Dragon Age 1. Chapter 1

Noise. A voice –not hers. Thoughts disjointed, racing, unable to hold. A buzzing in her head, where her magic should be. Pain, green and throbbing and constant. Where is she? Sylaise help her, is she _dead? _Shit, she's cold. Is death cold? She doesn't think so –surely the Beyond couldn't be this cold and hard and dank. Like a shem dungeon.

"Is she awake?" a voice, the words spoken as though through water, feminine but angry, direct.

"No. Not for two weeks. Cassandra, if she doesn't wake up soon, she'll die," it's another woman, her voice much clearer than the other's, Orlesian and brisk, but sad underneath. Broken.

"If she dies, Leliana, we will have lost all hope of finding out who opened the Breach and killed Most Holy. She _has_ to wake up," the first woman says again. Nevarran, that's the accent. Maybe it was the way the woman spoke that tipped her off, or the unbridled anger in her words that Nevarrans are infamous for. Whatever the case, the elf does _not_ like this woman.

She groans, getting the attention of both women. Then a gasp, followed by footsteps and, because the Creators hate her, more pain in her head as an armoured hand pulls her hair and head upwards. She gasps, eyes flying open. In front of her, a woman's face is two inches from her own, mouth pressed into a scowl and eyes like chips of ice. "Where is Most Holy?" the woman spits, furious. A scar on her cheek works in a display of barely controlled anger.

It's dark in here, the torchlight only illuminating the cheekbones, eyes and ears of the woman in front of her, as well as the symbol of the Chantry spread out around the room. Round ears. A human –a _shem_. The elf bristles, scowling at the round-ear in front of her, holding back elvhen curses when the human shook her head, sending waves of pain across her scalp.

"Well, that settles it," she says as she tries to pull back, sarcasm lacing her words. "I can't be dead, because they don't let pissy Nevarran _shems_ into the Beyond."

The woman's reaction is immediate and fierce, the blow sending her sprawling onto the floor, pain blossoming on the side of her face and adding to her already prodigious headache. Maybe it isn't such a good thing that the first of her mental faculties restored was her smart mouth. She sits back up and wipes the blood from the corner of her mouth as best she can with the shackles about her wrists and glove on her hand, smirking. "Nice to meet you, too."

The shem –Cassandra, isn't it? –starts towards her again when another woman, another _human_, comes from the shadows and grabs her shoulder, stopping the incoming rampage. "Cassandra. We need her alive," the new woman soothed. The two share a look, and Cassandra visibly gathers herself before speaking.

"Where is Most Holy?" the shem demands again, cold and measured.

"Most _who?_" she asks, genuinely confused. Shems want to get information out of _her_, a Dalish elf? No surprises there.

Cassandra gets in the elf's face again, shaking with anger. "Most Holy. Divine Justinia. At the Conclave, you were there. The only survivor, as far as we know. What happened? Where is Most Holy?" The shem is losing her self-control; if the elf's not careful, she could wind up getting hit again. It's a good thing, then, that _she _doesn't have any self-control, then, or this conversation would get very boring very fast.

"Oh. _That_ Most Holy. I thought you meant the other three we Dalish have lying about the place," she sneers. "How am I supposed to know?" The more these shemlen speak, the angrier she gets. Who are they to speak to her this way?

"There's a _hole in the sky_, the Divine, along with _hundreds_, are missing or dead, and all you can come up with is a snarky comeback?" this time it's Leliana who speaks, sounding perfectly polite, all things considered. She's good at hiding her anger, the elf thinks. _Dangerous_. But the part about the sky –what? There's a…hole?

"A hole. In the sky. Are you serious?" She must look the picture of sardonic disbelief, because Cassandra looks like she's about to punch herself an elf again.

"The Conclave. You were there." It is not a question.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

If it's even possible, Cassandra's glare gets colder. "Would you like to keep your head?"

"Isn't that a trade off for the ages? I'd be hard pressed to refuse, wouldn't I?" Nods from the two shem, sharp as cutting glass, "Well, if you must know, I was. And it was boring, until…" There it is again. The pain, on her covered right hand upwards. In an instant it has her doubled over, gasping and crying, praying in elven for it to _stop_. Is that her screaming?

The pain vanishes as soon as it arrived. She relaxes, gathers her dignity, and once again looks up at the two shem, neither of which had moved to help. Cassandra had moved back to stand with Leliana, arms crossed.

"It… yes. Leliana, her glove," Cassandra orders, her expression somewhat softer. Leliana moves towards the elf, slowly, like a hunter would a wild animal. The glove, after a moment of fumbling, comes off, and the elf nearly brakes down crying. Or laughing. Whichever comes first.

Her hand is green. _Green. _It is burned and glowing and _green_. "Well, shit," she whispers, turning her hand over and over. She can barely see through the light.

"It is killing you," Leliana says, bluntly. "And it must be connected to the explosion at the Conclave, and the Breach, in some way. If you could just—"

"An explosion? At the Conclave? And, if you would be so kind as to tell me, what's this Breach, exactly?" Even now, at her most serious, there is a hint of sarcasm. She can't help it, really.

"So… you really don't know?"

"No. I haven't the slightest as to what you're talking about, shem, but if you'll show me what exactly this 'Breach' is, and why, exactly, there's a mark on my hand shaped like the wrong end of a dog, I might be able to help out more." She might as well be speaking to empty air, for all the two shems care. They're carrying on a conversation of their own, frantic whispers punctuated by _no's_ and _I hadn't thought of that's, _as well as names the elf doesn't know.

Finally, Cassandra stalks back over and removes the Void-awful handcuffs, stoic and stiff. "The best way to explain is to show you," she says, offering a hand. Taking it, the elf stands, trembling like a new-born hallah. Sylaise, she must've been out for _ages_ for her muscles to hurt like this.

"Well then, we best get a move on, yeah?" She says, grimacing at the pain lancing down her arm when she stretches. She attempts to move past Cassandra, but the woman stops her with an arm.

"First things first," Leliana says, her stare making no room for misinterpretation. "If you do anything –_anything_ to jeopardize us, this mission, or run away, I will see to your execution myself. The people want your head, and they might be right in doing so. Don't give them any more reason to try to kill you on sight."

"Oh, I see. That's fun," she grins, a dangerous thing in such hostile company. "All those shemlen, lined up outside like soldiers to war. I can imagine. Why, pray tell, do they want my head on a pike again?"

Leliana laughs softly, low and chilling; not a kind of laugh one would respond to a joke with. "Because, elf, they think you killed Divine Justinia."

"Alright then, good to know. Let's go see this Breach and try to keep my head connected to the rest of me, shall we?" the elf pushes past Cassandra and Leliana, putting her hand on the door handle. "Oh, but before we go, one more thing. Is it custom for you shem to assault a person before so much as asking their name?"

"No," Cassandra says, allowing herself a bit of a smirk, "not usually, but we do make exceptions. Unless you would like to share?"

"When you put it that way, not particularly. Especially considering I'll likely be dead soon anyways. It doesn't matter."

She opens the door.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Ciro! Ci- no! Ciro –Ciro!"_

_The hands are calloused and rough as they pull her out the door. A few moments ago she'd been in the bed in the corner, sleeping as peacefully as she could. Now, she's cold, hurt, and terrified, screaming for her brother, her father, _anyone_ to come and get her, save her. Her dagger is under a pillow she can no longer see, but her brother has one of dragontooth, enchanted with fire. A gift from Father. Her brother is faster than anyone she know except for Father, and he can help me. _

"_Argus, make it fast. We need you back in ten," a man orders. She can barely make out a response before the screaming starts._

_Her brother. Her brother screaming –Maker, no. Not him –not her big brother. He cries her name, and—_

_The silence that replaces her brother's screams is deafening. _

_She screams her brother's name again, desperation clinging to her words. Her captor shakes her roughly; her head hits his metal-plated chest, making her vision go blurry. _

"_Shadup, ya' filthy fucking knife-ear," he says, his breath hot and reeking on her neck._

"_Here, Harken. This'll stop her talkin'," another man says from behind them. In the very edges of her vision, she can just see a filthy brown rag. _

"_Does it look li' I can stuff that in 'er mouth right now? Andraste's bloomin' tits, do it yerself. I'm 'avin' enough trouble 'oldin' on to the brat, much less shuttin' 'er up," her captor growls and tightens his grip to stop the elf's squirming. _

"_Aye, boss. Whatever you say," comes the reply, and the man holding her stops, allowing a human to jog in front of the elf, disgusting rag in hand. She glares at him, struggling to no avail as the filthy thing is shoved in her mouth, trapping her tongue and leaving her struggling to breathe. _

_Andraste, it tastes _horrible_. _

_The sewer corridors are dank and dark, rarely used by the people trying to escape the Antiva City summer heat. This is the region Father always told her never to go to, because slavers and thugs are commonplace. This is the one place the Crows can't protect her. _

_In other words, she'll be lucky if she gets out of this alive._

_The elf's carried for almost an hour, only because if she's let down she'll make a bolt for it and the men know it. In that hour, she makes a mental list of the things she's learned. _

_These men are slavers. That makes her a slave._

_They're working for someone not with them._

_Whomever they're working for 'likes them young.' She gags at this. _

_Her bother is dead. The man that killed him doesn't care._

_The Crows aren't coming for her. No-one is. She's alone._

_By the Void, she's tired. At this point, the only thing keeping her awake is near-blinding terror. She's a slave. A _slave_. Or she will be. Either option is horrible. _

_She's _six_, for Andraste's sake. _Six. _She was going to be an assassin, like her brother, like Father. She was going to have a life, a real life, and now—_

_Shooting pain through the right side of the elf's body. She's on the ground now, held in place by two different men. Another man –a human— walks up, holding a length of rope in one hand. Apathy oozes off him, making the elf's skin crawl._

"_Is this the new meat?" He asks, his voice disinterested. _

_Ay- I mean, yesser. This's it." The voice is familiar, perhaps only because it's been muttering curses and threats in her ear for the past hour. Now she can put a face to the name, and Harken looks as disgusting as he smells. _

"_An elf? Are you serious, Harken? This is all you could find me?" The first man nudges her feet in disgust. Warning flares shoot up all around her body and she physically recoils. This man is dangerous. _

"_Sorry, ser. S'all we could find. The rest're farther in Crow territ'ry. Would've 'ad two, but the other put up a fight. Right fool, this'n," Harken explains. _

"_Well, I think our employer has enough elves, don't you? Surely he wouldn't mind us boys' havin' a bit of…fun?" Now the man smiles, creeping and predatory, sending chills up and down the elf's back. The sort of smile the upper-level Crow masters would give her before Father would take her away. Maker save her. _

"_I…s'pose not, ser. Jus' don't damage 'er too much, I guess. The boss don't like it when they come all torn up. Nobody buys 'em then." Harken looks nervous, but not anxious enough to try to stop the man in front of her. _

_**Ciro, what's going to happen to me? **__She thinks, tears streaming down her face. _

_Maker, no—_

* * *

Soft sheets. Heavy breathing. Wood around her, not stone. No shem, no rope binding her, just a ridiculous flat-ear apologizing for nothing.

A dream. Thank Mythal, she's not a slave. She's not back there.

The Chantry is a wreck. This is a place built for worship, not a military base, and Thedas knows it. It's bad enough that Cullen has to sleep here, and now he has to run an operation spanning southern Thedas from the back room. By the Void, if something doesn't change, and _soon_, the Inquisition will never get off the ground. Who would take them seriously if it was ran from the pantry of a Chantry? The Orlesian nobles would never get tired of the rhyme.

"-len. Cullen, are you listening? Commander," Cassandra says, exasperated.

"Wh-what? I'm sorry, what were you saying?" Lately he's been more concerned with his forces than conversing with his fellow advisors. He knows that Cassandra and Leliana are both searching for a leader, and he doesn't want it to be him. Maker knows he's not the most diplomatic of sorts –he'd let his prejudices in the way. Or worse, he'd go back to lyrium, and that would be unacceptable.

"I was just wondering what you thought of our prisoner. Do _you _think she killed the Divine?" Cassandra asks, and it's a loaded question. Say yes, and he's just signed a death sentence. Say no, and he's buying into the "Herald of Andraste" rumours that have been going around.

"She's not really a prisoner anymore, is she? From what I've read of the reports, she's not the one responsible," he replies, not bothering to hide that he's avoiding the question.

"No, I would think not, but she _is_ our prime suspect. The voice we heard at the Breach… it wasn't hers. However, even if she did not actively destroy the Conclave, the elf has a vendetta against humans and the Maker. A dangerous thing for one in her position, and a weakness the Chantry will exploit ruthlessly." Cassandra says, pacing back and forth as she is want to do. Despite the elf's harsh nature, there was something Cassandra likes about her –maybe that she likes those that speak their mind, and do not demand respect immediately.

"We will deal with that when it comes to it," Cullen says, placing his hands on the pommel of his sword. He was going to say more, but someone chose that exact moment to fling the Chantry doors open, sending a blast of freezing mountain air and snow directly into his face.

As it turns out, the person in question was the Herald of Andraste: A small, rude, and, from what he had heard, exceedingly powerful Dalish mage. Ironic, really, how things work out sometimes.

The Herald took stock of her surroundings, pausing briefly to glare at Cassandra and Cullen before walking in their direction. Solas rushed in behind her, looking like a dishevelled father, trying to inform the Herald that she should, in fact, not Fadestep through the Haven masses, especially not in the state she's in.

"Cassandra," the elf says in way of greeting, accompanying it with a nod. She spoke as most elves do, although there's an underlying accent he can't place.

Cassandra nods back, all business. "I am surprised to see you awake so soon."

"It had something to do with not being locked up in a dungeon this time, I think," the elf retorts, sarcasm lining her words.

"Or maybe it was the incredible strain the Mark was putting on your body," Solas quips. "You need to go back to sleep and get more rest, or all my healing will be for nothing."

He was ignored.

"Yes, well, we had no proof at the time that you had not committed mass murder," Cassandra says, her even tone forced.

The elf rolls her eyes, scowling. "Oh, of _course_ it has to be the knife-ear. No one _else_ could have blown up hundreds of people, now could they?" she scoffs.

"It's not that you're a kn- elf," Cullen interrupts, before this conversation could get more heated, "but you were the last one surviving. We had to keep you in for questioning. We had to know what happened. As it stands, we…" he sighs. "Didn't gain much."

She looks at him for the first time; really, properly _looks_ at him. He feels exposed, disgusted with himself for no specific reason when the tiniest amount of revulsion crosses her face. "Great," she mutters. "_Another_ shem. What's this one do_?_"

"I… well, I –um," he starts, caught off guard by her attitude. _Maybe not the most eloquent of introductions_, he thinks, _but it'll have to do._

"This is Commander Cullen," Cassandra says. "And now that you've met him, there is something we must speak about. Come." And the Seeker turns on her heel and walks towards the War Room.

"No. She needs more rest. If she goes on like this, it could-" Solas tries.

"Solas, it doesn't hurt anymore. It's not glowing, or _green_. I think I'm fine for the time being," the Herald sighs and walks past Cullen. Cullen shoots Solas a sympathetic look and follows the Herald.

"Montilyet? Yeah, I know the name. Nobles, right? _Fantastic,_" the Herald says as he walks in. "Now it's not just shem, but nobles too. _Shemlen nobles._" She groans.

"Are…you from Antiva?" Josephine asks, somehow effortlessly being polite despite the bewildered look on her face. Leliana looks amused.

The Herald's eyebrows shoot up for a moment, surprised. "I've been there once or twice," she says. "What's it to you?"

Josephine blinks quickly, trying to mask the startled look that was beginning to surface. "It's just…you sound like it. You have the accent."

The elf scowls. "I do _not_," she scoffs, crossing her arms.

"Come to think of it, you do, just a small one, but…" Cassandra trails off as the elf turns her glare to the Seeker.

Cullen's just about to open his mouth and interject as the behind him slams open, revealing a very irritated Chancellor Roderick and two guards.

"Guards!" he yells, pointing at the elf. "I order you to arrest that elf! Bind her immediately for trial at the Capital!"

The guards don't move, which just further infuriates the Chancellor. The elf and Cassandra have similar expressions of exasperation, and roll their eyes almost simultaneously. Cassandra notices this, an amused smile crossing her face.

"Shall you dismiss them, or shall I?" she says, quirking an eyebrow at the elf.

"No, please, the pleasure's all yours. Can't have an elf in charge, now can we?"

Cassandra nods, the amusement dying from her eyes. "Go, and by the Maker's holy light _don't_ let anyone else in here," she orders. The guards leave without a word, much to Roderick's dismay.

"She must be taken to Val Royeaux for trial!" the man yells. It's times like these that Cullen regrets ever joining the Templar Order. To think men like Roderick had been his superiors for _years_. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his oncoming headache.

"_She_ is standing right here," the elf says, hands on her hips. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you think you can order me around, right, _Chancellor?_" the words are all but dripping with venom. "But you've another think coming if you think I'm going anywhere _near_ the Val Royeaux or the Chantry, shem."

Then the Chancellor, being the stubborn fool he is, gets in the elf's face. "You will do as I say, elf, or you will be imprisoned without trial!"

Time freezes. We all watch with varying measures of caution and bewilderment as the Herald blinks twice calmly, then smirks and spits in the Chancellor's face. Roderick, of course, immediately gets upset and raises a hand –he's going to _hit _her.

Cullen moves faster than thought, grabbing the Chancellor and pinning his hands behind his back. He struggles, of course, but Cullen keeps him still.

"You –!" the hateful man yells, along with many different obscenities involving Cullen, Cassandra, and the Herald. All the elf does is laugh, a bitter and dry sound that leaves Cullen slightly stunned.

"No, please, Commander, let him go," the elf pleads between bursts of laughter. "Let him try to hit me, and we can count the fingers he loses in the process." The Chancellor stills as the threat sinks in.

"You wouldn't _dare_," he splutters.

"Care to try me, shem? You wouldn't survive the first blow." She's not angry in the slightest. In fact, she seems to find the whole situation hilarious, as if the idea of being threatened by _anyone_, much less an 'over glorified clerk' such as Roderick, is nothing more than a joke.

Josephine, on the contrary, doesn't find anything _remotely_ funny about this. "Herald," she says, "please, we must be civil. No one will take you away–"

"Damn right they won't," the Herald mutters under her breath. Cassandra rolls her eyes and groans.

Josephine is decidedly not amused. "Exactly. No one is going to Val Royeaux, and no one is going to trial. We cannot afford to wait for a new Divine, not with the Breach. Right now, we need to focus on finding out who killed all those people, the Divine included," she doesn't look at anyone in particular while she says this, but her words are directed at the Chancellor.

"Are you serious? The people need security, not war!" the Chancellor yells in disbelief. "A new Divine has to take the Sunburst Throne at once!"

"And how long will those elections take, Chancellor?" Leliana says, stepping out of her corner for the first time. "Josephine's right. We cannot afford to wait for a new Divine to be crowned, or the Breach could swallow us all. "

"Well, that's that, then," the elf says, still in good spirits. "Go on, Commander, take him away. Chantry boy, _do_ be good. I'd hate to break your hand for trying something stupid again."

Cullen sighs a 'yes' before starting to the door, Roderick in tow.

"Wait," Cassandra orders. Cullen stops and turns around, tightening his grip on the squirming Chancellor. "There's something that we to tell you, Chancellor. Do you know what this is?" the Seeker sets a book on the War Table, with a symbol similar to the Chantry's sunburst and the Eye of the Seekers. At Roderick's silence, she smiles. "Orders from the Divine. Ah," she holds out a hand to stop the Chancellor's protests. "They're real. We can show you, if we must, but it will have to be later. As of now, I officially restart the Inquisition of old, with the goal of closing the Breach and finding the monster behind it."

Silence fills the room. Josephine is triumphant, Leliana and Cassandra quietly smug, while the elf and Roderick are spluttering, speechless.

Cullen feels like he's flying. _Finally_, his life has purpose again. _Finally_, he can focus on something other than the lyrium, the pain. He's light, freer than he has been in ages.

"I knew the Chantry wouldn't like it, and I don't care. Cullen, get the Chancellor out of here before he tries to kill our key piece again," Cassandra orders, and Cullen follows gladly.


	3. Chapter 3

"Herald?" a voice says, punctuated with yet _another_ pounding on the door."It's time to get up." The elf tightens the blankets around her head in a vain attempt to block out the sound.

"Herald, if you don't come out, I am going to have Cassandra come in and drag you out by your heels." More pounding at the door accompanies the Commander's words. He's been at this for the past hour, and she's about ready to set him on fire. She buries her face under the pillow.

"Fine. I'll go get Cassandra, then. Enjoy your final moments in bed, Herald," the Commander snaps, and the elf breathes a sigh of relief.

The heat and sleepy daze don't last as long as she hopes, however, and soon enough Cullen is back.

"Here," he says. "She won't come out. You do something about it. I'll be in the War Room."

"Herald," a Nevarran accent calls, and the elf groans. _Cassandra._ Somehow, she didn't think that the Commander could actually manage to get the Seeker to come and retrieve her, but she's been wrong before. "You cannot stay in bed all day." More banging on the door. Unlike Cullen, she knocks five times instead of three.

"If you come through that door," the Herald growls, "I am going to set you on fire."

"Oh, really? I'd like to see you try." A blast of pure, cold, good-for-the-soul Frostback Mountain air assaults the Herald through her thin blanket as Cassandra opens the door. The elf pulls at the Fade, calling for fire, and the smell of smoke fills the room.

"Maker's-" Cassandra swears, and the elf grins as Cassandra stomps on the floor, trying to put out the small fire.

"I told you I would do it," the elf says, a smirk the shem can't see playing across her face.

"Don't act like a child. Get out of bed. _Now_, Herald," Cassandra snipes. The Herald can picture Cassandra above her, crossing her arms and scowling, and swallows a laugh.

"Bloody make me, shem."

Cassandra curses under her breath and grabs the Herald's pillow. One yank later, and the elf's head is bouncing on the spikey straw mattress. "Get up."

"Jump into the Void."

Cassandra grabs a fistful of the thin blanket and tugs, but the Herald holds it fast. Cassandra tugs again, and suddenly the Herald is exposed to the cold air. _Shit_, she thinks, and jolts up.

"Dirthara'ma!" the elf curses, and returns Cassandra's icy glare.

"Get up." It's said without inflection. Creators, but Cassandra's pissed. _Good._

"Yes, _mother_," the elf sneers. She throws her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, placing her face mere inches from the shem's. Neither one backs down. Cassandra's breath is hot on her face. The air sparks green around them.

"Get dressed," Cassandra spits, eyes not leaving the Herald's for a moment. "You have five minutes." With that, she turns and stalks away, radiating anger and slamming the door behind her. The elf snorts.

Her room is sparse. The Herald herself has no personal possessions, so all that's left is a poorly-crafted bed, a thin blanket and rough hewn pillow (on the floor), a small chest, a table next to the bed and a larger one in the corner with a mirror and water basin on top. Her staff and armor are propped up against the wall at the foot of the bed, and the Herald moves to retrieve them now.

She pulls her thin nightshift off, and proceeds with the long, multi-layered ordeal of putting her armor on. First goes the cottonweave shirt and pants, the socks. Then the vest, and the leather jerkin over that, with leggings and insoles to match. Finally, the armor itself: an upper body piece, a lower body piece, knee-high boots, and a glove/gauntlet combination over her right hand-it hurt to cover the Mark. Not physically, but a feeling akin to strangulation. It's not fun to deal with a cold hand, but it's much less fun to faint in the middle of the Haven Chantry and wake up three hours later to riots amongst the Inquisition masses. That _she_ had to sort out.

It's definitely been over five minutes. The elf ties her waist-length red hair into a horsetail with a leather thong and heads out the door. She fadesteps through Haven, avoiding the merchants and soldiers as best she could. It's not her fault if a helmet or two flew off the table, or if a door slammed into the tavern-woman's face. She's a busy elf. Places to go, shemlen to argue with.

The moment she steps into the Chantry, she knows she's in for it. The Commander's watching the door-well, _glaring_, now, but it can't be helped-Cassandra's yelling about the fire, Leliana's sending off a raven and Josephine is _pacing_. _Pacing._

_Shit._

When she enters, all movement stops. Leliana turns around to face the elf with an expression kept carefully neutral (in other words, she's pissed), Cullen goes from indignation to full-on anger in the drop of a helmet, Cassandra stops mid-complaint to turn the strength of her glare to sub-zero and Josephine almost drops her pad and quill.

The Herald can't help it, really. All four of the shemlen-Creators help her. All the glares, Josie's stumbling, Cassandra's complaints…

It's hilarious.

Her laughter starts out as a snort, then a chuckle, and finally devolves into full-on laughter so hard she's crying. She can't tell how long she's laughing, but when she stops, Cullen's anger has mostly disappeared, Josephine's chuckling a bit herself, and Leliana's smirking. Cassandra's the only one to remain prickly, but that _might_ have something to do with the whole almost-setting-her-on-fire thing.

"Do you care to tell us _why_ you're an hour late?" Cassandra asks, voice dry, eyebrow raised, eyes icy.

The elf stands and brushes herself off-somewhere, during her laughing fit, she had doubled over. "You know exactly why I'm late, Seeker. _You_ are the one I almost set aflame, if you recall." She smirks.

"Yes, very well, fine, but that doesn't explain why I had to go into your room and drag a grown elf out of bed, Herald," she says, taking her 'no shit from no one' Seeker pose.

The elf shrugs, letting her gaze wander over the shemlen gathered in front of her. "I was in the Fade. Dreaming. Learning. You know how it is."

"I didn't know all mages could do that," Leliana says, her face moving from quiet amusement to curiosity-the one emotion the Nightingale admits to having, it seems.

"They can't. It takes a great deal of time, energy, and," she meets Cullen's eyes at this, "_freedom_ to practice. As it is, I'm just learning. Solas may be an ass sometimes, but he's still a decent teacher."

"I left that life," Cullen says, his eyes the tiniest bit harder. "I've nothing to do with it, or the Templars, any longer."

"Good," the Herald says, the ghost of a smirk playing over her face again. "Now, I have just the tiniest inkling there was something you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Whatever gave you _that_ idea?" he sighs, and shakes his head in mock exasperation. "Let's go, before the Breach swallows us all."

* * *

Haven is completely, utterly,_ unjustifiably_ cold. Yes, this is Ferelden, and yes, this is the middle of the bleeding Frostback Mountains, but no, it does not need to be _this fucking cold_. Three layers of cottonweave, a layer of fur, all topped with armor, and still Cullen, Commander of the Inquisition forces, is shivering in his boots. Quite literally. The lyrium-or lack thereof-isn't helping. In fact, it's amplifying the cold, and giving him a blighted migraine.

He paces, trying to work up some semblance of heat, and shouts orders at his men.

"Point that shield down, recruit! If your opponent were actually trying, your arm would be numb! And you!" he points to another recruit farther down the sparring line, "what in the Void are you doing with your sword? You're not going to get anywhere with swordsmanship like that! You need to-oh, blast it. Mavren, go show him how it's done, or he's going to get himself killed." Cullen watches as his lieutenant jogs down the line and rips the recruit's sword out of his hand.

"I take it the army's not going too well?" asks a voice from behind him.

"What?" It's possible the one thing that can make Cullen jump anymore is an unnaturally soft-footed elven mage coming up behind him. "Oh, u-uh, Herald. I...didn't see you there."

"So I gathered," she says, and there's laughter in her eyes, for once. Humor instead of anger. "Is it, then? Going poorly? The army, that is." She walks through the fighting recruits, and he follows, skimming and signing a report along the way.

"No, no. The army's doing just fine. We're small, for now, but that's to be expected. Stories of you are reaching as far away as Val Royeaux and the Free Marches. It's helping bolster the ranks. We're coming along well. But I don't think you came for a lecture, did you?"

She smirks. Again. All Cullen's seen on her face between now and when she woke up two weeks ago is a smirk or a scowl. It's not a bad expression on her, though. It fits, in a way, how lips carve up one side of her face or the other, depending on her mood, how her tattoos bend with her mouth. Like all her angry laughter is just rolled up into one expression.

"-to hear it," she laughs, and Maker's breath what did she say?

"Sorry?" Andraste's pyre, he's not good at talking.

She blinks at him a moment, and her smirk turns sarcastic. "Distracted, are we? _Commander_, for shame. I _said_ that if you had a lecture prepared, I would just _love_ to hear it."

He's red. He knows he is, and he knows she knows it's nothing to do with the cold. "I'm afraid not. Another time, perhaps?" It takes all his effort not to stutter.

"It'll have to wait until I get back from the Hinterlands. I'm taking the ragtag band of misfits to go and get one _Mother Giselle_, as you well know. Even though it's the last thing I want to do."

"I'll work on it day and night until your return, then, Herald. Good luck finding Mother Giselle, and for the love of the Maker, _don't set her on fire_," Cullen orders, and it's not entirely a joke.

"We'll see about that last bit, Commander. I don't know how many more bullshit-spouting shemlen I can take around Haven," she complains, rolling her eyes. "I swear, it's not like I have _vallaslin_ or anything. I _absolutely must_ belong to the fucking Chantry. It's only logical that a _Dalish elf_ with her _own Gods_ would bend to the _Maker_. Fenedhis, you shems are driving me mad."

While this particular rant of hers isn't uncommon, it still hurts. Cullen knows that the Herald doesn't believe in the Maker, despite her title, but that doesn't mean everybody in Haven-or the rest of Thedas-holds the same opinion or knowledge.

"I know, Herald. It's frustrating, but hold your ground."

"_Ma serannas_, Commander. You probably need to get back to work, though, and I need to go get Ser-Dwarfy-Writes-A-Lot off his ass, so this is farewell for a few weeks." She smirks at him again, that odd twinkle in her eye lighting her face, and turns to take her leave of him.

"Herald," he says. She faces him again, questioning. He didn't want her to leave, not yet. "How do you...um, that is to say, would you tell me-"

"Out with it, Commander."

"R-right," he stutters. This was a bad idea. "How...how do you say 'goodbye' in Elvish?" Why, again, did he think this was an okay thing to ask? Why did he do this to himself?

Unexpectedly, she smiles. Not a smirk, not a hint of a smile, but a full fledged, toothy, _radient_ smile with the power to light a cave. "Look at that. A _shem_, of all things, wants to learn something. What a sight. It's _dareth shiral_, Commander. It means _safe journey_."

"Well, then... _dareth shiral_, Herald."  
"You need to work on your pronunciation, Commander," she laughs. "_Dareth shiral_,_ lethallin._"


End file.

Dragon Age, Adventure, Romance