Why does tragedy exist?
Because you are full of rage.
Why are you full of rage?
Because you are full of grief.
—Anne Carson, Grief Lessons
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Her name sat uncomfortably in his mouth.
Tef-ruh.
Her name, like many of the modern elves he'd met, was a modern construct and not rooted in the Elven language at all. It carried no meaning that he could discern, and the phonetics of it were at once sharp and foreign. Like a barb in his mouth, never settling comfortably there.
Perhaps he was overthinking it, but she'd drawn him out of himself long enough for him to become provoked. Now every little thing about her seemed to get a rise out of him, as she had abruptly left him there to stew. And perhaps that had been his fault, too — letting himself be so easily drawn into an argument.
And in truth, he had earned her ire.
Had he not baited her, simply to prove his expectations?
He'd expected she would, but she didn't.
That alone had thrown him off guard, and every small glimpse she had afforded him of what lay beyond her carefully guarded demeanor had been nothing short of unexpected. Depths he had not expected.
At first glance, she had been precisely what he'd expected of a Dalish woman. Guarded and suspicious. Diminished. Not even a mage. She was among the poor shadows of his people who didn't even carry the seed of magic anymore, and with a face desecrated by vallaslin. She even wore boots. His People had always left something of the foot bare, so as to not break the connection between spirit and earth. Back when everything was infused with the same magic and connected to each other through its song, it was unthinkable to break such a vital source of contact with the Fade.
Without the ears, she might as well have been human.
For it, he had not been particularly inclined to be forgiving of what she was, of what she represented. But if he was honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that none of his disposition toward her was at all personal.
Because in truth, his resentment of her people had been built brick-by-brick long before he'd ever woken from uthenera. So many had left him feeling alienated from those that should have been his people, as something to be ostracized, as something other — while others had gone so far as to attack him outright in their anger, in their need to cling to their half-truths and myths perpetuated from propaganda. Lashing out at her for their misdeeds, however, had been unbecoming of him. She had yet to conduct herself as they had, or in any manner to warrant being treated as such.
She had been brutalized, and for it, her guard was up. He could not fault her that, and it was his own doing that'd raised it once more against him. He was a fool for squandering the opportunity that had presented itself to him, as the woman who'd come to him here in Haven was not the woman he'd met in the mountains. She was something more, a possibility, something on the edge of hope.
He'd done to her what had been done to him so many times over the centuries, lashed at the way her people had lashed out at him in the dreaming when he came to them only to share his knowledge, to guide them in the wake of the upheaval after the Veil rose. As mortality set in, so many of the remaining immortals spirited themselves away into the hidden corners of the world, to wait in uthenera for the return of the old world, which left their mortal offspring rudderless and without direction. It left them susceptible to being subjugated, to being overrun, to be crushed beneath the new world order rising from the ashes of Elvhenan.
It would have been easy to submit to the guilt in knowing that she — as all the rest — existed as such because of him. No matter how necessary it was to raise the Veil to stop the evanuris, to trap them away, the cost had carried through the centuries with devastating endurance. That truth was his weight to carry, no matter how heavy it was.
Regardless — he could not look back. There was nothing for it but to adjust, to adapt, and to move forward. The only path for him was to keep working toward his goals.
The time for first impressions had passed, so the onus was on him to repair the damage he'd done. She was not a typical example of her people and that alone demanded he shift gears, demanded that he narrow his focus — demanded he see her. And for it, he found that she was continually not what he had expected at all. It threw him off-balance, and forced him to look closer, forced him to consider her perspective of the events at hand.
It would have been so much easier, in the world before this one.
Empathy was so much stronger, then. Not simply something one had the capacity for, not simply the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, but the very literal sharing of emotions. And in that world, not only could they be shared between beings, but imprinted — into a book, or a relic, or an entire construct. It was a mechanism of magic very much like the Fade as it was now, locked behind the Veil.
Without it, discerning emotions could be much more taxing. And the language of faces and bodies was so very limited in comparison. It required much more work than he was used to extending, much the way magic worked now through the Veil. All of it required more focus, more energy, more of himself than he'd every imagined it would in uthenera.
Even after a year of being awake in this world, he still struggled with it.
Some emotions, of course, were easier than others — anger, especially. The subtler emotions could elude him, at times, and that disconnection stung most deeply with the modern elves. In a way, he was as disconnected from them as they were to the Fade.
With the Veil, they were not only closed off to their innate connection to magic, but to each other as well. Doubly exiled, diminished far beyond anything he could have imagined in that desperate time when he considered the possible fallout of what raising the Veil could do — but there had been no time, had been no other way to stop the evanuris and the doom they would have wrought upon Thedas.
It was just another of the many precious things lost to the Veil, to the separation from the waking world and the Fade.
Solas sighed, and shifted his thoughts from what was lost and beyond his current reach, to what he needed to focus on.
The Herald of Andraste.
History tended to follow predictable patterns, and this one was shaping itself into a familiar one. In great tragedy, a figure often emerged to lead those in need — though whether to their salvation or to their doom was always a toss of the dice.
Bearing his Anchor, she could deliver them from the threat of the Breach and the rifts that spawned from it. The Inquisition could be a stabilizing force, it could bring great good to the people, it could bring hope — it could bring peace, if only for a time.
And he'd been poised to guide her steps, to aid her victories, to bring her counsel, to move her as one moved a pawn on the chessboard — and he'd already fouled it up.
For all of his intention of forging amity with his Anchor's host, of earning her trust and cooperation — he was certainly off to a bad start. The decision had come to him after she'd stabilized the Breach, while she recovered from both wounds and exhaustion.
Also in that time he'd put his agents to work digging up what information they could of her, but in those scant days little had surfaced. She remained, largely, an unknown to him and until his agents could pry something loose of her origin, there was precious little to go on. And he very much doubted that she would be willing to divulge to him — whether it be as valuable as her history or as inconsequential as to what she preferred for her breakfast — not after their heated exchanges.
If she had been wary of him before, he had certainly not helped the situation by offending her.
What little he had gleaned of her, was anomalous at best.
She was wary to a fault, but it seemed neither rooted in the suspicion nor the antipathy of the Dalish he'd encountered before, and primarily due to her treatment by the chantry men. Still, it was too early to be certain of that. He would have to observe her further to better know her character, and hopefully engage her in proper conversation.
Still, there was at least one thing of her that was familiar to him, and that was her discomfort at having a title hoisted upon her. Though it wasn't something he could speak to her of, it was common ground nonetheless.
It was also something that added to the puzzle of her, as few balked when offered even a small portion of power. She'd balked at the notion of heroism, as though anyone else would have done what she did simply because it needed to be done, not simply for herself but for everyone.
Again, her behavior was very unlike that of her kin, especially youths brought up on myths that romanticized their past. Brash young things — so eager to prove themselves in acts of courage and valor — while the older generations were content to remain isolated among their own and have little to do with the outside world.
This was something more careful, more practical. This was someone with an acute awareness of their own personal freedoms being whittled away by the trap of duty.
It stirred something in him, not unlike sympathy.
The mantle he wore was no less heavy, and no less a trap.
And the most surprising thing she'd done yet was to declare — with equal intensity — was her intent to protect him from the Chantry and from the forces around her seeking to use the Anchor, should the need arise. The resolve in her tone and body language had shocked him. For a brief moment, she had dropped her guard long enough to extend herself toward him as a protector, as a guardian — as the newly-appointed, if reluctant, figurehead of the Inquisition offering a hand of kinship to an apostate elf.
It was a Dalish elf offering a hand of kinship to the Dread Wolf himself.
The irony was not lost on him.
And yet, it had stirred something in him, which nested in his ribs, beating out an odd pulse in time with the beat of his heart.
And then, of course, he'd ruined it when he had once again insulted her. She'd withdrawn back into herself, and he was demoted back to being no better to her than all the rest — just another for her to be on guard against.
He hadn't even learned what she had meant to ask him, regarding the Fade, as he'd cut her off at the mention of her people. It was a topic rarely discussed in Dalish culture, and no less taboo than anywhere else in Thedas.
The not-knowing burned at him.
It had clearly been of some importance to her, and he had to admit, he was curious.
When the Herald finally exited the apothecary's cabin, she did not meet his gaze. She moved quickly, clearly intending to pass by without speaking to him again.
Solas stepped forward to intercept her path, which caused her to stop in her tracks and regard him with a tight expression.
An apology would have been the wisest course, but stubbornness still nested in him, making a home out of his pride. Instead, he diverted, "Your hand — the mark."
She blinked quickly, and frowned. Clearly, she had expected a continuation of the prior argument. Her hand flexed at her side. "What of it?"
He held out his hand, and prompted, "May I?"
Her frown deepened as regarded him warily, before she relented and permitted him access to her hand. The back of it was a violent shade of purple, mottled with blue and edged with a sickly shade of yellow. The scabbing was in its last phase, flaking away from the skin as the abrasions had long-since closed. No signs of infection, even if her skin was startlingly warm against his.
"Try as you may, it will remain," he remarked, not unkindly.
"Clearly," she replied, in a flat tone. "Though I have considered using an ax next time. It might prove more effective."
Sympathy rushed back, coupled with guilt.
Of course she didn't want it, of course she would be unwilling.
He'd chosen the Elder One for a reason, not just because desire of power would ensure the man would do all in his power to unlock the foci, but to rid the world of a growing threat.
Two birds, one stone — as it were.
He pushed the guilt aside, and focused.
It took only the smallest tug on his part, and the Anchor surfaced.
A gleaming seam nestled between her metacarpals, running the length of her narrow palm. It pulsed alongside her heartbeat, just out of sync. Like a gear set wrong and trying to snap into place. It couldn't though; it wasn't meant for her. But it was stable, for the time being, and its advancement had slowed considerably. It would remain so as long as he kept it so. He could not stop what it would ultimately do to her, but he'd bought her time. Time to stop the magister, and time enough to regain his strength to reclaim it.
And time still, for her to live, if only for a time.
"Well?"
It was not quite impatience in her tone, but curiosity, if guarded.
"It remains stable," he replied, as he withdrew his hand. He flexed it idly, as the warmth of her touch lingered.
She regarded him coolly, and asked, "Was that all?"
His curiosity got the better of him. "Your question before—"
"It was nothing," she replied quickly, dismissing him. "Forget that I asked."
When she moved to take her leave, an impulsiveness seized him as he stepped again into her path and said, "It pains me to have discouraged your curiosity. There is little that I value higher than that, and I would be remiss to let that offense stand."
She startled at his sudden movement, and frowned at his raised hands.
Solas withdrew them sheepishly, fidgeting with his fingers. It was an old, nervous habit, one he'd long since banished in the days of his youth. Yet, she seemed capable of bringing it out of him naturally, much to his surprise. He continued, "While the masses are content to follow the status quo regarding many matters — the Fade particularly — it is rare to find someone who falls out of that line. Who shares an anachronistic viewpoint, or at the very least, a willingness to understand it."
She quirked an eyebrow, "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
His jaw tensed and loosened, before he replied, "More of a cease-fire."
"Ah," she parroted his previous tone, which he had used when she had mentioned the Dalish. "Forgive me if I stop you there, but I am already quite familiar with false apologies."
Even in his annoyance, Solas could appreciate her turning his own words against himself. His pulse quickened and he found that he was once again drawn out of himself — drawn out of the carefully constructed distance he'd placed between his self and this nightmarish world of tranquil. There was something about her that forced him out into the moment, forced him to be present, forced him to acknowledge her as more than a pawn to be moved and manipulated into place. She shouldn't have been this sharp of wit, this outraged, this damnably stubborn. She was only a shadow, after all.
Where then, had she gained such gravity?
His jaw worked soundlessly, chewing over his agitation. He drew a steadying breath, and started, "Falon—"
"Is it falon now?" The offense was written on her face. "Have you reconsidered your stance on the Dalish, then?"
Her dark eyes held his in a sharp grasp.
Too sharp.
She did not give him time to reconsider his approach, as she said, "We may not be what we were before, when we were all one people, but there is still good in us. Strength, and honor, and compassion."
"Yes, I have seen much of Dalish compassion, what with charming practices such as — what was it called? Ah, yes — Fenharel's Teeth," Solas countered, flatly. What little patience was left to him had fled. "Or perhaps how they compassionately forsake those of their city brethren, denouncing them as no better than seth'lin, as flat-ears."
She had the grace to blush.
"Let us not forget the bandit clans, either," he continued, voice heated to a searing edge. "Raiders with no interest beyond what they can take from those weaker than themselves, and what creative brutalities they can inflict upon the unwary."
Something seized up in her face at that, and he realized that he had not simply touched a nerve, but on something far older and far more painful to her.
It was a misstep, if ever there was one, with her. He realized that with startling immediacy.
For a brief moment, it was written clearly across her face, before it was gone again behind a mask of indifference.
"They kill more than just humans and outsiders," she replied. "They kill us, too. And I've killed my share of them." Something steadied in her, gained momentum, as she continued, "But what does that gain us? Waging war on one another never ends in our freedom. There is only more blood, and deeper trenches. And soon a day when none of us are left."
The wisdom in her words startled him into a choked silence.
How could something so mortal carry such conviction?
She continued to regard him with those eyes — too dark, too knowing — before she asked, again, "Was that all?"
Not by leagues — not by centuries.
There was a depth in her that all but begged to be explored, like a ruin filled with old dreams to be explored.
He had made a crucial mistake in setting his expectations for her so low, he knew that much now. Even his most optimistic assumptions fell laughably short, as she'd shattered them all in the span of two short, heated arguments. There was not only intelligence lurking in her, but clarity as well as conviction. Something that looked out from behind her eyes with a spirit that echoed his people.
It fascinated him as much as it troubled him.
And now that he'd so thoroughly offended her, it was unlikely that she'd ever offer to share her increasingly interesting perspective with him again.
Without a further word, she left him there and continued on her path.
Questions tangled restlessly in his gut as he watched her go.
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Tephra did not wait for the apostate to collect himself.
She moved quickly through the town, putting as much space between herself and his scathing criticism as she could without actually leaving.
It wasn't that his criticisms weren't without merit — as though she hadn't held a few of those opinions herself, even — it was the grand, sweeping nature of his condemnation. As though there was nothing good at all of the Dalish, which was an insult to her people, to her parents, to him. She couldn't begin to understand how Solas could be so dismissive of the Dalish for the actions of a few, and his arrogance gave her precious little patience to try.
Her pulse pounded in her ears. None in her clan were anything like what Solas spoke of. Even in their wanderings, the other clans had not shown that kind of hatred to outsiders. Suspicion, yes, but not outright hostility like that of the bandit clans. They simply sought to be left in peace, to live their lives free from human oppression. There were clans comprised of bandits and criminals, but they fewer and farther between. The thought that her kind — the peaceful sort — were in the minority was too difficult to swallow.
Surely it had to be happenstance that her experiences and his varied so greatly, and she could not imagine why the subject so greatly vexed him, not unless—
Not unless he'd been cast out.
It was too terrible to consider.
The Dalish perpetuated myths to throw off humans from knowing too much of their customs, such as the exchange of mages and youths. One to answer a crisis of scarcity, and the other to address bloodline diversity. Despite the tales, very few clans willingly cast out their own, unless there was a crime, and even then it would have to be severe enough to warrant it.
Though she hardly knew, he did not seem like a man capable of an unspeakable crime.
If not for that, then what?
She thought briefly of Solas's naked face.
Had he refused the blood writing?
That would have been enough.
It was a severe cost, for refusing to conform to tradition, but the traditions of her people were held very dear to their collective hearts.
What were they, if not the memory of what was lost?
Or perhaps he was city-born, and "crossed paths" with the Dalish, and whatever happened there was the source of his ire. It would be understandable, of course, especially had he been met with by bandit clans.
Still, even if that were the case, it did not excuse him from behaving like an ass.
And truly, what did it matter if he dismissed her? Was it really so different than the ones before? Was she really so foolish as to expect camaraderie from him over a commonality so banal as shared race? Why, truly, did it bother her so deeply?
Don't be an idiot. Letting down her guard here was too dangerous, even for one of her own. She needed to remember that. Trust will get you killed far quicker than loneliness.
The urge to simply scale the gates and seek shelter in a quiet place, to be alone, pressed in on her until she spotted the dwarf. Her anxiety loosened, if only a bit.
Varric was crouched near a bonfire, staring a hole into it as he contemplated something heavy enough to warrant such a grim look.
Presumably, if not everything that had happened already, he was still deeply troubled by what they had found in the ruins. Memories of those strange red crystals growing out of the ground flitted through her mind, alongside the sound of his fear.
It made her head throb just to think of the red lyrium.
As she neared, the dwarf looked up from campfire and his expression brightened.
At least someone is happy to see me.
"So, now that Cassandra's out of earshot, are you holding up all right?" Varric rose from his crouch and turned to face her, and said, "I mean, you go from the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day."
There was something close to awe in the way he looked at her, as if he had expected her to have cracked under the pressure by now.
"I'm not sure I am," she replied, surprised by her own sudden candor. "Part of me suspects I'm still dreaming."
"If only it were just a fucking nightmare," Varric said, grimly. But the humor returned, as he teased, "So this whole Herald thing, eh? The Herald of Andraste, Breaker of Noses."
Tephra bit back a sudden smile, lips curling in to conceal it poorly. Her forehead was still sore from the headbutt, but it had definitely been worth it.
"This one's already been, by the way," Varric teased, tapping his own misaligned nose. "No need to bless me."
Tephra could have laughed at that. She'd wanted to laugh, had sought out Solas for precisely that; why was it so hard to now?
"But seriously, kid. You're not alone in this," Varric said, gently. His sudden concern was genuine, and freely given. "If you need somebody to talk to, all you gotta do is look down."
His simple consideration of her welfare nudged a stone loose in her well-built walls, and she turned her face to conceal a sudden rush of emotion. The effort to push it back down inside of her tightened her brow and her jaw, as a complicated jumbled of emotion warred for dominance and priority.
Varric gave a sigh, and said, "Oh, kid. You're gonna be fine."
The simple pat of his gloved hand against her arm nearly threatened to bring it back.
Tephra nodded hastily, and only looked back at him when her face had smoothed out again. "Thank you."
He gave a nod, brow furrowed. Sensing the need to change the subject, Varric cleared his throat and said, "For days now we've been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can't believe anyone was in there and lived."
Tephra gave him a curious frown, "Why stay if Cassandra released you?"
"I like to think I'm as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this?" The dwarf gave a slow shake of his head, "Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there's a hole in the sky. Even I can't walk away and just leave that to sort itself out."
The truth of his statement settled heavily over her. Just as Solas had, Varric was choosing to stay.
If even those who came unsure and unwilling to this task chose to stay, how could she justify leaving?
Tephra tried to ease the heaviness with a jest, "I'm still not sure I even believe all of this is really happening. Perhaps it's all some grand, cosmic joke."
"If this is all just the Maker winding us up, I hope there's a damn good punchline coming," Varric replied. A bit of his humor slipped back, as he jested, "You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going."
It didn't last, however.
"Heroes are everywhere, I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes," he said, grimly. "We're going to need a miracle."
Her marked hand flexed anxiously at her side. A miracle indeed.
Even this cursed mark hadn't been enough to close it. What if there was truly nothing strong enough to?
It was a troubling thought.
Shifting gears, Tephra asked, "Do you know Solas very well?"
"Chuckles? Not really, no," Varric replied. He gave a thoughtful frown, as he crossed his arms and said, "He sprang up out of nowhere when the sky tore open. Said he'd been not too far from here when it happened. Surrendered himself into the service of the Chantry, claiming he was a bit of an expert on the Fade."
"Curious," she remarked, turning the information over in her mind like a coin. She had sworn to protect this apostate; she would do well to know his intentions, whether they were purely altruistic or if he harbored an ulterior motive.
"That he is," Varric agreed.
"It was nice speaking with you, Varric," she said. She was certain she'd wasted enough time putting off returning to the Chantry.
"Yes, of course. Go do your Herald stuff. Try to not lose your head about it," the dwarf advised.
She didn't know what possessed her, but she pushed him by the shoulder in a friendly jab. "If you start calling me that, I'll throw something at you."
He laughed and waved her off, "Go on, then, kid."
When she returned to the chantry, she found Cassandra waiting for her at the doors. The Seeker turned and headed in, clearly expecting Tephra to follow her. She hastened up the steps to catch up to the woman, and as they made their way down the long stretch of the main hallway, the Seeker caught her flexing her hand.
It was becoming something of an unconscious habit.
"Does it trouble you?" Cassandra asked, with something close to concern in her tone.
She wanted to say that of course it did, to ask how could it not. No one knew what it was, or where it came from, or even how to remove it. There was no knowing what it was doing to her, now or even years from now.
Tephra could have laughed at such a ridiculous question.
"If it wasn't enough to close the Breach, what use is it?" She could not keep the anger from her voice.
The Seeker, however, was calm — assuring, even — as she replied, "You did everything we asked of you."
"And it still wasn't enough," Tephra snapped.
Her voice carried through the hall, startling several of the chantry sisters busy at their work.
She was the one carrying the damn mark, and probably still dying from it in some way — she was certainly allowed some anger in that, wasn't she? What was the point of it, if it couldn't fix this mess? Was it some cruel, cosmic joke to give them false hope?
"What's important is that your mark is now stable, as is the Breach," Cassandra replied, unfazed by her outburst. "You've given us time, and Solas believes a second attempt might succeed provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by, but there are options before us to address it."
"Couldn't that kind of power just make things worse?" Tephra asked, uneasy by the prospect. She remembered how it had felt simply closing the rift that fed the Breach — how it had felt like her entire being had been invaded, down to the smallest parts of her, how it felt like she would split right apart at every seam.
The idea of being a vessel for that kind of power again was not a welcome notion.
To her surprise, Cassandra laughed. Then, she said, "And people call me a pessimist."
The sudden ease in the Seeker's body language threw Tephra off.
Gone was the coiled anger, the accusatory looks. The woman was still intense, to say the least, but steadier, assured, and confident — in her. Deferential, even.
The sudden change left Tephra feeling unsteady and unsure of herself. What had changed, really, to warrant this behavior? What had she done to earn this woman's respect? Aside from nearly dying, she hadn't really done anything but let the mark work through her.
"Come," the Seeker bade. "There are others you should to meet."
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By the time she was released again from the chantry, it was well after dark.
She had been invited to join the advisers for dinner at the tavern, but honestly, all she wanted to do was to go back to the cabin assigned to her and sleep. They would be departing for the Hinterlands at first light, to establish some semblance of peace to the region and to recruit people to the cause, as well as seeking out a chantry woman at the Crossroads who'd asked to speak with her. Getting as much rest as she could would have been the wisest choice, but she relented and followed the Seeker to the The Singing Maiden.
It was a noisy establishment and not terribly large, either. The combination of those two factors made the atmosphere inside feel at once claustrophobic.
Most of the customers crowded one half of it, closest to the fireplace, where a bard was plucking away at a bowed instrument and singing of an empress of fire. Soldiers crowded several tables closest to the bar, while refugees and townspeople occupied the rest.
Josephine had suggested clearing the entire tavern for the duration of their meal, as a consideration to Tephra as she was still adjusting to her newfound position as well as healing from the fight at the Breach, but she had thought it rude and refused. Still, it seemed as though they'd managed to clear half of it in anticipation of their arrival.
Two of the tables had been shoved together to make for adequate dining space, though it seemed an excessive waste of space to her. Trays of food lined the length, though it was nothing terribly extravagant — simple, hearty fare. Fresh baked rolls, a large pot of mutton stew, an assortment of baked root vegetables, grilled freshwater fish, and roasted apples.
Varric and Solas had arrived early, and were well into their meals.
She sat next to the dwarf, who greeted her with a warm smile and pushed a mug of ale at her. She eyed the food, briefly. Her hunger had long since gone from a raw knot to a heady emptiness, but the scent of it all brought it rushing back.
She turned her focus away from the table and scanned the tavern, taking in the sight of the people gathered there. Mostly humans, with a handful of dwarves and elves scattered among them. The refugees were haggard-looking, having come from the outlying towns around the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Most had been wiped off the map, according to Leliana's scouts. These were the farmers and hunters who'd had the sheer luck of living far enough away from the blast to survive. One table was occupied almost entirely by children — orphans. She could tell by the quiet way grief lay across their faces. Some were still and withdrawn, while others were restless and irritable. Two chantry women tended to them, to make sure they were adequately fed and looked after.
"Herald?"
Tephra's attention snapped back to the table. The Commander, Cullen Rutherford, was standing across from her with a soldier at his side. The white armband he wore distinguished him as a medic. Cullen gestured at the soldier, "I believe you asked to meet the medic who saved your life at the Breach, did you not?"
"Yes," she replied, automatically. It had slipped her mind that she had asked, during the earlier meeting. The details of her care had been illuminated when she'd mistakenly thanked Adan, who it seemed did little more than the aftercare. He'd told her that the medic had been the one who'd brought her back from the brink of death, but he had not known the man's name and suggested asking the Commander for his identity.
The medic must have just come in from training, as he was still in full gear. With a quick movement, he pulled off his helmet and tucked it under an arm. Mid-twenties at most, by the look of him, with dark hair and dark eyes. Handsome, and human. He gave a crooked smile, and inclined his head, "Alleras Wakefield, at your service, Herald."
"Please, don't," she groaned, as she stood. She'd had enough of the heralds and graces today.
The medic laughed, "Not very fond of that title, are you?"
His humor was disarming. At least there was someone here who didn't take all this nonsense so seriously. Tephra gave an amused huff, "Gods, no. Please take it. I'll gladly give it up."
Alleras sucked in air between his teeth, giving a mock grimace, "No thanks, Herald. I'm quite fine with "medic". Besides, that doesn't look like it comes off all that easily."
He was eyeing the mark on her hand with interest. In the dim, warm light of the tavern, the seam shined a deep shade of emerald. She fought the urge to flex her hand, or hide it. She grimaced, "Unfortunately, no."
"Looks like you tried well enough," he observed.
She ignored the others taking covert glances at her bruised hand, and cursed the flush creeping up her face. If any doubted her sincerity as far as not wanting the mark nor the title they'd given her, they need not look any further than her battered hand.
She hoped it shamed them, just as much as her split lip and the bruises on her neck from the templars torturing her had.
None of that was the medic's fault, though, and she kept her tone neutral as she said, "I wanted to thank you. I'm pretty sure the only reason I'm standing here now is because of you."
The medic waved her off. "It's my job. You were a soldier on my field; it's what I do. Besides," Alleras gestured at Solas, seated across the table from her. "That one there did all the messy work fixing the internal damage. I just un-collapsed your lung and got you breathing again. There's no guarantee you would have made it back alive for a surgeon to fix what he fixed with magic."
Tephra had been pointedly avoiding Solas's gaze from the moment she entered the tavern, but now she had an obligation to meet it. His gaze was placid, and held none of the antagonism from their earlier argument.
"It seems I owe you twice over, now," she mused.
"Not at all," he replied coolly, before diverting his attention back to his plate. "I was merely doing my job, as well."
"By your leave, Herald. I believe there is at least three mugs of ale waiting for me," the medic said, rather cheerfully.
Tephra released him with a nod. She was relieved to have gotten that out of the way; it would have bothered her until she'd tracked the medic down and forced her thanks upon him. Still, the whole business with having to grant him leave made her uncomfortable, or having to do so at all to anyone. Observing the others at least gave her cues and behaviors to follow, to mimic, even if she felt like a fraud. Even as she moved to sit amongst them, she felt a fraud, felt out of place.
There was a lull as the advisers settled at the table and prepared their dinners. Cassandra sat at her immediate right, and the other two women flanked further right — the Spymaster and the ambassador — which left the poor Commander to sit by himself across from them. There was several spaces between him, and where Varric and Solas were sat.
She'd hardly just sat down, when a handful of older women approached. Between them, they each carried a bowl filled with what looked like peeled, boiled eggs. The smell preceded them.
"Pardon, your grace," one of the women said, bowing far too low for her age.
For fuck's sake.
"Please don't bow," she said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.
"I'll just—" Cullen stepped around the tables to accept the offerings. He set the bowls among the platters.
"We only meant to wish you good health, Herald," the other woman said, as they straightened.
Tephra gave a stiff nod. Would this ridiculous behavior never end?
Blessedly, Cassandra stood and spoke over the din of the tavern and declared, "If there are to be any more offerings, please direct them to the tavern keeper. The Herald has had a long day, and does not need further interruption from her supper."
Tephra couldn't help but frown at the bowl heaped with strong-smelling eggs. They'd either gone bad, or were not-so-subtly poisoned. Both options seemed just as likely to her. Tephra turned to the Seeker, and asked, "Why all the eggs?"
Cullen spoke up, with an amused smile, "It's a Fereldan thing. Old wives tales and superstition. They believe pickled eggs'll cure just about anything. Don't mind them, though. They're just trying to help, in their own way."
She was still thrown by the change in the demeanor of these people, how quickly their opinion of her could shift so dramatically in the span of a day. Were they truly so fickle?
She'd had one success, and they'd made a Herald of her.
What would happen when she failed?
No matter the devotion nor naming their religion after her, in the end, Andraste was still burned at the stake.
Tephra caught her gaze wandering to the grilled fish, and gave a shake of her head as she turned back to the conversation between the advisers.
She continued to ignore the food.
"We can depart for the Hinterlands first thing. I have already procured the mounts and supplies needed for hard travel," the Seeker was saying. "We are short on mounts for the soldiers, but there are enough between the four of us."
Tephra cocked an eyebrow, "Four?"
"You and I," Cassandra replied. With some measure of agitation, she added, "Varric, and Solas. A smaller traveling party will attract less attention on the roads."
That was true enough.
"She's still injured," Leliana noted, as she she sliced roasted vegetables on her plate. A colorful melange of pale parsnips and purple carrots, golden beets and deep red radishes.
"Marginally," Tephra insisted, ignoring the gurgle in her gut. She doubted she fooled any of them, but the thought of staying another day in this town with people tripping over themselves for her favor made her skin crawl. "By the time we reach the Hinterlands, I'll be fine."
"Reports speak of near chaos in much of the area, with bandits taking up residence on the outskirts of the fighting. They lay in wait for fleeing refugees," Josephine informed, her face set grimly. She did not need to elaborate on what the bandits did with the refugees after they were caught.
The Montilyet woman was a sight — dressed largely in gold and blue that flattered her dark skin. She had never met an Antivan before, and the woman's accent was strange and lyrical and enjoyable to listen to.
"We'll deal with the defectors and the rebels first, then we can see to rousting the bandits," Cassandra replied. "It will take some time, but we have that now."
"Getting to the Crossroads and securing it should be your foremost concern," the Commander advised, before taking a swig of ale. "Establishing camps for temporary forces should help to keep the area stabilized with patrols."
The Seeker paused for a moment, fork hovering over her plate as she wrestled with a thought. She cleared her throat and speared a portion of fish, before changing the subject. She cast a sideways glance at Tephra, "Despite Leliana's efforts, we still know next to nothing of you, of your history." The Seeker was trying to be conversational, but it still came off feeling like an interrogation.
An awkward interrogation.
She turned her gaze to Tephra, as she asked, "Where do you hail from?"
Tephra hesitated to answer.
This information was unnecessary to their operations, or their use of her. What did they have to gain from it?
The position she'd earned within her clan afforded the freedom to travel further than most, but she was trained to keep knowledge of her clan's whereabouts and movements a secret from those outside the Dalish. She was tasked with trading with non-Dalish, and well accustomed to the curiosity of outsiders.
Some of it was harmless. Much of it was not.
The Seeker's expectant gaze bore through her, and Tephra knew that she could not lie to the woman. Not this one.
She frowned, and begrudgingly replied, "The Free Marches."
"Another Marcher," Varric gave an amused huff. "Never would've guessed it."
The Seeker continued to hold her gaze, though she was aware that all of their focus was on her now.
At least the apostate attempted to feign disinterest.
Her jaw clenched tightly, before she relented, "Of Clan Lavellan."
It felt like a betrayal, however small, to admit it.
Josephine perked up, as she asked, "The Dalish are nomadic, are they not? Where last did your clan settle? Oh, the vistas you must have seen in your travels!"
"You'll forgive me if I choose to not divulge that information, given how we are generally treated by your people," she replied, a bit tersely.
"I—" It did not seem initially to have occurred to the woman the position Tephra was in, but it certainly did now. "Of course," Josephine conceded, graciously. "Do forgive our intrusion."
The Commander reached across the table to spear a roasted potato.
Tephra watched the action a bit too closely.
Cassandra cleared her throat, before asking, "When did you last eat?"
Anger coiled in her stomach, crowding out the hunger. "How long has it been since your people took me?"
The Seeker regarded her with a tight expression. After a moment, she moved a platter of roasted fish and set it before Tephra, and insisted, "You should eat."
She ignored it, and continued to hold the woman's stern gaze. Cassandra broke the connection first and averted her gaze with a noise of frustration.
This particular aspect of her rebellion was unsustainable — childish, even — but for the time being she indulged it. It was worth their discomfort. It was at least some small way to hold them accountable for what was done to her. Though, when Varric nudged a bread roll in her general direction, she nearly caved in from guilt.
"Would you pass the apples, Varric?"
Now it seemed the Seeker sought to turn her rebellion against her.
Tephra's mouth was set in a hard line as the tray was passed in front of her; the warm scent of cinnamon and spices was near-maddening.
Worse, even, was that the apostate watched with amusement. He said nothing, but took a rather large bite of the mutton stew.
Fenedhis.
She would have been perfectly happy if the void took them all.
"Also, the rolls, if you would."
Varric offered them with a mocking flourish, "Anything, for Nevarran royalty."
That caught Tephra's attention, and provided a much needed distraction from her hunger.
She turned a quizzical look to Cassandra, as the woman set down the plate of bread. "Royalty?"
She wasn't entirely clear on the intricacies of human politics, but she knew enough that royalty was generally a bit of a big deal to them.
Cassandra shot Varric a dark look, jaw clenching as she replied, "A distant blood relation. Nearly half of Nevarra could claim as much. Not quite the clout as a merchant prince."
Tephra turned in her seat and fixed her surprised gaze on the dwarf. He shrugged and gave her a sheepish smile. She then gave an arch look to Solas, and said, "And let me guess — you're secretly Shartan."
His eyebrow quirked, as he asked, "Why Shartan?"
"Well, clearly I'm Andraste, if we're playing this game," she said, waving a hand dismissively. "And we don't have many of our people more infamous than he."
Cassandra made a sound of disgust, and Leliana gave a sharp look of disapproval as she advised, "You should not make light of our faith, Herald. Not here, where you could be overheard by the very people whose support we need."
"Apologies," Tephra huffed. She had not meant to mock their religion, not really — but this whole situation was ridiculous.
Cassandra fixed her with a serious look, "Some would say the Maker chose you. That you are an agent of his will."
"That's ridiculous," Tephra replied, frowning. "I chose to accept the mission that was given to me, to go to the Conclave. What happened, happened. If someone else had been sent in my place, that poor fool would be here now, just the same."
"I'm not so sure," the Seeker insisted, stubbornly.
"Because you you have to believe it. How else could you justify parading me about as your Herald to win people to your cause, to make myth of me when it was very likely just a mistake," she accused. "Some terrible, cosmic joke."
Cassandra's disapproval rolled off of her in waves. "Do you not believe in the Maker? What of your own gods?"
The woman was relentless.
Tephra's marked hand fisted on her knee, beneath the table, as she averted her gaze to stare beyond them and to the far wall. "I have no need of the gods," she replied, flatly. "People suffer and die every day, and what do they do? They are sleeping, or dead, or never were. Or perhaps they just don't care that the world has become what it is now."
That silenced the Seeker for a moment, at least. Staring at the wall made it impossible to not see Solas in her periphery, staring a hole through her.
Thankfully, the Spymaster spoke up to divert her attention. "The faith of the people can be put to good use. Directed to do good work. With it, we can build a better future."
"Do what you must," Tephra replied, sharply. "As will I. But don't mistake my compliance with pleasure. I take no joy in any of this."
"Perhaps not," Cassandra conceded. "But one day, you may find pride in it."
Varric piped up at her side, "Not fond of deification, Snowflake?"
He was joking with her, attempting to break the tension, but it did nothing to ease her discomfort.
"Who would want to be a god?" she mused. "I certainly don't. And I certainly wouldn't make a good one."
"But say you were," the dwarf said. "What would you do for them?"
Clearly he was posing the question as a humorous game of what-if, and expected her to respond in kind, but she couldn't help but feel increasingly uncomfortable. "I suppose I'd just try to keep them safe and leave them be," she replied, simply.
Varric gave a bark of laughter and waved his hand dismissively, "Ah, you're no fun."
Breaking his silence, the apostate spoke up and said, "Do go on."
She regarded Solas with a tight frown, silently cursing him for continuing this stupid conversation. What did it matter, anyhow? She wasn't a god, or anything close to it. She was just an elf.
"I would want to keep them safe, from each other particularly. From atrocity. From the unnatural. But then also, to let them be to live their lives as they would. To not use them as pawns for some greater design. To give them freedom to live and die as they chose to," she elaborated.
She had all of their attention again, particularly Solas's. Tephra found herself almost startled by the intensity of his attention; it was as though he was just now, in that moment, seeing her clearly. Her frown deepened, before she averted her gaze and said, "But then, there it is — isn't it?"
"There's what?" Cullen asked, as he leaned forward with his elbows on the table, fingers laced together.
"The trap," she replied, as if it had been obvious all along. "How could I do both without violating the other? To keep them safe, intervention would be necessary. To let them be would be to let them be free to face whatever horrors the world throws at them, or what they may inflict upon each other. Terrible things happen when people think they're doing the right thing, especially if there's some god involved."
But sometimes, it wasn't gods or grand schemes. Sometimes it was just one person, trying to keep another safe, and failing. Her hand touched briefly at her sternum, feeling for the shell. "That's just the way it is, though — isn't it?" She swallowed at the hard lump in her throat, and pushed the memories away, as she said, "You try to keep them safe, to make things right, to make what small good you can in the world, and it all just blows up in your face."
"Sometimes literally," Varric deadpanned.
"It doesn't matter, anyhow. Whatever the gods are or were, they're no more. Or, they never were," she mused. "They don't live in this world, but we have to. All we have is ourselves."
Tephra was acutely aware of their scrutiny. It was the most she had said on any subject thus far. Perhaps more than she'd said in the entirety between now and the moment she'd woken in the prison.
Cassandra and Cullen were both giving her measured looks, as if they were adjusting their previous notions of her. Varric looked amused, as if he was simply pleased he'd managed to make her speak at such length. A smile played at Josephine's mouth, and Leliana simply regarded her with a calculated frown. And Solas — he was looking at her with one eyebrow quirked, as though his curiosity had been piqued, but otherwise his expression was unfathomable. Intense, but unfathomable.
Tephra felt the heat rise in her face from their undivided attention. It made her feel far too exposed — far too vulnerable. She averted her gaze and added, "As I said — I wouldn't want to be a god."
"But perhaps you will make a competent Herald," Cassandra mused. The woman looked almost pleased.
Tephra bit her tongue. She very much wanted to down the mug of ale that Varric had pushed at her, but refrained.
"The "Herald of Andraste"," the dwarf parroted. He turned a playful grin on her, as he asked, "Do you wonder what they will write about you, when this is all over?"
He was far too cheery about all of this, yet his humor was a lifeline for her. The urge to deck him and to hug him came in equal measures. She huffed, "What does it matter? They'll just cut off my ears and change me into something that fits their narrative, like they did with her."
Cassandra gaped at her, "Andraste was human. Are you suggesting that she was an elf?"
"So they say. So it is," Tephra replied. "Shartan was an elf, and they cut off his ears. If she was, who now would know the truth? What is truth, when the dead cannot speak for themselves? When history can be so easily rewritten to reflect the narrative of those in power?"
She could have laughed at their collective shock. Was it really so mad to suggest an alternative perception on their supposedly human martyr? Briefly, she considered mentioning the common heresy of Shartan being Andraste's lover as an amusing addendum, though the thought of doing so was quickly dissuaded at the memory of iron manacles and water torture.
The only among them not moved to some measure of shock was Solas. Instead, his expression had tightened, focused to something piercing and unreadable. Not quite a frown, not quite anything else.
Leliana broke the silence that had settled over the table, as she asked, "Do you know much of Andraste?"
Tephra shifted her gaze back to the advisers, "I don't have to believe in your religion to find her interesting." She could not stop the small smile that flitted across her face, "She loved a god and brought the world to its knees. I'd say that she's set the bar rather high for me, hasn't she?"
"You're off to good start," Varric quipped.
Cassandra spoke up at her side, "Andraste fought for the freedom of her people. She chose her path wisely, just as you must choose—"
The smile soured on her face, as she she turned to the Seeker, "I must... what?"
"It will be your choice—"
"I have no choice in any of this!"
Tephra's voice cut over the din of the tavern, startling the gathered patrons into silence. Her pulse pounded like a wardrum in her ears, as her gaze skittered from one shocked face to another.
Would she be punished now, for acting out? Some small part of her welcomed it, welcomed a fight.
Varric laid his hand over her forearm, and it stilled her anger long enough for the people of the tavern to resume their conversations. The bard was singing about enchanters now.
She was still seething, but she lowered her tone as she said, "From the start of this, I've had no choice. It was taken from me the moment this mark was put on me. And I don't recall giving my consent, nor imagine I ever would. I didn't have any choice about being imprisoned. Or being made to close those rifts without any idea of how to do it the first place, and on threat of death if I failed."
None of them attempted to refute her, which satisfied her, so she continued, "Now you want to call me Herald and parade me about to win support for your cause because of this mark — because of what I can do with it. Spin it however you like to the masses, but don't pretend to me that I'm anything more than a means to an end. If leaving didn't mean the end of the world and everything in it, I would have been gone at the first chance your people gave me."
Tephra stood quickly; a wave of dizziness hit her, and she swayed where she stood. Varric's grasp on her forearm steadied her, then retreated as he let go of her. She was done with this conversation; she was done with people in general for the night. More than anything, she needed a moment to herself, to be alone.
"If you'll excuse me," she said, tersely, as she pushed her chair in.
The mix of their expressions meant nothing to her. She was too fatigued to argue or to be talked down to or otherwise lectured about her responsibility and duty. She ducked off into the crowd, hastily navigating her way to the nearest exit.
The crowds at least made the effort to part a path for her, and she'd almost reached the door when she heard something over the noise of the tavern. It was a familiar sound, that pulled at her in a way she couldn't ignore.
She scanned the crowds for the source, and found it at the table with the orphaned children. One of the chantry sisters held a little one in her arms as he wailed pitifully. He couldn't have been more than two summers old. His wailing only ceased briefly when he was wracked with coughs as a result of his hysterics.
The boy looked nothing like her brother, but she couldn't help but think of him. He'd been just as inconsolable that night, so long ago.
She paid no heed to the people parting around her as she made her way to the children. When she reached the table, the woman gave her a startled look.
"Oh, forgive him, Herald, he's just—"
When Tephra raised her marked hand, the woman fell silent. She did not notice that the rest of the tavern had as well. It only made the boy's cries louder to her, more urgent, and deepened her need to placate him.
"There now, little bird," she said quietly, and pressed her fingertip to his forehead. She traced a slow, steady line to the tip of his nose. Then again, forehead to nose. And again, until his cries quieted and settled into hiccups and then further into contented sleep.
There, there, little bird.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Silence fell over the tavern as the Herald moved through the crowds and stood over the crying child.
Those who were sitting, stood to watch as she began to stroke the toddler in a curious manner. She spoke briefly, and too softly to be heard. She stroked a repetitive path from his forehead to the tip of his nose. The boy took a few shuddering breaths — half-sobs — before falling quiet, and slipping back into his slumber.
More and more of the tavern occupants turned and craned to watch the gentle act, to see the infinitely gentle expression on the Herald's face.
It was the first time she'd truly shown herself to any of them, without the wariness and the anger which she wore like armor. And it was in that moment that it became clear that not only could she could fill the role that was presented to her as Herald — as a protector and peace-maker — but that she could be a figure of compassion to unite them, as well.
As if divining Solas's thoughts, the Seeker spoke up.
"They could love her," she said, almost to herself, as if to reaffirm her decision of trusting the young elf with such an important role.
Not as if there was much of a choice about it, on either side. Of that, the Herald had been entirely correct.
"Maker," the Commander said, almost breathlessly.
The other children had fallen silent, and crowded closer to the Herald. They were presenting their faces to be petted, with shy smiles. They watched her glimmering hand with wide-eyed fascination as she complied. She stroked each little face offered to her, and for the first time that he'd seen, the Herald smiled.
Whether it was the low warm lighting of the tavern framing her just so or something that came naturally, Solas could not discern, but she made for a striking figure among the orphans in that moment.
"She looks a bit like your people's deer god," Varric remarked, in a low tone.
"The name you were looking for is Ghilan'nain," Solas informed, and refrained from reminding the dwarf that his face was not marked.
"Ghilly," the dwarf sighed, ruefully. "Would've been perfect."
"She would dislike it more than the current one you've bestowed her."
"Without a doubt," Varric laughed. "If only I had thought of it first. Was a bit too distracted with the whole world-ending thing to be clever enough to recall the names of elven gods. Ah, well."
Solas eyed the thick mess of her long white hair, and the slow, graceful movements of her hand as she petted the children's faces. "Halla are not simply deer, master Tethras," he replied. "Though I will concede she behaves much like one."
Varric gave a quiet laugh, "I don't think she'd take too kindly to being called doe-eyed and shy, though."
He shot the dwarf a curious glance, "Have you met many halla on your journeys?"
"I can't say that I have," Varric replied.
"You would remember if you had, and you would understand how ridiculous it is to compare them to deer," Solas replied. "Or as anything shy."
The moment of tenderness passed, as the elf became aware of the scene she'd caused. As Tephra straightened, the frown returned to her face, as did her defenses. She avoided the stares of the people around her, and hastily made her exit from the tavern. No one blocked her path.
Solas could have smiled at her stubbornness. As the chatter of the patrons began to return, he continued, "Halla are not prey animals. They are not meek. They cannot be bridled. A halla would sooner impale their captor in the attempt, than to submit to another's will without consent."
The dwarf looked skeptical. "And how is it you elves manage to ride them?"
He smiled then, as he stood from his chair, "One must humble theirself before the halla, and ask permission. Their trust must be earned."
Without a further word, he navigated through the crowds to follow after her. The patrons did not part so easily for him, and slowed him down. By the time he reached the street, she was already disappearing around a corner. When he turned the corner, he caught sight of her as she slipped between two bodies in the bustling crowd, and was gone.
Solas stopped short, taken aback. Where did she—
He scanned the crowds carefully, but she did not reemerge. He cast forth a scanning spell, using his innate ability to sense magic around him to confirm a nagging suspicion that had followed him since the battle at one of the rifts.
And then he saw it — a slight shimmer in the air, like a trick of the light — moving swiftly off into the space between two cabins near the defensive wall that bordered the interior of the township. It was something akin to an outline, faint and wispy, shimmering just so, yet essentially invisible to anyone who didn't know how to look for it. He watched as she clambered up onto the roof of a cabin, and vaulted onto the next. And then, in one swift movement, she was up and over the defensive wall without a single look back.
As he stood there, processing what he'd just witnessed, one of his agents stopped on her way to the forge. She did not meet his gaze, as she pretended to fumble with her load and dropped a few of the tools she was carrying. As she crouched to rifle in the snow for them, she said, "Nothing new on the Herald, sir."
"No matter," Solas replied. "It has come to my knowledge that she hails from the Free Marches, and is of clan Lavellan. That should provide focus for a detailed report."
With a nod, the agent gathered up the tools swiftly from the snow and hurried off into the crowds.
A moment later, the dwarf came puffing up beside him and asked, "Did you see where she went?"
"Over the gate, and beyond," Solas replied, as he suppressed a smile.
Varric heaved a sigh, and said, "Well, I did encourage her to flee, unfortunately. Shall we go fetch her?"
"That would be wise," he replied.