Chapter Text
Weisshaupt was where they said they were going, and as far as Leliana’s scouts were concerned, that was where the small party was headed. Even though, that was not their true destination. Under disguise, Inquisitor Wynaelora Lavellan and her beloved wife, a heartbroken Lieutenant Threnn, had made good on their promise, personally escorting the Champion of Kirkwall, Marian Hawke and Admiral Isabela through the gates at Gwaren to their awaiting freedom.
A beautiful morning it was, rare sun poked through the clouds and lay in patches through the rows of trees that lined the city, like a grand carpet laid out by Mythal or Andruil or the Maker or whomever to greet the Champion and her love to a new day. On the wind, the crispness of fall seasoned the salted breeze and rustled the tops of the sturdy Fereldan elm trees as their boughs stretched to the Heavens as though trying to tickle the clouds wafting by. It was calm, peaceful, a slice of life that was almost enough for the four of them to forget the chaos that reigned over the rest of Thedas.
“Does it look different?” Hawke asked, steadying her horse turning her attention to Threnn. The Lieutenant wore standard Ferelden infantry leathers with no rank insignia and a scout hat, which obscured enough to make her identity forgettable.
Marian, on the other hand, wore a rogue’s leather and light armor and a nondescript archer’s hat; two armored souls, especially one wearing the Champion’s armor, would draw too much attention, and without the red streak across her nose, one could think they saw Marian Hawke riding by through the sleepy streets or someone who just looked like her.
Either way, the gate guards and the few passers by they encountered seemed to either not care or not recognize them, merely nodding their heads in acknowledgment as one would out of politeness.
“Better than when last I imagined,” Threnn said with a romance in her voice as she lingered on old memories. “Last time I was here was just after the Blight. Most of us returning from the war were just looking for something familiar to come back to. Back then, the only thing familiar were the streets and less of a Chantry tower than there is now,” she pointed to the gray stone building rising from the end of the city near the docks.
Like the Chantry in Haven and many other culturally significant Ferelden edifices, it was elegant in its brutal simplicity and awe-inspiring presence. Rebuilt from ashes like much of the city, and looked as though it could take a direct blast from Qunari artillery and still live.
Beside Threnn, the Inquisitor, dressed in rags befitting a serving elf, face shrouded under a hood and no visible mage staff. Threnn was doing her best to keep her emotions quiet, but watching her eyes tracing the handiwork of her people, the handiwork that she could no longer have a part in, Wyn felt her heart break. She gently nudged her spotted Dalish mare close enough that she could lean over and kiss her love’s thin lips, chapped red by the cool air.
Just as she did so, the wind blew back the Inquisitor’s hood, revealing her platinum hair, braided behind her head enough so that her vallaslin and ears were visible.
A pair of passing Chantry sisters noticed the moment and gasped at the sight of a fine Fereldan soldier being kissed by who appeared to be her elven prisoner or servant.
Since the rise of the Inquisition, attitudes toward elves and mixed partnerships with them had been changing rapidly across Thedas. Empress Celine’s rumored affair with an elf handmaiden was becoming a popular tale, and the recent spectacle of the elven Inquisitor’s marriage to one of her guardsmen, attended by none other than Queen Anora herself, had been pulp for pages of smutty romance novels the likes that even Varric wouldn’t touch.
Like many social matters ingrained by centuries of oppression compounded by social engineering, the changes had been met with equal resistance as there was support. It was a question with these Chantry sisters, but they seemed to be more awestruck than they were a threat.
“Look at them. They look like the top of a wedding cake,” Isabela said from beside Marian. To her chagrin, Isabela had been conned into wearing the orange and green of an Inquisition infantry uniform, also sans rank and any other identifying marks. Her hair was tied back behind her head with a pin given to her by Josephine.
“I had no idea wedding cakes had statues of random infantry soldiers and elven women dressed as hobos.” Hawke joked.
“We are still in Ferelden. If there isn’t one, there surely will be one soon, inspired by the two of them.”
Hawke couldn’t resisted a smile and rewarded Isabela with a kiss of her own. “I think they inspire you,” she teased. Ever since attending the ceremony between Threnn and Wynaelora, Isabela had gone quiet every time the subject of marriage was brought up around them. Hawke made sure to dismiss any suggestions as Isabela would want, but there had been a look of longing in those dark eyes as she watched the Inquisitor in her brilliant gown, as white as the tops of the Frostbacks and looking like the closest things to Mythal that had ever been depicted.
“The only thing they inspire is to move more quickly, so I can get out of whatever terribleness they put me in,” Isabela said, tugging at the pea green tunic. “You know there is a lovely hat shop just before we get to my ship.”
“You and your hats...” Hawke said.
“Well, kitten, I don’t look as good in iron as you do,” Isabela retorted and squeezed the inside of Marian’s thigh lovingly.
Marian gasped and felt her face go hot. “Here in the middle of the city?”
“Maybe we can get those two involved,” Isabela joked, tossing her darkened locks at the Inquisitor and her Lieutenant in front of them.
“Stop,” Marian grumbled and slapped Isabela playfully on the arm. As uncomfortable as Isabela looked, the excitement behind her dark eyes betrayed her protest. She would be happy as soon as she was on that boat, and Hawke would be too.
Threnn nodded to a few fellow soldiers as they passed by. She didn’t recognize them, and they looked far too young to have served during the Blight. Idly she wondered where they were all from. Were they from elsewhere in Ferelden like so many had been during the wars, or was Gwaren finally maturing enough to grow some of their own?
Looking down the fresh cobbles and the women dressed in bright, freshly washed dresses, and the men in pressed suits walking smartly to and fro. Hope had returned. Hawke wondered if it had anything to do with what happened at Adamant. Surely, it did.
In the middle of the town square was a stone sculpture well underway of a larger-than-life figure. A man who Threnn instantly recognized to be her former commanding officer, and a man she loved as her mentor, a man whose loss she still felt keenly: Loghain Mac Tir. As easy as it would be to blame Wyn for leaving him to fall in the Fade, the choice hadn’t come easy. Wyn and Loghain had surprisingly bonded.
Pulling on the reins, Threnn stopped her horse and dismounted, as did Hawke and Isabela. Without waiting for Wyn or the others, she approached the scaffolding. No one was working on him today, but there was still a placard in front of the sculpture identifying who it was supposed to be and why: Teyrn of Gwaren, Hero of The River Dane, Gray Warden, Hero of Adamant. It read. Remembering the kind words he last imparted to her, Threnn felt the sting of tears and touched a gloved hand to the memory and whispered a blessing to Andraste.
Hawke came along side her and touched her shoulder.
“Surprised this is here, but a fitting tribute,” Threnn said.
“I’m sorry,” Wyn said, interrupting her thoughts. She had dismounted and patted the neck of her spotted Dalish Mare as she nibbled hungrily at grass growing out of the seams in the stones.
“When all this is over, I’d like to come back,” Threnn said, scanning the streets.
“Of course,” Wyn said quietly. “Where’s Isabela?” She asked.
Marian looked around frantically. As the day drew on, there would be less of a chance of escape. Even if they did shove off, dark enough, they would have to hug the coastline until there was enough light to safely escape through the rocky channel around Gwaren and into the expanse that was the Amaranthine Ocean.
Ocean...ocean...hat store. Marian’s eyes locked on a wooden sign, swinging in the breeze of JULIENA’S FINE WARES. “Maker, Isabela...” she grumbled and motioned for the others to follow.