"O Maker, hear my cry:
Guide me through the blackest nights
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked
Make me to rest in the warmest places.
O Creator, see me kneel:
For I walk only where You would bid me
Stand only in places You have blessed
Sing only the words You place in my throat
My Maker, know my heart
Take from me a life of sorrow
Lift me from a world of pain
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride
My Creator, judge me whole:
Find me well within Your grace
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed
Tell me I have sung to Your approval
O Maker, hear my cry:
Seat me by Your side in death
Make me one within Your glory
And let the world once more see Your favor
For You are the fire at the heart of the world"
The chanter's voice rang out through the courtyard. There wasn't enough room inside the keep, so they gathered in the lower courtyard; Inquisition, Chantry, Dalish, Orlesian soldiers, Ferelden mercenaries, Grey Wardens. Despite everyone's best efforts, they were still separate entities, different species who bristled at each other like dogs about to fight. But tonight they were one in their grief.
It was just past sunset, the courtyard lit with fires and torches. Mother Giselle, Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen; they all stood by as the Chanter prayed, singing from Transfigurations. They were solemn and still on the landing, in the same place Leliana handed Varania a sword and named her Inquisitor. Then the mood had been hopeful and vibrant. Now it was somber and determined instead.
Varania stood at the base of the stairs, waiting. She would be expected to say her own words, ofter her own condolences. It would have been hard before, when Loghain was just a Grey Warden with a hazy past the others whispered about. but he became her friend and gave her good advice when there was no one else she could talk to. Without knowing anything else about him, it would have been hard to honor him properly for giving his life to save her. Knowing what she did now, it felt impossible.
That letter, addressed to Loghain in spidery script somehow stayed real out of the Fade. It was intended to hurt him. She understood why now.
"Mostly, I hope I can survive this with some semblance of my freedom still intact. I need to find that cranky old Grey Warden again and remind us both there are things worth living for, not just worth dying for."
It was written by a woman, Adrian, a mage from the White Spire in Val Royeaux. She asked Vivienne about her, who said yes, she remembered her and then rolled her eyes.
A libertarian. Vivienne explained. With more temper than sense. She is the very epitome of why mages need be feared, or she was anyway.
Vivienne didn't have much patience for the idea of mage freedom. Varania never had an opinion before. Tevinter was different; mages were free, powerful and utterly corrupt. The south was different. Mages here were different. She still didn't know what to think.
"When I came to Montsimmard, still pretending to be a First Enchanter, to see the Wardens and try to ally with them, I did not expect to fall in love. I never expected anything could keep my attention, other than my cause, but it is the first thing I have ever done that feels truly worthwhile.
I still want to be free. I just didn't know what that meant before."
Varania understood this woman's words in the deepest part of herself. She still wasn't sure she understood what it meant to be free, but love felt a lot like she thought it might. Varania had power as the Inquisitor, as much as this woman had at least as a leader among the Circle Mages, but it wasn't freedom. Not really.
"For now," the letter concluded. "I just pray that I'll live long enough to see him again."
She hadn't. And neither had he. Adrian died at the conclave with so many others. It put a face on it, one more real somehow than the Divine. Justinia was a symbol, more than a woman to most. Adrian was a real live person who had really fallen in love with another real live person and died without seeing him again.
Cole said she wanted blood, but Cole wasn't good at subtlety. He only saw the strongest emotions and the broken parts. He also only knew her before she knew love. Varania knew that was something that changed a person, even if you didn't mean it to.
She hoped Cole would learn to see the unbroken parts too. Making those stronger would soothe more hurts than making people forget. Of that, she was certain.
Varania didn't know most of the people who'd died for the Inquisition. She tried certainly; she'd gone with Iron Bull incognito, she'd gone drinking at the Herald's Rest, she walked through the courtyard, the barracks, the kitchens. But there were too many; too many names, too many faces.
But one night, Loghain talked to her and gave her hope. She never had a chance to thank him.
There was more.
There was always more.
I wish I'd never seen him. I wish I hadn't. Kya Amell's voice carried when she spoke to Hawke.
You don't mean that. Hawke replied.
Yes I do. I mourned him once already. And now its hurting both me and Nathaniel. Again.
The Hero of Ferelden was a real person too. As real as Hawke or Varania, as real as anyone, even if she was spoken about like she was a statue. Varania could feel Amell's eyes on her, feel her grief. There were whispers, stories. If they were true...Varania tried not to let herself dwell. It was too much.
Except for her mother and her brother, she'd never allowed herself the luxury of attachments before. The Dalish thought her cold, and she didn't blame them. Her heart wasn't something she shared before. It was too dangerous.
Solas stood at her side, silent. His hands were folded behind his back as she looked at him; at the arch of his brows, long sleek length of his nose, the soft curves of his mouth and the cleft in his chin. He didn't look at her, but his presence comforted her. That frightened her.
The Inquisition, Solas, they forced her to change. She opened her heart to them almost by accident. Seeing Amell, reading that letter? Varania's fingers drifted across her pendant, at the knots and the butterfly Solas had so carefully carved from the dragon's rib bone. It protected the dragon's heart once and she hope it protected hers now.
What would Solas think when she spoke the Dalish words for the dead? He said the Dalish had everything wrong. Maybe this was wrong too, but these words had brought her comfort in a way the Chant of Light never had.
She wasn't really Dalish, but maybe that didn't matter. None of it really mattered, except they way it made people feel. Did it bring comfort or pain? There was no way to sure. Her heart fluttered like butterfly wings in her chest.
Varania ascended the stairs slowly, the courtyard a twisting bramble of hushed sounds. At the top, she turned slowly, immediately spotting a group in the midst of the throng. Hawke and Amell were unmistakable with their pale red hair and pink skin. Fenris stood beside them with his face impassive and his daughter on his hip.
It was Amell's face that held her. Though her fingers were wrapped in her husband's hand beside her, she looked utterly broken.
I mourned him once before.
Varania's eyes turned to Solas again, hoping to find something there to help her. He met her gaze and smiled faintly enough that only she could see it. He nodded, ever so slightly.
Varania took a deep breath.
"We are here to honor the sacrifices of our fallen. Those loyal to the Inquisition, those Grey Wardens falsely led into destruction by Corypheus." Her voice rang out with more confidence than she expected. "We give special honor to Warden Loghain Mac Tir, the Hero of River Dane and once Teyrn of Gwaren who sacrificed himself to allow us to close the rift. That selfless act prevented our enemy from marching a demon army across Orlais."
There was a smattering of applause.
"It is my honor to offer Dalish prayers for the dead."
Varania lowered her voice into the sing-song chant she'd been taught.
"O Falon'Din
Lethanavir-Friend to the Dead
Guide my feet, calm my soul,
Lead me to my rest."
She thought about Loghain. About her mother. About her life before, her life in between.
"The People swore their lives to Falon'Din
Who mastered the dark that lies.
Whose shadows hunger."
She looked at Amell, at her pained blue eyes, at her wan face, her distraught husband. She looked at Fenris, watching her with quiet intensity. She looked at Solas, enigmatic and unknowable, no matter how much she loved him.
"Whose faithful sing
Whose wings of death surround him
Thick as night."
She struggled to keep her composure. She would fight, she would do whatever she must to save the world, but in the end, no one would survive except memories.
What would they sing about her someday?
"Lethanavir, master-scryer, be our guide,
Through shapeless worlds and airless skies."
Leliana came up behind her, a soft hand on her shoulder. She must have heard Varania's voice break at the end. She began to speak then, letting Varania fall silent. Her heart was still thrumming hard; her throat tight.
"I learned a song long ago," Leliana said. "One I have come to love much. I sang it once for our honored guest here, Kya Amell, the Hero of Ferelden. It is an elven song, a song of loss and mourning. I feel it is only fitting that I offer it to you."
Leliana's voice was pure and clean. Sometimes Varania forgot that being a Bard was more than spying, more than deception. They used their songs and stories to hide behind, and they only worked when they were blinding.
The hair stood on the back of Varania's neck as Leliana sang.
"Hahren na melana sahlin.
Emma ir abelas.
Souver'inan isala hamin,
vhenan him dor'felas;
In uthenera na revas."
Elder your time is come.
Now I am filled with sorrow.
Weary eyes need resting,
heart has become grey and slow;
In waking sleep is freedom.
The world was never going to be the same. It never was from one minute to the next. All they could hope for was that their choices, the decisions that set the direction of things to come were the right ones. There were innumerable branches and paths to take. Varania desperately hoped the direction she was steering them in did not lead to ruin.
"Vir sulahn'nehn.
Vir dirthera.
Vir samahl la numin.
Vir lath sa'vunin."
We sing, rejoice.
We tell the tales.
We laugh and cry.
We love one more day.
And what more could they do really? Tears ran unbidden down her face, but she was not Solas looked stricken, though he'd not shown much emotion before. He said death was part of life. Though he couldn't say what happened to our spirits, he knew that our strongest memories live on in the Fade. He said that was our legacy as mortals. That was how we never died.
Yet in the Fade, she saw his deepest fear. Etched on a tombstone in stark relief; Dying Alone. Everyone died alone, didn't they? And if spirits didn't go through the Fade to join the Maker and they were separated from the elven gods, from the old gods, where did they go? Did they simply wander, alone in the void, echoes of memories all that was left to mark their passing?
Varania shuddered. All they had was now. She needed to make it matter.
Vir Dirthera. We tell the tales.
What tales would they tell of today?