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Liras Lavellan awoke with a start, the images from his dream still running rampant through his head. He sat up, gasping for breath, his hand going unconsciously to his throat—but no, the skin was still smooth and soft and solid. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to catch his breath. He could still feel the blood beneath his fingertips, could still recall gasping for air that was no longer there.
It wasn’t real, he reiterated to himself. No more real than the visions Envy showed him at Therinfal Redoubt.
Beside him, another person stirred, and he tried hard to ignore the still rapid fluttering of his heart as he opened his eyes and blinked through the darkness. His brain was still a mess, and for the life of him, he couldn’t recall who it was beside him or why they were there. Well, he could suppose the why, even if he couldn’t quite recall...
“…Oh,” he said, blinking in the dim lit.
“Herald—” said the other man, but then he seemed to immediately regret his use of the honorific. “…Liras.” A warm, tentative hand came to rest on his arm. “Are you all right?”
“Just… Just a dream,” he managed, pushing the hair out of his eyes and trying not to stare at the handsome, presumably naked man in bed beside him.
“Not a very good one, I take it,” said his bedfellow, and the hand on his arm gave a warm squeeze. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Er—” He swallowed. “Yes. Just fine. Ah—Barris?”
Ser Barris—now one of the de facto leaders of the templars, and fairly newly arrived at Haven; in fact, he and the others only left Therinfal Redoubt less than a month ago. Barris had done well keeping his men and women in line, even the more feisty ones who were only too eager to start sniffing out blood magic every time a mage ally so much as lit a fire for their dinner. He was already well-respected by many in the fledgling Inquisition—and particularly well-regarded by certain members of the Inquisition, though that had a little bit more to do with his handsome face and piercing green eyes than his prowess as a leader.
And now I’m in bed with him. Liras winced and rubbed at his forehead. His nightmare already fading, his brain now called up the previous night’s revelries, the celebratory dinner Josephine had arranged to honor a few visiting dignitaries in hopes of winning their support for the war.
“Yes?” said Barris.
Even in the darkness, Liras could detect the frown starting to mar the other man’s handsome features.
He called me “Liras.” Was Barris disappointed he hadn’t returned the favor? Creators, did he even know the man’s given name? He tried so hard to remember any specific details from the last few hours, but his brain failed him—and Mythal, his headache was getting worse by the second.
“I’m—where are we are?”
He rubbed his eyes now and tried to peer through the darkness of their surroundings.
“These are my quarters,” said Barris. “We came here after… do you not remember?”
The note of dismay he detected in the other man’s voice made him cringe a little.
He sighed. “I’m afraid not. I mean, I remember—er, talking to you. But,” he added hastily, “I talked to a lot of people.”
“And drank a lot of that qunari mead,” Barris added wryly. “As did we all.”
Qunari mead… Yes, he remembered it now, somewhat: Bull boasting to the tavern at large—oh, because yes, the celebrations had moved to the tavern as the night grew colder—that qunari milked their young on the pitifully weak mead humans kept stocked in their bars. Then he had Krem break out the “good stuff,” as he put it, and—apparently the rest was history.
I remember kissing him. More succinctly, he remembers what it felt like to feel the other man’s lips pressing against his own, the feel of his tunic beneath his clenching fingers. He tasted wonderful, the honeyed mead lingering on the templar’s tongue encouraging him to lick and suck… oh, gods. And he did that in front of everyone? No, just whomever happened to be left at that point. And was Barris even the only person he kissed tonight?
He groaned, leaning forward briefly so that his forehead nearly touched his bent knees.
“I’m apparently a lightweight,” he said by way of apology.
“Nothing to be ashamed of,” said Barris.
Liras remained silent for a moment, trying to get his bearings. He steeled himself then for the question he felt he had to ask.
“Did we…?”
But he was too embarrassed to fully voice it.
“Well, yes,” said Barris, shifting awkwardly beside him. “I mean, no. Yes, but… we just sort of … well, there was touching and… stroking…and…” He cleared his throat.
“Creators,” said Liras, momentarily covering his face with his hands. Was this even allowed? The Herald of Andraste fornicating with a templar? Wait, was that allowed? Templars having sex, or, well, whatever it is they did? What if Cullen found out? Or Cassandra? Gods, Josephine could probably list ten thousand different ways he’d just committed political suicide.
But why should he be bothered by what Josephine or Cullen or Cassandra thought? It wasn’t as if any of them had a complete meltdown anytime he steadfastly refused to accept that he was the new leader of a bloody religious movement.
“I… I have to go,” he finally said, pushing the covers aside and reaching for his clothes, which were fortunately within hand’s reach. Actually, half were on the floor beside the bed and half were still on the bed. His boots he could see were near the door, one still standing upright, the other clearly kicked aside. Both were still pointing towards the entrance.
“If… I’ve offended in any—”
“No, no,” said Liras, cutting the man off as he quickly pulled and cinched up his breeches. “It isn’t you. I just, ah, shouldn’t be here. I mean, you know, being… being what I am.”
Well that made about as much sense as the nonsense stories old Hallen used to tell the giggling youngsters back home. Barris’s silence indicated that he must be feeling the same, though he certainly wasn’t giggling. Apparently there wasn’t much that was funny about a lover fleeing from your bed in the middle of the night.
Elgar’nan’s balls—that isn’t right. We’re not lovers.
Because this had obviously been a mistake. A mistake, he thought as he pulled his tunic over his head. A very big mistake. He shrugged into his coat and gave a couple awkward hops as he yanked on his boots.
At the door he paused, taking a quick breath before turning to look back at the bed. From here, in the near darkness, he could barely make out the other man’s face, let along his expression.
“You won’t tell anyone about this,” he said. “Will you?”
Barris’s response made him feel like the lowest, smelliest piece of crap in all of Thedas.
“Your honor is safe with me, Herald.”
His voice had stiffened, and the sarcasm implicit in the word “honor” wasn’t lost on Liras.
Liras nodded—what else was there to say?—and turned again, opened the door, and slipped out as quietly as he could.
* * *
The next few days were a bit of a blur. The rest of the templar contingent had finally arrived, and preparations to close the breach were being made. Liras steeled himself each time he was forced to be near Barris—which was often, as he was the one person here who knew more about the breach than anyone else. He spoke to the templars about his experiences, and answered their questions to the best of his abilities. The lieutenants in particular demanded answers, clearly unwilling to risk their people until they knew what they would be up against. Was there a chance that demons would appear? Was the breach magic or simply a product of magic? Should the few mages who’d arrived at Haven assist or should they be kept as far away as possible?
Cassandra and Cullen were both present to assist him as he did his best to supply answers. He noticed Cassandra giving him curious little looks throughout the Q&A, and afterward he couldn’t resist teasing her about it.
“Do I look particularly handsome this morning?” he joked.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“You couldn’t seem to keep your eyes off me,” he explained.
Not exactly true, but his nerves were still a bit jittery from being so near Barris. He’d even had to talk to the man. Barris had asked about his first experience to attempt to close the breach, and like a fool, he’d stumbled all over himself giving his answer.
“She wasn’t the only one,” said Cullen, who was still walking beside them.
Okay, why was his heart starting to beat faster?
“Oh?” he said.
Cassandra huffed quietly under her breath.
“So, you noticed as well? I did not want to say anything, but…”
She paused, and so Liras did, too. So did Cullen, his arms crossing over his chest.
“Is there something going on between you and Ser Barris?” she asked.
That, he was beginning to learn, was Cassandra. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush, no polite inquiries, no hemming and hawing.
“What do you mean?” he asked, and was horrified to detect the way his voice rose slightly higher than normal.
“A few of the men said they saw someone leaving Ser Barris’s quarters a couple of nights ago,” said Cullen. “I didn’t think anything of it. I supposed it wasn’t any of my business. But if you and Barris—”
“What?!” said Liras, blurting the word out and interrupting the other man. “That’s ridiculous! Me and Barris!”
“Is it?” asked Cassandra, raising an eyebrow again.
“W-well, yes,” he spluttered. Oh, this was going wonderfully. “First of all, he’s human. I’m Dalish. So, there you are, right there. Second, templar. Third, he’s… he’s a noble! And, you know, I’m not. I’m the Herald. I mean, everyone says I am, even he says I am. So, you know.”
They were both looking at him with pity. Not the “our poor, helpless friend” kind of pity, mind you, but the “you’re a hopeless disaster” kind of pity.
“People did see you at the party, you know,” said Cullen. “Granted, you were seen with several people that night…”
“Oh, gods,” said Liras, briefly covering his face.
“Normally, I would say this is none of our business,” said Cassandra, “But this is not a normal situation. You are the Herald of Andraste; people are beginning to look to you for guidance.”
“Do you not think that a little unfair?” asked Cullen, and Liras willfully stomped on his heart when he felt it rise in hope at the thought of the former templar defending him. “Master Lavellan hardly asked for this to happen.”
“The Maker does not always ask us what we want, Commander,” she said sharply. “But yes, it is unfair. This entire situation is unfair. We must all make of it what we can.”
And with that she stalked away, several inquisition soldiers standing at attention as she passed. Cullen simply sighed and paused to give him a rueful clap on the shoulder before heading back to the training grounds.
Later that day saw him fielding a similar line of questioning from Josephine. Of course, being that she was the inquisition’s ambassador, her inquiries were perhaps a tad less confrontational than the seeker’s.
“Master Lavellan,” she said, before he would turn and leave her office—they had just been discussing the latest rumors that had been circulating about him around camp. It had been the usual: he was a heathen, an unworthy elf, a false prophet, a cannibal. To be honest, he found it all to be a little amusing, though Josephine seemed to take it far more seriously than he ever could.
“Yes?” he said, pausing and turning to look at her.
She cleared her throat rather delicately.
“If you would be so kind as to discuss one more matter with me. It is in regard to yet another rumor…”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I… do not mean to pry, Master Lavellan, but… do you… by any chance have any, well… romantic inclinations for anyone here in Haven?”
The question took him off guard. That was probably why he could feel himself starting to blush.
“No,” he said, thankful for the low lighting in the windowless room—how she managed to scribble away all day and night with only a few candles to light her way was beyond him.
“Ah, I see. Well, it seems there have been rumors to the contrary. Particularly about a certain templar.”
“…Oh,” he said, since he couldn’t seem to think of anything else to say. Or couldn’t seem to think at all.
“Ser Delrin Barris is of a minor noble family,” she said, speaking in that oh so delicate way of hers. “He is, no doubt, an honorable man. But if some of the other families were to learn that the Herald of Andraste had bestowed his favors upon someone from such… lowly origins… and Ser Barris only the second son, at that…”
“Well seeing as it’s just a rumor, we’ve nothing to worry about, have we?” he cut in quickly. Probably too quickly. He put on a hasty smile and breathed in. “If there’s nothing else?”
She smiled, the expression clearly very practiced. “No, Master Lavellan. Good day.”
It wasn’t, though. He kept seeing Barris staring at him from amongst the crowd of other templars. There had been anger in his piercing green eyes, yes, but hurt, also. But how was it fair that he be the one responsible for that pain? He didn’t ask to be named the bloody Herald of Lady-He-Didn’t-Even-Worship. Really, if anyone should be held responsible for this entire mess it was Bull. Inflicting that downright poisonous qunari mead on them, really! It ought to be a hanging offense as far as he was concerned.
He had to set such childishly petty thoughts aside once the new day dawned, as it was to be the day they would attempt to close the breach. He was nervous, but everyone seemed in high spirits—most seemed sure they would succeed, or at least attempted to act as if they were sure. And, sure enough, the combined efforts of his mark and the templar contingent appeared to do the trick. The explosive aftereffects of the closure sent him briefly unconscious, but then, what was new. Naturally, all of Haven immediately set about celebrating their success, and he even briefly found himself contemplating joining them. He was standing beside Cassandra, looking down at his fellow inquisition members, watching as they danced and drank and laughed. And yet, to him, a feeling of unease still hung in the air—maybe he was cautious of overindulging again, or maybe he was nervous about running into a certain grim-faced templar.
“I believe I owe you an apology,” said Cassandra, startling him.
Apparently the holiday spirit had seized her as well—he didn’t think apologies came easily to her.
“Oh?” he asked, keeping his tone of voice congenial. “What for?”
She gave him a knowing look.
“I had said earlier that it was not my business whom you chose to consort with. And… that is true. It is not. I should not have harassed you so about your… dalliance.”
His dalliance. Leave it to Cassandra to word an apology in such a way as to make the recipient feel even more shamefaced than before. But he put on a smile anyway and breathed in, giving her a friendly little pat on the shoulder.
“Think nothing of it,” he said.
He tried to think of more to say, perhaps to voice his intentions to steer his actions more towards the road of respectability—no more qunari mead, and no more haphazard kissing—well, at least not in public. But the far off blaring of war horns stole the words from his mouth. Both he and Cassandra stared up and away at the far off mountains before looking at one another in shock.
Below, the music had stopped as people began to look about in panic. Cullen was calling to his soldiers, his sword bared. Many of the templars answered the call as well, not surprisingly.
He and Cassandra joined them at the gates. The enemy approached under no banner, which seemed to confound his human friends and allies. A man behind the gate demanded he let them in; the stranger informed them that this was the army of the Elder One—that it mostly consisted of rebel mages and Venatori, who were led by a woman named Calpurnia. As for the Elder One…
“Elgar’nan’s balls!” swore Liras, gazing in shock as the creature itself crested the top of the mountain. “What is that?!”
“Magister? Darkspawn?” said the newcomer, who had named himself Dorian. “Who can say? But he’s not a friendly sort, I can guarantee you that much.”
“That much seems obvious,” growled Cullen.
He turned and lifted his sword towards his men and women, rallying them to battle. The more heavily armored and armed moved forwards with the lighter fighters positioning themselves in the rear. Archers were moved off to the side, organized by one of the templar lieutenants, who was an accomplished archer herself. Bull and his Chargers made their appearance as well; meanwhile, the few mages who were staying on at Haven positioned themselves strategically, though many were nervous about facing an army of Tevinter zealots. Vivienne reminded them that they also would be standing against rebels, traitors to Her Majesty, and this seemed to straighten a few backs. Dorian reassured the rest that Tevinter magic was no different than southern magic. Whether this was true or not, Liras couldn’t begin to confirm, but it seemed to do the trick.
He and Sera had stepped aside to discuss strategy and exchange tips; meanwhile Cassandra, Blackwall, and some of their other friends began to prepare themselves as well.
“If they’ve a helmet, aim for the slit in the eyes,” he said. “You have to take some of the curve out of the shot, but it’s doable.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, Herald,” she retorted. “What about the bloody robes?”
He gave a helpless little shrug.
“Shoot them before they shoot you?”
“Shouldn’t you two be with the other archers?”
They both turned to look at the man who’d addressed them. Liras’s stomach immediately dropped down somewhere in the vicinity of his toes; meanwhile, his heart seemed to butterfly up into his throat. This would really be an inopportune moment to throw up, he told his body, and it seemed to do its best to listen.
“Ser Barris!” said Sera, grinning and sounding far too chipper. “Come to check on your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my—!” Liras paused and grimaced, closing his eyes briefly. “Look, Sera and I have our own way of fighting,” he continued, this time to Barris. “Standing in a line like a pair of toy soldiers isn’t really our style.”
“But running about willy-nilly and getting yourself killed is?”
Liras stiffened. “The Dalish do things differently,” he said.
“Not Dalish,” muttered Sera.
“The Dalish lack discipline,” said Barris, leaning in slightly.
“If our ways are so offensive to you, then why are we still standing here having this conversation?”
Barris clenched his jaw, his gloved and armored hands clenching into fists at his sides. But then he seemed to take a breath and consciously relax, though the bitterness appeared to remain firmly etched into his features.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it.” He was about to turn away, but not before adding: “Do the Inquisition a favor and try not to get yourself killed.”
“Well that was just touching,” said Sera, once he’d rejoined the other templars.
“Seriously,” Liras said, grinding his teeth together, “Does everyone know about that night?”
She shrugged. “Pretty much.”
There was no more time for bickering, however, as the first wave of enemy soldiers began to arrive. Liras quickly nocked an arrow and picked out a target before letting fly. Beside him, Sera did the same. Two Tevinter soldiers fell, dead on impact, but by the time their bodies hit the ground their attackers were already moving again. Their hit and run style tactics worked well with the rough terrain. Some of the templars were struggling in their heavy armor in the thick snow, but many adapted quickly enough. He tried to keep his eyes open for one templar in particular, but it was difficult. Cullen’s soldiers were naturally better trained to handle the environment, but it wasn’t long before members of both armies began to fall.
The fighting was brutal. The Tevinter soldiers seemed mindless in their assault; they hacked indiscriminately at their opponents, forgoing any finer displays of swordsmanship. Meanwhile enemy mages cowered in the brush and wove their spells, cold-snapping limbs off and lighting unsuspecting Inquisition soldiers on fire. Liras made it his mission, once he ran out of arrows, to go after these individuals. As silent as any experienced Dalish hunter, he crept through the snow and the trees, his two long, curved daggers at his side. The mages rarely even knew they were no longer alone before their heads was neatly removed from their bodies.
And then the dragon came.
There was nothing to do but panic and run. Liras could hear Cullen shouting over the chaos, directing everyone back inside Haven’s gates. It was decided quickly that they should all head for the Chantry, though there was no way even that sturdy building could withstand such an assault.
“At this point, just make them work for it,” Cullen had said, his golden eyes grim.
It seemed an ignominious end. All that they had thus far accomplished—gone in an instant, burned by the white-hot fire of a dragon whose attacks they couldn’t hope to stand against. Saving the templars and gaining their support had not been enough. Ending the war with the mages had not been enough. Closing the breach—not enough. Even now, it yawned open, even bigger than before, as though mocking their earlier celebrations.
And now a monster at the head of an army of magical zealots, a dragon at his side, ready to conquer all of Thedas.
“It can’t end like this,” said Liras to Cullen, who only frowned grimly at him.
He turned to Cassandra next, then Leliana, Vivienne, Varric, anyone who would listen.
“It can’t end like this! There has to be something we can do!”
“Chancellor Roderick has something to say,” said Cole, his soft voice disrupting the gloomy thoughts of those around him.
And so they had a plan. Thanks to Roderick’s recollection, Cullen would lead the Inquisition forces to safety. But in order for the plan to work, someone had to distract the dragon. And seeing as how the dragon was likely only here for one reason, Liras knew who that person had to be.
“No,” said Ser Barris, stepping forward—where the hell had he come from? “This is madness!”
Cassandra cast him sideways look.
“I agree,” she said. “I will come with you.”
“As will I,” said Blackwall, lifting his chin. The glare the older man was giving him now seemed to dare him to disagree.
“You’ll need a mage,” said Solas quietly.
“Especially a mage who’s been trained properly,” added Vivienne, and Liras thought it very noble of Solas when he didn’t seem to react to the little barb.
Barris looked annoyed. “I think it goes without saying that I—”
“NO,” said Liras, before he could finish, and before anyone else could pointlessly volunteer.
He took a deep breath and looked around at them all.
“No,” he said again, more gently. “The Elder One is after me. He’s after this.” He held up his hand, opening his palm and letting the mark spark into life. “The Inquisition doesn’t need vital people pointlessly sacrificing themselves to protect me.”
“It needs the Herald of Andraste more than any of us,” said Cassandra.
“If I can destroy the army then it won’t need me at all,” Liras pointed out.
“Technically, that isn’t necessarily true,” said Solas. “The breach is still present. And none of us has the power to close it.”
“Neither do I, apparently,” said Liras, hurrying on before Solas could contradict him. “Look, the decision’s been made. No one’s sacrificing themselves tonight except me. Only one hero becomes a martyr tonight, and I don’t intend to share credit in Varric’s next book.”
“This is no laughing matter,” said Cassandra, bristling. “And the decision is far from being made.”
“We had better decide who goes and who stays soon,” said Cullen.
Right on cue, the dragon’s roar caused the roof to shake. People screamed, and several children began crying. Cullen turned to organize his soldiers; meanwhile, Josephine was already preparing the civilians to make the long journey from Haven to safety. Roderick was clearly hanging on by a thread at this point, and Leliana was kneeling beside him, listening to all he had to say about the passage he’d once traveled.
The others, the main members of the inquisition, were busy discussing amongst themselves. And while they decided who should stand alongside the Herald of Andraste and who should help the people of Haven flee to safety, the Herald himself quietly slipped back outside.
Liras was Dalish after all. Hiding from stupid bickering humans was kind of in his blood. Of course, not everyone back there was human, and many of them he was beginning to consider his friends—and the latter was the reason he had to leave before any of them decided to come with him. He was convinced he was the only person who could sufficiently distract the dragon and this Elder One long enough to allow the people to escape. But how he was supposed to do that was another matter altogether.
“You’re going to use the last remaining trebuchet, I assume.”
Liras whirled around, his eyes probably as wide as saucers in his head. Ser Barris looked steadily back at him. He had removed his heavy armor, presumably for stealth reasons, and stood only in his leathers and tabard, though his shield remained strapped to his back, his long sword at his side.
“What’re you—?!” But then Liras just sighed and closed his eyes briefly. “You know what? Never mind. If you think it’s romantic or something to die beside me in battle then fine.” He turned and started making his way towards the siege line. “But just so you know, you’re going through an awful lot of trouble for someone who doesn’t even remember sleeping with you.”
He heard Barris huff behind him.
“Don’t assume to know my motivations, Herald.”
“Your motivations seem pretty damn obvious to me.”
“You flatter yourself. We both know this is a fool’s errand. But if it has a hope in hell of working, there should be at least two of us to see that it gets done. This way, should one fail, the other can continue the job.”
Liras rolled his eyes but chose not to respond; in truth, he wasn’t sure what he could say at this point. There was no convincing Barris to return to the Chantry, and the man’s presence ever so slightly lightened the clench of fear and dread around his heart. They wove through the trees and burning houses, doing their best to avoid confrontation; it would do no one back at the Chantry any good if they were both taken down by hordes of raging Venatori before they even made it to the trebuchet.
It wasn’t long before they reached the clearing surrounding the trebuchet.
“Go,” said Barris, quietly drawing his sword. “I’ll watch your back.”
Liras nodded and darted forward, keeping low as he ran towards the wheel that controlled the trebuchet’s positioning. It was already loaded, but he needed to aim it towards the mountain. And he couldn’t release it until he’d had some sign that the others had escaped the Chantry.
The massive wooden construction groaned as he turned the wheel, his teeth grinding together from the effort. Behind him, he heard a war cry in an unfamiliar tongue—Tevintese, he assumed—followed by the clash of steal.
“Keep going!” called Barris, and so he did. His heart was racing in his chest, picturing the scene behind him. The second the trebuchet aiming mechanism clicked into place, he whirled around, drawing his bow.
He sent an arrow through the neck of a Venatori soldier who had his sword raised towards Barris. Three other warriors surrounded the templar, yet Barris kept them all skillfully at bay. But he could only manage for so long, and without his heavy armor, one or two missed blocks and his next breath would be his last.
Liras sent another arrow into the leg of one of the warriors, the back of his calves the only exposed part of his body. But before he could notch yet another arrow, several more Venatori came rushing toward them from the surrounding forest.
“More of them!” he cried, firing an arrow towards a rushing zealot. In his panicked state, he missed. “Barris, what do we do?”
“Keep fighting!” came the reply.
So they kept fighting. Liras couldn’t look at Barris, having heard him cry out in pain several times by now. He tossed his bow aside and unsheathed his knives, ducking a swinging sword and slicing one knife into the belly of an attacker. The sparking light on a mage’s staff caught his eye, and he hurled his other knife through the air, planting it in the woman’s forehead. The words of her spell died on her lips.
We’re not going to make it, Liras thought. Quiet resignation settled into his bones. He used his remaining knife to block another attacker. He heard Barris roar, the battle cry of a soldier making his final stand. The moment was too fast, too horrible for him to truly regret the way he’d treated the man these past few weeks. Instead, he just felt tired, and sad. And not a little bit afraid, knowing the end was near.
The sudden, violent rush of wind was preceded by the deafening roar of the dragon.
Liras was already on his back blinking dazedly up at the sky before he realized what had happened. He tried to sit up but fell back with a groan. All around him, the remaining Venatori soldiers and rebel mages were doing the same, most managing to stumble back to their feet. Then, after looking fearfully over their shoulders, they ran.
Liras felt more than heard the heavy footsteps of the creature as it approached him.
Barris, he thought, finally sitting up. Where was he? But the dragon now slowly stalking towards him dominated his field of vision. He couldn’t look for Barris. He could only stare up at the dripping maw of the immense creature before him. And beside it—a monstrosity of a man, impossibly tall, horrifically disfigured. This was the creature Dorian had called The Elder One.
“Pretender,” it said, its voice seeming to travel through the earth beneath him, thrumming up through his bones. “You toy with forces beyond your ken.”
Liras blinked up at it. Some vestige of self-respect urged him to pull himself, stumbling, to his feet.
“Who are you?” he asked. “What are you?”
“Know me,” it replied, sneering. “Know what you have pretended to be. Exalt the Elder One—the will that is Corypheus.”
It lifted one grotesque hand, its gnarled finger pointing down at him.
“You will kneel.”
“I won’t,” said Liras.
He tried to take a deep breath, but it caught in his chest.
“It matters not,” the creature rumbled, as if it were speaking only to itself. It advanced, closing the space between them with rapid alarm. “I am here for the Anchor.”
Liras didn’t know what he was expecting—to be hit, to feel the back of that immense, gnarled hand slamming across the front of his face. Instead, it reached towards him, pausing in mid-air, a jolt of red-hot magic stretching from the palm and searing into his own.
He clasped his wrist with his free hand on instinct. The magic pulled, dragged him forward, but he resisted, planting his feet and bending his knees—but it was all he could do to remain upright, let alone wrestle himself free. The magic felt as if it were trying to wrench his soul from his body.
“Take it!” he heard himself say. “I never wanted it! Just take it!”
The creature—Corypheus—ignored him. It was speaking again, talking about the Golden City and its foiled plans, about the thing on his hand, the thing he called The Anchor. It didn’t sound angry, rather like a master speaking to a slave, neither caring nor needing to be understood.
The magic stopped. Liras fell forward, bracing himself with his hands, palms digging into the dirty snow. Before he could recover, the creature moved forward again. Its hand now closed around his wrist, hauling him up into the air, his feet now dangling a meter or more off the ground.
He squirmed uselessly—his shoulder felt as if it were being wrenched from its socket.
The creature continued its proselytizing; he had spoiled it, spoiled the Anchor, and now it was useless. Liras wanted to shout at it, tell it he didn’t understand, he didn’t care. He was a bloody elf, for gods’ sakes. Wasn’t anyone ever going to notice the damned ears? The stupid thought was banished to oblivion as he was suddenly hurled ruthlessly through the air, his back connecting with the side of the trebuchet.
He groaned. Everything, for a moment, was a sea of pain and fear. He blinked, his vision swimming. But then—from the corner of his eye, he saw it:
The flare, rising up past the mountaintop, sparking briefly in the nighttime air before descending back into darkness.
They made it.
The realization shook him. It brought him to his knees, first, then to his feet, the burning in his ribs and his back notwithstanding. He glanced behind him at the trebuchet, at the large, heavy rope, taunt with tension. His own daggers were gone, but there, conveniently—perhaps by the grace of the gods, or even Andraste and the Maker, if Cassandra, Cullen, and the others were to be believed—was a discarded Tevinter sword.
He reached for it, his hand closing around the cold metal pommel.
“Look,” he said, meeting the eyes of this Corypheus as it stared down at him, its massive pet dragon hovering beside it. “I feel it’s only fair to tell you I haven’t understood a damned thing you’ve said.”
The creature narrowed its eyes at him.
“Also,” he continued, “I’ve kind of only been stalling. Sorry.”
With that, he whirled and brought the sword down on the rope, hacking it clean through. The trebuchet sprang into action, the arm pivoting, slinging the massive rock into the air where it hurtled straight towards the side of the mountain. It was almost comical, watching as both dragon and master followed its trajectory, their heads whipping towards the mountain.
“Hope your people have enjoyed Haven,” he said. “They’re going to be staying for a while.”
The initial impact into the face of the mountain resulted in a low, heavy boom. Then, gradually, came the roaring, as several thousand tons of snow began to rush towards the village with steadily increasing speed. The dragon screamed and took to the air, presumably carrying Corypheus with it. Liras turned and ran, though he knew it was pointless—he and the Venatori soldiers and rebel mages would indeed be calling Haven their new home—for the rest of eternity.
Suddenly, a shape darted before him, a firm hand reaching out and grabbing his wrist.
“Barris?!” he cried, but he didn’t have time to be shocked as Barris hauled him faster than he would’ve thought his semi-broken body could handle. They were rushing towards some sort of hole in the ground, an abandoned mine. But there were no ladders leading down into the depths, and the snow behind them was rushing—
It slipped out from under their feet, tossing them forward. Down, down they fell into the depths below. Then darkness enveloped him.
* * *
He came to, pain poking fuzzily through the surrounding darkness. He groaned and closed his eyes again.
He felt rather than saw the man beside him.
“You’re awake,” said Barris. He felt a hand rest gently on his shoulder. “Can you stand?”
He opened his eyes again.
“Do I have to?” he asked. Every muscle and bone in his body ached. Though it had to be admitted that some hurt far more than others—particularly his left side and ankle.
“Unfortunately, yes,” came the reply. “We haven’t any wood to make a fire. And I don’t think anyone’s going to come looking for us anytime soon. Not under all this snow and in the middle of some underground cavern.”
He sighed, pain making him irritable—well, more irritable than usual.
“Why are you always so right?” he muttered.
“Here,” said Barris, gently wrapping Liras’s arm around his shoulders as he sat up. “Lean on me.”
He bit his lip to keep from crying out, but there was nothing he could do about the tears of pain that sprang to the corners of his eyes. Fortunately, it was far too dark for the other man to see. Still, he had a feeling Barris had at least an inkling how difficult this was for him. The arm now wrapping gingerly around his waist was extraordinarily gentle.
“What happened to you?” he asked, once they began moving, slow and stuttering, through the darkness. “When the dragon landed I thought you were dead, or…”
“I must have passed out when it landed. I came to—I don’t know how far away from where I’d been standing. I can’t say I’m not grateful it came when it did. I don’t know how much longer I would have lasted against the Venatori.”
That’s right—Barris had been valiantly but hopelessly holding his own against those crazed zealots. Without his armor, he must have sustained injuries, too. Yet the form half-supporting his own remained solid and sure. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against another wave of pain.
“It took me a moment to realize what you were talking to,” Barris continued. “I was working up the courage to put myself between you and that… thing, with nothing but my bare hands to defend you, by the way, when you launched the trebuchet.”
“Barris, the flare,” he said, suddenly remembering. “Did you see—?”
“I saw it,” said the other man. “With luck, the others have made it to safety. Haven is gone, but the people, our friends, have been spared.”
Now they just had to find them. It was the unspoken quest shared between them, but neither could bring himself to voice it. Liras assumed this was because the chances of them finding the others—wherever they were—were slim to none. They didn’t even know where this cave ended. If it were truly a mine, it might end in a dead end.
“I need to rest,” he finally said, unable to bear the burning pain in his side any longer. “Please.”
Barris eased him down onto the cave floor before settling down beside him, their backs against the wall. Liras closed his eyes, leaning his head against the stone.
“Barris,” he said, finding it harder and harder to breathe, “I’m not sure I can… You should leave me and—
“No,” came the steady reply.
Liras tried to chuckle, but all he could manage was a little smile.
“Gods, you’re stubborn,” he said. “Honestly, what do you even see in me? Before all this Herald nonsense, I was just a hunter. Well, hunter turned spy. Surprised a man like yourself would go for that sort of thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, or at least thought he did. “You know, knight-in-shining-armor type. A nobleman, too. Go after some deceitful little elf.” He snorted. “They were going to execute me, you know. Cassandra and the others.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“They were. It was what Roderick wanted.”
“Mm. That part I believe.”
“Cullen was against it. Leliana, too, I think. Cassandra came around eventually.”
He swallowed. Mythal, how his side hurt. At least more than one broken rib, he was sure of it.
“…Herald? Herald!”
He felt hands on his shoulders, shaking him none too gently. His eyes opened. He frowned into the darkness, at the handsome, worried face staring back at him.
“Liras,” said Barris, one rough hand cupping his freezing cheek. “Can you hear me? Can you understand me?”
Liras smiled. “Your eyes are so green.”
Barris bit his lip.
“Come on,” he finally said, getting to his feet. He wrapped an arm carefully around Liras and pulled him up as well. Liras couldn’t help groaning a little from the white-hot pain that shot up his side.
“We need to keep going,” Barris continued.
“But I’m tired,” he complained.
“So am I. I think we both may have a concussion, you more so than me. That’s why we have to keep moving.”
Liras wasn’t sure what the point of it all was. Keep moving toward what? They were never going to find the others. Never find the mouth of this damned cave, if it even had one. But he kept those thoughts to himself. He supposed Barris’s stubbornness would have to be humored for now. There was no sense in the both of them being depressed enough to accept the inevitable. He just wished he were alone right now. Barris shouldn’t have to die here with him. He didn’t deserve an end like that.
As it turned out, the cave did have a mouth. They paused before it, the freezing wind whipping towards them opening Liras’s eyes and forcefully jerking him back towards full consciousness.
He stared out at the white, unforgiving landscape before them. “This… we can’t…”
“Come on,” said Barris, and so they went.
The first campsite they encountered was cold. Liras’s heart sank further down into his chest. He wanted to tell Barris that it was hopeless. The others were likely miles ahead of them now. But he didn’t, mostly because he would have to yell at the top of his lungs just to be heard over the wind, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t capable of that at this point.
The second campfire was also cold.
So was the third.
The fourth was warm.
“Barris!” he cried, a little afraid he was weeping now. “It’s warm. Look!”
He held one of the rocks in his hand; it seemed to burn through the smooth leather of his glove. His addled mind refused to calculate what this meant, how far ahead the others must be. But they were there, somewhere. He just wasn’t sure he was going to make it there, wherever they were.
“No,” he said, when Barris, standing, made to pull him up beside him again. “I can’t. Just leave me.”
The wind had dwindled by now, but if he couldn’t hear Barris’s response, it wasn’t because of the storm, which had moved on by now. He closed his eyes. The snow, he realized, was not so cold after all. And this would not be such a terrible place to die.
He felt an arm go around his back, another under his legs. Where does he find the strength for it, he wondered, as the other man lifted him up into his arms. He rested the side of his head against the other man’s chest and shoulder. He’s carrying the Herald of Andraste, he thought. The only one who can close the rifts. But he knew that was unfair. He’s carrying Liras Lavellan, the hunter, the spy, some idiot who apparently happened to stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time. For some reason, he seems more than a little fond of that idiot, though Liras can’t begin to understand why.
He stared at the stars in the sky, blinking when he realized that some of them weren’t stars after all.
“Barris, look,” he said. “Lights.”
“I see them,” came the reply.
The snow was very heavy. They were barely moving. They weren’t going to make it.
He finally lost consciousness.
* * *
He awoke, as per usual, with a start, gasping for breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He stared up at the tent above him, trying to draw in deeper and deeper breaths, but it was impossible. His chest felt tight, bound together. His lungs refused to expand.
“Another nightmare?”
His eyes shifted towards the figure sitting beside him. Solas smiled grimly down at him.
He closed his eyes briefly, tried to steady his breathing. “Something like that.”
“I could help,” Solas said, “If you like. With the dreams.”
He shook his head then grimaced, immediately regretting the action.
“No, thank you,” he said. He knew dreams were Solas’s specialty, but he didn’t like the thought of anyone rooting around in his head—ever again.
He lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of the camp around them. So they must have made it after all. He could scarcely remember those last few moments before he blacked out. He remembered… yes, he remembered being in Barris’s arms, wondering at the strength of the man who carried him, a man who was no doubt nearly as bruised and battered as he had been.
He could hear a few familiar voices carrying over the more mundane camp sounds. His friends and advisors—Cassandra, Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana. They were arguing. No one seemed to know where exactly to go from here. Liras couldn’t blame them for being angry.
He reached up, touching his head gingerly before carefully bracing himself with his other arm and sitting up.
“Where—” He had to pause to grimace and groan. “Where is…?”
“Not far from here,” Solas responded, a slight smile on his smooth face. “He was here only a few moments ago. He keeps checking on you to see if you’re awake.”
“…How long was I unconscious?”
“Quite some time. Enough time for the healers to have their way with you, and for your body to do the rest.”
The older man watched with faint amusement on his face rather than offer assistance as Liras struggled to get to his feet. His ribs protested mightily, but he’d be damned if he was just going to lie here like an invalid. It went without saying that he had to find and thank the man who had saved his life.
Once he was standing, he braced himself against a tent poll. Solas chuckled at the vaguely malevolent look he must have shot him.
“Here,” said the mage, rising to his feet and offering him what he thought was a mage staff at first, but turned out to be merely a walking stick. “Over there,” he continued, pointing past a row of tents. “I believe he went that way.”
Liras nodded his thanks before beginning to make his slow, painful way through the camp. The pain thankfully diminished as his stiffened muscles loosened, and he was able to grip the walking stiff more tightly and put more of his weigh on it, taking the pressure off his injured ankle.
He skirted Cassandra and the others, not wanting them to know yet that he had awakened. They would no doubt try to draw him into whatever discussion they were having. His opinion would be sought, then immediately lambasted by whomever it didn’t satisfy. While it was true he was beginning to think of these people as his friends, he still felt uncomfortable—and maybe even a little resentful—of the title and position they had collectively thrust upon him. Yes, he had a glowing hand and could close rifts. That would have been enough for someone like Sera. (Probably that’s why he liked Sera.) But no, they needed more from him. They needed him to be the Herald, one of the de facto leaders of an organization he had no hand in forming. The harbinger of a religion he didn’t even practice.
Barris was exactly where Solas had indicated, a little west of the main campfires, standing near the outskirts of the tents. He was gazing out at the mountains, his back to the camp. He wore a heavy fur cloak over his shoulders, a cloak that Liras was immediately envious of. He missed the thick blankets that had been covering him on his sick bed and really ought to have taken one with him.
Barris turned around at the sound of his footsteps. His green eyes widened, shock and relief clearly vying for attention on his face. He took a step forward, looking hesitant for a moment before reaching out and resting a hand on Liras’s shoulder, squeezing gently.
“You’re awake,” he said simply.
Liras nodded. “More or less,” he joked, keeping his voice light-hearted.
A slight smile twitched at the templar’s lips, but he didn’t respond.
Liras took a deep breath, or as deep as he could with his ribs bound together so tightly.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he began. He could feel his heart starting to beat faster in his chest, but he ignored it. “I know I don’t deserve it, but—”
But before he could finish, Barris closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around him, pulling him (gently) close, and kissing him. The kiss itself was gentle, too, but it was deep, and filled with unspoken desire and repressed regret, and drew a moan from him before he could think to stop it.
He was a little breathless when their lips parted, and only partly because of his ribs.
“Forgive me, Herald,” said his templar, his warm breath puffing in the cold air between them. “I’m sorry, but you talk too much.”
Liras tried and failed to feel offended by the accusation.
“I talk too much!” he said, throwing in an exaggerated sputter for good measure. “Of all the—!”
Barris pulled him close again, silencing him with another kiss. Liras silently cursed the man, then his own body, as he felt himself grow more and more pliant against the other man’s body. This was a losing battle.
“You’re going to keep doing that every time I argue,” he said, now panting lightly.
“Yes,” came the amused reply.
“And I take it you’re not going to take “No” for an answer anymore.”
The amused expression faded on the templar’s face, and he seemed to grow serious.
“Herald,” he said, bringing a hand up to lightly stroke his fingers over Liras’s cheek. “Liras. If you truly don’t want this, then I—I will respect your wishes. But I beg you to let me remain by your side. To let me protect you. Let me—let me love you.”
“I suppose the macho thing to say is that I don’t need your protection,” Liras joked, once again ignoring the pounding of his heart.
“I saved you from an avalanche,” came the dry reply. “I carried you over the mountain.”
“Yes, well, I suppose love does have its uses.”
Barris’s expression softened again.
“Is that a “yes”?” he asked.
“Yes,” Liras replied. “I mean, I think so. Yes.” He shivered, already anticipating being kissed again—it was a rather lovely thing to look forward to. “Now if we’re going to be lovers, that means you have to share that big shaggy cloak of yours. I’m bloody freezing.”
Barris chuckled and pulled him obligingly forward, wrapping his cloak around the both of them as he did. They kissed again, Liras slipping his hands around the other man’s waist and leaning against his sturdy warmth for support—the walking stick he’d left leaning against a nearby tent. He’d worry about returning to the rest of camp later. For now, he supposed he’d earned the right to nestle into the warmth of the man he’d fallen in love with.
“I’m really looking forward to remembering having sex with you,” he said, his voice muffled against the other man’s neck.
Barris snorted. “Just what a man likes to hear. How utterly forgettable his talents in the bedroom are.”
“Blame Bull’s mead. Besides, I promise to remain sober the next time you fuck me.”
The smoldering look this earned him made him smirk, and probably aroused him a little more than was technically bearable, considering the current physical state his body was in—all so-called bedroom activities were really going to have to wait until he had recovered a bit more. But at least in addition to being sober he would have someone’s arms to wake up in again, a chest to bury his face against, a pair of shoulders to grip as the last vestiges of the nightmare loosened its grip on him.
And oh, he did know his first name after all. It was Delrin. And maybe once or twice he would call him that, but he’ll probably start annoying him with something like “Delly,” and Barris will grumble and look annoyed, and all his friends will laugh, and everyone will just have to get used to the Herald of Andraste being with the second son of a minor noble family. Because it was either that or… well, actually there were no alternatives, because Herald or not, he was allowed to make his own decisions, and that included who he slept with, and who he kissed, and who he loved, even if surprisingly those ended up all being the same person.
Being the Herald and closing rifts were things that he had to do. But loving Delrin Barris was a thing that he’d chosen to do, and really, there was no one would could take that away from him. No one at all.
~Finis~
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HEY I'm really grateful for all the kudos! but would anyone like to leave a comment? ^^ Did you enjoy reading this story? Please let me know! I have no idea if it's even any good!