Change of Scene
"And that is how change happens. One gesture. One person. One moment at a time."
Blackwall is very new to all this, at least in recent memory. They ride back to Haven together, and he finds his throat is hoarse from all the speaking. An amusing prospect, given how little he's spoken compared to his newfound companions. The Seeker pesters him with questions, and he knows that she's getting hard facts for her report. The dwarf jibes at him with the deliberate ease of someone trying to get him to reveal his secrets, but Blackwall knows all his tricks and meets them with polite but final statements. And the so-called Herald, the lithe elf who gallops ahead to scout and then waits for them to catch up – he knows her type as well.
She is firm, confident when she tells him that she knows he is. Clearly unbelieving when he tells him he knows nothing of the Wardens whereabouts. And he doesn't – why should he? But, of course, he cannot tell her the real reasons.
"Who nominated you to pass judgement on our order?" His tone matched hers in firmness, irked at the assertion that the Wardens would flee from duty.
"I do not pass judgement," she answered, stepping up and into his space. Normally, he'd back away, or pull his blade, but he does not feel threatened by this little elf with her angry green eyes and double daggers. "I simply state what we have observed. Where have the Wardens gone, Ser Blackwall?"
Her companions stand at an appropriate distance, watching without feeling the need to intercede. It's clear this elf is their leader, though he finds that unlikely. They are a motley crew that sound like the beginning of a bag joke: an angry Seeker, sassy dwarf and spooky bald apostate walk into a bar. That they are united behind someone as unremarkable as an unmarked elf in dark leather armour perplexes him – her apparent simplicity makes him wonder at the respect she seems to command.
"I cannot speak for my brothers and sisters." Blackwall says. "But I can assure you that their absence has nothing to do with that shit in the sky."
She is closer than he lets anyone get, nevermind the fact that she is essentially a stranger. She holds his gaze and he stares back, ruddy brown into deep emerald, and Blackwall will not concede. Is excited by the challenge in her eyes and her stance as she searches him for the slightest hint of a lie. She will not find it in his face. He has played this game before, was probably playing it before she was born, though you can never be sure of an elf's age.
"So be it." And then she is gone, out of his space and walking away. Leaving cool air and the scent of her in the air when she had stood.
"See you around, Warden Blackwall." Her voice is melodious and low and for a moment he almost thinks he is being seduced. No, the voice in his mind reprimands him, what's there to see in an old man wandering the woods like a hermit?
"Herald, perhaps we should seek an alliance?" The Seeker is at the elf's heels in an instant, offering advice, and they converse as the group walks away from him. He is left with the corpses they downed together, and he feels the moment slipping through his fingers.
Ripples in a pond. A small rock, a little elf who drops into his world and sends waves cascading out around her. He rides the undulation of the ripple before coming to a decision. When he woke that morning, he hadn't expected one of these crossroad moments where life can take a brand new course.
It has been so long since he committed to something. Prolonged company was a foreign feeling. But in their fleeting exchange, all hard edges and sharp, accusatory banter, he feels something. Inspired, perhaps, by the loyalty apparent in the three mismatched warriors that trail after the elf.
"They call you the Herald of Andraste?" He pitches his voice to carry, and it does. The party stops, and again they wait on her command. When she turns, the elf, dwarf and woman permit themselves to turn as well.
"That is what they say." The "Herald" walks closer.
"And what do you believe?" Blackwall doesn't know if the answer is important to him. But he knows that he will learn more about her by her answer, and that is important to him.
"I am an agent of the Inquisition." She gives him a look that's meant as a challenge. "Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine."
Unpretentious but assured, she puts a hand on her hip and doesn't drop his gaze. Her face is carefully blank now. Blackwall pauses, breathes in sharply, and changes his fate.
"If your Inquisition is a force for good, I would lend it my blade."
Her eyebrow quirks and her gaze falls to the carnage they caused together, only moments before.
"Your blade?" She offers a half smile and he ignores the implication.
"Yes. And more than that, I bring contacts that only the Grey Wardens can leverage." He steps closer to her now, feels himself winning her over with the force of his appeal. "A growing force like the Inquisition can hardly turn its back on a trained darkspawn slayer, soldier, and strategic ally."
"Well when you put it like that," The smile she offers him now is wide, and Blackwall has a sneaking suspicion that maybe he's been played. Like she wanted the offer all along and knew exactly how to get it. You are only as good as those you choose to follow, he remembers loosely, a memory that is all his own. What type of leader she is remains to be seen.
"Welcome aboard, Warden Blackwall." She turns then, springs forward on light steps and moving with a feline grace that his tired bones and stiff ligaments ache to witness. "You'd best fall in line."
He met the others, as the day wore on, and was impressed by each one. Strong mannerisms and opinions, and all so different. A sense of purpose guiding the lot of them. He pondered again at the incongruity of their arrangement: these able fighters and adept survivors were deferent to her? Ellana Lavellan, alleged Herald of Andraste?
But then he saw her close a rift and he understood why. After they first appeared, he'd tried to destroy a rift himself, stood amidst the swirl of the green, killing demon after demon in an onslaught that never broke. He'd abandoned hope and fled instead, found himself marshalling cottagers into a militia.
When the Herald spotted a rift in the distance, he thought she'd order them around it, cut them a different path because by now they must've realized that the demons just kept coming. But instead, she straightened their course and led them straight toward it.
It was immediately apparent to Blackwall that this fighting-the-rift business was second nature to them. Lavellan didn't even need to call out orders, as she had when they were assaulted by a bear, but instead scrambled up onto a rock and let her allies do the work. Solas, Varric and Cassandra fell easily into place, the warrior in front, bearing the brunt of the demons as Solas and Varric picked off the others that circled around. Blackwall, not sure what else to do, fell on the nearest demon.
A noise like thunder ripping through cloudy skies reverberated, and Blackwall paused so suddenly he was nearly caught by the upward strike of the demon's claw. Overhead, green light arched out from the rift. When he followed it back, the jagged light connected inexplicably into Lavellan's body, disappearing into her left palm. He couldn't make out her expression, lost as it was in the flashes of brightness and colour. But her spine was taut and her thighs flexed, knees bent to hold her exactly in place, and Blackwell suspected she was in pain. Maker, he was in pain from the nearness of it; the sound, the sensation of a primordial force pulling on him, beckoning him towards the rift.
The pressure grew, the demons quaked as if they too were being drawn back into the Fade, and just when he thought his head would explode, it stopped.
Lavellan was on her knees, panting. The other companions paid her no mind, Solas scooping up the gooey leftovers of a foe, Varric rifling through the remains for something worthwhile. But Blackwall stood riveted, eyes on the Herald as she struggled to catch her breath. Deep heaves and the air moved in and out of her chest; an impatient hand pushed dark locks out of her eyes and he noticed she was cut. A shallow thing across her bicep that had pierced her leather and bled profusely.
"Let me bind that for you," he is walking forward, feels he needs to help because the others are all apparently oblivious to her struggle.
"No, no," she holds a hand out to him and her voice is hoarse, like she'd run a mile through winter chill. "I need a moment."
She stands and staggers away, back turned to them.
"The Herald prefers some distance after a rift." Cassandra's voice, and the woman is at his side, following his gaze to the elf in dark armour and tall boots. Lavellan's hand reaches out, braces on a tree and he can still see her shoulders lift and fall with the exertion of her breathing.
"The cottagers said the Herald could do this." His voice has an awe that he doesn't bother to suppress. "Said she'd closed the rift near the Crossroads, made the town much safer."
"It's true." Cassandra is not given to embellishment or story-weaving. Her response is terse but complete. They'd done all those things and more, Blackwall would soon learn.
"They spoke of her like she was Andraste made flesh." Blackwall wipes his blade down, suddenly needing to be doing something as he tried to process what he'd seen. "I scoffed at them. Told them to bugger off and learn to take care of themselves. Told 'em there was no way a tree-loving elf was going to prance into their lives and fix it all up."
He glances over at Cassandra and sees what might be the makings of a small smile on the Seeker's face.
"And what do you think now?"
Lavellan squares her shoulders and turns to face them.
"Come on now. Less chit chat, more walking." Her face is flushed, but the elf's voice is firm again. "We've got watchtowers to scout out."
And she's past them, moving with the poise of a hart on a mountainside, her steps quick and sure as she brings them over cliffs.
He didn't answer Cassandra's question back then, chose silence instead and fell in behind the group. But he thinks back on it now as they ride towards Haven, and he decides that he isn't sure who she is or what her power makes her. But they close two more rifts on their journey through the Hinterlands, and he decides that he can get behind any cause that's trying to stitch their world back together.
"Thinking profound thoughts, Warden Blackwall?" She is at his side and somehow he hadn't noticed. The sun is rising and the angle of it makes long shadows from the trees, throws her in the darkness as shade from his solid figure obscures her slighter one.
He snorts. "More like wondering what's to eat for lunch. That, and how the Inquisition's chief agent is so bad on a horse."
She frowns at him, a playful expression of token disapproval.
"You noticed then," The Herald sits uncomfortably high in the saddle, as if ready to spring out at any moment, and the reins are gripped tightly in her gloved hands.
"I had a better seat when I was eight years old."
"You think that a pack of Dalish elves could afford the luxury of horses?"
Blackwall hasn't known many elves, though he did encounter more than one Dalish clan when he was in and around Wycome. He wonders, fleetingly, if perhaps he's met the Herald before in years long past.
"Don't Dalish have the whole 'one with nature' animal business?" He isn't disrespectful, just curious, and the Herald seems to understand that. He's glad for her patience and for the laugh that his deliberate ignorance brings out from her.
"I suppose we do." The sun rises higher and catches her face as she pushes her horse a few steps ahead of his. Her dark, wavy hair, pulled back from her face and threaded with thin braids, shines a soft chestnut brown in the light and her viridian eyes are lively. In that moment, Blackwall understands why some men lust after elven girls. She continues speaking, pries him out of his thoughts.
"But humans see many things in terms of coins and hard values. Horses make a Clan like mine a target for unwanted attention."
"Ah," he says, understanding. "Horse thieves."
She nods. "Yes, and worse." Her tone bears no judgement but he thinks he sees frustration in the contraction of her eyebrows. "Halla make less of a target – the humans have little use for an animal that cannot bear their weight or till their fields."
Her gaze moves on from him, scans the horizon and her brow furrows as she squints into the rising sun.
"Now, give me a halla or a hart and I'll outrun the lot of you. You and your heavy Ferelden horses wouldn't stand a chance against a Dalish raised wild hart." She glances back to Master Dennet, and the horsemaster grins at her barb.
"Savage beasts, the lot of them." The horsemaster says. "Too unpredictable, too skittish. When you're galloping headlong into battle against a pack of armoured soldiers, you'll be grateful for your clunky Ferelden charger."
"Master Dennet has a point." Blackwall concedes, if only to keep the conversation going.
"I have a point too," Lavellan runs a hand over her horse's neck. "These animals are big. My skinny little elven thighs get tired just keeping me upright."
He guffaws then, and the laughter is doubled when Varric chimes in with a "here, here" and a gestures to his own stumpy dwarven legs and the over-high stirrups of his human saddle.
"With proper instruction, anyone can become an adept horse rider." Blackwall speaks absently and knows it is true because he has given that instruction dozens of times. Turned twiggy stripling lads into proper soldiers, one with their beast and ready for war.
"Are you offering to teach me, Warden Blackwall?" He didn't expect the question, and at first thinks she is teasing him. But when he meets her eyes, her gaze is genuine and her expression hopeful.
"If it will keep you from falling off your horse next time we get to rift, I suppose I'd better." Blackwall is pleased and her evident delight. "For the greater good and all."
They laugh, and the feeling of company warms him. He hadn't realized how much he missed absent chatter and impossible stories. He was surprised at how easily it all comes back, the social graces and timing of a joke told well, the right questions in the right moments. The trappings of civilization fall into place around him, and he wonders if he deserves any of it.
When they arrive at Haven, his doubts are eased. He can do good here: when he spots bad form in the ranks of the training soldiers, when he sees the smithy overrun with orders and lacking able hands, when he meets the Inquisition's Antivan Ambassador, he knows that his knowledge will be put to good use. Will work towards noble ends.
He sits outside the smithy at the end of his first day in Haven, oddly at peace as the stars come out. Perhaps here, mired in the Inquisition's cause, he can finally redeem himself. He closes his eyes and offers a silent prayer to the Maker – may what's in the past remain forever in the past.
*
Josephine purses her lips in disapproval.
"This will not do."
With a solid thwack the Herald hits the muddy dirt outside Haven's walls. The elf is laughing uproariously, and cackles only harder as the horse rears and she has to roll away from the animal's flailing hooves.
"You really are quite awful." Cassandra's voice from the sidelines and the Herald is laughing so hard she can't get up. Instead, she lies there, her back on the ground. Glares at Blackwall as he shimmies his horse over and looks down at her, unimpressed.
Cassandra sighs, uncrossing her arms and walks over to the Herald, giving her a hand up.
"Oh, lighten up Josie." Josephine turns her eyes to Leliana's face.
"It was right for Blackwall to offer assistance." Cullen concedes. Of course he would, Josephine thinks. Training and rationality. Eliminating weakness. "With the amount of travel the Herald does, a good seat is essential."
She sighs and pushes a curl behind her ear wishing that her fellow advisors would take their position more seriously. Just this morning, more threats from the Chantry arrived, demanding they hand over the heretic and abandon their blasphemous cause.
That same heretic was groaning now as Cassandra gave her a boost back into the saddle.
"I don't see why you need to hit me too, Blackwall." Her usually melodious voice is disgruntled now, and Josephine can tell she's feeling the results of the morning's trials. "Isn't it enough to just gallop around in circles, mocking me?"
"You think an angry Templar is going to settle for mocking you from afar?" Blackwall wheels around, a single unit of power and control on his horse. Him, Josephine approves of. When Lavellan groans, the Ambassador wonders at the contrast of it all: one moment, the Herald is all elegant words and rousing speeches. The next, she's laughing like a teenager rolling in the mud.
"Ugh." Josephine's noise of frustration draws surprised glances from both Cullen and Leliana. "I can't watch this any longer. She is literally rolling in the mud."
Blackwall's instructive lecture complete, the two horses part, and the Warden gallops at her again, practice sword out. The Herald tries to swerve out of the way, to duck under his blade but even Josephine can tell the angle is all wrong.
Whack.
Straight across the collarbones and she's in the air. Almost. One foot caught in a stirrup and she hangs awkwardly off the side of the horse. Varric's laughter is so loud it wins out over her strangled shouts.
"Josie, these people see her trying to improve herself." Leliana again, but Josephine isn't sold.
Thump. The Herald's foot has come loose and she's back on the ground, Cassandra at her side. Blackwall, seasoned trainer that he is, recites her mistakes and the Herald tries to look attentive as she listens. Tries, but there are limits to how studious one can look when splayed across the ground, caked in dirt and blossoming bruises.
"Surely, that isn't so bad?" Leliana's tone is patient, and Josephine knows that her friend is secretly laughing inside: Leliana is always devilishly amused by Josephine's sensibilities.
"I will admit, the Herald certainly has grit." Cullen almost sounds impressed as the elf hoists herself back in the saddle and gets in position once more. "It does not hurt that our soldiers see her dedication."
"Or her humanity." Leliana adds.
Josephine knows these are important points, but she cannot be so certain. Ellana is an elf, after all. Even though the rumours say she walks with Andraste's blessing, cultivating an image of piety and justice will not be easy. It's hard to believe that falling on her behind or rolling in the mud will bridge the gap between their races.
But this time, the Herald manages to keep her seat as she charges at Blackwall. She pivots in the saddle, rotating with a deftness no human could match, and her blade connects with Blackwall's shoulder. A cheer goes up amongst the townsfolk who've come to watch the spectacle.
"See?" Leliana raises an eyebrow at her, to which Josephine huffs out a breath.
"Fine." The Ambassador spins with a rustle of her skirts, and marches up the steps to the Chantry, recognizing when she has lost. Instead of arguing with those she will not convince, she returns to the small solace that her make-shift study provides. When she sits at her desk again and eyes the stack of unopened letters, she feels the beginning of a headache creep up on her.
Haven is a musty, drafty place but it is also theirs out of tentative goodwill. The hard Ferelden furniture and biting cold are not to Josephine's liking, but she knows all too well how little say they have in the matter. The Herald and her team may have done good work at the Crossroads, and the addition of Mother Giselle and the Warden Blackwall have bolstered the townsfolk's confidence in the moral stance of their mission. But with each letter she opens, the Inquisition is either scolded for their foolishness or condemned for their heretical beliefs. Chantry Mothers, Chancellors, Orlesian nobles and Ferelden teyrn's who see little change in the discord in their lands. Each with their own demands or instructions.
When Leliana first offered her the position of Ambassador, Kirkwall was aflame and civil war erupted around the Royal Palace in Orlais. The chaos was palpable and Leliana was a friend: in the spymaster's words, Josephine felt both desperation and sincerity. This crisis needed an intervention. Josephine, remembering the days when she longed to be a Bard and play at secrets and control, was allured in equal parts by the opportunity for positive change and the promise of power.
Sitting in the flickering candlelight, wishing for a warm cup of tea that she knew she couldn't have, she felt neither of those things. Felt powerless, unable to evoke the kinds of changes she wanted to see. The door creaked open gently, and green eyes peaked around the edge.
"Ambassador, do you have a moment?"
Startled, Josephine straightened.
"Of course." She corrected her spine, pulled her shoulders back and gestured expansively to the humble seat in front of her. Wished she could offer the Herald some of that tea she'd imagined. In the Antivan Embassy, any guest would have been announced and treated to aperitifs and soft music. Josephine lets the homesick longing and regret fall away like leaves in autumn. She puts a welcoming smile on her face instead.
"Is there anything I can do for you?"
For the first time that Josephine can remember, the Herald looks almost bashful. Josephine is used to the intent, attentive Herald, listening to mission instructions. And she is used to the assertive, teasing Herald, when Lavellan knows she has the higher ground. This elf, standing in the doorway, still spattered with mud from the training yard, her hair a lopsided mess, is neither of these extremes.
"Come in, Herald." Josephine stands and walks around the table, her ledger in hand in case she needs to make notes. "Whatever could you have to apologize for?"
"The spymaster scolded me." Josephine has noticed that the Herald does not often say Leliana's name. She has been monitoring the relationship between the two ever since Leliana's heated 'interrogation'. Another instance of Leliana going too far, too quickly, Josephine thought.
"Indeed? And what have you done that is so deserving of reproach?"
Lavellan pulls herself full around the door, closing it behind her.
"Apparently the 'Herald of Andraste' isn't supposed to 'frolic in the mud like a pagan child.'"
Josephine held in a sigh.
"Is that what Leliana said?"
Lavellan nodded. Josephine noticed the beginnings of a bruise up from her collarbone and along the base of her neck. The colour was muddy on the Herald's sun-browned skin, and Josephine wished she could wipe the mark away.
"She said you were most distressed." Lavellan's hands are clasped in front of herself, twisting nervously in her dark leather gloves. Cassandra and Cullen had chosen her armour; dark leathers with a sturdy vest and a utility belt. High supple boots and tight breeches for maximum movement. We must not hinder her speed, Cassandra had insisted. It is her greatest asset. Cullen had been nervous about the lack of protective layering, but the armour fit Lavellan like a glove, made her look capable. Like a leader. Josephine approved. Except when it was covered in mud from the Haven training yard.
"Is it because I'm an elf?"
Josephine snapped out of her thoughts at the trace of worry in the Herald's tone.
"Of course not," she insisted quickly, and then she cursed herself for the fatal flaw of diplomacy: reacting with feeling before thought. "Well, in truth…" The words tapered off. She sighed. "Have a seat, Herald."
Josephine was reassured by the familiar arrangement – seated with pristine posture, across the negotiating table from a colleague. This was how the Ambassador best prepared for a sensitive conversation. It is a moment too late when she realizes that this was also where the Herald sat and was berated by Leliana. Josephine still did not know the full contents of their conversation – Leliana refused to share – but she could tell from the tension in the Herald's shoulders that the elf was thinking back to that moment.
"I spoke in haste, Herald, and I apologize." She laid one hand over the other, meeting Lavellan's gaze. "Because you are an elf, the Inquisition must be especially sensitive as to your external appearance."
"So frolicking in the mud is out? Too stereotypical for forest-bred knife-ear?" The words are harsh, but Lavellan's face is a neutral pane, revealing no hurt or sensitivity.
"I did not use those words." Josephine is bitter at Leliana for a moment, and wonders why the spymaster found it fit to intervene.
"You are not most humans, Ambassador."
"Ah." Lavellan had heard, then. Of course she had – you couldn't travel amongst humans and avoid the slurs and allegations. "I apologize for the rumours."
The Herald laughs, but there is no mirth in it.
"Ambassador, you forget that I lived in Kirkwall." Her smile then is crooked and dark. "Baby-snatching, human sacrifice, dancing naked in the moonlight – there isn't a rumour under the sun I haven't heard and laughed at."
"Dragon mating?"
Lavellan's eyebrows shoot up.
"Well, now, I'm impressed." She is teasing, and Josephine relaxes slightly. "That's one I've heard about the Qunari, but not about elves. But really. Have the shems ever seen a dragon? Or an elf? There's some basic anatomy that doesn't line up there."
Josephine joins her in the laughter, but she also realizes the, in some ways, the Herald has seen more of the world that she has. Dragons and Dalish elves – sleeping under the stars. It was terrible to indulge in the same stereotypes they were discussing, but the Herald's travels in the wilds of Thedas were a source of wonder to the Ambassador.
"Still, you are our Herald." Josephine's voice is warm with genuine affection: another elf in Lavellan's shoes might be less forgiving. She is grateful that Lavellan is who she is – unfathomable as her survival was, the Inquisition had received no greater boon. "It does not do to have you or your people disrespected in our own camp."
"I hardly think the Dalish consider me one of their own." She gestures to her face and it takes a moment for Josephine to follow. The absence of vallaslin – for an elf of Lavellen's age that lack is atypical.
"It matters not what they think – superficially, humans will always see you as an elf." Josephine is thinking now, assessing their options. "I will do my best to quell these rumours."
Lavellan leans back and crosses an ankle across her knee. "And what will you replace them with? Andrastian propaganda?"
"Yes," she answers truthfully, levelling her gaze with the elf. "And maybe even some truth, just for fun."
Lavellan quirks an eyebrow. Josephine is taken for a moment at how elegant her face is, high arching cheekbones and smooth slopes.
"So daring, Ambassador." Another teasing note and sincere grin. Josephine flashes her a coy smile in return.
"Indeed. Now it would help me if I knew a little more of how your Clan lived."
The Herald sighs in thought, sitting back in her chair.
"I take it you did not read my journals?" The question is a guarded one, and Josephine can no longer read the Herald's expression. She wonders, not for the first time, what details lay in the journals that did not make it into Leliana's report. With all the inquiries they received after the explosion at the Conclave, she'd had little opportunity to read the Herald's journal herself.
"No, I did not."
The Herald lets out a small breath. Her voice is different when she speaks again, strictly controlled to ebb and flow with the rises and swells of her narrative. A storyteller's voice, Josephine realizes, and she distantly remembers her lessons in Dalish culture. A people of oral tradition, clinging to a past that ennobled them through shared tales, told across time.
Lavellan speaks of her Clan and its Keeper. Of her father and mother, the warleader and his huntress partner. Of the hearthmistress, and the warm bannock she cooked. She painted each with a colour and a liveliness that swept Josephine along, buoyant on the flow of her words. In between the descriptions of custom and culture, she wove her own story. Told of her father, his darkness, and their trip to Kirkwall.
"Elhan is a hunter now," she spoke of her brother with a warmth that made Josephine realize just how distant she normally was. The affection in her words on Elhan was unlike anything in her interactions with the Inquisition. "But when I saw him once more, after all those years…"
"Was he upset with your father? For taking you away?" Riveted, Josephine cannot help the question. She knows she should give the Herald time to think, but does not want to wait.
"How could he be?" Lavellan's knees are tucked up beneath her chin now, her eyes contemplative. "My father was with the Creators. Elhan was an elf full-grown and a father himself. He ran fastest, shot farthest, hunted best. He was more than we'd ever hoped for him, so much the grown-up."
"A part of me feels like Kirkwall was all a holding cell. A place between me and true responsibilities. I survived with diverse people and diverse ways, and for a moment, it almost was home." Her brow lowers, ever so slightly, her voice falling out of its story-teller poise. "But things changed. But it wasn't until I finally returned to my Clan that I realized just how drastic that change was."
"Amongst the Dalish, I felt restless. They are a beautiful people with a solemn, slow way of life. We Dalish survive on future promises, on the hope that your race will fall and there will be a place for us again in this world."
The Ambassador reflects that this is the longest conversation she has ever had with the Herald. She loses the sense of how much time it's been, focusing instead on the elf's words.
"But you did not feel at home? When you returned?" Antiva would always be home for Josephine, and Antivans would always be her people. Simple geography and time could never erode those bonds. But Lavellan shakes her head and gestures with a hand though words do not come immediately. When she finally speaks, it is clear that she has struggled with the question herself.
"Before I returned to the Dalish, I lived with another elf in the woods. We travelled, and she taught me much. I lost all sense of time with Marethan – I… needed that break. From everything."
Josephine sensed, in the gaps in Lavellan's narrative, that there was much hardship the elf did not share. The Ambassador knew better than to push for those details.
"And when I returned to my clan, they welcomed me as one of their own. The first fifteen years of my life were with them – their faces and ways would always be familiar to me. I guess what changed is that they weren't enough for me anymore."
That, Josephine can understand. She'd felt it too – a master negotiator and chief ambassador for Antiva. Where could she go next? Then Leliana had appeared with an impossible task. At first, Josephine had dismissed the idea as fanciful. But the more she thought on it, the more the challenge of the position demanded her attention.
"So when your Clan called for volunteer to spy at the Conclave…?"
Lavellan nods. "Yes. I jumped at the chance. How could I not? My experiences in Kirkwall made me strategically suited for it as well: my isolationist clan had little dealings with humans, but I had lived amongst them for years. If anyone could slip in, disguised and unnoticed, it was me."
Josephine inclines her head.
"An astute choice."
"I remember so little of the rest. I had only just arrived. There were so many people, and the temple was so beautiful." Lavellan looks up, pulls out of her thoughts and meets Josephine's eyes. "And then I was waking up to the lovely combination of Leliana's judgement and Cassandra's rage."
Josephine laughs softly.
"I apologize. You must understand what our position was."
"Of course," Lavellan waves a hand and again Josephine is thankful for her magnanimous ways. Chained and questioned – some might not be so quick to forget the circumstances of her arrival in Haven.
"My Clan must think I am dead."
"Would you like to write a letter to them?" Josephine asks, and it's so simple she wonders why she has not already suggested it.
Lavellan's eyes brighten.
"It would not be an unnecessary diversion of resources?"
Josephine smiled and reached out, took the elf's hand in two of hers. Lavellan tensed at first, but then relaxed and returned the Ambassador's smile.
"Ellana," the sound of her first name is foreign, almost daringly informal, on Josephine's lips, but the Ambassador realized as the Herald spoke that the Clan name, 'Lavellan', likely had less significance to her. "The Inquisition would be nothing without you and your dedication. If even the smallest acts can grant you comfort, I would happily perform them."
Ellana seems shocked at the sudden intensity of Josephine's words.
"Thank you, Ambassador." She nods, draws her hands back and stands. "I will pen something right away." She turns to leave and then pauses, looking over her shoulder. "I hope that our chat has given you some ammunition for your counter-rumours?"
"Certainly," Josephine says, though she doesn't know if that's entirely true. The more Ellana spoke, the more it became apparent that she was not entirely Dalish. But neither was she entirely a city-elf like the Hero of Ferelden, raised under the yoke of oppression, the victim of violent wrongs by human hands. But there was enough for Josephine to work with – she was, after all, born and raised an elven hunter, quick on her feet and quicker with a bow. The grace she moved with would support any story that painted her as capable, competent – a provider, once for her Clan and now for the Inquisition.
"So, I never got an answer to that question." She's at the door now, preparing to go.
"Hm?" Josephine tilts her head, a curl falling over her forehead.
"No rolling in the mud then?" The Herald is genuinely curious. She will stop, if Josephine asks her to.
"I suppose rolling in the mud is acceptable, assuming it's in the support of a good cause like your training." She replies, her tone dry.
"Good," The Herald brightens and Josephine is worried. "Because I also intend to do some unglamorous sparring. You know, in the name of the higher cause of my learning."
She disappears before the Ambassador can even groan.
When Ellana returns, later in the evening, it is to give Josephine a letter.
"Thank you, Ambassador." She pauses then, as if considering whether or not to speak. "I know you, or Leliana, or someone with have to read it. If I had the choice, I would prefer that it was you."
Ellana smiles and then is gone before Josephine can even muster a polite reply. Knowing the elf spoke truly – all Inquisition mail was monitored, typically through Leliana - Josephine starts to unravel the letter. Is secretly glad for a reason to learn more about the Herald.
Elhan,
Surprise!
Yes, I am still alive. So stop frowning – I know you're frowning.
Where do I even begin? So much has happened, and so much of it is incomprehensible. Inexplicable, like a miracle of Mythal. I am in Haven now and amongst allies.
Let me first confirm what you likely already know. There was an explosion at the Conclave: a force both great and terrible ripped a hole in the fabric of the world, opening a breach between Thedas and the Fade. The explosion killed everyone at the Conclave. Everyone except me.
I have no memory of what happened. When I awoke, I was with the Inquisition. They were suspicious of me, but also needed my assistance. You see, whatever took place at the Conclave left me marked. You may have seen the green rifts all across the land: the mark in my hand gives me the power to close these and seal our world off from the demons.
I know what you are thinking. You want me to come home. You don't believe half of what I'm writing. You think that few nights back in a camp, on the move, under the stars – that all these things will settle me and make me Dalish again.
You know as well as I do, Elhan, that when father took me to Kirkwall, he made it impossible for me to ever truly be one of the People. I could not tell you that when last we met: I knew how the admission will hurt you. I'm sure it hurts you now, and for that I am sorry.
Something has happened to me, and I don't understand it. But I know that this mark on my hand gives me a purpose I did not have with the Clan. I need you to accept that, and I need you to let me be where I have to be.
The mark scares me. It aches in the night sometimes, as if it calls to be used. And when I seal the rifts, it feels like liquid fire in my veins. But it is a part of me now.
The Inquisition has asked me to join them. They are not so different from you and me, human though they may be. Full of spirit and an honest desire to make the world a better place.
I saw darkness when I was in Kirkwall, Elhan. I see it still in the mages and Templars who cut each other down because that is all they remember how to do. I see it in the eyes of human children without enough food to eat – their suffering is the same as ours in the midst of a bad winter. And I want to do my part to remedy it all.
I owe these people my survival. Without their aid, I would have died alone in the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. And a part of me hopes that by doing good with them, I can change the way they look at our kind. Like the Hero of Ferelden made a name for city-elves.
I have failed Keeper Deshanna in that I have no reconnaissance that I can report. And I worry that I have failed you because it feels so right to be here, in Haven. I am lonely, at times, yes, and often the walls are just too much. Pressing in over my head like a prison. But I am free to come and go as I like, and what's more, my advice and ideas are heeded, my actions relied upon. You cannot truthfully tell me that I could find all of this amongst our Clan.
When this is all over, I promise I will see you again. Until then, I hope you can forgive me and can understand. Pass on my affections and regards.
Ellana
Josephine puts the letter down and sighs softly. It is nighttime now, and tomorrow they will prepare the Herald for the trip to Val Royeaux. Ellana's letter has saddened the Ambassador – something in the words feels heavy and isolated. Ellana, confident though she is about the Inquisition's intentions, writes like she seeks to convince herself as well as her brother.
The burden weighs on us all, she thinks. Are they doing the right thing? She seals the letter and puts it in her outgoing post tray. Time, she decides, will be their only judge.