A/N: Sorry for the delay. Updates will continue to be slow, but hopefully not quite that slow.
Chapter 3
"Are you sure it was wise to leave Solas behind?" Cassandra asked, stepping over a fallen log. "He appears to have some understanding of the rifts."
Loki led the way through the Hinterlands with the sun beginning to dip behind the Frostback Mountains. Varric followed Cassandra, and Lavellan brought up the rear.
"We closed the rift in the Hinterland outskirts without his assistance," he said, irritated that Cassandra doubted him. He had the anchor, not Solas.
"I suppose," Cassandra allowed, still sounding doubtful.
He had intentionally left the old elf back at Haven. They might technically be allies for the moment, but he needed some time to think, to take stock of his surroundings without the Dread Wolf watching and offering distracting comment.
He knew better than anyone that a god of lies and rebellion wasn't to be trusted.
"You are uneasy, Seeker?" Varric asked, only slightly goading.
"It is none of your business, dwarf."
"Come now, Cassandra," Loki said, openly goading. "Don't be coy."
She huffed in disapproval. He could see why Varric irritated her so much – it was a lot more fun than poking Lavellan.
The Dalish elf was silent at the back of their little party, her eyes scanning the lightly wooded area around them. The rest of the group could have been statues for all the attention she gave them. Varric said it was a Dalish thing.
"I wonder who you might be," Cassandra said after several minutes of walking in silence. "Your reaction to the apostates warring at the crossroads was… troubling."
"Oh?" He hadn't reacted much at all. What did he care if assorted mortals chose to murder each other?
"You are a mage, yet you care nothing for the rebellion. You don't care about the circle or the Templars either."
"Are you going to accuse me of being from Tevinter again?"
"Whoever you are, it is clear you are not from here. And you are nobility," she said, nodding decisively.
"That is clear, is it?" He looked back over his shoulder at her.
"I have lived in Orlais for a decade. I know the signs."
Varric laughed.
They kept their eyes peeled for somewhere to make camp. The day had been long and sealing rifts was exhausting work. He alone could seal them, and there was no lack of rifts. But why he, the oh-so-important Herald of Andraste, the only one capable of sealing rifts, was expected to do so much busy work was beyond him. Surely Leliana could find at least one of the remaining faithful to pick elfroot and slay goats for starving peasants who didn't appear to be doing anything anyway. Most of the requests the mortals gave him he ignored. The farmers could chase down their own missing livestock.
"There is a place to make camp," Lavellan spoke up, pointing to an opening protected by a rocky overhang. One would think she was announcing a death or declaring a war, with her brow so heavy over her eyes.
She was dour enough to rival Hogun the Grim.
He didn't know why she hadn't left. Cassandra and Leliana had both given her permission to do so, yet she remained. Whatever she thought she was up to, she fought well and knew her way through the wilderness, and assistance would be necessary until he regained more of his strength.
It looked as though the weather would turn on them, so they set up camp quickly.
The equipment they were provided was hopelessly outdated. The strange aversion to magic – which apparently most of Thedas suffered from – was visible in almost everything. They could have easily enchanted their tents to be waterproof, but no. Instead, they spent months treating the canvas, drying it out, and then repeating the process every couple of years when rain started leaking through anyway.
He took one look at his tent and enchanted it anyway.
Cassandra shook her head but refrained from commenting.
"So, Loki," Varric began, dragging a piece of fallen log over to the magically lit fire, "what's your story?"
Cassandra looked up at the question.
"I don't remember," he said offhandedly as he took off his boot and shook out a couple of loose pebbles. That was his story, and he was sticking with it.
Varric scoffed. "Come on, at least put some effort in."
"You think I'm lying?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"It doesn't matter if it's true; it's boring as dirt." Varric sat on his log as though it was the most comfortable couch in the realm. "At least pretend something interesting and hard to disprove happened. It'll keep the chantry gossiping and chasing their tails for months."
"What would you recommend?" Loki asked, open to suggestions on more appropriate cover stories. Or wildly inappropriate cover stories, given what little he know of the dwarf.
Varric hummed in thought. Lavellan handed him a pack of rations and then walked off, her bow still slung over her shoulder. Loki watched her slink away from the clearing and wondered what she was up to.
"Let's see. Bastard son of a chevalier," Varric offered. "And you don't want to name them out of propriety. You can get years of intrigue out of that one."
Loki nodded sagely at the suggestion, and Cassandra choked on her rations.
"Or maybe an Antivan pirate," Varric suggested with a broad smile. His eyes drifted off to the sky as he spoke. "You can tell them you went to Haven seeking redemption."
"Oh, I like that one," Loki said, twirling a piece of petrified jerky around his fingers. "After years of pillaging, trickery, and lies, I crawled to your religious summit that I might turn over a new leaf." He smiled bitterly at the absurdity of it.
"Absolutely not," Cassandra said. "We are not pretending he is a pirate."
"Where's your sense of drama?" Varric asked, spreading his arms wide.
"No, she's right. It's too incriminating," Loki said with a sigh. "What about just a humble Ferelden peasant, on pilgrimage to Andraste's resting place?"
Cassandra snorted and went back to her food.
"It would infuriate the Orlesians, but I doubt you could sell it in the first place," Varric said with a doubtful tilt of his head.
"Why ever not?" he asked, putting on one of his sharpest smiles. "Do I not just scream 'uneducated local'?"
"You definitely scream something," he replied, shaking his head.
"Perhaps I'm long lost royalty," he mused. He was probably getting too much into the spirit of the exercise, but it had a very long week. He'd been king of Asgard for seventeen hours only four days ago. "A misplaced heir, wandering the wilderness. Exiled, perhaps?"
"Now you're getting into it," Varric said, tossing him a bottle of disgusting alcohol they'd found in a cave somewhere. "But unless you're another bastard son of Cailan, most local royalty are accounted for. And you look nothing like a Therin heir."
"A shame." He sighed dramatically. "I suppose I won't be claiming any nearby thrones then. Not by way of inheritance at least."
Cassandra looked at him curiously but didn't say anything.
Lavellan returned and silently started rummaging through her pack for rations.
"Where did you go?" Loki asked, still looking at his drink.
She didn't answer.
He looked up.
"Where did you go, elf?" he asked again in a low voice.
She graced him a frown. "Dalish business."
"The Dread Wolf shrine, right?" Varric said quickly, offering her a disarming smile.
She ducked her head and sat next to him. Apparently dwarves were not guilty of whatever crimes she believed humans to be complicit in.
"I would not camp here without paying proper respect," she said.
Ah. The wolf statue they had passed. It had been heavily cracked, one of its ears missing. Forgotten. Uncared for. In the middle of war-torn human lands. And stained with thousands of years' worth of pigeon droppings.
"Who is the Dread Wolf?" he wondered aloud.
"Varric is the storyteller," Lavellan said, focusing on her food.
"You think the dwarf has a better understanding of elven history than the Dalish?"
"Oh no," Varric said, holding up his hands, "don't drag me into that."
She sighed and fixed him with steely look. Then she looked around the camp and out at the woods and fallen rocks beyond.
"Fen'Harel," she began in a low voice, as though afraid of being overheard, "the god of betrayal and rebellion, the Bringer of Nightmares. He Who Hunts Alone." She rubbed her left wrist, where the skin was covered by an archer's vambrace. She looked at the three other campers watching her. "The Dread Wolf."
She was surprisingly dramatic for somebody who didn't normally emote beyond angry and offended.
She wove a story of Fen'Harel and the legend of the slow arrow. In the tale, an elven village asked the Dread Wolf to kill a great monster.
"But he took one look at the slumbering monster and knew it was stronger than him." She was really getting into it, looking at the listening non-elves without resentment for the first time since he had met her. Her enthusiasm was contagious and even Cassandra, who thought very little of Dalish legends, was absorbed in the tale.
"Instead of fighting, he loosed an arrow into the sky. The villagers found him and asked how he would save them. 'When did I say I would save you?' he replied and left. That night the monster awoke and attacked the village. It killed the warriors and all the adults and elders. Then it moved on to the children and opened its mouth wide to eat them." She paused dramatically. Silence reigned over the campsite. An owl hooted in the woods beyond.
"The arrow of Fen'Harel fell from the sky at that moment and landed in its mouth," she continued. "The monster fell dead, having never seen the falling arrow. The children wept for the dead, but they also made an offering of thanks. Fen'Harel had done exactly as the villagers asked and killed the monster with his cunning."
"What a terrible story!" Cassandra exclaimed.
Lavellan shrugged, and the spell was broken. "He is the god of deception. Making a deal with the trickster rarely ends well."
Loki considered objecting. Then he considered agreeing. Instead he said nothing.
"But what is the point of it?" Cassandra asked, offended at the story's conclusion. "They asked a demon for help, then everyone died, and the children were thankful?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Seeker." Varric waved away her summation. "They didn't want to fight the beast any more than he did. He was clever enough to kill it anyway, but someone has to die in these kinds of stories. That's just how they work."
"It is a warning. He agreed to slay the beast, as requested. He said nothing about saving them," Lavellan said, rubbing her wrist wearily. "Words can be twisted, and we may hear what we wish to hear, instead of the truth. A simple misunderstanding can mean death if we are not careful."
"A worthy tale then," Loki said. He wondered if there was any truth to it. The Fen'Harel he had once heard of was nothing like the reviled beast the Dalish described.
"I suppose," Cassandra said, grudgingly letting the point drop.
"Thanks for sharing that, Snapdragon," Varric said.
Lavellan smiled faintly and went back to her food. Loki finished his meal and thought about the cracked old wolf statue.
Solas left the apothecary in Haven and soaked in the afternoon light. The human who made the potions was rude at the best of times and openly hated elves when in a bad mood. He turned his face up to the sun, weary from dealing with the grating shemlen. The light glistened soft and golden off the snow around him, almost enough to counteract the vile green hole in the sky.
The 'Herald of Andraste', a title Loki had shamelessly adopted since the Inquisition had been declared, had only just returned from another day of venturing through the Hinterlands. So far he refused to take Solas anywhere. It was frustrating, but not overly so. Loki's absence was still an opportunity.
The ranks of the Inquisition were slowly filling up. A chantry cleric now supported them. A boisterous Qunari and the mercenary company who followed him had offered their services and were now doing their best to exhaust the tavern's ale supply. Menial workers joined the cause in droves, some claiming religious duty, others simple employment or desperation. Most of them were elves – overlooked, commonly slandered elves to whom the humans paid little attention.
Solas sat on a packed mound of snow and propped his staff on his shoulder, just a tired hedge mage worn down by the chaos. The elven servant who tidied Loki's rooms walked by, still busy working.
Her fingers tapped the side of the box of cleaning supplies she held, but her eyes remained on the path ahead of her.
No news then. Perhaps some of his other agents had something to share.
The tavern door across the path opened. Warm light and a tangled chorus sung by jovial drunks spilled out into the cool afternoon. Lavellan stepped out with a faint smile on her lips and her bow nowhere in sight.
She saw him and approached with a guarded look on her face. He rose from his mound of snow.
"Aneth ara," she greeted with a small smile.
He wanted very badly to correct her pronunciation but restrained himself.
"Greetings, Da'len."
She frowned at the term. None of the shemlen appreciated the implication that they were little, or young.
"You enjoy the tavern?" He nodded at the building behind her. She always seemed to be in there, although she never appeared drunk.
"The bard sings such tales," she said, blushing. "Her voice is beautiful."
"It is a wonder you can hear it over the cries of Iron Bull's chargers."
"They sing exciting tales as well, though not in the same way."
He could hear a shouted chorus shake the tavern walls.
She shifted her weight and looked down. "I hear you can see things in the Fade. Things from the past?"
"Word spreads quickly," he replied.
"Loki mentioned it."
Of course he did.
"Have you seen Arlathan?" she asked, childlike curiosity in her voice. It was unlike her. "Do the memories stretch back so far?"
"I have seen echoes of Arlathan, the heart of Elvhenan – as the spirits remember it."
"Could I see? Could you teach me to see Arlathan too?"
"It is only possible for a mage."
"My Keeper then, or her First."
"To what end?" he replied coolly. He had wasted far too much time trying to explain the truth to the Dalish already. "I thought the Dalish already understood the past better than anyone."
"Please!" Her voice rang with desperation. Then she composed herself and looked down. "All I ask is for a glimpse."
"What if you did not like what you saw? What if the past is nothing like how you picture it?"
"I would rather see it and know the truth than close my eyes and cling to lies," she said with indignation, straightening her back and looking him in the eyes again. "Our lives are built on what we remember. We have treasured these stories for thousands of years and long dreamed of something more, but all we have is legends. Please. I only want to see what is real."
Her need for answers was palpable, and he couldn't condemn that. But neither could he tell her the truth. Evhenan, though great, had been a hideous creature in its own way. No Dalish would accept that. "I am sworn to help close the Breach. Afterwards, perhaps."
Her shoulders slumped. Then she stood straight again, and her eyes hardened. "I apologise."
"For what?"
"Pestering you with my questions." She nodded in stiff apology. "You have made your opinion of the Dalish perfectly clear. I will not bother you again."
She turned and stalked away through the beaten snow.
He sighed and hung his head. Was it right to punish someone who only wanted to understand?
"Lavellan," he called. She paused and looked back. "I do not mind your questions. It is admirable that you wish to learn."
"I do not know whether to envy you or pity you," she said, wistfully watching him. "You have no clan. You are alone. But you are free to see and learn as you like."
"Do not envy me, falon, but I do not deserve your pity either."
She approached him again, more hesitant this time.
"Will you tell me about any of the things you have seen in the Fade?"
He sat on the mound of snow again and nodded at the spot next to him. She sat and listened attentively.
Loki flung open the door to Solas' room. It was still dark, but he could see well enough.
"Wake up, wolf!" he said when he saw the shape stretched out on the sleeping mat, huddled under a pathetic excuse for a blanket.
Solas frantically jerked awake, his hand snapping towards his staff and magical fire licking along his fingers before he remembered where he was and realised who had just barged into his room.
"Do not call me that." He glowered at Loki, but extinguished the flames.
The Asgardian smiled in return. "Solas then, my favourite little hedge mage."
He stood, radiating irritation, and threw one of his dirty pelts over his shoulders. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"We are leaving for Val Royeaux, and you shall be joining us," Loki said, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. His smile stretched across his face, showing his teeth. "We need to make a fine first impression."
A/N: Thanks for reading, and thanks for you patience! Reviews are always welcome.
Next Time: The Orlesian Empire