Story [Dragon Age: Inquisition] The Tempest's Shadow (Lavellan, Solas; drama/romance) Author's Note 01/02

CHAPTER XII
Traitor to Her Own Kind​

The vibrant green of the Emerald Graves always took her by surprise. For a land that was the site of so much tragedy—both ancient and recent—it felt remarkably untainted. Whatever conflicts humans, elves and dwarves had enacted there, the forest always reclaimed itself.

It was hopeful.

“…so you see, it’s really no more natural than breathing.”

“But it’s magic. It’s super-natural.”

“Well… yes. I suppose you could say that.”

“Then that means it’s not natural, now, don’t it?”

What was less hopeful was Sera ever overcoming her fear of magic.

Venara sighed and sprinted up the craggy path. Sera had always been unnerved by magic. Venara had hoped that exposure to mages who weren’t hell-bent on using their more destructive capabilities would slowly help her overcome her fears, but whatever good Sera’s friendships with the Inquisition’s mages had done had been completely unravelled by the events at Adamant. Their sojourn into the Fade had confronted them all with their very worst fears, and for Sera that meant her confidence in magic had completely fallen apart.

Not that Venara could blame her. Between the Breach in the sky and Alexius’ temporal distortion back at Redcliffe, she was starting to mistrust magic herself. Just because something could be done didn’t mean should.

“You don’t make any sense, you know that.”

“It’s you who don’t make any sense.”

“Ah! Such witty repartee!”

“You’re a prat, Dorian. A plush, posh prat.”

Venara crested the hill and looked around, eyes narrowed. Scouts had reported red templars escorting shipments of red lyrium in the area—they were no doubt taking them to Corypheus’ Templar commander, Samson. Venara intended to stop them.

“Must they always bicker?” Solas said irritably, coming to stand beside her.

“Oh, you know, it’s the way it goes,” Venara said lightly. “Besides, what else are you going to do to pass the time when you’re hunting down red templars?”

Solas scowled. Dorian and Sera’s voices carried through the air as they worked their way up the hill.

“—but at least I’m a very handsome prat.”

“Why is that what you always fall back on? Look at me, look at me, I’m an arse, but at least I’m pretty. Even Vivienne has more class than that.”

“Madame Vivienne is a paragon of nobility.”

“That’s the polite way of saying she’s an elitist, arrogant, two-faced shrew—”

“Perhaps this is why we’ve been unable to find them,” Solas grunted. “It’s a wonder the whole area doesn’t know we’re here.”

Venara snorted. “You’re just as bad as they are and you know it.”

“—but at least she knows it,” Sera continued. “Unlike some people I know.”

“What can I say? I have to have a flaw somewhere, it’s what makes me interesting.”

“You mean boring.”

“No, I mean—”

“Boring. Having one thing to say and saying it in a hundred ways makes you boring.”

“I am not as bad as they are,” Solas said.

“Really.” Venara crossed her arms. “Because I seem to remember a very loud—possibly even cacophonous—squabble with Vivienne about proper and improper ways to infuse a staff’s focusing crystal.”

Solas’ eyes narrowed. “I have said it before and I will say so again, if the crystal is infused before placement, the magical charge will be lost, reducing the staff’s overall effectiveness. If Circle mages stop prioritizing—”

Venara placed a hand on his arm. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

“Oh, very funny, vhenan.”

She could have sworn he was holding back a smile.

“Don’t worry,” Venara said, grinning. “I think it’s adorable how much you care about proper staff crafting.”

Sera sprinted up the rest of the path. She skidded to a stop at the crest of the hill, pulling her bow off her back and setting an arrow on the string. She took one look at the glade below—the shining rock outcroppings, the quickly flowing river—and let out a loud “pfft”.

“Not to interrupt you two,” she said, putting the arrow back in her quiver, “but I don’t see any templars. Or caravans. I don’t see, well…anything.”

“Just because they’re not here,” Venara said, “doesn’t mean they’re not, well… here.”

Sera snorted. “They’re big and red and some of them are pretty much giant, clumsy crystal pillars. With feet. How hard could they be to miss?”

“I think Mistress Sera has a point,” Dorian said as he finally reached the top of the hill.

“Don’t you mistress me. Do I look like a lady to you?”

Their voices were splitting the deadly quiet air. Venara felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“No, I agree,” Dorian quipped. “You’re very ill-suited to that form of address, I won’t be trying that one again.”

“Better not. I have arrows this time, remember?”

“Sera,” Solas said. “Hush.”

“Don’t you shush me!” Sera exclaimed, pushing past Venara.

Twang.

Sera yelped in pain and fell backwards into Dorian, a mist of blood spraying her face. An arrow sprouted from her forearm.

“Kattas!” Dorian swore, catching her.

Venara leapt to Sera’s side, instinctively casting a barrier around herself and her companions. More arrows fell, seemingly from all directions. Solas cast a fireball into the trees. It exploded, the bark and foliage bursting into flames.

“Are you all right?” Venara said, examining Sera’s arm as Dorian carefully lowered her to the ground. The wound didn’t look good.

“Damn it—damn it—damn it—” Sera’s eyes were glistening with unwanted tears. “Do I look all right to you?”

“Who’s attacking?” Dorian yelled at Solas. “Is it the templars?”

“I don’t know!”

Venara cast around a worried eye. So far it was just arrows. Good. Archers she could deal with. But if there were others… “We need to get you out of here,” she said to Sera. “Can you walk?”

“Yeah—yeah—it’s not my legs that’re the problem—”

Dozens of arrows sang through the air, smashing into Venara’s protective shield and falling uselessly to the ground.

“Just get this thing out!” Sera hissed, gripping the arrow shaft in her good hand.

Venara grabbed her hand. “Don’t. It’s stopping the bleeding.”

“You’re a mage, can’t you fix it?”

Venara dumbly shook her head. Healing spells weren’t in her arsenal.

“Then what’s your magic good for?!”

At that moment, an arrow shattered a hole in the barrier, narrowly missing Venara. She felt it singe her ear as it passed. Her arms prickled and she felt a warm swoosh of air as Solas replaced her fallen ward. She grabbed Sera, slinging the girl’s good arm around her shoulders and helping her to her feet.

“Come on!”

Venara dashed down the hill as fast as she could without tripping. Sera’s eyes rolled and she muttered a confused series of swear words and made-up curses. The girl was quickly going into shock. Venara wasn’t surprising—the arrow had shattered the bone. They would have no way of healing it until they reached one of their outlying camps and had access to potions and poultices.

A rain of arrows descended upon them. Their assailants were somewhere in the trees, but even as they moved forward, it was impossible to tell where exactly they were hiding. As each barrier fell—either shattering outward after hit by one too many arrows, or failing after the energy sustaining it ran out—Venara, Solas or Dorian would replace it, shielding their company until they could make it to the river bank. With their closest camp leagues away, Venara was focused on finding any safe area. She suspected that by crossing the river, they could lose some—if not most—of their attackers. The water was deep and unforgiving, without an appropriate ford for leagues.

As they reached the rock-strewn shore, Sera moaned and collapsed, slipping out of Venara’s grasp. She landed on the hard ground and rolled on her side, the arrow shaft scraping out a line in the pebbles. Venara knelt beside her.

“Come on, Sera, don’t do this to me—”

An explosion of fire shot out of both Solas and Dorian’s staves, landing deep in the woods. A firestorm swept up among the trees, flames igniting every branch and leaf within a wide radius. Black smoke blew back towards them, providing a marginal amount of cover until it dissipated. From within the dark cloud, Venara could hear the cracking of burning wood and the screams of their panicked attackers.

“Who are they?” Dorian demanded, finally lowering his staff. “It can’t be the red templars, they don’t go in for stealth tactics like this—”

Solas pulled an arrow out of the ground. “It’s elven.”

“Oh lovely, it’s—what?” Dorian grimaced. “Look, I know you’re fond of saying that and many of the things we stumble into just happen to be elven, but this—”

Solas passed the arrow to Venara. “Here.”

Venara only had to glance at it to know what she was seeing. She had seen countless arrows of its make. “Ironbark arrowhead attached to a sylvanwood shaft with halla gut.” She caught Dorian’s eye. “It’s definitely Dalish.”

“So you’re saying we’ve been ambushed by Dalish elves?” Dorian exclaimed.

“Either that or a company familiar enough with a clan to trade for weaponry,” Solas said.

“What manner of insanity is this?” Dorian said, spinning towards Venara. “You’re Dalish!”

“Not all clans are friendly to one another,” Venara said. “I’m sure there is one somewhere that harbours poor feelings towards the Inquisition. And me.”

“Idiots,” Sera mumbled.

“Venara,” Solas called in warning, his voice low.

Venara looked up. Out of the black smoke, a mass of shadows was gathering. Moments later, a dozen or so men and women appeared. Most bore bows, but others carried daggers and swords. A single mage, identifiable by his staff, stood at the centre.

The band gathered in a semi-circle, backing Venara and her company against the river. Their clothing was soot-stained and singed, their faces bore smudges of ash. Some were barefoot, others wore boots. Some were dressed in furs and leathers, others in worn-out fabrics and wool. Some had faces that shone with vallaslin, others had faces unmarked by tattoos. The only thing that was true of them all was that they were elves and defiance shone in their eyes.

Venara left Sera’s side and stood, pulling her staff from her back. She stepped out towards the band of elven warriors.

“Why have you attacked us?” she said. “We are with the Inquisition. We are not your enemy.”

She was greeted by steely silence.

“Aneth ara, ma’lethal,” she said, looking to the Dalish of the group. “Garas quenathra—?”

“We know you, Venara Isena of Clan Lavellan.” A hooded man stepped forwards—one of the mages. The vallaslin of Mythal, in blood-red, was imprinted on his face. “And you should be dead. Had your companion not taken an arrow for you, I would not be speaking to you now.”

“I figured that,” Venara said coldly. “Who are you?”

“I am Fenariel,” the man said. “Keeper to Clan Valneran, which is no more.”

A woman stepped forwards. She carried dual blades and her face was unmarked. “I am Malen Tabris,” she said. “Formerly of the Denerim alienage.”

“Always pleasant, knowing the names of those who want to kill you,” Dorian said. “I’m afraid there’s a waiting list, of which Corypheus is at the top—”

“Do not speak to us, Tevinter,” Malen snapped. “We will speak to Lavellan, and her alone.”

“You say you want to kill me,” Venara said. “Why?”

“Not happily, lethallan,” Fenariel said. “But out of necessity. We know what you once were. But we know what you have now become.” His eyes flashed. “Inquisitor.”

Venara’s mouth felt dry. “Yes.”

“Traitor,” Malen spat. “An elf who bows to the will of a human organization.”

“And an organization who loudly proclaims her to be the chosen of Andraste, bride of the Maker,” Fenariel added. “A human god.”

“I have never claimed that,” Venara said. “I follow our gods.”

“That matters little,” Fenariel said, “when that is not what the Inquisition believes. Nor what the rest of Thedas believes.”

“Then why argue about matters of faith?” Venara said. “Your band is not entirely Dalish. There are flat-ears among your numbers, some of whom may very well believe in the Maker—”

Malen hissed, moving forwards. Fenariel caught her arm and shook his head.

“Indeed,” Solas said, coming to stand at Venara’s side. “It is my understanding that it is uncommon for the Dalish to accept city elves. What binds you together in this foolish endeavour? Why have you—”

“You do not know us,” Fenariel spat.

“Tel’ir ma eolasas.”

“We know you as a traitor,” Fenariel said. “We condemn all who have betrayed their kind, who have chosen to walk the Inquisition’s path.”

“Rubbish,” Sera mumbled. She was trying unsuccessfully to push herself up. Dorian went to her side. “Rot! Stick an arrow in him already.”

“I’d very much like to,” Dorian said quietly. “Does fire count?”

The black smoke still had not dissipated. It curled about their feet, tendrils blowing this way and that in the air. Venara reached out and quickly grasped Solas’ hand for comfort.

“Why?” she demanded. “What has the Inquisition done to cause you harm?”

“It is not what the Inquisition has done,” Malen said. “It is what it hasn’t. You are elven. Upon your appointment, you claimed that an elf would stand for Thedas. But what have you done for your kind? Nothing. Inaction from you, an elven woman with the standing to negotiate with kings, hurts us more than any human noble could. You’ve become nothing more than a puppet dancing to tunes sung from humans’ lips. I know. I was there.”

Venara gritted her teeth. “You do realize that Corypheus threatens all of Thedas—”

“Why should that matter to me?” Malen spat. “So what if you save the world, if my brothers and sisters are dead already?”

“Don’t you understand?! Corypheus will destroy us all—”

“You are blind to the plight of your own people, Lavellan,” Fenariel said.

Venara turned to him. “What are you talking about?”

“My clan was slaughtered by humans for the small crime of venturing too close to their settlement,” he said. “Where was your Inquisition then? Perhaps you have forgotten what it is like to be Dalish, to be suspected and hunted everywhere you go. All know Clan Lavellan to be remarkably interested in shemlen since Istimaethoriel became its Keeper. And you were her First, were you not?” He scoffed. “Clearly, her influence has changed you beyond repair—”

“Tel’nathir ash,” Venara snapped. “She is a better woman than you can ever know.”

“So it seems you are loyal to the Dalish,” Fenariel said. “But only to one clan.”

“I know what our people have suffered!” Venara shouted, her face flushed. She would not hear this today, not when her fear for her clan was still so close to her heart. “I suffer it! I suffer it every day when I’m insulted and provoked by nobles who see me as a curiosity. I suffer it when the Duke of Wycome thinks he can use my clan as a scapegoat for his city’s strife. I suffer it. Do not try to tell me otherwise.”

“So you save your own clan,” Fenariel sneered. “What of mine? Where is your justice for Clan Valneran? You have been Inquisitor for many months—where were you when my clan was annihilated by vengeful humans?”

Venara froze. She tried not to think of how her own clan was under that very same threat. “If you tell me how it happened, I will seek justice for them.”

“An empty promise,” Malen interrupted. “You only care about your own.”

“What would you know about it?” Venara snapped. “You’re from the city. You’ve never been on the run, chased from human lands, mistrusted simply by virtue of wearing vallaslin—”

“Have you ever been to an alienage?” Malen interrupted.

Venara paused. “No.”

“Then you don’t know a thing,” she said. “You know nothing. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

“It was a terrible day when you were named Inquisitor, Venara Isena,” Fenariel said. “There was much hope for our people, but you have corrupted it. A Dalish elf—and a mage at that—at the head of a powerful organization? The humans have no right to trust you. They fear you, and as that power grows, so does their fear.”

“I’ve seen it happen before,” Malen said coldly. “With Mahariel. Another elf the humans deigned to raise up. But what we can never forget is that their fear will always drive them to kill.”

“What can you hope to accomplish?” Solas said. “You seek to annihilate the one hope Thedas has—”

“She is not a saviour,” Fenariel interrupted. “She is a mage. There are many mages in this world. If they do not know yet, they will soon learn how to seal the rifts without her. She is not chosen. The chosen do not exist—if they did, Elvhenan would not have fallen.”

“You do not know of what you speak,” Solas said darkly. “The Inquisitor has a purpose. A mission—”

“That does not mean she does not deserve to die,” Fenariel snapped. “How many has she killed? How many has she slaughtered? She swore to protect us. She has not.”

“So you’ll martyr her for your cause?” Solas roared. “For the sake of your personal grievances? Your woes? You’re a fool to think it. If you wish to save your people, this is not the way—”

“Shut up,” Malen growled. “You haven’t the right to lecture us.”

“I am sorry,” Venara said. “I am sorry for the harms that have befallen you. But I did not commit them myself—”

“Don’t try to explain yourself to me, woman,” Malen said. She glanced at Dorian. “Not when you travel in the company of a Tevinter magister—”

“Oh for the love of the Maker,” Dorian snapped. “I am a mage from Tevinter, not a magister.”

“It makes no difference, slaver,” Malen said.

“Wrong on that account, too. Sorry.”

“I have seen what your kind do,” Malen said angrily. “I cannot believe that even an elf as base as Lavellan would travel in your company.”

“ENOUGH!” Fenariel’s voice thundered across the glade. He lowered his staff, pointing it at Venara. “I am sorry it has come to this—”

“I don’t want to fight you—!”

“Be comforted that we will take no pleasure in killing you.” A swirl of primal magic began to glow at the end of his staff. “Kill them all.”

Fenariel’s magic exploded into lightning that streaked across the glade. Venara leapt in front of his companions and reached out a hand, summoning the magic to her. It flashed and she caught it, compressing it into a glowing purple orb before shooting it back at Fenariel. With a crack, it split into three streaks and hit several of his warriors. They cried out in pain.

Fenariel looked at her in surprise.

“Didn’t you know?” Venara smirked. “I learned to harness the tempest’s rage years ago. If you’re planning on assassinating me, you should do your research.”

Fenariel snarled at her. Behind him, a row of archers strung their bows and unleashed their arrows. Immediately, Dorian cloaked them in a protective barrier. The arrows came down, striking the ward and bouncing away. Solas shot a streak of flame towards their assailants and the air burned with intense heat even as Malen and her warriors charged forwards, weapons raised.

This won’t be good, Venara thought.

There were about twenty elves, all of whom looked trained to kill. They would never be able to retreat now, not without losing Sera. She needed to make an opening, take out the archers.

And Fenariel.

“Protect Sera!” Venara shouted, casting a barrier around herself before running forwards. Her form flickered and she turned into an ice-blue streak, reappearing moments later behind the archers. She summoned her spirit blade and it exploded from her hand in a burst of yellow-green magic. The first three archers were felled before they even knew she was there.

Spirit blades killed strangely. Spirit magic did not attack the body physically—rather, it attacked a person’s spiritual essence. Her blade passed easily through a physical body, leaving flesh and bone intact, but draining a person’s spirit. Her enemies fell when their essence, their spirit, had been severed. They collapsed, falling to the ground, seemingly asleep, their bodies bearing no evidence of what had killed them save for the occasional light burn from the blade’s releasing energy.

Hearing the cries of their fellows, the archers turned on Venara. Some released their arrows, others drew daggers in preparation for close combat. Venara’s blade deflected one arrow—two arrows—three arrows—four—

Then it ran out of energy.

Unable to sustain the blade any longer, Venara let it go. It faded from view and she gripped her staff in both hands, summoning a lightning storm—

“ARGH!”

Her barrier exploded, pierced by several arrows, blasting several of her attackers away as it fell apart. She looked down and saw blood soaking her clothes.

Damn it!

An arrow had pierced her shoulder. She stumbled backwards, landing in a crouch, and slammed her staff into the ground. Several seconds later, a trio of ice glyphs appeared in a ring in front of her. Then she stood, trying to ignore the pain in her shoulder, and snapped the arrow’s shaft in two so it wouldn’t impede her movements. Then she summoned the lightning once more. It burst from her staff, striking three more archers dead.

Delltash.

Venara breathed heavily and looked about. Sera still lay on the ground; it looked like she had regained some of her energy and was trying to crawl out of the way of the action. Dorian stood in front of her protectively, throwing hex after hex at the band of elves converging on Solas. The hexes disoriented them, causing them to panic and run into the woods, but as soon as the spell wore off, they returned to battle.

Solas stood in the middle of the glade, wreathed in magic. The air about him sizzled with energy and flashed with light as he duelled Fenariel. Fire against lightning, two masters of two schools of primal magic. But Solas was not simply a fire mage; he had other spells at his disposal.

A storm of rock and fire summoned from the Fade erupted above, raining devastation down upon everyone trapped within its radius, save Solas. His own magic would not harm him. Venara watched as several of Fenariel’s men were caught by falling rocks and crushed, their blood splattering across the grass. Fenariel had protected himself from this vicious onslaught, but his magic was not powerful enough to extend to his men. He looked horrified as his warriors fell.

He hissed and leaped forwards, firing a powerful chain of lightning—

A spike of ice erupted in front of Venara. An elf wielding two daggers had rushed towards her and had stepped on her ice glyph. Venara raised her staff to shatter the frozen figure when she felt something sharp pierce her back, like the twin fangs of a spider—stabbing again and again and again. Pain seared up her back and she stumbled. Her magic went awry and smashed uselessly into a tree. Twisting around, she found herself facing eight—nine—ten—no. A dozen of Fenariel and Malen’s fighters.

After the firestorm, they can decided to avoid Solas and converge on her, taking advantage of her wounded state.

They gathered about her, faces solemn, weapons raised. They knew their cause, their mission to kill her. They had sworn to it, just as she had sworn herself to her cause.

Venara stumbled and fell, her knees pressing into the deep grass. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Malen running towards her, eyes ablaze.

She groaned, trying to ignore her bleeding, aching body. Her energy was draining rapidly.

Venara!

She felt sluggish, her eyelids were drooping, she…

Wake up, Venara!

It would be so easy to stop fighting. Let destiny take its course. She could finally rest…

VENARA! WAKE UP!

She knew that voice. The voice of someone she loved, projected, impossibly, into her mind, echoing over and over, calling to her—

Something inside her snapped. Venara’s left hand shot into the air, fingers splayed, mark glowing, palm aching—

Malen reached her. Her long daggers descended, as if slowed by time. Venara closed her eyes. A rift opened, and all of its chaotic energy along with it. Her hair was blown back by the rush of hot air, she could feel the energy rushing over her, she could hear her assailants crying out in pain. Some of them—those at the heart of the storm—were immediately torn apart, their bodies dissipating into green light that spiralled back into the Fade. Others fell, succumbing to wounds set on fire by the appearance of this magical anomaly. Malen was knocked aside and she rolled over and over, tumbling down a slope in the grass until she landed in a disoriented heap, weapons lost. Venara didn’t know if she was dead.

The rift closed, consumed by its own energy.

Two fighters remained. They came for her, horror and anger in their eyes. She heard them—

What is she?
An abomination.

And her eyes snapped open. She cast her spell. Her assailants froze, weapons raised, then burst apart in a splatter of ice and blood.

Now only Fenariel remained.

The elven mage stood defiant, even as he cast his eyes about the glade and saw the bodies of his fallen warriors. He saw Solas and Dorian, standing some feet away, staves held aloft, exhaustion in their bones, bearing the wounds of battle. He saw Venara where she knelt in the grass, fighting to recover her strength.

“Monster,” Fenariel breathed. “Do you even know what you have unleashed? What you have become?”

Venara remained motionless, gasping for breath. She couldn’t breathe… All she could feel was her blood beginning to stick to the inside of her shirt. Sticky. So, so sticky…

She forced her mind to focus.

“I know what I am,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Fenariel raised his staff.

An arrow sprouted from his forehead.

He looked genuinely surprised as he toppled over, the vestiges of his voice gurgling at the back of his throat.

“Blah blah blah,” Sera’s voice echoed. “Shut—your—mouth.”

Venara looked up and saw that her friend had used her remaining strength to pull herself, unnoticed, to the top of a rocky outcropping. From that vantage point, she had laid on her back, kicked off her boots, and used her bare feet to string and fire her bow. Her arm still lay at an awkward angle, arrow sticking out of it.

Sera smiled at her. Venara smiled back.

And Sera’s look turned to horror.

Venara felt herself being lifted up by the scruff of her neck, a dagger thrust so sharply beneath her chin that it lightly sliced the skin of her throat. She felt a faint trickle of blood run down her neck.

“You kill me and I kill her before you do!” Malen shouted. Her second dagger was pointed at Solas and Dorian.

Dorian cautiously took a step forward. “How about you very kindly put the knives down—”

“Don’t come any closer!” Her voice cracked.

“You can’t gain anything from this, Malen,” Solas said. “Your people are dead.”

“I can still carry out my promise to them! I can still kill her!”

“If that was your intent, you would have done so already,” Solas said softly. “Let her go.”

“No!” Malen shouted. “I—”

Venara closed her eyes. Her form shifted into a streak of blue and white and she reappeared, on her feet, by the river’s edge. Only her magic supported her—if not for that, she would have collapsed into the grass.

“NO! No—no—no—!”

Venara rubbed her throat. Her palm came away bloody, but the cut had not been serious.

Malen was staring at her, eyes wet and furious. “You—you—”

“Put down your weapons, Malen Tabris,” Venara said. “Your fight is over.”

Malen froze. “You… you killed everyone,” she stammered.

“I never wanted to fight you,” Venara said.

“You are a cruel woman, Venara Isena,” Malen said. “Cruel.”

“I kill when I have to, not because I want to.”

“If I surrender, will you kill me as well?” Malen said. “Or will you throw me in chains and drag me back to Skyhold for judgement?”

“Put down your weapons.” Venara walked towards her, softly treading through blood-stained grass.

“What will it be for the woman who thought she could assassinate the Inquisitor?” Malen said, backing away. She flinched as Venara drew ever closer. “A life in chains? Eternal servitude? Execution in front of a cheering crowd—?”

Venara reached her. She gently took one blade from Malen’s shaking hands, then the other.

“No,” she said. “Mercy.”

Malen trembled.

“I forgive you, Malen Tabris,” Venara said. “I know why you thought as you thought, and why you did what you did If I had been you, perhaps I would have done the same. But I am not your enemy, and there has been enough blood of our kind spilt today. Now go—and live.”

Malen’s eyes widened. Then she turned and ran, fleeing deep into the woods. In moments, she had disappeared.

Venara watched her go, then she her knees buckled. She dropped Malen’s daggers—and she fell. Solas caught her and it was his face she saw last as darkness claimed her.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES
“Aneth ara, ma’lethal. Garas quenathra—?”
“Greetings, my kin/brethren. Why are you here?”

“Tel’ir ma eolasas.”
“Nor do you know us.”

“Tel’nathir ash.”
“Do not insult her.”

Note: Malen was one of my Wardens from Dragon Age: Origins. I got through her origin and then stopped playing. I hadn’t intended on including her, but then she just kind of popped up in the story and then her presence turned into a rumination on what would have happened to her had Duncan not intervened.

 

Mira_Jade Sera is way too much fun to write.

I was doubly startled with it was elves attacking them, even if it quickly made sense in the text.

It's a bit of a departure, but in-game elves are usually painted as being a mostly cohesive group (aside from city elf vs. Dalish elf dynamics). If you're a Dalish Inquisitor, you have a chance to proclaim that you will stand for all elves in Thedas. And then... nothing comes of it. This chapter is trying to flesh that out, how political leaders from minority groups aren't always seen as doing the right thing by the group they come from.

I'm not sure if Malen will show up again yet or not, but if she does, it will be an interesting meeting, for sure.

Thanks, as always!

---

CHAPTER XIII
They Don’t Know​

“We need to send an armed guard—”

“They will merely get in her way!”

“Her companions, though capable, are not enough to protect her—”

“She is quite capable of protecting herself, no?”

“Leliana, the Inquisitor was nearly assassinated, do you really think this is something we can brush off?”

“Perhaps you should have a little more faith, Commander—”

“Or you could do your job, Spymaster—”

“ENOUGH!”

Venara slammed her hands down on the war table. Leliana and Cullen, who were practically shouting in each other’s faces, jumped.

“By the Creators,” Venara said, “it’s like I’m not even here!”

It had been two weeks since Fenariel’s assassination attempt. Venara had spent most of those two weeks lying in straw in the back of a wagon, alongside Sera. Her wounds had kept her unconscious for three days—it would have been more had it not been for the quick work of Inquisition healers. They had been able to stabilize her wounds with magic, allowing her body to take the time it needed to regenerate the blood it lost. By the time she arrived back at Skyhold, she still did not have the strength to walk unaided. Her face had taken on a dull grey cast, her skin burned with fever, and her back seared where the daggers had entered her flesh.

More scars for the collection.

It was now the day after she had arrived. And though she could barely make it down her stairs unaided, she found herself in the war room, listening to her advisors argue.

And argue.

And argue.

It made her head hurt.

She hurt a lot these days.

Venara found herself under the eye of all three advisors, who had been startled by her sudden outburst. Josephine stood some paces away, grasping her writing board—wax was dripping unnoticed from its candle, peppering her notes. Cullen looked hesitant. Leliana was…well. Leliana.

“I apologize, Inquisitor,” the spymaster said swiftly.

“We are trying to treat what happened to you in the Emerald Graves with severity,” Cullen said.

“No need,” Venara interrupted. “Nothing important happened.”

She heard Josephine’s sharp intake of breath. Cullen looked at her, flabbergasted.

“I hope I don’t have to remind you that you were very nearly assassinated,” he said.

Venara gripped the table, using it to support her weight. Her wounds had begun to ache. “And, as you can see, the assassins failed,” she said. “I’m still alive. I fail to see what the problem is.”

“The problem, Inquisitor, is that they tried.”

“Plenty of people want me dead, Cullen,” Venara said. “I don’t see you shaking in your boots every time I’m attacked by red templars or Venatori or demons or—”

“This was different!”

“No, it wasn’t—”

“It was,” Leliana said.

Venara turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You’re agreeing with him? You’ve been arguing against him for the past twenty minutes!”

“I should have been more mindful of attempts in the field,” Leliana said. “I was preoccupied by agents infiltrating Skyhold, where you are unarmed. I did not foresee this. I am sorry, my lady. I failed you.” She bowed her head.

“No one could have foreseen this,” Cullen said. “It was her own people who did this!”

“My people?” Venara said.

“They were elven, were they not?”

Venara stared at him, incredulous. “What are you saying? That because a singular group of elves decided that they had to kill me, all elves must believe the same? You do realize we’re not a uniform group—or do you think all humans to be the same? Does an Orlesian noble think the same as a Fereldan peasant or a Tevinter magister? Or an Antivan assassin the same as a Rivaini merchant or—”

Cullen flushed. “All right, I see your point, you don’t have to—”

“Then what do you want me to do? Stop going on missions?”

Cullen straightened his back. “If you must—yes.”

Venara’s nostrils flared. “I am a combat-trained mage, a Knight-Enchanter, Commander, not some—”

“You almost died, Venara!” Cullen yelled, his hand lashing out, knocking over several of the map marks upon the table. They rolled off the table and clattered onto the floor. “I saw how you were when they brought you back. You were barely… You were barely more than a corpse.”

“I’m fine now.” She desperately hoped that no one noticed her knuckles turning white as she continued to grip the table.

“Oh yes!” Cullen bit out. “Fine. You have a very strange definition of ‘fine’ when you can barely keep yourself standing!”

“I’m alive,” Venara said. “That counts as fine in my books.” She turned and slowly walked towards the chair perched at the end of the war table. Her hand drifted along the table’s surface, just in case she needed to grab it.

“Very well,” Cullen said. “What about next time?”

“I’ll probably be fine then, too.”

Cullen watched her carefully as she reached her chair. “With respect, my lady—you’re an idiot.”

Venara sank into the chair. “Yes, well, so are you. What a pair we make.” She scowled. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Cullen. That I’ll leave everything to Cassandra and the others? Stay holed up in Skyhold while our men risk their lives? That I’ll stay put until I’m needed?” She could feel the mark searing her palm again. She clenched her fingers into a fist, hoping that she could keep the swirling green magic trapped. She didn’t want her advisors to notice that she was glowing.

Again.

Damn it. I need to ask Solas why it keeps flaring up as like this…

“If I may,” Josephine said carefully. “You are more than a simple soldier or agent, my lady. While your duty is to protect the world, ours is to protect you. I know you will find it difficult, my lady, but I will sleep better knowing you have a guard to accompany you that suits your station—”

“I am not a figurehead,” Venara said coldly. “And I’m not going to walk through life so paranoid I have to spend it looking over my shoulder. This is the end of this discussion.” Her advisors exchanged looks, but they held their tongues. Venara sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Leliana, there is a matter I need you to look into,” she said. “Fenariel said his clan had been wiped out. Why haven’t I heard of such a thing happening?”

Leliana paused. “It could have been long before the Inquisition was established—”

“No. It was recent.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but there are dozens—perhaps hundreds—of Dalish clans within our area of operation in Fereldan and Orlais.” Leliana’s lips tightened. “Some have made contact with us, but many others wish to keep their distance—”

“Clan Velnaran,” Venara said. “I want to know what happened to it. I want to know who was responsible. Find out.”

Leliana paused. “Yes, my lady.”

“Forgive me, Inquisitor,” Cullen interrupted. “But is this a necessary use of the Inquisition’s resources? We still do not know where Corypheus and his forces have gone, Leliana’s scouts are needed to find Samson—”

“This needs to be done,” Venara said wearily. “I made a promise.”

“To a dead man—to a man who tried to have you killed!”

“That does not mean I should not fulfill it,” Venara said. “Don’t press me on this, I won’t change my mind.”

“You can’t afford to become distracted, my lady,” he said. “Resolving the political turmoil in Orlais should be our first priority. Duke Gaspard and Empress Celene—”

“I know you hate to think it, Cullen,” Venara said, “but I can do more than one thing at a time.”

“And what will you do when Leliana returns with news of Clan Velnaran?” Cullen asked. “Will you hunt down their attackers and exact justice yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Digging into this matter is like poking a wasps’ nest with a stick,” Cullen said. “What if others come after you?”

“I said I wasn’t talking about this again—”

“You are our leader, akin to being our general. Generals do not casually throw themselves away on the front lines—”

“I don’t have a choice about that,” Venara said.

“No,” Cullen said. “You don’t. You bear the mark. You can seal the rifts. If we lose you—”

“I KNOW, CULLEN!” Venara shouted. “I know! You’ve told me a thousand times by now. And not just you—Cassandra does it, Vivienne does it, our delegates do it, my would-be assassins did it. Even the damn barkeep has done it! It’s incredible how you all make me feel like a tool to be used, rather than a person!”

Cullen looked away. “That… was not my intention.”

“Of course it wasn’t. Doesn’t mean it’s not insulting.”

“Hawke’s rubbed off on you, I see,” he muttered.

Venara ignored him. “Do any of you understand how dangerous I am?” she asked. “There were twenty of them. Four of us. We were outnumbered. By rights they should have swarmed us under, killed us, but we… I killed them instead.”

She had not forgotten the cries of horror as her assailants’ essences dissolved into the Fade. People killed in the most horrifying of ways, simply because they blamed her for their circumstances. They had not deserved it.

But she had done it anyway. Otherwise, they would have killed her.

“I killed them all,” she said quietly, staring at the where the Emerald Graves was marked on the map. “And it was easy.”

She heard footsteps and then felt a gentle pressure on her shoulder. Josephine had comfortingly laid a hand there. Venara looked up and gave her a small smile.

“I know you wish to forget this attack, my lady,” Leliana said. “But we still must be cautious. They—or others like them—could easily try again. With your permission, I would like to situate agents to watch your quarters—”

“No.”

“No?” Leliana frowned. “With all due respect, Inquisitor, you left one of them alive. She could—”

“She won’t.”

“How can you know that?”

“I just do,” Venara said, resolute.

“She tried to kill you!” Cullen said. “She almost killed you!”

“She had every reason to be angry,” Venara said.

“Maker’s breath—why are you defending her?”

“Because Malen Tabris may have been misguided, but she wasn’t wrong!” Venara shouted. “It’s true, I haven’t done a thing for the elves of Thedas—”

“You have had the Breach to contend with,” Josephine remarked. “And Haven’s destruction. And Corypheus. And Adamant. And—”

“I know, I know.” Venara paused. “I can do better. I should do better.”

“The world is balanced on a precarious edge,” Cullen said. “You may stand for the elves, but you also stand for Thedas. You stand for all of us.”

Venara laughed coldly. “Oh? Then why did the Marquise de Marchande insist on calling me a delinquent and a curiosity for being a Dalish mage?”

Cullen opened his mouth to respond, but Leliana cut him off.

“Wait—did you say Tabris?”

Venara nodded. “What is it?”

Leliana paled. “I knew of a family called Tabris once,” she said. “Long ago, in Denerim.”

“She said she was from the Denerim alienage.”

“Ah.” Leliana’s face fell. “Poor girl.”

“What happened?” Venara asked. She needed to know.

“The elves of Denerim suffered much during the Blight,” Leliana said quietly. “Many were killed by humans, some even had their houses set on fire when the alienage was purged… When I reached the city with Mahariel and Alistair, we found that Tevinter mages had initiated a plague as a ruse to enslave ‘sick’ elves and send them to Tevinter. And… there was a story of a young woman who had been taken forcibly from her husband-to-be on her wedding day by the son of a noble lord. She is said to have slaughtered the noble’s entire entourage while making her escape, only to run afoul of the guards and be sentenced to execution.” Leliana paused. “It would seem she escaped her sentence.”

“That is… that is horrible.” Josephine set down her writing board on the table. “How is it that events such as these are not known to the general public?”

“I think we all know the answer to that,” Leliana said.

Venara lowered her eyes. She felt sick, her stomach churning, her face flushed. She had heard echoes of stories like Tabris’—they were passed about Dalish clans, word-of-mouth, originating from one city elf or another who had managed to leave their alienage and seek a life away from the slums. But the Dalish used such tales as proof to not trust humans—very little thought was given to the city elves who experienced such suffering.

Clan Lavellan had never once accepted a city elf among their numbers, despite travelling lands near cities with alienages. They had spoken ignorantly of the alienages. They had dismissively called city elves flat-ears. They saw them as elves so close to humans that they had surrendered what made them elven: their magic, their faith, their culture, their traditions.

Flat-ear.

Seth’lin.

Thin-blood.

Elves who were lost. Elves who had given up the legacy of their ancestors in order to live a comfortable life within city walls.

Elves like Malen Tabris.

But also elves like Charter, Leliana’s key agent in Fereldan. And Minaeve, the Inquisition’s head creature researcher. Elan Ve’mal, the apothecary. Commander Helaine, the very woman who trained Venara as a Knight-Enchanter.

Elves like Sera.

How wrong she had been.

Damn it. Venara’s mouth had gone dry. Malen was right about me. I don’t know a thing.

She looked up. “This changes now,” she said. “From now on, we do what we can to help the elves, regardless of their origins. Is that understood?”

Her advisors nodded.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

“Josephine,” Venara said. “I want you to arrange something for me. I wish to visit the Val Royeaux alienage, speak to the city elves who are directly influenced by Empress Celene’s rule. Can you do that?”

Josephine nodded. She grabbed her discarded writing board and began scribbling furiously.

“Similarly,” Venara continued, “I wish to know what the general population of Orlais believes about Celene and Duke Gaspard. If the Inquisition is to throw their support behind one of them, I want to rely on more than simply the words of nobles clamouring for our favour. Leliana, send out your agents. Have them bring me the opinion of Orlesians, from peasants to merchants to even the damn Chantry clerics.”

She paused and glanced at Cullen. He was still flushed from their argument, arms folded defensively. “Cullen…” She paused. “I’m sure you have duties to attend to.”

He snorted. “Yes, my lady. I believe I do.”

He bowed curtly and left the war room. Venara watched as he marched out the large oak doors, Leliana and Josephine following. Venara sank further into her chair, gripping the armrests. She felt drained.

Cullen was arguing with her more, particularly since Adamant. Hawke had thoroughly stamped all over him there and he seemed to have taken a blow to his ego. He was insisting at least once or twice a week that she needed protection. It made her feel like a child, like she was some fragile little sculpture carved from glass and could shatter at any moment.

He had trusted her—albeit cautiously—when she had offered the rebel mages sanctuary within Inquisition ranks. He had led the escape from Haven. He had led the assault on Adamant. He had trusted her judgements, her abilities, her commitment to their cause. And now?

It was as if his belief in her had been twisted somehow. Changed.

She didn’t understand.

Unless…

Unless the reasoning behind his actions was his observance of her growing power. That his templar training, though renounced, still directed his beliefs: that all mages needed to be guarded, protected from themselves, protected from accidentally harming others with their abilities.

Maybe it wasn’t assassins he feared, but her.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES
Sethlin — thin-blood, Dalish referecence/insult for city elves

 

IV. In the Company of Friends
Love the action at the beginning, very well done! I'm not sure I particularly like Sera's personality per se, but I do like the dynamic she adds, especially in contrast to Solas (who I really like a lot!).

And thanks for including the Elven words at the end of each chapter. Dirthara-ma—May you learn - love that as a curse!

V. Where the Heart Lies
I like the title, very fitting. Love that you circle back to the meaning of Venara's name, it's really interesting that it is not as unique as she thought it was.

I especially like this line: She was not like this, she had never been… this. She was ice, she was reason, she was control. She had never been passion.

As an aside, I just realized I actually own Dragon Age: Origins! (I think it was a gift I had forgotten about.) I will have to try to play it when I have time.

 

Tarsier

I'm not sure I particularly like Sera's personality per se, but I do like the dynamic she adds, especially in contrast to Solas (who I really like a lot!).

AHA! My job is done!

Sera's a very polarizing character. To be honest, she's not well-written in the game (she's the weak link, IMO), but her character has so much wonderful potential, so she's a lot of fun to write about. (Also, she has a really strong Cockney/East London/kind of Derbyshire accent that is so exaggeratedly obnoxious that she comes across as strikingly annoying to some players).

And thanks for including the Elven words at the end of each chapter.

Elven really has some interesting curses... I thought it was necessary to include translations, not only because I'm making so much of the language up myself (Elven isn't a functional language, it's based on a cipher to make it easier for multiple people to write when they're developing the games). And also, even I don't remember what all of the in-game, established Elven phrases mean!

I like the title, very fitting. Love that you circle back to the meaning of Venara's name, it's really interesting that it is not as unique as she thought it was.

I have a lot of fun mucking around with the possibilities that come with a language that has been "lost" and is in the process of being re-discovered... Room for lots of errors and mistakes!

As an aside, I just realized I actually own Dragon Age: Origins! (I think it was a gift I had forgotten about.) I will have to try to play it when I have time.

AHHHH! YOU NEED TO PLAY IT!! (And then write DA fanfic, so I'm not the only one here writing it... *cough* ) If you have it on PC, I have some recommended mods that can drastically improve your gameplay experience (if you're interested). Also, do not be an archer (and don't build Leliana to be an archer, even though that's how she starts out). The archer build is messed up and it's impossible to be useful/not die all the time because it only really becomes effective late game.

Thank you so much for your comments--it's so wonderful that you're taking the time to read, even though you don't know the games. Thank you!!

---

CHAPTER XIV
The Heart of a Warrior​

Venara dropped to a knee in the slippery, wet grass, panting heavily. The sky was a dark, steely grey and ice cold rain fell in a heavy downpour. Venara was drenched to the bone, shivering with cold and splattered with mud, but determined flared in her heart. Ignoring the thick strands of hair plastered to her face, she placed her left hand on the ground, feeling it sink into the mud. Her right hand curled around a hefty wood staff, gripping it tightly.

One breath.

Two breaths.

Her head snapped up. She pushed herself out of a crouch and into a run, using the force of her momentum to fly across the field. She raised her staff and—

Thud.

Something hard whacked her in the stomach. She was knocked sideways, dropping her staff. She tripped over her feet and spiralled down, face-first, into a sodden pit of mud and grass. She groaned and rolled over, wincing in pain.

A shadow passed over her.

Venara cracked an eye open. “You didn’t have to hit so hard.”

“You didn’t have to leave your right flank open.” Blackwall stood over her, leaning on a rough-hewn, eight-foot quarterstaff. He hadn’t fallen yet today, as evidenced by the fact that only his boots were covered with mud. Unlike Venara.

“You didn’t have to sneak up on me,” she said.

“You didn’t have to forget everything I’ve taught you in the past two weeks.”

“I’m trying.”

“Why don’t you try harder?”

“It’s a wonder you ever recruited anyone into the Grey Wardens, with an attitude like that.”

Blackwall chuckled and reached out, offering a hand. Venara took it and he pulled her up out of the mud.

“Ah, I jest,” he said. “You’re doing better than I thought.”

Venara picked up her staff. “I wish you’d let me use magic—”

“This is a quarterstaff, Venara,” he said. “Not a mage’s staff. Using magic would defeat the purpose.”

Venara pushed loose strands of her dark hair out of her face. She wrinkled her nose. “You should at least let me ward myself, if we’re going to fight. I always have one active in combat, it’s unrealistic to—”

“No. That would also defeat the purpose.”

Venara scratched her ear. “I’m beginning to lose track of what that is,” she said. “It feels a bit like you dragged me out here just to give me a bloody nose.”

“And I was under the impression Knight-Enchanters favoured strict discipline,” Blackwall said. He knocked the base of her staff with his. “Again.”

Venara rolled her eyes. She jogged to the edge of the training ring as Blackwall took up his position in the centre. She carefully watched the way he held his quarterstaff, the way he moved with it, waiting for an opening. She tried to remember the series of blocks, thrusts and strikes he had shown her.

She attacked. Her feet sprayed mud about her as she launched herself at the centre of the ring. Venara drew up short as Blackwall’s quarterstaff swung at her—she blocked it, wood smacking wood. She quickly lowered the staff and thrust forward at his face, but he dodged backwards. His staff crashed down upon her and she barely caught it in time. Grinning, she threw him backwards with a series of thrusts, wood striking wood in quick succession—and then she overestimated one of her strikes. She lost her centre of gravity and fell backwards as Blackwall swept her feet out from under her. She fell hard on her rear.

He slammed the butt of his staff into the ground. “Better.”

Venara scowled and gingerly got to her feet. “Oh, you don’t say!” She stuck her boot under her fallen staff and kicked it. It jumped up in the air and she caught it adeptly. “This feels unnatural.”

“Many fight with spears and staves,” Blackwall said. “It is an honourable form, one with great traditions—”

“It feels unnatural for me.” Venara tilted her head back, squinting at the sky. It looked like the rain wouldn’t be letting up any time soon. “A mage’s staff focuses our power, allowing us to channel magic in ways we would otherwise be unable to.”

Blackwall laughed. “I’ve seen you fight. You swing a stick around and it makes pretty lights.”

“Those ‘pretty lights’ are pretty useful, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wasn’t arguing that.”

Venara folded her arms. “And it’s a lot more complicated than just swinging a stick around.”

Blackwall sighed. “I know quarterstaves and mage staves are different. But I think what you can learn from the former can help you with the latter. Rarely do I see a mage use their staff as…well... a staff.” He crossed the field and put a hand on Venara’s shoulder. “If you learn to use your staff as a physical weapon, it can only help you. You are already on the front lines swinging that… that…” He searched for the right sword. “That lightsword—”

“Spirit blade.”

“Yes. That…er…”

“Spirit blade.”

“And while it is a powerful weapon,” Blackwall continued, “it doesn’t last. You can’t always sustain it. My hope by teaching you this is that the next time enemies seek to kill you, you can break a few of their bones and get them off your back so you can shoot them with magic lightning.”

Venara scowled. Though he hadn’t said it specifically, she knew he was referring to Fenariel’s attack. No one spoke of it directly, but her friends and companions had been unnerved by its consequences. Even though Venara was now healed, there were many cautious people about Skyhold who showed their concern in many different ways. Varric insisted on catching her up in game after game of Wicked Grace. Iron Bull invited her for drinks, insisting that every member of the Bull’s Chargers join them. Sera had laced the castle with “pranks” meant to trap unsuspecting visitors.

And Blackwall insisted on training her in a new fighting style. At first it had been fun. Venara was not unaccustomed to non-magical combat—she had learned a few things about wielding daggers and swords with her clan. The exercises worked her muscles in new ways, and the sparring matches cleared her head of whatever political mess her advisors had put on her plate for that day. But as Blackwall’s regimen grew more and more specific and his drills longer and longer, Venara had become worn out. She was tired of being pummelled with a stick in the name of “training”.

Meanwhile, her hand continued to glow erratically, sometimes uncontrollably. If she wasn’t careful, she felt like she was going to summon a small rift in the middle of the Skyhold throne room.

Venara gritted her teeth. That wasn’t going to happen. She wouldn’t let it happen.

Blackwall’s training was good for another thing—it provided a much needed distraction from her fears about out-of-control rift magic. The mark hadn’t glowed at all this session.

And, of course, training to fight with a staff did compliment her abilities.

She flashed a smile. “All right, Blackwall,” she said. “You win. Let’s do this.”

With a cry, she leapt into an attack. Blackwall raised his staff and blocked her. He pushed her back, seeking an opening. She swore not to give him one. Venara spun around the training ring, mindless of the rain on her face and the squelching of her boots in the mud. She struck back again and again, watching and following is moves closely so she could accurately guess what he would do next.

Thwack.

She blocked his staff, then thrust forward. She missed on purpose, letting him strike at her again. Expecting the blow, she ducked, letting the heavy staff pass over her. Then she struck, the staff jutting out to hit Blackwall, knocking him—

Crack.

Venara’s face exploded in pain as she felt her nose break. Blood gushed out, streaming over her lips and down her chin.

“Maker’s breath, are you all right?!”

Blackwall dropped his staff and rushed to her side. Venara grinned at him through a face full of blood.

“Eeegoochoo!”

“What?”

Venara punched him lighting on the shoulder. “Eee gooch oo!”

“What I think our dear Inquisitor means to say is, ‘I got you,’” a cool voice said.

Venara turned towards the voice, her vision woozy, and blinked several times. Vivienne swam into focus. She was standing at the edge of the training pit, hands on her hips. Her customary white and grey brocade clothing covered by a thick silver cloak with a large, wide hood to keep off the rain. Her usual heels had been replaced by thick boots of white leather. She was trying very hard not to spatter them with mud.

“Come here, my dear,” she said. “Let me fix that.”

Venara tromped to the edge of the ring. Vivienne raised a white-gloved hand, her fingers glowing blue-green with magic as she passed them up Venara’s face. Venara could feel her nose knitting itself back together. It was a very odd sensation.

“You know, Venara dear, you really should learn a few spells of healing,” Vivienne said as she ran the magic back down Venara’s face. “Especially if you insist on getting into scrapes even in Skyhold.” She eyed Blackwall.

“We were sparing, not scraping,” he said gruffly.

Vivienne flicked her wrist with a flourish. The magic faded. “Yes, well, sparring very nearly ruined the face of the Inquisition. You know we can’t have that—especially not before our visit to the Winter Palace.”

“It’s not like I don’t already have scars, Vivienne,” Venara said as she prodded her nose. Good as new.

“Scars are dashing, darling, and nothing that can’t be fixed with the right amount of powder. A broken nose is just that. Broken.”

Blackwall snorted. “Did you come here to rant or to insult, Madame Vivienne?” he asked. “Because we are—”

“I came to congratulate our Inquisitor, of course,” Vivienne interrupted. She turned to Venara. “Supplementing your skills with the techniques of physical combat—very wise, my dear. Especially after that bungled assassination attempt we all heard so much about.”

Venara’s palm seared with pain and she felt a distinctive queasiness in her stomach. Before she even caught sight of the glow, she quickly clenched her fists and crossed her arms, hiding it. “Blackwall’s idea,” she said.

“Yes, but your initiative.”

“And what would you know about sparring?” Blackwall said. “Not to be rude, madame, but you’re a scholar, not a fighter.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “How did you come to that conclusion?”

“Well…” Blackwall shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Have you seen what you wear? It’s ridiculous for combat.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Vivienne said smoothly. “For example, I wouldn’t take you for a Grey Warden at first glance. Or second. Or third—”

“I take your meaning.”

“And as it seems to have slipped your mind, Blackwall,” Vivienne continued, “I am a Knight-Enchanter, same as our dear Inquisitor. I know something of combat.”

“And yet you readily stay in your tower, reading your books, while the rest of us are out there risking our necks.”

“Study is the basis of all magic,” Vivienne said. “Criticizing a mage for opening her books is like criticizing an archer for utilizing target practice or a warrior for sparring.”

Blackwall frowned. “That’s different.”

“Really?” Vivienne feigned shock. “How so?”

“Madame Vivienne!”

Josephine was running down the steep stone steps from the castle’s main doors. Seemingly unable to find a cloak, she had grabbed a deep blue shawl and carried it over her head to keep off the rain. She stepped off the stone and into the muck, treading through trampled, muddied grass and pools of water to reach the training ring. Her shoes and stockings were soaked through in seconds.

Panting, Josephine reached the edge of the training ring. She was smiling, even as she leaned against the wooden rails that ran around the field.

“You have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” Vivienne asked.

“Lady Émilie du Beaufort wishes very much to speak with you in your gallery,” Josephine said. “About what, she did not say, but she did sound urgent.”

“Émilie?” Vivienne scoffed. “She is mostly interested in literature and fine wine, I can hardly imagine—”

“She insisted it was very important.”

Vivienne sighed. “Oh, very well,” she said. “I suppose it would not do to upset our delegates. Pardon me, Inquisitor, but it would appear that I have a guest.” Vivienne walked gracefully towards the stairs. After mounting several steps, she turned back. “But really, Josephine,” she called, “why didn’t you send a runner instead of tramping through all this mud yourself?”

“Ah…” Josephine cleared her throat. “They were all busy! So many messages today, you see. I didn’t want to bother them.”

“You’re far too complacent sometimes, my dear. But someone around here must think with kindness.” Vivienne shook her head and continued climbing the steps.

Josephine pulled the shawl closer around her head. She spotted Venara.

“What happened?!” Josephine gasped, taking in the blood covering Venara’s upper lip and chin.

“Blackwall broke my nose. I’m better now.”

“Ser Blackwall broke…? But you were only sparring!”

“How did you know that?” Venara asked.

“Oh,” Josephine said quickly. “I saw you when you first began, I had some time to spare and took a walk on the battlements.” Josephine glanced at Blackwall as she pushed a lock of stray hair behind her ear. The rain was making it begin to curl. That combined with the mud on her usually spotless clothes made her seem unusually dishevelled.

Not that Josephine could ever truly look dishevelled.

She hovered by the edge of the training ring, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Beautiful day is it not?”

“If you like the rain, I suppose,” Blackwall said.

“And do you?” Josephine said. “Like the rain, I mean?”

Venara had a feeling Josephine wasn’t talking to her.

“Not really,” Blackwall said drolly. “Makes the whole world smell like wet dog.”

“I… I suppose that’s one way to put it,” Josephine said. Her shawl slipped off her head and she pulled it tight around her shoulders.

Blackwall cleared his throat. “Ah, my lady, perhaps you should go inside now—”

“I like the rain,” Josephine said. “I spent too many days looking out at nature and never being part of it.”

“And some spend their days forever outside, looking in, wishing they could warm themselves by the hearth,” Blackwall said.

“Well…” Josephine looked at the sky. Water dripped down her nose. Her hair was threatening to uncurl itself from their complex plaits. “They do say the grass is always greener.” She smiled and bowed her head. “Good day to you, Ser Blackwall. Inquisitor.”

And with that, she ran back up the stairs, now completely drenched from the rain. Blackwall turned to Venara, running a hand through his hair.

“Should we… uh, should we continue sparring?” he said.

Venara raised an eyebrow. “You like her.”

“Of course I do! Everyone does. Ambassador Montilyet is a fine woman.”

“Not like that. You admire her.”

“She’s very admirable.”

Venara sighed. “Blackwall, you’re never going to admit it, are you?”

“What?” He folded his arms. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“I do not!”

“No time for frivolous things like love for serious men like you.”

Blackwall scowled.

Venara laughed. “See what I mean?”

“It’s… nothing.”

“You talked about the weather. That doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Blackwall grunted. “Is that how you seduced Solas? By talking about the weather?”

Venara frowned. “‘Seduced’ is a strong word.”

“Well, clearly you did something, because if there ever was a more serious man than me, Solas would be him.”

Venara picked up her discarded staff. “I’m not afraid to whack you with this stick, you know.”

“I’m terrified.” Blackwall paused. “It’s best not to speak of it, Venara. Nothing can ever pass between Josephine and me.”

“Strange,” Venara said. “Solas once said something similar to me and look how that turned out. What is it with men these days—?”

Blackwall grabbed the staff and pulled it free from her grip. “Say anything else about it, my lady, and you’ll be the one whacked with this stick.”

“All right, all right!” Venara raised her hands. “I call a truce.”

“Thank you.”

“But if it helps, I know she likes you, too.”

The sun broke out from behind a cloud. The rain had stopped.

Blackwall set the staff against the training ring railing. “I think we’re done for today,” he said.

“No more sparring?” Venara said, relieved.

“No. No more sparring.” Blackwall’s eyes flickered to the mountain slopes beyond the castle walls. “I have other matters to attend to. Until tomorrow, my lady.”

He bowed and left. Venara watched him go.

What was that about?

 

Mira_Jade

XIII was really difficult to write (and I was worried I was going to get my head chewed off by certain people in the fandom for a less-than-shining depiction of elves the previous chapter; thankfully that hasn't happened). It's going to be a long journey for Venara... she's in quite a difficult position, as those who take leadership often are. It's made even more difficult by the fact that she didn't really become a leader by choice, it was thrust upon her because of the mark.

XIV was SO MUCH fun. It's a filler chapter, but I needed a breather. And I expected readers needed a breather, too. Blackwall/Josephine is really adorable. I love writing Josie, she's way too cute for her own good.

Vivienne is amazing. I wish Venara got along with her better, but they butt heads about a lot of things.

(And she is indeed very stylish--look at her character design! And she's voiced by Indira Varma (Ellaria Sand on Game of Thrones).

---

CHAPTER XV
Dangerous Thing​

“Try again.”

“I am trying.”

Solas closed his eyes and sighed. “You think you’re trying. Therein lies the difference.”

“Would you like to do this?” Venara snapped.

“A hypothetical situation helps neither of us, as it is you who bears the mark, not I.”

Venara looked down at her glowing hand and flexed her fingers. “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert?”

“Considering the anomaly that is the Breach and your mark, I don’t think anyone can qualify as having expertise. I know some things. Not all.”

Venara threw her hands in the air. “All right! You don’t have to be an ass about it.” She turned her back on him and walked to the window. She leaned heavily against the curved stone wall and folded her arms.

They were in the recently constructed mage tower. Venara had chosen to rebuild one of Skyhold’s tallest towers as a home for the rebel mages who had allied with the Inquisition, effectively bringing about the end of the Mage-Templar war. Though the tower had only been finished some two months ago, it had fallen into a homey sort of disarray. Books littered the floor, a haze of smoke from burning herbs and incense wafted up and down the stairs, and the acrid smell of accidental explosions accompanied the occasional “bang” that went off when everyone least expected it. Colourful wall hangings depicted everything from stories from Orlesian folklore to Fereldan mabari hounds to a portrait of what Venara thought was the former King of Fereldan, painted on velvet. Equally colourful blankets and pillows lay strewn about, adding a live-in sense to the chaos.

Solas had joined her here after she had told him about her mark’s erratic behaviour. How it flared up at moments of great emotional stress, how much more powerful it was becoming with each passing day. How it seared her skin and made her feel queasy to her stomach, yet at the same time filling her with such a rush of power, it was almost intoxicating. The anchor was no longer merely a tool to close the rifts—the amount of damage she could cause with it was too serious to ignore. Malen Tabris and Fenariel’s followers were proof of that.

Before, she had only had control over it when she was near a Fade rift, or in the heat of battle. But that had changed. Now that the mark was showing signs of flaring up outside of battle, Venara was worried.

So she had asked Solas to help her, and brought him to the mage tower, the one place in Skyhold where they could safely experiment with magic.

But instead of actively working together, they had ended up bickering so loudly that they had chased most of the mages out of the tower. Upon listening to her theory that the mark reacted to her emotions, Solas had set about insisting that she learn to control the magic at will. She had tried and failed.

And tried and failed again for the past couple hours. Without a rift near and without the adrenaline of combat, she had no control over what the mark did and did not do.

“This is ridiculous anyway,” Venara said bitterly. “I’m stuck with it now. Forever. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my problems—”

“Your mark does not only affect you,” Solas said. “It affects us all.” He paused. “Does it hurt? Are you in pain?”

“Not really,” she replied. “It only bothers me when it glows. And I never know when that’s going to happen.”

“Venara.”

She felt his hand on her arm.

“You should try again,” he said seriously. “By exerting control over the mark, by proving that you can summon it at will whenever you want, you will be able to contain its affects—”

“Don’t get technical with me,” she interrupted, brushing him away. “I’m not in the mood for endless explanations and hypotheses. I just want it to stop.”

A burst of green light erupted around her hand. Venara gasped as a strange burning, pulsing sensation spread across her hand. Solas’ eyes flickered downward. He reached out and gripped her wrist firmly.

“Breathe, Venara. Focus on the—”

“I am breathing!” she bit out.

“You weren’t.” He put a hand against her back. “Breathe.”

Venara sucked in breath. She stared at her palm, eyes squinting from the brightness. Control. Focus. She could do this. She had to do this.

The green glow swirled and swirled, consuming more and more of her hand. Then jagged light flew from the mark, ricocheting in all directions. Venara collapsed to her knees, breathing raggedly.

She could feel it tugging at her, threatening to pull her someplace else. She closed her fist, but that changed nothing. The anchor hunted for something, thirsted for something with such intensity, it was if it was alive.

She knew what it wanted.

It wanted to reach the Fade.

She gritted her teeth and tried to blot out the pain.

Suddenly, a blue glow enveloped her. Solas knelt beside her and was working some kind of containment magic. The glow pulled away from a general wash around her, receding down her arm until it encased only her hand. The pain disappeared and the pull subsided.

Venara fell into a sitting position and leaned her back against the wall. “I could have gotten it,” she murmured. “I should have gotten it.”

“I have faith that you will,” Solas said.

Venara glanced at him as she cradled her left arm, the marked arm, with her right. “Thank you. I’m sorry I’m being such an ass.”

Solas sat beside her. “You are experiencing something impossible. Frustration and anger… they are part of that experience.”

“Doesn’t mean you deserve to be snapped at,” Venara said, bending her knees so she could rest her arm against them. The mark still glowed, the green swirling deep within the globe of blue. “You’re just trying to help.” She flexed her fingers, watching the light dancing between them. “Is this what you used? Before, I mean—in Haven. After I fell out of the Fade.”

“Yes,” he said. “It stopped the mark from spreading. Without it, the anchor would have consumed you, I think.”

“Magic is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?” Venara leaned her head back and stared at the rafters. “Is that what it’s doing now?” she asked quietly. “Killing me slowly?”

“I don’t know.”

“Solas…” Venara turned her head and looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not in the mood to be sheltered. Tell me what you think and not what you think I want to hear.”

“Venara.” When he spoke her name, it was not without weight. “This is not merely about you.”

Venara’s eyes narrowed. She drew away from him. “If you say something about me being the last hope of Thedas, I swear by Elgar’nan and Mythal that I will smack you—”

“If I am incorrect in my theories, you could die,” Solas interrupted.

“…oh.”

“I do not want to lose you to an error of my own doing,” he added.

Venara felt a flush creeping up her neck and into her face. “Oh.”

He briefly touched her face, brushing a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “I don’t know for certain what the future holds for you,” he said. “But, if you want to know—”

“I do.”

“I have three hypotheses.”

“Go on,” Venara said.

Solas bowed his head. “Very well,” he said. “The first is that you can learn to contain the mark’s energies through spells of stasis, such as the one I have cast. While it is active, you cannot use any of your abilities associated with the anchor’s power. It is not a permanent solution, however, as the mark’s energies will eventually dissolve their prison.”

“So the mark can’t be contained.”

“Not by external magic. Not indefinitely. No.”

Venara sighed. At this point, she wasn’t surprised. “What’s option two?”

“It is what we have been attempting today,” Solas continued. “By learning to control the mark’s powers, you can contain its effects on you through your own will and focus.”

Venara blew out a hiss of breath. “Impossible.”

“It will take time. And training. It is magic, Venara, and like all magic, it can be shaped by a mage’s will.”

Venara laughed hollowly. “Yours maybe. Not mine. What’s option three?”

“The mark is removed. Forcibly.”

Venara stared at him, startled. She clutched her hand. “What—you mean amputate it?”

“Yes.”

Venara closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. “The Creators just love screwing me over, don’t they.”

“You have been given a gift,” Solas said. “Unwanted, perhaps. And by accident. But this is your power, for good or ill. I will help you as I can, but only you can decide how it shapes your life.”

Venara clenched her fist. “Can I ask you something, Solas?”

“Anything, vhenan.”

“Are you afraid?” she said slowly. “Of… this power. Of me.”

“No,” he said. “It is magic. Magic can be learned, understood, controlled. It is a tool, no different from a sword or dagger.”

“Swords and daggers can’t make people explode or dissolve into nothing,” Venara pointed out.

“But black powder and Qunari gaatlok can,” he countered. “Are they any less dangerous than magic?”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I suppose not. But it’s changing. It’s all changing—I can feel it. And so can the others.” She paused. “This sounds ridiculous, but I think Cullen wants to put a detail of Templars on me. Just in case… something happens.”

“I wouldn’t want to speak ill of our Commander,” Solas said after a moment. “But he has very particular instincts when it comes to magic.”

“He’s frightened,” Venara said. “Like everyone, it seems.”

“Fear is a primal instinct,” Solas said. “And many in this world fear magic blindly because they do not know any better, or because they have been taught to fear it.” There was an iciness to his voice that had not been there before.

“Considering what I can do, I don’t know if that fear is entirely misplaced.”

“It is.”

“I don’t know.” She reached for his hand with her good one and interlaced her fingers with his. “I’m a dangerous person.”

“Is that because of magic, or because of you?” he said. “Or is it impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins?”

“I am who I am,” Venara said quietly. “An elf of Clan Lavellan lost in a world that’s far too big for her. If she’s not careful, she’ll be swallowed alive.”

Venara fell silent. She rested against Solas, his arm around her shoulders, their intertwined fingers resting on her lap. The mage tower was quiet, save for the creaking of wood in the rafters and the cackle of fire in the hearths. It was surprisingly relaxing, being here, just the two of them. They had barely had time to spend alone together in the past month. Venara’s healers had rejected visitors from her chambers while she had recovered, and then afterward there was scarcely a moment when Josephine hadn’t wanted to sweep her away into one meeting or another…

Josephine.

The last time Venara had seen her, she had been in a positively rosy state, all smiles even at times when she would normally be serious…

“I think Josephine is carrying a torch for Blackwall,” Venara said suddenly. “And Blackwall definitely has feelings for her.”

“What’s this?”

“Oh, you know—gossip. About our friends.”

Solas chuckled. “I didn’t take you for a gossip.”

“I wasn’t! But then I met Leliana… And Sera and Dorian. And Varric. They’ve corrupted me.”

“Ah, so that’s what it is. Corruption.”

“Completely.” Venara smiled and shifted closer to him. She rested her head against his chest.

“And what has been occurring between our stalwart Grey Warden and our Lady Ambassador?” Solas asked.

“Now, now—do you want to be taken for a gossip?”

“I would never share trade secrets.”

Venara laughed. “It’s mostly long looks, side-long glanced and very awkward conversation,” she said. “Though Josephine did come running down the steps in a downpour just to watch him spar.”

“That must have been quite the sight. Josephine is not one for being flustered or dishevelled.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Venara said. “Though I do wonder if either of them will ever pluck up enough nerve to speak to each other properly.” She smirked as she remembered something very pleasant. “They don’t have the Fade, after all.”

“Somehow I doubt Blackwall would be comfortable professing, well, anything in the Fade,” Solas said. He paused and stroked her hair. “What of you? Do you still not wish to dream?”

Venara’s breath caught in her throat. She had been avoiding this discussion. She had not yet dared to return to the Fade lucidly. When she dreamed, she dreamed normal dreams. She didn’t know if she could ever consciously walk the Fade again, even if she was with Solas. Not after what had happened there, at Adamant.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t.”

Solas nodded and kissed her forehead. “Then I will wait for you.”

She gripped his hand and nodded. The Fade had been theirs once. Their first kiss had been in the Fade. The first and only time they had made love had been in the Fade (a point Venara had kept completely private). It had been a place of happiness once. Maybe it could again.

It was the land of dreams, after all. And dreams could be re-shaped.

Just not yet.

Out of the corner of her eye, Venara saw that the swirling green glow of the mark had diffused. Now only the blue light of Solas’ spell shone between her fingers. She stretched them, wiggling them to and fro. Below, she heard the low murmur of voices and the clunk of boots on stone. The mages were returning.

Venara’s had curled into a fist.

“I want to try again,” she said.

***​

They went outside to a small, secluded spot in the lower courtyard where they wouldn’t be disturbed. Feeling unusually vulnerable, Venara had decided to take her magic experimentation out of sight. The open air helped—as much as she loved Skyhold and its twisting halls, she sometimes found the indoors suffocating and longed to return to her roots of sky, earth and trees.

Venara stood with her hand outstretched and focused on the mark. Her palm remained unchanged—no light spilled from it.

She breathed. Deep breaths, slow breaths—one, two, three. She would control her magic. She had to.

Come on.

The mark refused to glow.

Venara let out a frustrated sigh and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I don’t understand why I can’t summon it at will! Does my life need to be in danger for it to work?”

“Venara—”

“Maybe we should invite the Venatori for tea so they can attack me, that would really get things going—”

“Venara—”

“Or maybe we should throw me off the roof! Falling from a great height worked at Adamant, why not here?”

“Venara!” Solas was at her side, both hands on her shoulders. “Look.”

She looked down. Her hand was glowing. Almost retroactively, she felt the pain. “Ah. So now it works.”

“I think your frustration is causing you to conflate your will with emotion,” Solas said.

Venara crossed her arms. “Is this you telling me to stop doing that?”

“Yes.”

Venara ran a hand through her hair. “Damn it.” She walked in a furious circle, biting her fingernails as she thought. “I don’t get it, I don’t—”

“You need to push past your feelings. Your emotions do you credit, but you cannot fuel your will—”

“You are no help at all,” Venara snapped. She paused, suddenly blushing furiously. “Sorry.” She continued to pace. At this rate, she had trodden the grass into the mud. “Are you telling me to let go of my emotions? To be emotionless? Because I don’t think that’s even possible at this point—”

“I am not telling you not to feel,” Solas said. “Feel what you must, your emotions are as much a part of you as your heart and your mind. I think I told you that once.”

“Then what do you want me to do?!”

“Let go of your fear, vhenan,” he said.” And listen. Try again.”

“I’m not afraid,” Venara murmured.

“Then try again,” he said.

Venara stood her ground and, once again, stretched out her hand, palm up. The glow from before had died. Venara stared at her hand and wet her lower lip.

Do not be afraid.

Didn’t Keeper Istimaethoriel have a lesson about fearlessness? Didn’t she teach that complete fearlessness let to disaster?

But Solas hadn’t said to not be afraid. He had said to let go of her fear.

Venara breathed—one, two, three.

An explosion of green light shot out of her hand. With a crack, a miniscule rip in the Fade appeared several feet above her. The massive force tore at her clothes and pulled at her hair, threatening to suck her into the Fade.

“Close it, Venara!” Solas shouted. “Close it!”

Venara grit her teeth and willed the rift to close.

It didn’t.

Fenedhis lasa! What has she done?

The rift pulled on its surroundings. Pebbles shot up into the air, sucked into its centre—gone in the blink of an eye. A line of trees cracked and broke apart, their leaves ripped from their branches as a whirlwind of wood was drawn up and up and up, tossed about as if pulled by the force of a tornado—

Venara pushed all panic from her mind. Squeezing her eyes shut, she thrust out her hand again and jerked it down. With a stranger, supernatural sucking sound, the rift closed.

She let out a sigh of relief. Thank the Creators she hadn’t tried that in the mage tower, there would have been nothing left.

“I don’t think I want to try that again,” she said, breathless. She wiped sweat from her brow.

“No,” Solas said. “I don’t think so. Might I suggest that next time we go beyond the walls?”

“I don’t know if there’s going to be a next time,” she said. “The mark may well be too dangerous to experiment with.”

“But you were able to summon it at will! Your focus here proves that with practice—”

“Solas,” Venara said, holding up a hand. “Please. Not now. I’m tired.”

She turned, intending to walk back to the upper courtyard. As she did, she stopped in her tracks—she had come face to face with someone she did not expect.

She didn’t even quite know who—or what—they were.

It was a woman. Or, at least Venara thought she was a woman. A Qunari woman, if the curled horns jutted from her head said anything. Since most of what Venara knew about the Qunari came from the Iron Bull, she had assumed other Qunari would be like him. She was wrong. This woman was vastly different. Though she was still unusually tall and muscular like all of her race, her skin was a deep tan rather than grey. Her clothing, which revealed her midriff, was made of bright teal fabric held together by knotted red thread. Her chest was protected by a thick plate of armour, over which was strung a long, heavy chain. On her back, she bore a mage’s staff. Her hair—what little of it Venara could see—was a soft, orange-brown. Her face was obscured by an angular, triangle-shaped mask, through which Venara could see a sliver of her forehead and her mouth.

Her lips had been sewn shut.

Solas’ face turned to stone. “Delltash!” he cursed. “Saarebas.”

“What?” Venara said.

“The Qunlat word for mage.” The disgust in his voice was almost tangible.

“All right,” Venara said slowly. “But what is she doing here? The Qunari have never formally contacted us—”

“If she is here, her Arvaarad cannot be far away,” Solas said. “I imagine you will have guests to greet in the throne room very soon. It seems the Qunari have finally reached out, officially.”

“Maybe. Bull will have some answers.”

“If you can trust him to answer fully.”

Venara’s eyes narrowed. “That’s low, even for you. Bull has earned his place amongst the Inquisition.”

“He is Ben-Hassrath!” Solas spat.

“Yes,” Venara said. “And if Dorian—who, as a Tevinter, is practically his sworn enemy—can get along famously with him, you can at least learn not to insult him behind his back.”

Solas frowned. “You know my feelings about the Qunari. The Qun is barbaric, and their treatment of mages—well, look at her!”

Venara didn’t know much about the Qun—not enough to form a functioning opinion. It was so distant, so unusual from the way of life in the south. The teachings of the great horned people of the north and their prophet Koslun supposedly had a place for everyone, spiritually and socially. They had no families and no given names, going only by their titles, but no one was left behind. Venara had heard of many Tevinter elves becoming followers of the Qun upon escaping slavery. But she had also heard of the bloody wars raged by the Qunari, of the reeducators who could re-shape the minds of those who failed in their charges. And their mages were considered dangerous, evil even, for simply possessing the gift.

Solas despised the Qun and the Qunari with something that went beyond blind loathing.

A flurry of movement caught Venara’s eye. The Qunari woman—Saarebas—was gesturing madly. Venara watched was gesturing madly. Venara watched as she went through a series of rapid motions, then paused and repeated it. After the second time through, she stopped and cocked her head to the side.

“I think she’s trying to say something,” Venara murmured.

“Yes, well, she would have been able to if her mouth hadn’t been sewn shut,” Solas responded.

“You’re not helping,” Venara said. She turned to the woman. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”

Saarebas repeated her series of gestures, only much more slowly this time. She touched her right hand to the palm of her left, then threw her left hand up in the sky. Then she pressed her fingertips together to form what looked like a globe out of her hands. Her hands spread apart for a moment, then came crashing back together.

She let her hands drop. Venara and Solas exchanged looks.”

“Hissera! Ver-mar!”

A giant Qunari—even taller than the Iron Bull—came lumbering into view. Like Saarebas, he was dressed in clothing that was suited for a much warmer climate than the Frostback Mountains had to offer. He was heavily armed and his skin was covered in intricate designs of vitaar, the Qunari body paint that protected them in battle. He, too, wore a heavy metal mask.

He spoke sharply to Saarebas in his heavy voice. The words fell strangely in Venara’s ears.

“Serrashek hass-obeta. Kalibthren. Haveba Vassenthor dost-est.”

Saarebas regarded him, her body completely still. Then she made two quick gestures.

“Vatthas?”

Saarebas nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Venara said. “Who are you and why have the Qunari sent you here?”

“Did you not get my report?” a familiar voice said.

The Iron Bull treaded into view. He was in civilian dress and looked as though he had just come from a round of drinks at the tavern with his mercenary crew.

Which—to be honest—was probably true.

“The Iron Bull.” The greeting was not warm.

Bull sighed. “Well, at least you don’t forget the article, like everyone else around here.” He turned to Venara. “So, about that report—”

“I don’t think I got it,” Venara said. “I’m behind on my reading.” She didn’t even want to think about the pile of missives that were stacked on her desk.

Bull whistled. “That’s… impressively behind, considering I gave you that report three weeks ago. No offense, Boss.”

“None taken.”

“Still… Josephine or Leliana should have said something,” Bull continued. “I didn’t want this to be dropped on you out of the blue, all things considered.”

“What is this exactly?” Venara asked.

The Qunari warrior spoke, addressing Bull. “Ossest fama Vassend serra val? Duben arvastlok?”

“Arva essun enath. Lassoth qarenth.”

“Serravin. Osstel ari varan-ethar, Hissrad.”

“Kalthos, Arvaarad.”

“I beg your pardon?” Venara said. She was feeling twitchy—somehow, having her session in improbable rift magic interrupted by what appeared to have been an unannounced diplomatic meeting with the Qunari was not helping her nerves.

“I believe our guest is one of the Arvaarad,” Solas said. “The ones who hold the leashes of the Saarebas. He believes that you are inattentive, due to your surprise at his arrival. He and the mage are on a mission from the Ben-Hassrath.”

“You understood them?” Venara asked, bewildered. “You speak Qunlat?”

“Yes.”

“When did you learn Qunlat?!”

“Uh, Boss,” Bull said. “If I could interrupt this surprising turn of events, let me fill you in. The Qunari are considering an alliance with the Inquisition, but they are not ready for it to become public knowledge. So, as a gesture of goodwill, they have sent an agent to assist you.”

“All right,” Venara said slowly. She turned to Arvaarad. “What can you offer, in terms of assistance?”

Arvaarad grunted.

“Not him, Boss,” Bull said. “Her.”

Venara looked at the Qunari mage. She stood proudly and bowed her head.

“I am here to aid the mage in my care,” Arvaarad growled. “And see that she does not fall victim to her own evil and unleash destruction upon the world. I am here for nothing more, and nothing less.” He paused, eyeing Venara. “Unless you yourself wish to be placed in my care—I know you are a mage.”

“No, thank you,” Venara said coolly.

“What about that one?” Arvaarad said, nodding towards Solas. “He seems… incensed.”

“Ballar’rir,” Solas hissed. “I have every reason to be incensed, as you say. One Qunari was enough, the Inquisition does not need the help of more. You mutilate mages. Your governing philosophies reject free will, binding your people to one destiny, one purpose, of which they cannot choose. Your people would conquer southern Thedas regardless of the bloodshed it would cause—”

Venara grabbed his arm. “Stop. This is not the time nor the place.”

“I do apologize, Inquisitor,” Solas said coldly. “But I think I must take my leave. I am not willing to endorse an alliance with such… people.”

“I’m not endorsing anything,” Venara said. “But I do think you should go.”

Solas nodded curtly. Then he turned and swiftly walked away without a backwards glance.

Venara stared up at the imposing Qunari warrior. “I apologize for my friend’s lack of manners,” she said. “He has… specific feelings about the Qun.”

Arvaarad grunted. “Indeed. My opinion of the south has not been improved by his uneducated ravings.”

“I hope this won’t be a problem,” Venara said wearily. “We can use all the help we can get, and if the Qunari are extending aid…”

“It is Saarebas’ mission to be at your disposal, Inquisitor,” Arvaarad said.

“Very well. I accept your offer.” Venara nodded to Saarebas. “Bull—can you tell Josephine to see that they are given proper quarters?”

“Uh—yes—Boss.” Bull looked at her. “Just promise me you’ll read your damn reports next time, okay?”

Venara smiled flatly. “I promise.”

Bull left. Venara was surprised to see that Saarebas and Arvaarad did not follow him. Now she was alone with them, she felt completely intimidated.

“Um,” she said awkwardly.

Saarebas cocked her head in Venara’s direction, then gestured rapidly at Arvaarad.

He grunted. “Saarebas wishes to speak to you.”

“Um.” Venara swallowed. “All right. Is this about what you wanted to tell me before—?”

Saarebas nodded, then repeated her series of gestures. Arvaarad translated, his low, rumbling voice filling the lower courtyard.

“You want something, but you are blocked. Your stances cannot flow, and therefore your magic cannot flow. It either comes in bursts or does not come at all. You must let the block go. You control the flow. You are the stopper. You are the dam. Only then will your magic submit to your will, Kadanas.”

Venara shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Saarebas’ shoulders slumped. She made a gesture.

“I choose not to translate that, as it would be against my mission to insult you personally, Leader of the Inquisition,” Arvaarad said.

Venara smiled.

“Saarebas requests to demonstrate what she means.”

Venara paused. She looked hesitantly at Saarebas, wishing desperately that she could see her facial features and read the face beneath the mask. But she couldn’t.

So she nodded.

Saarebas leaped forwards in a flash of magic. It looked like a Fade Step, but it wasn’t. Her form flickered again and she reappeared several stretches behind Venara, purple energy crackling around her. Then she disappeared for a third time, only to come falling out of the sky. She smashed into the earth so hard, the ground shook. Then she turned to Venara and bowed her head.

Venara looked at her blankly. “Um…”

It had been a very showy set of moves. But Venara could feel that she had missed the point entirely.

Saarebas’ shoulders drooped. Then she straightened her back and began gesturing madly. Arvaarad grabbed her arm and shook his head, muttering in his grim voice.

“Vineraath? Arva essa-ulth.”

Saarebas pulled her arm free and continued gesturing.

“Hissera.” Arvaarad’s tone was a warning.

Saarebas stomped her foot on the ground.

“Very well.” Arvaarad turned to Venara. “Saarebas has made you an offer. As a symbol of goodwill between the Qunari and the Inquisition, she wishes to offer you instruction.” He paused. “You should feel honoured, Inquisitor. This is a rare… opportunity.”

“Not one you approve of, I gather,” Venara said, eyeing his menacing posture.

“No.” Arvaarad’s voice was harder than stone. “If I had a choice in the matter, I would imprison you and call the Viddasala to study your stray magic before destroying you utterly.”

Venara blinked. “Well,” she said. “At least your forthcoming about your desire to obliterate me. That’s refreshing.”

Arvaarad grunted. Judging from Saarebas’ shaking body language, Venara could have sworn that she was laughing.

“I will consider your offer,” Venara added. “In the meantime, you will join the ranks of our agents. Your orders will come from either Leliana or Cullen. Andaran ati’shan.”

Not knowing what else to do, she bowed to her two strange visitors, turned on her heel and left, making her way up back to the upper courtyard and the castle beyond. She felt uncommonly drained. Today had been a very long day.

As she walked, Venara felt a prickle of pain flare across her palm. She clenched her fist and kept moving.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES
Ballar’rir — Barbarians.
Andaran ati’shan—formal elven greeting. “Enter this place in peace.”

QUNLAT WORDS AND PHRASES
“Hissera! Ver-mar!”
“Hissera! Come here!”

“Serrashek hass-obeta. Kalibthren. Haveba Vassenthor dost-est.”
“You know better than to wander. I am disappointed. We cannot afford to be weak in front of the Inquisition.”

“Vatthas?”
“Is that so?”

“Ossest fama Vassend serra val? Duben arvastlok?”
“Is this the famed Inquisitor of whom your reports spoke? Why is she so inattentive?”

“Arva essun enath. Lassoth qarenth.”
“She’s a very busy woman. The south’s got a lot of problems.”

“Serravin. Osstel ari varan-ethar, Hissrad.”
“I see. You’re not helping my belief that this mission is worthwhile, Hissrad.”

“Kalthos, Arvaarad.”
“Don’t push it, Arvaarad.”

“Vineraath? Arva essa-ulth.”
“Why even bother? She knows nothing of your ways.”

“Kadanas”
Sister/brethren

Note: I’ve been into playing DA:I multiplayer with my partner lately. Saarebas is my favourite multi-player character. Even though Hissera’s personal info says she’s operating in the south without an Arvaarad “to guard her”, it seemed strange to me that the Qunari would trust a mage to go off on her own. So she has an Arvaarad here.

If you want to read more about the Qunari, http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Qunari]here’s[/url] their wiki article.

 

XVI. False Impressions​

There was something comforting about being in Josephine Montilyet’s presence. Her office was the one place in Skyhold where you were guaranteed to find light and warmth, and the fire in the hearth had very little to do with it.

“All the preparations for Val Royeaux are made, my lady,” Josephine said. “You can leave when you are ready.” She sat in her high-backed oak chair, scribbling away at documents even as she spoke. Her ability to multi-task was one of the things Venara admired about her. How she could keep track of so many things and give them each their due was, to put it mildly, impressive.

Venara was envious. She had too many things to think about these days, but all she could truly concentrate on was her mark and her growing worry about her clan. It had been weeks since Leliana had dispatched her agents and still there was no word. If only—

“Venara?”

Venara blinked. Josephine had stopped writing and was now staring at her from across the desk with a concerned look on her face.

“I’m fine, Josephine,” Venara said after a moment. “Sorry. Go on.”

Josephine put down her pen. “If I may, my lady—you do not look fine.”

“I’m just… worried, I guess.” Venara let out a breath. “It’s nothing.”

“And if you must say it, then I know it’s not nothing.” Josephine paused. “Judging from personal experience.”

Many months ago, not long after the Inquisition had first taken up residence in Skyhold, Josephine had attempted to reinstate her family’s trading status in Orlais. That in turn had led to the assassination of her messengers, thanks to a century-old contract placed on the Montilyet family by a rival. Leliana and Venara had wanted to eliminate the contract by infiltrating the House of Repose to destroy the contract, but Josephine had insisted on using less bloody, but slower, means. While she negotiated with judges and noble families to overturn the contract, she had nearly been assassinated. And, in true Josephine nature, when asked how she was doing during this ordeal, her usually response had been “It’s nothing, I am quite all right.”

So there really was no arguing with her on this front.

“All right,” Venara said, standing up from her chair and walking over to the hearth. “You got me.”

Josephine pushed back her chair and rose. She came to stand next to Venara, her golden silks rustling as she moved, glistening in the firelight. “I’m here,” she said. “As a friend. If you wish to speak of it.”

Venara stared into the flickering flames, the fingers of her marked hand clenching tight. “I’m scared,” she said after a moment. “Not of Corypheus—I can barely think of him right now. I’m scared that once we stop him—if we can stop him—there will be nothing for me to go back to. No family, no clan, no home.”

She glanced at Josephine, who had gently folded her hands together and was listening intently.

“The mark hurts,” Venara added. “It’s… doing something to me and I can’t figure out what. Not even Solas knows. Or if he does know, it something so terrible he doesn’t want to tell me.” The words had been hesitant at first, but now they were flowing out of her faster than she could consider what she was saying. “And then there are the civil war and the peace talks and Orlesians and a hundred things I don’t know, but should know. Elves are either dying or suffering in all corners of Thedas and I… I don’t know how to fix it. I can’t fix any of it. But if anyone had the power to, it would be me.” She folded her arms, gripping herself tightly. “Adamant was… easy, you know. Compared to this. Adamant was straightforward. Attack. Stop the enemy. Stop the demon army. Escape the Fade. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t difficult—” her throat tightened and she desperately tried not to think of Alistair—“but it was what it was. This. This is a mess.” She glanced at Josephine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on for so long, I shouldn’t have dumped all of this on you—”

Josephine shook her head. “You carry burdens very few people have—perhaps no one ever has. I’m your friend, Venara. I would be a poor one if I did not listen when you needed someone to.” She crossed the distance between them swiftly and hugged her. She was warm, her perfume smelling lightly of flowers and fruit. “If you ever need to talk,” Josephine added, drawing away, “I am here.”

Venara smiled. She squeezed Josephine’s hand. “Thank you.”

Josephine returned to her desk. Venara followed. As she sat back down in her chair, she registered something new, something different for the first time.

There were flowers on Josephine’s desk. Large, white wild flowers, the kind you would never be able to buy from a florist. Someone had gone to a great deal of effort to gather them.

Josephine caught Venara eyeing the flowers. “Oh… those. They are nothing.”

“Didn’t we just have a talk about how ‘nothing’ doesn’t always mean ‘nothing?’” Venara said.

Josephine blushed.

“Blackwall?” Venara added.

Josephine’s jaw dropped. “How did you—I’d never—I don’t—”

“Relax, Josie,” Venara said. “I’ve had an inkling you’ve been smitten with him for a while. I spend a great deal of time with the both of you, I’d be embarrassingly unobservant if I didn’t catch something.”

Josephine sighed. “Leliana’s corrupted you.”

“Solas said something similar the other day,” Venara said. “It seems everyone thinks my pure spirit has been disgraced.”

“Well, you were rather… naïve… when you first arrived.”

“Ah, yes.” Venara made a face. “Naïve. And remarkably angry. And jaded. I yelled at Threnn for a good ten minutes after she thought I was a servant because I’m elven.”

“I remember.”

“I still think she deserved it.”

“And I still agree.” Josephine paused. “Perhaps ‘naïve’ was the wrong choice of words. I meant uninformed about human culture.”

Venara chuckled. “Gossip is confined to human nations. The Dalish gossip just as well as anyone. You should hear my father at the Arlathvhen.”

Josephine sighed. “I believe I’m digging myself into a hole that is getting wider by the minute.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t mean to push you into verbal quicksand.” Venara grinned. “You’re blushing. Again.”

“You—you’ve made me flustered, that’s all! I blush when I’m flustered!”

“Isn’t that what friends are for?”

“Oh, you—you are incorrigible!” Josephine put her head in her hands. “When did you know?”

“About you and Blackwall making eyes at each other? The day in the rain. I’ve never seen you willing run out into the pouring rain just for the sake of a short conversation. And then you talked about the weather. Always a sure sign.”

Josephine grimaced. “Maker’s breath, I am hopeless.”

“You’re both rather hopeless,” Venara teased.

“Are you an expert on flirtation now?” Josephine said.

“When you spend your youth not particularly interested in… well… anyone, you become an observer by default,” Venara explained.

“Hm. And here I was hoping you’d say it was because you had a vast amount of experience in such matters,” Josephine said. “Solas fell for you so quickly, you could see it in the way he looked at you, even when we were at Haven.”

Venara smiled. “That… was a very unusual circumstance, let me tell you.”

“Oh, I do love a good tale of romance,” Josephine said eagerly. “Particularly if it is true.”

“Well, maybe you have your own now.”

“I—” Josephine stopped. She glanced at the flowers. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

Feeling she ought to not push her friend, Venara leaned forward and placed a hand on the desk. “I’m sorry this turned into a rather wild conversation. What were you saying about Val Royeaux?”

“Oh!” Josephine rummaged through her papers. “All preparations are made for your visit to the capital’s alienage. Hahren Theloran has agreed to meet with you, though somewhat hesitantly, I might add. I thought perhaps Commander Helaine should accompany you. She was born there and much of her family still resides within the elven quarter. I thought also that some of our elven agents could accompany you, show that you are well-respected by both the Dalish and the city elves who have joined the Inquisition—”

“No,” Venara interrupted. “That might work if I was parading down the thoroughfare to attend a high society ball, but these are elves. Not nobles. I don’t want any fanfare, I don’t want to be accompanied by an armed guard. I just want to talk to them—as myself, not as the Inquisitor.” She paused, thinking. “I do want Helaine to come with me, that is a good call. If she knows the hahren, that may make things easier.”

“Sure you do not want to go just the two of you.”

“I’ll ask Solas and Sera if they’d like to come, but that’s it,” Venara said. “This can’t be formal—I have a feeling that us riding into the alienage with Inquisition banners at our side would do more harm than good.”

Josephine nodded. “I agree.”

Venara stood. “Thank you for doing this for me, Josephine. Even with all that is going on.”

“I believe it is an important cause,” Josephine said. “If the Inquisition is to truly stand for everyone, we cannot ignore the plight of those who go ignored and unseen. For if we did… where would we be?”

***​

She found him in the rotunda, as she usually did. Solas bent over his desk, which was occupied by several large, heavy tomes. Any remaining free space was occupied by pieces of parchment (both fresh and crumpled), on which were written copious notes, and three separate mugs.

Venara reached the desk and picked up one of the mugs. It was half-filled with a dark brown tea. It was also cold. She eyed the other mugs and their contents. Also tea. Also cold.

“Bad day?” she asked, putting the first mug down.

“Not particularly,” he said, not looking up from his research.

Venara touched his hand. “Liar. You only ever drink tea when something’s wrong.” She nodded at the various mugs. “Therefore, something must be wrong.”

Solas sighed. “I am working on a theory about how to control your mark and it is proving to be quite frustrating.” He ran a hand down a page of one of the open manuscripts. “These Tevinter scholars can’t decide what they’re talking about. It’s very… tedious.”

“Don’t let Dorian hear you say that.” Venara picked up on of the books and squinted. The writing was tiny…

“I’m sure he’s well aware of my feelings,” Solas said. “He did, after all, very kindly have a friend retrieve these from Minrathous. Something that should have been impossible, I’m told, as the Magisterium keeps a close eye on all ancient texts concerning somniari—”

“What language is this?” Venara asked. She had realized that the text was not indecipherable because of its tiny print, but rather because it was in a completely foreign tongue.

“Ancient Tevene.”

Venara put the manuscript down. “Ancient Tevene. You can read Ancient Tevene.”

“With assistance—yes.”

Venara pursed her lips. “First Elven, then Qunlat and now Ancient Tevene. Is there anything you don’t speak?”

“Orlesian,” he said. “Can’t get a grasp on it, it’s too full of… frippery. And the grammar is nonsense.”

“Oh! Tais-toi! I’m studying Orlesian.”

“Excellent! Then between the two of us, we’ll have no communication issues when travelling the known world.”

Venara grimaced. “I don’t suppose you speak Ancient Dwarven, too?”

Solas snorted. “No. That would be ridiculous. Most of the accounts detailing that tongue were destroyed alongside the Dwarven Empire during the first Blight.”

“That was rhetorical question, Solas. Can’t you let me be envious in peace?”

“I can teach you, if you like,” he continued, his finger dancing across the pages. “There are several commonalities between Elven and Ancient Tevene, possibly owing to the relation between the fall of Arlathan and the formation of the Tevinter Empire—”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Venara slipped a hand around his waist. “Kiss me.”

He smiled. “That I can do.”

He pulled her close an she immediately felt the comfort, the refuge, of his embrace. His kiss was soft, gentle, and she melted into it with ease. After a moment, she broke away and rested her head against his chest.

“Come with me.”

“Anywhere.”

“Come with me to Val Royeaux.”

He grew still. She didn’t need to see his face to know he was frowning. “Why are you going to Val Royeaux?”

“To speak to the elves in the alienage,” she explained. “If I’m to have a hand in the Empress’ peace talks, I want to know what they think. I want to know how I can help them.”

Solas sighed. “It is one alienage, Venara. The views of those there cannot reflect the views of all elves across Orlais, and certainly not Thedas—”

“I know that. I still want to try.”

“I don’t think it is the best use of your time.”

Venara pulled away from him. “Why are you being defensive about this?”

He looked baffled. “I’m not.”

“You don’t want me to go.”

“I don’t think you should go,” he replied, returning to the desk. He pulled one tome closer and began to flip through it. “There’s a difference.”

Venara closed her eyes and held back a frustrated sigh. “Solas, I don’t think—”

“What I want,” he interrupted, shooting a look at her over his shoulder, “is to discover a permanent way of containing your mark before it affects you even more negatively than it already has.”

Venara touched his arm. “I won’t be gone more than a fortnight. This is important.”

“As is this. Our failure the other day is proof enough.”

“Come on,” Venara said. “Don’t put me in this position.”

“Despite your hopes,” he countered, “you will not be arriving in Val Royeaux as Venara Lavellan, you will be arriving as the Inquisitor. A human organization supported and financed by some of the very nobles who regularly ignore or outright oppress elves.”

“I’m trying to show them that the Inquisition can change things.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But what reason would they have to listen to you? The elves can wait. Your life cannot.”

“I don’t know if they can wait,” Venara said. “Whatever I can do for them will best be done at Halamshiral. The ball is less than two months away, I can’t simply think about myself all the time—”

“I can,” Solas said. “Think of you, that is.”

“Then stay and research,” Venara said. “And when I’m back, we can try something new. There are plenty of mages here, perhaps we can ask—”

“No,” he interrupted flatly. “They would not understand.”

“None of us understands,” Venara countered. “That’s part of the problem.” She paused. He was scanning pages again. She reached out and slammed all three tomes shut. “Look,” she said, grabbing his hand. “I trust you. But all I’m saying is that we’re not infallible. We can’t know everything, not even you. There are mages here from many different backgrounds. Circle, Tevinter, Dalish… Qunari. All I’m asking is that you talk to them. Sometimes the words of the living are wiser than the words of the dead.”

Solas’ back stiffened. “What did that Arvaarad say to you?”

“Nothing,” Venara replied. “Unless you count him threatening me and translating for Saarebas. She was the one who wanted to talk to me.”

Solas snorted. “Talk, huh.” He turned and leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. “What did she want to ‘talk’ about?”

“She said my magic needed to flow,” Venara said. “That I was the stopper, or… something. I didn’t understand. She offered to show me what she meant. Not teach, no necessarily, but something… different. Arvaarad was not pleased.”

“No, I suspect he wouldn’t be,” Solas said. “Magic is tightly controlled by the Qunari. I’m surprised they even sent a Saarebas to us. They must think surprisingly highly of the Inquisition.”

“I imagine that has something to do with Bull’s Ben-Hassrath reports.”

Solas grunted. “Indeed.”

“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing,” Venara said.

“The further the Qunari are from us, the better—believe me.”

And there was the unexplained vitriol.

“Solas,” Venara said, “they have a different perspective, that’s all. A different way of life. So unless there’s some personal reason I’m unaware of, why do you hate them so blindly?”

“A different perspective?! Is that what you would call binding and leashing mages? What Saarebas is—that is what you would be under the Qun!”

“It’s discomforting, I know,” Venara said. It did make her very uncomfortable. If she was any younger, she would automatically find herself despising the Qunari for that single aspect of their culture. But life was much more complicated than right and wrong, she knew that now. “I would not wish that on anyone, but—”

“Venara,” Solas said fiercely, “I have spent my life fighting—when I can, where I can-for free will and independent thought. Too many times have I seen that taken away, and when that happens, lives are destroyed by it. That is what the Qun does. It invades, and what it does not manage to convert, it destroys. So many peoples and nations see the Qunari as monstrous and their actions have done nothing to revoke that image.”

Venara took a breath. “Funny,” she said. “Because I have heard similar words fall from the mouths of humans who believe they know everything about the Dalish. They call us monsters, say we hunt shemlen for sport, kidnap and slaughter their babies. It’s not true, but they believe it. It’s what happens when an entire culture is judged on misgivings and malignant rumour.”

“I don’t judge because of what I have heard,” Solas said. “I judge because of what I have seen—”

“In the Fade?” Venara asked. “Or here?”

His eyes flashed angrily. “You know better than to ask that question. The Qunari were a mistake and the Qun was an accident that may very well see this world burn.”

“How can you say that so easily?” Venara shouted. “That’s an entire society of people you’re denouncing! And if they’re all so terrible, what of Iron Bull?”

“Indeed,” Solas said. “What of Iron Bull? He is a fine warrior and a loyal friend. His Chargers trust him without question. But he is loyal to the Qun first and foremost.”

“And the very same could be said about me,” Venara said. “That I am loyal to the Creators first, and my friends second. It is the way of faith—or did you think my vallaslin meant nothing at all, other than a rite of passage and the mark of adulthood?”

“Faith is deceptive,” Solas said. “And the source of much strife. Too many cause bloodshed self-righteously, in the name of the gods they worship.”

“And my faith?” Venara hissed. “Is it deceptive?”

“It is a faith. Therefore it must be viewed with scepticism, lest it become blind.”

Venara flushed. “What do you believe?”

“What?”

“What do you believe?” Venara repeated. “What is the elven pantheon to you?”

“Is there a point to this line of questioning?” he shot back.

“Just answer the question.”

“I believe they existed,” he said. “But I don’t believe they were gods, no.”

Venara stepped back. That hurt, more than she had expected. “Just because the Evanuris were lost, because they are silent, does not mean that they were not what we believe them to be, or that we should forget them—”

“Venara.” He was gripping the back of his chair now, knuckled turning white. “I care for you very much, but this is a subject I do not wish to discuss any further.”

“Of course you don’t,” Venara snapped. “You insulted my religion. I know we don’t share the same views, Solas, but the Evanuris are not some fascinating tale or part of ancient history to be studied and dissected by historians for whom the legends are merely something of an academic curiosity—”

“I am not asking you to abandon who you are, I merely said that all faith, all religions should be considered carefully—”

“Delltash!” Venara swore. “I am Dalish. The Creators are my gods, not yours. Why can’t you respect that?”

“I do. The Dalish have done what they can to preserve what little they know of Elvhenan—”

Venara snorted. “That’s not respect I’m hearing. That’s disdain.”

“You have walked in the memories reflected in the Fade,” Solas said. “You have seen countless things remembered there that have been forgotten by the clans. What your people, what the Dalish know, is a fractured mirror with only half the pieces salvaged. This is true, is it not? This is what you have experienced, is it not?”

“Yes,” Venara said through gritted teeth.

“Let me tell you something,” Solas said. “Those very memories you witnessed, I have seen countless times. The first time I shared what I had learned with the Keeper of a Dalish clan, he said it could not be, because I was not Dalish. The second called me a madman. The third, a fool. And so on and so on until it became irreparably obvious that the Dalish choose what they wish to believe, and what they wish to remember.”

“They didn’t know you,” Venara interjected. “They didn’t have a reason to trust what you said as truth!”

“No,” he said curtly. “They refused to believe me because I am not Dalish, and therefore I am not worthy of retaining the knowledge of Elvhenan. You are the only one who has given me that chance. One among hundreds.”

“Yes,” Venara said. “I did. But that was before you were a complete ass about it.”

She stalked from the rotunda, muttering a string of Elven curse words under her breath, trying to ignore the fact that they were curses she had gleaned during their visits to the Fade).

“I am going to Val Royeaux,” she called without looking back. “Even if you could drag yourself away from your books, I’d still say don’t bother coming.”

Venara slammed the door shut on her way out.

She could have sworn all of Skyhold had heard it.

---

I just wanted to say that I am slowing down my posting schedule due to conflicts with my playwriting schedule. I have a couple chapters saved up and I'm hoping that I can finish a good chunk of this story as a mock NaNo thing (I'm not officially participating), so updates won't stop completely, but they won't be as frequent. Posting twice a week was a bit ambitious for me, I’ve found.

Thank you so much, everyone who has taken the time to read and comment!

 

VI. Dreams and Desire

“You are yourself. How can you not see? Your self burns too brightly for you not to be.”

“The porridge is not ruined,” Cole murmured, bowing his head so that his oversized hat shaded his face even more than usual. “I don’t understand why you don’t eat it.”

I like Cole! Interesting guy!

Venara is adorably naive here, being completely blindsided by the fact that everyone is talking about her and Solas spending their nights together.

I was pleasantly surprised by the way Sera backed off and took a gentler approach when she realized how clueless Venara was. They have a great sisterly relationship.



VII. On Her Own Terms

Fun chapter! Great description of the aravel in the beginning, it really sets the scene. I like the way her fears just spill out while talking to Istimaethoriel, and Istimaethoriel's story showing the value of fear.

Solas and Venara in the lake were of course super cute! They are such a sweet couple. It was really amusing how her friends kept popping up to yell at her. And a great ending, with her finally just getting out of the water buck naked and walking away. Very nice!



Also, thanks for the tips on the game! (I have it for PS3.) I haven't started playing yet, but I will be sure to avoid the archer!

 

Tarsier -- I haven't gone into it too much here (yet), but Cole's a spirit of compassion. Makes him have some interesting insights and slightly off-beat comments (he has a hilarious line in the game about clothes where he goes, "It comes off... I didn't know it comes off.")

The end of Chapter 7 was a lot of fun, glad you liked it! Let me know how DA: Origins goes for you--I'm not sure what the controls are like on PS3 (the game is unfortunately more optimized for PC). If you're having trouble picking an origin, dwarven noble and city elf are two of my favourites (particularly dwarven noble, there's a lot of Shakespeare-level family backstabbing), though human noble is pretty far up there too.

Mira_Jade -- I wasn't sure if I wanted to tackle Solas' particular views on the Qunari in this story or not, but it is kind of an important layer of his character (if you play DA: Inquisition as a Qunari Inquisitor, he outright tells you that your people are a mistake and shouldn't exist). There are good reasons, I'm just not going to explain what they are yet.

I'm certain they will finish the argument sometime in the future, but I can't guarantee either of them will be calm about it. They're not necessarily calm people.

---

CHAPTER XVII
One of Them​

Val Royeaux.

The seat of the Orlesian Empire, the heart of the Sunburst Throne. Home to spiralling cathedrals, manicured lawns, rich palaces and sprawling markets. And everywhere, either from the stoney gaze of a larger-than-life statue or the look of the one hundredth chantry sister to walk the boulevards, was the eye of Andraste. It was here, in this city, that art, beauty, faith and politics were all blended as one.

It stank like horse dung.

Maybe it was because cities were still foreign to her. In comparison to the Orlesian capital, the towns and villages Venara had visited before were barely dots on a map. Some were so small they were almost outsized by large Dalish clans and their travelling aravels. Even so, Venara had found these simple towns to be loud and hurried, and they carried a certain smell about them. A rankness that perpetually hung in the air, refusing to go away. She had been overwhelmed the first time she had visited Redcliffe Village, with so many hollering vendors and people clustering the streets.

Nothing could have prepared her for Val Royeaux. It was bigger. It was louder. It was ranker. It made her miss the relative simplicity of Redcliffe.

Aside from the market district, the Grand Cathedral, the White Spire and the palatial mansions of the elite, there was very little open space. Venara felt like a rate scurrying its way through a rotting tree trunk or a stone divot. The buildings grew vertically until they practically eclipsed the sky. While some homes hung flower pots outside their windows, there was no natural foliage. Whatever trees grew had been planted purposefully and stripped back so their leaves made little mess come autumn. Perhaps this was why cities stank. Too many people. Too much refuse. Not enough nature. Not enough air.

Still, the city shone like a gemstone, even in its poorer districts. Leliana and Josephine swore by the city’s beauty, but Venara couldn’t see it. Marble was marble. Gold was gold. Crystal was crystal. Simply because some nobles had ascribed a high value to shiny things did not mean they were beautiful by default.

This was her third visit to the great capital and her opinion remained unchanged. Venara distinctly remembered her rising panic when she and Cassandra had passed the great Sun Gates for the first time. Upon entering the Avenue of the Sun, a passing noblewoman had seen Venara’s face. Shrieking bloody murder, she had pointed desperately at Venara’s vallaslin until she was ushered away by her companion, who shot Venara a seething look. That visit had not ended well. Aside from dealing with a suspicious public, they had been verbally accosted by Chantry sisters and nearly started a brawl with Lord Seeker Lucius.

Venara’s second visit hadn’t been much better. It had almost ended with her killing a member of the House of Repose after he refused to lift the contract on Josephine’s life.

So far, Val Royeaux heralded entanglements with either Andrastian or Orlesian sects that Venara preferred to avoid completely. Thankfully, she wasn’t headed towards any human quarters today. Today, she had another purpose.

“Your nose is doing the thing.”

Venara glanced at Sera. “What thing?”

“The crinkle thing. You do it when you get upset. Makes you look downright hawkish.”

Venara raised an eyebrow. “My nose does a crinkle thing?”

“Yeah,” Sera said. “When you’re upset. So, what’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

Ahead of them, Commander Helaine scoffed.

“C’mon,” Sera wheedled. “You brought me all this way. Might as well tell me what’s up before all the crap goes flying.”

Venara eyed her. “We’re going to the Val Royeaux alienage.”

“Oh ha ha.” Sera rolled her eyes. “I know that, dummy. You told me that before we left Skyhold and got on that big, fat ship. What else is up? And don’t say the sky,” she added hastily,” ‘cause I know your rubbish sense of humour and I know you’d go there.”

They turned a corner of the busy thoroughfare and moved onto an even busier avenue. Pedestrians, carriages and people on horseback all jostled together, fighting to push their way through the crowds. Pedestrians frequently jumped to the sides of the road as a carriage or horse plowed through, uncaring of who they hit. Venara, Sera and Helaine had left their horses purposefully at the stables near the market district. Though it would have been faster to ride (Val Royeaux took a day to cross on foot), Venara didn’t want the attention being on horseback would bring. Horses meant status, and an elf on a horse… It would have been the fastest way of alerting the entire city that the Inquisitor was in town.

Ahead of them, someone screeched and cursed as a lady two stories above dumped out the contents of a chamber pot onto the street below.

Venara made a face. “Wonderful.”

“What?” Sera said. “When I told you to tell me what’s up before the crap goes flying, I meant it literally.”

Venara rolled her eyes and pulled her cloak tighter. Her hood was up to deflect attention from her face. No use having a throng of humans staring at her vallaslin. No Dalish elf would come to Val Royeaux willingly, unless they were the Inquisitor. For a similar reason, she had left her staff behind, as had Commander Helaine. Walking the streets openly as a mage was just as dangerous.

Sera, of course, had brought both her both and had two sets of daggers hidden on her person, as well as an assortment of jars that would explode upon impact if thrown with enough force. She, too, had her hood pulled up. Though her face was shadowed, Venara could see her infectious grin.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring his Elven Elfiness on this little venture,” Sera continued as they made their way up the street.

Venara kept one eye carefully on the windows above as she walked. “Yes, well, I decided I didn’t want him to be here.”

Sera gasped. “Oooh! Trouble in paradise?”

Venara shot her a glare. “No.”

Sera blew a raspberry. “Liar. What d’you fight about?”

“If I tell you, will you drop it?”

Sera nodded eagerly.

“It was about the Qunari—”

“You mean that Saarebas lady and her Arvardwhats that just showed up?” Sera shrugged. “Wish I could see her face, pity it’s all masked up. Don’t really know much about that Qun stuff, but Bull’s all right, I suppose.”

“Solas doesn’t want them at Skyhold.”

“Well, that’s not his call, is it? It’s yours.”

“Yes, I know, but…” Venara paused. “Look, forget the Qunari. I don’t even know where to start with them.”

“If they want to help punch up Coryphephus, I’d say that’s a good thing,” Sera said simply. She glanced at Venara. “I figure you got more to say. You have the look.”

“It wasn’t about the Qunari really. He doesn’t…” Venara’s nostrils flared. “He doesn’t respect my faith. My gods. The Dalish are nothing but misguided fools to him.”

Sera snorted. “He’s Solas. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone else put together. If you’re just realizing that now—”

“Sera.”

Sera bit her lip. “Too far?”

Venara nodded.

“Sorry. I’m working on that.” Sera sighed. “Look. I don’t know how to help you. I’m not Dalish, I don’t know what you believe. Don’t get mad, but I only know Andraste. All those elven stories make no sense to me. But that’s just me.” She rubbed the back of her head. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, believe what you believe, no matter what anyone else says. Because maybe there’s one right answer and maybe it’s yours, but maybe we’ll never know. Probably never. I mean, with the Breach and Coryphenis… who knows.” She shuddered. “I’m sorry, I’m no good at this, you’re really talking to the wrong person.”

Venara smiled. “It’s fine.”

“But you want to know what I think?”

“I—”

“That’s a pretty big thing to be mad about.”

“I’m not mad, I’m—”

“You look mad to me,” Sera said. “Upset, at least. Stop interrupting! This is what I think, all right? Take it or leave it. If being Dalish-y is that important to you and he just wants to trod all over that, there are doors. And other people on the other side of those doors. Lots of doors, lots of people, yeah?” She smiled faintly. “Open one, close one. It’s up to you.”

“I don’t know, Sera,” Venara said. “Really, I don’t.”

Up ahead, Commander Helaine had stopped to wait for them, arms crossed. Beneath her white cloak, the mage wore her customary armour, a variation of the Circle’s standard high collared robes with a leather brigandine to protect her chest. Her boots were armour-plated and she wore a gauntlet on her right hand.

Helaine had once belonged to the White Spire, the home of the Circle of Magi in Val Royeaux. The elven mage had been in Fiona’s ranks when the rebel mages had joined the Inquisition. Having had extensive training in combat magic and the way of the Knight-Enchanters, Helaine had offered her services to Venara as a trainer. All Venara knew about the Knight-Enchanters had come from Helaine. Despite the hours spent together in study and in practice, Venara knew very little about Helaine. She was a difficult woman to read and she was tight-lipped about her past. Still, she had agreed to help without complaint and though she sometimes still treated Venara like a raw recruit, Venara was glad she was here.

Helaine’s face was stoney as she watched Venara and Sera approach. That wasn’t entirely unexpected.

“Do you think now is the time for tardiness and distraction?” she said bluntly. “This is not a sojourn in the park, this is Inquisition business.”

Sera made a face. She was about to snap out an insult, but Venara put a hand on her arm. “This is Inquisition business,” she agreed, “but it is unofficial. I will speak with Sera if I want to.”

“Ah, yes.” Helaine’s brown eyes focused on Sera for a moment. “The girl who has an extraordinarily excellent record of walking into precarious situations and setting them on fire. Sometimes literally.”

“Hey!”

“Why did you bring her?”

“Because,” Venara said, “as I keep saying, she’s my friend and I value her opinions.”

They continued to walk. The streets were becoming narrower, the buildings even taller. The crowds were still thick, but not because of a surplus of people but, rather, a lack of space. Venara felt her throat tighten. It was hard to breathe in such a crowd.

“How far into the city is the alienage?” she asked.

“It is far removed from the centre,” Helaine replied. “No one wishes to gaze upon the elven quarter, particularly not the nobility. This way.” She turned abruptly and led them up a narrow alley, then out onto a back street and up another alley. This one twisted several times until Venara was hopelessly lost. Without being able to see the sun, her sense of direction was shattered.

“How do you know where you’re going?” Venara asked.

“My siblings and I used to play in these streets as children,” Helaine said. “I have a long memory.”

“Good for her,” Sera muttered. “Miss Prissybritches.”

“Thank you for dong this,” Venara said, hoping Helaine hadn’t heard Sera’s comment.

“I am sworn to help you, Inquisitor,” Helaine said. “So, help you I shall. It is my duty.”

After another hour of trudging through narrow streets and back alleys, the houses turned from stone to brick to wood. They were still several stories tall, but their walls were covered in cracked and faded paint. There was little in terms of decoration, save for a few string of beads and ragged ribbons that were so old and faded, the red fabric looked pink. The streets were awash in mud and littered with refuse. Occasionally, the clang of pots or a sharp curse or a mother’s weary shout echoed out of open windows that were too deteriorated to have shutters.

The crowds, though still packed, had lost their height. The people here were mostly elves—scruffy, dirty, carrying the weight of the work day on their shoulders. The few remaining humans walked carefully through the streets, eyes alert, breath coming in nervous spurts.

Sera pushed back her hood and scratched the back of her neck. “Ooof! It’s good to be someplace normal.”

Helaine’s eyes narrowed. “Normal?”

“Yeah.”

“This place is destitute.”

“Well, it would be,” Sera said. “These are the slums.”

Helaine’s lips turned downward. “No one should have to live in poverty. Not in Val Royeaux.”

“Not everyone wants to live in a big white tower like you,” Sera shot back. She eyed Helaine. “Maybe you should have thought twice about wearing a white cloak.”

Helaine stiffened. She pulled the cloak tighter around her body—the hem was ripped and splattered with mud. “This was a gift from Madame Viv—”

Sera spun around, her nose twitching. She sniffed the air. Then her eyes lit up and she cracked her widest grin.

“PEASE!” she shouted gleefully

She was off at a run.

Venara and Helaine chased after her, nearly smashing into other people as they darted through the crowd. But Sera was fast and agile. One moment she was racing down the street, the next she was sliding under a plank of wood carried by two workers, then summersaulting in the air and vaulting down another alley.

Breathing heavily, Venara and Helaine chased her down in a large, open square. At its centre stood a very large, very old tree, its gnarly branches spreading out so far they touched the upper windows and roofs of the houses lining the square. Venara skidded to a halt, her hood flying back and her boots spraying mud. She turned around again and again, keen eyes searching for Sera—

There she was.

Sera was sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of an elderly woman with a small stand and a large pot suspended over a fire. In her hands were a small wooden bowl and spoon. She was munching down eagerly on a steaming, mushy grey-green stew.

“Sera, what—”

Sera’s eyes sparkled. “Peee-sh,” she said happily, her mouth bursting.

“What?”

Sera swallowed. “Pease. Pea soup. I haven’t had nosh this good since Denerim. Want some?” She held out her bowl and spoon.

“Uh…” Venara looked at the stew. Its colour really was distinctly unappetizing. “Sure.”

She took the bowl and shovelled a spoonful of stew into her mouth. The rich, heavy taste hit her immediately. It was fresh, flavoured with simple herbs. The texture was smooth and creamy. She took another quick bite before handing the bowl back to Sera. She didn’t want to eat it all.

“Good?” Sera asked.

Venara nodded. “Really good.” She glanced at Helaine. “Do you want some?”

Helaine shook her head. “No, thank you. I had enough as a child.”

Venara shrugged. She approached the elderly woman, smiling. “How much is it? I would love a bowl—”

The woman gasped. She dropped her spoon into her pot. “Oh, sweet Maker.”

“What is it?”

“Sweet Maker, you’re—you’re—”

Oh no.

The woman turned and fled into the house behind her. Before the door shut, Venara heard her shout, “Find Hahren Theloran!”

Stunned, Venara looked back at Helaine, only to find herself not only looking at Helaine, but at a throng of elves behind her. Whispers and murmurs fluttered between them and they stared at her with wide eyes.

“A Dalish.”

“But what’s she doing here?”

“Why has she come? What does she want?”

“She means trouble.”

“We should get rid of her, before the city guard comes—”

Venara felt distinctly like she had been put on display and she keenly felt the marks of her vallaslin.

Behind her, Sera continued to slurp down pea soup.

“Um,” Venara said. “Andaran atish’an. I’m here to speak to your Keeper—I mean, your hahren. Hahren Theloran—”

“You shouldn’t be here, sister,” a young man said, stepping forwards. “Whatever your intentions. Go back to your forests, the city’s no place for you.”

“You should show more respect, Adarin,” a voice said. “That is no mere Dalish to whom you speak. You address Inquisitor Lavellan herself.”

The crowd parted, rippling with a flurry of whispers. Out of it stepped a woman. She looked to be in her mid-forties. Her face was lined, her braided black hair threaded with grey, and she walked with an assuredness that only came with the experience of leadership. She was stocky and muscular, and her clothes, though well-worn and patched, were sturdy and well cared for.

“I am Theloran,” she said. “I’ve been expecting you, Inquisitor.”

Venara bowed her head. “Thank you, hahren. I apologize for the manner of our arrival. I should have sought you out immediately, but…” She glanced at Sera, who now had a hand to her very full mouth. “We were distracted.”

“Understandable,” Theloran said. “Ania’s stews are well known for distracting the mind and filling the belly.”

Sera nodded enthusiastically, lips still pressed shut.

“Let us cut to the chase, Inquisitor,” Theloran said. “Your ambassador—er—what was her name?”

“Josephine Montilyet—”

“Ah, yes. Josephine.” Theloran paused. “She was quite insistent that I meet with you. Quite insistent. Considering that she is a noble, I thought it unwise to refuse her.”

“She insisted because I asked her to reach out to you,” Venara said. “Did she offend in any way?”

“No,” Theloran replied. “But I do wonder why you did not contact us yourself.”

Venara’s gut twisted. “Josephine has a much more diplomatic hand than I. I thought—”

“I’m sure you thought what was best, Inquisitor,” Theloran said. “Do the Dalish now communicate through the hands of human ambassadors? Do they make deals with nobles who force elves into servitude?”

“What are you talking about?” Venara interrupted. “I haven’t made any deals.”

“But your Inquisition has,” Theloran countered.

“I am not the Inquisition.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Inquisitor.”

“Listen to me,” Venara said, trying to keep desperation from tinging her voice. “All I want to do is talk. All I came here for was to know the elves who make Orlais their home.”

The young man who had interrupted her before guffawed. “Would you look at that?” he said. “The mighty Inquisitor, practically begging us. What do you want, wench? We know you’re nothing more than the nobles’ plaything—”

“Shut it, you!” Sera shouted angrily. She had put down her bowl and now stood beside Venara, a very ugly look on her face. “Don’t you get it? Venara can help you lot. She doesn’t have her head buried in some noble’s rear, she looks after the little people, I can promise you that—”

“And what would you know about it?” Adarin snapped. “You’re not Orlesian.”

“Yeah, well, Denerim’s alienage wasn’t a pretty penny, either,” Sera hissed.

“I don’t know Denerim and I don’t care,” Adarin said harshly. “We have our own problems—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sera said. “Life’s a bit crap for elves everywhere, that’s kind of the point. The Inquisition’s different, I can promise you that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have stuck around.”

“Nor would have I,” Helaine added. “As a mage and an elf, many see me as double the threat. But the Inquisition has become my home, where I can be as I am, and that is thanks to Inquisitor Lavellan.”

“A mage?” Adarin snorted. “You have to be joking.”

“I am not, young man,” Helaine said coldly. “I was once of this alienage. I remember well what lives you lead—”

“You may have once,” a woman said, pushing her way forward. She was tall for an elf. Ash and dirt smudged her face and the faded scarf that covered her abundance of red hair. “But you have forgotten. Those with magic are taken from us. Our children, who we can never see again. They never return here, unless it is to do the bidding of one noble or another. You’re more human than elf.”

Helaine paled. “That is not the way of the Circle.”

“Look at yourself!” the woman shouted. “Bejewelled and dressed in white—white—no one would ever dare. Maybe being a mage has made you hated by some, but it’s granted you privileges we can only dream of.”

Helaine looked like she had had the wind knocked out of her.

The crowd’s murmurings were beginning to grow, and they were angry.

“You should go,” Adarin said. “Before you and your noble-loving friends—”

“Hey!” Sera yelled, offended.

“—make even greater fools of yourselves than you already have.” Adarin paused and gestured out at the crowd. “You don’t know us. You don’t know any of us—”

The crowd roared.

Theloran reached out and grasped him by the shoulder. “Peace, Adarin,” she said. She looked out at the crowd. “Peace!”

The throng of elves fell silent. Adarin’s eyes flashed, but he remained quiet.

“What I want,” Venara said, “is to fulfill a promise I made when they made me Inquisitor. I said that an elf would stand for Thedas. I have stood for Thedas, but I have not done enough to stand for my own people. This is the first step towards changing that. I can help you. In this time of crisis, the Inquisition is who the nations of the world turn to. I have the power to persuade those on the throne to re-consider their stances on the treatment of elves.”

Silence overcame the square. Then, after a moment, it was shattered by howling laughter.

“You’re daft, lady,” Adarin said between spurts of laughter. “Daft! When are they ever going to listen to the likes of you? Have you taken a look at yourself recently? You still have pointed ears and tattoos all over your face. They’ll pretend to listen, but they’ll never take you seriously.”

Venara felt a hand on her arm.

“You should show him the glow,” Sera muttered. “People like him… he’ll never change his mind unless he sees something he don’t expect.”

“No, Sera.”

“Venara!”

Venara clenched her fist. The mark would not be used today. “No.”

“But—”

Venara ignored Sera and pushed her way towards Adarin. He wasn’t as young as she had first thought, perhaps around her own age. He stood a hand span taller than her, his face weathered by hard work and poor nutrition. Behind his anger, there was a cold, calculating intelligence. He may speak in anger, but he did not do so without thinking about it first.

“They don’t own me,” Venara said. “As they don’t own you. I can’t help unless you tell me how.”

“Fine, then,” Adarin retorted. “Here’s what you can do—if you’re so desperate to prove what a great elf you are, Inquisitor. Go back to Skyhold. Send out assassins. And wait until you hear the cries of every noble family echo back to your precious keep.”

Venara crossed her arms. “Excellent plan.”

“You like it?”

“Mhm—throwing Orlais into chaos. Very clever.”

“Surprised no one else has thought of it.”

“Are you working for Corypheus, by any chance? Because he has definitely considered it.”

“Wait—what?” Adarin spluttered. “The Elder One they keep talking about? The one who punched a hole in the sky?”

“Yes,” Venara said. “That one.”

“Maker’s breath, Inquisitor, that’s not what I meant at all!”

“That’s certainly what you implied,” Venara said. “Corypheus wants chaos. I’m trying to stop that.”

“No—I—” Adarin’s jaw clenched. He spun around. “Look at that!” he shouted at the crowd. “She’s turning my words around on me already. Looks like she’s learned well from her noble masters.”

Venara’s gut twisted and her expression fell. She had thought she was getting through to him. “How many times do I have to say, I am not some mindless puppet ruled by my advisors—”

“Then why is the Inquisition aligning itself with Orlesian politics?” a woman demanded. “Many of us serve in the households of nobles, or hear the gossip in the market. The Empress is holding a ball. At Halamshiral. And the Inquisition is to attend.”

“The Empress is holding peace talks,” Venara corrected. “To end the civil war. Her conflict with Duke Gaspard must come to an end, or Orlais will fall—”

“Don’t show your ignorance, Inquisitor,” the woman said. “Why should we care? One ruler is much the same as another. Celene cares not. Gaspard cares not.”

“To Gaspard, we are more akin to animals than people,” Adarin snarled. “To Celene, we are vermin to be exterminated. Or do recent events at Halamshiral say otherwise?”

Once again, Venara felt that she had waded into the sea thinking she could swim, only to find herself drowning instead.

“What events at Halamshiral?” she asked.

“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Theloran said. Her eyes were cold. “Some months before the destruction of the Divine Conclave, our brethren in Halamshiral rebelled after an elf was killed thoughtlessly by a noble lord. As we understand it, the Empress set fire to the slums to end the rebellion. You can imagine the result.”

Venara held Theloran’s gaze. “I can.”

“Then you can also imagine why we have little faith and little trust in a primarily human organization who dallies with the Orlesian nobility,” Theloran continued. She looked at Helaine. “Aristocrats who steal our children away and twist their memories of home.” She glanced at Adarin, whose expression had curled into something distorted by anger. “Men and women who kill without thought, who would rather see us burn than anger their supporters.” She turned to Venara. “I do not doubt your personal intent, Inquisitor, but rather your organization’s,” she continued. “Perhaps if you were someone else, or perhaps if you were simply a woman named Venara and nothing else, we would think differently of you. But as it is, I must ask you to leave, Inquisitor.”

Venara’s throat felt dry. “Very well, hahren. Thank you—”

“What is happening here?!”

The voice echoed across the square, followed by the sound of thundering footsteps. A band of a dozen guardsmen and women rode into the square upon grey horses, the sun glinting off their highly polished armour. The woman in the lead—perhaps she was the captain, judging from the sharp lines of her authoritative face—nudged her mount forward into the crowd. Elves scattered in all directions to avoid being trampled.

“What is the meaning of this, Theloran?” the captain roared.

“It’s nothing, Lady Mireille.” Theloran did not bow. “A gathering.”

“A… gathering? It looks like something else completely.”

“I’m not sure what,” Theloran countered. “It is not uncommon for many of our people to gather under the vhenadahl.”

“During weddings or funerals or festivals, Theloran. This looks like none of these.”

“With all due respect, sir, perhaps you aren’t looking hard enough. As I understand it, our customs are a little difficult for humans to understand.”

In one smooth movement, Mireille dismounted and backhanded Theloran with a gauntleted hand. She flew backwards, her legs cracking as she collapsed on the ground, her cheek torn and bloody. Adarin screamed her name and rushed to her side.

Mireille towered over them, eyes blazing. “Don’t sass me, crone,” she hissed.

Theloran’s chest went up and down, but she didn’t respond. Adarin held her tight and glared up at the captain, face red and eyes blazing. “If she dies, I’ll kill you,” he spat.

Mireille observed him coldly. “I’ll let that one pass as you’re still young and hotheaded,” he said. “But in the future, I would mind your manners if I were you.” She looked at the gathered crowd. “Clear off, you lot! Now!”

The elves didn’t move.

Mireille sighed. She drew her sword and the guards under her command followed suit. “I didn’t want it to come to this,” she said. “The Empress will be most displeased when she hears, but we cannot risk another uprising—”

“HEY!”

Mireille nearly dropped her sword in surprise at the force of Venara’s shout. She turned and saw Venara standing by Theloran, who was still cradled in Adarin’s arms. Though unarmed, Venara had shifted into what was easily recognizable as a battle stance.

“Get out,” Venara hissed. She could feel the pain building up in her hand—the mark, enflamed by her emotions, wanted to burst to life.

Mireille snorted. “What’s this? A Dalish elf, of all things. Come to beg your brethren to abandon civilization and join you in the hills?”

“No,” Venara said. “I’m Inquisitor Lavellan. These people are under my protection. Leave. Now.”

Mireille stared at her in shock. Whatever she thought her reply would be, it seemed she did not expect that.

But a moment later, she had gathered himself. Her lip curled and she sneered at her. “Liar,” she said. “It’s not unexpected. Any elf who thinks they can get away with inciting unrest would claim that they are the Inquisitor—”

Theloran coughed. Her eyelids fluttered. “Don’t show your ignorance, Mireille,” she said hoarsely. “You look like an idiot. Take a good look and say again that this woman is not the Inquisitor.”

Mireille glanced at Venara. Her eyes narrowed. “I’ve seen her portrait—”

I have a portrait now? Venara thought.

“—and that woman is not the Inquisitor.” Mireille raised her chin and yelled at her men, gesturing with a gauntleted hand. “Clear them out! Clear all of them out!”

“CAPTAIN!” Venara bellowed. She raised her hand, unclenching her fingers and letting the green glow cascade out. She prayed that it would not flare any more than it already did. Not when she was uncertain if she could perfectly control the rifts she created anymore. “Tell me again that I am not who I say I am!”

Mireille’ eyes bulged. Her jaw dropped. “An apostate!” she screamed. “Call the templars – CALL THE BLOODY TEMPLARS!”

“Sir, there are no templars left in Val Royeaux!” a guardswoman shouted. “They’ve all—”

“Then take the apostate down! Maker take you! Take them ALL down!”

Mireille turned on Venara, eyes wild, and her sword crashed down upon her. She dove to the side and he missed by inches. She rolled ad came up in a crouch, summoning her spirit blade. This time, she was ready for him. She caught Mireille’ sword and grit her teeth as she used her forward motion to throw the towering woman off of her. Mireille’ face turned ashen as she realized Venara’s weapon was made of pure magic. Venara quickly pushed her backwards and knocked her blade out of a grip loosened by shock.

Beyond Mireille, the square had turned to chaos. Elves pushed and shoved each other as they fled, trying to escape the guards’ punishing swords. One woman—the woman with the red hair—fell in a spray of blood after she was pushed into a guard’s path. Across the square, Adarin was pulling Theloran back towards the line of tenements, but they were nearly trampled. Helaine threw herself into the brawl, flitting this way and that with magic and she tried to protect the mass of fleeing elves.

“Sera!” Venara shouted. “Give them cover!”

Sera grabbed a flask from her belt and tossed it in the air. Moments later, it came crashing down and shattered on the ground. Smoke blasted out of it, blinding two guards, who cried out in a panic at the loss of their sight. Sera flipped into the cloud, daggers flashing. Several moments later, she flipped out of it again, spattered with blood. The cloud dispersed and the guards lay dead in pools of their own blood. Sera spun, searching for her next target—

Venara screamed. Something had grabbed her by the hair and yanked her backwards. She fell, caught off-balance, and tumbled onto the ground. Mireille’ armoured weight hit her like a ton of bricks as one of her knees pressed into her stomach. Her gauntleted hands seized Venara by the throat and squeezed. She coughed even as she tried to suck in breath, and tried to push her off, but she was too heavy. She thrashed and kicked, one hand trying to pull Mireille’ hands away, the other jutting upwards to perform a spell. Mireille grabbed her wrist and slammed it into the ground.

“No today, witch,” Mireille growled.

Venara thrashed. Her free hand shot up and released a blast of ice directly into Mireille’ face. In a normal battle, it would not have been strong enough to do much damage without her staff as a focus, but at this immediate range, that was another story. Mireille howled in pain and released Venara. She clutched at her face, swaying this way and that. No doubt her face felt like it had been exposed to severe frostbite.

Venara sprung to her feet. Across the square, Helaine had warded as many groups of elves as she could and she was proving to be a tremendous force in pushing away guards. However, even as she kept three guards at bay with her spirit blade, another rushed towards her, sword drawn. Suddenly, the man pitched forward, his momentum rolling him across the ground. An arrow stuck out of his back. Sera hung in the great tree, the vhenadahl, and was covering the elves’ escape from above.

But she had not escaped notice. Three remaining guards had spotted her and had chosen to flush her out with arrows of their own.

Sera danced along the branches of the tree.

“Nah, nah, you can’t get me—!”

Thwump.

Sera withdrew as an arrow sailed past her face.

“All right, that DOES IT!”

She ran along a thick branch until she was directly above the guards and dropped a flask on them. This one exploded and unleashed a hellish buzzing noise. The guards batted at their faces and ran, screeching, towards their horses. The bees followed them all the way out of the square.

Sera laughed and dropped down from the tree. Venara rushed to her.

“How many are left?”

“I dunno—six, maybe.” Sera grinned. “They have awful bad training, yeah?”

“It doesn’t matter! We didn’t come here to pick a fight and now, thanks to us, they’re killing elves!”

“We’ll stop them.”

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Venara snapped. Movement caught her eye. She spun and saw Mireille, one half of her face rubbed a bloody raw pink, limping and dragging her sword towards Theloran and Adarin, who were some feet away from the nearest tenement.

“Delltash,” Venara cursed. “I thought she was done—ADARIN! MOVE!”

In the chaos of the square, Adarin did not hear her. Venara let out a hiss of breath. Her form flickered and she reappeared next to Adarin and Theloran, staring into Mireille’ angry eyes.

Venara drew her hands back, blue light glowing between her palms, and pushed. Ice crackled as it shot out from her hands and blasted Mireille backwards. The captain rolled over, her armour clamouring as she turned over and over and over in the mud. Venara marched towards her, her fingers glowing blue again. She bent and seized the woman by the scruff of her neck, dragging her forwards.

“Take what men you have left,” Venara said, “and get out. Leave the elves of this alienage alone.”

Mireille spat in her face. “Apostate.”

“Inquisitor.”

“Apostate.”

Venara hit her across the face. Mireille spat blood. Her lip was torn.

“Going to kill me, witch?” she snarled.

“No,” Venara said. “But I’m going to have a very long talk with that Empress of yours. Just tell me one thing—”

Mireille spat more blood at her.

“How does someone as incompetent as you become a captain?”

Mireille sneered at her. Then the sneer turned into a frown, and the frown gave way to shock and panic. Tendrils of green light were escaping Venara’s hand, twisting and turning around Mireille. The captain’s jaw dropped, but before she could utter a cry, the air ripped open above her. Green magic spun towards her and, against her will, she began to fly upwards towards the rift.

“No!”

Venara grabbed Mireille by the wrists and pulled with all her strength, but the force of the rift threatened to tear the captain from her grasp. Mireille’s face ashened with horror and blind panic as she was pulled higher and higher towards the tear, green tendrils of magic twisting about her, searching, seeking, hungry…

“No—no—no!”

Venara grit her teeth even as her heart leapt into her throat. She hadn’t meant to open a rift, but it had happened of her own accord. If she couldn’t close it, it wasn’t Mireille’s life that was in danger, but the whole square.

She let loose a wild cry, redoubling her efforts to maintain a hold on the struggling captain. Hot wind blew, tearing at Venara’s face and hair, the power of the Fade beyond almost overwhelming her. Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt herself lifting up by a few inches, pulled by Mireille as the captain was drawn even closer to the rift—

Breathe.

A memory from before. She heard Solas’ voice, clear as a bell.

Venara gazed past Mireille and into the heart of the rift she had created. As she stared into its twisting, green and yellow depths, she wrenched at it with her mind. With an eerie, supernatural sound, it folded inwards on itself and disappeared.

Mireille crashed to the ground, Venara toppling down alongside her. Venara glanced at the captain—she lay prone, completely in shock. Panting heavily as she struggled to catch her breath, Venara got to her feet.

Only now was she aware of the dead silence that filled the square. The fighting had stopped. Eight bodies lay on the ground. Three were guards. Five were elven. And all faces were turned to her.

“The Inquisition will inform Empress Celene of what happened here,” Venara said. “Go back to your homes. And you, guards—” The remainder of Mireille’ band were huddled together, guarded by Sera and Helaine. “Take your captain and go. Do not come here again.”

The guards nodded and quickly ran to collect the dazed Mireille. Supporting her limp body, they carried their captain across the square and threw her unceremoniously across her horse’s saddle. Moments later, the guards were gone, disappearing down the street in a clatter of hooves.

Weary, Venara turned and walked to where Theloran and Adarin remained, crumpled on the ground.

“I’m sorry,” she said, offering a hand to help them up. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“It would have happened regardless,” Theloran said shortly. “Mireille is a bully—she never wastes a chance to abuse her power here. You must be a greater woman than I—if I had your power, I would never have let her live.”

The hahren waved away Venara’s hand and instead allowed Adarin to pull her up. She leaned heavily on him.

“You’re a dangerous woman, Inquisitor,” she said.

“So I am told.”

Theloran wiped blood from her cheek. “You should go.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Theloran said bluntly. “You should not have come here. It is not you, but us, who will suffer the consequences of this mess. And any further meddling from you will only make it worse.”

Venara nodded.

Venara, Sera and Helaine left without ceremony. They said nothing to each other, preferring the silence. As they made their way out of the slums, eyes followed them. Hundreds, maybe thousands of eyes—some on the street, some through the windows. All watching, all wondering who this woman was and what she claimed to do for them.

As Venara turned a corner, she heard footsteps running after her. To her surprise, it was Adarin. Upon reaching her, he slipped a folded piece of parchment from his shirt pocket and pressed it into her hand.

“If you really want to help.” His cold voice trailed off. He met Venara’s eyes once, then turned and ran, blending back into the crowd.

“What was that?” Sera asked.

“I honestly don’t know,” Venara replied.

“Nothing good, no doubt,” Helaine said.

Venara shook her head. She looked down and unfolded the piece of parchment. On it was scrawled a single word in a cramped hand.

Briala.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES
Andaran atish’an—Enter this place in peace. A formal elven greeting.
Vhenadahl—“Tree of the People.”

 

VIII. In the Night

I really like the wisdom in the first section - talking about the trees, and wanting to save and remember the land, even broken as it is. And Solas's lovely words:
“Love, vhenan,” he said softly. “You love this world, even with all its flaws. You care about its very soul, whereas Corypheus would see it torn apart in pursuit of his goal. You fight for a cause greater than Corypheus can imagine. Where he seeks to destroy, you seek to protect. It is much easier to set the forest aflame than it is to put it out.”

I have to admit, I'd somewhat hoped--even though I didn't really expect--that they would remain the adorable ace couple. Still, I liked the very slow build and appreciate the fade to black occurring when it did. I do wonder what secrets Solas feels he must keep from Venara at this point!

A really well-written chapter, as usual.

 

Tarsier -- I knoooow! I originally wanted them to stay as an adorable ace couple (especially because that kind of relationship is so under-represented, particularly in the Dragon Age fandom where about 90% of fics are smut, which is... frustrating?), but Venara's demisexual and it was part of her character growth and arc. I did give it a lot of thought and consideration before writing this chapter, though. Maybe another time, with another character (I am working on a play about an asexual woman navigating the dating pool, an idea which was shot down while I was in my MFA program because the premise lacked "tension" and the protagonist lacked "conflict" ).

---

CHAPTER XVIII
The Right Hand of the Law​

The woman behind the desk looked thoroughly unimpressed. Venara didn’t blame her. If this was her fifth time dealing with a headstrong loudmouth who didn’t know when to give up, she would be unimpressed as well.

It was unfortunate that, in this case, Venara just happened to be the headstrong loudmouth.

“Why can’t I petition the Empress, Valerie?” she demanded loudly. She had been to the Hall of Appointments so often in the past week that she didn’t need to double-check the name plate that sat at the edge of the secretary’s desk. “It’s been a week—”

“Empress Celene does not accept audiences on demand like some common shop keeper!” Valerie interrupted, barely sparing Venara a glance away from her sky-high pile of paperwork. “You must wait, like everyone else.”

“You don’t understand, I need to speak with her—”

Valerie snorted. Even though her eyes were shadowed behind her gold and violet-trimmed ivory half-mask, Venara could tell she was rolling her eyes.

“What could a Dalish elf have to say to her Majesty that is so important?” Valerie said. She had said the same thing every time Venara had approached her desk. “I thought your people hated the cities.”

“Oh, trust me, we do, but that’s not the point—”

“Mademoiselle,” Valerie said coldly, “you can wait your turn, just like everyone else. Due to the current civil strife, there is a three-month long waiting period for the lesser nobility and merchants. In your case, considering you are not even a citizen of the city, it could be as long as six month. Regardless, I will put forward your name and notify you when—”

“That’s not good enough!” Venara said hotly.

She had decided last week that after what had happened at the alienage, she would not, under any circumstances, pull rank and reveal her identity in the middle of a crowded civil office. But Valerie had worn her patience away—Venara was surprised that it had lasted this long.

So she leaned forward, looked Valerie dead in the eye and said, “I don’t think you realize—I am Inquisitor Lavellan and I must speak with the Empress. Immediately.”

Valerie blinked. “Of course,” she said smoothly. She returned to scratching her pen across her page. “Do you have proof? Because I cannot accept you at your word. There are at least two or three elves who somehow find themselves here each month claiming to bear the Inquisitor’s name and title.”

Venara slammed her hands down on the desk, causing Valerie to jump and spill her inkwell. Ink blossomed across her page like a pool of sticky, black blood. Valerie cursed and pulled out a kerchief to blot the ruined page, but she stiffened under Venara’s gaze.

“I am who I am,” Venara said, emphasizing each word.

Valerie eyed Venara’s hands. “Please remove your hands, mademoiselle,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “Before I call the guards.”

Venara did. She hadn’t meant to scare her. “Sorry.”

Valerie frowned. “Six months,” she said. With a shuffling of papers and a clattering of desk drawers, she had replaced her empty inkwell and buried herself in her work.

Venara let out a frustrated sigh and turned away from the desk. She looked down the long, wide hallway and spotted Sera and Helaine sitting on one of the multitudes of red-cushioned benches that were scattered throughout the entrance lobby. Helaine sat cross-legged, staring off into nothing—she was probably deep in meditation. Sera was devouring one of the frilly red cakes that had been left on the circular marble table in the centre of the lobby. Judging from the excess of crumbs around her lips and the way her stomach puffed out, she had had more than one. Or two. Possibly five.

The Hall of Appointments, like all public buildings belonging to the Orlesian government, displayed a sense of splendour and grandeur. The building, which had been carved from white marble, was roughly T-shaped, with a wide, rectangular lobby at the front attached to a long hallway. The ceilings were high and vaulted, decorated with gold filigree around the edges. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the hallway, which was carpeted with a rich red fabric. At the end of the hall was the secretary’s desk, a large heavy oak thing that seemed more like a barrier than a desk. At either side of the desk, against the walls, stood two sets of traditional Orlesian armour carrying the sigil of House Valmont. Behind the desk were a set of grand double-doors that opened upon sweeping staircases that led to the upper floors.

It was here that the people of Orlais came to request an audience with their illustrious ruler. Venara was desperate to inform the Empress of what had occurred in the alienage before she returned to Skyhold. She did not want the elves blamed for the deaths of three guards. And so, uncertain of how to proceed (neither Sera nor Helaine had advice on this matter), she had inquired in the market of how to petition the Empress and had found herself here.

Only to be blocked at every turn by Valerie, no matter how she framed it. But what had happened in the alienage was her fault and Venara wanted to resolve it however she could in person—simply sending a letter after she returned to Skyhold felt cowardly.

Venara marched back to the secretary. “What can I do to prove who I am?”

Valerie smiled sweetly at her. The kind of sweetness you would find in poisoned cookies. “Nothing,” she said lightly. “You are not dressed in Inquisition regalia, nor do you bear their sigil—”

“I am undercover!” Venara exclaimed. “I didn’t want to cause a fuss—”

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you to leave—”

“Fenedhis! There must be something I can do!”

“I don’t take bribes,” Valerie said flatly.

Venara’s eyes widened. “I wasn’t suggesting—”

“Now go.”

“Wait—”

“Go before I call the guards and have you forcibly removed!”

“I—”

“GUARDS!”

The doors behind the secretary’s desk burst open. Two guards clad in silver plate appeared and grabbed Venara by the arms. She struggled with all her might as they dragged her unceremoniously down the hall. Gasps and murmurs whirled about the lobby from the citizens of Val Royeaux as they watched the debacle. The guards had succeeded in pulling Venara down the first third of the hallway when the front doors burst open. In marched an entire platoon of men and women in brilliantly polished armour, jewel-hilted swords at the sides and vibrant plumes in their helmets. At their front was a tall woman in gold armour who carried herself with pride. From her shoulders flowed a blue cape and her face was covered by a full mask attached to her helmet.

A clouded memory from Josephine’s lengthy teachings on Orlesian culture ran through Venara’s mind. This was a chevalier. One of the highest-ranked warriors in the Empire.

“Release the Inquisitor,” the chevalier commanded. The guards did so immediately.

“Dame Mélisande!” Valerie exclaimed, leaping up from her seat. “I did not expect—”

“Sit down, Valerie, you impertinent shrew,” the chevalier snapped. “I don’t have time for idiots who waste both my time and the Inquisitor’s.”

What visible parts of Valerie’s already pale face paled even further. “The Inquisitor?” Her voice shook as she glanced at Venara. “But this woman—”

“Is Inquisitor, you harebrained idiot.”

“But she doesn’t resemble—”

“Save your mutterings, you’re embarrassing yourself,” the chevalier said. “All royal staff should be able to recognize the Inquisitor on sight, regardless of what she is wearing. I’m sure Empress Celene will hear of your little embarrassment and I can’t imagine she will be pleased.”

Valerie stammered something incomprehensible and fled behind her desk.

The chevalier turned to Venara. “I apologize for that, Inquisitor,” she said, her voice surprisingly clear despite the mask. “I do detest bureaucrats.”

Venara chuckled. “I gathered that.”

The chevalier gestured for them to walk, and so they did, flanked by her guards.

“I am Dame Mélisande Perrault,” she said. “Commander of the Guard in Val Royeaux. It is a great honour to meet you.”

“Thank you.”

Mélisande cleared her throat and continued. “I have heard a great deal of… shall we say… confusing things from one of my subordinates, Mireille Giroux.”

“…ah.”

“I wish to discuss them with you.”

Venara nodded. “Yes. As do I.” She raised a hand in Sera and Helaine’s direction. “May my companions come?”

“Yes,” Mélisande said. “But they shall remain out in the courtyard. The young one looks like she has two interruptions and three insults for every word I have to say.”

Venara didn’t have a response to that.

***​

The Hall of the City Guard was a massive stone complex ringed around a large, cobble-stoned courtyard. A grilled iron gate separated it from the Avenue of the Moon, the major thoroughfare on which it sat. Perhaps in order to denote the severity of the employment of the men and women based there, the hall had few major statues and very little colour. There was a fountain in the centre of the courtyard, in the middle of which stood a grand iron statue of a man holding a sword and shield aloft. Sera and Helaine were invited to sit there, basking in the sun, while Mélisande led Venara inside.

The chevalier took her down several twisting corridors until they reached an office. Considering how dank the rest of the complex was, Venara was surprised at how cozy the room was. A fire burned brightly in the hearth and the heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn back to let the sun in. Adorning the walls were several paintings depicting mountain landscapes, a bustling market scene and a tall, blonde woman clad in armour. A large cherrywood desk stood in the centre of the office, accompanied by two simple chairs on one side and a cushioned, high-backed chair on the other. It was in this chair that Mélisande sat.

“Sit down, Inquisitor,” she said, waving a hand. “Would you care for tea?”

“All right,” Venara said as she sat.

She watched as Mélisande reached for a silver teapot on her desk and tapped it with a gloved hand. The teapot glowed red for a moment, and then steam burst forth from the spout.

“Heat rune,” Mélisande explained. “This was a gift from the Empress.”

“That is very practical.”

“Indeed.” From a drawer, Mélisande drew a silver box and spoon. She ladled several scoops of tea leaves into the pot. “Unfortunately, no rune exists that will allow the tea to steep faster.”

Venara thought briefly of Dagna, the Inquisition’s eternally optimistic arcanist, who was far too clever at rune casting and far too eager for a challenge.

“We’ll see,” Venara said. She paused, tapping her foot against the floor. “Commander, if I may—you knew who I was immediately. Why did you recognize me when the likes of Valerie and your captain Mireille did not?”

“Because I received your official description months ago, prior to the release of your official portrait,” Mélisande said.

Venara grimaced. There was the portrait again. “Ah.”

“People like Valerie, despite their station, have only seen your official portrait,” Mélisande continued. “And they accept an artist’s interpretation as fact. Or they hear ‘Inquisitor’ and expect to see what they think Inquisitor Lavellan should look like.”

“So… not a tiny little elf with a face full of scars?” Venara ventured.

Mélisande shook her head. “I’ll show you.”

She crossed to a large cabinet and opened it, pulling out a good-sized canvas that was roughly square in shape. She carefully balanced its lower edge on the desk and held it up for Venara to see.

By the Creators…

“What is this?” Venara asked bluntly.

“It’s you.”

“Me?!” Venara almost gagged.

If she squinted, maybe the woman in the portrait could pass as a distant cousin. A very distant cousin who had had the luck to be adopted by some rich Orlesian aristocrat.

Her facial structure was more human than elven, her skin was too pale, her eyes too wide, her nose too narrow. She had too much makeup, her cheeks disappearing in a cloud of powder and rouge, her eyes swimming in kohl and pink shadow. She was wearing a dress in a classic Orlesian cut, meaning that it had too many frills, far too much velvet and lace, and a frighteningly generous amount of cleavage. Her hair—which had forgotten its natural curl—was down, covering her ears so that it was impossible to tell she was an elf.

Her scars were gone. No trace of her trials or battles marked her face.

And worst of all—so much worse than the rest of it, to the point where Venara wanted to vomit—her vallaslin had been removed.

“Fen’Harel ma halam!” she cursed.

“That bad?” Mélisande said. “I do say he missed the mark on capturing your—er—vibrant personality, but the rest of it could pass as an extremely idealized version—”

“Nuva ma laias Mythal’enaste,” Venara hissed. “Ehn maslahnem dunathera?!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who painted that?” Venara repeated.

“A fellow by the name of Comte Bordelon,” Mélisande said. “He—I take it you know him?”

Venara was glowering. “Yes. Little pig-headed man requested an audience at Skyhold with his dear aunt, the Marquise de Marchande.”

Mélisande nodded. “I’m familiar with her.”

“Then you can imagine how well that went.”

“Indeed.” Mélisande sighed and set the offending portrait down. “I hear he crafted this little gem to accompany a book he is writing to record the exploits of the Inquisition from an Orlesian perspective. He was very enthusiastic about it—he painted sixty of these and apparently is working on more. Or so I hear.”

“Sixty?!” Venara almost choked. “I’ll kill him.”

“Inquisitor,” Mélisande said, “I must insist that your refrain from making death threats towards the nobility in my presence. It would be very embarrassing if I had to arrest you.”

Venara fumed.

Mélisande laughed and removed the portrait, setting it down in a corner of the room. Returning to the desk, she set a hand on the tea pot’s handle. “Tea?”

Venara nodded.

Mélisande reached for two silver cups and gently poured the tea. “I’m afraid I don’t have sugar or milk. As I prefer my tea black, I am often without them. The only guests to frequent this office are the rookies who thought they could bend the rules and the occasional senior officer who thought they could act without my permission.” She pushed a full cup towards Venara. “Drink.”

Mélisande truly was a woman used to issuing commands.

Venara drank. The flavour was strong and vaguely hinted at citrus. Solas would hate it.

Her gut twisted at the thought, but she tried to ignore it and instead wondered how Mélisande planned to drink tea while wearing a full mask.

“I must admit,” Mélisande said as she reached up and pressed her fingers into the jawline of her mask, “I have long desired to meet you, Inquisitor—but I never thought it would be like this.” With a sudden click, Mélisande dislodged the lower half of her mask and gently placed it on her desk. Her mouth, chin and jaw were now visible but told Venara nothing about her other than she had a very pale complexion and thin lips. She took a sip of tea. “I admire any woman who finds herself in the position to command.”

“Oh.” Venara drank more tea.

“You are confused by my statement!” Mélisande laughed.

“Not really. I’m just uncertain as to what you mean by admiring women who command.”

“Hm.” Mélisande set down her tea cup. “Orlais has not always been friendly to the idea of women in command. Though today we have an Empress, some centuries ago it would have been unheard of.”

“But isn’t your prophet a woman?” Venara interjected. “Isn’t the leader of your religion is a woman?”

“Yes, that is true,” Mélisande said. “Andraste was a woman, and the Divine must always be a woman—unless you are in Tevinter.” The disgust in her voice was nearly tangible. “But the state is not the chantry, and the chantry is not the state, and I am sure you did not come here to talk about religion. Unless you are perhaps thinking of converting to follow the Chant of Light, no?”

Venara’s eyes narrowed.

Mélisande chuckled. “I thought not. You do not have to tell me how vocal you have been on your position as the Herald of Andraste.”

“I don’t speak for her, nor did she save me at the Divine Conclave.”

“I would keep that to yourself, if I were you,” Mélisande said. “But, as I said, we were not speaking of faith, we were speaking of women in command. I am a chevalier, and had I lived two hundred years ago, it would have been impossible for me to obtain the position I hold. Aveline, Knight of Orlais, changed that.”

Something about Mélisande’s demeanour told Venara that the commander would not be satisfied until she finished her explanation. “What happened?” Venara prompted.

“During a tourney, she was killed in a cowardly manner by the man too ashamed to be bested by a woman,” Mélisande said. “Emperor Freyan knighted her posthumously.”

“Ah.”

Venara would never understand the importance humans—particularly Orlesians—placed on gender and the roles tradition ascribed to them. For the Dalish, any one could be a master, a craftsman or a hunter. The only thing that impeded them was skill and talent. And of course, only one gifted with magic could be a Keeper.

“Though Aveline lived and died some two hundred years ago, certain attitudes linger on,” Mélisande continued. She shook her head. “How foreign the customs of Orlais must seem to you, no?”

“I’m learning,” Venara said, smiling faintly.

“Indeed,” Mélisande said. “Which is why I wonder why, after that affair in the alienage, you went all the way to the Hall of Appointments instead of coming to me directly.” Her toe had turned from friendly to flat in a matter of seconds.

“I needed to see the Empress,” Venara said. “I was told that was the way to seek an audience with her—”

“For commoners!” Mélisande snapped. “For peasants, for migrants, for the elven. None of which you are—”

“Really?” Venara hissed, tugging on an ear.

“You have a status no elf has ever obtained,” Mélisande said coolly. “In the eyes of Orlesian law, you are not an elf.”

“Seems to be a lot of people thinking that these days,” Venara muttered. She glanced at the portrait in the corner and wanted to set it on fire.

“Someone like Valerie was never meant to deal with the likes of you,” Mélisande continued. “How was she supposed to know who you are? Now she will suffer more than her own embarrassment for her mistake. What you did was done in flagrant ignorance and disregard of the Orlesian way, of Val Royeaux herself! I cannot believe Josephine Montilyet and Cassandra Pentaghast let you out of their sight to come here without an escort to ensure you behaved accordingly—”

“I was never supposed to come here!” Venara shouted, suddenly on her feet. “I was here on a personal matter, to speak to the elves in the alienage—”

“And do what?” Mélisande interrupted. “Incite rebellion?”

“No, I—”

“You should know by now, Inquisitor, that for a woman at the head of an organization as large as ours, there is no such thing a ‘personal.’” Mélisande leaned back in her chair and folded her arms. “Now, why did the Inquisition send you to the alienage at a time when the relations between humans and elves are worsening day by day? Why are three of my men dead?”

“Why don’t you ask Mireille?” Venara snapped.

“Because you, unlike Mireille, are coherent,” Mélisande replied. “Why don’t you sit down? Have more tea.”

She poured Venara another cup. Venara sat and downed it in one gulp. She set the cup back down a little more forcefully than she intended.

“Despite what you think,” Venara said, “I am an elf, no matter my station. I’m assuming that mask of yours doesn’t block your vision, so you can see my vallaslin. You know I’m Dalish. I grew up in a clan faced with strained relations between elves and humans. My Keeper was insistent that she could evoke change, even going so far as to strike a trade agreement with the Duke of Wycome. But that didn’t stop us from being turned away whenever we got a little too close to a human settlement. I thought it was only the Dalish who made humans wary, but I’ve learned since that it is all elves who make humans wary. What occurs in alienages is just as horrific as being chased away by axe and sword. I came to your alienage because I wanted to speak with the elves who lived there. I wanted to know how I could help them.”

“By causing a riot against the city guard?” Mélisande said.

“Mireille threw the first blow, not me!” Venara exclaimed. “She struck Hahren Theloran.”

“I see.”

“I stopped her and told her to go,” Venara continued. “I told her who I was and she didn’t believe me. Then—” She stopped.

Mélisande drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk. “Then what, Inquisitor?”

Venara pursed her lips. “She saw I was a mage. Called me ‘apostate.’ And… attacked.”

“You fought her?”

“Yes.”

“And my men?”

Venara sighed heavily. “My companions slew them. At my orders, in defense of the elves fleeing the square.”

“And, tell me,” Mélisande said, her voice surprisingly silky, “why is it that Mireille is in such a state of shock? She has not been able to speak, nor has she been able to feed herself, nor care for herself. Incapacitated as she is, she can no longer act as a captain.”

“What?!”

Venara felt her stomach drop. This was new. This was… bad. Horrific, even. She tried not to glance at her clenched fist resting in her lap.

“What happened to her?” she asked quietly.

“Isn’t that what we are establishing right now?” Mélisande’s hand continued to tap. “What happened to Mireille, Inquisitor?”

Venara hesitated.

“I won’t ask again.”

“She got caught in a blast of magic,” Venara said carefully. “I grabbed her and pulled her out. If I hadn’t, she wouldn’t have merely died, she would have disappeared entirely.”

“I see.” Piercing grey eyes glared out from behind Mélisande’s mask. “Did you cast this ‘blast of magic?’”

“Yes.”

Mélisande paused. “Why?”

“Your guards were killing elves,” Venara said. “There will be five funerals this week. Five.”

“And three for my men, because of you,” Mélisande said coldly. “To be frank, I am incensed at this loss of life. This riot, brawl-whatever you wish to call it—should never have happened.”

“I agree.”

“This is on you, Inquisitor,” Mélisande said.

“I—”

“Don’t interrupt!” she snapped. “Your arrival incited feelings of malcontent in the city’s elven quarter. That malcontent brought the attention of the city guard can caused Mireille to act as she was trained—”

“She attacked us!” Venara yelled. “Simply because there were elves gathered under the vhenadahl! And she attacked me—do you really not expect me to defend myself?”

Mélisande pushed the tea pot towards her. “Have more tea.”

“Fenedhis! I don’t want any of your disgusting tea!”

“Then stay seated and stay silent!” Mélisande slammed her hands onto the desk and leaned across it, her masked face inches away from Venara’s. “I will not hide the fact that I dislike you, Inquisitor,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “You are foolhardy and reckless, as evidenced by your decision to support the rebel mages and offer them asylum when they ought to have returned to their Circles. And now…” Mélisande was breathing heavily. “And now you bring uncontainable magic into my city and you all but outright show visible support for riots and uprisings. Your disdain for Orlesian rule is as clear on your face as those tattoos you bear. For a woman as entrenched in international politics as you… your stupidity knows no bounds.”

Venara held her gaze.

“I wanted to meet you so I could know what kind of woman you were,” Mélisande said. “And now I know. You are an idiot. You lack finesse, you lack knowledge, you lack the ability to understand a city like Val Royeaux and yet you have the audacity to bring strife into her heart. And that cannot stand.”

“I was merely defending innocent people!”

“This is not about elves and humans,” Mélisande said. “Val Royeaux is not Denerim, Orlais is not Fereldan, or Tevinter, thank the Maker. Elves are not persecuted for being elves. They are not slaves. They can study at the University. They can serve the royal family. They can serve in the highest echelons if they so desire because Empress Celene has made it so. For reasons of their own, they live in squalor and poverty, and like in all cities from Fereldan to the Anderfels, squalor and poverty attract trouble. I am sure you have heard of the likes of Red Jenny? Common folk and the peasantry can be just as much trouble—even more—than the elves. And trouble is what I am here to prevent.”

Mélisande rose from her chair, towering over Venara. Venara wanted to rise as well, but she had a feeling that would be a bad idea.

“If she recovers, Mireille will be disciplined for her actions,” Mélisande said. “She attacked the Inquisitor. Out of ignorance, perhaps, but she is not the likes of Valerie. All my captains have been trained to recognize you and she did not—or refused to.”

“And if she doesn’t recover?”

“Then that is her punishment for putting action before thought, for letting fear, rather than reason, guide her hand.” Mélisande’s voice was so matter-of-fact, it was almost emotionless. Her eyes hardened. “As for you, Inquisitor, you are hereby banned from Val Royeaux.”

“Excuse me?”

“You killed my men,” Mélisande said coldly. “Furthermore, you let magic loose in Val Royeaux at a time when most of the Templar Order has abandoned us and the city is ill-equipped to deal with magic. You severely harmed one of my captains with said magic and it is unknown if she will recover from her trauma.”

Venara stood. “This is ridiculous, I told you what happened—”

“You may enter the city for formal functions where you have been issued an invitation,” Mélisande continued. “And at such times you must be escorted by whatever templars the Inquisition has in its ranks—”

“You can’t keep me from Val Royeaux!”

“I can and I will—”

“You have no authority over me—”

“I will bring this matter before the Empress if I must—”

“Good, can I come with you? I’ve been dying to see her—”

BAM.

The door flew open.

“See?” Sera’s voice said. “I told you she’d be easy to find if you just followed the yelling!”

Venara and Mélisande turned and saw—to their great surprise—Vivienne and Cullen entering the office, flanked by Sera and Helaine.

“What are you doing here?” Venara asked bluntly.

“My dear, that’s the question we ought to be asking you,” Vivienne said. She strode into the office, one hand on her hip as she glanced around, her white and silver skirts sweeping the floor. She wore a silver and crystal-encrusted half-mask. “Mélisande, darling,” she added, “I see you still do have the most bizarre taste in art.”

The lower half of Mélisande’s face flushed red. “Thank you, Madame Vivienne. Do you like the Séverin?” She gestured at the portrait of the woman in armour.

“It’s charming,” Vivienne responded. “It’s good to see that your frankly bizarre obsession with Aveline, Knight of Orlais, has not dimmed by your appointment of commander.”

“I wasn’t aware you were such an art critic,” Mélisande said flatly.

“I do imagine there are many things of which you aren’t aware,” Vivienne countered. “Like the fact that you are not going to ban our dear Inquisitor from our marvelous city, nor are you going to breathe a word about this to Celene.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Mélisande asked, folding her arms.

“Think about it, my dear,” Vivienne said. “It’s all right to take a moment. We have the time.” She leaned against the desk and re-arranged her skirts.

“You are no longer Celene’s favourite, Vivienne,” Mélisande said. “Your absence as Court Enchanter has been noted, another works to take your place. You have no sway here—”

“Oh, darling, don’t show your ignorance, it doesn’t flatter you at all,” Vivienne said. “I haven’t’ fallen from her Majesty’s favour, she has merely granted me a leave of absence so I can go where I am needed most. And I am still the mistress of the Duke de Ghislain. I can destroy you with four little words. Would you like to hear them?”

Sera sniggered.

Mélisande was as still as a statue. “What do you want?”

Vivienne sighed. “Cullen, I believe this is your territory.”

Cullen cleared his throat and nodded. “The Inquisitor shall leave your custody with us. You will not speak of the events surrounding her visit here to anyone, nor will you write it into any report. In return, the Inquisitor will only visit Val Royeaux in the accompaniment of Seeker Pentaghast or myself, and Vivienne will promise not to destroy your career with her four little words. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” Mélisande said coldly.

“Then a good day to you, Dame Mélisande,” Vivienne said.

She led the way out of the office, followed by Sera and Helaine. Venara glanced at Cullen and walked with him to the door.

“Wait.”

“Inquisitor—”

Venara ignored him and rushed back into the office. She walked quickly by Mélisande, snatched her portrait from the corner where it had been discarded, and returned to the door, holding it aloft.

“I’m taking this monstrosity!” she announced loudly and marched out. The Commander of the Guard’s door slammed shut behind her.

“You have a terrible sense of drama,” Sera said. “You know that, right?”

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES

Fen’Harel ma halam!—Dread Wolf end you!
Nuva ma laias Mythal’enaste—May you fall from Mythal’s favour.
Ehn maslahnem dunathera?!—Who painted that monstrosity?!

 

Mira_Jade -- Oooh yeah. Dragon Age really hits a lot of boxes when it comes to fantasy racism... The discrimination against elves (who, according to the game developers, are inspired by First Nations, Jewish and Romani communities) is pretty strong in Orlais. Mireille was a piece of work, but she was a lot of fun to write (I originally had her as a man, but then changed her to a woman since I wanted to see how things changed). I originally had her die, too, but felt it was more compelling to have Venara try to save her.

Yeah. The thing about Melisande is that she can't quite see any perspective other than her own.

Thank you for reading, as always!

I'm late getting this up, but here we go.

---

CHAPTER XIX
A Matter of Trust​

Cullen escorted them directly to the Inquisition ship on which they would cross the Waking Sea and return to Skyhold. As the crew prepared for departure, Venara marched to her cabin and locked herself inside. She had little desire to see anyone when she was this angry, not even Sera. Besides, both Vivienne and Cullen looked like they had prepared monologues to deliver to her, no doubt highlighting all of her faults and all of her mistakes. She knew she would have to brave them eventually, but… not now.

Not after Mélisande.

So she lay down on the narrow cot that served as her bed and closed her eyes, listening to the shouts and curses that accompanied the crew as they set sail. Even as the ship pulled out of the harbour and into Val Royeaux’s sheltered bay, Venara could feel every lap of water, every wave. She rolled over onto her side, but caught sight of the portrait, which she had thrown, right-side down, in a corner of her cabin. She should have lit it on fire before boarding the ship… It was too late now. Feeling ill, Venara rolled over to her other side so she faced the wall, one hand placed gingerly on her stomach. She loved water, but hated sea travel. No matter how hard she tried to overcome the nausea, it never seemed to leave her alone—particularly at the start of a journey.

Or maybe her nausea, in this moment, had a completely different source.

Venara was keenly aware of how badly she had messed up. A simple visit had deteriorated into a deadly fight, and her attempt to fix it had rebounded upon her. She had brought the disapproval and hatred of one of Val Royeaux’s most important chevaliers firmly down upon her head. She hadn’t been capable of bailing herself out and had to rely on those who knew how to navigate these dangerous Orlesian waters to rescue her.

With every step she took, she made matters worse. She thought she had been equipped to deal with situations like this and the fact that she had failed so spectacularly burned. Istimaethoriel had taught her how to resolve disputes between clan members and negotiate with scared humans who accidentally ran into clan territory. Venara knew how to lead a small clan composed of generally like-minded people. But now she knew she didn’t know how to lead on an international scale, where her actions were under constant scrutiny. She thought she had learned something from Josephine, but—unsurprisingly, in retrospect—it turned out that true diplomacy could not be learned in under a year.

With a sudden flurry of movement, Venara gripped her pillow and hurled it across the cabin. It smacked into the wall with a muffled thud and fell to the floor.

Surprisingly, she felt better.

But not by much.

Venara bent to pick up the pillow when there was a polite, but direct, knock at her door. She sighed and crossed the room to unlock it.

“What is it—?”

Vivienne pushed past her into the cabin. She had changed into travelling clothes that were more demure than her usual fare (though she still somehow managed to make lambswool look like silk and velvet) and her mask had been discarded. “I see you’ve deteriorated into using the pillows as punching bags,” she said, looking at the pillow in Venara’s hands. “Does such a mundane act help?”

Venara threw the pillow back onto her bed. “We can’t all be as perfect as you, Vivienne,” she said. “What do you want?”

Vivienne gave her a significant look as she swept about the cabin. “Still,” she said, completely ignoring the question, “I imagine it is better to take your anger out on inanimate objects than, say, Dame Mélisande’s face. Not that I would blame you.”

“Vivienne, tell me what you want or get the hell out of my cabin.”

“My, my, so angry so soon?” Vivienne shook her head. “You really do need to work on that, my dear. It’s a matter of self-control. Letting yourself explode at the drop of a hat has consequences—and it cannot be good for your health.”

“All right—fine—you’ve said your piece, I get your point,” Venara said through gritted teeth. “Now get out.”

“I never said that you shouldn’t be angry,” Vivienne replied smoothly. She sat on the single chair in the cabin, back straight, legs languidly crossed. “I said that you need to learn to contain it. You’re angry? Good. Use it. But don’t let others see. Anger is only useful if it’s invisible. It’s similar to magic, in that regard.”

Venara folded her arms. “You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

“No,” Vivienne said. “Because someone needs to curtail you before you run amok. And Josephine has proven that she cannot—she is far too fond of you. Whereas I—”

“Are not,” Venara finished. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You don’t have to be so sullen, my dear. It does nothing for your winning personality.”

“Orlesians,” Venara muttered, grimacing. “See? This is exactly why I don’t like you, Vivienne. Backhanded compliments and twisting everyone’s words around—it’s not smart, it’s not witty, it’s demeaning and useless. You know, I wish I’d ignored your invitation, that you hadn’t joined the Inquisition—you should have kept your meddling to the Orlesian court!”

“On the contrary, my dear,” Vivienne said, “I am the person you need the most—particularly as I do not care much for you either. I will readily point out your faults so you can correct them, whereas your friends will simply… ignore them in favour of your better virtues.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Venara asked flatly. “Why don’t you say what you want to say?”

“Your best friend in all the world is Sera,” Vivienne said. “And your lover is… well. Any Orlesian worth their salt can take the whole of your being in with one look and have you dangling at the end of a puppeteer’s string in one sentence. A dangerous thing when the world’s fate ultimately lies with you.” She smoothed down her skirts and looked Venara in the eye. “I hope you realize that Mélisande played you beautifully,” she said pointedly. “If Cullen and I hadn’t arrived when we did, she would have maneuvered you into incriminating yourself a dozen times over, you would have been rotting away in some jail cell, and Josephine would have been working overtime to counteract the damage done to the Inquisitor’s good name.”

Venara snorted. “Mélisande couldn’t have done that.”

“Scoff all you want, Inquisitor, but Mélisande Perrault is an expert player of the Grand Game,” Vivienne said. “Destroying the Inquisitor’s credibility? Risky, but where there is risk, there comes great reward. With you in her custody, she could have petitioned Empress Celene to demand that the Inquisition replace its illustrious leader with someone who is, perhaps, more aligned with Mélisande’s own goals. You would become a mere tool with which to close rifts, kept under lock and key.”

“The Grand Game…” Venara sat on the edge of her cot. “Is there really nothing with which the Orlesian nobility will not interfere?” she said heatedly.

“Orlais is the cultural and religious heart of southern Thedas,” Vivienne said. “Do I really need to answer that question?”

“I hate politics.”

“Hating politics does not exempt you from them when you are political figure,” Vivienne said.

“What do you want me to say?” Venara snapped. “That I should step down as Inquisitor? Hand it off to someone like Cassandra? Because believe you me, I’m still wondering how she came to decide that I was the one to lead when she has years of expertise and I—I wasn’t even a Keeper yet. I wasn’t meant to do this!”

Vivienne reached out and took her hand. Her grasp was firm and cold. “You can’t hide behind that excuse anymore,” she said. “It was flimsy at best before and is now completely irrelevant, particularly after your deeds at Adamant. The world takes note of your actions and the courts of nations do not care about whether or not you were meant to be Inquisitor.”

Venara shook off Vivienne’s grip. “I’ve realized that, thank you.”

“Then stop complaining,” Vivienne said. “It does you no credit, even if it’s done in private.” She chuckled. “Though, if it makes you feel better, if its makes you feel better, Seeker Pentaghast despises the Game even more than you do. Whereas you are short-tempered and lack patience, she has no patience whatsoever. You are ill-suited to your role, yes, but you can outgrow this…hiccup. Cassandra cannot.”

Venara stared in silence at Vivienne. It was rare that she heard someone—even someone like Vivienne—insult Cassandra Pentaghast so bluntly.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Venara, this is why it is crucial that you learn to contain yourself,” Vivienne said. “You can’t allow yourself to be so clumsy—”

Back to her, then.

Venara glared. “So what, are you telling me not to do anything?” she interrupted.

“Of course not,” Vivienne said. “I am telling you not to be so obvious and heavy-handed about your beliefs. What is it about subtlety that—ironically enough—never fails to elude you? Ever since this business began, all of your actions have been loud and demonstrative, reflecting what you, in your sheltered view of the world, believe to be morally right. You accepted an alliance with the mages, ensuring that they have no governance save for their own. You disregarded the history of the Wardens while dealing with them at Adamant, you are now openly campaigning for elven rights—”

“I made my decisions as best I could,” Venara said flatly. “Would yours have been any better?”

Vivienne adjusted herself primly. “Frankly—yes. Because I have seen more of this world that you.”

“You’ve seen the entirety of the Free Marches, have you?” Venara shot back in mock astonishment. “And Antiva and Rivain? You’ve learned oh so much from travelling from one cloistered Circle to another—Ostwick, Montsimmard, Val Royeaux. There’s only so much you can learn from books, Vivienne.”

“I was never cloistered like some Chantry novice,” Vivienne said. “I had my freedom to go where I pleased, when I pleased—how else do you think I managed to carve out a position in the court?”

“Not all mages had that opportunity,” Venara said. “Most did not. They deserved a chance to guide their own lives. That is why I offered them an alliance.”

“You think you understand the Circle of Magi?” Vivienne said, laughing hollowly. “From the word of a handful of singular-minded mages? You, a woman who has never stepped a foot within a Circle in her entire life? The Circles were our home. What happens years from now when this business is finished and there is no more need of the Inquisition? There are hundreds of mages with no home to return, no safe place to train—”

“They can find those places again,” Venara said. “They can make their homes their own. They don’t need locked doors and templars to keep them safe—”

“And what happens when magic runs amok or a mage is possessed and becomes an abomination? What then? Do you have some miraculous plan to act as a safeguard for when things inevitably go wrong?”

“Spirits are not naturally malicious and demons can be avoided and dealt with, if you have the proper training,” Venara said. “Not once, in the past fifteen generations, has Clan Lavellan dealt with an abomination. I was taught to respect spirits, not fear them. And I have never been tempted by a demon.”

“Truly, you are a paragon for us all,” Vivienne said scornfully. “Solas has taught his beloved well.”

Venara ignored that.

“Do you have so little trust in your own people?” she asked.

“It has nothing to do with trust,” Vivienne said. “I am being practical. Spirits are dangerous to mages, whether you like them or not. And not all mages can have your sense of will. You speak of proper training—who can give such training if there are no Circles?”

“I don’t know. Mentors, teachers—”

“Who can be found within the Circles—”

“Yes, but the Circle is not the answer!”

“You are so certain.” Vivienne clasped her hands together. “Let us speak hypothetically. A mage succumbs to a demon’s will—no, don’t argue, you know perfectly well that it can and it will happen. Perhaps not in your Clan, but elsewhere. The abomination ravages half a town. The local lord is called upon to respond to this horror and save his townspeople. He manages to kill the abomination, but it is not enough. The villagers are terrified. And soon enough they are stringing up anyone from alchemists to the villager healer to the child whose magic has manifested. And these innocents, whose only crime is to be gifted with magic, either flee or die. You are Dalish—you must be familiar with that feeling.”

“I am.”

“Would you wish that kind of life on mages?” Vivienne asked. “Because that is what will come of your course of action.”

“Then teach the people not to fear magic,” Venara said.

“I admire your idealism, but it is ultimately useless,” Vivienne replied. “Would you teach a child not to fear flame? Would you let them touch a still-hot stove with a bare hand? There will always be darkness and danger in magic. It is a supernatural force, after all, and must be treated with caution and respect.”

“That is what your Chantry teaches!” Venara shouted. “Magic is alive in this world. It is no more unnatural than breathing. It’s nothing to be afraid of—”

“And that is what the Dalish teach,” Vivienne said. “So, we are at an impasse. A difference in perspective. Which is correct? We can never know for certain. I know where my thoughts lie. And I doubt many would choose to abandon their views for yours and, as I’m sure you’re aware, you cannot force change.” Vivienne’s lips pursed. “And I would avoid implying that magic is not inherently dangerous when there is the Breach in the sky and you yourself are subjecting Val Royeaux to uncontrollable magic.”

Venara froze. “When did you hear about that?”

Vivienne sighed. “Venara, it’s the reason Cullen and I are here. After that unfortunate incident in the alienage, Leliana’s spies sent a raven. Josephine was in a dither. I volunteered for damage control and insisted that Cullen join me as many still recognize him as the Knight-Captain of Kirkwall. I thought his presence would soothe any worries Mélisande Perrault had about your use of magic.”

Venara clenched her fists. “Wonderful.”

“You mock my decision, but it worked,” Vivienne said. She glanced at Venara’s hand. “What is happening to your mark, Inquisitor?”

“What do you think?” Venara shot back.

“Let’s not play this game, Venara, it is very tiresome,” Vivienne said wearily. “I wish to hear it from you.”

Venara looked away. “Ever since Haven, I’ve had more control over rifts. I don’t just close them, I can open new ones. At first, it could only happen in the heat of battle, when my life was in danger—that’s how we ended up in the Fade at Adamant. I thought I could control it, but now it seems that I can’t. It glows, it opens rifts when I don’t want it to, it… it’s magic I don’t understand, no one understands, and its power is growing. I can feel it.”

Vivienne remained silent for a moment. “And why am I only hearing of the specifics of this now?”

“Because I don’t trust you, Vivienne,” Venara said. “You’re not my friend. Others are helping me.”

“By others, I assume you mean Solas,” Vivienne said. The disapproval on her face was hard to miss.

“Yes.”

“My dear, it’s about time you learn that ‘trust’ are ‘like’ are not mutually exclusive,” Vivienne said. “I don’t like you either, but everything I have done has been to help you.”

Venara looked at Vivienne warily. “All right. So help me.”

“Contain yourself,” Vivienne said. “Your magic, like your anger, is constantly on the brink. You are an alchemist’s flasks about to explode, and if you remain that way, you will only succeed in getting yourself and your friends hurt.”

Venara scoffed. “You think that’s helpful?”

“I will of course offer my assistance in researching the mark’s effects upon our return to Skyhold,” Vivienne added. “What concerns you, concerns us all.”

“That’s a blunt way of putting it.”

“I thought you appreciated bluntness.”

“I do.”

“Well, then.”

“Is that all?” Venara said, tapping her foot on the floor. “You can leave.”

Vivienne stood gracefully and crossed to the door. She paused with her hand on the handle. “Venara,” she said, “I want you to know that I am not harsh to be cruel. I am harsh so that you learn. When it comes to Orlais, there is no other choice: you either win, or you are crushed.”

She fell silent and for a brief instant, Venara saw a rare moment where Madame Vivienne de Fer hesitated.

“You were crushed today,” Vivienne continued, “but that does not mean you cannot rise again. Mélisande played you from the moment you stepped into that office and she showed you that ghastly portrait. I like to believe that you would have answered quite differently if she hadn’t riled you up in the first place.”

Venara smiled shortly. “Thanks. I guess.”

“Do you know what one of my first experiences was after I became Court Enchanter?” Vivienne said. “I had been in Val Royeaux for barely a month. Celene—being a pretty young thing at the time—held a ball at the autumn solstice to honour all things of the occult. You see, she, like her father before her, held a deep interest in magic, but very little understanding of how it truly functions. She bade that I attend, so I could show off my knowledge before the court. The hour before the ball was to begin, I received a visitor—a vicomte of enough renown that I was in no position to refuse him. He tried to charm me, of course, and we made polite small-talk and then he announced that he had brought me a gift.

“His servants wheeled in a canvas a large as a window. And on it was a fairly damning portrait of me in a jester’s costume—an obvious and sloppy nod to the court’s opinion that the court enchanter was no more than a glorified jester. The vicomte then has his servants hang the portrait on the wall while he informed me that it was a popular piece of art and there were a hundred or so duplicates hanging on the walls of manors across Val Royeaux. He then bade me good night and told me that he looked forward to seeing how well it went with my décor the next time he came to visit.”

Vivienne laughed hollowly. “I went to the ball with my head held high,” she said, “but my pride was shattered. When Celene called upon me to impress her guests, I was so shaken that I blundered the magic, fool that I was. I very nearly lost Celene’s respect—and possibly my head—that day.” Vivienne held Venara’s gaze, her brown eyes piercing. “I tell you this not so you can pity my past, but so you have an additional insight. If you let them get to you, they win.”

Without waiting for a response, Vivienne turned and opened the door. She passed through to the dark hallway beyond, leaving Venara to stew in her own thoughts.

***​

Three days later, Venara found herself standing on the deck, a thick fur-lined wool cloak pulled tightly around her as she watched the ocean waves roll. The ship tilted up and down, spraying mist up the sides. Venara wished she was at Skyhold. Though the coast of Jader was visible, they were still quite far away. It would be a few more hours before they reached the harbour. And then once they disembarked, they still had to face a long trek through the mountains.

“You should go to below decks if you’re cold,” a steady voice said behind her.

“I’m fine, Cullen,” Venara said without turning around. “Don’t they say the sea air is good for you?”

“I suppose they do,” he said, coming to stand beside her. “But I don’t believe a word of that nonsense.”

From within the high fur collar of her cloak, Venara smirked. “Of course. No nonsense for you.”

“It’s not nonsense! I don’t do well on ships—”

Venara chuckled. Cullen glared at her.

“Oh, I see what this is now, Inquisitor,” he said. “You’re goading me.”

“Would I do that?” she asked innocently.

“Considering the company you keep—yes, yes you would.” He let out a frustrated sigh and folded his hands behind his back.

Venara eyed him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re standing at attention.”

“No, I’m not—”

“Yes, you are and you only do that when you’re nervous or you’re greeting someone of a higher rank than you, so—what’s wrong?”

Cullen coughed. “If you want to go down that route, technically you’re of a higher rank than me.”

Venara rolled her eyes. “Let’s not go down that route.”

Cullen sighed. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just anxious to return to Skyhold.”

“Me, too.”

They stood in silence together, watching the waves beat and the distant shore grow closer. Venara buried herself deeper in her cloak. Vivienne had given her much to think about and she realized that, upon her return, she needed to speak to Josephine and come up with some kind of tactical plan for dealing with any and all Orlesians. Venara couldn’t trust herself to improvise anymore, not unless she wanted to get walked over. She needed a courtly battle plan.

If only she could simply concentrate on finding and eradicating Corypheus. But the darkspawn magister was far from her grasp, and he had allies and agents working against her all across the known world. The only way to draw him out would be to stop them. She knew his agents were working on weakening Orlais. If they succeeded in throwing the country into chaos, Corypheus won.

And so she had to verbally battle Orlesian nobles. And if she could help elves as she did so, all the better.

A flash of pain seared across her palm. Venara let out a small, discomforted groan as she clenched and relaxed her fist.

It hadn’t hit her until Vivienne had said it. She was angry. She was often angry. And perhaps that anger truly was affecting the mark. But to diffuse her anger, to let it go completely… she didn’t know how to do that. Everything had gone wrong since Adamant, since Alistair died. Instead of becoming stronger, she was fracturing. Every decision she made, every word she spoke came back to haunt her. Fenariel and Malen, Comte Bordelon and his portrait, the Val Royeaux alienage, Mireille Giroux, Mélisande Perrault… She had made a mess of all of it.

But the worst thing was knowing that even when she did return to Skyhold, she couldn’t throw herself into Solas’ embrace. They had fought and she had walked out and their argument had been the kind that could not be left unfinished—

“Why are you still here?” Venara asked sharply.

“What?” Cullen said. “I’m just standing here.”

Venara rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, have I given offense?” he snapped. “Am I intruding on your thoughts?”

“Yes,” she shot back. “There’s plenty of deck for the both of us. You can stare gloomily off at the shore from literally anywhere else. You don’t have to stand beside me.”

“Is that a dismissal?”

“I don’t know—maybe.”

“It’s impossible to be dismissed on a maybe.”

“Fine. Then it is!”

“Fine!”

“Good! Go!”

“I will!” He brushed past her. “Enjoy brooding.”

Venara gaped at him. “I—I—I am not brooding!”

“You’re above decks on a day so cold you can see your breath rise, looking off into the distance with a permanent scowl on your face,” Cullen said. “If that’s not quintessential brooding, I don’t know what is.”

Venara scoffed. “If I’m brooding, what are you doing?!”

“Getting some peace of mind!” he yelled over his shoulder as he walked away.

Venara let out a frustrated growl. “Cullen—”

“If you have nothing of importance to say, Inquisitor, I’d rather you leave me to my own devices,” he said and continued to prowl along the deck.

“Your own devices—Cullen, you came over to me!”

“Yes!” he said heatedly. “I thought we could have a friendly chat, but instead I nearly got my head bitten off, so I guess it’s clear you’re not in the mood—”

By the Creators, this man was frustrating.

“I’m sorry,” Venara said shortly. “I didn’t intend to insult you, Commander.”

“Thank you,” he replied stiffly. “I appreciate it, Inquisitor.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Silence grew between them and for a moment the air was filled only with the sounds of creaking wood, rustling sails and sailors grunting.

“What did you want to talk about?” Venara said suddenly.

“What?”

“You said you wanted to talk,” she said. “Well—what did you want to talk about?”

Cullen flushed. “Nothing that deserves your attention, Inquisitor.”

He brushed past her again. Venara watched him go.

Tension between her and Cullen in the past month had been strange and tense. She had barely seen him, as she trusted him to oversee command of the Inquisition’s forces without much interference from her. But whenever she had, he had either been overly pleasant towards her or completely standoffish. It didn’t help that Venara hadn’t forgotten his insistence that, after Fenariel’s attack, she be accompanied by a guard during her missions. She was fairly certain that he was frightened by her growing magic.

Perhaps it was time to find out.

“Is this because I yelled at you?” she said, following him. “At that war table meeting after the Fenariel incident?”

“You didn’t so much as yell at me as completely dismiss any and all advice I had to offer,” Cullen retorted.

“I can’t help that I didn’t agree with you,” Venara responded. They were clattering up the stairs to the poop deck now. “And I give you full reign of the troops, how can you say that I dismiss you when—”

“That’s not the point, Inquisitor.” He turned around abruptly and she smacked right into him.

“Sorry,” Venara said, stepping back.

Cullen shrugged and continued moving. He was so much taller than her, his strides so much longer that she practically had to jog in order to keep up with him.

“Then what is the point?” she asked. “Because I think I know.”

He laughed shortly, unamused. “Do you?”

“Yes. Shall I tell you, or do you want to tell me?”

“I don’t want to speak of this.” They had come full circle on the poop deck and he was now making his way down the stairs.

“Then why did you come to Val Royeaux?” Venara shouted from the top of the stairs.

He froze and looked up at her. “Do you really want to know?”

Venara walked down the stairs. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

She caught Cullen’s eye, but he turned away, falling completely silent. Venara reached his side.

“You’re afraid of me,” she said quietly. “You’re afraid of my magic, the power it bears, the power that’s growing. And I can’t control it. That scares you because it goes against all that you know, all your training. You should be in control of this, and you can’t be.”

Cullen closed his eyes. He let out a long breath of air. “You’re right,” he said, the flush receding from his cheeks. “It does frighten me, but not for the reasons you think.” He looked down at her, his arms lying stiffly at his sides. “I came to Val Royeaux because we needed someone with known templar training to bargain with Dame Mélisande. There would be no way she would ever release you—a mage with tremendous power—into the hands of someone who could not curtail that power.”

“Yes. Vivienne already told me that—”

“Venara.” When he interrupted her, there was no hesitance left in his voice, only a heavy significance. The last time she had heard him speak that way, they had been at Haven and under threat from Corypheus’ army. “I am no longer a templar,” he said. “And I swear by the Maker that unless you become an abomination, I will never attempt to contain your powers with my own. You are my leader and I put my faith in you. Even when we disagree.”

Venara stood frozen. The bare honesty in Cullen’s eyes and voice had taken her by surprise.

She had been wrong.

Again.

“Not what you expected?” Cullen said. “I think you have something to learn about putting trust in your allies, Inquisitor.”

“It’s not that,” she said quietly. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“Of course there is,” he said plainly. “I’m worried that thing on your hand will kill you. It’s as simple as that. You’re a good woman—I don’t want you to die.”

He walked away, and this time Venara didn’t follow him. Instead she sat on the lowest step of the stairs and pulled her cloak tightly around her, occasionally shifting out of the way as one sailor or another went up or down the stairs.

It was here that Sera found her, sometime later.

“Hey you!” she said brightly, dropping down beside Venara and nuzzling up against her. “You look wretched. I brought something to cheer you up.”

“If it’s alcohol, I don’t want it,” Venara said dully.

Sera punched her shoulder. “Oi! Don’t knock it. But you’re in luck—it’s somethin’ else.” She stood and withdrew the Bordelon portrait. “Ta-da!”

Venara made a face. “Why would that cheer me up?”

“It’s not what it is,” Sera said, grinning. “It’s what we’re gonna do to it.”

“All right—I’m listening.”

Five minutes later, the portrait had been strapped to a rock and catapulted into the air fire, after which it was shot with fiery arrows from Sera and several jabs of electricity from Venara. Venara couldn’t help but grin as the flaming beacon made from the painted monstrosity tumbled down and down and down, crashing into the sea and sinking beneath the waves, never to be seen again.

And then, as Sera whooped and shouted with glee, Venara fervently wished that she could to the same to the remaining fifty-nine portraits.

 

Mira_Jade Politics are always a slippery slope. A lot of fun to write, not so much fun for the characters. And yes--there was no other end in sight for that portrait, believe me!

---

CHAPTER XX
Affairs of the Heart and Mind​

When the mountain path curved and the fortress finally came into view, Venara breathed a sigh of relief. The trek from Jader had not been particularly arduous (she had done it so many times it was familiar to her as the routes her clan travelled), but she felt the same as she always did when she returned to Skyhold—like her journey had ended and she had found somewhere to call home.

Considering she had grown up on a fleet of travelling aravels, it was strange to have the sense of “home” attached to a permanent place.

She rode into the lower courtyard greeted by the voices of familiar faces—guardsmen, soldiers, agents, chantry sisters, the flocked of gangly children who roamed and played while their parents worked. As she dismounted and let the stable hands lead her mare away, she looked about for a particular face amongst the crowd.

It smarted when she couldn’t find it.

“Uh oh,” Sera said. “Someone looks like they’ve been stung by a hoard of bees.”

“I’m just tired,” Venara said. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Fat luck getting that to happen,” Sera replied, her voice serious for once. “If you need me, come find me, yeah?”

Venara smiled and began to long climb to the upper courtyard and the castle beyond.

She knew a pile of reports would be waiting for her. And she needed to check in on Josephine and inform her of exactly what had happened at Val Royeaux. No doubt there were visiting dignitaries that she would need to speak to later. As she climbed the stone steps, an elven servant chatted away at her side, asking if she wanted a bath drawn and food brought to her chambers. Both sounded more tempting than she wanted to admit, but Venara had another idea in mind.

So, she dismissed the servant and went to the rotunda.

Venara poked her head hesitantly around the door, a lump in her throat, almost afraid of what she hoped to find on the other side.

To her surprise—and disappointment—the room was empty. The lanterns and candles were out; the only light was the warm glow filtering down from the library above.

“Solas?”

Her voice echoed around the chamber, but there was no reply. She carefully lit the lamp suspended from the scaffolding that lay against the far wall. He wasn’t here. And, from the looks of it, he hadn’t been here for some time. There were fewer books than usual on his desk, all of which were closed. His papers were neatly stacked in one corner, weighted down by a piece of ironbark.

It was off for him not to be here. This was his place of study. He rarely took forays beyond Skyhold’s walls, unless he was accompanying her on one mission or another. But when he had left, she had been intently studying her mark—perhaps he had found something and was investigating further.

Curiosity gripped her and she quickly crossed to the desk and sat down. Perhaps his notes would say something…

Venara paused, lips pursed as her hands hovered over the desk.

Don’t be a snoop, Venara.

But it couldn’t hurt, could it? After all, he wouldn’t have left his notes here if he was concerned someone (most likely her) would read them. And if he had found something useful, he was bound to tell her, so she would find out eventually anyway.

Decision made, she removed the ironbark, grabbed the stack of papers, pulled the books close, and began to read.

Considering the amount of material Istimaethoriel had had her consume in her youth, Venara had long since acquired the ability to take in paragraphs at a glance and filter out the unimportant information. The first several pages of notes were summaries of various magical techniques, from Tevinter to the Circles of southern Thedas, to several of the largest Dalish clans.

Circle magic is formulated to be defensive in nature, particularly of the self… concentration on auras that assist in repelling spirits… slow, but ultimately grounded in control and focus… Ask Madame Vivienne for her thoughts on stasis and magical restoration?
Tevinter somniari… dreams impact magical control… to walk the Fade in dreams is to surrender to it… (Dorian?) …a link, once established, cannot be rejected…
Clan Sunavhir—focus is power.
Clan Alevhoran—sunder the self. The self is one.

Venara stopped. She rustled through the papers, turning them over and over. She frowned and leaned closer, first thinking that she had not seen correctly. But no, she had. The common script abruptly stopped and turned into something Venara had only seen once before, carved onto the back of a small, black stone slab that Istimaethoriel kept on her person at all times. It was the most important thing in Clan Lavellan’s possession.

Ancient Elvhen runes.

Like the language, much of the script had also been lost. Only the Keepers preserved the knowledge of Elvhen writing, and even then, it was less like knowledge and more like hopeful guesswork. The small slab was all Istimaethoriel had to refer to. The system of symbols was vast and complicated. A single rune could articulate everything from the literal meaning of the words to every metaphor and nuance imaginable. They had multiple interpretations and it was challenging, almost impossible, to sort the true interpretation from the others. Elvhen script would take a life time to learn—time which the ancient elves had in surplus, considering they had been immortal beings.

Venara could barely figure out the meaning behind a handful of runes, and yet here was Solas recording his thoughts in it.

“You complete and utter obsessive fool,” Venara muttered, trying to push down her jealousy. She knew all too well how dreams warped the mind’s sense of the passage of time. Considering how much time he had spent wandering the Fade, he may very well have had the time to learn the Elvhen script along with the language.

If only she could say the same for herself. But even considering all that Solas had shown her, even though her grasp of Elven was at the point where she could think in the language thanks to him and their adventures in dreamwalking, she could never bring herself to spend a significant amount of time in a dreamstate, in the Fade. Not after she had been there physically and seen it for what it was.

Venara pressed a hand to her forehead as she stared at the glistening black ink that shaped the Elvhen script. There was an uncomfortable twist in her stomach as she felt raw envy well up inside her. Solas had a patience she could never hope to attain, a devotion to history, to scholarship, to truth within truths. He had gained a wealth of knowledge about the ancient elves beyond anything known by the Keepers—and yet he wasn’t Dalish. And he never would be. If only she knew the things he knew… the things she could do for her people, the knowledge she could bring to the next Arlathvhen… If the Dalish could just touch something of what they had lost, perhaps they could finally stop searching. Perhaps they could finally find the peace they had been denied for centuries…

The runes swam in her vision. She blinked and only when she felt the tears drop did she realize she had been crying. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

“You believe you are lost, but you aren’t—you just haven’t been found.” The voice was at her shoulder.

Venara raised her head. “I know you’re there, Cole.”

He appeared a few feet behind her. “You hurt because you cannot see. He hurts because he sees too much.”

Venara stood and faced him. “Not now, Cole,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m working.”

“Your want is his want,” Cole continued as if he hadn’t heard her, the words flowing from him, “but his want stretches back farther than yours, so much farther. Endless. Like the light of a star. Stars are dead. It’s taken this long for their light to arrive.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Venara said, turning back to the desk, shoulders slumping. “Please leave me alone.”

“You scare him,” Cole said, his voice insistent. He hovered at Venara’s shoulder. “He’s forgotten what it is to be scared. Terrified. Fear, as deep as an ocean, drowning—”

“That’s enough!” Venara snapped. She turned abruptly, but the pale boy—no, spirit—was gone.

“Your hurt burns bright. He’s not sure how to say ‘sorry,’” Cole’s voice echoed. Was he gone, or was he merely invisible? “He hurts, too. Love hurts.”

“You’re not helping!” she shot over her shoulder, but there was nothing left but her echoing voice and empty, empty silence.

Venara pressed a trembling hand to her mouth and sat back down. Then she took in a deep breath, bent over the desk and continued with her task.

Setheneran…
Sumeil…
Somniar…

Reading the script was like trudging through a swamp where the mud pulled at her legs and feet with every step as she tried to make it to shore. There was so much she was close to understanding, but it was still so far out of her grasp. And she was so tired… Perhaps if she closed her eyes, just for a moment…

Venara’s hand slipped and she tilted forwards, collapsing down upon the desk.

***​

“Venara.”

Someone was shaking her.

“Venara.”

“Huh? Solas?” She yawned, eyes still closed. Her mouth felt dry. “Is that you?”

“Sorry to disappoint, but no.”

Venara’s eyes fluttered open. “Dorian?”

“The one and the same,” he said. “Careful now, you’ve got a bit of something there—”

Venara sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “How long was I out?”

“I can’t answer that,” he replied. “But it’s late enough now that the stars are twinkling and the moon has risen to her full grandeur.”

“So… two hours before midnight?”

“Two hours before midnight.”

Venara sighed and tried to run her fingers through her hair, only to have them run into a tangled mess of braids and loose locks. “Where’s Solas?”

“Gone,” Dorian said. “He left a couple days ago, on his own—said he had a matter to attend to and that he would seek you out upon his return.”

“Huh.” Venara leaned back in her chair and began turning pages. The runes were no more clear to her than they had been when she fell asleep. “Did he say anything else?”

“I imagine he had much to say, but certainly not to me.” Dorian reached out and caught her hand. “I think that’s enough of that.”

“Let go, Dorian—”

“Oh, I will,” he said. “As long as you promise to stop behaving like a jilted lover. It’s not polite to go through your partner’s things unasked—”

“It’s not like I think he’s betrayed me or something,” Venara interrupted. “He’s researching the mark, I need to know—”

“And when he knows something, he will tell you,” Dorian said firmly. “Besides, it’s the principle that matters here. It’s almost as if you don’t trust him.”

Venara folded her arms and looked away, her cheeks flushing.

“Considering your behaviour is sliding rapidly from ‘graceful Inquisitor’ to ‘sullen child’, I guess you think I’m right.”

Venara rolled her eyes.

“Your expression speaks volumes.”

“All right!” Venara threw her hands in the air. “I’m sorry, I’m being an idiot. Are you happy now?” She began to reassemble the papers and put them, neatly, back in order.

“Of course not,” Dorian said. “Teasing you is such a delightful pastime.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Venara returned the papers to their original place beneath the ironbark paperweight.

“Come on,” Dorian said, guiding her out of the rotunda. “I think I know just what you need.”

“You’re giving me a bad feeling about this,” Venara said.

“Am I?” Dorian said innocently. “Because all I meant is that you have some food, some company, and a much-needed bath. No offense, Inquisitor—I’m not sure what the Dalish views on bathing are—but you look and smell like you’ve spent three days on a ship and another three on horseback.”

***​

“Fine—I admit it—this was a good idea.”

“See? I told you so.” Dorian’s voice carried over the large, adorned privacy screen that complete hid Venara from view. “I’m always full of good ideas.

Venara chuckled and sank further into the large copper tub. The servants had very graciously filled it for her, even though the hour was late and they, by all rights, should have been asleep. They had spent the better part of an hour hauling pails of water up from the kitchens. Luckily, it was unnecessary for them to wait for the water to boil first. The tub had been a gift from an Antivan lady of some repute. It had been enchanted with heat runes so that the water never grew cold. It was a queenly gift—only the richest and the most noble of aristocrats could afford such a contraption.

(Venara still preferred the icy freshness of a river or lake, but she had to admit, the warm water was soothing.)

She glanced at the side table and eyed the numerous bottles of potions and perfumes gathered there. They had been sitting in her chambers untouched, for months. She picked up a delicate silver one and pulled out the stopper, sniffing cautiously. She was overwhelmed by a strong lavender scent. She coughed and put the stopper back in.

“I don’t know why Josephine keeps giving me these,” Venara said as she continued to investigate the bottles. She sniffed another one—citrus? And here was one that smelt of… chocolate? Strange. “Antivans are bizarre.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “‘Nobles are bizarre’ is far more accurate, wouldn’t you say? Why, I know of a perfume popular in Tevinter that’s so strong it can knock horses unconscious.”

Venara snorted. “That’s rubbish.”

“I’m not pulling your leg. I know soldiers who wear it during border skirmishes—the beautiful stench very nearly overwhelms the opposing side, leading to an easy victory.”

Venara picked up another bottle and, deciding that the light rose-like scent was pleasant enough, poured out a generous amount into her palm. “I don’t believe you for a minute!” she called. Now where is this supposed to go…?

She could hear Dorian laughing on the other side of the screen. “Dear Inquisitor, you have such little imagination. Your loss.”

Venara shrugged and lathered herself up with the potion. Almost as an afterthought, she ran it through her hair. The experience was quite relaxing, if a little strange. “I suppose I should thank her.”

“Too right,” Dorian said. “Josephine Montilyet is a wonder. She must like you, considering the effort she’s put into training you up to face the Orlesian court come Celene’s peace talks.”

Venara paused from dragging the potion through her hair. “What in the name of the Creators does bathing have to do with the Orlesian court?”

Dorian groaned. She had a feeling he had just buried his face in his hands. “It’s not just language and mannerisms and politics,” he said. “If you want any of them to take you seriously, you must also smell like one of them. And unless you want to pepper yourself with perfume to mask any undignified scents, bathing is the easiest way to do so.”

“This conversation is making no sense to me,” Venara said, dumping out more of the rose-scented potion.

Dorian sighed. “Then just ignore me,” he said. “You’ll learn. Eventually.”

“I’m not some uncivilized, uncultured brute, you know,” Venara said, massaging the potion into her scalp. “Just because I didn’t live in a city doesn’t mean I’m completely uncouth.”

“Unfortunately, there are many who won’t see it that way,” Dorian said after a moment. “They’ll use your heritage as proof that your charmingly blunt mannerisms mark you as an ignorant fool. You’ll have to work twice as hard to win them over—be twice as charming, twice as graceful and, of course, smell twice as nice.”

Venara let her hands fall back into the tub, which splashed water up to the rim. “Can we go back to the part where I’m ‘charmingly blunt?’”

Dorian laughed. “Come now, don’t be like that—” His voice paused suspiciously for a moment, then carried right on. “It’s one of the things I admire about you.”

Venara’s eyes narrowed. “Dorian,” she called, “are you drinking my wine?!”

“Maker, no! Would I ever do that? Betray my dearest friend’s trust and consume all of her finest drink without her permission?” He chuckled. “Of course I would. That is what it’s here for. To drink.”

Venara smiled. “Well, don’t drink all of it.”

“I give you a solemn promise that I won’t. Even though I delight in subsisting on a diet of grapes.”

“Fermented grapes.”

“Ah, that’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Venara dunked her head under the water, scrubbing the potion out of her hair. After a few more dunks, she felt confident that her hair had been sufficiently rinsed. She carefully clambered out of the tub and dried herself off. Then she reached for a clean tunic and a pair of leggings and dressed herself. Feeling satisfied, she rounded the screen and joined Dorian by the fire.

“Ah, someone looks refreshed,” he said.

Dorian was lounging on her couch, slowly sipping from a crystal wine glass. On a low table, placed on the rug between the couch and the hearth, was as divinely rich a feast the cooks could muster up late at night. Most of it appeared to be meat and steamed vegetables resurrected from earlier meals, but it looked and smelled excellent. Venara sat, as was her preference, cross-legged on the rug and threw her damp hair over her shoulder before taking a plate and dumping as much food as it could hold onto it.

“And someone was apparently starving, I take it,” Dorian said, watching her dig in with gusto.

Mouth too full to speak, Venara nodded.

“See? I’m full of good ideas.” He took a long drink from his glass. “Sometimes you merely need to take a moment for yourself.”

“Even if a friend has to throw you into it?” Venara said, smirking between bites.

“Even if you don’t want to allow yourself to have a moment,” Dorian said. “I have a friend in Tevinter who is very much like you. Astonishing woman, talented mage, very bright, and carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. She, like you, is determined to save her people. Of course, the specifics are different—Tevinter is proud and, for all intents and purposes, corrupt and blind to the havoc its beloved customs and power cause. The Dalish are also proud, but have no misconceptions about themselves. Maevaris’ mission is one of redemption, whereas yours is one of restoration. Maevaris lives with the assumption that her work should and always comes before her own self and that the world will go up in flames if she should ever take a single moment’s rest. I see that echoed in you.”

Venara set down her plate. “Dorian,” she said, “I understand what you’re trying to say and I mean no offense to your friend, but the world could very well go down in flames if I ever rest.”

“You’ve missed my point,” he said, setting down his glass. “This isn’t just your fight, this is the fight of thousands. The Inquisition won’t disappear without you—”

“Fancy hearing that, coming from you!” Venara exclaimed. “You know perfectly well that’s exactly what happened when Alexius threw us into the future. If I disappear, Corypheus wins.”

“And now that future is irrevocably different,” Dorian said. “We survived, we went back and you ensured that future could never happen by snatching away his demon army right out from under his nose. Or was that not what happened at Adamant?”

Venara poured herself a glass of wine. “I don’t want to talk about Adamant.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian said, spreading his hands. “But my point still stands. That future is different. I’m not saying that you can afford to become lax—Orlais is still under threat—but the Inquisition can stand on its own two feet without you for a time. It has, shall we say, grown up.”

Venara sipped her wine. “Is this your very convoluted way of telling me to take a break?”

“Let’s call it an intervention,” he said. Suddenly, the smile dropped and his expression became serious. “You’re running yourself ragged, Venara. You may not be able to admit it, but you’re at a breaking point. I can see the fractures. I don’t want you to shatter.”

“Dorian,” Venara began, putting her glass down.

“You care,” he interrupted. “You care too much. I know you want to do everything you can to help your people—”

“Dorian—”

“—hear me out—have you considered that now may not be the time?”

“If now’s not the time, then there never will be a time!” Venara said hotly.

“I know,” he replied. “I remember Fenariel and Malen—”

“You were there, but you don’t know,” Venara said. “You’re not an elf! And you’re not just a human either, you’re—you’re bloody Tevinter!”

Dorian sighed. “I am. That I cannot help.”

“Your people enslave mine.”

“That they do, and I am not proud of that,” he said. “And yes, you’re correct, I can never understand. But I can empathize. And I can tell when my dear and frighteningly self-destructive friend has bitten off more than she can chew.”

“Fine,” Venara said as she watched the wine swirling in her glass. “Get it off your chest. I can tell you won’t be happy until you do.”

“You’re on exceedingly dangerous ground,” Dorian said. “Mixing yourself up in politics, right here, right now. Half of southern Thedas already can’t forgive you for allying with the rebel mages. They can’t stand that the Inquisition has become a safe haven for them. If you add elven rights to that melting pot, then you have a very explosive mixture on your hands.”

“I’m not backing down, Dorian,” Venara said. “That goes against everything that I—”

“I’m not saying that you back down,” he said firmly. “I’m saying that you wait for the right moment. You’re a controversial figure. Many people with the right kind of political sway despise you. They will be much more willing to listen to you after you rescue Celene’s reign. Or after you put an end to Corypheus—that will shut them up. Right now, you are on the verge of being seen as disposable. And as soon as some noble, viscount or teyrn is convinced that you are more trouble than you’re worth, you’ll have assassins on your doorstep. And this will be no angry group of elves seeking retribution. The rich and powerfully fearful will send bards. They will send the House of Repose. They send hire Antivan Crows. And Leliana, despite her many talents, cannot stop them all. She will slip, and you will be dead.” He paused, concern in every inch of his face. “Venara, I’m asking you—don’t stir the hornet’s nest.”

Venara sat still for a moment. “Thank you,” she said bluntly. “I’ll take your advice into account.” She stared at the remaining food. Somehow she had lost her appetite.

“I’ve said my piece,” Dorian said. “It’s up to you to decide what to do with it. I won’t pester you further.”

Venara shrugged and drained her glass. The wine, which had been rich before, tasted surprisingly sour. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Of course I do,” Dorian said. “Between your forays into far reaches of Orlais, your political shenanigans, fighting an impossible war against an enemy shrouded in myth, and whatever the bloody hell is happening between you and Solas—”

Venara almost spat out her wine. “What?!” she choked.

“Ah…” For his part, Dorian did look awkward. “I’ve overstepped my boundaries, I think.”

“What did you hear?” Venara spluttered. “Doesn’t anyone have anything better to talk about?!”

“It wasn’t as if you had a private conversation,” Dorian said defensively. “The rotunda is open to the library and I happened to be there and happened to hear every word—involuntarily, I might add.”

Venara flushed.

“But even if I hadn’t, it doesn’t take a genius to notice that something’s gone wrong,” Dorian continued. “That man of yours knows how to sulk.”

“Of course he does,” Venara muttered, reached for the food again. She picked up a handful of grapes and began popping them, one-by-one, into her mouth.

“Something to do with his jawline, I imagine.”

Venara rolled her eyes. “We fought, that’s all. Couples fight.”

“They don’t often fight and then leave each other to stew for three weeks.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be three weeks!” Venara said. “It was supposed to be there and back—”

“But then something happened,” Dorian interrupted. “As it usually does. Perhaps, in the future, you should plan for that?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious.”

“Are you just discovering that fact now?”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Venara said. “Because he’s not here and even if he was, I don’t know what he’d say.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dorian said, sighing as he leaned back into the couch. “Never knowing what to say.”

Venara paused, twisting a twig of grapes between her fingers. “What did you say?”

Dorian looked at her blankly. “I beg your pardon?”

“You and Bull,” Venara said slowly. “You must have had, well, some kind of talk about, I dunno, beliefs and points of view and—well—all things considered, you being Tevinter and him being Qunari—what?”

Dorian did not look amused. “I’m just wondering how you found out about that.”

“What?”

“No one was supposed to know.” His frown deepened. “Did he blab?”

“Well, no, not to me, I…” Venara avoided Dorian’s gaze. “I saw you kiss him,” she finally admitted. “When we were still in the Western Approach. Before Adamant. I just assumed you and him—”

“Well you assumed—” Dorian began angrily, but then stopped abruptly. He chuckled. “…right. You assumed right.” He looked at her quizzically. “How did you even—”

“It wasn’t as if it was a private place,” Venara said, smirking. She shrugged. “I scaled the rock face,” she added. “That’s how I know.”

“Huh. I didn’t know it was possible to scale that rock face.”

“It is. If you’re careful.”

“Bravo to you, I suppose?” Dorian laughed, shaking his head. “So you’ve known my secret all along. Not that it’s much of a secret. I don’t know what it is, to tell the truth. I was surprised as he was, that first night. And the many nights afterwards.”

“Maybe it’s something,” Venara said. “Maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know, I’m not exactly an expert. I’m mostly oblivious to this kind of thing.”

“I think you’re less oblivious than you give yourself credit for,” Dorian said. “But to answer your erstwhile question… We, like responsible adults, have not discussed it. At all. We’ve been purposefully ignoring our contrary origins, except in an aggressively flirtatious way. He calls me Vint, I call him giant, and then we proceed along our merry way. And I’m not entirely sure what that means anymore. Particularly not with a Saarebas and an Arvaarad stalking the castle grounds.”

“They’re only here as a gesture of good will from the Qunari,” Venara said.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t find them… unnerving,” Dorian said. “Kaffas, I’m getting nervous just thinking about them. I don’t know how you can be so calm around them.”

“They’re different, that’s all.”

“She’s a mage and they sewed her mouth shut—just for being a mage,” Dorian said. “How can you not find that unnerving?”

“Oh, believe me, I do,” Venara said. “But I also don’t come from a country that’s been battling the Qunari for years.”

“Fair enough,” Dorian said grudgingly. “But if you tell me you’re honestly considering allying with the Qunari, I’ll drown myself in your wine.”

“Says the man who is sleeping with a Qunari!” Venara said.

“Trust me, I know how that sounds.” Dorian grimaced. “I can’t wait until word of that somehow travels back home. This is why we haven’t discussed our… differences. We like to ignore that kind of thing and focus on the more… pleasant… aspects of our time together.”

“Must be nice,” Venara murmured.

“Oh, I would absolutely not recommend it,” Dorian said. “If you want me to tell you how to resolve this spat of yours with Solas, I have no idea. Fasta vass, you should never trust a word I say about relationships, I have no words of wisdom there. Try Varric.”

Venara eyed him. “Varric?”

Dorian shrugged. “He writes romance serials, does he not? Who has better advice than a writer? At the very least, if they don’t have a satisfactory answer, they’ll make one up for you.” He reached for another bottle and began re-filling their glasses.

He was interrupted by a sudden furious pounding on the door below. Venara rose, gesturing at Dorian to stay where he was, and flew down the stone stairs to the entrance of her chambers. When she pulled the door open, an ashen-faced, wide-eyed elven messenger stared back at her.

“Yes?”

“My Lady Inquisitor!” the elf stammered.

“What is it?” Venara asked. “Spit it out, it’s past midnight—”

“Inquisitor,” the elf said, “Sister Nightingale wishes to see you in the war room immediately. She’s received word from your clan—”

Venara didn’t wait for further words. Heart thundering in her chest, she pushed past the messenger and ran, as fast as her feet could carry her, down the long flight of stairs and through the twisting corridors to the war room.

All the while, the same words echoed in her mind, over and over.

Iga Evanuris, ar tellas ma’ane eth…
Ar tellas ma’ane eth…
Ma’ane eth.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES

Setheneran… — Land of waking dreams; where the Veil is thin
Sumeil… — close/near
Somniar… — to dream
Iga Evanuris, ar tellas ma’ane eth… — By all the Creators, I pray that you are safe.

 

CHAPTER XXI
Shatter​

The weather was remarkably sunny the day before Venara departed for the Divine Conclave. The day’s warmth was in stark contrast to the trepidation she felt as she packed her saddlebags—and the baleful, surly looks the clan youth were casting in her direction.

“You shouldn’t be the one to go,” a voice said. “It should be me.”

Venara looked up and saw a young man leaning against the tree that overshadowed the aravel she shared with her parents. He was dressed in standard hunter affair—leather tunic and leggings beneath an ironbark breastplate, with greaves and leather gauntlets to match. His golden hair was pulled back in a series of complex braids, revealing a pale face marked by weathered greyish green vallaslin that honoured June, God of Crafts. Playful blue eyes met her gaze as he smirked.

“That’s what they’re thinking over there, anyways,” he continued, gesturing at the group of young elves sitting by the fire pit across the glade. “I’m willing to bet a few are wondering how to put you out of action so they can take your place, oh great First to the Keeper.”

“Fenedhis!” Venara said. “You’re making things up, Eledin Aridhel.”

“Would I do that?”

“Absolutely! You’re a compulsive exaggerator.”

“Ah!” Eledin exclaimed. “You wound me!”

Venara ignored him and pulled her saddlebags open to double-check their contents. She had never been on such a long journey and wanted to ensure she was prepared for whatever lay ahead. Early the following morning, she would leave in the company of Marana and Ileren, two of the clan’s most experienced masters and hunters. She had travelled alone before, but usually only to visit another clan. Istimaethoriel and the hahrens had decided that a lone Dalish mage surrounded by suspicious shemlen and their templars would not end well, and so she was to be escorted by an expert warrior and archer on her journey to the south.

Eledin unsheathed one of his daggers as he watched her. He began to play with it, flipping it dexterously in the air with expert fingers. “You can’t deny, da’ean, that the youth of tomorrow are harbouring resentment towards you.”

Venara rolled her eyes at his use of her childhood nickname. “There’s nothing I can do about that, da’mi,” she shot back. “Istimaethoriel made her decision. I’m to carry out this mission.”

Eledin continued to flip his dagger. “Ah, yes. Our great and wise Keeper speaks and we must follow—”

Venara stood and quickly snatched the dagger away, holding it out of reach. “Don’t be rude.”

Eledin shrugged. “I hate to say it, Venara, but Serris, Calorah and the rest have a point. This mission of yours is a… frivolity at best, and an indulgence at worst. What should we care about the politics of the shemlen? They are beyond us, as we are beyond them. This is exactly the kind of task that should be given to a youth approaching their Vir Himalen, not the veltassan First!”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were jealous,” Venara said.

“Not at all,” Eledin replied flatly.

Venara sighed. “Do you know what it is I am to do, Eledin?” she said. “This isn’t some simple task. I am not merely observing the movements of the shemlen and seth’lin who are caught up in this war. I am going as a representative of our clan—of Dalish magic—to the largest gathering of mages Thedas has seen in centuries. This war between shemlen, between mage and non-mage… the outcome will affect us all, whether we admit it or not. We must make an effort reach out to the shemlen. I cannot speak for other clans—perhaps they have deemed it fruitless—but we must hear for ourselves what verdict the Conclave chooses. And then we must spread it out our brethren.”

Eledin had withdrawn his second dagger and began flicking it up and down.

“Besides,” Venara continued, “there will be hundreds of shemlen there, with their templars and their Chantry. Is that the kind of explosive situation you would throw our da’vial into? Stop that—” She swiped the second dagger out of his hands. “This is a far more complex matter than Serris and Calorah can understand. For one, they are not mages, and for another they know nothing about shemlen—”

“And you do?” Eledin snorted. “Give me that—”

He made a swipe for the dagger.

“No—” She danced out of reach. “I know enough not to incite any incidents—”

“Venara—” He made another pass for his daggers.

Venara thrust them behind her back. “Will you stop playing with them?” she asked pointedly. “You’re such a child, sometimes I don’t believe you’ve even completed your Vir Himalen.”

“Yes, yes, well done, you’ve seen through my disguise, I’m still a brat,” Eledin said. “Keeps me young at heart. Unlike someone I know, who’s managed to turn into a prissy old lady.”

Venara lifted her chin. “We all have to own up to our responsibilities some time.”

“‘Sometime’ doesn’t mean ‘immediately’, da’ean,” Eledin said. “You’re not Keeper yet.”

“But I will be one day, da’mi.” She handed him his daggers. “Happy now?”

“I’m always happy.” He took the weapons and slid them back into their sheaths. Eledin watched Venara as she returned to her saddlebags and continued to sort through them. “We need you here, Venara,” he said after a moment. “Not in some shemlen conclave. We need our First.”

“If I had any other choice, I would stay.”

“You have a choice,” Eledin said. “Tell her no. Tell her to send a hunter or a master or even me, for Mythal’s sake! Tell her to send Linera if she needs a mage to go so desperately—”

“Linera is fourteen,” Venara interrupted. “Her magic manifested less than two years ago, she’s barely equipped to be Second to the Keeper, let alone a speaker for our clan—”

“We won’t need a speaker for our clan if it falls apart from the inside while you’re gone.”

Venara let out a frustrated sigh. “Don’t start that again—”

“You heard what Hahren Therion said,” Eledin interrupted. “There is great concern that Istimaethoriel’s decisions are not wise—”

“Unpopular does not mean the same thing as foolish—”

“There you go again!” Eledin exclaimed. “You’re always defending her—”

“She’s our Keeper.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to hang on to every word she says.”

“I don’t! And just because some of the clan don’t agree with her decisions doesn’t mean she’s wrong! And it certainly doesn’t give you the right to disrespect her!”

“Fenedhis!” Eledin swore. “I don’t disrespect her. It’s these veltassan trade agreements! Wycome was one thing, but Ansburg and Starkhaven as well—?”

“All three cities lie on our clan’s traditional ground,” Venara said. “If we want to keep the peace between Clan Lavellan and the human settlements, we cannot allow ourselves to continue to be seen as terrifying shadows in the woods. The shemlen must see us for what we are—people, with lives and families and traditions. Not bloodthirsty raiders from the forest.”

“And what happens when one of those cities turns on us?” Eledin said. “When they stop seeing us as complacent travelling merchants and we turn back into threats?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Are you so sure?” Eledin’s nostrils flared.

“I’d like to believe that these dukes and princes will be true to their word,” Venara said.

Eledin shook his head. “‘Never trust a shem,’” he said. “Your grandfather would be disappointed.”

“That’s low, da’ean,” Venara snapped. “Even for you.” She pulled her saddlebags tight and carried them back to her aravel, Eledin on her heels.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Good. Ma serannas.”

But you shouldn’t have mentioned him in the first place.

Venara jumped onto the aravel’s deck. “Look, Eledin,” she said as she crossed to the hatch. “Istimaethoriel is attempting something no other Keeper ever has. I admire her for trying to make a difference, to improve the lives of our clan. It could work, it could fail, but I’d rather do whatever I can to change things than to be complacent and let our lives run their course. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of running from shemlen. I want peace.” She pulled the hatch open and threw the saddlebags inside.

Eledin sighed. “Your head is in the clouds, lethallan.”

“I’d rather have it there than to have it stuck in the mud, ma’falon.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Venara saw Serris and Calorah pass by her aravel, their eyes shooting daggers.

“Be patient!” she called to them. “Your time will come.”

They scattered like squirrels, unable to look her in the eye.

Eledin chuckled. “You’re right,” he said. “It would be a complete disaster if Istimaethoriel sent one of them.”

That night, under the setting sun, Clan Lavellan held the largest feast to occur outside a day of festival. All the cooking fires were lit, and deer and boar that had been caught during the hunt were roasted over them. Prayers of thanks were spoken to Andruil and Sylaise. Food and drink flowed and cheers of celebrations were raised to the sky. It wasn’t long before Hahren Therion decided to stand on a stump and loudly tell an ancient story of Clan Lavellan’s forebearers, the trickster siblings Lavell and Avane, who were said to be touched by Falon’Din and Dirthamen. The children, many of whom had heard this very tale that same day, began to chase each other in an enthusiastic game of tag, weaving their way in and out between the groups of gathered adults. As soon as he was finished his meal, Roshan leapt upon the deck of an aravel and lit the lanterns. Followed by Isena and the clan musicians, Roshan lifted his lute and began to play a wickedly fast tune.

Several elves whooped and cheered, dragging their partners to the centre of the grove where they began to dance. Those who remained sitting laughed and clapped along to the rhythm. Venara watched, joy singing in her heart. She tipped back her earthenware mug and took several sips of fresh mead, then grinned as she watched the dancers spiral to and fro. Across the glade, she saw Serris and Calorah, their young, fresh faces unmarked by vallaslin, slip away from the firelight, hand-in-hand. They seemed quite happier than they had been earlier. Venara smiled and shook her head, returning to the dance and clapping along with to the beat of the musicians’ drum.

Istimaethoriel herself passed from partner to partner, her eyes and cheeks bright beneath the lines and wrinkles of age. Near the centre, Eledin dances with his lover, Nerien; both men were breathless and flushed from exertion and laughter. The music thinned for a moment and Venara glanced up at the aravel to see her father very intently trying to steal a kiss from her mother. Isena eventually relented, pulling Roshan in for a kiss before pushing him back to his lute with a smile.

An elderly voice groaned and sighed as someone sat down beside Venara on her bench. “I miss nights like this. They’re good for the spirit. We should have more of them.”

“I can see why you’d say that, Hahren Therion,” Venara said as she eyed Therion’s mug. Elves of their clan did not drink alcohol, save on nights of festivity.

Therion took a long drink. “Don’t fear, da’len,” he said. “The only thing in which I overindulge is how many times a day I share clan history with the young ones. They never appreciate it.”

Venara chuckled.

“Oh, don’t you start that with me, da’len, you were no better when you were their age. Worse, in fact. You were never one to sit still.” Therion took another drink. “As you are now.”

“Hm. That’s impressive—considering the clan is always on the move.”

Therion scowled. “You’ve been spending time with young Aridhel again. You sound like him.”

“That’s what friends do, hahren,” Venara said. “Spend time together.”

“I must have forgotten that was an integral part of friendship,” Therion said. “I am a very old and very grumpy man, after all.” He ran a hand through his long, grey hair, almost as if to emphasize his point.

“You’re not old, hahren.”

“My dear child, have you not counted the wrinkles on this face? I am ancient.” Therion paused, his eyes flickering to the dancers beyond. “I was born long enough ago to see four Keepers pass through this clan. I hope one day to see my fifth.” He clasped her on the shoulder.

“Thank you, hahren.”

“Mala ahn’aneva lassenera or uralasennan?”

“Hahren!” Venara exclaimed. “Don’t throw that on me, you know my grasp of Elven isn’t the best.”

“Tien ma’addan faleth raon’el. My’gama Uralas.”

Venara made a face. “You’re being unfair. You know I’m learning, even if it’s slow.”

“I hear you’ve learned every curse under the moon easily enough,” Therion said.

“It takes time to learn a language, even one precious to our people.”

“Then make more time,” Therion said. “You could learn from your father’s example. One day you will be the cultural head of this clan. You must know as much of our ancestor’s tongue as you can—and not just the curses.”

“Delltash!” Venara exclaimed. “I’m joking, hahren,” she added hastily as Therion frowned. “I promise to keep that sil’tarem.”

“Havath,” Therion said. “Never forget who you are, da’len. Never forget where you came from.”

“Hahren,” Venara said, “I’m not disappearing forever. I’ll be gone, what, three months at the most? I’ll have returned before you can blink.”

“Are you inferring that because of my age, my eyes are so particularly gunky that I cannot wink with any decent speed?” Therion said with mock offense. He chuckled and shook his head, becoming serious once more. “The world of the shem will change you, da’len, as it is changing this clan. It will change you whether you are prepared for it or not. No matter what happens while you are at this Conclave, never forget who you are.” He squinted towards the firelight. “I believe you are being called.”

Venara glanced across the glade and saw Eledin, Nerien and several of the clan’s young hunters waving frantically at her. She smiled fondly at Therion as her parents’ voices rose, once again, in song. “You don’t have to worry about me, hahren,” she said. “But I appreciate that you do.” She kissed him gently on the cheek, then allowed herself to be swept off into the next dance.

It was well into the night when the revelry finally slowed and the elves of Clan Lavellan tumbled into their beds. Unable to sleep, Venara picked up a discarded cloak and threw it around her shoulders as she sat by the embers of a dying fire. The night had grown cool, but it was still pleasant. She sighed contentedly as she gazed up at the stars above.

“I’m glad you were able to have one night of enjoyment before you leave.”

Venara smiled as Istimaethoriel approached and sat beside her. “It was nice,” Venara said.

“I’m glad.” Istimaethoriel took her hand. “I must admit, da’len, I do not wish to see you go. But I must. Thedas is at a crossroads and we cannot wait in ignorance for a path to be chosen for us.”

“I know.”

“In some ways, our clan is also at a crossroads,” Istimaethoriel continued. “Some among us are… restless about my choices.”

“I know.”

“But they also know that everything I do, I do for the betterment of our clan.” Istimaethoriel met Venara’s gaze. “You understand that, don’t you, Venara?”

“Yes.”

“Which is why,” Istimaethoriel continued solemnly, “upon your return, da’len, you will be made Keeper.”

Venara’s breath caught in her throat. “You can’t!”

“It’s time,” Istimaethoriel said. For the first time, though her face was barely lit by the struggling light of the dying fire, Venara saw her age. Every line, every wrinkle, the greying auburn hair, the wearied eyes. How had she never realized how tired she was?

“Deshenna—” Venara began. She rarely addressed the Keeper by her sal’melin.

“Nothing you can say will convince me otherwise,” Istimaethoriel interrupted. “Like all things, my time as protector of this clan nears its end. I have done what I can, in the manner I saw best. It is time another takes my place. Someone young, someone with a vision. Someone who understand the other peoples with whom we share this earth.” Istimaethoriel gently touched the side of Venara’s face. “That is why I am sending you to the shemlen conclave. If it was merely to understand the fate of human and seth’lin mages after the massacre at Kirkwall, I could send any other. But you are to go. You are to observe. And you are to learn, first-hand, about the human nations of Thedas so you can protect our people better than I ever could.”

“I don’t understand,” Venara said, rising to her feet. “You’re talking as if your life is over!”

Istimaethoriel smiled. “It’s not. I suspect I have many years left. But, for the good of the clan, my time must come to an end before I create too many divisions among us.” She chuckled. “You are no sapling, either, emm’asha. In other clans you may have very well been named Keeper years ago.”

“What about Linera?” Venara asked. “She adores you, she—”

“There is nothing to prevent her from spending time with an old lady,” Istimaethoriel said. “But she will become your First. And it will be your responsibility to instruct her in our ways.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“But ultimately it is not your decision, da’len,” Istimaethoriel said. “It’s mine. And I believe that it is time you stepped out from my shadow.” She gripped Venara’s hands firmly. “Go to the Conclave. We will be here when you return… Keeper Isena.”

Venara remained still as Istimaethoriel’s hands slipped from hers and the old Keeper walked away, fading into the darkness. Instead of returning to her aravel, Venara remained by the fire , watching the embers slowly flicker and die.

Keeper Isena... It was a thought she could deal with later.

When she returned.

The morning dawned in a haze of pink and grey. Despite her lack of sleep, Venara did not feel exhaustion as she found her hart in his enclosure and slowly saddled him. As she attached her saddlebags, she nodded to Marana and Ileren, who were also preparing their mounts. The hart bowed his great antlered head and nipped at Venara’s fingers as she fondly brushed his coat. They would depart soon. Though the fastest method of travel would be to take a ship from Wycome and sail to Jader, Marana had decided on a route less travelled. Being on a ship with shemlen for two weeks had little appeal to her.

“It will be all right,” Venara murmured as she patted the hart’s side. She wasn’t entirely sure if she was speaking to him or to herself.

“Da’len.”

Venara spun around. “Pa!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms. As she embraced him fiercely, she saw her mother smiling at them from nearby. “You didn’t have to come say goodbye,” she said. “I won’t be gone for long.”

“On the contrary,” Roshan said. “I think most of the clan wishes to say goodbye.”

He glanced behind him. Venara followed his gaze and saw many of her clan going about their business in the haze of morning light.

“I’ll be back,” Venara said. She glanced at Isena and saw the worry lines around her eyes and mouth. “Don’t worry, Mamae,” she added, leaving her father and wrapping her arms around her mother.

“I’m not worried,” Isena said.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Isena laughed. “All right, maybe I am a little worried. But more importantly, I’m proud of you, emm’asha.” She pushed a lock of stray hair behind Venara’s ear. “And you will do your clan proud. Thedas will remember the name Lavellan for many ages.” Isena hugged her tight and kissed her cheek.

“You’ve been defined by your future for so long,” Roshan said. “It’s time you took flight.”

“It’s a mission, Pa,” Venara said. “Nothing more.” She purposefully kept quiet about what Istimaethoriel had said. That would stay secret until she returned.

“Maybe,” Roshan replied. “But even so, you’ll come back to us your own person.”

“Venara!” Marana’s voice called.

Venara glanced behind her to see that Marana and Ileren were already mounted and ready to go. “I’ll see you soon,” she murmured, taking in one last good look at her family. Then she ripped herself away from her parents, swung her staff across her shoulders and pulled herself into the saddle.

The clan stood in two lines as Venara, Marana and Ileren rode through the camp and out of the glade. Venara looked over the familiar faces of her people as she trotted forwards—Istimaethoriel, Therion, the hahrens, the hunters, the masters, the craftsmen, people she had known and loved all twenty-seven years of her life. She saw Eledin near the front, his hand raised in farewell as she passed.

“Dareth shiral, da’ean.”

“Dareth shiral, da’mi.”

As the harts and their riders reached the edge of camp, Venara heard a clear voice rise behind her in song. It was then joined by another. Roshan and Isena, together, as they often were, in music, a song of farewell falling from their lips. They were followed by another and another until all of Clan Lavellan was joined in song as its future Keeper rode out into the woods towards her unexpected fate.

***​

That was now in the far distant past. A fleeting memory. A different time, a different person. Marana and Ileren were dead, killed in the Conclave explosion. Venara had not returned to her clan, had never become Keeper Isena. She was Inquisitor Lavellan now.

And Inquisitor Lavellan stood in the Skyhold war room, still as a statue, a letter gripped tightly in her hand.

Da'len,

I know not whether this will reach you. The Duke of Wycome is dead, and the soldiers of Wycome blame us. All the elves in the city have been killed, blamed for some plague that only strikes down humans. Now they hunt us as well.

Most of the clan is already dead.

Live well, da'len. You carry Clan Lavellan with you. They are coming for us.

They are coming for us.

Venara stared at the letter, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. She read the passage again.

They are coming for us.

It was written in Istimaethoriel’s hand. She had spent twenty years reading it, she could recognize it anywhere.

They are coming for us.

She could see it happening, dreamlike, in her mind’s eye. The burning aravels, the wounded elves fleeing on injured limbs into the night, the dead left to rot where they fell, the swarm of shemlen, coming with fire and swords and daggers—

Her parents struck down by arrows.

Istimaethoriel cut down by swords.

Gone in an instant.

They are coming for us.

Foolish, foolish Istimaethoriel. That is what others would come to call her, though Venara herself would never say it. Made a deal with the shemlen, a deal that put her clan in a position where they could be blamed for something they did not do. Made a deal with devils in human flesh, a deal that turned her people into animals for the slaughter. Scapegoated. Accused. Executed. Istimaethoriel had been wrong. Shemlen could never be trusted. Not in the Free Marches, certainly not in Tevinter, nor in Orlais or Fereldan or even, maybe, the Inquisition.

They are coming for us.

Her throat was tight. Her eyes prickled. Her skin felt as though it was on fire. And what with her erratic magic, for all she knew, she very well could be.

“Inquisitor?” Leliana asked tentatively.

Venara stared wildly around the war table, taking in the faces of her advisors. Leliana had roused them all from their sleep. Only she remained in her day clothes, looking her poised and calculating self. Cullen, his hair mussed from sleep, had hastily thrown on his armour and sword in a bid to look respectable. Josephine, her hair damp from a bath, was both without her writing board and her usual composure. Her eyes flickered back and forth between Venara and Leliana as she tugged worriedly at her white robe. She resembled a ghost more than anything else.

“How did this happen?” Venara said, tasting bile in her mouth. “You were to protect them, not destroy them!”

“Inquisitor, I am so sorry for your loss—”

“Sorry?” Venara’s jaw clenched. “Sorry? Where were your agents, Leliana? Where were your agents when my people were being hunted and killed?”

Leliana was eerily calm, her face like stone. “They were under orders to deal with the Duke of Wycome—”

“Were they under orders to let a whole clan of innocents be murdered?” Venara hissed.

“No, Inquisitor, never, but—”

“Alorien Mahariel is Dalish, is she not?” Venara said. “And you were her dear friend once, were you not? You fought at her side in the Fifth Blight, you watched her kill the archdemon—what would she make of this? Of you?”

Leliana closed her eyes. “Please, Inquisitor, do not bring her into this—”

“What would she make of this?!” Venara roared. Josephine let out a gasp, startled by Venara’s ferocity. Cullen put a hand on her shoulder. Leliana remained still. “What would she think of her dear old friend inciting the incident that led to the death of an entire Dalish clan?”

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, you are also complicit,” Leliana said darkly. “I warned you there would be risks, that assassination was a dangerous path to take, with many unseen consequences. But did you listen? No. You wanted results and I gave them to you—Duke Antoine is dead. As you requested.”

Venara froze. Her whole body shook as dawning horror rooted her to her spot. She looked across the war table at Leliana, who was framed by the great windows that ran ceiling-to-floor. Usually they provided a grand view of the mountains beyond the castle. Now they were black as night, with no moon or stars beyond.

“I receive my orders from you,” Leliana continued. “I did as you wished. Grieve how you must, but if you seek blame, do not waste your energy on me. Rather look to those who took the lives of your clan—”

“Fen’Harel take you, Leliana!” Venara spat. She felt a cautious hand on her arm and she forcefully pushed it away. “Don’t touch me, Josephine!”

Josephine backed away a few paces, her eyes wide.

“Perhaps we should all go to bed,” she said. “We can… discuss this matter further in the morning, if Lady Venara wishes—”

“Don’t, Josephine,” Venara said. “I know you mean well, but… don’t.”

Josephine lowered her head. Her long black hair—loosened from its usual bun—fell in front of her face like a shadow.

Cullen cautiously approached Venara. “Inquisitor,” he said. He paused. “Venara. I know how difficult this must be—”

Venara’s eyes flashed. “No. You don’t.”

“But if there is anything any of us can do, you must let us know—”

The cold laughter wasn’t supposed to come bubbling up out of her, but once it started, it was difficult to stop. “You can burn the city of Wycome to the ground,” she said.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“THEN WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOOD FOR?” Venara shouted. She shoved past Cullen, the force of her push nearly knocking him into the war table. She began to pace, one hand pressed to her chest, the other crushing the letter in a fist, her breathing nearly coming in gasps.

“Venara,” Cullen began again, “I’m sorry that this has happened—I can’t express how sorry I am. None of us can. Take your time to grieve. But we cannot lose you to it—”

Venara hissed and Josephine shrieked in surprise as she disappeared in a flash of blue and white light. She reappeared by the massive windows, several paces away. She prowled back and forth like a wounded animal, her fingers gripping Istimaethoriel’s final letter so hard she almost tore it. Her left hand began to glow.

Cullen exchanged looks with Leliana and Josephine.

“Inquisitor—Venara, please!” Cullen called. “Please, listen to us. We cannot lose you to this. Not now. Not with the peace talks at Halamshiral a month away, not when Orlais’ fate still hangs in the balance, not when Corypheus—”

“VELTASSAN!” Venara’s eyes blazed. Her left hand curled into a fist, green light twisted around it. “Damn Corypheus and damn you, Cullen! Don’t you understand? Don’t any of you understand? I don’t care. I don’t give a damn about Corypheus anymore—or Fade rifts or Venatori or Red Templars or veltassan Orlesians or ANY OF IT! Ra elana ga’nuis in abanal sul’garar Mytherein enra!”

Though they could not understand the words, Josephine, Cullen and Leliana understood the tone. They glanced at each other, none of them willing to break the terrifying silence that had fallen.

“Wherever you go, Inquisitor,” Cullen said carefully, “whatever you do, Corypheus is still your enemy. As long as you have the anchor, you remain a threat to him—”

“No,” Venara said hollowly. “My enemy is Wycome. And all the fearful, foolish shemlen who thought they could murder my clan without retribution. They are marked now. Falon’Din will come for them.”

Josephine’s eyes widened in shock. “Venara,” she said desperately, “please, you—you cannot mean you intend to… to go to Wycome and—”

“What I intend is no longer your concern.”

“Whatever actions you take will always be our concern,” Leliana interrupted flatly. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, you are Inquisitor.”

“As if my title could stop me!” Venara snarled. She paused and looked between them. How could she ever trust them again, when they had led her to… to this? How could she trust them when they were… when they were…

When they were human.

Shemlen.

Never trust a shem.

And that’s what her advisors were.

Shems.

“I was supposed to be a symbol,” Venara said coldly. The green light from her marked hand curled upwards, circling around her forearm until it reached her elbow. “You made me a symbol, against my wishes, for your shemlen religion and your Inquisition. And then it became something else. Of what the elves could grow to be. By making me Inquisitor, you showed the world that elves are worthy of respect, that we’re more than nomads and slaves and servants and apostates and knife ears.”

Cullen folded his arms, lips pressed together. Leliana stared right at her, eyes unblinking. Only Josephine had the grace to accept what she was hearing—she lowered her gaze solemnly.

“But you were wrong,” Venara said. “You and Cassandra—you were all wrong. I’m not a symbol. Not one that you shemlen believe. I can close the Breach, I can close every damn rift under the sun, I can stop a demon army, I can walk physically in the Fade twice, but no matter how high I reach, it will never, ever stop your people from slaughtering mine.”

Leliana slowly approached her. “Inquisitor, you of all people should now not all humans are alike. The men and women of Wycome—”

“ENOUGH!”

Istimaethoriel’s last letter burst into flame and crumpled into ash in Venara’s hand. Leliana’s eyes darted to it, but if she was panicked by this sudden emergence of primal magic, she did not show it.

“Do not defend yourself to me, Leliana!” Venara shouted. “Not when half the servants in the Inquisition, in the lowest positions, are elves. Not when your lowest, most disposable agents are elves. Not when not a one of you will even dare to help me and mine.”

“You are hurting, my lady, I know—”

“This is your doing, spymaster!” Venara cried. “Your apologies are hollow. You pushed me to take the quickest route. You told me to put my faith in your agents. You asked me to trust you. And I did. AND NOW THEY ARE GONE!”

There was a terrible silence. Venara had seized Leliana and pushed her backwards so that she fell against the lip of the war table. Her right hand gripped the spymaster’s shoulder where it connected to her neck, and she was squeezing it, squeezing it so that her fingernails dug in and Leliana’s pale skin turned red. Venara’s left hand, still covered in ash from the burnt letter, glowed brightly, the anchor shining through its ashy veneer, tendrils of green magic crawling up her arm.

One breath.

Cullen and Josephine stared at her, their expressions horrified. Cullen’s hand hovered above his sword hilt.

Two breaths.

Leliana closed her eyes, her expression peaceful. Venara knew this was not the first time an angry mage had lashed out at her.

Three breaths.

Venara exhaled. Her fingers loosened their grip. Leliana pulled away from her grasp, coughing and rubbing her neck.

“You can relax, Cullen,” Leliana said. “Your templar talents are not required—and I think it would be unwise to use them on the Inquisitor, no?”

Venara stiffened, her back straight as a rod as she looked at her advisors. Cullen still had not lowered his hand; Josephine worriedly bit her lip, her hands pressed to her chest; Leliana rubbed her neck, her face now shadowed by her hood.

“I’m… sorry,” Venara whispered hoarsely. “Leliana—I shouldn’t have—I acted out of anger… I…”

They continued to stare at her, no more relaxed than she was. Leliana was the calmest of them all, but then, she was always calm.

“I was out of line,” Venara continued, looking wildly between them. She had attacked one of her advisors… she had attacked Leliana. But the shock of what she had done could not cover the shock of knowing her family, her clan, was gone. All of her muscles were crying for her to run, to flee, to hide somewhere she could never be found. Somewhere where she could never be hurt again. “I shall… I will keep my grief in check. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt...”

They were still staring at her like she was some kind of criminal.

Like they were frightened of her.

The green light continued to glow, slowly encircling her, tendrils reaching up and around her body.

“Return to your chambers,” Venara said. “This council is over.”

She turned, back straight as a rod, and pushed her way through the war room’s great oak doors. She walked stiffly down the hall, slowly at first, terrified that one of them would come after her. Only when she heard the doors slam shut did her walk break into a sprint. And she ran—ran like a frightened hall—down the corridor and out into the great hall and through the castle.

And only then did her tears finally begin to fall.

---

ELVEN WORDS AND PHRASES

Da’ean — little bird
Da’mi — little blade
Da’vial—youth
Veltassan — an elven equivalent of the F word.
Vir Himalen — “the path of growth”/“the path of coming of age”. Ritual quest the youth of Clan Lavellan must complete in order to prove they are ready for adulthood and gain their vallaslin
Ma serannas — my thanks/thank you
Lethallan — clansman/clanswoman, one who is familiar
Ma’falon — my friend
“Mala ahn’aneva lassenera or uralasennan?” — “Now, what are the five principles of leadership?”
“Tien ma’addan faleth raon’el. My’gama Uralas.” — “Then you should make it better. You will be Keeper, after all.”
Sil’tarem — in mind/in thoughts
Havath — Good
Sal’melin — first name
Emm’asha — my girl
Dareth shiral — farewell
“Ra elana ga’nuis in abanal sul’garar Mytherein enra!” — “It can all burn in hell for all I care and the Inquisition along with it!”

Thank you for reading!

 

I am still reading, I apologize for being so slow!

IX.
I like the banter early in the chapter. There's a really interesting mix of personalities gathered! And I like that they tried to call a truce, even knowing it was futile (and almost deadly!), I appreciate why they needed to do it.

X.
I like the shifting back and forth in time - having glimpses of the battle, and then scenes of the fallout works really well.

I especially like the scene with Solas, and this line: His words were cold and fierce, like winter’s frost stinging the skin.

Sad to see Alistair meet his end, but he has a great last line: “Pity you’re so ugly!” he shouted. “I’d’ve liked to fight a dragon one more time, but I guess you’ll have to do.” Nice!

 

Mira_Jade

Ehh, Solas is off doing his own things. It would have been nice if he could have been there, as Venara expected, but they'd probably just end up continuing their argument from earlier. I tossed around several ideas with who would be the best person to meet her (it came down to Josephine and Dorian), and decided that Dorian was the best, especially since I hadn't incorporated his perspective into the story yet.

I'm so glad the juxtaposition worked for you! That's exactly the effect I was going for. You're absolutely correct in saying that Venara is on a precipice right now. We'll see if she falls off.

Tarsier

Oh, no worries! Take your time. The banter in IX was a lot of fun, they're an interesting collection of characters (Hawke's the protagonist of Dragon Age 2, my partner's in the middle of her playthrough). The style in X came about because I didn't want to novelize events as they happen in the game. I find that's kind of futile, since it's a battle I've experienced 12 times now and it always has the same progression. For readers who have played the game, going over those events doesn't really do anything, I think. But that's just me. I'm glad the style choice works for you!

A/N: So, I'm at a bit of a crossroads right now. I haven't updated on here for a while because even though I've written new chapters, I'm having trouble editing the content so that it meets TOS. The story has taken a darker turn and its content reflects that. I'm not just editing f-words out of the dialogue anymore, I have to re-adjust descriptive passages and certain events as well. It's a lot of work for a story that already takes a lot of energy and time to write.

Anyway, I'm stuck and undecided as to what to do so I can keep posting it here (if you have advice, I'd gladly take it). In the mean time, the story can be found on my ff.net profile and A03 account if you're still interested in reading it (warning that it is rated M). It is currently at Chapter 24 and updates on Tuesdays.

 

Chapter XIX: A Matter of Trust

Great interplay between the two v's, Venara and Vivienne, and an excellent job making the ship and marine voyage, feel real, and put the reader on the ship with them.

I enjoyed Vivienne revealing something of herself, with her own portrait experience...those Oriels sound like a people that need levelling with a wrecking ball.

You create and navigate politics really well.

Great work.

PS. In the previous chapter, when the V Team rescued their Inquisitor from that femme with the mask, great to see a fanfic character that isn't one of mine, in skirts.