Chapter 5: Point of View
"There is an odd synchronicity in the way parallel lives veer to touch one another, change direction, and then come close again and again until they connect and hold for whatever it was that fate intended to happen."
"So, let me get this straight."
Ellana groaned. They'd just left Val Royeaux, heading northward in pursuit of the author of the stupidly cryptic clues they'd found, and Varric was still at it. Nevermind the adamant disdain of Seeker Lucius or the patent disapproval of the Chantry sisters. No – the foreign affairs of the Inquisition were trite afterthoughts when held against the breaking news of the age.
"You spent an entire night crammed together in a hole the size of a nug den." Varric had sidled up nice and close, his small horse clip-clopping alongside hers. "And nothing happened?"
Ellana sighed.
"Creators save me. No." She does not look at Varric. She answers with as few words as she can. "Cullen was a perfect gentleman."
"Cullen, eh?" The dwarf's grin is nothing short of lascivious. "So there was no – oh my Cullen, it sure is cold down here – and no – don't worry Herald, just rest your pretty little head against my ridiculously broad chest."
Ahead, Blackwall snorted in laughter at the rises and dips in Varric's pitch as the dwarf dramatized his sentence. Ellana groaned – admittedly, it was a broad chest, and Varric's hypothetical situation was disconcertingly close to the truth. But she wasn't about to tell him that. She had no intention of admitting it to anyone.
It had been her first time. Her first time that close to a man after the room with the blue drapes and the face she'd never be able to unsee. And it hadn't been easy – when Cullen grabbed her wrist, all she could see was that other man's face, feel his breath on her skin, hear his words like silken poison whispered against her eyelids. She'd wanted to scream and never stop.
But she hadn't. She had stayed calm, and she was proud of that. She thought of Marethan and the older women's tranquil ways and urgent words – to really be free, she'd said, Ellana could not continue to let her past define her present. She'd wanted to spill it all before Cullen – explain why she was this way so that he could understand the anxiety that raced like wildfire through the prairie grass of her limbs. But she hadn't. Maybe Cullen already knew, read it in her journals like the rest of them had. He certainly acted like it, soothing her fears with a hushed rationale and gentle touches, so much like Dennet calming a skittish courser they'd found in the Hinterlands.
Cullen had been patient and did not hold her at fault for their situation. When he'd eased her back against his chest, in the circle of his arms, she'd been shocked. Not at him, but at how simply it all fell back into place, to adopt all the postures of being with someone. Her words had come effortlessly then, spoken into the night with the frankness of two people who knew they'd likely never speak of their present situation again.
That's what she had expected anyway. Cullen was so quick to blush and duck his head that it was almost too easy, too cruel to tease him. But the day after, she saw none of the embarrassment she'd expected. He was a trifle awkward when she passed him in the training yard, yes, but he'd met and held her gaze with confidence, just before they set it out.
It hadn't been what she'd expected. To be honest, it made her a little ill at ease. She was used to controlling the ebb and flow of her relationships, and she didn't know where she stood with Cullen now. When it came time to leave Haven, she was more than eager to be gone.
Of course, their mission had been nothing but a spiraling catastrophe thus far. Ellana felt restless – how was she, a Dalish elf with zero political clout – expected to salvage something from this mess? Everyone they met had a different bone to pick: the only thing uniting Thedas, as far as the Herald could tell, was the discord that ran rampant between races, social classes, and national borders.
She sighed and called for a break, nervous energy thrumming through her limbs. When she noticed Solas, perched on a slap of rock some ways from their camp, she decided how she would release her tension. Ellana stood, ignoring whatever drivel Varric was spewing, and made her way over to the other elf.
"I will never understand the compulsion for gossip. Is it a dwarf thing? A human thing?"
She's seeking empathy with the remark, but Solas gives her a wry smile that disconcerts her.
"Oh, I don't think race plays into it at all, da'len." Solas stands and throws an appraising look her way.
"The reason Varric is so insistent is because there's money riding on your answer."
"There is not." Her voice is deadpan, her gaze flat.
Solas nods sagely, as if he were discussing the impact of prolonged exposure to red lyrium on the flora and fauna of the Emrpise du Lion.
"Yes. I believe the terms depend on whether or not the Commander was able to –"
"Stop." Creators take them all – all her training in hiding her emotions, and she can still feel the blush that's up to the tips of her ears. "I don't want to know."
"Oh, but I very much do." Solas is smirking. She didn't even know that the elf knew how. She is beginning to suspect that his ancient-elf-wisdom charade is just that, a façade, and that maybe she'd pegged him wrong from the start. "The fate of my coin hangs in the balance."
For a moment, her jaw flexes but words don't come.
"I thought you were better than this." But there is a light of mischief in his eyes, and she has to concede that she was wrong. That just about everyone in her life was uncomfortably concerned with her private affairs.
"And to think, I came over here in the hopes of learning something."
That piques his interest. He arches an eyebrow, and Ellana wonders why she hadn't noticed how expressive his face could be.
"Oh?"
"Yes, it is possible for a Dalish elf to recognize the limits of her own knowledge." The words are more curt than she intends, but she is still smarting from their previous argument. Solas had spent their trip to Val Royeaux cautioning her against the follies of her people. Ellana might not be a prototypical Dalish, but even she was annoyed by his wholesale dismissal of their earnest efforts to preserve the past.
"And how might I aid in addressing those limits?" Solas does not rise to her barb, does not affect contrition to please her the way a simpler man would. He will not apologize, she realizes. He sees nothing wrong with his own worldview. She did not expect this stubbornness in him.
"I would like to improve how I fight." She states it plainly because she has felt the need. There were too many close calls between her and death in the Hinterlands. Too many last minute saves by Cassandra's blade or a bolt from Varric. When they took out the apostate stronghold, she realized just how little experience she had fighting a mage that was hell-bent on killing her.
"I have watched you fight and do not find you lacking."
"Watched me fight, eh?" She decides that teasing is in order – she has had enough of being unbalanced for one day. "And did you like what you saw?" A hand slides to her hip as she looks up and meets his icy blue eyes. This flirtatious poise comes back to her quickly, though it was years ago, in Kirkwall, when she'd really used it last.
If Solas notices her affected coyness, he is unperturbed.
"You train to flick a dagger to its target. The grace with which you move is just a pleasing side-benefit."
"Oh, so you're suggesting I'm graceful?"
"No." He turns to face her full on. "I am declaring it. It was not a subject for debate."
Oh. So much for her plans to come out on top.
"Well. Thank you." She puts her hands to her neck and then her hair, pulling the dark locks up. She unravels a leather cord from her wrist, twists it around her hair to affix it in a messy bun. You know you're desperate when you pull out the hair play. Athenril's voice, as if she was the expert in seductive methods. But Ellana has a more practical motivation for tying her hair back, even if it's easy to forget those reasons under the intensity of Solas' gaze as he watches her movements.
"I wanted to ask you to spar with me, Solas."
There is surprise in his eyes, and finally she feels like she is making progress.
"I have little experience fighting mages." She doesn't know why she has to explain herself to him. The rest of the day, they treat her like a leader. Why does she feel she must justify her every action to him?
Solas nods his understanding.
"So be it." His hand reaches behind him to his staff, and for a moment, Ellana thinks she sees something predatory in his eyes. Her instincts scream at her to make space, to run, but she squishes them and simply widens her stance. "But I will not go easy on you the way Cassandra does."
She smiles crookedly at him, feigning a confidence she does not feel.
"I'd expect nothing less."
Solas is a hurricane. His staff swivels and spins and it's all Ellana can do to dodge the bolts of fire and sheer energy that find purchase on her skin and make her mind scream. She cannot believe that she has unleased this on people – dozens of people – without once questioning what it would feel like.
She cannot begin to get near him, and he knows that. His ego is apparent in the lazy grin that spreads across his face as he catches her straight in the chest and the world momentarily goes black.
But then she is rolling, knives out, back on her feet and gone. Athenril had also taught her this - how to bring the shadows around her, how to lose herself in her environment, and she is viciously satisfied to see the confusion that briefly blossoms on Solas' face.
"You'll never find her when she pulls that one, Chuckles."
Varric from the sidelines, but Ellana is angry now, shadows wrapped around her as moves in quick. Solas ignores the comment. Stands perfect still and closes his eyes.
"So long as you bear that mark on your hand, da'len, you can never hide from me."
She's so close, moves in to strike, and then he's spinning, his staff rising to block her blade. How had he known?
But she is muscle and experience and she bears down on him with all her weight, expecting his arm to give. When it doesn't, she understands that she has misread him. Again. That there is more strength in those arms than she has given him credit for.
So instead she falls back on what Cullen had called fighting dirty. She pulls away suddenly and Solas staggers forward at the removal of her resistance. But she is already spinning out as he tries to conjure a spell, and then she is swooping back, in under his staff, shoulder in his stomach and foot strategically behind his.
He goes down and she goes with him, sweating, panting, caging him with her arms and her blade against his neck.
He looks up at her, unmindful as the loose strands of her hair cascade around his face. She wants to say something pithy but the words don't come. There is something burning in his eyes that she does not recognize, sees whatever that emotion is alongside a glimmer that might be respect.
"Impressive." The word is barely more than a whisper. She feels it resonate in his chest. Her shoulders heave with the effort of her breathing and she wonders why she is the only one drenched in sweat. "You are an indomitable force, Ellana."
At the sound of her name in his cloying voice, she is suddenly aware of the closeness of their bodies. Her thighs along his ribcage, her seat on his stomach and the rest of her pressed against him as she keeps her blade firmly in place.
She needs distance, and creates it immediately. She is standing, faces away from him, and can't understand why everything is suddenly so complicated. Blackwall and Varric are off to the side and maybe, for once, they will recognize that she wants room.
"Cassandra," she calls because, absurdly, the Seeker is the one the Ellana needs now. Cassandra did not waver or push and play at games and feelings. She did not dither in her convictions, or flounder when fate did not go her way.
"Scout ahead with me?"
Cassandra looks up from the fire she is building. Whatever she sees, or does not see, in the Herald is clearly enough to persuade her. She drops the kindling and makes for their horses.
Ellana gallops and she knows that it is reckless, but she wants to put some distance between her and Solas. And Varric and all his questions. And Blackwall and his frank observations.
"You are troubled, Herald." Cassandra states the truth plainly, when Ellana finally slows.
She cannot help it. It is all too much and she cannot hold it in any longer.
"I can't do this, Cassandra." She swivels her horse around, and the animal paws the ground anxiously, sensing her disquiet. "The Templars have left for Maker knows where. The Chantry won't talk to us. I have no experience as a leader and even less fighting mages. Political manoeuvring is impossible because of the blasted shape of my ears. I can't even ride a horse without falling on my ass."
It was all unravelling: her sense of purpose, her satisfaction when they'd located a missing scout, recruited an agent, established a supply chain to get food to the Crossroads.
"It's nothing but a bloody accident that put this damned mark on my hand." She gestures, waywardly, and her left palm glows green.
Cassandra's eyebrows rise steadily with each proclamation. Too late, Ellana realizes that she crossed a line with her last statement because the one construct that Cassandra clings to is her religion.
"Herald." The woman's voice is blessedly firm, despite the surprise on her face. "Much pressure rests on your shoulders."
Ellana laughs, a harsh sound. The woman has a capacity for understatement.
"You know everything there is to know about me, Cassandra." Her green eyes lock onto Cassandra's brown ones. "You know I'm nothing more than an elf who didn't belong, a criminal and a fool who trusted all the wrong people."
Ellana looks down now, and she is appalled when she feels the makings of tears well up in her eyes. She looks down at her palm, at where it rests against the saddle, assesses the pulsing glow that bleeds through her gloves and feels warm on her face.
"Why am I the one who has this?"
Her voice is small now, breaking over the words.
"Ellana." Her name in Cassandra's deep voice, though the elf does not look up at the sound of it. "I know you are uncertain what to believe. I know you do not share my conviction that Andraste herself has saved you." The woman nudges her horse closer, reaches out a steady hand and rests it on Ellana's wrist.
"But I know also what I have seen." Ellana looks up now, into the taller woman's eyes, embarrassed as she has to blink back unshed tears.
"You are annoying."
The words bring an unexpected laugh out of Ellana's throat.
"And charming. And all too aware of it." Cassandra's mouth forms a dry smirk. "You make others at ease, and inspire dedication where ever you go. That is no easy feat."
"And what's more," The Seeker straightens now, and she looks almost proud of Ellana. "You have an honest desire to do good. You recognize your faults and seek to improve them, so that you might better be able to achieve that goal."
"I do not think there is more we can ask for in a leader."
Ellana again finds herself speechless. She feels almost disingenuous because, really, she just doesn't want to die, just wants to know what the mark is so she can get rid of it.
Cassandra looks away quickly, and is it Ellana's imagination or is she blushing?
"Thank you. I -"
She doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence because suddenly there is a growl and their horses are rearing. Dracolisks, three of them, are in the grove and Ellana is already out of her saddle and flat on her back in the mud.
Move. Her brain screams and she is rolling up, on her feet, and then leaping through the air. She lands on the dragonling's back, her knives at work. Cassandra, who managed to maintain her seat, is slicing downward.
Ellana dispenses with one of the creatures and swerves onto the next when a movement catches her eye.
"Cassandra, move!"
But then the Seeker is on the ground too – the dracolisk had leapt from a stone and made solid contact with her side. It's on top of her now, and Ellana surges forward, needs to get her friend out from under the snapping jaws.
Her body slams into the creature and it barely shifts. But she has its attention now, and its beady eyes swivel up from Cassandra to her.
In the moment of distraction, Cassandra is able to free her sword and slam it up through the creature's ribcage. Satisfied, Ellana whirls and whips her dagger. She watches it lodge itself in the last monster's eye, sinking deep into its brain and sending it collapsing in a stuttering heap.
For a moment, the clearing is filled only with the sounds of their ragged breathing.
Then:
"You body slammed a baby dragon."
She looks over her shoulder and Cassandra is a mess, covered in blood and slime, her usual sword arm dangling limply at her side.
Ellana shrugged.
"I improvised." She saunters over and pulls her blade from the dead dracolisk's eye socket. She wipes the blade down on some grass. When she looks up again, Cassandra is still staring.
"What?" She shrugs. "It was going to eat your face!"
Ellana decides then that she must've broken the Seeker. Because right then, Cassandra's face lights up and she is laughing, practically cackling, and the elf can't help but join in. When they return to the camp, they are still chuckling in the after effects of their mirth. They are covered in gore and blood and earn stares and alarmed exclamations from Blackwall. But in that moment, Ellana feels more like a leader and a friend than she has ever felt before.
It is a nice feeling, she decides.
Commander,
Cassandra took quite a blow to the arm. We were scouting ahead and were surprised by a pack of dracolisks. Apparently, part of Cassandra's job description entails regaling you with tales of our delightfully dull adventures. As the one responsible for placing her in harm's way, I'm attempting to compensate by taking on her duties. So here goes.
You already know about Val Royeaux, so I will waste few words on our dismal efforts there. The positive takeaways are this:
We have two new recruits. One, First Enchanter Vivienne, Josephine will definitely approve of. She is all pomp and class and insists on calling me 'my dear'. Is that better or worse than 'my lady', I wonder? I also suspect she can freeze the blood in your veins with a single glance, so watch out.
The other…. Well. She brings considerable assets to the team. That, and about eighteen pairs of men's breeches. We'll have a use for those, won't we?
The final boon that came of Val Royeaux is an invitation from former Grand Enchanter Fiona. I do not know what to make of her entreaty, and I suspect we will receive no answers until we travel to Redcliffe.
I will seek your advice on this matter, of course, as well as Leliana's and Josephine's. But I believe we should go. Unlike Seeker Lucius, the Enchanter openly sought a parlay. I do not think we are so overwhelmed with offers of alliance and negotiation that we can dismiss this one.
I promise this will all make sense when we return. We're all still alive and kicking. Looking forward to being back.
Ellana
Mud, mud, mud.
Playing with the big hat wasn't all that different from running with the Jennys in Denerim, Sera was starting to think. Nothing but rain, mud, and gunk up the arse, shoot a few mages, stab a bear or two and call it a day.
And the stick with the glowing hand that everyone talked about? Well, they called Sera crazy, but the Herald thingy put them all to shame at moments like this.
The other elf, so-called chosen child of Andraste herself, was standing on a cliff, face turned up to the sky, laughing her ass off. And for what? To get a mouth full of rain water? Sera's tunic stuck in all the wrong places, beardy the warden looked like a dirty mop and the hoity-toity enchanter's perfect mascara was running.
"I can't remember the last time I've been in rain like this!" The Herald finally turned to face them, all smiles and sunshine. The weather must've approved because lightning flashed and thunder rolled as she finished her words.
"Quite lovely, my dear, but I believe we have a rendezvous scheduled?"
My dear, my child – it was always something small and nothing with this one, the statuesque mage, and Sera didn't approve. She'd seen Viviennes before – cold and capable, crushing you when they didn't need you anymore. It made her nervous to be so close to the enchanter, especially when her staff was fizzling and sending icy sparks.
The Herald's hair was plastered across her forehead, a braid sticking out at an odd angle. She didn't look like she'd even heard Vivienne's words.
"You daft or something, tree-hugger?" Sera was annoyed; she hadn't signed up to traipse around the Storm Coast while the Herald ran after ever promising blank and sparkly rock they approached. "Too much time prancing around in the wild and now you're all bushed on us?"
"Yes, Sera, because all us Dalish do is take off our clothes and run naked through the woods until we lose our minds." The Herald scowled – she was cuter when she frowned like that, Sera decided.
"Pretty picture." Sera grinned. "Thanks, nutter. I'll save it for later."
Blackwall cleared his throat.
"I know you ladies are busy, but I think that's the Chargers over there."
His voice suited his face, Sera decided. The beard would be stupid if it wasn't for that voice. Sera didn't know how she felt about wardens. The last warden anyone talked about hadn't done shit for Sera in Denerim. But this one seemed a good enough sort. For now anyway. Most people were until they got too big for their britches.
"Let's move out." The Herald pulled away, heading for the valley Blackwall identified, all the while acting like she wasn't the reason they were just standing around, getting wetter and more miserable with every moment.
There was fighting in the valley, lights and colour of crazy magic shit at work, and one of those giant bull qunari, waving his axe around like it was a leafy frond and the Vint's around them were in desperate need of fanning.
Sera smiled, knocked an arrow and let it fly.
"Sera!" Ellana glanced back at her, annoyance on her face
"Oh, boo hoo, didn't wait for the big hat to tell me to wipe my arse?" Sera held the Herald's eyes and smirked as she launched another arrow. Smirked wider when she heard the strangled cry of the tip hitting its target.
"You want to stick around, you have to follow orders." Ellana was facing her full on now, back to the skirmish on the beach. Blackwall and Vivienne stood, poised to go but waiting on her word.
"Tch." Sera walked by her and hopped up onto a rock, loading another arrow with practiced ease. Ellana must've released her other lapdogs because soon they were all elbows and knees, blades and staves in amongst the ragtag bunch of mercenaries and Tevinter soldiers.
Follow orders. Sera's arm swivelled easily – load, aim, release, load, aim release. What's the need for that? She did what had to be done. They were going to fight the Vints, weren't they? They were here to schmooze with the big qunari, so why waste time when they could just get down to business?
When all the northerners were dead, Sera set to work rifling pockets. She ignored the glare from one of the pointy eared mercs – she'd killed this one after all. You shoot 'em, you loot 'em. Simple rules.
Distantly, Sera was aware of the Herald and the qunari with the rumbly voice. Terms and spies, gold and secrets. Everyone had so many secrets, and the Herald was always questions this, suspicious nudges that. Why did it matter where she'd learned to use a bow, or what miserable den of muck she was born in? Why did the Herald need so many answers?
But as the Herald pressed the qunari for details about who he was, what Ben-hassawhatever meant, Sera realized that the elf with the dark eyes and long hair wasn't so different from everyone else. That the past, the who-where-whats meant more to her than doing good right now. We're both elves, the Herald had said. We got the same clacky bones and big eyes, so we must be friends, right? Such a small mind.
Sera was suddenly annoyed, wanted off the stupid beach, out of the Maker-blasted rain. The Inquisition was turning out to be just like everywhere else, just with a slightly crazier queen at the top of the pyramid.
That didn't stop her from having a swig of the Chargers brew though, or from mocking Vivienne when she wouldn't put her golden little tush on the sandy beach. But tonight, Sera decided, was the last night. Back to Haven, get her stuff and then she was gone. She didn't want to follow some twat who needed to pry for all the answers and let the shape of her ears be her reason for everything.
They made camp with the Chargers on the beach that night, and Sera was just starting to enjoy herself. These folks were real enough, mixed bunch with bad hair and jumbled accents. But then the Herald was at her shoulder, more questions in her damnably green eyes.
"Sera, will you hunt with me? We could do with some fresh meat."
Sera frowned. Since when was it her job?
"You're a better shot than me." The Herald grinned, put a hand on her hip and damn it all if she didn't know exactly how charming she was.
"Urgh," Sera stood with a frustrated noise. "Fine, fine. But I'm not waiting on no orders to shoot a damn rabbit."
Ellana smiled broadly, slipped a bow over her shoulder. Had she always had one of those? It was a long-bow, Sera noticed. Needed muscle to bend one of those.
At least the rain had stopped. They were up the hill now, away from the hubbub of their combined site.
"What do you think of Bull?" Ellana slunk a few paces ahead, trying to keep in the shadow of a rock so that she wouldn't scare off the ram in the distance.
"Again with your people." Sera slowly drew an arrow out of her quiver. Ellana was quiet on her feet, she'd give her that, but the Herald had to keep talking and talking, was going to scare the animals off with her words alone. "Why you spend so much time worrying what everyone else is thinking?"
In front of her, the elf shrugs. The movement is lithe, and Sera, for a moment, is distracted at the grace of it. Nonchalance never looked so elegant. Guess that was one thing the woodland elves did easy – liquid movements and fluid poise. Ellana was caked in grime, her hair haphazardly twisted back from her face, but she still managed an air of class. Her tone, when she answered Sera, was frank.
"I care about what my companions think."
Hm. Sera hadn't thought of it that way. Wasn't sure she bought it. The truth more likely was that the Herald was watching them all like a hawk, like that Leliana with her icy eyes, jotting down every movement and twitch. The Herald wanted to analyze their every emotion so she could decide just how far to trust them. That must be the reason for the questions.
Then, the dark-haired elf was unfolding, buttery elegance as she swiveled, stood, nocked an arrow and shot.
Sera laughed as the other elf's arrow skittered off a rock a foot to the left of the ram. The animal bolted and the Herald swore up a storm.
"You are a crappy shot." The laughter bubbled out of Sera. "Who'd have thought! You can zap holes in the world with your spooky green hand, but you can't catch a bite for dinner."
"It's been a long time since I've done this!" The flush of red on the Herald's cheeks sent Sera cackling further. "Since the Breach, it's been all – oh, stand in this room and talk about serious things, lovely, now to go to this city and talk about more serious things. When am I supposed to find the time to get out and hunt?!"
Sera cocked her head. She hadn't expected that confession.
"Your pack of fluffy bird advisors don't let you have time to play?" Sera couldn't believe it. Why would she let anyone tell her what to do? Sera might not be sold on the whole Making the World a Better Place story the Herald spun, but even she could see that people looked up to Ellana. The townsfolk in Haven said she worked miracles, single-handedly secured supply chains, fed the hungry, healed the sick, killed the demons. Her companions too – they waited on her to even wipe their own arses. Even grumpy Cassandra got more fluffy in the Herald's company.
Ellana shrugs and she looks almost sheepish. She slings the bow onto her back and suddenly is fidgety, like her hands don't know what they should be doing.
"There… is a lot that needs doing." She flexes the fingers of her left hand and the mark starts to glow. Sera takes a step back – she doesn't like that thing at all. "And not a lot of people are as uniquely qualified as I am."
"Yeah, but you're the Big Hat now." She pushes her anxiety aside, steps into the light cast from the Herald's hand, and gives her a shove on the shoulder. "You make the rules."
This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be taking the power, running wild with it and crushing them all beneath her little feet. You weren't supposed to have to explain this stuff to people at the top. They were just supposed to do it, irresponsible like.
"You need time to disappear in the woods and get in touch with your inner tree-loving self?" Sera shrugs. "You do that. You want to wear your smalls on the outside? You do that too. You do whatever weird shit you want to do. They just got to wait for you at the end of the tunnel."
Ellana laughs, puts a hand in her hair, rubs the back of her head. She looks away, and Sera follows her gaze. The sun's setting over the ocean, and when it's not raining and her clothes are finally starting to dry, Sera admits it's a little bit pretty. Scenic in a way that Denerim never was.
"You know, Sera, I'm not as elfy-elf as you make me out to be."
"You know, your Heraldishness, I seen you hanging out in trees singing your creepy elvish songs." She spreads her hands. "I think you're more elfy-elf than you want to admit."
That gives the Herald pause.
"Between you and Solas, I don't know what to think. How do you be an elf anymore?" Ellana laughs. "I guess we're all just fucked up in our own ways. Maybe that's what it means to be an elf in Thedas in the here and now."
She turns then and is moving. Sera's happy to drop the subject.
"Come on. You're taking the next shot."
When she takes that shot, Sera doesn't miss. Archery was the one thing that came easy; she's never known what it's like to aim and fail.
Ellana throws the carcass of the animal over her shoulders, and they're heading back to the camp. As she trails after the Herald, Sera feels her convictions crumbling a little. Her flight instincts have dampened. She's curious, admittedly – one on one, when she's put her questions away, the Herald isn't so bad after all. Could maybe use someone like Sera to keep Ellana standing up for herself. To make sure the unexpected humility and uncertainty stayed in place before the Maker-chosen complex got to her head.
She realizes that soon they'll be back with the camp, and she might not get another moment alone with Ellana for some time. She decides it's her turn for a question.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Well, we've got to eat something, don't we?" Ellana's sweating under the weight of the ram on her back. Her voice is a little strained. Sera likes that she's the one carrying it – that the differences between them didn't turn Sera into a servant. The fact that they're hunting at all says something about the Herald – it's a job she could've delegated, but she chose to do it herself. Chose to bring Sera, maybe for a reason of her own. Whatever that reason might be, Sera decides she doesn't mind.
"Not that, stupid. Any of this. Close the rifts, listen to the advisor twats, save the world?" The answer is important, Sera suddenly realizes. Really important.
Ellana snorts. It's an unladylike noise, and it makes Sera giggle. When she's got ram's blood on her arms and sweat on her forehead, she seems a little more like one of the rest of them.
"Sera, I've got a blazing, pain-in-the-ass hole in my hand that can rip reality open and bring stuff out of the Fade."
Sera's blood runs cold at the thought. It was easy to forget about the mark when it wasn't doing its glowy shit.
"I need to know why." Ellana isn't looking at her now. The campsite is just coming into view over the hill. "I want it gone."
"And all the save the world business?" Sera understands the self-interested motivations, though she's surprised the elf is so upfront about it. Sera;d want to know, if it was her hand on fire. But is the Herald admitting that it's all an act – that the rest is just posturing?
Ellana nods, and lets her eyes rest on Sera's.
"That too." She shrugs, shifts the ram carcass higher on her shoulders. As the Chargers catch sight of the elves with their game, a rallying cheer goes up. "That matters too."
She stops, feeling, evidently, that the words were important enough that they needed to be said. That they should finish their conversation before they reach the others.
"I can make a difference with this mark." She tosses her head, flicking hair out of her eyes. "I couldn't do that with my Clan. I couldn't' do that in Kirkwall, stealing from people. I couldn't do that in the woods, wandering about."
"It feels good to make a difference, Sera." She smiles, and Sera smiles back because finally, she feels like she's seeing the real Herald. "People are safer and happier because of what I can do. Because of what you help me do. What they all help me do." She nods towards the camp.
"For now, that's enough to keep me going."
It's good enough for me too. Sera thinks, and it is. But she doesn't say it, makes some non-commital scoffing sound as she follows Ellana to the camp.
Yes, the bleeding optimism makes her want to vomit. But the way the words were said, the confidence and clarity – Sera likes that in the Herald. Likes it, because she can tell this is only the beginning. That things will get so much bigger before Ellana has the answers that she wants. Her capacity to be both selfish and selfless – Sera can understand that. And in a world where she could suddenly understand so little, Sera is willing to cling to whatever small shreds of sense remain.
Maybe a few more nights then, she decides, as she follows the Herald back into the camp. A few more nights and then we'll see.
"If we weren't in a building made of the driest wood in all of Thedas, I would burn this right now."
"Vivienne!" The Herald is laughing, grasps at the clothes, but the taller woman tilts her body and lifts her arms, holding the outfit out of reach.
"Really, I don't understand how Lady Montilyet could let this stand." The beige is horrendous. The outfit looks like pajamas. Even dressed as she is, in her dark armour with lockpicks brazenly strapped against her hip, the Herald makes a more impressive figure.
"It doesn't matter Vivienne – the clothes are warm."
"That sort of foolishness is what dooms us all, my dear." The Herald was young, Vivienne reminded herself. From what she learned, the girl had lived only in slums and forests. She couldn't be expected to understand. So much had to be taught.
"I have composed a requisition order for new outfits. You will wear only your armour and simple tunics and breeches until they arrive."
"When you said you had something important to discuss with me, I was foolish enough to assume there was some great political matter at stake." The Herald desisted in her attempts to reclaim the atrocious outfit. Instead, she settled back on her heels, and put her hand on her hips. Another impish posture to cure her of, Vivienne noted. If power was to accrue to the Inquisition, it needed a leader who warranted respect. Consistent, unquestioning deference.
"Indeed, Herald, this is of great political importance." Vivienne sighed. How often did this woodland child need to be told? "What you wear, how you carry yourself, the gravitas of your air – these elements are essential to bolster your reputation as a capable and astute leader."
Lavellan's expression was blank. She didn't approve, Vivienne sensed, but tried to keep the disapproval from her lips, her eyes. She is good, the enchanter thought. A life of petty crime breeds a few positive traits, I suppose. But Lavellan was unpracticed in true environments of intrigue; her neutral mask would keep little from Orlesian nobles, skilled in the Game.
"Does a little humanity not serve my image well also?"
Vivienne wonders if she uses 'humanity' in the general sense, or if she hints at the racial subtext that undergirds many of their conversations. The Herald is smart, if naïve – the latter is probably true. And indeed, the decidedly human clothes were a step up from elvish patterns and earthy colours – Vivienne had ordered none of those for the Herald. No, the new outfits would not connect her to her elvish heritage. But the beige outfit with its tapered fit did little to hide Lavellan's decidedly elven figure. She needed less emphasis of her long limbs and more of her pretty face – mercifully free of those exotic tattoos – more of the curves she would sometimes flaunt.
"You will dress according to your station." The enchanter's words are final; she does not wish to expend energy on further circular argument. "Your speeches and actions can make connections to the people; your appearance need not revel in lowly roots."
"Excuse me for being born what I am, First Enchanter."
"Do not get prickly with me, my dear." She is amused at the Herald's sensitivity. Try as the elf might, she cannot affect usual aloofness in the face of Vivienne's direct nature. "I act with the best interests of the Inquisition at heart."
"So you keep saying." Lavellan sighs. Her shoulders fall with the action, and again Vivienne wonders at her youth. So much power, wasted on this little frame, this girl from the woods. Lavellan could be so much more if she would simply strive for it. There was no reason she hadn't demanded the title of Inquisitor; Josephine, Cullen and Leliana were in no position to resist.
"You will have your new attire by the time we depart for Redcliffe."
Ellana laughs, a hard sound that echoes in the open space of the Chantry foyer. People bustle to and fro around the pair - soldiers on their way to training, Chantry sisters, heads bowed in devotion. Not for the first time, Vivienne reflects on what a ragtag crew they are.
"I'm not sure what you have in mind, First Enchanter, but I plan on wearing my armour to Redcliffe. You'll excuse me if I have little faith in the former Grand Enchanter."
"Fiona was a wise woman once." Vivienne means the words; until that foolishness in with the Andoral's Reach, the Grand Enchanter had proven sensible.
"Does she lose your respect for daring to aspire beyond her station?" The Herald's tone borders on accusatory. This would not prove their first argument about the role of mages in Thedas. Vivienne signs, inwardly. She does not want to revisit the topic, but neither will she let the Herald parade her unexperienced views around without considering the pragmatic counterarguments.
"She lost my respect for destabilizing an already dangerous situation. She lost my respect when she doomed mages and Templars alike to senseless deaths, yes." The events at Kirkwall, the vote at Andoral's Reach, and the rebellion – all such callous, useless squandering of precious resources.
"I saw the conditions of the mages in Kirkwall, Vivienne." The Herald will not back down on this point. Her gemstone eyes are hot with the passion she feels, and the elf is making no attempt to hide the emotions. Vivienne notes the decision, wonders why the Herald will suddenly let her see her anger. She could not possibly be trying to intimidate me – surely, she is not so foolish.
"It was an untenable situation." The elf's voice is low. Is she trying to be diplomatic, to speak like Vivienne would?
The enchanter laughs.
"Fiona made it untenable when she sewed dissent in the ranks. Those mages would have stayed in the Circle where they were safe -"
"Where they were tortured!" Lavellan's voice breaks with emotion over the word. "Where they were the unjust victims of hypervigilance and fearmongering."
"They are dying because of the Grand Enchanter, my dear." Vivienne is annoyed now and lets the emotion show in her words. "What have you to say of that? The Circle would have kept them alive."
"Better that they died in the pursuit of freedom than they lived a life of paranoia, flinching from every shadow and every pair of Templar eyes that landed on them."
Because the stars have aligned in her favour, Cullen is strolling by them, feigning disinterest but unable to avoid eavesdropping on their raised voices. At the Herald's last words, he flinches, and Vivienne knows how she will put this irritating child to rest.
"Commander Cullen," She calls, and revels as Lavellan winces. She hadn't known the Commander was behind her. "Join us, please. As a firsthand witness to the events at Kirkwall, perhaps you can help us settle this matter."
Cullen shuffles over, his discomfort clear in the tension in his shoulders. Vivienne knows he will resist any overt manipulation on her part: the Commander's disdain for nobility and politicking was another setback for the Inquisition. No, with Cullen she'd need an overt and honest tactic.
"Vivienne, you don't need to pull other people into our squabbles." The Herald looks bashful now, unsure of herself and Vivienne wonders if it is general social embarrassment or if the Commander's approval is particularly important to her. Either way, the enchanter feels the conversation tilting in her favour.
"Are your convictions so lax, my dear, that you would voice them to me in private but shirk at sharing them with the larger world?" Vivienne's tone is arch, and she chalks up another mental point when the Herald starts to reply and then stops herself – clearly, their situation is fluttering the elf.
"First Enchanter." Cullen's arms are crossed, his patience thinning. "I have obligations to att-"
"Tell me, Commander. When the mages rebelled in Kirkwall, how many of them did you kill?"
Cullen's jaw flexes and for a moment Vivienne sees anger simmering in amber eyes.
"Cullen, I'm sorry, you don't have to be here." The Herald has twisted to face the former Templar. Vivienne is happy at the distress on her face; Lavellan needs to learn to hold fast to her principles and beliefs, to never show weakness.
"I did what was necessary, Enchanter. The mages posed a threat to the city." Cullen doesn't meet Ellana's eyes when he speaks. Instead, his tone is firm and his gaze level with the enchanter's.
"The mages posed a threat?" Ellana's expression transforms from sheepish concern to indignation. "Knight Commander Meredith was abusing red lyrium, Cullen. Who was the bigger threat to the safety of Kirkwall's citizens?"
"The Knight Commander made mistakes, yes." Cullen faces the Herald now, and his expression is carefully controlled. "But if the mages had adhered to the system in place –"
"A system that repeatedly punished them without grounds!" The Herald cannot keep her voice steady, and the rising volume is attracting attention. The scurrying in the Chantry gloom has stilled, and Vivienne knows that whispered reiterations of their conversation will soon run rampant through Haven. Gossip was the currency of those without means, and Haven't refugees had fewer means than most.
"A system that can work, if enforced fairly," Cullen raises his voice to speak sternly over the Herald's. Emotions flutter over the elf's face – surprise, uncertainty, frustration.
"My dear, unlike the good Commander, you were not in Kirkwall when the uprising happened. You cannot let what you read in Varric's books inform your opinions." It is a reprimand grounded in evidence - Vivienne has noticed that the Herald reads often and widely. More than once, she's seen the elf under a tree, a book in hand, oblivious to her surroundings. But book learning was no rival to lived experience, and it was important that the Herald learned that.
The Herald's eyes are fuming as she looks from Vivienne to Cullen and back again. Abruptly, she spins on her heel and walks away, roughly shouldering her way through the Chantry door.
Vivienne sighs and turns to the Commander. Cullen was looking after the Herald, a mixed expression on his face.
"Well, Commander, I think we taught her –"
He rounds on her and his words are heated when he speaks.
"I know that in Orlais, you were accustomed to the adoration of simpering nobles and self-absorbed fools who curried power." Cullen is tall – taller even than Vivienne – and she is unused to the sensation of looking up into someone's eyes. "But Haven is my camp, First Enchanter. And in my camp, I will not be used as a pawn against the Herald to appease your vanity."
He turns, trying to affect the same dramatic exit the Herald had performed. She will not let him score the last point, however.
"You know I had the right of the argument Commander." Her hands are clasped behind her back and she is satisfied when he freezes in his retreat. He does not turn to look at her, but he is listening.
"You know she needs to learn. She cannot cling to her inexperienced sensibilities when reality so starkly contradicts her."
Cullen does turn then, ever so slightly. Looks over his shoulder, golden eyes bright in the flickering torch light.
"Her moral compass is what inspires hope in our followers. I would not take that away."
Then why did you agree with me so readily? Vivienne wonders as he completes his retreat, disappearing through the double-doors into the cold. The Commander, it seemed, had his own moral compass and principles that he could not compromise, even for the sake of his precious Herald. Clearly, what had happened in Kirkwall changed him.
Vivienne looks down at the crumbled beige outfit. She lifts the hideous thing and folds it gently, setting it to rest on her desk.
There was still, she reflected, so much work to be done.