal and her minions had merely put on a masterful display, but dispelling it would be a further drain on her powers, powers she had taken but was not yet fully in control of.

She looked again to the unforgiving, cloudless sky, seeing only Solas vile barrier, wishing to think how she would dispose of him, how she would dispose of them all. Yet, only one thought clung to her, running havoc though her already too tired mind.

This was not how it was meant to go. This was not how it was meant to go.

If Celene Valmont had ever wished to imagine the pains of childbirth – not that she did – she would have probably thought that the moment when the Orlesian armies had joined Tevinter's Legion, twenty miles away from the Antivan border, was a good paragon for it. Never had two forces so different in composition and training, not to mention two forces that would have rather fought each other than fought alongside each other been compelled to work together at such short notice.

Compared to the boisterous Orlesians and their Chevaliers, the Legion appeared all but apathetic, which was perhaps to be expected, given the great difference in social status that the two forces had. Tevinter's land troops knew themselves of inferior caste to their mages, and were, therefore, resigned to thinking of themselves as expendable; it was also that, given geography and their constant clashes with the Qun, the Imperium's most important, and thus, best trained and most funded military asset was its fleet.

What the Legion lacked in training, however, they more than made up for in numbers and discipline, and Celene had been somewhat embarrassed by the lack of decorum of her own troops, from foot soldier to general. Once they had caught on to the fact that the Tevinter soldiers were indeed inferior to them, there had been no end to the provocations and insults – veiled, yet stinging at the top, but downright bloody at the bottom.

It was inconceivable to an Orlesian that someone could shrug an insult off; the Legion's soldiers did so, and never responded to a thrown down gauntlet unless the Orlesians actually struck first. Two or three drunken soldiers brawling might not have been an issue, and it was, in fact expected, but the frequency of such incidents and the number of people involved in them had grown to where it was beginning to look like a serious problem. For what was even more jarring, the fact that the Orlesians always sparked such encounters was embarrassing to Celene, but an apparent motive of great pride amid her all-male generals.

Even the fact that the Legion had, for the most part, marched peacefully through Orlais, keeping well within the negotiated couloir du passage had become a subject of mockery. For the Lion Empress, who'd witnessed first hand the devastation that both her and Gaspard's troops had wrought on the livelihoods of the common folk of the Dales, it was aggrieving to take note that most of her high command thought a war effort was not a war effort unless the marching troops robbed a village or two.

It was not that it had not happened at all - four or five reports of pillage incidents had reached her ears, but those dispatches had swiftly been followed by letters describing of horrible punishments inflicted upon those who had caused them, and upon their commanders. Even the heads of a few Magisters had rolled, and that, Celene knew, had cut the appetite for rebellion of those who still thought of Orlais as an Imperial province short.

In this, during the strenuous march, Celene had begun to envy Radonis. In her case, every infringement, no matter how large, by a noble, no matter how small, could not be punished until strenuous negotiations to the person's relatives, to the tenth degree were completed. The Archon, on the other hand seemed to have no such qualms in punishing his Magisters.

They were probably scions of minor families, yet…They'd served as good examples, leading her to realise that Orlais might have had its grand jeu and its Rules of Chivalry, but Tevinter had laws.

She remained sure that these too, were not indiscriminately applied, yet a Tevinter family's permanence at the top of the Imperium's caste system was only as certain as the magical abilities of their next generation. This made Radonis' equivalent of a Council of Heralds far easier to navigate, unlike her own, century long and bloodline based set of advisors, whose favour she constantly needed to court.

It was an odd thing to consider – one might have thought that ruling over some six hundred Magisters would have been more of a headache then herding together the six heads of the families that formed the Council of Heralds, yet…Once he was armed with a Senate mandate for the march, its terms, and its goals, the Archon was free to apply it without debate, mete out punishment without protest, and crucially, appoint capable people to the places where there were needed most.

She'd been surprised to find a female Magister as permanent liaison to the Orlesian forces, and even expressed her confusion that Dorian Pavus had not been named in a brief note to Radonis.

Too abrasive, and too politically charged of an appointment, Your Radiance, the Archon had responded. You will find Maryam of House Tullius far more agreeable; I trust your generals will too.

He'd been correct about the first part, but woefully wrong on the second – a woman, and a mage had caused Celene's generals to bristle, especially when, in the wake of one particularly bloody brawl, Maryam Tullius had suggested that perhaps a reconsideration the wine rations might have been in order.

Celene did not doubt that whatever was going on in the Tevinter council tent was at least as difficult as what was going on in hers, yet, unlike her, the Legion managed to produce at least the impression of smooth sailing and openness. The Empress still had to carry her train of six twice removed cousins into every meeting with Tevinter's command, and the things that came out of their mouths, sometimes left her struggling not to slap her forehead.

What they read as arrogance was, in fact, a set of propositions that might have made absolute sense – with its elves returned, Tevinter's supply chain was far more efficient than the Orlesian one, not to mention that Tevinter's supply chain did not depend on the surrounding countryside. The Imperium had offered to share use of it, as well as the provisions it carried. The Lion Empress had found the offer hard to swallow, too, because it was obvious that the Imperium's supply line only functioned so well because it had costless labour…Still, beggars could not be choosers, Celene had thought: the Orlesian army could either plunder the already beleaguered and impoverished common folk of either Orlais or Nevarra, or accept Tevinter help.

Once they crossed into the Antivan desert, plundering would no longer be an option. Tevinter's offer was a sound one, for however much the heart of anyone who did not accept slavery as a rule might have ached at hearing it.

She'd not had a chance of voicing her counter-offer, in that the Orlesian Empire would gladly share Tevinter's supply chain, as long as it paid for the work, and Tevinter could assure the coin actually made its way to the slaves.

'You'd have us give up on our wine, and replace it with the poisoned water you'll carry to us?' one of her cousins had blurted. 'What cretins do you take us for, Blight Bringers?'

Not a thought to the suffering slaves; not a thought to practicality. Just a slur.

'Our offer will stand,' Maryam Tullius had said, shrugging the insult off. 'When you deign to accept it, Tevinter will stand by its word.'

Celene had had to swallow a sigh.

'You must excuse them, Magistra Tullius,' the Empress had said, when she had caught the other woman alone for a few seconds. 'They have some remarkably stable views on…'

'Your Radiance means they do not like us,' the other woman had returned, with a smile. 'Worry not, I have quite a few loud and very dangerous cats to herd myself – I merely have the good fortune of not having to do so in public. I do find yours more entertaining than mine.'

'We wish we did,' Celene had responded. 'Alas…'

'I understand, Your Radiance. I am perfectly content if they merely remain impolite, and do not turn to outright disobedience, and Your Radiance must rest assured that Tevinter does not underestimate your efforts at keeping them in line.'

Magistra Tullius had given Celene a small, polite bow, and returned to her side of the camp, leaving the Empress quite vexed, for she was rarely spoken to so directly and earnestly.

'You know, Bria,' she'd said, later that evening, when she'd finally retired to her tent, 'I am starting to wonder if our grand jeu of ours is a weapon or a cage.'

'I think it is both, in parts,' the elf had shrugged, frowning a little as she struggled with the clasps of Celene's silverite breastplate. 'If we've learned anything marching alongside Tevinter, is that the Legion itself is weak, but that their chain of command is iron clad.'

'As well it should be,' Celene had responded, breathing at ease once her armour was taken off. 'They operate under direct Godly mandate, while we are marching against the Maker's Bride…and to top it all off, the one side of our army who does not doubt the enterprise is itching to go south to Ferelden. Our mages and Templars are ill at ease with the Magisters, and, to be thoroughly honest, the sheer number of mages Tevinter had brought is making me nervous as well. They basically have no Templars…'

'That would not concern me,' Briala had said. 'I've been to Minrathous, and I assure you, vhenan, it's not teeming with abominations or demons. It does make me wonder whether the way that we handle our mages is better than theirs.'

Celene had chuckled. 'Don't say that to Madame de Fer.'

'Not planning to,' Briala had laughed in return.

She had seated herself on the side of the royal cot, and thoughtfully glanced at the Empress. 'You look tense and tired,' she'd observed. 'Do you want me to call for a bath?'

'In a few,' Celene had said, sitting down in turn.

She'd covered her face in her hands.

'Gods,' the Empress had whispered, 'I wish there could have been some way of avoiding this…'

'And then, what? I told you what I saw; the Grand Enchanter told you what she saw. Orlais could not have remained idle.'

'Yes, Bria, but I've not managed to convince the Heralds of it. The only reason why they have moved with me is a chance of striking at Ferelden, even if it's only on neutral territory…And I can see their calculations all too well: unimpressive as it may be, the Legion will deal some damage. Perhaps a lot of damage, which will leave us with a weakened Ferelden to the east and a weakened Imperium to the North.'

The elf had smirked.

'Then perhaps it would be wise of me to whisper in Veldrin's ear that giving over command of their infantry and cavalry to us is a bad idea.'

'They're planning to do that?' Celene had asked, looking up in surprise.

'The one truly shocking thing about Tevinter that I have learned is that they are very aware of their weaknesses,' Briala had replied. 'They know we are better tacticians when it comes to land troops, so yes, that was their plan. They were not about to put the offer on the table until we reached our final camp – but if what you say about the Heralds and the Marechals is correct…'

The Empress had glanced attentively at her lover.

'It would not be unintelligent to use the Legion as cannon fodder, Bria. Would save a great many Orlesian lives. Unless you think that the Imperium would see though the tactic and be insulted by our conduct?'

'Insulted or not,' the elf replied, wrinkling her nose, 'it would be dangerous to us, because we'd leave the battlefield with the illusion that by weakening the Legion, we'd weaken the Imperium. Which I assure you, is not the case. That is not where Tevinter's power lies.'

Celene had sighed again.

'How many dragons do they have now?' she'd asked. 'Three?'

'Four are rumoured, though I have only seen the two. Believe me, we should count ourselves lucky that even the two that I saw in Minrathous are not flying overhead – our armies, excuse my Ferelden, would shit their breeches, and you'd either have mass desertions or an outright rebellion to quell.'

'Yet, they do plan to bring them? Otherwise, we are more than equally matched in numbers, and victory, if it comes…'

'They will, never worry,' Briala had replied. 'In fact, Lusacan is already here, in one of his projected bodies.'

'Might explain why the fatigue has eased.' Celene had nodded, and the elf had nodded in response.

'I have the feeling that Razikale cannot project her humanoid body quite that far, though it is said she can project her mind far further. The reason why they have not joined in true form from the outset is that they too thought it unwise to frighten our troops.'

The Empress had found it in herself to tiredly smile.

'You speak as if you had an ear in their planning tent, Bria.'

'Don't even need to,' the elf shrugged, smiling wryly. 'I walk in and out of Veldrin Pavus' tent at my leisure – the two of us have a common goal that is parallel to yours. Andruil must not reach Arlathan, and no human army may press on its borders.'

'You know,' Celene had quipped, laying back on the cot and crossing her arms under her head, 'I am unsure how much I like that. I would be very much happier if we did not face the Antivan desert as well as Andruil's army.'

Briala had given her an enigmatic smile, and a wink. 'If your people prove honourable, our people will prove honourable as well.'

'What is that supposed to mean?' Celene had scoffed.

'You'll see,' the elf had replied. 'Now, let's see to your bath, vhenan. You stink like an onion.'

'I was thinking more along the lines of herring in brine,' the Empress had sighed, willing all unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and merely longing for hot water and Bria's touch.

She would understand her lover's promise only a week later, when both the Orlesian armies and the Legion had occupied their position, along lines barring Andruil's advance to Arlathan. Once their tents had been erected, under the scorching sun, and even her stubborn generals had begun to seriously consider using Tevinter's supply lines, hundreds of eluvians had come alight but two miles behind the human forces.

Through them, hundreds of barrels of fresh water from Arlathan's springs and carts Tevinter produce had flooded into the camp, before the human troops had had the time to properly settle or even concern themselves over how they would be fed.

That day had been the first time since starting out from the Winter Palace that Celene had felt optimistic and even somewhat unexplainably elated, for, however discrete the Elvhen support might have been, it was undeniable and it had finally rendered her generals silent.

She only silently prayed that it would last, and that once the madness was done, the Elvhen help would be remembered; she very much doubted it would.

Hey hey hey, it's still us. No Occupation posting at the same time (sorry, we can only do so much).

Thank you all for sticking with us, and wow, whomever you are from Guatemala, you read this up in one go! It's the first time that anyone outside the US, UK, or Canada even breaks our top 5 readers' list. You're slacking, Iran, just lost your top 5 spot, better get to it :D

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