Some things are too terrible to grasp at once. Other things ―
naked, sputtering, indelible in their horror ― are too terrible to
really ever grasp at all. It is only later, in solitude, in memory, that
the realization dawns: when the ashes are cold; when the mourners
have departed; when one looks around and finds oneself, quite to
one's surprise, in an entirely different world.
―Donna Tartt, The Secret History
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"Go to sleep, little bird."
But he wouldn't. Sleep never came easy to him, until long after she'd run out of stories to tell him. He was always a bundle of restless energy, ready to wander. Wriggling free and running off and making it all entirely too difficult. He was a terrible little thing that made her heart seize in fits of fear and love in equal measure. Didn't he understand how dangerous everything was?
"No, you wake up," he insisted and curled close. "The story isn't done yet."
Tephra woke slowly to the sound of a crackling fire, as the remnants of her dream slipped away.
A heavy layer of blankets lay over her, stiflingly warm. She pushed them off her torso as she sat slowly, and grimaced at the stiffness in her body. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, along with a few errant tears. Her head pounded with grogginess as she held her face in her hands, waiting out a sudden rush of dizziness before moving again. When her senses came back to her, Tephra realized that she'd once again been stripped. Not simply of armor, but they'd taken much of her clothing this time as well.
Her traveling pants had been replaced with thin leggings of unbleached cotton. Her torso was bare but for the bandages wound around her chest and up around her shoulder. She recognized this type of bandage-work and took a slow, deep breath, which was met by a familiar pain. Cracked rib. At least two, if she had to guess. She remembered the time she'd been bucked off a young wild hart who'd had no intentions of being bridled. The other youths of her clan who'd dared her to try laughed and derided her for the weeks to follow. There was another pain as well, more subtle, stitched somewhere deep in her lung. She remembered losing breath, how each one came shorter than the last, until she passed out in the dwarf's arms. She took another deep breath for good measure, just to be sure.
It came easy, but for the stitch of pain from her ribs.
Her shoulder was a stiff ball of knotted pain, which was also familiar as she'd dislocated it twice in the past. Third time's the charm, she mused, grimly, as she remembered the shade knocking her to the ground. And then later, Varric slapping her shoulder. It would seem the dwarf had unknowingly finished what the shade had started with his congratulatory love-tap. Someone else had pulled the joint back into place, thankfully, but it would still be at least a week until it didn't feel like she had broken glass buried in the damned thing. There were angry red welts of rent flesh below it on her bicep, stitched closed with tidy sutures.
The shade must have torn through more than just her coat, after all.
Sudden alarm gripped her. Her hand shot to her sternum, and was met with the smooth curl of her necklace. It had not been lost there at the Breach, nor had whoever treated her taken it from her. It had been overlooked once again as something trivial, much to her relief.
The stitched wounds were clean, and the rest of her had been as well. Thoroughly scrubbed in her unconscious state. Even her hair had been cleaned in some manner, as it felt considerably less dirty that it had from her time spent in the prison. However practical the many invasions of her person had been, it reawakened her anger.
A futile, useless, embarrassed anger.
First, they had all but wanted her dead, and left her to rot in that cell with neither food nor water, and nothing to sleep on. Now, not only had they clearly labored to keep her alive, they'd treated her with some measure of care and left her to rest somewhere warm and comfortable in place of the chantry prison.
The sudden shift in her treatment was disorienting, and she did not trust it. If anything, it made her more anxious of what awaited her outside of the cabin. Of what had caused them to change their treatment of her so drastically.
Tephra looked at her marked hand with spite. It's because of this, she thought, bitterly. There was nothing else that could account for it.
She winced as she threw her legs over the side of the bed, and immediately took stock of her surroundings. Two small windows, and a single door — neither barred nor locked that she could tell. A simple cabin, rather than the prison cell she'd been kept in previously, though by contrast to the prison cell, it might have well been a damned castle.
Was she no longer considered a prisoner, or was this a more lenient form of captivity?
The cabin was lavish in comparison to the prison cell, but still it reflected the Ferelden sense of utility over finery. A desk, tall shelves with various supplies and items, storage barrels. Practical, but cozy. A raven stirred restlessly in a large cage by the window, eyeing her warily as she stood. Tephra stepped lightly through the cabin, keeping as quiet as she had in the prison; for all she knew, there were guards waiting outside. Guards that could easily drag her back down beneath the chantry, and back into that cell. Perhaps the nicer accommodations had simply been a courtesy afforded to her for cooperating, one that could easily be revoked at any time should she prove no longer useful to their needs.
She did not need metal around her wrists to feel the clasp of captivity.
On the desk, clothing had been left for her, clean and folded neatly. There was also a new coat, and—
Tephra's gut clenched at the sight of her traveling pack.
Between the possibility of it being vaporized in the explosion or confiscated by her captors, she'd given up any hope of ever recovering it. She opened it and immediately began to rummage through the items at an almost frenzied pace to make certain nothing was taken of her meager belongings. It was no more than a modestly sized pack filled with various supplies, nothing she couldn't replace if lost, except for — there.
They were still there.
Tephra let out a slow, steadying breath as she pulled out a small leather-bound book. She pressed it to her face and breathed in the comforting scent of the old leather. It had been her father's gift to her, a promise to keep at the work he'd started her on. She held it against her chest as she pulled out the other item — a small dagger. It was a simple thing, neither ornate nor particularly valuable beyond the merit of being carved from the antler of a halla. But it had been her mother's, given to her in a moment of urgency and farewell, and that made it precious to her.
It was all that she had left of them, and for that, they were irreplaceable to her.
She held them to her chest, with the necklace between them. They were everything; they were the home she carried with her wherever she went.
The door made little sound as it opened behind her, but in the quiet cabin it was jarringly loud to her ears. Tephra put the book down on the desk and turned on her heel; she held the dagger out of sight at her hip as she kept her body sideways and assumed a defensive position, braced for whatever may come.
The intruder turned out to be a young elf, not even eighteen summers old by Tephra's estimate. She had short auburn hair brushed back from her face and cat-green eyes, and looked supremely pleased with herself as she all but silently toed the door shut behind her. She was carrying a small crate in her arms as she turned and made her way in, stepping carefully and actively trying to remain quiet so as to not wake—
The girl caught sight of the empty bed, and her face went slack with shock before she turned to face Tephra. The crate tumbled from her grip in an unceremonious crash as she gave a horrified gasp, "O-oh!"
Tephra set the dagger down on the desk in a concealed movement. The girl was just a servant of some sort, neither a guard nor a threat.
"I didn't know you were awake, I-I swear," she said, stumbling over her words anxiously.
"What are you scared of?"
It wasn't a question she really needed to ask at this point, honestly. Tephra already knew the answer. Her marked hand fisted anxiously against her hip.
The girl fidgeted with her hands as she fell back a step, "That's wrong, isn't it? I said the wrong the thing."
Was this her life now? To be met with fear at every turn?
At least this one wasn't trying to kill her.
"I don't think so," Tephra said, gently, trying to assuage the girl's fear. "Why would it be wrong?"
Hell, she couldn't really blame the girl. If their positions were reversed, and it was her confronting someone cursed with a magic hand that could open and close the Fade at will, she'd be backing out of the cabin far quicker than her, at the very least. If not, outright fleeing the town at her earliest convenience.
But the girl did not flee. Instead, to Tephra's abject horror, the girl fell to the floor in supplication.
"I beg your forgiveness, and your blessing," the girl pleaded, forehead pressed to the floor. "I am but a humble servant."
"What are you — oh, for fuck's sake, please get up," she said, resisting the urge to yank the girl up by the collar. What in the void was she doing? Was this some kind of terrible joke?
The girl looked up hesitantly, barely lifting her head an inch from the floor.
"Up," Tephra insisted, sharply.
The elf jolted, and rose from the floor slowly and awkwardly, as though fighting the urge to remain there in deference.
"What in the world is going on?" Tephra demanded, as she tried to suppress the growing alarm building in her chest and the urge to flee from whatever madness this was.
"You are back in Haven, my lady," the girl offered, though it clarified little but the obvious.
"Yes, I assumed as much," she replied, trying to calm the annoyance in her tone.
Her thoughts turned to the last thing she remembered; Varric cradling her in his arms after she closed the rift feeding the Breach. If she was alive and back in Haven, then was it safe to assume that it had worked?
At the very least, she could be certain that world hadn't ended — not yet, at least.
"They say you saved us," the girl continued, as though she'd somehow divined Tephra's thoughts. "The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand."
And as though summoned, the mark flared in her palm when Tephra looked at it. Or perhaps, when her attention had been drawn to it. She wasn't quite sure what actually summoned it, at any given moment. Curiously, she felt no pain as she had before. Not so much as a twitch in the muscles.
The young elf watched the energy crackle and dance in Tephra's palm with an unsettling look of awe. "It's all anyone has talked about for the last three days." The girl was staring intently at the glimmer in Tephra's hand, as though transfixed by it.
No wonder her body felt so stiff.
Tephra gave the girl a curious frown, "So, you're saying that they're pleased with me?"
"I-I'm only sayin' what I heard, I-I didn't mean anything by it," she replied, fidgeting with her hands again as she backed further towards the door.
Tephra tried again to calm her, as she asked, "What's your name?"
The girl went white as a sheet and gaped. She shook herself, and stammered, "I-it's Nim, my Herald. I mean, your lady. My lady!"
She stared at the young elf, incredulous. This fear was rooted in something different than before, when she was hauled out through Haven from the prison. She couldn't place it, but it was crucially different, and considerably weirder.
"I'm certain lady Cassandra would want to know you've woken," Nim said, her back bumping up against the door. "She said at once."
"And where is she?"
Nim was trembling visibly as she answered, "In the chantry, with the Lord Chancellor. At once, she said. I should, at once."
With that, the girl fled. She was polite enough to close the door behind her, at least.
Tephra sighed. It was only a matter of time before anyone came for her, so it was just as well that she go to them first. It was only a small measure of control, but she'd take it nonetheless.
Tephra went back to the desk, to where the clothes had been left for her, and began to dress. It was simple, practical garb, which suited her fine. Olive drab traveling pants and a long-sleeved shirt of unbleached cotton, like the leggings she'd been given. A lightweight armored leather jerkin, and a good belt with various holds and fastens. Sturdy gloves and boots of simple, unadorned leather. Nothing that could be considered of much worth, but the coat — now that was a fine coat. Better than the one she had before. Heavy, and well-made, with many pockets for storage. It was dyed a deep shade of charcoal, not quite black, and made of finer fabrics than anything she'd ever owned. Shrugging it on took careful effort, with her shoulder flaring with pain at each rotation and movement.
She repacked the book and sheathed the dagger at her waist. There was no sign of her bow in the cabin, so she assumed that either it had been lost at the Conclave, or they still meant to keep her mostly unarmed.
Either way, she would find a replacement before she left, even if it meant theft.
Staying was certainly out of the question.
She had done what'd been asked of her, and in that process had cleared herself of any guilt. They had all heard it. Whatever had happened, she'd simply stumbled into it.
None of this was her fault, nor her obligation any longer.
What more could there be? Hadn't she closed the hole in the sky?
She shrugged on her traveling pack in an unhurried manner, and let herself have a small moment where she could believe that to be true. A moment to believe that the world had been saved, and that she could go home. And then she headed for the door, and tried to ignore the dread settling and spreading in the pit of her stomach, and hoped for blue skies.
When she opened the door, she was confronted with something far worse.
Fuck.
Tephra could only assume that the young elf had announced her waking to every person she crossed paths with on her way to the chantry, because there were soldiers flanking the path that ran from the cabin door and into the township. They stood stock-still, with their fists thrown up against their chests in salute. And every citizen and refugee pressed in close behind them, craning for a look at her. The silence of the crowds was unnerving, as if they held their collective breath as they craned their heads to catch a look at her.
She wasn't sure what exactly she had expected when she left the cabin, whether resistance from the guards or something else, but this? The mood of the crowd was not the anger from before, but rather something else. Something unsettlingly close to reverence.
It scared her far more than their anger ever had.
What in the void is this shit?
It took everything inside her to not simply turn on her heel and barricade herself inside the cabin. Or to retreat, cloak herself, and flee the town outright.
An anxious tempest raged in the pit of her stomach as she shut the door behind herself with feigned calmness, and began to follow the road to the chantry.
I will not show fear, she thought to herself as voices began to pick up around her in furious whispers. She kept her face still, despite the panic growing inside of her, and persistently avoided their expectant gazes.
"There she is!"
"That's her — that's the Herald of Andraste."
Her step faltered, but she kept walking.
The fucking — what?
She tried to keep her eyes trained ahead, on the road, but it was useless. With each strange utterance that plucked at her ears, her eyes turned to meet stares as wide-eyed as her own. She moved quickly for the stairs, hoping that the procession of onlookers would cease. As she crested the top of the stairs, she made the mistake of looking up.
The Breach remained.
Dizziness washed over her, and she felt herself start to tumble to the side. Armored hands caught her by the arm and steadied her. She recoiled from the soldier, suddenly recalling the brutal treatments carried out by the templars.
Despite her sudden defensive posture, the guard gave her a gentle expression and inclined his head in deference, "Steady now, Herald."
Not a templar.
Yet, the fear was still there.
This sudden shift in demeanor towards her from these people was utterly bizarre — shifting from demands for her death, to whatever this strange reverence was.
Tephra straightened and gave him an awkward nod, before turning back toward the road. Inevitably, there were more people crowding the sidelines, waiting to get a look at her. She felt the muscles in her face twitch and jerk as she tried to keep her emotions reigned in.
The road to the left was nearly blocked with onlookers, and she did not care to try and push her way through. She headed the other way, trying to keep moving before she lost her nerve altogether and fled for the gates.
There were a myriad of makeshift tents that lined the streets and filled spaces between buildings. This place — Haven — had truly taken on its namesake and was filled to the brim with refugees from the outlying farms.
She came around a bend in the road and nearly tripped over herself as she stumbled to a halt. A whole group of them were knelt down, waiting for her. Even the soldiers. Even the templars.
For fuck's sake.
"Maker be with you," a chantry sister said, and her words were echoed by the many other mouths.
It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep her anxiety in check. It was just too weird — too unsettling.
She'd almost lost her nerve to keep moving onward to the chantry, when she caught sight of them.
The dwarf and the mage were idling near the entrance of what looked to be a tavern. Varric caught her gaze and returned it warmly with a sympathetic smile. She felt a wash of relief settle over her, as she gave a quick nod of acknowledgement back to him. Solas, however, was regarding her with an ambiguous frown. It was unclear to her if he was bothered by her personally in some manner, or by the display of the people around them, or something else entirely. Once again, she had the unsettling feeling of being seen through entirely, as though she weren't quite real.
Well, at least one of them is happy to see me.
They ducked into the tavern long before she could make her way close enough to speak to either of them. However, her anxiety had been briefly bridled and she pressed on to the chantry. She kept her gaze fixed at the heavy doors.
Almost there.
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"The poor thing looks terrified."
The dwarf's observation was — as usual — apt.
"She is wise to be," Solas remarked. "The whim of the many can be as fickle as the wind, and shift just as quickly."
"I don't envy her," Varric said as he shook his head, his smile having gone grim, before ducking into the tavern.
Solas followed after, but lingered at the window as he watched her navigate the press of people trying to see their newly appointed savior. Her unease was palpable, even from his vantage point.
His agents still had no information on her yet, so she remained an unknown element to him. An improbability. A riddle that pulled at him to be solved.
She'd finally given her name, but even that was of little use without knowing her clan of origin. Even the Spymaster had not come up with anything yet. No one knew where she had originated from, or why she had come. The only thing he was certain of was that she was possibly too stubborn to die.
She'd survived far longer than he had ever expected her to — as though she were a fated foil to the magister himself. He persisted in death; she persisted in life. Twice now, she had danced to the edge of that abyss, and survived — she endured — and he allowed himself a cautiously small thrill in the victory of it.
The Breach was stabilized and that had bought him time to fix this mess, to course-correct. And she was alive, which meant she could be guided, and be of use to him for the greater good.
A win, however small, after all of that loss was no small matter to him. He could not undo what had been done, but he could honor the loss by doing everything in his power to stabilize this chaos and bring peace to Thedas before he brought the Veil down.
There had been a moment, though, when he had thought all was lost during the battle at the Breach. Where she had danced too close to the edge, and tipped right over.
During that fight, he could not lose sight of her among the clash of soldiers and demons, no matter where he was in the battlefield. She was an emerald beacon shining amidst the chaos — until she fell.
It was the absence of that light that had alerted him to something being wrong.
The shade was on her before anyone else took notice of it, and time staggered between the moment he spotted it and the moment he hurtled the spell to blast it off of her. It stopped altogether as she lay there, unmoving, and for one wretched moment he felt the crushing weight of defeat.
But then the dwarf was beside her, laughing and jesting and hauling her to her feet. She swayed and staggered, but her focus was entirely on the rift. Pale and bloodied, but calm — still alive. And then his breath returned. There hadn't been time to consider what had been nearly lost, not when he'd been occupied with throwing the full force of his diminished strength at the pride demon, all he could do was steal glances at her as she made her way toward the rift, and hope.
Desperately hope—
Please, let this work.
And then, as the pride demon fell, she opened herself completely to the Anchor.
Solas felt the power of the Breach and the Fade engulf her, felt the madness of a mortal being filled by a power far beyond them. And for a startling moment, she was neither a shadow nor a mortal, but whole as he was, filled with the magic, with the song, with the memory of the world before — and then it was gone, and she fell into the arms of the dwarf as he shouted for the medics.
He'd gotten to her first, crouching and putting a hand to her chest and attempting to aid her ragged breathing but what little strength he had left had been depleted in the fight against the demons. His magic probed through her chest cavity, feeling for the source of injury, but it had been far too long since he'd had to deal with grievous battle wounds and the mechanism of injury was not immediately known to him. All he could sense was that something was very wrong with her lung, and that he could feel the life teetering inside of her. On the edge of death, with only moments to spare. And so he began to prepare himself to receive the Anchor, to steel himself against what may come of it — for better, or for worse.
But in his concentration, Solas failed to take notice of the medic who'd arrived until he was unceremoniously shoved to the side while the medic instructed the dwarf to lay the woman flat on the ground. Despite his annoyance, Solas watched with interest as the medic produced a dagger. Without hesitation, he sheared open her coat and the top she wore beneath it with concise, practiced motions, and bared her bloodied chest. He yelled at the others clamoring around them to kindly shut the fuck up, before he bent over her. He pressed his ear to the right side of her chest and then the other, listening to her shallow breaths. In the time it took the soldier to do that, she stilled. Her face had gone sheet-white and her lips were turning blue. She was no longer breathing.
"Maker," the dwarf cursed, looking stricken. "Do something."
"I am," the medic replied, with an exceptionally calm tone.
It should have been in that moment that he took the Anchor back. Death was upon her, and window of time to reclaim it was swiftly closing. Yet, something stayed his hand as he watched the medic work in fascination.
The human produced a small instrument from his satchel. It was nothing more than a thin metal tube with a tapered end. With his free hand, he felt along the side of her chest before positioning his thumb and forefinger along her ribs. And then, much to Solas's surprise, the medic stabbed her with it. In the silence that had fallen across the battlefield, he could hear the faint sound of air passing through the tube. With his free hand, the medic rubbed his knuckles against her sternum. The action caused the woman to stir, and take a sudden, deep inhale.
Solas moved back to the woman's side and reapplied his hands, letting the magic pierce her again. He could feel the wound now beneath the lung, where the visceral pleura had been torn. He directed healing magic to it, letting it knit the viscera back together as it branded a seal across the tear. There was internal bleeding as well, but again his magic sought out those breaches and stabilized them, just as she had stabilized the one in the sky above them.
By the time he was done, she was stable enough to be transported back to Haven. They carried her out of the temple ruins and were met by auxiliary forces that had gathered outside with wagons to transport the wounded and the dead. As the woman was laid out and prepared for travel, one of the templars moved to shackle her, but Seeker Pentaghast's voice cracked like a whip.
"Do not."
The man recoiled swiftly at the ferocity in the Seeker's voice. She raised her voice so that she could be heard by all that were present, as she declared, "This woman is no longer our prisoner, nor suspected of having been involved with the destruction of the Conclave. Do not treat her as such. She is the reason we are all still alive."
By the time the procession made it back to Haven, they were enthralled by the tales of the soldiers who'd fought alongside the woman and witnessed her stabilizing the Breach. The stories spread swiftly and amidst the speculation, the title spawned organically among them.
The Herald of Andraste.
Ridiculous — but, ultimately useful.
"You're doing that thing again," Varric observed, his dry tone pulling Solas effectively back into the present. "You know, that thing where you check out of reality and go wherever it is you go when you do that."
Outside the window, the Herald was long gone and the onlookers had dispersed.
"I thought you fell asleep on your feet there for a moment. Looked like some kind of weird dreamy-Fade thing," the dwarf mused.
"Not at all, Master Tethras," Solas replied. "Simply far too much self-reflection."
"Self-reflection? Funny, I would have said it was entirely reflected on her," Varric quipped, with sharp smile.
"Simply concern for the well-being of our Herald," Solas replied, in a clipped tone. "She would have fared better had she not been stripped her of her armor and sent her into the fray unprotected."
"As much as I agree with that statement, we should probably keep it to ourselves," Varric mused. "I do believe execution is still on the table when it comes to us lowly tagalongs."
"Just so," Solas agreed.
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Tephra idled outside of the war room, listening to the heated exchanged between the Chancellor and the Seeker.
It did nothing to ease her apprehension, as it seemed to be a discussion on what to do with her, specifically. Which was not terribly surprising, if she was honest with herself.
"Have you gone completely mad? She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whoever becomes Divine."
The Chancellor. Angry and incredulous as he spit the words out.
And then came the Seeker's voice, "I do not believe she is guilty."
Calm, and full of conviction. It startled Tephra to hear it.
What had changed so drastically that the furious Seeker, so intent on her guilt, had shifted her opinion so completely?
"The elf failed, Seeker. The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way."
Of course.
The ones outside didn't fool her; she was certain the majority of the templars and the chantry still viewed her as implicitly involved with it all.
Cassandra's calm did not last as she shot back, "I do not believe that!"
"That is not for you to decide," the Chancellor reminded, impatiently. "Your duty is to serve the Chantry."
"My duty is to serve the principals on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor, as is yours."
There was a lull of silence that settled somewhere inside the room. Her momentary distraction had passed and she had no other means to justify a further delay. But the Seeker's words had emboldened her, if only slightly. She swallowed her anxiety, and opened the door.
As she stepped past the two guards, Chancellor Roderick gave a start at the sight of her. He collected himself, and commanded, "Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capitol for trial."
"Disregard that, and leave us," Cassandra said from where she remained leaning over a massive table and eyeing a lavishly drawn map. Leliana stood at her side, rigid and silent.
The armored men looked between themselves, before ducking out of the room without argument.
Cassandra straightened and fixed Tephra with a brief, unreadable expression, before turning back to the Chancellor. "Was there more, or are you done?"
"You walk a dangerous line, Seeker," he warned.
"The Breach is stable but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it." The Seeker's tone was steady as steel.
Roderick was incredulous. "So you would allow this creature — this charade — to continue, without facing justice?"
"You still think I'm responsible," Tephra said, breaking the tense silence that had settled between the two. "Even after what we just did?"
Roderick fixed her with a look of absolute conviction, "You absolutely are."
"No," Cassandra interjected, firmly. "She is not."
Leliana spoke up then, stepping forward, "Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave — someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others, or have allies that yet live."
The Chancellor was once again incredulous, as he sputtered, "I'm a suspect?!"
"You, and many others."
"But not the prisoner?"
"I heard the voices in the temple. The Divine called to her for help," Cassandra said. Again, the Seeker fixed her with a sharp stare that was hard to read.
The closest emotion she could discern was... optimism? Guarded and cautious, but it was there. Or more troubling, something closer to faith.
Roderick crossed his arms, skeptical, "So her survival — that thing on her hand — all a coincidence?"
"Providence," the Seeker corrected, with a small smile. "The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour."
Oh. That again.
The unease came crashing back, and Tephra gave an incredulous laugh, "You realize that I'm an elf? A Dalish elf?"
"I have not forgotten," Cassandra replied. "No matter what you are or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed, when we needed it."
With that, the Seeker turned abruptly and departed into an alcove.
"The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it," Leliana said, speaking directly to her and ignoring the Chancellor. "Divine or not, you are the only one who can bring salvation to this world."
"This is not for you to decide!" Roderick snapped.
Cassandra returned, carrying a heavy tome. She slammed it down on the table, to great effect as the Chancellor startled at the sound. The binding was unlike anything she'd seen before — fine leather married to hammered silverite, finely etched and polished. The symbol on its cover was similar to the ones Tephra had seen emblazoned around the town and inside the chantry, but also different — an eye in the center of a blazing sun.
Cassandra pointed at the book, ""Do you know what this is, Chancellor?"
"I know what that is," Roderick replied meekly, with sudden unease.
Whatever it was, it cowed the man on sight alone.
Cassandra stood taller, more sure of herself, as she continued, "It is a writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn."
She stalked toward the Chancellor, who shrank back a step with each she took toward him, "We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible and we will restore order — with or without your approval!"
Roderick looked between the Seeker and the Spymaster, and then finally to Tephra, before relenting in frustration. He turned on his heel and left quickly, without a further word of protest.
As the tension broke, Cassandra began to pace indecisively, and ran a hand through her short, dark hair. Leliana stepped around the table, and said, "This is the Divine's directive: to rebuild the Inquisition of old, and find those who will stand against the chaos."
Tephra shifted from one foot the other, uneasy. Something was building here, and she could feel it pressing in around her. Another trap — another prison.
Leliana locked her hands behind her back, as she continued, "We aren't ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now? No Chantry support."
"But we have no choice." Cassandra stopped pacing. Her brief moment of indecision had passed, and she was all steel again as she turned to Tephra, and said, "We must act now, with you at our side."
Her pulse quickened and her heart beat an irregular, anxious percussion in her ears.
There it is.
The option of leaving was being taken from her — if it had ever remained to her at all, after the Conclave. But she could not show her alarm, and she could not dwell on it, yet. For the moment, she focused on what she knew, and tried to keep up with their dramatic speech.
Her knowledge of human history was nowhere near complete by any means, but she knew enough to know vaguely what the original Inquisition was. The Templar Order and the Seekers of Truth had spawned from the original organization, after allying with the chantry. It had been a force to stand against the darkness and chaos consuming the world, the greater threats that made political infighting look like children bickering. Her interest in the subject, however, had primarily been in that the last Inquisitor had been an elf. That had been just before the organization's dissolution, after his disappearance.
A dragon hunter from the Dales.
Ameridan, who loved the dreamer-mage Telana. A striking figure in stories told around the campfires. But then, he'd also been a prominent figure long before the Inquisition. But she wasn't anyone of prominence; she was just a hunter. One who'd never seen a dragon, nor was a friend to kings and emperors. All she was to these people was just—
The mark on her hand glimmered faintly.
That.
She made a fist until the mark snuffed out, and left only the barest shimmer on her skin to speak of its existence. Tephra frowned at Cassandra, "Aren't you part of the Chantry?"
Cassandra gave a rough laugh, "Is that what you see?"
"The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction," Leliana informed.
"But we cannot wait. So many Grand Clerics died at the Conclave—" Cassandra stopped herself, and shook her head, "No. We are on our own. Perhaps forever."
The "we" was a heavy implication that clutched dangerously at her. Though her pulse quickened, Tephra kept her face under tight control.
"You're trying to start a holy war," she stated, as she thought of the Chantry. Of the Exalted Marches. Of all of the terrible things done in the name of an absent god.
How did Ameridan reconcile being the head of a force that marched against his own people? How could she?
"We are already at war. You are already involved. Its mark is upon you," Cassandra replied, sharply. "As to whether the war is holy — that depends on what we discover."
Tephra's pulse pounded in her ears. Her marked hand flexed involuntarily as her mind turned back to the hole in the sky. Stable now, but for how long? Months? Years? How long until her life was her own again?
What if she failed?
And then — what? The end of everything?
They should just cut it off of me and be done with it.
There was no choice here, only the horrible trap of a terrible fate closing in around her.
It was futile, but still, she asked. "And if I refuse?"
There was no choice here, not really.
Leliana regarded her with a cool stare, "You can go, if you wish."
Who could refuse? What kind of a person could walk away?
"You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us," Cassandra added, rather heatedly. A warning, but not a threat.
Again, she was confronted with the woman's faith, her hope, gleaming through what small cracks Tephra could find in her armor. The Seeker wanted her to stay; perhaps even needed her to.
"It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend this hasn't changed you," the Seeker said.
The woman was right, but in more ways than she assumed.
"How would you know that?" Tephra mused, in a bristling tone. "You know me no better than a stranger in passing."
Yet still, she had changed.
The anger that coiled inside her from how the templars treated her was new. It lurked behind her every word, waiting to lash out at how they all had treated her as nothing more than the vessel carrying the cursed mark. As guilty. As complicit in mass murder. In world-ending. And—
She could not forget how it felt each time she let the magic tear through her — the whole of her opened up to an unknowable, terrible force that had touched every particle of her being. An experience she had never asked for, let alone consented to. Perhaps it would have been a different experience if she had been a mage, if she had known what it was like to have that kind of magic coursing through her regularly — but she wasn't, and she didn't. And to her, it felt no less than a complete violation.
The last time had been beyond anything she could ever put to words. What would the next one feel like if the magic kept soaring to greater and greater heights of power? How could survive something like that?
And the only alternative was death.
Either at the hands of someone who feared her, or when the world finally ended as the sky tore open again.
Still no choice, not really — only submission.
Only compliance.
Her jaw worked silently.
I can always leave later, if I must.
She let that be her comfort, she let it calm her racing pulse.
"We'll see how this goes," she said, finally.
"That is all we ask," Leliana replied, as relief swept over her face. Her expressions were usually so well-guarded from overt emotion; it was surprising to see the sudden sincerity there.
"Help us fix this," Cassandra bid, as she offered Tephra her arm, hand extended and waiting.
She took hold of it and they clasped forearms.
Cassandra turned their arms in her grip to inspect Tephra's hand, before giving her a curious look, "You are left-handed? How... unfortunate."
That was true enough. It was just her luck that this strange magic would have laid claim to her dominant hand, as it was anyone's guess what the long-term effects would be on it.
She couldn't even imagine the best case scenario outcome in which she didn't end up maimed or killed by this thing. All she could hope for was that it wouldn't take her ability to shoot a bow, or to write. Her two passions, both tied intrinsically to that damnable marked hand.
Cassandra turned Tephra's hand over to inspect the back of it. It was still mottled with old bruises and abrasion scabs from her futile attempts to remove it in the prison. As though the terrible magic could be knocked loose or scraped off like a parasite. She gave a grimace, and said, "Have the apothecary look to this. Perhaps Solas as well. Between the two of them, we should be able to keep that... stable."
"Otherwise I'm not much use, am I?" she snarked, grimly.
The Seeker's mouth was a tight line of disapproval. "Return here when you're done. There are other matters to address," she replied, ignoring the dark jest.
I don't think she quite likes me much, Tephra mused.
A shame, really, as she was just beginning to warm up to the Seeker.
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Tephra's steps were lighter as she left the chantry, if only just so.
She was required to return, of course, but for the moment her time was her own. At least insofar as seeking out medical treatment, but that wouldn't take very long. Most of her grievous injuries had already been seen to and were well on their way to healing. She would check in quickly, and then take what little time she could to find a quiet place to process everything.
Because truly, she felt like she was going to burst from the absurdity of it all. The absurdity of her — an elf — being paraded around as a savior-figure for a largely human religion, as the Herald of Andraste. The world was ending and they had to rely on a knife-ear to save them all. The absolute ridiculousness of it filled her with a dark sort of amusement. And there was no one to share in it, to relieve her of this terrible burden for even a moment with a conspiratory laugh.
Except, perhaps there was.
She thought of the mage — Solas.
An odd one, to be sure, but interesting nonetheless. An apostate and self-taught scholar of the Fade; that was of interest to her. Not simply in and of itself, but also in that he might know the truth of it all — of the Beyond. If anyone would know that truth, it would be the dreamer-mages. But they were nearly unheard of in these times; no one she'd ever known had met one, nor had she ever crossed paths with one in her travels.
A part of her was bursting at the idea of asking, but also filled with an equal measure of dread. She'd held onto this small hope for so long; she didn't want to have to part with it if the truth was not what she expected, let alone what she hoped.
But no matter.
If anyone could understand the ridiculousness of her situation, it would be him — being that he was an elf, such as herself. And she was in terrible need of a laugh.
The crowds had dispersed, but groups still cluttered along, and gaped at her as she passed. She quickly remedied it by leaving the main road, and following the rocky formations that served as a partial border to the township.
The apothecary's residence wasn't far from the chantry, and easily spotted by the array of medicinal supplies displayed outside the entrance. The cabin adjacent to it was assigned to the mage for the time being, and she found him standing against a low stone wall.
It was almost as if he'd been waiting for her.
As she neared, he fixed her with an amused smile and declared, "The chosen of Andraste — a blessed hero sent to save us all."
Her gut twisted uncomfortably at his jest. "I didn't ask for this," she replied, hand flexing involuntarily with anxiety. "But I suppose no one ever really does, do they? And someone has to find a way to seal the Breach."
"Spoken nobly indeed," he replied, in a clipped tone. Whatever humor had been there, quickly retreated.
She frowned, despite herself. This wasn't at all what she had come for, nor expected. But then, what had she expected?
He was a stranger to her, no less than the rest.
Why had she so quickly assumed that there would be kinship between them, in any measure?
Her shift in mood did not go unnoticed.
"You think I'm mocking you." His amusement returned, if briefly, as he said, "This age has made people cynical."
She quirked an eyebrow. "As opposed to, what — an age without cynicism?"
Her question stirred something in him.
Solas gave her a brief, calculated look before he turned and cast himself into an almost theatrical, lilting spiel, "I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten."
He stopped long enough to turn back and regard her with curiosity, before he said, "Every great war has its heroes; I'm just curious what kind you'll be."
Her anxiety resurfaced at that term — hero. Just as much a trap as anything, and just as ridiculous as the other title she'd been given. She diverted from the subject quickly, and asked, "What do you mean, ruins and battlefields?"
With that, something unfolded in him. Like a tightly-wound coil loosening, just so.
He was suddenly very present, as though he'd been merely spectating before, from somewhere deeper inside of himself.
"Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits; they press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds," he enthused. His tone was lighter now, stirred almost to excitement. Tentative excitement, but excitement nonetheless. "When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen."
Sleeping in ruins.
She could have smiled at that, but she didn't. She thought briefly, of her childhood. Perhaps he'd care to hear that story, one day. But for now, she simply asked, "You sleep amongst the ruins? Isn't that dangerous?"
Of course it was — she knew well enough from her own experiences. But still, it amused her to ask nonetheless.
"I do set wards," he replied, with an amused smile. "And if you leave food out for the spiders, they are usually content to live, and let live."
"I've never heard of anyone going so far into the Fade," she admitted. "That's extraordinary."
"Thank you," he replied, at once surprised and sincere. He considered her for a moment with a thoughtful expression, before adding, "It's not a common field of study, for obvious reasons. Not so flashy as throwing fire or lightning. Yet the thrill of finding the remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything."
Solas gave a sudden look of determination, as if he'd come to some crucial decision to an unspoken concern. "I will stay, then. At least until the Breach is closed."
His sudden declaration threw her off. She frowned, and asked, "Was that in doubt?"
That was a stupid question.
But it had already left her mouth, and she couldn't take it back.
"I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion," he reminded, in a clipped tone. "Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution."
Of course she understood. And of course he would have considered fleeing as much as she had; he had been no less a prisoner than her. As an apostate — and as an elf — his position was no less precarious in the human world as her own.
Tephra's memory shot back to the moment she'd first seen him, before the rift.
She'd been on the edge unconsciousness, struggling for breath as the water crowded out the air in her lungs. Laughter, sharp and vicious around her. And then, a shout — "What is the meaning of this?!" — and then the water stopped. The hood was yanked off of her, and she could breathe again.
He had been the first thing her eyes focused on. Standing in the entrance of the cell, and as furious as she was.
At the time, she had cursed his inaction, cursed him for leaving her there, but really, what could he have done? And now she knew that he had been just as helpless as her to do anything about the situation. Had he acted against the templars, he would have surely forfeited his life for it. He was just as much a prisoner, even if he hadn't been restrained in irons. But he had done what he could, he had shamed them into ceasing their torture, and brought the knowledge of their actions to the Seeker.
And he'd saved her life, according to Varric, after the Conclave. Kept the mark from killing her as she slept. He had no reason to — they'd branded her a mass murderer, as the reason for the Breach's existence.
Yet, still he saved her.
Tephra felt a sudden affinity for him. His situation was not all that different from hers, and if she was no longer a prisoner, then she would make damn sure that neither was he.
What good was this Herald bullshit, if she didn't have some say in the matters at hand?
"You came here to help, Solas," she said, finally. "I won't let them use that against you."
He regarded her with a curious frown, eyebrows knitting together. "How would you stop them?"
Defiance swelled in her, as she asserted, "However I had to."
Her certainty startled him, as if he hadn't expected such a thing from her.
It was a curious thing, his surprise, but perhaps that was because he was an apostate; they tended to live solitary lives, very rarely grouping together with each other, let alone anyone else. It was likely that he had no one, not even a distant clan to return to. And she knew that particular feeling as well — having to survive entirely on one's own merit, without having someone to watch your back.
It made her feel suddenly quite protective of his well-being.
"Thank you," he said, with sincerity. He continued to regard her a moment, before shifting gears, "For now, let us hope that either the mages or the templars have the power to seal the Breach."
A lull fell over the mage, as he lapsed into his own thoughts, though he continued to regard her with curiosity.
She idled, as questions stirred and bundled inside of her, pressing against her ribs with the urgency to be asked. But she hardly knew him, and these questions were so deeply important to her — personal, even.
Still, she didn't want to let this chance slip past her.
For all she knew, this dreamer-mage could be claimed by the war at any time or by some other end, before the opportunity ever arose again. She had pursued the answers for so long, and now here was someone standing before her who could possibly give her the truth, for better or for worse.
Her hand went to her sternum, pressing a touch to the shell that rested there. She tried to not bounce on her toes with nervous excitement, as she asked, "If you wouldn't mind a few more questions about what you do—"
His eyes focused back on her sharply, and he frowned, "What I do?"
"Dreaming," Tephra replied, a bit hastily. She didn't mean to infer anything, and he clearly was used to such things. This realm of knowledge — of the Fade and its denizens — was a taboo and dangerous subject, especially to the Chantry. Such careless talk could invite repercussions, if she weren't more careful. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her face, and averted her gaze as she clarified, "Your travels and experiences in the Fade."
When she met his gaze again, Solas was smiling. "Of course," he said. "What would you ask of them?"
"There is so little known on the subject, but—" she stalled, at a loss of where to begin.
It was all tied up in complicated, personal experiences.
She wanted to distance the questions from it, to keep in impersonal. To keep it purely academic. She couldn't stop the faltering sigh that left her as her mind worked out how to best frame the question. She settled on prefacing with a point of reference, which was really the only thing she'd ever been told by her Keeper on the subject of the Beyond. Despite her uncertainty, she was practically vibrating with interest, almost smiling as she began, "The Dalish believe—"
"Ah," he interjected suddenly, with a flat, dismissive tone. Whatever amiable warmth he'd had toward her was gone now and quickly replaced with an inexplicable disdain. "Of course. Forgive me if I stop you there, but I am already quite familiar with what the Dalish believe."
His abrupt shift in mood caught her off guard and shut her out effectively, and it would have been no less effective than if he'd simply slapped her.
Tephra gaped at him, and she hated the way her face opened in surprise — hated how she was unable to quell the look of uncertainty that crossed it in an almost exaggeratedly slow manner.
What had she expected, truly? He'd already made his feelings known of the Dalish before, even if she'd skirted his verbal pitfall to hook her into an argument. There had been enough in his tone for her to surmise his distaste of her people.
Why did she think anything would be different now, after having fought side-by-side?
Because you are alone in a camp full of people who wanted you dead, and now they want to parade you around like a banner for their cause. Because you know no one here, not truly, and you are alone. Because you are being weak. The thoughts burned across her mind, sharp like a reprimand.
She'd let her guard down, and rightfully paid for it.
She resolved to not make that mistake with him again.
Tephra pushed away her surprise, and let indifference claim her face.
"Right, then," she said, her tone abruptly formal. "Forgive me for mistaking you as the one person here who might understand how ridiculously out of place I feel. Dareth shiral."
"Tas ma," he replied, automatically. It was clear that he had expected her to continue this verbal altercation, but her swift retreat had thrown him off. He blinked rapidly, his jaw tightened and worked silently, before he asked, rather sharply, "Have I offended—"
"Not at all," she interjected, letting her tone go falsely cheery as she cut him off. She turned on her heel and started for the apothecary's cabin, uninterested in his falsely polite backpedaling. "It's just that I have Herald stuff to do. Though I guess I'll manage in my own inferior way, being Dalish and all."
She did not wait for him to collect himself to produce a retort, and quickly fled into the apothecary's cabin.
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Author's Note: I named the scared-y elf because she deserved a name. And I really wanted to highlight how fucking weird it would be to be catapulted into the role of a savior-figure especially as a Dalish elf, so there's gonna be a lot of that as Tephra struggles to come to terms with it.
The dialogue/scene at the end diverted a bit into AU, and will continue to do so as the story progresses as I have a lot of ideas and things I want to explore. The core plot will remain intact, at least so far as the end of Inquisition goes. Anyhoo, hope this is enjoyable so far because I am enjoying the writing of it. And I'd gladly give my kingdom for a bit of feedback.
Elven translations:
Dareth shiral. — Farewell; safe journey.
Tas ma. — You as well.