The world outside the Chantry was bright - brighter than she remembered. Though from the sun, the fact that she hadn't been outside in days, or from the oozing green hole in the atmosphere above the mountain, she did not know.
She ran a hand over her braid, now fixed and feeling less like it had been dragged through muddy brambles, and looked off towards the front gates of Haven. Upon leaving the dungeon she'd been given a cloth and led to a small room that had held nothing but a table, a bowl, and a pitcher of icy water, and was told to wash. At first she had felt disoriented. Everything was happening so fast, faster than she felt her fatigued mind could ever comprehend. But the grime covering her skin had felt thick, sticky from days of nervous sweat and dungeon dust, and the water had been fresh. She had wasted no time in stripping herself down and using the cloth to scrub herself as clean as she could get without a proper bath.
When Amaryllis had finally finished and her face was no longer caked in dust, her fingernails once again white, she had felt not whole, no, but less broken than before. Like the crack in her chest, the fragments of her heart, had been partially glued back together. She had felt human again, or something resembling it, at least.
For a moment it had made her feel guilty. Ellana was still unconscious, in pain and about to wake to an incredible, life-changing moment, and yet there she was, enjoying a wash. You're going off to fight, she had reminded herself. It's okay to be a little selfish, right now. Ellana would say the same.
Then, as she had prepared to don her tattered clothes once more, the door had opened, and in had stepped a mage with a strange mark upon her forehead. Amaryllis had long been trained out of the embarrassment that had once come with nakedness — living with the Dalish had taught her to let go of such foolishness — but the sudden entrance had her on edge, immediately covering her exposed body as well as she could.
Before Amaryllis could say a word, however, the mage had closed the door and handed her the bundle of fabric in her arms. It had been heavier than it looked. The mage had then spoken in a monotonous tone, her gaze empty of any and all emotion. "Seeker Pentaghast would like for you to put these on. And to give me your other robes. Please."
"But these are my clothes," Amaryllis had protested stubbornly, unable to stop staring at the mark. Was it a sun? It was the same mark she had seen around the Chantry, carved into the dungeon's walls, adorning doors and tapestries in the hall. But why have it tattooed upon your forehead?
The mage had blinked, undisturbed by her blatant staring. "Yes, they are. Seeker Pentaghast would like to have them cleaned and mended while you are away. They will be returned to you later."
"They're fine as they are. I will mend them later." It had been a stupid thing to argue, she knew, but that hadn't stopped her from wanting to.
"Seeker Pentaghast has said they are not suitable for combat, in their current state. You could be injured. You should wear better armor. This is better armor."
Amaryllis had taken a deep, calming breath, and nodded for the mage to take her old clothing away. Then she had dressed with a frown that she was afraid would only continue to deepen.
Grimacing at the memory, she pulled at the collar of her new clothing, feeling uncomfortable. Her armor was made of a type of leather she didn't recognize, her pants a deep brown that blended straight into her boots. The long coat fell to below her knees, a green the color of dewy grass she was quite reluctant, in her annoyance, to admit she liked. The worst of it was, however, that the underclothes she had been given were woolen — warm but itchy — rubbing against her skin in ways that made her feel a bit like screaming. She felt awkward and heavy, out of place in her borrowed armor. It reminded her of a time long passed. Of Keeper laying her ram-skin around Amaryllis' bare shoulders. Faelyn taking a wet cloth to her bloodied, torn soles. Tears that had violently spilled down her face.
It's fine, she told herself, taking another deep breath. She tensed her shoulders to keep from shaking. You've done this before. You're fine. Now move. You've got to find your staff. But where was she to look?
Amaryllis didn't know where her staff might be, and surely wasn't about to step back into the Chantry to ask, so she took to the stairs in search of a familiar face. Each step reminded her of just how fiercely her legs ached, how her wrists throbbed to the beat of her heart. Still, it felt good to be able to stretch her legs and feel dirt crunch beneath her boots, rather than the stone of the Chantry's dungeon.
With each step she felt lighter, somehow, lighter than she thought she ought to feel. Ellana was alone. Ellana was still in her cell, sleeping and in pain. Ellana was about to become someone important. Someone needed.
But she wasn't about to die. She was safe, for as much as Amaryllis could remember. And that, for whatever it was worth, allowed her to feel as if she might finally catch her breath.
To her left was a line of tents, and thankfully Varric, who stood beside a fire, staring deeply into its flames. If she had known him well enough she might have thought his expression haunted. But she didn't know him past his identity as a beardless dwarf, Merrill's friend, and a game character she vaguely recognized, so she didn't hesitate in her approach. She needed help, and Varric was the only one she felt she could trust enough to give it to her.
Her boots crunched, signaling her arrival, and Varric turned to her. His mouth curled up at one end.
"Hey kid," he said. "I take it the Seeker found you innocent enough to let you free."
She shrugged. The scratch of the borrowed wool against her arms made her grit her aching teeth. Thus her answering "apparently so" was strained.
Varric nodded and turned back to the fire.
Worried she had brought the first decent conversation she had had in days to a grinding halt, Amaryllis guiltily cleared her throat, and tried again. "I'm sorry. It's been… difficult. I wanted to ask, do you know where I might find weapons? I was asked to join the forces gathering at the main gate, but my interrogators seem to have lost my staff."
Varric chuckled. "The Quartermaster would be the person you're looking for. You passed her on your way down, didn't you notice?"
"I was a bit preoccupied. The sky is brighter than I recall."
"Right," he said with a grimace. "Imprisonment would do that, though that shitstain in the sky has definitely made things more light."
"Shitstain?"
"You've heard about the weird shit it's been spewing out on top of, well, being a giant green hole in the sky. Reminds me of… Anyway, 'shitstain' seems to be an apt title."
A small smile broke across her lips, unable to be held back. "You're right. Shitstain it is." She took a step back towards where she came, intending to leave. "Thank you, Varric. Next time I'll remember to look in front of me."
"Sometimes the obvious isn't as obvious as we think," he said.
Amaryllis smiled again, waving as she took her leave. She moved quickly, taking the stairs two at a time despite the pain it caused, desperately wanting the familiar feeling of her staff in hand.
Stopping before the Chantry she glanced around, unsure of who to ask, eventually deciding to approach the one person who seemed to know what they were doing. There stood a woman holding a piece of parchment, speaking to another whose expression seemed greatly chastised.
"I'm doing everything in my power to supply this mess," the woman with the paper scolded. "And what is it that you have done, except somehow misplace an entire crate of daggers?"
"My apologies," the other mumbled, bowing her head. "I'll find them, I swear, it's just that the tent is a mess, and any attempt at sorting the weapons has-"
"No excuses! These soldiers need weapons. Finish sorting them, and for Andraste's sake, find those damned daggers!"
The cowed woman scurried away. Feeling a tad frightened, but determined to find her staff, Amaryllis took that as her cue to approach. "You're the Quartermaster?" she asked.
"Obviously," the Quartermaster answered gruffly. "Threnn is the name."
"Threnn, then. Nice to meet you, I'm-" Amaryllis' teeth clicked together as she snapped her mouth shut. Threnn had thrown up a hand to silence her.
"I don't have time for niceties. Either tell me what you need, or bugger off. I've a job to do and I'd wager so do you."
It wasn't as if Amaryllis expected things to suddenly improve, but she prayed and prayed that at some point, they would. She didn't blame Threnn, however. The stress of the current situation was enough to drive anyone mad, and she could only imagine how taxing it was being the Quartermaster in the midst of a war and the potential end of Thedas.
So she took a deep breath and tried again. "Threnn," she said. "I'm looking for my staff. It's wooden, made of Willow, and it twists from the middle up into-"
Once again the Quartermaster cut her off, and this time it filled Amaryllis with a frustration that heated her skin, making her want to stamp her feet like a child. Instead, she lifted her head and forced it all back.
"If we have your staff, it'll be there." Threnn pointed into the tent where the girl she had previously berated had gone. "Can't say for sure if we do, but you're welcome to go look. Now if that's all…"
Amaryllis nodded her thanks, albeit a bit reluctantly, and entered the tent. The other woman was to the right where a large selection of crates were stacked, overflowing with straw. She startled when Amaryllis entered, eyes wild, and seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, looking bashful.
"Don't worry," Amaryllis said with a smile. "I'm not here for a dagger."
The woman chuckled. "That's a relief. I wouldn't have one to give you anyway." She pushed a stray lock of her short red hair back behind her ear and asked, "Do you need something?"
"I'm looking for my staff. Threnn said it might be here?"
"Oh," the woman grimaced then and pointed towards the dimly lit back corner. "Good luck. We seem to have procured quite the collection."
Amaryllis could see nothing past the extensive stacks. How was Haven this prepared already? She wondered if she'd been in the dungeon longer than she had initially thought. Despite her wariness she nodded, murmured her thanks, and made toward the back. When she peeked her head past the boxes, she was startled to see staves lying in a pile upon the ground, thrown haphazardly upon each other as if in a great hurry, or with little care.
She sighed and began her search. It can't be that hard, she thought to herself. She and Ellana had both been given their staffs at sixteen as gifts from Keeper Deshanna. Many days had been spent learning to cast, to control the current - out through the fingertips, da'len, up to the pointed tip of the Halla antler, down the base, in through the feet, yes, just like that - that it would be absurd for Amaryllis not to recognize her own. The wood curled from the middle up in a spiral, around the antler's three tines where Mythal's blessing had been inscribed. There were worn spots where her fingers had touched.
So it took only a glance at the pile for her to realize her staff wasn't there.
Panic filled her, gripped her bones, evolving quickly into anger once more. She was usually so good at controlling herself. In and out, she breathed. Counted to ten. When it was truly terrible, enough that she thought she might break, she would envision the dining room table.
She imagined the dining room table, the one her mother had been so proud of - beautiful Cherry with rose engravings all along the sides, rounded edges, and chairs to match - covered in filth. The table top was so caked in dirt and grease that you could no longer see the wood beneath. She imagined then taking a brand new cloth and a bucket of sparkling clean water, dipping the cloth, wringing it out, and wiping away the filth. Over and over and over again, until the table was clean once more, free of imperfections.
It was strange, she knew. Which was why she had never told anyone this, among all the other things she had kept secret. This was how she took control. This was hers and hers alone.
Amaryllis took a very deep breath and turned back to the redhead. "Do you think you could help me find it?"
"Yes, sure, I could," the woman was quick to answer, standing. She ran her hands over her straw covered skirts. "What does it look like?"
"It's white, Willow, and has a red cloth wrapped around it. It's got a Halla antler as well," she explained. She fought back the surge of anxiety that made her want to wring her hands when the woman's face fell. "Have you seen it?"
"I have," she said. "I'm sorry. Another mage took it earlier this morning. Said he liked the grip."
One, two, three, Amaryllis counted. In and out, she breathed. Four, five, six. "Do you remember what he looked like?"
"No, I'm sorry, I don't." The redhead bit her bottom lip, looking awkwardly back at the stack of unopened crates, still stacked neatly beside the mess she had made. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.
"Are you sure?" Amaryllis continued to press.
The woman shook her head and took a step back. "Again, I'm very sorry, but I've got work to do, and-"
Amaryllis closed her eyes, imagined the table, the pure white cloth, the glistening water. She imagined wringing the cloth, bringing it to the table top, wiping it back and forth, back and forth.
She imagined throwing the cloth, taking an axe, and breaking it apart.
"Thank you," she said. Her smile grew wide, and the redheaded woman seemed startled, but smiled back. "Good luck finding your daggers."
Swiftly and without looking she grabbed a staff, stepped out of the tent, and went back down the stairs, stopping just short of the main gate.
Frost gathered along her eyelashes. It clung to her cheeks, turned the tips of her fingers blue, and her breath came out like that of a dragon, billowing from her nostrils. Amaryllis wrapped her hand tightly around the unfamiliar stave, dug the base into the dirt, and glared up towards the looming green shitstain in the sky.