Chapter Text
A pawn. That was what she was. Dorothea takes another bite of the apple in her hand. She hasn’t had a hot meal since yesterday morning, and it is beginning to make her beyond irritable. But her first (and if she could help it only) experience at the mess line left her with a strong desire not to return. The fact that she didn’t know anyone was little bother, it was that no one would speak around her. A susurrus followed her, and it grated on her nerves to the point of anger.
She had gotten up and left, stew unfinished, grabbing her bread, trying to look as if she had remembered something important, something forgotten, and headed out the gates. Not wanting a repeat of that morning’s encounter with the Commander, she’d walked nice and slow past the stables and toward the Western Bridge into the valley. Her tails were less than … stealthy. The Commander seemed to outdo himself with the clunky, lumbering guards he sent to follow her.
She waved at this morning’s lackluster example of watchfulness, standing by the armory, watching her eat her apple. Even from here, in the shadow of the gate’s doors, she could see him blush—Andraste’s Ass, was he 14?—and she took another bite of her apple. She was at a loss as to why the Commander didn’t send the Spymistress’s scouts to follow her. But, these soldier boys seemed to give up much beyond the walls, waiting for her to come back, so she was able to get a few moments of peace out in the hills. And, at least, she now knew that the Commander was not a terribly subtle strategist. Small mercies.
In the village she actually didn’t mind the presence of her watchful, noticeable guard. It meant she at least could try to relax and not watch her back at every moment. The Seeker sought to assure her that not everyone believed she was a hero (the Lady Cassandra was a remarkably forthright woman, to the point of awkwardness; it was how Dorothea knew she was true nobility).
The expedition to the Hinterlands that they were leaving for on the morrow was to help rally people to the Inquisition’s cause.
And find horses.
And find a Chantry Mother.
And get agents.
And close rifts.
She feels like she is being sent to market to gather the ingredients for a large Satinalia feast. Dorothea sighs. It probably matters little; it is a miracle she had survived this long, and she hears there are bears that deep in Ferelden.
She takes another bite of the apple and leans back against the stone wall, her head in the dusk of its shadow, staring out at the drilling soldiers. Parade ground: what a stupid name. Leave it to the military to make practicing death sound like a picnic.
Her hand hurts. She holds it out in front of her, watching the twist of the green light just below the surface. It looks like a candle glowing through a pocket of green glass, almost the color of some sort of bizarre marsh gas. It is oddly beautiful, but wildly unsettling. Unable to help herself she lets her eyes drift to the Breach in the sky where the large hole mirrors the luminescent glow in her hand.
It will be good to leave tomorrow for the Hinterlands and get away from the Breach; at least, the damn one in the sky.
She would be taking Varric, Solas, and the Seeker with her, along with a small company of soldiers as a rear camp. There would be a few Templars travelling with them to protect the soldiers from any rebel mages they encountered, but none would be scouting ahead with her. She was astounded the Commander hadn’t demanded it in the Council meeting this morning—or taken it in his head to be in her party himself—so it was a relief to be away.
She watches the drills in front of her: parry, block, and riposte, repeat. Even as sheltered as she’d lived in the Circle, she can still see how green these men and women are. The drill might as well be: stab, get your damn shield up, stabey-stab-stab, don’t fall down, repeat.
But the Commander and his captains seem indefatigable in the monumental task of making these soldiers into a cohesive, fighting force. Indeed, as she looks at Ser Rutherford she can scarcely imagine anything that might daunt him.
Certainly not some nonsense such as a bloody big hole in the sky; surely we can just stick a sword in it.
He may not choose to wear his Templar armor, but it was more and more apparent to her he was the Chantry’s creature. She’d never been a good Chantry Girl, less so when she was trapped by a Circle. It was no small irony that a great family like the Trevelyens full of spare sons and promised daughters shipped off to serve the Chantry at the first opportunity would dwindle to a disenfranchised mage who would be an ‘ideal’ liaison to the Divine’s Conclave when the whole damn world decided to blow up.
So, she was stuck here with a fanatical Seeker, a Maker-loyal Spymistress, an Antivan, an Apostate, a devout Andrastian dwarf, and a Good Chantry Boy.
How in the Blight am I going to get out of this mess?