When Aldaron next woke it was somewhere warm, comfortable. At first he almost believed that it had all been a dream, but when he opened his eyes he was not back in his aravel with his clan, but an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar place. He sat up slowly, just as a strange elf came in the door. When she saw that he was awake the girl dropped what she was holding and practically fell to he knees. It startled Aldaron, and he tried to assure her that she was in no danger, but she seemed frightened of him, babbling endlessly, though he was able to get some information out of her. The Breach closed. The thing on his hand did not hurt as much, now that he thought about it. Something, at least, had gone right. But she said that was three days ago. Had he really been asleep that long? The anxious girl fled the room, saying something about Cassandra – the frightening woman who had dragged him up the mountain – and he rose unsteadily to his feet. He remembered Haven from before the conclave, and thought he knew where the Chantry was. Better go find that woman before she came in here to yell at him some more.
After a cursory look around the room Aldaron located his coat and pulled it on. He opened the door to the shack and stepped outside, then froze on the spot. There were people. Dozens of people, all crowded around as though waiting for him. A line of guards held them back, but did not make Aldaron feel any more comfortable.
Warily he stepped forward, eyed both the guards and the common folk nervously, and slowly made his way through the crowd. The people were muttering amongst themselves. He could make out the words, but little of it made any sense to him. "Herald of Andraste" they said. "Stepped out of the fade" and "Stopped the Breach." It was all very disconcerting, and did not improve when he spotted the Chantry. He had always felt uncomfortable around Chantries and Chantry sisters, always afraid they would try to convert him or get him arrested. None of the women crowded around outside stopped him from going in, however, so he pushed the door open and stepped into the dimly lit hall.
It was empty.
Not a soul in sight, but as he wandered forward and looked around Aldaron began to hear voices. He followed them to a room at the very back of the hall, steeled himself, then pushed open the door.
"Clap him in irons!"
Aldaron tensed, ready to run if he had to, but thankfully the guards seemed more inclined to listen to Cassandra than this priest, and she no longer seemed to want to kill him or arrest him. Thank the Creators for small blessings. He listened, nervous, wary, as they argued over what to do with him, and then Cassandra said something that shocked him to his core.
"Providence. The Maker sent him to us in our darkest hour."
The Maker? The shemlen god?
"You realize I'm an elf. A Dalish elf." Aldaron had not been sent to the conclave by anyone but his Keeper, but if he had been sent by a god, it certainly would not be a human one. This did not seem to dissuade Cassandra, though. She was convinced, and so was Leliana. Aldaron understood little of the following conversation. A lot about shemlen religion, about the Breach, and something called the Inquisition. The elf did not agree with everything they said. He did not care what their religious leaders believed or ordered them to do. But their goals – bring peace, close the Breach, find and stop whoever caused it – those he agreed with whole-heartedly.
This thing on his hand, whatever it was, it seemed to be important. Right now it seemed to be the only thing that closed the rifts. It was his duty to stay, then. The Keeper had sent him only to gather information; she had not foreseen anything of this magnitude. How could she? How could anyone? Demons falling from the sky. However these people wanted to frame it, this was not a problem merely for humans, this was a problem for the whole world. Reality was coming apart at the seams, and if he could do something to help fix it, then Aldaron would.
He was not sent by any god, human or elvhen. He firmly believed that this thing on his hand was merely a coincidence, an accident. It terrified him, he wished he could give it to someone else, someone like Cassandra or Solas, someone who knew what they were doing, but he would use it if he had to, if it would fix the world.
Someone had to do something.
They were calling him the Herald of Andraste. Aldaron barely knew who Andraste was. It was disconcerting. People bowed when he walked past. They stared with open awe, or open contempt. At least the contempt was something he was used to seeing from humans. A Dalish elf savage, prophet for their human god? Preposterous. If he was supposed to be a prophet Andraste or the Maker or whomever had certainly forgotten to inform him.
Aldaron held no delusions of grandeur. He was well aware that he held no actual control in this Inquisition. They asked his opinion out of formality. He was little more than a symbol, a mascot. They kept him around because of this mark on his hand, the only thing they knew of that could close the rifts in the veil. That was what they needed, not Aldaron himself.
Still, now that they were no longer trying to kill or arrest him, everyone in Haven was being incredibly polite. They had given him proper weapons and new clothes. The clothes were unfamiliar and strange, but incredibly well made, comfortable, and most importantly sturdy and warm. Aldaron was not overly fond of the boots, but he was also not fond of frostbite, so he put up with them. They were more comfortable than he had expected boots to be.
When he reluctantly admitted to Josephine that he had heard some disparaging remarks about his ears said behind his back she had immediately assured him that they would be dealt with. That had shocked him. He had never met a human willing to stand up for an elf before. Usually they just turned their head and ignored it when someone said 'knife-ear'. Fumbling with his words, Aldaron tried to assure her that it was fine, that she did not need to do anything. She insisted until he backed down.
The Herald of Andraste had to be respected.
Aldaron did not want to be herald of anything.
The mark still hurt. A throbbing in the background of everything that he did. When he kept himself busy enough - running around Haven talking to people, trying to help where he could, hunting in the forest just outside the walls - he could ignore it. At night it kept him awake. Curled up in bed, cradling the limb to his chest and biting his lip to keep from crying. When there was nothing else to distract himself with there was only the pain. The mark did not look like much now, a wide scar with a green tinge, and it did not hurt as much as it had that frantic, terrifying day at the temple. It was like a thousand pins stuck in his flesh. The slightest movement made the pain flare up, and nothing made it go away entirely. Herbal salves and potions had no effect. One particularly desperate night he had shoved his entire arm up to the elbow into a drift of snow and kept it there until he could not feel his fingers. The pain of the mark had only dimmed the tiniest bit.
He needed a constant distraction, so when the heads of the Inquisition told him to go the Hinterlands (really they asked and suggested but how was he supposed to refuse?) he jumped at the opportunity.
A Dalish elf was more at home in the wilderness than in a human village. It was warmer here, out of the mountains. Aldaron took off his shoes and left them in camp despite the looks of disapproval that Cassandra gave him. He wanted to feel the dirt and the grass between his toes again.
There was some Chantry mother. That was the official reason they were here. She wanted to meet the famous Herald of Andraste and seemed to be the only Chantry official outside of Haven that did not want him dead. At least she said as much, but she also said he should go meet with the heads of the Chantry in Val Royeaux. That sounded like a horrible idea, and he said as much. But she just smiled sweetly and made her speech about duty and risk and hard decisions.
Aldaron left feeling nervous about the whole thing, and instead threw himself into the task of helping the refugees. This was familiar. Tromping through the forest, hunting, foraging, fighting. This was what Aldaron knew how to do. He understood the forest and the fighting, he did not understand human politics or human religion or holes in the sky.
There were holes here, too. Smaller rifts caused by the first breach. Closing them hurt like nothing else. The mark reacted when he drew close to one, bursting to life like it had at the temple. But the rifts closed, so he bore the ache with gritted teeth and did not let anyone see his pain.
That night while the others slept in their tents he climbed as high as he could in a tree within sight of the fire and the Inquisition scouts on guard. He stared out across the war-ravaged land. The scars where the fighting had been fiercest were obvious. Trees and grass burned out by mage fire, rocks frozen over with ice that would not melt even in the heat of midday sun. And in the distance the Breach in the sky. The conclave was supposed to end this, but nothing had changed, instead they only had more problems.
He stayed up in the tree all night, slept in brief snatches, pressed the palm of his marked hand so hard against the bark he almost drew blood.
When he finally descended from the tree as the sky started to grow light the camp was still quiet, but much to his surprise Aldaron found Varric sitting by the camp fire, polishing the wood on that strange crossbow of his. The Dwarf waved him over and Aldaron hesitated a moment before going to join him.
"So, while Cassandra isn't around to hear, how are you holding up?" Varric asked. "You go from the most wanted man in Thedas to leading the armies of the faithful. Most people would spread that out over more than a day."
Aldaron was surprised to find sympathy for his situation from a dwarf. Or from anyone really. No one had given him any time to adjust, and while he did not feel like a leader Aldaron could not deny that people seemed to think he was. "I have no idea what's happening anymore," the elf blurted out before he could stop himself. No, he had been so good at pretending that everything was fine.
"That makes two of us," Varric replied wryly and set the crossbow aside. "For days we've been sitting around watching the Breach spit out demons and Maker knows what. Bad for morale would be an understatement. I still can't believe anyone was in there and lived."
"I still can't believe any of this is happening," He had already admitted to being clueless, no point in lying about it now. Varric probably would not believe him anyway.
"If this is just the Maker winding us up, I hope there's a damn good punch line coming," the dwarf continued as though Aldaron had not just admitted that he was clueless and confused. "Heroes are everywhere, I've seen that. But the hole in the sky? That's beyond heroes. We're going to need a miracle. You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I've written enough tragedies to know where this is going."
If that was supposed to be comforting it was not working. So Varric at least understood what an impossible task was in front of them. But Aldaron had already considered running at the first opportunity. Everyone said he was free to go if he wanted to, but where would he go? Run back to his clan in the Free Marches and try to pretend everything was fine? The Breach was probably visible even from there. The Keeper would just send him back again with a speech about duty ringing in his ears. He could practically hear her already. Mythal was watching over you in the temple, Aldaron, her mark is upon your face and upon your hand. You must use this gift to the betterment of the world, as the Creators would want.
The elf shook his head, dismissing the thought. He certainly had not felt the presence or guidance of any gods so far. Maybe he would be less frightened if he had. She would be right about his duty, however, as everyone else was. He was the only person with the ability to close the rifts and the Breach, so he had to do it. The whole world depended on it. Aldaron would not be able to live with himself if he ran away.
Varric was getting up. "I think I'll see what the scouts are serving up for breakfast. Let's hope its more than field rations this time."
They spent several more days in the region, attempting to calm the fighting between mages and Templars enough to ensure the safety of the refugees. There were times that Aldaron could almost forget that everyone thought he was some sort of messiah, but then he would crest a hill and see there in the distance the tell-tale greenish glow of yet another rift in the veil and he could no longer ignore the throbbing in his hand or the weight on his shoulders.
The work was exhausting and endless, but Aldaron succeeded in obtaining a number of small alliances for the inquisition, much to his own surprise. Then again, killing wolves and building watchtowers was hardly politics. If only everything was this simple.
They left the forests and hills behind and returned to Haven much too soon for his own liking.
He had much preferred the forests and hills, even if they were crawling with bandits and demons and war. Haven was not without its own small wars. Like the one he found outside the Chantry as soon as they arrived, a crowd gathered and voices raised in anger.
"I'm curious, Commander, how this Inquisition and your 'herald' plan to restore order as you have promised." It was the priest who had demanded his arrest from the start (What was his name again? It didn't matter). Aldaron was not surprised to see him starting up a fuss again. "We need a proper authority."
"Who? Random clerics who weren't important enough to be at the conclave?" Cullen replied. Aldaron wasn't sure how he felt about any of the people around here, but he respected Cullen's skills, and the man seemed sensible enough.
"This rebel Inquisition and its 'Herald of Andraste'?" The cleric shot back, and almost scoffed. "I think not."
"I don't believe I'm Andraste's herald any more than you do," Aldaron interjected.
"The Inquisition only claims that we must close the Breach or perish," Cullen added, though remained noticeably silent on the religious subject.
"You say that now, Commander, but we will see if the sentiment remains true."
The Breach was the only thing that mattered, but their fledgling Inquisition seemed to be the only people who cared at all. Everyone was too caught up in their petty squabbles to bother looking up and seeing the real threat. And apparently it was his job now to make everyone calm down so they could work together.
Aldaron had seen in the Hinterlands how bad the fighting was between mages and templars, and he knew what it had done back in the Free Marches before he had left. Stopping the war would be no easy task, but standing around here arguing about who was in charge was not going to help things in the slightest. Maybe everyone was right; the Inquisition could not do this alone. They would need the support of others, and that was why Mother Giselle had told him to go to Val Royeaux. To get that support.
Human politics were too complicated. Why couldn't people just see that there was a problem and work together to fix it? Why did they have to spend so much time arguing about who was right and who was in charge? What did it matter? There was a hole in the sky with demons pouring out of it. In Aldaron's perspective that was somewhat more important than putting a woman in a throne.
Trussed up in clothing befitting his station Aldaron went to Val Royeaux and he pretended to be confident and self-assured in front of a crowd that would happily see him dead. The city was unlike anything he had ever seen before, but the glamour of it was overshadowed by the butterflies in his stomach and the bad taste in his mouth and the hammering of his heart. No one was allowed to see that he was nervous, however. He was the Herald of Andraste, they kept insisting despite his protestations, and he had to be confidence personified.
There among the gilded marble and silken finery he saw first hand the selfishness of human politics. If this was how templars behaved then he wanted nothing to do with them or their Chantry. That made it easy to accept the invitation to go speak with the rebelling mages. At least they were civil.
Though Aldaron would have been happy to leave the city right then and there, the others insisted they stay and look into other matters. One scavenger hunt later Aldaron met the strangest elf he had ever known or probably ever would. (He did appreciate the breeches thing, though, and at another time in his life probably would have laughed uproariously at it. But there did not seem much point in laughter these days.) The following evening Cassandra forced him back into the uncomfortable formal wear and then utterly abandoned him at the mansion of some Orlesian politician. Alone in a room full of spoiled, pompous shemlen nobles he could only smile tightly and try to keep from bolting like a startled deer.
Everything that had happened from the conclave until now felt like it passed in a daze. A confusing swirl of new faces and new words and impossible things come to life. Aldaron walked through it all like a person he did not know. A mask of understanding when the shemlen talk about their Maker and their Chantry. A mask of confidence when he says he will do whatever he can to help, that he will close the Breach, he will bring peace. A mask of calm as he faces down those who would see their Inquisition disbanded and destroyed. He is learning how to be the symbol they all want him to be, but he is crumbling on the inside. Because he can scream and protest all he wants that no Maker sent him, they will not listen, so why bother anymore?
Everything he has been since obtaining this mark on his hand is a lie. A façade. They all expect so much of him and he is terrified to let them down. They expect guidance, wisdom, protection. Is he really the only thing holding these people together?
Yes, he is. The answer is clear. So he builds up the mask carefully. The mask of Herald. And he puts it on each morning afraid that someday he will not be able to take it off.
No one sees through the mask. No one sees that he is no more than a confused and frightened child. His cheeks were still sore when he left his clan, but his hand hurts a hundred times more than the needle ever did. No one imagines that he has no idea what is going on around him.
No one except him.
"Fascinating. How does that work, exactly? You have no idea, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and poof! rift closed." The man laughed when he said it, like it was a joke. But he looked at Aldaron with a knowing smile and the mask faltered.
Right from the start Dorian had been able to see right through him.