[Spoiler warning: No spoilers for Veilguard or Last Flight, apart from the fact that Garahel (Hero of the fourth blight) had a mage sister!]
Frankly, Isseya anticipated Garahel to forget about her as soon as she was taken to the circle.
It would’ve been expected. Her brother had always been the one to drag her forwards, finding new ways for them to fight for another day. With no parents, each day was a struggle for survival -- to find food, find shelter, find a place to be safe for just a moment, until they could do it all again the next morning.
She doesn’t know why he does it. Maybe he felt responsible for her, somehow. They didn’t know which one of them was older, but they were certain they came from the same family. Even if Garahel had hair that was a glossier gold, even if Isseya’s nose was a little flatter. They knew they were siblings, and that they were all the family they had left in this world.
But Isseya knew she was a burden. She knew Garahel would be so much more capable on his own, if he didn’t need to keep looking behind him to check if she was keeping up. So when her magic was discovered and the templars came, Isseya sat with the feeling that settled in her heart, and said goodbye to her brother as if it was the last time they would ever talk.
Then he sends her a letter.
Sisitr. I lov yoo. I miz yoo. frm Gar.
Isseya can only read this because since she had been taken to the circle, for the first time in her life, she had adult teachers that taught her to read and write. The Garahel she had left behind wouldn’t have been able to read or write either.
He had somehow learned it, since she’d left, all to send her a letter.
For the first time since coming here, Isseya forgets her fear of the templars and nags them with questions to hell and back, asking about the boy who left this letter, asking how she could send one back. They wave her off initially, but Isseya doesn’t let up. If the guards start to ignore her, she waits until they’re replaced by the guards of the next shift, and she repeats herself with them.
Eventually, a templar takes pity on her and tells her of a blond boy, shorter than Isseya, who would appear outside the tower every now and again and nag the people entering until someone was willing to deliver a letter to his sister.
Not everyone was willing, but this templar promised her that she’d figure something out -- so long as Isseya behaved, please. And could she tell her brother to behave as well.
Contact with the outside world was generally dissuaded with mages within the circle. Not outright forbidden, and mages were more than welcome to communicate with mages from other circles. Mail flowed freely from the pens of people who had nothing better to do than read. But contact with family was made intentionally difficult, with the expectation that families outside would eventually give up. There was no future to look forward to, no eventual reunion to wait for. Once a mage entered the circle, they were there for the rest of their life.
But Garahel continues to write. His penmanship improves into something more confident, quick and impatient. His scrawl becomes so comfortable that it loops back around to being difficult to read. Isseya hangs on to every piece of paper, every scrap her brother tears from parchment not being used, in order to bridge the gap between them with ink and determination.
I found work in the city. They think im small but i can scrub boots and that is enough.
The templar is true to her word. A couple times a month, Isseya seeks her out and exchanges letters with the templar -- giving something she’s written, and receiving a piece in return.
Some adults in the alienage give me food when I act hungry enough. Sometimes I lie, but don’t tell them.
Isseya hangs onto every word, the curve of every line, the splatter of ink on each corner and the stains that mark each page. She thinks the things she tells Garahel in return are far less interesting, but also thinks that if she stopped writing -- maybe he will stop too, so she doesn’t.
hey, you do nothing but read books there, right? do you read stuff about seeing in the dark. I think im getting better at it somehow
Each letter she gets, she thinks it’s the last. She’d never voice it, because to voice it would somehow… bring it into existence. Outwardly, Isseya continues this exchange and carries on with her life, just like her brother is carrying on with his. The Garahel she knows, the one she still knows, would continue to knock on opportunity’s door, never stopping. She never wants him to.
Might be gone for a bit, but I will send a letter as soon as I can.
Inwardly, she’s fully prepared to never hear from him ever again.
Isseya’s not sure where this belief comes from, but it's so firmly rooted that she doesn’t even interrogate it. Because obviously, one day Garahel will stop writing to her. He will grow up, find people he would care more about than the sister he has not seen in a decade. He will move on. It’s what was best for him, and when that happens, Isseya would be happy and proud.
They’d been writing since they were kids, and it was something they would eventually grow out of. Something to leave behind, once youth falls away.
Sister, I’m back! Finally. Don’t let it be said that your dearest brother wouldn’t fight pirates to get back to you. Guess what I did on my last job?
They’re both of age now; at least, to their best guesses -- the two of them were never quite sure of their ages and birthdays, and just picked ones that fit best. Garahel had grown into a man, quick and sharp-witted, with blades to match. Isseya’s training in the circle was complete, and she had passed her harrowing without incident.
It strikes Isseya suddenly one day, when she exchanges letters with the templar who has become her friend. The templar’s hair had lightened to an ashy grey, and she talked to Isseya about her upcoming retirement. Talked about how, with her gone, Isseya might have to find another way to send letters to her brother.
Isseya is distinctly surprised when her first thought upon learning this is: Maybe I can give them to him myself.
The thought is sudden and swift and terrifying. How on earth was she going to do that? How was that even possible? Why did she even consider such a thing possible, why did she even dare to want it?
…Did she actually dare?
To desire is to be vulnerable. It meant having hopes that could be disappointed, expectations what could be unmet. Garahel was the dreamer, not her. Garahel was the one who chased, who dared to push forwards, to risk and love and live.
Isseya is the one stuck in the tower with no future to look forward to.
Except, maybe, maybe --
Sister, I met some grey wardens in town. They are thinking of recruiting me, but I said no. I said that this is my place here, and I didn’t plan on leaving. I think I made the right choice.
Isseya stares at the page. Stares at her brother’s handwriting. Wonders what he looks like now, after so many years.
Yo it's me again, could we get some general dating headcanons for jay?(askewniverse) thanks champ
Jay constantly flirting with you and dropping pick up lines as though you aren't dating him
They're usually whatever comes to mind at the moment which means you may have heard them before but he knows this and it won’t stop him from repeating them
Granted he’s not one for quiet so if you’re dating him you might get one of two things: pick up lines or a rambling train of thought
Will share his weed with you if you smoke, and if you don’t he’s chill with that. Long as you don’t criticize him for it, he’s not gonna try and convince you otherwise
Although if you do tell him you want to try, he’s planning it out so you can have the best experience possible
Dates with Jay are completely random and can range from getting dinner, walking around the mall, or going to some party that he heard was happening
Sometimes dates can be third-wheeling at the Quick Stop because let’s be honest, if you’re dating Jay then you have to be cool with Silent Bob
Totally makes you mixtapes although most of the time there’s no rhyme or reason to the songs he’s chosen
Meaning that you’ll have no idea what artists or genres or anything that Jay has thought of putting together which makes for utter chaos and also a great way of finding new music
Finding yourself on a Silent Bob level of being able to understand and translate Jay’s own slang
He’s picked up a thing or two regarding giving decent advice with his hanging out with Silent Bob, so when you need it he can be a go to. Or just will sit and listen while you rant if that’s what you need in the moment
Totally has tried to teach you any and all of the dances he makes up
Always cracking jokes because he likes hearing you laugh. Half the time they might be knock knock jokes but it’s really whatever will get you to laugh, he’s become tuned into whatever that might end up being
Doesn’t mind PDA at all although he will adapt to your comfort level and doesn’t try to push his luck with anything if PDA isn’t your thing
Compliments you any chance he has. And yes the compliments are typical things regarding what outfit you have on or how you’ve styled your hair
But also very odd compliments like you’d be a crows best friend’ or ‘you’re so nice that mosquitoes feel guilty biting you’
He loves you and honestly there’s not one day with Jay that’s going to be the same as the next, it’s all a bit of chaos
Tag List: @thatguy-thisguy-yourguy / ask to be added
First off if you're overwhelmed or the inbox is full of ship requests than you do not have to do mine, I know what ship events can get like and I don't wanna stress you out. If you're fine with doing another one then here's my ask.
Name: Noah.
Gender & Pronouns Genderflux. He/They.
Sexuality: Gay.
Fandom: Peaky Blinders.
Relationship: Romantic.
Love Language: Quality Time.
Physical Traits: Tall. Long Hair. Blue Eyes. Glasses. A stupid amount of scars from varying dumb injuries. I tend to look pissed off a lot because I never smile (which like, isn't due to anything I just don't)
Personality Traits: Shy until comfortable. I swear a lot. Sarcasm. Quiet most of the time which unnerves people. Can be loud if around friends. Always with a bad joke or a movie quote or some bad reference. Mainly makes myself laugh but oh well.
Hobbies: Playing guitar, listening to music, making or watching movies, reading, writing, wandering around places I probably shouldn't (is it trespassing if the place is abandoned?), photography
Likes/Dislikes: I'm an introvert so give me space and let me move at my own pace. If you actually take an interest in shit I care about well then we're cool with one another. Generally don't be an asshole and actually listen to what people say.
Choice: 2
Listen, I'm bad at describing myself so like. If none of what I've put here helps just let me know
noah u are the realest and i appreciate you so much. also don’t worry i’m on the craziest roll right now i could do 100 more of these and i probably will bdhsjsbsh
i ship you with…
John Shelby !!!
when he needs an escape, he asks you to play your music for him. it drowns out the repetitive sounds of gunfire and violence, it makes you his safe place
he tries to roughhouse with you to get a rise out of you, but it usually turns into talking and cuddles wherever you two land
you insist on accompanying him on his “business,” which is more of an observant role to help. if anyone gets snippy or suspicious of you, he won’t hesitate to set them straight
Someone who does care about you and is loyal, but also someone that has…issues.
Mainly anger. One that you try and help him control.
He can always see in your noise that you’re concerned for him, trying to do the best you can with him.
He does appreciate it.
You both have each other’s back. Always. No matter what it is.
He gets in a fight? You bet your ass you’re in there too.
Cillian and Ben raise you both as if you’re brothers.
You are both the youngest of the town, constantly counting down till your birthday.
You are both then forced on the run by the idea of the quiet.
When the Crocodile and Aaron attack, you both are able to just about get away with your lives.
Even if you’re both now a little battered and bloody.
You use the noise to talk sometimes as well; ask each other questions and what not.
In this instance, being; “Are you ok?”
Then you both meet Viola. And everything shifts.
It starts out…not the best. Ending in a quick fight, which you then break up.
Todd gives you the medipak that you use to help her with her wound.
Aaron almost kills you before going to choke Todd.
Todd shoulders your weight as you both go after the girl and Aaron.
When Todd is unable to kill Aaron, you try to assure him that it was the right choice.
“I’m weak.”
“You’re not, Todd.”
“If you say so.”
When Viola takes you to her ship, Todd does what he can for your wounds, patching them up.
Manchee stays close to you almost as much as he does with Todd.
You both feed the Cassor, letting your guards down for a moment.
However, you both cannot read, and so find trying to read the book Todd was given frustrating.
While he checks with the binoculars for threats, you just sit next to Viola. You try to console her, but she doesn’t seem to listen.
Then the bridge happens, and she opens up to you both. But, now there really is no going back.
You both start to bond with Viola, as she helps you with wounds and opens up to you about her parents. You both in turn tell her about this planet. Or, at least, what you know of it.
However, that all starts to be unravelled when you meet Hildy and Tam. And you both start to question things; more so in anger and frustration.
You both don’t believe it at first. But, you’re more open to it than Todd is.
It does lead to an argument, one that even Viola gets involved in. As, out of the two of you, she’s closer to you.
When you go to Farbranch, you both are treated the same.
However, it does teach you one thing; you’re in a much bigger world than you had previously thought.
You and Todd are both sent to the barn.
As you work, you work out the argument.
“I’m sorry, Y/N. Really. I just – I guess I’m just scared.”
“I’m scared too, Todd. But…we have each other, right?”
He nods, “Always.”
It’s then that you are on the run again as you are forced to watch the Army take over the place that gave you both a home.
Out of you and Todd, you’ve always been the more empathetic one.
Maybe it’s why Viola got closer to you quite quickly.
That, and you were more open with her and tried to make conversation.
With Wilf, it gives you guys a chance to just breathe for once.
When Davy attacks, he chastises you both on not being able to kill him. But Viola saves you both.
She reminds you both that you aren’t killers, and that the army is after you because that’s what they want.
When the Spackle event occurs, you just watch as your best friend kills for the first time.
As Viola talks to him after, you are still frozen.
She does what she can to get you out of the state;
“Y/N, I need you to look at me…There you go. I know – I know what he just did is…bad. But, don’t blame yourself, you couldn’t of stopped him.”
It is right after this, that Aaron catches up again. He stabs Todd, and impales you on a branch (morbid irony, in a way).
Todd passes out, you don’t. Meaning you have to watch Viola try and fight against Aaron as he drags her away. Her tear stained face looking back at the two of you.
When Todd wakes up, after getting the knife out of himself, he gets you off the branch.
It’s a painful process, but he does eventually get you off.
“I got you, Y/N.” He assures you, shouldering your weight.
You both pass out a little later, being saved by Wilf, and patched up. You both then continue on your way.
Together, you both forge a plan to save Viola.
“Ready?” Todd asks you, handing you back the bino’s.
“As always.” You answer, smile on your face.
Your plan (sort of) works, and you both feel impressed.
Until you see Manchee…And what happens to him.
As Todd passes out, it’s just you and Viola.
Two scared kids with another one who could die at any moment.
“I’m sorry, Vi.”
“For what?” She asks, in shock for your apology.
“That we weren’t strong enough to stop him.”
She grabs your hand, “You have nothing to be sorry for, Y/N. He – He didn’t want me, anyway. He…I think he wanted you both.”
“I’m glad you’re ok.”
“I’m glad you are too.” She manages a weak smile.
“You’re good for him.” She says, a bit further up.
“How you mean?”
“You’re loyal. You’re a good friend to him.”
“By all accounts, he’s my brother.” She smiles at that, too.
“He’s lucky to have you as one, too.”
“Yeah, well. We’ve kept each other alive this long without killing the other.” It’s dumb things like this that get the two of you through it. That make you both feel less scared.
“What am I, then?” She asks, almost nervous.
“Well…I can’t speak for him. But. If he’s a brother to me. Than I guess…you’re the other one…?”
“Sister?” She fills in for you.
“Yeah, ‘sister’.” The word sounds nice on your tongue.
She hugs you, hard.
“I’ve never had siblings before.” She admits, almost sadly.
“Well, you’ve got me, Vi.” You assure her.
“And you’ve got me.” She says in return.
When you reach Carbonel Downs, you make sure Todd gets looked at first.
But, Vi does make sure you get some help too.
You both catch on pretty quick that they won’t listen to her. So, she uses her voice to get you help instead. She insists on it, even.
She stays by both your sides as you get help.
When Todd does wake up, you and Vi both hug him tightly. Mainly in relief.
You then catch him up on what he’s missed, and try and support him with what happened to Manchee.
Although, Vi and him do see that you haven’t exactly worked through it yourself.
But, you then see Ben, and all seems to be ignored as you hug your father figure.
Then, once again, you are on the run. Ben going back to hold them off again.
Vi gives you both the speech about continuing, telling you both that you’re all she has and she’s all you both have.
And, it keeps you both going. As a unit.
Then you all realise, that you can read each other without need for noise and thought.
You’ve reached a synthesise with each other.
You all share a hug when you’ve made it to Haven.
However, there is just one more thing: Aaron.
He gets you to the cave area. Where you and Todd both share a look and decide; this is it. This is your last stand.
However, it isn’t you who kills him, it’s Vi.
She’s shaken, and you and Todd now become the people who comfort her.
A gunshot draws you both to still, as you see the red leaving her shirt.
You both charge at Davy, watching as he gets knocked off his horse and dragged away.
Then, taking an arm each, you both support Vi as you go towards Haven.
You’re in sync, both begging her to keep her eyes open.
You both get desperate that you call for help.
You both get desperate that you pretty much sell your soul to the president of the new world.
Because your best friends. It’s what you do.
And, you both know, that you would do it for the other it was the other way around.
Cyrion Tabris eyes his lovely wife, heavily pregnant and struggling to descend the creaky steps of their home.
"You know you can always stay home, right? You've always hated these traditions."
"It's different this time," Adaia snaps back, with the impatience of having explained this several times already. "You know I already have plans to meet your sisters."
"Who would happily fill you in on things after the ceremonies," Cyrion sighs, but it's without any fight. He knows he's never going to win.
Adaia makes it to solid ground, and waddles ahead of him with great determination. She pauses when she realises Cyrion has fallen behind, turning to give him a sharp look.
"Come on, then," she says in a tone that brooks no argument. Cyrion exhales something heavy, but follows along.
Outside the alienage, Denerim city has its streets packed with people heading to the Chantry. Throngs of people fill the roads like a stream, shuffling along to fill the Chantry's courtyard to the edges of all of its walls. Even more so, as folks climb the roofs of nearby buildings, clambering as close as they can get to hear the Grand Cleric speak, to see the sparks of the giant bonfire wisp upwards into the sky.
Within the alienage, the procession is quieter, but with no less fervour. The people dress in their best clothes, gather around the vhenadahl to hear Hahren Valendrian speak. Off the edge of the raised platform, a smaller, humbler fire is set alight. It's heat rises, then gets cradled by the overhanging leaves of the massive tree. The warm aroma of herbs burnt in the flames lingers in the courtyard.
Their version of fire is a little different from how the humans do things.
Hahren Valendrian speaks. It's a speech he's done many times, for as long as he's been hahren, that Adaia wants to yawn. Valendrian was one to rarely deviate from something that works, and he seems to have gotten the All Soul's Day sermon down pat. He talks about their history -- the proud, long history of the clan of their alienage.
Adaia always thought that this part was kind of bullshit. She gets the "pride" -- quotation marks and all. She understands their pride as city elves was something defiant, something to wear in the face of all their persecution. It can never be something they can truly be "proud" of, in the sense of the word. It will be a fight every time it is acknowledged, and it's a fight she damn well will throw herself into, each time it needs to happen.
And long -- well. It's only as long lasting as it is because they forced it to be this way.
City elves didn't necessarily pass down their names through bloodlines. Their people were too few, too desperate. Adoptions happened often, with any able adult taking in any orphaned child. If someone didn't already have a family name, they were given one -- a family name that kept its oral stories and traditions, as much as they were able. A last, desperate attempt to keep it alive.
Being a city elf was fighting every moment of your life. Adaia was proud of this. Adaia wanted to keep doing this for a long, long time, despite any obstacle she needed to face.
So yes, she gets what Valendrian was saying, but she still thinks it's kind of bullshit.
A kick in her belly startles Adaia, and she barely hides her jolt. Cyrion gives her a sideways look.
"All good?" He mouths.
Adaia actually has to hold back a grin that's more cheeky than its own good. "I think our baby agrees with me," she whispers back.
She can see the silent question in the line of his brow, a confused, "Agrees with what?" But then he shakes his head, content with not knowing. Adaia snorts at that, attracting some annoyed glances that she easily brushes off. She sincerely doubted that anyone here had heard Valendrian's speech less than twice, which was more than enough, in her opinion.
But it was almost over. Valendrian thumbs through an ancient tome, one that dates back to the Dales, if it was to be believed. Adaia was certain it wasn't the original version -- a copy, or a copy of a copy, she believed, and it didn't really matter to her. What mattered was the contents.
Valendrian systematically reads through the names of all the clans listed. For each name, a slip of paper is cast into the fire, causing the flames to swell. These were the names of lost clans. Whole families, reduced to one name, the only thing they could be remembered by. All Soul's Day was about remembering them, giving them the final cleansing through fire, especially if there were no remains to burn. For many of these families, there was nothing left but this.
Adaia forces herself to sit still through this, the most sombre section, but then reasons that surely everyone else will cut her some slack for being as pregnant as she currently was. The moment the final prayers are said, Adaia practically jumps up from her seat so that she can join Cyrion's sisters, already in conversation.
"I'm so glad we didn't have to do any funerals today," the younger sister, Cela, says. She quickly clarifies, "Because, obviously, it's very good none of our people died this year, of course."
"Oh yes, obviously," the older sister, Varanni, agrees with mock seriousness. "And not because it would've stretched the ceremony so much longer."
Cela squeaks. "No, of course not! Ranni! It's a good thing!" She seemed genuinely embarrassed, ears already a bright red.
Adaia steps in, not wanting to waste anymore time. Her impatience was bubbling over. "Girls, we should go find him now."
Three women, of the same house, of similar ages. Three elves who grew up with different circumstances, together now, laughing under the same vhenadahl tree. Sisters, who easily accepted Adaia as one of their own when she married into the family. With all the factors that surrounded them and their city, the struggles they have gone through, the things they had to face to get here --
-- how utterly, thoroughly, miraculous it was that all three sisters were pregnant at the same time.
"If only he could've gotten out that stupid book earlier," Adaia complains, as they reach the door to Hahren Valendrian's home. The other two giggle at her tone, but then the door to his premises opens to Valendrian himself, who tutts.
"It's a sacred tome, Adaia," he says, with the patience of having already explained this several times. "I only bring it out for the All Soul's Day ceremony, and then it goes back into a safe place until next year."
"Well, you're lucky one of us hasn't popped yet! Cela's going to burst any day now."
Cela makes some indecipherable noises at the teasing, but she's glowing a little too much to be insulted. She runs a hand over her swollen belly, and is the one to sweetly beg, "Oh hahren, please show us the names!"
Valendrian grumbles under his breath, but it's without heat, and he invites the ladies into his home. The tome is waiting on the table, and he gingerly flicks though the thin sheets.
"This is a tradition we haven't been able to practice for many years," Valendrian says. He gives Adaia specifically a quirked grin. "I am so happy to see it brought to life again."
"If the name sucks, I'm not using it," Adaia rebuts immediately.
Cela swats her arm. "Oh come on! We have to hear it first! Hahren, have you found it?"
Valendrian sighs. "Yes, yes, lethalin... here."
He runs a finger down a dense block of text. Names upon names, crammed together on a page.
"House Tabris..." he reads under his breath, tracing all the names that came before. "You know, your house is one of the oldest ones in our clan.. these names are from generations that come from the Dales --"
"We know!" Adaia cuts him off. Varanni, though also impatient, continues in a more polite tone. "What's the name for the next generation, hahren?"
His finger stops on a character, and there's a pause. The women crane their necks to see what he's pointing at, but the elvhen character is outside of their understanding.
"What does it say?" Cela whispers, but the other sisters can't answer her.
Hahren Valendrian clears his throat. "...nuven meaning, 'a great desire'. It can be shortened to the 'nn' sound." He exhales with some exasperation, but mostly pride. "What an apt word to describe this next generation."
"Oh!" Varanni jumps. "The name I have is perfect, then! What a coincidence!"
"I thought we agreed that we were going to come up with names together, Ranni!" Cela whines. Varanni at least had the decency to look sheepish.
"Remember," Hahren Valendrian says, trying to temper all the excitement that was happening in his household. "You do not have to use the generational character to name your children. The tradition is old, but there's a reason it's fallen out of use."
"...I think I can make it work. I'll have to change what the name I had in mind, though. Soren'n?" Cela tastes the name on her tongue, but then makes a face. "I think I like Soris better..."
"Who was just complaining about picking names in advance? Huh?" Varanni swats her sister.
Adaia's a little lost in thought. A great desire. That much was certainly true, and highly appropriate for the babies that were on the way. Adaia touches her belly, feels a reciprocal kick, as if her baby knows what she's thinking, as if it responds.
"Adaia! What about you? Do you have a name in mind?"
[Author's Note: this is a weird one! it doesn't super fit in with the other short stories I've written, but I still wanted to share. It's actually older writing for an old fic, 'For the People', that I cleaned up. In that story, the Inquisitor is a City elf.
This except is about how someone like my Inquisitor doesn't face biases just for being a city elf. The advisors don't have a problem that he's elven, or Orlaisian, or disabled -- it's because he's poor. How are they supposed to trust someone like that to save them?
In my other fics for #cityelfweek25, i was careful to only write from the POV of city elves. This excerpt is written from Cassandra's POV, which im still keeping as cityelfweek, because its an important conversation that's about them, but one that needed to be spearheaded by a human. ]
[CONTENT WARNING: religion, racism, bigotry. No spoilers for the games apart from the beginning of Inquisition. ]
[Wordcount: 1892 words]
[My piece for the Lotus and Root Zine of my City Elf Inquisitor, for attention!]
A person who has worked with Cassandra would always classify her as a doer, not a thinker.
That description has always confused her. Was there a need to separate these deeds, with any useful function? Doesn’t a person who thinks do so for the purpose of doing something in the future? Does a doer not use their brain in order to formulate the plan to which they commit to?
Her own processes couldn’t be cut so cleanly in half. She acts quickly, but her brain does not cease in its function. She sees something that needs to be done, forms a plan, and does it. Whatever plan is made is made with the information she has at that time, to the best of her ability. If the information changes, her plans change with it. There is a similar level of thought that goes through the strategies she comes up with, as there is in the minute movements of her limbs, extensions of her body.
When people say that Cassandra is not a thinker, they criticise her for being rash, not considering the situation at hand. But Cassandra has considered -- she has gone through the motions of each and every option, and concluded the best outcome.
Decisions that other folk seem to belabour over seem to come in a snap to Cassandra, and she’s always thanked her faith for that. The Chant of Light illuminates, makes the path clear to see. The road the faithful walk was never one that was considered easy, but the right thing to do was always visible. Always available to commit to.
Trusting the Herald was one such choice.
‘Providence’; that was what she had called him, when asked. Between the voice of the Divine and the light of Andraste herself, Cassandra could see so clearly that this was the route the Maker was sending them down, and so she obeyed. It wasn’t easy -- it still isn't easy -- to help and to guide, to fulfill her duty. But she knows one thing.
There’s no room in her for doubt.
So she throws herself fully behind the Herald. Her choice was made -- now came action. She supports him, the undesirable, despite all the opposition he would face. Somebody needed to. Who would Andraste be, without the first person to volunteer to follow behind her? Even Andraste had her council, and with that thought, Cassandra knows what she needs to do next.
She thinks back to a conversation she had with the other Advisors, before her team had set off to the Hinterlands.
“The Herald’s survival is the priority,” Leliana begins, calculated as always. “Nothing can be accomplished if he were to perish. Any form of support we have now would fall away, as well as any hope we have of countering the threat we face.”
“It’s so risky,” Cullen says hesitantly. “I hate that we don’t have more options. The fact that we have to risk his life, and have no guarantee if he can even close the breach --”
“What else are we to do? Let him die?” Leliana’s response is biting. Josephine steps between.
“Master Harajatish is capable of closing the smaller rifts. That much is the truth. So yes, we are playing a game of risk versus reward when it comes to sending him to the field -- but we have no choice in the matter. We must do something. He must do something.”
Cassandra, quiet so far, suddenly finds the weight of the other three’s gazes on her. “Your thoughts, Cassandra?”
She’s not one to hold back, especially with words. But she finds herself turning them over in her mouth momentarily before she speaks.
“I do not like how we refer to him.”
It’s clear they did not expect her to say that. The silence that follows is awkward, as no one is quite sure how to breach it. Cullen clears his throat.
“You’ve spent the longest with him, Seeker. If anything else, can we trust that he’s able to protect himself? Stay alive?”
“He’s survived this much so far.” Leliana’s words sound objective, but Cassandra can detect the hint of derision in her voice, and for some reason, that irks her.
Cassandra can’t hold it in. “Like that -- we refer to the Herald as if…. as if…”
“There might be more pressing matters, Lady Pentaghast. I understand that everyone is frustrated,” here, Josephine breathes deeply, as if getting her audience to follow her subconsciously. “We are all working towards the same goal.”
“Are we?” Cassandra barks. She meant to temper her volume there, but it comes out at a pitch that has the other advisors clenching their fists. Cassandra feels something building in her chest, something unnamed and unacknowledged; something that needs to be voiced. “Somehow I feel like our conversation is skewed. I understand that compassion in times of hardship is the most difficult thing to deliver. However, saying that we are all on the same side -- do we include the Herald in our ranks? Is that as an equal?”
The shift is immediate. Josephine looks away, and Cullen sucks a breath between his teeth.
Leliana speaks, words chosen carefully, but holds Cassandra’s gaze with something unshakeable. “He needs to be protected, Cassandra. You know this. If we send him out there with anything other than the most strict defenses, the Herald will die, and we will all follow him.”
“And yet, we are the ones forcing him into danger,” Cassandra doesn’t waver. “He did not flee. He is no criminal, and he did not flee despite his own fear. I feel that it is of more worth than we are considering.”
“Of course, we appreciate his cooperation,” Josephine tries. “I do not know how we would even approach this, if he had run away --”
“That’s not the point,” Cassandra spits, at the same time Cullen says, “I fear he would run away, if we weren’t close by -- “ But Cassandra whirls around at him, and he shuts up.
Leliana rubs her forehead. “Cassandra, this conversation can be had in the future. We have ascertained his trustworthiness, and that is the most we can do for now.”
Cassandra stops the conversation with one sentence. “That begs the question,” she begins, words deliberate on her tongue. “Would we be having this discussion if the Herald was a human? Dwarf? Qunari?”
Silence.
“Or,” Cassandra continues. Her heart pounds at this train of thought, but it would be unfaithful of her not to pursue it. “Is this because the Herald is poor?”
As soon as the word leaves her mouth, the emotion in Cassandra’s chest burns hot and furious. It’s righteous, shame and enmity combined, the source of which she cannot fully parse, but she’s forced to look away from the others as she trails after the speeding arrow of her thoughts.
When the Herald had followed her up that journey to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, she had put a sword into his hands, and he did not swing it even once. He was quick to obey her instructions and dared not step out of line, but that was because he cowered, keeping his eyes squeezed shut while Cassandra stepped in to cut down the threats towards him.
Yes, he had closed the rift. Yes, he did not run away. Yes, he had followed her into the thick of it.
But this feeling was… this feeling was…
Humiliation.
Cassandra Pentaghast was a princess of Nevarra, and had fought her whole life to attain her current position of Right Hand of the Divine. She was used to slaying abominations and all manner of demons, but this time -- to be reduced to a bodyguard --
Oh, Cassandra realises with a sudden, mortal, clarity. These thoughts were her own.
And as she meets the eyes of everyone else here, she realises that they all shared them. Everyone else felt the same way as Cassandra.
Cassandra and Leliana had chosen Cullen and Josephine with extreme care and caution. The same way the late Divine Justinia had handpicked her left and right hands; they needed to apply the same principles to how they were choosing the council for the Inquisition. With such a precarious position, they needed the best of the best.
Every single person in this room had upwards of a decade of experience of doing the things that needed to be done. Every person here had sacrificed, pushed their limits, and done things they were not proud to do. They had studied, learned, and become experts in their fields. Their advice was backed not only on experience, but the experience of everyone else who came before them.
Cassandra feels… Cassandra feels that the same cannot be said of the Herald.
And so did everyone else.
“Cassandra?” Leliana says, and Cassandra cannot help but look like she’s been struck. Leliana takes a step back.
“No, I -- I… apologise,” Cassandra begins, words thick in her mouth. She wants to isolate herself in prayer, but she will not leave things here unfinished. “I apologise. I… these are confusing times.”
There’s a beat as Cassandra thinks on what to say next.
“My purpose now is that I must be a champion on behalf of the Herald. That is clear to me right now. But my feelings on the matter are.. complicated. I must meditate on it further. I do not doubt my judgement,” Cassandra says firmly. “But… my feelings on the matter..”
Leliana laughs once, something dark and without humour. “The Maker tests us with trying times.” Josephine tilts her head with furrowed brows, giving a nod of agreement.
Cassandra’s breath is caught in her throat. It gets interrupted
“But.. Cassandra is right, about something,” Cullen says hesitantly, “...are we able to make the best decisions for the Inquisition -- for Thedas -- with…. Maker, I don’t know.” He brings up his hands to cover his mouth, thinking, vexed.
“Speak, Commander.”
“With… with this group?” Cullen waves his hands towards the other people in the room. The three women stare back at him, perplexed. “We are only human. We don’t know what the elves think; the dwarves. How will we make decisions that will impact this world if we can’t even fathom how the other groups would think of it?”
“What you propose opens up to danger, Cullen,” Leliana says slowly. “Our security is shaky already, our decisions are second-guessed by everyone, and people are already looking to sabotage us.”
Light, guiding the way. “But there is one person we should be including in these discussions,” Cassandra pushes, driven with sudden understanding. “We can look more into your concerns later, Leliana, but there is one person we should be including now.”
“...I think I agree with Cassandra. We can trust Master Harajatish,” Josephine says. “I would appreciate knowing how he thinks, if we believe we can include him in our conversations.”
Leliana closes her eyes in thought. Cassandra can imagine the counter-arguments already brewing in her mind, the way her Left Hand was holding back a slew of words on her tongue. Instead, she hears Leliana mutter under her breath, a sigh of something giving way.
“An equal,” Leliana whispers, not for anyone else to hear. She opens her eyes and finally, the advisors agree on something.
“The next time we meet at the war table, I will ask the Herald to join us.”
Merrill wanted to wait until Hawke was free, but Hawke had to cancel their scheduled meetup for one reason or another (something about Bartrand?) and now Merrill was going to be stuck with no food unless she dared to go to the market on her own.
She’d already quizzed anyone who would tolerate her dry, since this was something she truly had no preconceived notion of. The Dalish bartered with anyone who would accept them, but the idea of an entire marketplace, where everyone was interested in buying or selling… that was overwhelming. Merrill knew how money worked, she wasn’t stupid, and she had her own stash of little copper pieces ready to be spent.
Hawke had been unfailingly patient. On their journey back to Kirkwall from Sundermount, Hawke and Varric filled her in on everything they thought she needed to know.
“To my knowledge, the alienage doesn’t have a formal market day, but people with things to sell with set them out by the tree in the morning,” Hawke said. “I’ve never bought there myself, but you should be able to.”
“Produce is best bought by the dockmarkets by dawn. Things go very quickly, though,” Bethany, who also knew what she was talking about, joined in. But Hawke made a face, something of a grimace.
“Maybe wait for me to bring you there, at least for the first time,” Hawke said. Merrill thinks she saw their eyes flick towards her ears, but doesn’t comment on it.
“Wednesday night markets by Upton road will have the best street food,” Varric chimed in. Both Hawkes gave him a funny look. “What? I’m right!”
“You’ll be fine, Merrill,” Bethany said, later, with that sunny smile of hers. “Kirkwall’s a place where you can find anything, if you know the right person.”
Except Merrill still really doesn’t know anybody in Kirkwall. She really only knows the Hawkes, and Varric, and maybe Aveline, except that woman didn’t really talk to her much apart from some huffy sighs. Bethany said you could get anything, but Merrill knows she didn’t mean it like the way Merrill would normally get things when she was with the Dalish. They foraged, hunted, and ate what nature gave them.
Here in the alienage, the only piece of nature Merrill could see was the vhenadahl tree -- which was stunted, gnarled, with yellowing leaves despite the summer. She really wanted to see if she could help it some time.
So. Merrill has her money. She’s not sure how much it’s worth, but Hawke made sure to leave her with enough to support herself. She knows -- vaguely -- where to head in order to find people to sell her things. She thinks she’s charismatic enough to be able to convince people to sell her things. She just needs to do it.
And as much as she pitied the vhenadahl tree in the Kirkwall alienage, Merill could appreciate how all the elves in the city congregated around it. Her own home was one of many that circled the small plaza that surrounded the tree, roots pushing up and cracking the pavement. Outside her window, with the dim light of dawn, Merrill could see a handful of people moving boxes to set up there.
Pushing open her front door, she braved the outside world.
She wasn’t sure when she was supposed to talk to these people, who were obviously putting their produce out for display and sale.
“Um, excuse me -- “ she tried, spying some greens she recognised, but the man just huffed at her, gestured with his head to talk to someone else. So she weaved around the busier looking folk, and found a different stall being set up, this one with glass jars filled with pickled vegetables. Merrill wasn’t particularly sure if it was edible, so she tried to ask, but was met with a rather put-upon look and a, “Don’t waste my time, girl.” She skittered on.
As the sun rose, more and more elves filled the plaza, and Merrill even though it never got particularly crowded, Merrill still found it hard to get a word in. She was being as polite as she could be! And she knew she was capable of being a decent conversation partner. But the bartering was -- well, it was something else. Something a bit fiercer, something with a bit more backbone than she had right now. If she wasn’t upfront about her purchases, the seller would look to another person who was better at being a buyer, she guessed.
And there wasn’t much to sell. Before she could even catch her breath, the sun was high enough in the sky with a bit more of a pounding heat, and the few stalls were being packed up after being sold out. Merrill’s goal that morning was to find something to fill her pantries -- and she was going to walk away empty handed. Fenedhis.
There was still one lady, who was in the middle of packing down, but had paused. Merrill looked at her and found herself being stared down, quite intensely. Merrill had to look away, but after a moment’s hesitation, decided to approach.
It was an older elf, skin sagging and leathery. Merrill tried to smile, put something friendly on her face, and gave a little wave.
“Did you still have any food left? I can buy,” Merrill said that last part quickly, just in case her first words were going to be misunderstood. She fidgeted a little, as the other elf continued to stare. Maybe she should just leave.
But then the woman spoke up. “Your tattoos, dear,” The woman said. Merrill couldn’t quite pick up what emotion it was said with, and tensed a little.
“They’re lovely.”
And the woman did in fact have just the last of her produce left to sell; vegetables that she had grown in her own garden. A bundle of spring onions and two small summer squashes. The woman said that there would be more people in the market tomorrow, and to come back, and to not be afraid to speak over other people when bartering.
Merrill thanked her for the advice. And then maybe, considered today a success.
