More than a Tidbit
This is not a new work, but rather a reflection to a piece I wrote back at the beginning of the year. For my dragon age followers, I'm throwing you a bone here. I am so sorry that I left you behind when my hyperfixation fled in may. I'm afraid that I don't classify my story as abandoned, just that I haven't had time to write it and also work on my Doctor Who works with my schedule. Today I'm taking a bit of time to look back at the 105,614 words I've written and published over the course of 2025, and this bit really stood out to me.
They made their camp at dusk within a thicker copse of trees in the shelter of a hill. Enya’s heart went out to the dwarf, for though he seemed quite jovial after their dinner, he found every excuse not to rise from his seat in the dancing firelight. She watched the deep regret when the beer he’d drunk caught up with him and he was forced to hobble bow-legged into the the dark. She rummaged through her pack again in search of the wooden box of thick elvyradara salve and tossed it onto his bedroll.
Enya settled onto her own. She planted her elbows on her knees, leaning her chin on her right hand as she watched the flames twist about the logs. They burned quickly, unhindered by Solas’ magic and the heat chewed away the wood like a flood dredges soil from a riverbank. She tossed another log in, just to be safe, loath to take the chance of losing the warmth. A spray of sparks leapt into the air as the fresh wood landed in the coals with a muted thunk. Cassandra glanced up from the shield clasped in her hands, her eyes following the little flecks of light upward. The Inquisition's symbol was emblazoned on a tabard of thin leather which she’d draped across the face of the metal. The pure white paint had been marred by the fighting in the days that followed the Conclave and worn by their travel. Enya’s eyes lingered upon it, searching for some meaning in the eye, but if this sigil bore clues for her, she lacked the knowledge to fully recognize them.
"Do you know what it means?" Cassandra asked kindly.
Enya glanced up at her, surprised her gaze had been noticed. She shook her head.
"You’ve probably guessed that we did not settle on this symbol on a whim," she explained, "The eye symbolizes our watchful presence. It is surrounded by the sunrays of the Chantry, to show the Maker’s omnipotence and and to show our actions are his will," The warrior pressed her hand to the white paint, "It has long served the Seekers of Truth as a symbol of our faith, as it once was a symbol of the original Inquisition.”
Enya frowned, “That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think? Claiming your actions are your god’s will?”
The Seeker raised her eyebrows, “We act in accordance with the Chant of Light, the teachings of Andraste. As she was his bride, it follows that her teachings dictate his will.”
“And that is enough for you?” she questioned, “It seems like it sets a dangerous precedent. Who determines what interpretation of ‘The Maker’s Will’ is correct?”
Cassandra lowered her shield to the ground and fixed Enya in a stern stare, “The Maker’s will is interpreted by the Divine first and her Grand Clerics after. That is why her loss is so devastating to Thedas, and why her murder is so destabilizing.”
The warrior’s expression darkened, and Enya bit back her remark about the prejudice of clerics like Roderick interpreting the will of the Maker. The freshness of grief still hovered about Cassandra, even if the Seeker bore it well.
“And if they do something wrong?” Enya asked softly, “Who ensures that people don’t use the Maker’s will to justify their own self-interest?”
Cassandra’s eyes fell to the shield at her feet and she clasped her hands together, “I do. Or rather that is the responsibility of the Seekers of Truth.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the quiet tink of the glass phial in Varric’s hand, from which he withdrew a pale aster-yellow oil. He used a small dropper to settle it into the joint’s of Bianca’s arms, and the clip into which the string of the crossbow slotted. Enya drew a deep breath, held it for a moment and then set it free again, blowing the air through her lips. She felt her shoulders soften, the muscle letting go of the knots left by two days of heavy ringmail pressing upon them and the side to side sway of the horses. Her marked hand burned as it had the night before, a deep searing lance that crept up her arm.
“Is that why you claim I am a prophet?”
The words slipped free, a question which she had not yet meant to bring to the light of day. Cassandra’s eyes narrowed for a moment as she regarded Enya with unhidden suspicion. Did the Seeker suspect she was laying out bait, trying to lure her into some hypocritical answer?
“It is not merely a claim, Herald. I believe it. Using it to gain favor across Thedas is the purview of Leliana and Josephine, but I dare say, they have faith that it is true just as much as I.”
Her brown eyes blazed with an internal fortitude that came from deeply cherished certainty. At once, Enya was struck by the intensity of the Seeker's conviction. At odds with her own as it was, distasteful as she found the notion of perpetuating this lie, she wished for a moment that she truly was this divine figure Cassandra envisioned. But there were no gods moving the pieces, only the lingering whispers of their teachings passed generation to generation among her people. Enya’s gaze fell, staring out toward the sliver of horizon she could just make out over the now distant mountains.
“I’ve never-” Cassandra began haltingly, “You have not openly denied these claims, not since we first put them to you. Does that mean that you- Do you believe you are chosen? That you are part of a greater plan?”
Enya pressed her lips together, neither a frown, nor a smile, but a simple focused expression as she returned her attention to the Seeker. The humans, the dwarves, even many of the city elves were Andrastian. Of course it would not occur with any immediacy to this woman, who’d spent her entire life within the structure of her society, to question that she also saw the Maker as her creator.
“The Dalish hold to our Gods, Cassandra,” Her hand drifted to her neck where, buried beneath the yellow scarf, her ironbark pendant hung on a tough leather cord, “Mythal, our mother goddess. The protector.”
She explained as she held it out for the other warrior to see. Cassandra’s brows furrowed.
“She is my patron, the god whose traits I most exemplified as I trained to be a hunter. But there are others. Andruil, to whom we pray before a hunt. Sylaise, we thank for our homes and fires. Ghilan’nain who tended the first halla…”
"And there is no room in your gods for one more?" the warrior shook her head as soon as the words left her tongue.
"I am sorry, herald. Your faith is your own, as mine belongs to me. You could just as easily ask me to accept your gods as my own, and it would leave the same feeling of falseness in me to try," she reached out to lift her shield from the ground at her feet, "I am not accustomed to meeting someone who has never known the Maker’s light. Certainly those who have lost hope in him, but rarely one who never believed."
Enya turned back to the fire and stared into its depths, her fingers slowly rubbing the figure of Mythal, absently, "I understand. The elves in Haven all believe in the Sh-" she stopped herself from finishing the word and corrected, "the human Maker. Most only know the Creators when they curse."
“There are those within my faith who only know the Maker when they wish for his favor,” Cassandra nodded in understanding, and then her brow furrowed, "If the Inquisition is to act as a guide for the people of Thedas, we cannot be as those people. Its leaders must overcome the things we have been taught to think of each other if we are, indeed, striving for peace."
Through the flickering flames, Enya saw Solas smile, though his eyes were already closed as he lay on his bedroll. Had he only just woken to Cassandra’s impassioned tone, or had he merely been feigning peaceful slumber? It mattered not, for the Seeker’s words struck a similar chord in her. Relief. No more words came but Enya found herself ruminating on what she had almost said. A simple slip, habit really, but as easily as Cassandra had asked her to put aside her gods as though they were toys to be played with, she had nearly done the same in return. Disrespect could come as fluidly as water flowing from the stream, and as limited as both were willing to admit their experiences were, there was a part of the elf that felt she had not adequately expressed that she faced the same challenge. Letting go of her expectations of humanity would take longer than a simple conversation, but she could at least start with resolving to never let the word Shemlan make it to her lips again.
If you enjoyed this and wish to read more: The Destiny We Choose
Eventual, slow burn Solavellan (glacial slow-burn).
If you read this fic, playing the game is not required. Read it as a novel, its that comprehensive and assumes you know little about the world. You can pick up basically everything through context of my main character, Enya. She will ground you in this world.
Just saying. *wink*
