CHAPTER THREE
Shem'len/shem – racial slur against humans, literally "quick people"
Da'len – child
Three more years passed. Myra's twenty-fourth birthday celebration was a month away. The Shem'len were holding a meeting at their temple regarding the Circle mages' and Templars' rebellions. Myra was to represent her clan.
Myra knew little of the Circle mages and the Templars aside from what she'd heard from her clan and Darrell. She knew each Dalish clan only kept two mages at a time, lest the Templars come hunting them. She knew the shem imprisoned their mages in what they called "Circles", due to fear of a mage's susceptibility to demonic possession. Whether that warranted their imprisonment inside the Circles…Myra felt it didn't. With proper training, any mage could learn to resist temptation. Regardless, her disagreement with Shem'len policy did not make her eager for exile from her clan.
Myra burst into the Keeper's tent. "You're making me leave?" She couldn't believe it. After all her years of service, and the Keeper would just send her away?
"No, da'len." Keeper Deshanna said, standing from her seating on the floor. "I am asking you to serve as our representative."
"But I don't want to leave the clan." Myra followed her outside of the tent, tugging at her arm. "I don't want to leave you."
"You will not be gone long, da'len." Snow crunched underfoot. "Barely enough time for the frost to melt from the trees."
A clansman approached them. Myra let go of the Keeper and bit her lip hard.
"Keeper, one of the hunters hasn't returned. Should we send a search party?"
"Yes, thank you," the Keeper said.
"Keeper, please," Myra begged once her kin was out of earshot. "Do not make me go alone."
"You will not be alone!" She was finally losing patience. "This is not a matter of debate, da'len, and I do not understand why you must make such a fuss! You must go to the Conclave and you must represent our clan with the dignity a First should show."
Myra spent the night crying silently over having to leave the clan, the fear of losing her clan to some disaster and being alone creeping into her mind.
She never could have expected what would occur at the Conclave, nor the chain of events it would spring into motion, nor that she would be at the epicenter.
The Conclave and its explosion seemed to pass in a tumultuous blur. Myra Lavellan, an elven mage, went from a no-name, to a prisoner of war, to the Herald of Andraste all within a matter of days.
"That'd be enough to make anyone's head spin," Varric had told her.
She found it difficult to leave her cabin in Haven at first, the newfound responsibility of acting as the "Maker's" prophet debilitating her. So much weighed on her shoulders, and it seemed to be her burden to carry alone.
Cassandra, Leliana, and Josephine were sweet to her during those days, and her initial fortifications she put up around them slowly began to fall in favor of confiding her fears and worries to them.
"So much rests upon me," she told the three of them one night after they had brought a bottle of wine to her cabin. "If my each and every action isn't methodical and executed perfectly, I'll have the Chantry, Templars, mages, nobles, and who knows what else ready to rip me to shreds."
Cassandra scoffed. "They can try."
"And they will," Leliana said. "But that is what we're here for, Myra: to protect you. You musn't fear failure. Any mistake I can turn to an advantage at the flip of copper." Leliana's eyes twinkled with mischief.
"That is, if word gets out about these possible mistakes," Josephine said. "And we all make mistakes, Lady Lavellan. I could not even begin to list all of the ones I made."
"I'm sure Yvette could," Leliana said.
"Maker's breath, I'm sure she could…However, mistakes can make you more personable, relatable. I would not fear them."
"You must learn to trust us, Herald," Cassandra said. "Even Andraste did not carry her burdens alone."
And so, Myra slowly began to leave her cabin. She acquainted herself with Flyssa, Harritt, Threnn, and Adan. They seemed like an agreeable enough lot, though she still held a grudge against Threnn for calling her "knife-ears." She became acquainted with the War Table and met Commander Cullen for the first time. She flushed when he looked her way and cursed her racing heart. Mythal, grant me your blessing that this man only looks like my next mistake. Varric was pleasant company. He evaded personal questions with humor the same way she did with flattery and partial truths. She appreciated that about him, so she tried not to pry, and he afforded her the same. Cassandra smiled, seeing her out of the cabin, and asked her about her clan. She appreciated her caring nature and felt a little bonded to her already.
But her favorite person to spend time with, by far, was Solas. Oh, how her mind swam with questions speaking with him. Where was he from? How did he spend his time alone? What wonders had he experienced in the Fade? Before she could stop herself, she had shared her own beliefs about the spirits with him.
"Imagine if spirits were not a rarity but a part of our natural world like..." Solas began, "a fast-flowing river. Yes, it can drown careless children, but it can also carry a merchant's goods or grind a miller's flour. That is what the world could be if the Veil were not present. For better or worse."
"But what if trickles of this river already cross into our world?" Myra said. "The Fade is the river and its energies seep through the cracks into this world, the bedrock."
Solas stopped and put a hand to his chin, pondering. "It's certainly possible. The water flows more freely where the sediment, the Veil, is looser or weakened. Do you believe such?"
Myra nodded. "I do. I believe our realm already coexists with the Fade, that the Fade's energy flows through this world in ways we simply cannot observe or interpret. Some call this destiny or fate, but I believe it is the work of something greater."
"The gods?" Solas asked.
Myra shook her head. "No, at least, not in the way most people think of gods. I don't believe in the gods."
Solas raised his brow. "An interesting view for one of Dalish descent." He invited her inside his cabin, out of the cold, which she generously accepted.
"My clan never knew, of course." She shed her cloak absentmindedly. "The Dalish hold firmly to their beliefs, but I try to convey my views through my stories of the Creators."
"You were First to the Keeper, I presume?" Solas asked. He offered her a glass of wine, which she took. It warmed her bones.
"I was."
"So you must know many stories."
"I could not count."
Solas poured himself a glass and sipped from it. "Tell me, then: Do you believe the stories of the Dread Wolf?"
Myra crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. She sipped her wine. Her opinions about most of the other gods, such as Falon'Din and Dirthamen being best friends, "twin souls", rather than brothers, she'd already determined, but Fen'Harel remained a mystery to her. The Dalish seemed to view him with fear and disdain, but he must have sealed away the Creators with probable cause…
"I think there is much we do not know about Fen'Harel…why he sealed the gods away, or if he even did. Our stories are not a perfect history, but rather interpretation after interpretation. Much is lost in our oral tradition. As such, I'm afraid I must say I don't know whether I believe in the stories surrounding the Dread Wolf."
"A thoughtful answer, indeed. One many would not care to give." Solas sighed. "Such is the problem, many care only to see things from one side or the other. In a sense, I do not blame them. Much comfort lies in numbers."
"Agreed," Myra said. "But if sheep flock and wolves travel in packs," Myra smirked at him, "what does that make us, I wonder?"
Such went their conversations: a concoction of swapping knowledge and flirtations. But those fledgling days in Haven could only last so long. It was time to leave the nest.