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"It is," the unseen Bela replied. "For two Grey Wardens, and a dwarf from Orzammar, to conceive a child? Lena, you know that's damn near a miracle. This child is a gift. I can't risk them in battle. There's another future that I have to think about right now. I'm sorry."

"Alistair—"

"No. I agree with her. She's staying back."

The door screeched open, and an elven servant stood there, dressed in Lady Seryl's livery and bearing a silver tray with a cup of tea and some kind of flaky, cream-filled pastry that as a baker's son he couldn't help but be impressed by. "Pardon me, Ser Cullen, but Lady Seryl sends this with her compliments—"

Maker's breath. He sighed, knowing he'd been given away. "One moment, please." He stood up and waved down towards the gardens. "I swear I wasn't eavesdropping," he called.

Alistair waved back, sounding almost cheerful as he said, "If you're anything like you were at Bourneshire, you were so deep in your own head we could have danced a remigold right in front of you without you noticing." He laughed. "Besides, Cullen Rutherford eavesdropping? It wouldn't be the honorable thing."

You'd be surprised at some things I've had to learn since we were boys. "You'd best come down and say hello," Lena called up to him.

Oh, wonderful. It had gotten even more awkward. He could now go introduce himself to the pregnant wife of his former fellow recruit in the company of the woman he'd once been infatuated with, and pretend he hadn't overheard their argument. The best result would be Alistair telling embarrassing stories about Cullen as an adolescent. The worst? He'd bring up Kinloch, or the failings of the Order. "I'll be right down." He looked at the servant. "Um. Serah—"

"Reynard, Ser Cullen." Fox. Aptly named for the family he served.

"Why don't you, uh, just keep that for yourself." He gestured to the tea and pastry.

"Ser—"

"I wasn't hungry and I insisted upon it rather than see it wasted."

"Uh. Ser." Reynard cleared his throat. "That's very kind of you, but…"

"No, please."

Reynard's humble, servile demeanor disappeared, and he shook his head impatiently. "You aren't understanding me. The tea's been laced with a sleeping potion. You went to Denerim first. I was charged to go through your things once you were asleep and report anything of interest to Lady Seryl."

Cullen stared at him. "Maker's breath," he muttered, covering his face with his hand.

Reynard grinned at him, and sketched a jaunty half-bow. "Consider the warning compliments of Red Jenny, ser." So this was one of the agents of Leliana's liaison, Sera. "I'd suggest you come back upstairs to take a nice nap in about a half hour or so. I'll discover absolutely nothing of interest in your papers." He dumped the tea out onto the balcony, and wrapped the pastry in a linen napkin, making it disappear into his pocket. "Grateful for the cream horn, though. Thank you."

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Chapter 22: The Hero, the Champion, and the General

He'd already dealt with Lena—briefly—and been shouted at by Rinda. Might as well tackle the next potential headache on the list. His predecessor as the Fereldan leader of an army, given as Cullen understood it, in ten years nobody had yet fully and formally replaced him as their singular commander. It didn't help that army was still so sorely depleted. The flower of Ferelden had fallen at Ostagar, or in the Blight, or the Civil War. They still came in remarkable numbers to join the Inquisition for all that, but in some sense he couldn't help but think if Orlais ever decided to invade again, Ferelden would be in a poor position to fight.

The man had been commemorated in art and paintings and tapestries and woodcuts, both as a very young man fighting the Orlesians, and the middle-aged man of ten years ago. The Loghain mac Tir Cullen found waiting for him was neither the fierce freedom fighter nor the traitor teyrn. Dressed in simple, well-worn Warden armor, his formerly black hair now liberally overtaken with grey and cut short, his old-fashioned slim Fereldan war-braids no longer framing his face. Features craggy with age and a life lived hard. "Well," Loghain said, getting up from where he'd seated himself on a pile of rubble while whittling busily away on a block of wood, brushing shavings off his lap and legs. "Let's have it, then."

"You'll have to be more specific than that, serah."

The older man gave a slight snort. "Ah, 'serah'? Been in the Marches too long. They left their mark on you."

"Given the Inquisitor herself is from the Marches, and half-Fereldan besides, consider your words carefully, ser."

Loghain gave him a thin smile. "Defending her. Good. If you have her back as well in battle as you do her good name—" He shrugged. "In my experience, most Fereldans have a bone to pick with me. You're young, but probably old enough to hate me for something. Orlesians do too, of course, but I don't bloody well care about their complaints. So let's get it out of the way immediately."

"It really has no bearing on things here."

"Still. Best said and gotten over with. Clear the air so we can get to actual business. You're a Fereldan of a certain age. Let me guess. You used to play Battle of River Dane as a child."

"Yes."

"Were you Maric or me?"

"You." Branson had always been Maric, and Mia took the role of Rowan Guerrin. He'd never wanted to be Maric. He'd wanted to be Loghain. To be a defender, a hero, was better than being a king in his mind.

"Mm, figured as such. You're a warrior first. Common-born too, I'd say, for all you speak well."

Obviously the man wasn't going to quit until Cullen accused him of something. He couldn't quite imagine what it was like demanding attacks upon meeting someone, given if someone wasn't going to bring up his own failures he was hardly going to insist upon it. But well familiar with Fereldan stubbornness, he acquiesced. "Fine, if you insist. I grew up in Wolfsmoor bannorn. A commoner, as you say. My parents died in a Blight you did nothing to stop because of your paranoia about the Grey Wardens whose insignia you so proudly wear now."

"Hardly proudly, that implies pride in one's self, but do go on."

"My siblings had to suffer that loss and were made refugees for nearly a year before finding a place to settle. Beyond that, Ferelden hardly needed to worry about the Orlesians to attack us when we had you stabbing us right in the heart. Even now, you've left Ferelden in a place where Orlais knows we're weakened."

"Very true. Anything else?"

Why not just say it? Uldred was dead. There had been nobody to be angry at for so long, so his anger, like Rinda's, had turned askew. "No. It's not. You made promises at Ostagar to Senior Enchanter Uldred Jessom of Kinloch Hold that if he supported you, you'd back his notions of mage freedom. Do you know what he did with that?"

"Started an attempted coup in Kinloch, as I understand it."

"That's not the half of it. His followers used blood magic. They summoned demons. Those templars and mages who were captured were tortured and then almost all slaughtered, their bodies used to further fuel blood magic. And they performed those depravities with your name, your promises, on their lips."

He'd said too much. Hadn't ever admitted that he'd lived through it directly, no—he'd been content for so long to give the impression to people that he'd merely survived by being out of the tower, and witnessed its aftermath. Only the Order knew otherwise, and he had the sense he'd perhaps said too much to Rinda Hawke once, but he wasn't quite sure. And now he'd said too much again, and his heart pounded with it, feeling ashamed, exposed. You helped lead to me becoming the man I did.

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Crossing the neck to the gatehouse, its gate standing open, they entered the courtyard. Weeds grew in the cracks between blocks of stone, and moss and ivy draped over the walls. Here and there she could see tumbled stone blocks that had fallen from some of the keep, and piles of rubble littered the area. Part of the southeastern battlements had outright collapsed in, leaving a gaping hole. The bridge from the neck right to the front door of the keep was also a broken ruin, though at least the steps leading up to the door from the courtyard were intact.

"There is…" Josephine began carefully, turning around slowly, and Clerra could almost spy the notes she was making mentally, that shrewd merchant's eye hard at work. "I can see there will be a great deal of work ahead to repair this place. And cost."

"Which we don't have right now." Might as well say it openly. Given they'd made it here with the clothes and armor on their backs and some rapidly-depleting basic supplies, they were going to be starting over from the ground up. Somehow this sadly neglected place seemed to suit the battered, depleted Inquisition.

Well, what had she expected? That there would be an empty, long-abandoned fortress in pristine condition, just handed to them? Ridiculous. All the same, she had the momentary flash of tired frustration. Could one thing go a little bit easily for us right now? They would need to do so much work to make this place into what it needed to be. That, alongside an army, and so many other things. She could see Leliana's inscrutable expression, and the momentary look of dismay on Cullen's face, taking in the half-ruined state of the fortress.

"The Maker provides, apparently by the hand of Solas," Cassandra said dryly. "But it does not say that the provision must ever be easy." Clerra hid a wince, properly chastened. "This will be a great work. But a necessary one. And much like the Inquisition itself, Skyhold will be ours all the more for this being from the sweat of our own labors, will it not?"

Turning back from where he'd been studying the broken battlements, Cullen gave a low chuckle. "See, this is why she kept you as part of our council, Cassandra."

She thanked Andraste for that wisdom, because he was right. She'd seized upon the idea of titling Cassandra as steward in a desperate leap of logic, only sensing that she couldn't accept the woman's resignation and lose her counsel. Nor could the other three advisors. They worked in part thus far because Cassandra had been among them. No, Cassandra wasn't wrong that she didn't have a very specific defined territory of oversight to claim as her own. But Cassandra had that knack of cutting through spirals of doubt and hesitation and seizing upon some essential truth at the center of things, bringing it to the light and making it seem simple and self-evident. She was an intelligent woman, but a simple one. She had a purity of faith that Clerra could only admire, but she also brought a certainty and drive to things that they needed.

"You have always had a gift for such things, Cassandra," Leliana agreed, giving Cassandra a smile. "A Seeker—and finder—of Truth indeed. You're right. We began this already in Haven, but it is here that we truly honor the promise of the Inquisition, and Her Holiness."

She hadn't thought upon the full name of Cassandra's order, but with Leliana saying it, she had to agree. "All right. We'll need to survey the damage, and figure out what needs fixing first."

"Defenses," Cullen said quickly. "Particularly after Haven, to be somewhere with questionable defensive capability will not be acceptable. This place is a solid fortress, and will be even more so once it's repaired. We won't run from here, Inquisitor." He paused, and added, the two words slower and reluctant, "We can't."

No, he wasn't wrong. They couldn't afford another abandoned base of operations, another forced retreat. The Inquisition's morale and reputation wouldn't be able to endure it.

"Yes, but we must also make certain this place is hospitable. People will want to come visit, to seek the Inquisitor's favor. To see you in person." Josephine cast a dubious eye towards the ramshackle state of things. "It is a more ephemeral, subtler image of our strength than stone walls, but all the same, our showing hospitality and prosperity is an essential defense for the Inquisition nonetheless. We cannot appear ragged in the eyes of Thedas."

She also wasn't wrong. The task ahead of them would require absurd amounts of money and connections. She herself was doing her best to present that image of confident strength, and Skyhold must do the same.

Clerra noticed Leliana and Cassandra listening as Josephine and Cullen began to discuss some specifics and a list of priorities, but saying nothing. The steward and the spymistress had their own roles to play, but on the problem of repair logistics of Skyhold, perhaps they had less opinion to offer than the ambassador-merchant and the commander. But it was a change. Early on, she'd sensed the two of them often choosing their moments to speak up with more care, as if instinctively deferring to the two women who'd recruited them, Cullen in particular as he hadn't had a friendship with Cassandra as Josephine did with Leliana. They'd seemed to regard themselves as junior partners to the two Hands of the Divine in this venture, the ones who had been the keepers of Justinia's intentions and legacy. It didn't help them that the tiny Inquisition's profile stood sorely in need of luster and its forces were small and mostly very raw recruits. The Inquisition had been a thing of ideas more than hard-forged tangible realities.

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Alfa (@the-upper-shelf) is an absolute joy to work with as an artist, so please go commission her! I'm so thrilled how she brought Clerra Trevelyan to life here along with Cullen. No armor, no duty, no demands--it's what the two of them deserve.

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Cassandra drew her sword from its sheath, as Clerra got to her feet. "Leliana is our spymaster. Josephine is our ambassador. Cullen is our commander. I was meant to ignite the flame of the Inquisition, and I have done so. I accept that my duty as one of the Inquisition's leaders is done." She turned the sword, laying it flat across both of her upturned palms, offering it to Clerra. "Your blade was lost defending our people. I offer you mine, both the sword itself and my service."

Clerra reached out and took it carefully, then wrapping her hand around the red leather of its hilt. "You honor me. And I'll always be glad of your blade guarding my back, Cassandra, but I also value your advice. You're part of the Inquisition council. "

"I was. As I said, I believe that role is done. I am not so starved for power I must cling to it at all costs. Your three advisors have their place in your War Room. Mine is finished, and so I relinquish it."

"Your humility does you credit. And yet, I'm not ready to let you go. There will be things Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana can't easily tend to. There may be things I need tended while I'm away. It was you who really lit the spark of the Inquisition, who tended the flame when it burned so low to begin. Your counsel helped get us here, and you and your faith is what drove us all to keep going. So," she turned the blade, and tapped Cassandra first on the right shoulder, then the left. "Cassandra Pentaghast, I name you the Steward of the Inquisition." She offered the sword back to Cassandra across her own palms. "Continue to tend and guard the fire at our heart, Steward. Continue to advise me. Will you accept that duty?"

There was no hesitation on Cassandra's part, no denial. "I shall. You honor me," Cassandra said softly, taking her sword back, and giving Clerra a deep bow.

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Really thrilled with this work from Alfa! The bottom piece is my warrior Inquisitor, Clerra Trevelyan, and Cullen, enjoying a postwar moment. It's so wonderful to see my girl brought to life by a talented fanartist. :D And for those of you reading Neither By Chance Nor Fate, hope this visual helps.

Dragon Age commissions :D

@marzopups

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Alone with his thoughts, he climbed, and climbed, summoning holy light at intervals, and tried to not think of Clerra. His wounds burned. Several slashes, some magical burns. Nothing he hadn't fought through before, more than once. Though his right side ached where he'd been hit hard by a maul, and his probing fingers had found a rather large dent in his armor. Cracked ribs, he suspected. If he started coughing or vomiting blood, then he would know they were outright broken and apparently cutting up something inside of him. At that point, it would be a problem. Until then, it was a mere inconvenience.

Finally he emerged into the cold open night air, partway up the mountain slope, high up enough that he stepped into what would have been shin-deep snow.

Being the last to leave meant that broken trail up the mountain slope made the effort easier at least, able to step into the already trampled-down snow from those ahead. But Cullen’s steps felt no lighter all the same as he spied people ahead, hurrying to catch up.

They had likely used mage light and holy light in their way up the tunnel, but here on the slopes they made their way up the cold, icy mountain by only the glow of the moons, not wanting to risk the light of torches whether flame or magic or abilities becoming a beacon advertising their presence. Here and there he saw the hazy shimmer of mages casting warmth spells, trying their best to huddle people close so that they could gain even a sliver of heat within the spell’s effective radius. Aside from that, and chattering teeth, Haven’s people were silent, the absolute quiet of a hunted animal recognizing it was not out of the predator’s jaws yet. The time for lamentation would come later, with interest.

Finally someone at the front called a halt, presumably to take stock, and he judged they were high up enough for safety. He glanced back down towards Haven. Raging fires burned most of the village, blazing in the night. Nobody was coming up the slopes yet, so they hadn’t discovered the secret path, for which he thanked the Maker. Towards the north, past the gates and at the trebuchets, he couldn’t get a good view through his spyglass, debris and smoke blocking the view. He was about to trek further uphill to try to see, feeling compelled to at least bear witness if he could to one woman’s ferocious courage and sacrifice.

Andraste had met her end in fire. But it seemed her Herald would meet hers in ice.

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Cullen nodded slightly, as if deciding something within his own mind. "All it will take is one or two people to fire the trebuchet. I will stay—"

"No." It came out harshly, almost a growl, tempered by the sudden fear filling her, the realization. She forced herself to take a breath. "No, Commander." She needed to talk to him as the Commander now, starkly and objectively. Not as a man who'd so recently become her friend. "It must be me."

"Herald—"

"It must be me," she repeated, forcing more assurance into the words. "You heard Cole. The Elder One wants me." She held up her left hand, indicating the Mark. "If I flee with our people, he'll pursue, and he has a dragon. He'll just catch us and slaughter us all up on the slopes of the mountain rather than here in the valley."

"Yes, and what precisely is this 'Cole' who knows things no mortal could, and that you should trust him—" Something wavered in his expression then, a flicker of doubt and even fear.

"He saved me at Kinloch, and got me out of Envy's grasp. He's tried to help Elodi with the sick and wounded. I trust him." She reached out, and touched his arm. Suddenly they weren't the Herald and Commander, but Clerra and Cullen, and somehow that felt right. "Please. Believe me. It has to be this way."

The harshness faded, and his voice was almost gentle as he asked, "And when the mountain falls? What about you?"

She swallowed hard. "Andraste was called upon to sacrifice herself. It seems…" It seems my turn has come. She had closed the Breach. Perhaps she had survived only as long as she'd been truly needed, but she had done what the Maker and Andraste intended. There was comfort in that thought.

After all, much of Andraste's legacy had come after her death. And it meant she would be together at the Maker's right hand with Dora. Her mother and father. Raisa. A part of her mourned the chances she and Tris wouldn't have to know each other better as adults, but she had seen him again. She had asked Cullen for his friendship, and given him hers. There was still so much she would have loved to do, but if this was her end, at least she could go with fewer regrets than many.

That softness in his voice remained, and his eyes were steady on hers. She appreciated that he didn't try to convince her to flee, or lie to her that she'd be all right. "Shall I stay with you?"

Some part of her wanted to say yes so badly, to not face the end alone. To die alongside a friend, and a formidable warrior, wouldn't be so bad. But she knew it would be selfish. "You can't. Someone has to protect the Inquisition's people, and guide them, through whatever comes next to get them to safety. They're going to be in the middle of the mountains. You've led them admirably tonight already. They're going to need their Commander." He would help keep them together, frightened and injured and directionless as they were.

He closed his eyes then, and nodded once, accepting it. Because he revered duty just as much as her, she'd known that would convince him of how the situation must go. "So be it." Then as she watched, Cullen retreated, and he was the Commander she demanded that he be. "I'll have them send off a flame arrow once we're safely out of the tunnel up the mountain. At that point, you can unleash the trebuchet."

"All right."

He reached out and grasped her right forearm, and reflexively, she returned the gesture—a warrior's embrace. He gave her that respect here, at the end. Now his gaze met hers again, something blazing fiercely there. "If you are to buy us time, then I would suggest you lead them on a merry chase first towards the trebuchet. Then you make your stand, and whatever Void-cursed things this Elder One and his dragon are, let them hear you."

Yes. It would be far better to die on her feet fighting, rather than begging for her life, or to quietly surrender to their enemy. She would die with a roar, not a whimper. She had decided how it would be, not them. The thought sparked a flame of courage within her. She let go of his arm. "Maker watch over you, Commander."

"Maker watch over you, Herald." And then he was gone, the bright gold of his hair the last thing visible as he vanished down into the darkness of the cellar.

She breathed in, and then out. In, and then out. Preparing herself, reminding herself, I am not alone. Andraste is with me. Cullen will remember me, and tell the others what I've done.

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Unbeautiful

Wrote this for Day 3 of Bellara Week, prompt Grief/Comfort. It was supposed to be short and sweet and uh... it ended up not being very short at all and I'll let you all decide how sweet it is. Contains spoilers for the blighted Bellara path because what can I say, I love it.

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Bellara had never considered herself a particularly vain person. Oh certainly, she knew she was attractive—she wasn't blind to the impact her appearance had on people around her. Certainly, she'd taken a particular pride in her appearance, had put some effort into dressing herself and cleaning herself up in ways that appealed to her, but was that vain? She'd never thought so, before. That had just seemed… well. Nice? She supposed? She wasn't sure if there was an exact word for it.

She hadn't felt good about much in regards to herself, after losing Cyrian. Maintaining her appearance had been one of the few routines she'd managed to keep up after his death, mostly because it had been easy and already a force of habit. She didn't think that had been vain back then, to keep such a tight grip on one of the few things left in her life that still made her feel good about herself but, well…

Looking at herself now in the mirror as she felt a hot lump well in her throat, a part of her couldn't help but wonder if perhaps she'd always taken a bit more pride in her appearance than she'd realized until this moment.

Bellara hadn't actually… well. Seen herself, since being rescued from Elgar'nan. Sure, she'd glimpsed parts of herself since leaving Minrathous and being Joined, but all of those moments had been small, quick things she hadn't let herself linger on. If her fingers trembled slightly every time they caught her eye until she tucked her hands behind her back, or if she'd kept her gaze slightly averted from her body as she'd washed, guided more by muscle memory than anything else, that was… fine, wasn't it? It wasn't a bad thing, exactly. It wasn't like she'd had a habit in the past of lingering to admire her own form when she was changing for bed.

She'd thought it was fine, until she'd seen herself in the damned mirror.

The worst thing was, it was a normal mirror. Bellara knew this because she'd checked it herself, when it had first been gifted to her and Nessa for saving Minrathous. She'd been so sure there was something to it—some kind of spell, or enchantment, or maybe even an old-fashioned Tevene trick because it had been a gift from the Archon himself and surely someone like Dorian Pavus would work in some kind of mechanism or use some special magic for one of his own mirrors, right?

Sadly, no. It had been a normal mirror, and she'd been incredibly disappointed to report this to Nessa, who had been watching her fiddle with it all evening with the kind of amused affection Bellara still didn't know what to do with. With that confirmed she'd given the go ahead to hang it up in their new home in Arlathan Forest, and up until this moment in time she'd done a truly impressive job of not catching a glimpse of herself every time she passed it by.

She really should have known her luck would run out, eventually. It always did.

The worst part was, it had only been a brief glimpse out of the corner of her eye; Bellara had been in the middle of going to do something else when she had seen only a blur of herself in the mirror, a bit of skin showing unmistakable blight scars. She could have kept walking—could have ignored it, buried it down deep and not dealt with it. She could have focused on other things in order to keep her mind busy and to keep herself from thinking too much about the ghosts that haunted her, but…

Well. She was trying to be better about that, after Cyrian. This wasn't something she wanted to confront—in truth, she was happy to continue avoiding it for as long as she could get away with after managing this long—but that bit of skin had wedged itself into her memory, and she had a really good memory and very fresh wounds to reflect what had happened the last time she'd buried her thoughts and feelings instead of dealing with them.

It couldn't be that bad, right? Right. Of course. It wasn't that bad; her mind was just filling in the blanks as it tended to do when she thought a little too hard. She'd looked worse for sure, right after being rescued from Elgar'nan; any way she looked now was an improvement over that, even if it wasn't how she'd looked before. Maybe she was worrying for nothing! Maybe this was all in her head! Maybe she still looked the way she'd always looked, and her eyes had simply been playing tricks on her out of… some sense of lingering trauma, or something. Or remnants of Elgar'nan's influence, slowly clearing out of her mind now that he was no longer infecting her body and her soul like a disease.

Bellara nodded to herself, taking a breath. Yes, that made sense. When she thought about it like that, her avoidance of the mirror seemed silly; the way she hadn't been able to really look at herself until this moment seemed silly. She'd just built it up in her head, that was all. It was fine. She was fine.

She took another breath, to remind herself of how fine she was. Then she turned around to face the mirror fully, looking at her reflection head on.

She didn't look the way she'd always looked. That revelation hit her like a bolt of magic to the chest, even as no small part of her kicked herself for so easily buying her own lie just to work up the courage to see her reflection.

The thing was, on some level, Bellara had been right—it wasn't that bad. It certainly wasn't as bad as it had been in Minrathous, when her skin had been black and her eyes had been red and she could feel the blight pumping in her blood to her heartbeat, when she hadn't even needed to try to lean into the whispers because Elgar'nan's presence had been so loud in her head. The parts of her that hadn't been blackened from blight had been pale, that ghoulish shade of white that made her seem more darkspawn than person, and she'd… she'd seen the way the others had flinched from her even after she'd been rescued, the way they hadn't been quite able to meet her eyes. They had rescued her, sure, she was still alive, but this? None of them had expected this.

None of them except Davrin and Nessa, who hadn't flinched away from her and had met her gaze easily. She supposed that made sense, when she thought about it. Grey Wardens were used to darkspawn.

(Was it fair, even, to say that she'd been more darkspawn than person at that point? Darkspawn were people, twisted and changed by the blight; it wasn't like she'd stopped being herself just because she was blighted. She didn't know. She didn't want to think about it. That was a crisis for another day.)

The point was, when she thought about it with the same kind of logic she applied to tinkering with an artifact, she could recognize that she didn't look that bad. Her skin was… it was still pale, that was true, but it wasn't blackened like it had been before, so that was a good thing for sure. Her eyes had shifted back from red to brown, and the actual blight marks… Well. They were still there, she could see them on her face, but compared to what they had once been they were faded things, more like lingering stains than outright infection.

(She'd never thought about the blight like that before—as an infection. That was how it had felt, though, as it had crawled under her skin and bitten into her dreams; like she was sick, her body throwing every natural defense it had at its disposal and some unnatural ones from her magic at it to try and slow it down.

Had it been like that for everyone caught in Elgar'nan's web? Had all of them been sick, fighting losing battles to try and preserve their bodies and their minds? Was that all darkspawn were in the end—regular people, sickened by corruption? Had they known what was happening to them right up to the very end?

Isseya had still known herself. Bellara had come back to herself.

She didn't want to think about it, and yet. And yet, and yet, and yet.)

It wasn't that bad. Bellara knew this, when she thought about it logically.

The problem was, she still remembered what she'd looked like when she'd been better.

(She'd actually gotten the chance to get better. Isseya hadn't. None of the darkspawn they'd killed while fighting the Evanuris had gotten that chance.)

With a hand that trembled slightly, Bellara reached out and carefully touched the mirror, taking in the sight of her reflection. There was nothing logical about what she saw. Blight scars lingered on her face, faded enough to indicate she wasn't entirely gone but still showing enough to prove that she'd been changed. Her eyes followed the scars down, down along her neck and the upper part of her chest to where skin vanished under her clothes. She could see how those scars continued, along her exposed arm. An entire web of past blight corruption, faded but still lingering on her body as if to remind her that she would never truly be free of what Elgar'nan had done to her.

She didn't look blighted, but she still looked—

She still looked—

(She'd gotten better. Hadn't she?

Or did she just have enough awareness now to recognize that her body had been changed in a way she hadn't been able to stop?)

She'd been beautiful once.

The sound that escaped Bellara's throat was a hoarse, ragged thing; talking was easier these days, but there was still a lingering ache that hadn't quite faded yet. When Elgar'nan had taken her, had… changed her, she'd screamed and screamed and screamed until she'd tasted blood on her tongue; there were many things she still didn't remember about her imprisonment, but that particular memory was crystal clear. The pain just made her vision swim, and she sank to her knees as she choked on her own grief.

Had she even cried, before this moment? Had there been a chance for her to? Bellara wanted to say she had—she must have, time had passed since they had ended the double Blights—but her eyes stung slightly as the tears fell in a way that told her they'd been dry for awhile. Crying hurt too, in a way that it hadn't before; trying to muffle her cries wasn't doing her any favors for her throat, and Creators, were her eyes really aching?

Maybe being in Elgar'nan's care had somehow changed the way she fucking cried, too. That would just be her luck, wouldn't it? Maybe she could make that the plot of her next serial, if she ever felt any desire to pick up a pen again: a woman learning to process her emotions again after just barely surviving blight infection. There could be a decent story there. She even had personal experience to draw from to make the writing easier.

It was a dark thought, and Bellara couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up in her throat as it lingered in her mind; it wasn't exactly a good laugh, caught in between her sobs and bordering on the edge of hysterical, but there had to be something to being able to see the humor in this situation. She hadn't been able to make herself laugh when Cyrian had died, the first or the second time. Maybe this was some kind of growth that now she could see the humor in her incredibly fucked up situation.

Or maybe Joining her had failed, and now the blight was making its way into her brain, and she was going completely insane before she finished her transformation into a ghoul. Maybe that was happening, too. It would certainly explain how she couldn't stop crying, or the way her head was starting to pound along with the burning in her throat, and her chest felt so tight—

"Bellara?"

Bellara's ears twitched slightly, at the sound of Nessa's voice; the utter chaos that had been crashing around in her head quieted slightly in response. It didn't stop entirely and the sensations were all still too much, but the dwarf's voice was a ray of light shining in the darkness the elf had found herself tumbling down into and she grabbed onto it tightly with both hands.

Literally.

If Nessa was startled when Bellara lunged up and pulled her into a tight embrace, she didn't give it away; the only hint that the smaller woman had been caught off guard was her sharp inhale, but she melted easily into the mage's arms as Bellara sank back down to the floor again, rocking back and forth slightly as she held onto her partner like her life depended on it. Nessa moved briefly in her arms and Bellara made a soft noise of protest in response but the Warden simply shifted, wrapped her arms tight around her and settled back into place.

Good. That was good. Later Bellara would apologize for her behavior, but right now she just needed to focus. She needed—she needed to get out of this spiral she'd found herself in. Her grief was a sea trying to drown her, and right now Nessa was the only bit of land she had left to hold onto.

Her head still throbbed and her throat still burned and her eyes were way too wet, but Bellara focused instead on the sensation of Nessa in her arms; it was both achingly familiar and entirely unknown to her, as she let herself sort through the sensations of it. The things that felt familiar she still loved with her entire heart and soul: the feeling of Nessa's clothes under her fingers (a little rough and worn down from years of wear and tear, but still in good shape and well cared for), the faint floral scent that always clung to her from her favorite soap (lavender, which had earned her no small amount of teasing when the Wardens had made a new permanent home in Lavendel), the way it felt to just bury her face into her hair and breathe her in. The things that felt unfamiliar but still distinctly her were…

Well. It was only one thing, really.

Before being taken by Elgar'nan, Bellara had only known as much about the Wardens as anyone else outside the Order. She'd known they were sworn to defeat Blights as they swept across Thedas, and she'd heard the rumors that the Wardens were willing to do whatever it took to prepare themselves for an eventual Blight. She hadn't known how true that was until she'd met Nessa, and then eventually Evka, Antoine, Davrin, and the rest—that was when she had learned Wardens were as tainted as the darkspawn they fought, shortening their lives in the process and exposing their dreams to an Archdemon when one took to the sky. In the days leading up to Tearstone Island, Davrin and Nessa had barely slept.

She still hadn't known what that had meant, though, not really. Not until Elgar'nan had dragged her through his eluvian and had placed her under his… gentle care. She'd walked away from him able to sense the blight, both within him and all around her, and that had extended as well to the Wardens—she could feel the blight in Nessa's and Davrin's bodies, in a way she suspected they couldn't quite feel towards her.

Even now she could sense the blight in Nessa's body, moving through her blood with every pump of her heart. It was a strange thing, when she thought about it; she'd still been partially blighted even after Elgar'nan had died, and being Joined had given her the chance to live another thirty years, but apparently her connection to the last of the Evanuris had just been that strong. It should have bothered her, but now that she was focusing on it in the moment, it felt almost comforting. It was a reminder that she wasn't alone, that even if Nessa didn't look like her she still carried the same blight within her.

That was weird. Right? That was definitely weird. Bellara probably should just keep that thought to herself.

"I can still sense the blight in you," she murmured, because if there was one thing Bellara could always count on, it was that her brain and her mouth sometimes weren't connected.

Nessa hummed softly in response; if she was bothered by the comment, Bellara couldn't tell at all. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. It's, um, comforting? In a way? That's—Creators, that sounds bad."

"It does," Nessa replied, but she still squeezed Bellara gently anyway and the elf smiled into her hair. "Explain it."

Bellara was quiet for a moment, composing her thoughts; she shifted again, absently rubbing Nessa's back as she did so, and the dwarf rumbled contently against her in a way that made her smile soften. Her vision was starting to clear and her headache had faded now to something dull, something easy to ignore.

"I was always afraid of the blight," she murmured, when she could follow her line of thought. "I don't think that's shocking or anything, I mean… you know. You heard me every time I had to deal with it. I hated it."

"I remember." Nessa's voice was amused. "Never stopped you from following me into it, though."

"Well, yeah, of course I did, it was you. It's still you. I'd follow you anywhere."

Bellara didn't think she'd said anything particularly special; to her it was simply the truth. Wherever Nessa went she would go, too. For some reason though she felt a small shiver run through the dwarf at her words and she paused, pressing a gentle kiss to dark brown strands of hair. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, you didn't, I just…" Nessa cleared her throat. "I'm still not used to that, I guess. How easily you say that, even after Tearstone Island."

"Vhenan, Tearstone Island wasn't your fault." Bellara had doubted many things during her captivity, had questioned many of the decisions that had led to her ending up in Elgar'nan's hands; Nessa's role in all of it had never been something she'd doubted or questioned. A job had needed to be done, and she had volunteered to do it because she'd only trusted her own hands to keep Neve and Nessa safe.

"I'm still working on believing that," the Warden sighed, then shifed to glance up at Bellara before she settled down into place again. "Besides, we were talking about you right now, not me."

Bellara pressed her lips together at that, but she couldn't argue with it even though she really wanted to—she filed away Nessa's words for later, however. This was something they would properly discuss, eventually. She trailed her fingers down the shorter woman's spine, realigning herself to get her thoughts back on track.

"I was always afraid of the blight. I still am, really, even if I… understand it now better than I did before. But when I can sense it in you it's not as scary? I guess?" She frowned for a moment, tapping her fingers against Nessa's back. "You're you, and I love you. So the blight feels safer with you, I think. I can feel it running through you the way it runs through me, but it just feels… better when I feel it through you, compared to through me. When it's you it feels nice."

Bellara was snapped out of her focus by the gentle feeling of fingers brushing against her cheek; she blinked and looked down into Nessa's eyes, realizing with a small jolt that she must have focused her gaze somewhere else as she spoke. Her partner's dark eyes were soft, and for some reason the look of them made her swallow. "You know the blight runs through you now the same way, right?" Nessa asked, and her voice was gentle. "You're a Warden, love, even if we have no expectations about you hunting darkspawn. We're the same."

"We're not," Bellara snapped, and immediately winced at the sharpness of her own voice. "The same, I mean," she continued, quieter now in an attempt to control her emotions. Nessa was helping her feel better, it wasn't fair of her to lash out. The wound on her soul was a gaping, ugly thing, but the dwarf didn't need to see how heavily it still bled.

Time hadn't healed it. Maybe it never would heal.

Dread Wolf take her, what an awful thought.

Bellara shifted again and started to pull away now, because her mind was made up; she felt better—at least marginally so—and at the very least she wasn't spiraling anymore, and if she continued down this particular path of thought there was a chance she'd just hurt all over again. As far as she was concerned this was done, and if it was a little abrupt, if she was a little closed off now, well…

Well. It was fine. She'd be fine.When she'd been like this after Cyrian's death, it had been easy; Irelin had let her go, hadn't followed her. She was used to this; to the letting go.

How easily she'd forgotten Nessa wasn't Irelin.

The shorter woman let her get up, got to her feet with her, but before Bellara could step away entirely her hands caught her wrists; loose, gentle, not holding on tightly but enough to make the elf pause. She could have pulled away entirely, could have turned and walked off—Nessa would have let her go, she knew this. But the dwarf's thumbs were tracing gentle patterns over her pulse points, and she foud herself slowly relaxing at the lingering touch.

"Your heart's racing again," Nessa murmured.

"Just… got a little angry." Bellara's voice sounded weak, even to her own ears. The apology was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back through nothing but sheer willpower; she may not have wanted to talk about this, but her feelings weren't wrong.

Nessa apparently had different ideas about the not talking part, though. "Why?" she asked, her tone mild, and she kept her eyes down, focused on Bellara's wrists like they were the most fascinating things in all of Thedas.

"I—I'm not sure talking about this is a good idea."

"Do you want me to let go?"

"… No." Bellara sighed quietly, stepping closer when Nessa very gently tugged her back in. "This feels nice."

Nessa chuckled, something deep and warm. "I've been told I'm good with my hands," she teased, and when she did finally lift her eyes to meet Bellara's there was a gleam there that was both wicked and affectionate.

For a moment—only a second, really—the image of Nessa in front of her was replaced with something else. Still Nessa, but… changed. Those dark brown, almost black eyes brightened red by the blight, dark veins running under skin that was several shades too pale. Bellara inhaled sharply, blinked, and the image disappeared as quickly as it had formed in front of her.

Nessa didn't say anything. She simply waited.

Bellara swallowed against the lump in her throat. "We're not the same," she murmured. "Like… you're right, too, we are, but we're not. We both have the blight and that is comforting to me? Because I'm not going through this alone? But even if we both have the blight you still look gorgeous—which isn't bad! I like the way you look! Just… you're still so pretty and I'm… not."

"Bellara," Nessa said, and it was strange, really, how she sounded like she'd just been stabbed.

Bellara shrugged, and now she was the one looking down at where Nessa was still holding her wrists. "I see that now," she sighed. "I was trying to not see it, I guess, but I saw myself in the mirror and… well, I can't keep pretending, can I? It's better if I accept it. I'm going to look this way for the rest of my life."

The thought still hurt. The thought still really hurt, because apparently Bellara was, in fact, a bit of a vain person who had taken more pride than she'd thought in her appearance, and to have that counted as something else she'd lost to Elgar'nan… didn't feel good. The grief was still there, even if it wasn't consuming her, overwhelming her, drowning her. Nessa's presence had caused it to shrink from a raging sea to a trickling stream, but Bellara could still feel it deep in her stomach.

Nessa being here with her made it better, though. Nessa had let Bellara hold her, and hadn't squirmed or tried to get away from her even though she was covered in blight scars and still too pale. Nessa was still gently holding her hands, tracing patterns over the pulse points of her wrists like she hadn't been changed at all. The grief would probably never go away, but as long as Nessa was with her—as long as Nessa stayed—Bellara could live with it.

Nessa was the one who stepped closer now, as silence fell between them. A hand left Bellara's wrist, gently reaching up to brush against her cheek; the elf hummed softly at the touch, leaning into it and meeting the dwarf's gaze.

She looked pained.

"You don't need to be sad, vhenan. It's true."

"It's not true," the Warden snarled, and the intensity in her voice made Bellara blink. "Lara, it's—" She caught herself, took a quiet breath; the other woman wasn't sure how much it helped, her eyes were still blazing, but it gave her a moment to think, apparently. "You're still so, so beautiful."

Bellara blinked. Then she blinked again, because it took a few seconds for the words to really sink in. "You saw me before I was blighted, Nessa," she said, because for some reason her mind had suddenly gone blank.

"Yes, I did. You're as gorgeous as you were when we met in Arlathan."

That—that couldn't be right. Could it? The evidence had been in front of Bellara plain as day, was still in front of her even if she wanted to ignore it; she could see the blight scars running along her arms. She's biased anyway, whispered the little voice in her heart she'd never been able to silence. She loves you. Of course she'll say what you want to hear to make you feel better.

It would have been easy to believe; Bellara almost did believe it, for a moment. That little voice had been a part of her for as long as she could remember, and it had already whispered to her so many times; even when she tried to ignore it, it was never gone. The rest of her heart pushed back against it, though—reminded her that yes, Nessa loved her, but Nessa had also never lied to her. The Grey Warden knew how to speak well, and she often had when she'd needed to rally the team, but left to her own devices she preferred to speak directly and bluntly, and that also meant that she had a habit of speaking honestly.

Nessa might have tried to soften painful truths, but she'd never lied to her. That wouldn't change now, even if she was trying to make her feel better. So…

So when she was saying this—insisting that Bellara was still beautiful, even with her changes—she meant it.

She really meant it.

Oh.

Her vision was swimming again, Bellara realized. There was pain again, in her chest, like a lightning bolt had struck her heart or she'd lost control of an artifact while tinkering, but even though it hurt it felt… good. Nessa made a soft concerned sound at the sight of her tears but Bellara shook her head, gently tugging one hand free to wipe at her eyes. "Sorry," she whispered.

"I didn't mean—"

"It's not you! I mean, it is? But it's—I'm alright, you didn't do anything wrong. They're happy tears. I think. I just…"

Bellara took a breath; this time, she was the one reaching for Nessa's hands, and she turned her head slightly to press her lips to the dwarf's palm. "I just don't think I believe that yet," she admitted. "Not the way you do. But it still feels good to hear you say it."

Nessa smiled up at her, and it reminded Bellara all over again why she had fought against Elgar'nan's control for so long. "I can believe it enough for both of us, trust me. And I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it."

"Every time I ask?"

"Every time you ask and a few times you don't." Nessa squeezed her hand, then glanced towards the mirror. "Do you want to take that down?"

Bellara paused, glancing at the mirror. She took a moment to look at her reflection, to look at the image of her and Nessa standing together. "No," she decided. "It can stay up. I'd like to get out for a bit, though."

Nessa laughed. "Then I have the perfect thing, I wanted to tell you while we were cleaning out the darkspawn remnants in Lavendel today we found an intact artifact. At least, I think it's intact. I brought it back for you to take a look at."

If Bellara pulled Nessa all the way in and kissed her for that, muffling the sound of her laughter with her lips and forgetting about the mirror entirely, well. That was fine. That was more than fine, really. She may have been changed by Elgar'nan, she may have had to be Joined to survive, but this… this was still the same and always would be.

For Bellara, for now, that was enough.

[squidproquoclarice]

"Truthfully, I find myself…oddly excited to imagine what comes next. More so than when I came to Haven. We've weathered the Breach, we've made a good start on peace between the mages and templars. We've already accomplished some very important things. And what more we could do—you served the Chantry yourself, you must have seen some of its limitations. Seen them even more now with their condemning you, cowering in the Grand Cathedral and arguing over doctrine and a new Divine while the Breach threatened us all. The Inquisition's already proven it can and will act where the Chantry can't or won't. Others will see it too, and those who decide to follow our banner would be a part of something real. There's so much that we could—"

He realized he must sound halfway to raving like a lunatic, words coming in a rush. Blushing furiously, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling completely covered in embarrassed awkwardness. And this is why you don't talk to people. When you relax enough to say something true about something you genuinely care about, it's a bloody deluge and it overwhelms people and they wish you would just shut up. "Forgive me. I'm certain you didn't come here for a lecture."

"No, but if you have one all ready and prepared, I'd love to listen." Now she looked embarrassed herself. "I mean that in earnest. You left the templars for this. I admire that. The Inquisition matters to you. And I'm rather prone to delivering lectures myself when it's something I care about." She smiled, and it was as though the burden of exhaustion and trepidation she'd carried since he'd first seen her lifted. "You ought to have heard people groaning over me going on and on endlessly about elfroot."

"I'd sooner hear about anything from someone passionate enough to care about it to the point of a lecture than to constantly talk of nothing, let alone with those who care about nothing." He'd tried for far too long to not care for much of anything, and loathed the man it had made him.

"Exactly!" She nodded with enthusiasm. He saw the hesitation come over her then, that pause where she clearly thought something over. "I'm very grateful for your kindness since we met, Ser Cullen."

"Think nothing of it, Lady Clerra."

"No, but what I mean to say is…you've done a great deal for me, but if I'm able to hold my own better now as a fighter as you say, I won't need to rely on you quite so much. My hope is that means going forward that we can be…better peers to each other, perhaps."

He nodded, not entirely following, but trying to encourage her to keep going with whatever it was she meant to say. "I would hope for that as well." A bit confused, he asked her, "Would you prefer to train with someone else? Your brother, perhaps?" Tristen was more than capable, after all.

"No! Not at all. You've taken me this far already when I needed help the most, and your knowledge of combat is probably among the very best in Haven. Besides, he and I are trying to figure out where our relationship stands after so long, and putting the pressure on him of being my arms tutor besides…" She shook her head, letting out a sigh of exasperation. "What I mean to say is that I would very much like it if we could call each other friends as well as colleagues?" She phrased it as a question, obviously a little unsure.

Maker. She didn't know what those words meant to him, how they hit him squarely in that part of him that had been forced to admit in the darkness of Fort Connor's dungeon that he'd wished for something like this. "I…I would like that as well."

[squidproquoclarice]

Neither By Chance Nor Fate, ch 16

It was like an awkward dance. Three steps back, then one forward. Each taking a step to the side to spread the push against the magic out further. Eventually, they needed a break, as neither templars nor mages could sustain that expenditure of beyond-natural energies for long. As they got back to it for a second round, he noticed with some wonder that the mages had somehow changed the mage-light to something more approximating the Breach, a large golden wreath of light rather than a ball. That actually made the task easier, as it rippled and twisted against the pressure of the templars' push, showing where it overlapped too much and shoved too hard, and then when they were spread too far apart and bits of the light began oozing into the gaps like jagged spikes of sun-rays.

Looking at it, as they finally figured a stable balance point, the templars' push turning into a coruscating arc of white light itself that bracketed one side of the golden fire of the mage-light wreath, he couldn't help but acknowledge there was something remarkable about it, in a way that he hadn't felt since he was a raw new templar listening to the enchanters' lectures and seeing something marvelous about the magic they could create and manipulate. Back when he'd secretly thought it must be a gift from the Maker, not a curse. Before he'd understood all too viscerally the darkest side of magic, and it became all he could see.

That sentiment came back all the stronger now, because this was something done together, mages and templars forging this act in tandem, of one mind and one will. Differences and feuds forgotten in pursuit of common cause.

Yes, Clerra Trevelyan truly was a remarkable woman. She had looked at two groups that most would have sworn were by nature dual forces existing in a balance of direct opposition. That at best, they the strange mirror of each other, and at worst, they were forged to be enemies. And yet…even as the rest of them had argued for one group or the other as the sole reasonable option, she'd first suggested having them both on hand, on trying to restore the intent of the Conclave. Then she'd been the one with enough vision to somehow suggest that they could work as a balance of harmony, of cooperation. To assist her, as the surgeon, in different yet equally necessary roles.

For a moment, he wished she were here to see this, to take in both the sheer beauty of that white and golden light, and also to feel a justified pleasure in having been proven right. He would have to tell her she'd been correct, but it wasn't quite the same as her being here to see its results for herself. He could see it on the faces of some of the templars and mages too, astonished and pleased, a few even outright grinning in delight looking at their mutual handiwork dancing in the sky. "Enough," he called. "Well done, all of you. Rest for a bit and we'll try it one more time to make certain."

[squidproquoclarice]

OC Meme: Ledar Laidir

Thanks for the tag, @askweisswolf! Here's my Rook, Ledar.

GENERAL

Name: Ledar (Cadash) Laidir. I named them and decided they would be a Lord of Fortune before the Veilguard surnames were released, what can I say...

Alias(es): Rook, Hollix, Ledar Cadash (birth name)

Gender: Nonbinary

Age: 37 in 9:52 during Veilguard

Place of birth: Kirkwall

Spoken languages: Trade, Dwarven, Rivaini

Sexual orientation: Pan

Occupation: Lord of Fortune/adventurer, former Inquisition soldier, former former Carta enforcer

FAVOURITE

Colour: Purple

Entertainment: Formerly, brawling. Now? Pretty much anything adrenaline-junkie. They were in a Rivaini circus for a bit, even.

Pastime: Kinda feels like re-asking the previous question...

Food: Spicy food, after living in Rivain for a while. The hotter the better. Which makes interacts with the very Fereldan Lace Harding fun. They're still trying to convince her to add some spice to cheesy apple noodles or ham jam slam.

Drink: Yes please.

Books: Adventure and detective novels. They're fond of Varric's hardboiled stuff and don't apologize for it. Pulp fiction FTW.

HAVE THEY

Passed university: Does the school of hard knocks count?

Had sex: Definitely.

Had sex in public: Yes.

Gotten tattoos: Yes. They have typical Carta tats from their youth, and then an Inquisition tat they chose when they basically disowned themself from their family and the Carta.

Gotten piercings: No.

Gotten scarred: They're a warrior, so yes.

Had a broken heart: As a teenager, yes.

Been in love: Puppy love once or twice prior to Lace, but their dad read them the lovely toxic "ACT LIKE A MAN" riot act. :/

ARE THEY

A cuddler: Not naturally, given they didn't exactly grow up encouraged to show or accept physical affection. Touch was reserved for violence or sex. Even among the Lords, it's still more fun fighting or affectionate backslaps. But they're learning to enjoy it with Lace.

Scared easily: No.

Jealous easily: Not really. They tend to default to cool, almost ruthless assessment when they're really pushed, reverting back to that Carta mindset.

Trustworthy: Even when they were with the Carta, their word was good, so yes.

FAMILY

Sibling(s): None.

Parents: Grellan Cadash, the Carta boss of Kirkwall, and a mistress/surrogate he never would tell Ledar about, after he and his wife were childless for years. (The Cadashes unfortunately kept some of the more misogynistic aspects of Orzammar noble dwarven society, despite being surfacers.)

Children: None that they know of. (None, in reality.)

Pets: None right now as they've been living a roving lifestyle, but they could be fond of a mabari, given Lace. ;) They definitely adore Assan.

[squidproquoclarice]

Well, Sunrise on the Reaping took out a lot of my Haymitch fic headcanon, as expected. But damned if I'm not a little pleased that thirteen years ago I apparently correctly predicted both Mr. Everdeen's first name (Burdock) and that he was Haymitch's close childhood friend. \o/

[squidproquoclarice]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57808039/chapters/163889014

Neither By Chance Nor Fate, Ch 14: Balance Sundered III

Adrian stepped forward, shaking her head, finger pointed at Dylara, but her protest was cut off by a large man nearby. He spat on the ground, and it barely missed another mage's robes. When he spoke, it was clear he was a Kirkwaller. "I took shit and suffering from templars for years. I'm not doing it again. Certainly not taking any orders from him." He jerked a thumb at Cullen. "And not on the word of some supposed holy woman. Chantry's done nothing but harm us. Fuck him for certain," now gesturing to Alexius, "but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go to Tevinter all the same. We Gallows mages lived free in the Marches for three years before the rest of you rebelled, so I can tell you this. I know there's no place for us here. There is in Tevinter. And I'm tired of being told I have to hide and bow and scrape to make frightened small-minded fools feel better. And anyone else who wants that, stand with me."

"Ragan," Cullen said in an undertone. "Senior Enchanter. Appears he became the First Enchanter of the Kirkwall mages who left after the battle for the Gallows." Clerra noticed the First Enchanter's chain now, half-hidden by an impressive beard.

"Fuck Tevinter," Adrian shouted. "You know I'm no lover of templars, but a Magister is the one who killed the Grand Enchanter to try to force us to rely on him, on Tevinter. And beyond that, I'm not going to go begging for their scraps, and sign myself over to them. The south of Thedas is my home by right, and I defy anyone to force me off of it. Anyone who wants to chart our own path as free mages, rather than as the pets of either the Inquisition or Tevinter, stand with me."

Dylara stood a little straighter, and given her impressive height, it made for quite a sight. "I would have been at the Conclave myself but for falling ill. Roche went in my stead on behalf of the mages of Corromar, and he died there. I believe there must be a path where we might live not as exiled servants in Tevinter, nor skulking pariahs in the wilds, nor prisoners trapped in Circles like dangerous beasts, but at home here in our own lands, living as good friends and neighbors rather than forever separate. So I'll honor the Inquisition's offer of an alliance, and hope for that future. Any others who believe in that, stand with me."

The clamor started up again, and this time it was Rhys gestured for quiet. "My vote was the one a year ago that decided our path to go to war. I know this. But even then, the Loyalists decided to go their own way. And others came with us only reluctantly, out of having no other resort. Mages killed mages when the Circles fell. I have no wish to see it happen again. So…I believe there cannot be a consensus among us in this. We have been forced together by circumstances in the past. Now? We must choose."

"I concur," Dylara said. "So be it. Tonight we shall meet about the Magister—where we will assuredly need some kind of consensus—and let that be our last meeting. Adrian, Ragan, and I have presented three paths forward. Tomorrow, each mage must decide their own fate and go forth on one of those paths, as their conscience dictates. Let us part ways tomorrow as peers, as best we can, rather than spill more of each others' blood."

A murmur of agreement went through the assembled mages, and what felt like a sigh of relief. Dylara looked next towards them. "I would request that you leave us until tomorrow," but it was said kindly. "This is mage business, and after the last vote we had that almost saw us slaughtered, templar and Chantry presence in our council is not the most welcome." There was a question in her level gaze. If you can't allow us even that much, how will you treat us later?

[squidproquoclarice]

Neither By Chance Nor Fate, Ch 13: Balance Sundered II “You,” one of the mages who’d accompanied her informed her loudly, “are no mage to hold speaking rights among us. You’re here under suspicion, and given your beloved templar allies liked to deny mages the right to their own defense far too often, I’d advise you to shut up.”

Her heart sank. Shit. Something went down her spine in a cold shiver, hearing the impatient contempt in the mage’s tone, and that bone-deep sense of danger reminding her that she was helpless against him. He could incinerate her where she stood with a flick of his fingers. But Maker, she hadn’t given in to the Lord Seeker, and she couldn’t give in here, because to be silenced might well be signing her own death warrant. Moved by a half-mad, half-formed notion, she reached down, and tugged off her left glove. The lingering chill in the air nipped at her skin as she raised her hand high, the green fire of the Mark blazing in the morning sun. “I do bear magic,” she called out, looking across the mages who had gathered, praying this throw of the dice would work. “So may I speak?”

The matter almost immediately dissolved into an argument, people calling back and forth in a muddle. “Wielding a magic token doesn’t bloody well make a mage–”

“It’s contained within and likely inseparable from her body,” someone else argued, “I think that ought to qualify.”

“It’s acquired foreign matter rather than intrinsic and inborn, which makes it no damn different from the templars’ guzzling lyrium to gain power!”

“It’s a holy boon, and doesn’t require routine influx of fresh material besides, and that makes it akin to our own Maker-given gifts.”

“Maker’s breath,” she heard Delrin mutter, sounded half-dazed. “Are they seriously arguing the minutiae of what exactly constitutes a mage?”

“Sounds like it,” Varric answered matter-of-factly. “Hey, I’m sure they’ve spent a long time on defining the subject, given it’s kind of the difference between life in a Circle or not.”

[squidproquoclarice]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57808039/chapters/160745359

“Armies have never been opposed to our mages’ inclusion in their forces when they wish to make use of our power,” Fiona said, that heat still laced through her voice.  “We make useful weapons, do we not, to equally be put away out of sight and mind again along with the swords and bows once the conflict is done.”

“I cannot make promises about the future of mages in southern Thedas,” Cullen replied, “as those aren’t my assurances to give.”

“Then you assure very little,” and now her tone turned actually somewhat scathing.  “Asking us to shed blood and risk our lives on the mere hope of proving ourselves deserving of respect and rights.”

“Tevinter isn’t exactly handing the future to you on a silver platter either,” Varric said, sounding exasperated.  “We saw slavers in Kirkwall, you know?  Hawke and I took down some of them along with our crew.  Shit, even Curly here went after them–” 

“Tevinter would at least specifically guarantee us eventual freedom and citizenship.  And at least there we know mages are respected rather than reviled.”  Fiona shook her head impatiently.  “I don’t like it, no, but do you really expect me to hand my people over off of vague hopes for the future, let alone left at the mercy of the former right hand of the most infamous templar officers of recent memory?  Ser Cullen should be given over to our mercy if anything.  If you do that, maybe we’re getting somewhere.”

[squidproquoclarice]

She hid a wince, not wanting Cassandra Pentaghast’s pity. “We should be on our way soon,” she said, gesturing towards Aegis, peacefully grazing near the tent. “As you say, there is no time to waste.”

Cassandra gave her a long moment of that intense stare, before finally nodding. “Indeed.” Clerra left her to the tea, and headed over to Aegis, glad for the guise of caring for the horse that was only half a lie. After all, the mare’s tack needed to be put on, and she busied herself with that task.

Aegis whickered softly, nuzzling Clerra’s shoulder with her nose, and Clerra let out a low sound, trying to keep a tight hold on things within herself. She’d grown up in a city, yes, and as a noblewoman she’d been expected to learn how to ride. Particularly as one expected to marry out of the city. But Ostwick was a city one could easily walk, so horses hadn’t been true companions in the same way dogs and cats might be. It was different here in Ferelden. She’d seen Dennet’s love for his horses, saw how easily Cullen–raised in the country, and presumably very used to horses–worked with Pibroch, despite his years in Kirkwall. Aegis’ kindness, strangely, more than anyone else’s, threatened to burst the dam she’d hastily slapped into place, because unlike a person, it asked no questions, expected no explanations. It simply reached out gently, and comforted her.

Wrapping her arms around the mare’s neck, Clerra leaned in, murmuring a low, “Thank you” into the coarse dark hair of Aegis’ mane. She held on for a moment, gathering herself back together, until she felt like she could let go and face the coming day with things put back in their proper places. She was among hardened fighters who had all been through a great deal, and at least some revered her as Andraste’s Herald. Of all people, she could least afford to break, and certainly not where it could be seen. They needed her. That was a simple truth, and it gave some steel back to her spine.