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The cathedral ceiling yawned overhead, absorbing all light.
Lyanna shifted on her feet, the soft hairs on her neck prickling. Haven’s cold air seemed to seep in through the stone walls surrounding her, thick and oppressive though they were. Even with the door closed, her sensitive ears could still pick up faint strings of melody as the Chantry sisters sang their hymns, one eerie unwavering harmony filling up all empty spaces. Closer by acolytes walked ponderously back and forth as they lighted candles, their long robes rustling against the floor, their conversations a muted murmur.
Humans tended to occupy their places of worship with a reverent sort of solicitude, as if worried that a noise deemed overloud would rouse their mighty deity’s attention, or displeasure. It never failed to make Lyanna feel uneasy, made her feel imaginary stares boring into her back, dissecting her every heathen move.
Pushing her disquiet aside, she shifted her gaze to the three humans in front of her. The advisors, each with their own version of a concentrated frown, circled the heavy oak table and its abundance of scrolls and maps. It was daytime outside, but in this windowless room it might as well have been midnight. The dimmed candlelight caused all their shadows to stretch long and thin against the wall.
“—be that as it may, the fact of the matter is that we simply don’t have the resources to—”
“—Maker’s breath, then find the resources, this is not something that can be ignored—”
“—and how exactly do you propose we do that? We barely have enough trading agreements as it is!”
Lyanna, as always, said little. These meetings tended to follow the same pattern, the three of them arguing bitterly while she observed in silence. Eventually she would make a comment, or ask a question, or point out an oversight. When she did so they’d stop in their tracks, pick up the common thread, and come to a decision they would later attribute to her and her supposed wisdom. At first she had thought they were mocking her—her observations seemed self-evident to her, mere common sense—but she had since come to realize that they simply needed her to be the impartial outsider, the judge whose value was derived from the very neutrality they embodied. A tool and a mouthpiece all at once.
Absurdly, she felt like an adult presiding over child's play. Serious and important playacting to those participating in it, vaguely ludicrous to those observing it.
With a subdued sigh, she made an effort to shake the thought away. Her situation was already depressing enough without adding cynicism to it. She looked at the humans again, this time focusing on all the signs of tension they failed to hide, from clenched fists on sword hilts to pursed lips to the minutest of frowns.
“You may growl and grumble all you like,” the Nightingale said, coldness in her voice to match the coldness in her eyes. “We cannot pay for this, and that’s that.”
The Commander apparently refused to be cowed. “What about all the useless nobles we’ve jumped through hoops to recruit? Perhaps it’s time we made them pull their own weight around here.”
Josephine’s entire body bristled with indignation. “Putting aside the fact that we can’t make them do anything, not without destroying the very alliances we’ve been trying to build, nobles don’t just operate on commission like that. They donate to the cause, or make offerings—”
“Oh, you mean like the huge golden statue of Andraste Lord Such-and-Such deigned to give us? That monstrosity that took three of my men to carry in? Yes, what a useful gift! I’m sure it will keep our bellies full in the winter!”
“It was Lord de Lancre, and if you paid any attention to the politics surrounding our situation you’d know how important that gesture was!”
Lyanna finally spoke up. “We should melt down the statue.”
The silence that greeted her statement was absolute.
Aghast, the advisors had turned as one to stare at her, unified by their collective horror. Their identical expressions would have been funny if it wasn't for the palpable sense of discomfort in the air. Lyanna blinked, surprised by the dramatic response. Surely they all saw the logic in it?
“If we melt it down and make our own ingots, we'll turn a useless gift into a resource,“ she started to explain, needlessly, to fill the uncomfortable silence if nothing else. “No one needs to know their origins, and whole-sale traders will accept them more easily than coin.“
As the moment stretched unbearably on, and they did nothing more than stare wordlessly at her, a small but irrepressible laugh started to bubble in her throat, fear mingling with hysteria. She swallowed the reaction down, tried to forget the phantom sensation of cold manacles against her skin that still plagued her dreams.
As if roused by an invisible signal, the trio suddenly burst into heated protests.
"But it's a statue of Andraste!"
"We can't—we can't melt—there has to be some other way!"
"This is blasphemy."
Lyanna kept her voice as reasonable as she could, even as the ridiculousness of it all threatened her composure. “I’m sure Andraste will understand. Would she really deny us such a simple thing in our time of need?”
Her reassurances left them entirely unconvinced. Josephine fluttered like a dove in her disquiet, her hand playing nervously with her collar. The Commander’s face alternated between horrified pallor and the flush of pure mortification. Even the Nightingale, usually so stern and stoic, betrayed a deep disapproval for the proceedings with her pronounced frown.
This stubborn resistance was baffling. It wasn't like Lyanna couldn't understand the aversion to destroying religious icons—her people had been forced to deal with that bitter issue more than once—but even the most devout Keepers knew better than to prioritize the Creators over the needs of the clan. Dalish offerings were modest, practical, and ultimately perishable. It was the ritual that mattered, the thoughts and wishes imbued into each sacramental wine cup… which, in the end, was consumed by the community itself. Who else was there to do it?
She wondered what it was like to worship gods that weren’t already gone.
Abruptly, inexplicably, Lyanna felt a rush of pity for these humans and their religious fear, with their tall proud cathedrals reaching for the heavens, their stained glass depicting holy martyrs in their pyres.
"I'll do it," she offered kindly. "No one else needs to be involved."
It wasn’t the solution they wanted to hear, that much was clear. But they stopped protesting, so she pressed her advantage. “It should be done. You know this.”
She locked eyes with the Nightingale, met her gaze for gaze. Of the three of them she was the most likely to understand, used to the burden of making the hard but necessary decisions.
The spymaster nodded, once, and that was the end of it.
—
Lyanna descended the stairs to the Chantry basement, the air turning colder and more oppressive with each step she took. The stone walls glistened with condensation, reflecting the meager light from the half-lit sconces and rusted chandeliers, distorting her tremulous shadow. Darkness pooled like oil slick at the edges of the rooms she passed, obscuring both the start and the finish point of the endless hallway.
Somewhere in the bowels of this dungeon was the room she had first woken up in, disoriented and afraid. Her left palm itched at the memory, the ever-constant magic under her skin prodding at her awareness once more.
Lyanna allowed herself a single shudder, then pressed on. No use ruminating on the past. She headed deeper in, the echo of her footsteps the only clear sound around her. Finally, she reached the room she was looking for—an abandoned cell hastily reconstructed into a second treasury—and unlocked it with the key she had been given. The gate swung open with an enormous metallic screech, making her ears twitch.
The treasure trove that greeted her was of dubious worth. Miscellaneous items were strewn about, from bulky swords and old fashioned vambraces to small wooden figurines Lyanna could vaguely recall picking up during her travels. Evidently this was the designated space for valuables that weren’t all that valuable to begin with, or as useful for trading as coins and jewellery.
Still, a golden glimmer flashed in the center of the room, Andraste’s statue standing tall in all its aggrandizing glory. With its five feet height it cut a disturbingly life-like figure, the woman in question posing with her hands clasped piously in front of her chest, a beatific expression on her face. Said face was carved with bold lines, as bold as the dimensions of the sculpted body, its very heft and weight demanding the observer’s awe and attention. The amount of gold it must have taken to make this was staggering, a testament to the owner’s intimidating wealth and unimpeachable devoutness both.
Unbidden, Lyanna’s thoughts turned to her clan, to the modest wooden totems of the Creators keeping their vigil from between the aravels. How many times had she sat underneath their welcoming shadow as a child, her still stubby fingers weaving patterns with strings and beads? The materials may have been simple, but even back then she had felt proud of her handicrafts, of the careful circular symmetries she had produced and then hung from her window frame.
The forest felt impossibly far away, here in the damp dark depths of a human structure, cold stone surrounding her from every side.
Unhappiness threatened to settle on her, the homesickness an aching in her bones; she forced herself to push it all away. If she let herself feel those emotions she’d be dragged under the current, consumed and drowned. Better to keep it all contained, to stay focused on the present.
She observed the statue again with a practical eye. It was too large and unwieldy to move by herself, which meant she’d have to melt it down here where it stood. She mentally went over the tools she’d need: a crucible, fuel for the fire, molds to make ingots, some sort of way to cut the gold into smaller pieces…
She needed to do more research. She abandoned both treasury and dungeon behind as she made her way out of the Chantry, the mountain air’s chill stinging her cheeks as she opened the heavy wooden doors. Delicate snowflakes fluttered gaily around her, danced downwards until they melted into the dirty path below. The humans of Haven ignored both snow and mud as they went about their business, used to the southern weather, but Lyanna took a moment to look up at the sky, at the pale grey clouds covering every inch of the horizon. She took a deep, invigorating breath.
The smithy, when she reached it, was bustling with activity. Heavy clangs and shouts rang out, too many hammers striking anvils without mercy while overloaded workers moved industriously about. Lyanna exchanged a nod with the head blacksmith—Harritt, she remembered—and observed his work for a moment, the careful finishing touches he added to a polished greatsword. Then she circled casually around the forge, her gaze flicking subtly to the sides as she took stock. There in the corner was the crucible, next to some iron molds, and a pair of tongs that would no doubt prove useful. After some extra searching she also spotted a small handsaw, probably for cutting wooden boards. It would have to do.
She left, her feet carrying her down mindless paths around the village as a plan started to take shape in her head. She’d need to wait for night to settle first, to avoid any uncomfortable questions. The less people that knew about this the better. She would sneak into the smithy and pick up everything, then make a detour to the storehouse for wood and kindling, then circle back to the Chantry and get to work. She had no idea how long this would take, but she was determined to be thorough, and stay the whole night there if she had to.
Her steps slowed as doubts sprang up. Would the fire she’d make be strong enough to melt gold? What if an entire night wasn't actually enough time to finish it? She had never done anything like this before, had no experience working with human metals instead of ironwood. And even her meager crafting abilities were simply the skills she had learned as a teenager before settling on the life of a huntress. The lack of knowledge niggled at her, undermined her confidence.
Not for the first time, Lyanna felt a sting of disappointment that she hadn’t been born a mage. How easy, how natural it must be to go through life with the power to influence and affect the world around you. How much more convenient, to navigate these little everyday troubles with just a spell. At least back in her clan she could have asked their First for help instead of constructing elaborate strategies. She had taken for granted the constant presence of magic among the Dalish, she now knew, from the always available healing spells that soothed all ills, to simple conveniences like communal baths heated by strategically placed runes. Such things were nowhere to be found in Haven, or in any other human settlement, humble or grand.
Suddenly a realization hit her, and she stopped in her tracks. There were people she could ask for help in the Inquisition too. Her gaze traveled to Solas’s hut, sitting so unassumingly against the snowy backdrop.
She changed direction, a new plan already forming in her mind.
—
He had been absently stretching, trying to relive the crick in his neck from all that reading, when he noticed the Herald.
Solas looked out his window, his book momentarily forgotten. A few feet from his hut Lavellan sat on one of the big boulders littering the landscape of Haven, her head tilted up to watch the sky, her back to him. How long she had been sitting there, and how long she planned to stay there, he had no way of knowing.
Curiosity took hold of him, as well as a vague kind of worry. What was she doing there? She never failed to pay him a visit whenever she wandered to this part of the ramshackle village, either joining him on the doorstep or leaning through the open window if he happened to be inside. He had grown used to her regular daily stops, even if most of the time it was just for a simple greeting.
So why did she overlook him this time? Was it by chance or design? He felt unease at the thought of her beginning to avoid him, or dislike him. Gaining and maintaining the Herald’s friendship was a prudent course of action considering his plans, and more than that—if he was being completely honest with himself—he simply enjoyed her company. She was a better conversational partner than most of the mortals he’d encountered so far, with her incisive questions and her patient, observant nature. He was surprised to realize how much he’d miss their meandering casual chats, were they to stop.
Sense started to reassert itself, and he shook away his thoughts. He was being paranoid. There was no need to jump to conclusions after a single missed visit. She probably just wished for some time alone, away from responsibilities and pious prying eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time she slipped away unnoticed for a break, and even the Seeker had stopped being alarmed at her random disappearances. He should mind his own business, and leave her to it.
But even as he went back to his studies, his mind kept wandering back to her, his attention caught like an animal noticing a lure. It didn’t help that the book he was attempting to read was of no particular value or worth, was merely a way to pass the time in a relatively painless fashion. So much of his existence nowadays was spent whiling away the hours while he waited, and waited, for the day to end, for this Inquisition to grow, for something significant enough to happen, some dramatic change that would finally allow him to put his plans into motion. He knew how to be patient, had long ago learned how to bide his time; still, the restlessness gnawed at him.
He would just go and say hello, Solas decided as he snapped his book shut and rose from his seat. It was hardly an unreasonable thing to do, he reassured himself as he opened the door and walked out. Really, it wasn’t such a big deal. If she didn’t want his company, he’d simply leave.
He approached her on silent feet, tried to gauge her emotional state as he drew nearer. Lavellan was sitting cross-legged and straight-backed, with shoulders relaxed. Both her dark leather armor and her brown skin were a contrast to the whiteness of the snow surrounding them, drawing the eye in. A few wisps of auburn hair had escaped her short ponytail to flutter in the breeze.
He was finally close enough to be heard. “Hello,” he greeted her.
She turned to him. Her expressions tended to be neutral and impassive, careful without being guarded. He watched her entire face transform as she smiled at him, warm and welcoming. “Hello,” she greeted him back, her eyes crinkling.
A woman of few words, she silently gestured to the empty space next to her in invitation. Solas accepted, equally wordlessly, and sat beside her on the boulder. The snow had left the surface wet, cold enough to feel through his clothes. The feeling was almost uncomfortable, a subtle annoyance that forced him to be aware of his physical body in an unpleasant way, but he stayed where he was nonetheless. His bare feet touched the rocky ground, his toes tickled by the half-buried struggling grass.
Lavellan reached into a pouch and offered him the contents, nestled in her palm: small blackcurrants, fresh and wild, dewdrops still clinging to their skin. They glistened under the weak sun, so black they seemed to devour all light. Somehow, they looked both like a figment of a dream and the most real thing in the world at the same time. Had he been in the Fade he wouldn’t have trusted them, sure they were a temptation too dangerous to indulge in. That same caution held him back now, a vague instinct calling out a warning.
He’d hesitated for too long. Lavellan shot him an amused, horribly knowing glance, and retracted her arm. She popped a berry in her mouth and chewed, slow and unhurried. Her gaze remained trained to the distant horizon, unconcerned with all around it.
The pouch was deposited in between them, seemingly out of pure coincidence, its mouth gaping open enticingly.
A sudden wave of irritation washed over him. Was he a stray dog, to be coaxed out of hiding with treats? Abruptly, he felt fed up with his own constant mistrust, the wariness that suffused all his thoughts and actions.
Without allowing himself to overthink things he thrust his hand inside, blindly grabbed a fistful, and brought it to his lips. Flavor flooded in his mouth as he bit down, sharp and tart, a shock to the system. For some reason he’d expected them to be sweeter. He swallowed down the juice, licked his stained teeth.
They ate the rest together, side by side, in the calm peaceful quiet. Solas didn’t begrudge the lack of conversation, aware of the way the Herald’s habits went. In the early days he had mistaken her laconic tendencies for passiveness, evidence of an incurious, indifferent character. But he knew by now that she was simply someone who preferred listening to talking, who absorbed all information before making a decision, including the decision to speak her mind.
A good trait for a leader to have, he thought, not for the first time. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, tried to envision her under the trappings of true power. Would she break from the pressure? Would she flourish? His experiences had left him far too cynical to ever trust an authority figure ever again, but something about her made him want to believe in her despite it. He wished for her to succeed, to achieve greatness and still maintain that intriguing, pure spirit of hers… if only to assuage his own guilt over her unfortunate circumstances, if nothing else.
But if weighty thoughts of responsibility occupied her mind then she gave no indication of it, sitting there so calm and serene. He followed her example, and returned his gaze to the world around them. She had chosen a good vantage point, the lake visible in the distance in all its tranquil glory.
“I found these berries by the lake.”
Solas blinked, surprised by the uncharacteristic interruption. When he turned to her Lavellan was still gazing at the horizon, speaking in an almost absent-minded way. “I was walking by the banks earlier, aiming for the forest to the south. Then I spied the currant bushes, hidden in a thicket. The leaves were sagging under accumulated snow, half the plant destroyed by frost. But a few bunches still remained, clinging to life. Waiting, like a secret, to be found.”
Such a simple story, yet he felt charmed nevertheless. It reminded him of his own youthful wanderings, his innocent delight at the smallest discoveries. “Exploration is its own kind of reward, but it’s always nice to have tangible payoff for one’s troubles.”
She tossed him a teasing smile. “Well, we can’t all have wisps guiding our steps to treasure.”
He chuckled. “Fair point. Though I believe no magic could ever hope to outmatch those clever eyes of yours.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Good. It was intended as such.”
Those same eyes twinkled as she smiled at him, bright and verdant green. He allowed himself to smile back.
It was harmless, surely.
But after a few moments, Lavellan broke the comfortable silence once more. “Listen, Solas,” she said, no trace of laughter in her voice now. “The truth is I wanted to talk to you.”
Ah. There it was. “Go on.”
She turned to look at him head-on, serious and focused. “I have a favor to ask.”
He appreciated her forthright attitude, the utter lack of coyness or flattery. “Tell me what it is, lethallin, and I’ll see if I can grant it.”
She paused as she gathered her thoughts, a slight frown on her face. Solas waited patiently.
“The Inquisition has more ambition than funds,” Lavellan finally said, “and most of its wealth resides in impractical forms. One of those is a gift offered by a human noble, a golden statue of Andraste.”
“Of course. And I suspect the aim of this gift was to showcase the donor’s might, rather than provide concrete aid?”
She nodded. “So I thought I’d melt it down into ingots.”
He couldn’t help the astonished laugh that escaped him. “How very practical! Are you not afraid of divine retribution?” he teased her.
“I’m already being punished, it seems,” she said wryly, lifting up her left palm. “What more could any god do to me?”
Solas cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“And the favor you require?”
“Well…” For the first time today, she looked unsure. “I just thought—I’ve never done anything like this before, you see, and I thought things would go more smoothly if magic was involved.” She raised her eyes to his, held his gaze. “Will you help me, lethallin?”
He inhaled slowly, tried to corral his emotions. He had completely forgotten she had no magic of her own, too distracted by their easy conversation to remember exactly where they were, and the kind of world they lived in. Here was the reality of it all: she had to ask for assistance even for such a menial task, because the birthright of her magic had been torn away from her. From her and all the other elves of this era, living in the margins, surviving on scraps of power. Anger rose to join his ever-present guilt.
“Yes,” he said, voice coming out rougher than he’d intended. “Yes, I’ll help.”
Her whole body melted down with relief—had she really feared he would refuse her?—and she rewarded him with a radiant smile. “Thank you, Solas. I appreciate this. Now,” she added, her tone business-like, “we should wait until nightfall before we make any moves. I don’t want people witnessing this.”
He was in a strange mood, reckless and impatient. “No need to wait.” He shoved off the boulder and offered her his hand. “I have a solution to that problem.”
She blinked, hesitated only for a moment. Then she gamely took his hand and rose as well. “Meaning?”
Solas let his magic do the talking. He reached for his mana, built the spell with a few twists of his fingers, then had it settle on them like a barrier. Their skin shone with iridescent light, a subtle power thrumming on its surface.
“Oh!” Lavellan examined her fingers with interest, openly and endearingly curious. “Have you turned us invisible?”
“Ah, not quite,” he said, rueful. True invisibility wasn’t possible while the Veil was in place, he had since learned. “Think of it more as a concealment spell. We’re still technically visible, but attention will just… slide off us, in a way. Let us hide in plain sight.”
“Hmm.” She looked distinctly amused by this, shooting him a sly glance under her lashes. “How very practical.”
The corners of his lips twitched upwards. “A useful ability for any apostate to have, naturally. Now, shall we?”
They set off together, back into the village proper. His hand rose of its own volition and touched the small of her back, an unconscious guiding gesture he really had no business allowing to continue once he noticed it. “Proximity to the caster enhances the strength of the spell,” he murmured. He had bent his head to speak the words directly into her ear, needlessly, like a fool. “It would be wiser to stay close to each other.”
He felt more than saw her nod. She looked serious again, focused on her goal.
She made no comment about the hand still hovering over her back.
They reached the smithy without incident and slid unobtrusively inside. Other than a couple of disinterested glances the workers barely took notice of them, eyes glued to their tasks. Lavellan moved confidently about and gathered tools without breaking her stride, quick and efficient. Solas gestured silently with his palms, wanting to share the load. Amusement danced over her features again before she relented, handing him a brass melting pot.
The Chantry was next, sitting squat and unimpressive on top of the hill. They entered the dark, gloomy interior, the sputtering candlelight providing just enough illumination to give the whole place a run-down feel. Down into the basement they went—and how curious, that a place of worship had need of such a dungeon—their footsteps echoing over the dank, musty air.
When they finally arrived at their destination, he didn’t need to have their quarry pointed out to him. In the midst of various cheap trash stood the ugliest, tackiest statue Solas had ever had the misfortune of seeing. Roughly-hewn and bulky, its lines were crudely and sloppily made, the unfortunate woman depicted stuck with an insipid expression on her asymmetrical face. Apparently the so-called artist responsible for this expected people to be too dazzled by the obscene amounts of gold involved to notice all the lazy mistakes.
It was hard to keep the disdain from his gaze. “I see now that destroying this statue will be an act of mercy.”
Lavellan laughed, a bright delightful sound. “Don’t be mean. Someone still worked hard to make this.”
“Not hard enough, clearly,” he muttered under his breath. But he let the matter go without protest, and helped her set up the tools they had gathered. The space was cramped and hard to navigate comfortably, the smell of dust and mold heavy in the air. Together they pushed two heavy iron-studded crates, hefty enough to withstand all kinds of abuse, to the center of the room. The meager light from the hallway created half-shadows on their surface.
“Wait,” he said when Lavellan went to place the melting pot—it really was too small and humble to be called a crucible—on top the iron base. Solas turned it deftly in his hands and placed a fire glyph at its bottom, the symbol surging with mana before subsiding to a steady thrum of magic. “Some extra help, should we need it,” he explained.
She gave him a pleased, grateful smile. “Good thinking. Alright then,” she said as she whipped out a frankly alarming-looking handsaw he never even noticed her pick up, “let’s see how easily gold breaks.”
“Wait, wait.” Solas huffed in amusement, palms raised defensively. “No need for such drastic measures. If I may have your dagger, please?”
Her eyebrows jumped up, but she followed his lead easily enough. He took the offered weapon—well-used and well-loved, its leather handle fraying while its sharp edge gleamed—and pressed another tiny fire glyph at the base of its hilt, the magic potent against his thumb. When he made his way to the statue and ran the knife through that sculpted throat, the metal yielded obligingly against the blade, as smooth as warm soft butter.
Lavellan let out a happy, appreciative sound. “Nice work!” Her smile turned into a full-blown grin as she looked at him, her eyes sparkling with delight.
She really had to stop being so impressed with every little thing he did. It was going to go to his head.
Solas tossed the head into the sad little crucible and took position. One last deep inhale to rouse his mana properly, then he summoned a small fireball in his palm, blazing pure and white against his skin. With one hand above and the activated glyph below, his power made short work of the metal, melting it down slow and steady. Andraste’s regrettable features twisted and contorted into the golden pool surrounding them, the sight so pitiful it inspired a belated twinge of guilt in him. It had been eons since the adolescent pranks of his terrible youth, but this incident was awakening certain memories he was now wise enough to wince at. Hopefully this wasn’t a sign of regression.
If Lavellan felt any similar compunctions then she gave zero indication of it. Once the gold had melted down completely she used the tongs with brisk efficient movements, and poured the contents into one of the molds waiting neatly in a row. Her technique was impressively stable, the stream of liquid metal flowing smoothly through the air as it descended, luminous with inborn heat.
And so it went, the two of them establishing a comfortable rhythm, working quietly beside each other. Solas tried to lose himself in the mindless repetitive motions of his respective tasks, to let his mind quieten into a meditative trance.
But the peacefulness he had felt during those snow-filled moments outside his hut would not return. Instead his thoughts circled around the woman next to him, working with such diligence and focus. She had reverted back to her usual silence, and Solas was surprised to realize how restless it made him feel. Despite her outward reticence she clearly had strong opinions, and wit, and a spark of humor to share. So why didn’t she?
The banter rose too easily to their lips; it left him spoiled, hungry for more.
“Would you have done the same, had this been a statue of your Creators?” he blurted out.
“Yes,” she said, calm and certain, without even raising her head.
Solas pressed his lips together. Was her attitude born of practicality or lack of faith? He hesitated to ask more, the topic of the Dalish and everything it involved still a sore point for both of them. While he couldn’t be sure of all her beliefs, he’d noticed the little superstitious gestures she made whenever she sat in front of a meal or killed a prey, primitive expressions of gratitude bastardized through time. And of course there were the vallaslin, the most damning sign of all, marking her skin.
Once again, he’d waited for too long. “Go on,” Lavellan said, flashing him a small knowing smile. “Ask.”
He tried to construct a question that wouldn’t be offensive. “You don’t think this act is disrespectful?”
A slight frown appeared on her face as she considered her answer. “I don’t think a god who would punish someone for this is worth respecting,” she said slowly. “And I don’t think the Creators particularly care about what I do.”
His smile had a touch of irony to it. “A convenient mentality.”
“A reasonable one.”
“So you claim to know their thoughts and feelings? To some that would be downright blasphemous. You’re not afraid your gods will punish you for your hubris?”
She looked up at him then, serious and intent, liquid gold reflected in her eyes. “My gods are dead,” she said, the words as heavy as a sacred proclamation.
“Or as good as dead,” she added in the silence, having struck Solas completely mute. “Trapped in the Beyond, weakened and impotent. How could their thoughts and feelings matter? Whether they approve of us or not, whether they mourn alongside us when we hurt and rage against us when we transgress, or whether they simply never watch us in the first place… In the end, it makes no difference.” Her gaze was steady, unwavering. “For better or for worse, they cannot touch us. They never have.”
His own gaze was caught, his breath suspended. “That’s… that’s surprisingly cynical of you.”
She shrugged. “Like I said. It’s reasonable.”
Solas tried to collect his thoughts, to steer the conversation to different waters. “So you don’t pray?”
“I do, I suppose,” she said with a huff of self-deprecation. “I just never expect it to matter.”
“Why, then? If there’s no point to it, why do it?”
“Because they’re my gods.”
“That’s not a real reason.”
“Isn’t it?” Lavellan had gone back to her work by then, but her voice was getting more passionate. “They’re my gods, the Creators of my people, of my clan. They belong to me and to all Dalish. Who else will worship them, other than us? Who else will care?”
“But you don’t worship them, not truly,” he pointed out. “You’re just going through the motions.”
“So what?” She actually looked frustrated now, a rare expression for her. “It’s the motions that matter, the rituals.”
“So you enact empty gestures to appease gods you don’t believe in,” he said, his own voice growing heated, “and you carve their symbols on your flesh without questions or protests!”
She started at this, honest surprise on her face. “The vallaslin? Of course I’d take them.”
“But why? Without the excuse of faith, what other reason could you have for it?”
“Because I’m Dalish,” she said, as simple as that.
How easily she said it, blinking up at him with guileless eyes. Solas grit his teeth and lowered his head, shoulders tensed. A thousand arguments begged to spill from his lips, and the fact that he couldn’t release them was a bitter pill to swallow. His thoughts swirled relentlessly, his frustration mounting.
The flame in his hand jumped. It was enough to shake him out of it, the momentary lapse of control sobering. He forced himself to breathe, to regain his calm. He always got too emotional when this topic came up, he knew, wounds both old and new rising to the surface. He shouldn’t have started this discussion in the first place.
Silence reigned once more around them as they ignored each other’s gaze and focused on their work. The echoes of their argument rang faintly in the air, the weight of words still left unsaid pressing down on them.
In time his temper cooled, and with the absence of anger finally came insight. I expected her to have the same opinions as me, he thought wryly, and when our thoughts diverged, I took it personally. Wisdom would have been ashamed to see his conduct. Only the most closed-minded of fools dismissed out of hand those with different beliefs than their own. Her reasonings made sense, her experiences were valid, her ignorance a product of his actions more than anyone else’s. He had wanted to understand her more, and now he did.
Would he have preferred it, if her faith in distorted truths and deities had been pure? Would it have been less frustrating, or more? Honestly and truly: he couldn’t tell.
In any case, he should apologize. Reacting in anger as he did was unworthy of him, and he didn’t want their interactions to end on such a sour note. But before he gather his thoughts and speak, Lavellan’s voice broke the quiet.
“It’s love.”
Solas blinked, wrong-footed. “Pardon?”
“The reason I do it.” Her eyes were still downturned, her lashes soft and delicate. “When I pray, I don’t think about the Creators. I think about all those who taught me how to pray, my Keeper and my hahrens and my mother, before she died. It gave me such comfort as a child, and those memories still give me strength. A sense of pride in my community, and for being a part of it. Knowing that someone somewhere is following the same rituals as I do makes me feel connected, especially now.“ She raised her head, looked at him straight-on. ”I love my people. I want the children that come after me to feel that same love. And for that, our culture needs to survive. So that’s why I go through the motions.”
He let his breath out slowly. “I see,” he said, his tone gentle. “Thank you for helping me understand better.” And he did understand her better now, her motives ones he couldn’t help but sympathize with, down to his bones.
His conscience pricked at him. “And I’m sorry for the way I acted before. I let my own biases cloud my judgement, and I was unfair to you. No one should begrudge you the things that bring you comfort, least of all me.”
She softened with a smile. “It takes two to argue, Solas. I don’t mind when our debates get intense, and it’d be hypocritical of me to blame them solely on you. But thank you,” she added with a playful gleam in her eyes, “I appreciate the apology.”
They smiled at each other, all the tension dissipating. He expected the matter to be dropped then, and he went to cut one more chunk of gold for the fire, but Lavellan spoke up again.
“And you?” Her voice was lighter this time, almost teasing. “Have you ever succumbed to the comforts of religion?”
He watched the dagger’s carving path. “Not of religion, no.”
“...But?”
Memories flashed through his mind, of Mythal in her prime, of Arlathan before all the corruption. He had been so unburdened back then. So trusting. “But I know what it’s like to believe.”
He felt her eyes on his back, a gentle pressure. “And what is it you believe in?”
For a few moments, he just breathed. “I believe in people, and in their potential when they’re allowed to live freely. I believe in kindness, in wisdom, in justice. And I believe in leaving the world a better place than how one found it.”
When he turned around, her expression was kind. “That’s an admirable goal,” she said softly.
The praise stung.
“You’re being too generous.” He tossed the piece of metal with a brisk movement and summoned up his fire. He should change the subject. “And I think it’s your goals that matter here, Herald, not mine.”
Lavellan sighed, somehow making that simple sound seem sardonic. “They’re nothing more complicated than ‘survive another day’, I guess.”
Now it was his turn to sound curious. “You don’t have any plans for the Inquisition?”
“You assume it would matter if I did. I’m a figurehead at best, and a convenient way to close up Rifts at worst. I’m under no illusions that they won’t toss me out the minute I stop being useful.”
“You vastly underestimate your own value, as well as the inherent power of your position.” He turned all his attention on her, determined to share this piece of advice for reasons he wouldn’t examine too closely. “You hold the salvation of the world in your palm, literally and figuratively, and everyone is aware of it. None of this would be possible without you. Figurehead or no, you’re the first elf in a position of authority in ages. It’s a unique opportunity, and one you can leverage.”
“Things tend to get deadly whenever elves gather too much attention from humans,” she argued. “I doubt showing initiative or ambition would bode well for me, and more importantly for the Dalish as a whole. If I start demanding that the Inquisition builds better alienages whenever we visit major cities, or that we go to war with Tevinter to free all the slaves, I’m going to cause another Exalted March! Not to mention mutiny among our own ranks.”
“Well, I never said you should wield that power like a bludgeon.”
She laughed at that. “Alright then. Let’s say I somehow gain real power. If I have to keep my actions subtle enough for it to work, who’s to say my goals will actually get accomplished? The next powerful person who comes along could undo it all.”
“They could,” he allowed easily. “And even if they don’t, time alone could erode all your accomplishments, with history distorting or downright erasing the context of your existence. You might fail to achieve your goals in the first place, for that matter. Nothing is guaranteed.”
She gave him a chiding, teasing look. “Now who’s being cynical?”
“I’m only being reasonable,” he teased back. “But,” he continued, adding more emphasis, “just because the outcome isn’t certain, doesn’t mean one shouldn’t try their best. And I think you would be a formidable sight indeed, if you used your capabilities to the fullest.”
“Flatterer,” she playfully accused him. “Are you sure you don’t have ulterior motives for buttering me up like this?”
She was entirely too appealing when she smiled at him like this, her green eyes twinkling. Solas should deflect, change the conversation and hide behind safer topics. Instead he found himself speaking even more earnestly. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it. In all the time I’ve known you, you have shown remarkable bravery, and integrity, and compassion. You are clever and open-minded, decisive and deliberate. Your wisdom is a subtle but constant light, always guiding our path.” The truth rose to his lips. “I thought I was too old and pessimistic to ever believe in a leader again. But I believe in you.”
“...Oh.” Lavellan looked stunned and breathless, a faint blush on her cheeks. Abruptly she ducked her head and smoothed an errant curl behind her ear, a charmingly bashful gesture at odds with her usual confidence. “Thank you, Solas. That… that means a lot.”
Emotions stirred up in his chest, warm and much too reckless. He forced himself to lower his gaze. “Meeting you has been my privilege, unearned though it is. Please remember that I am always here if you need me, lethallin.”
“I will,” she promised. He didn't let himself look up at her expression.
The quiet that fell upon them then was comfortable, intimate. Even as he resumed his work his awareness kept zeroing in on her presence next to him, on the imperceptible heat of her body existing in the same room as his. It had been so long since he last felt true companionship that the reality of this situation, of her, was almost overwhelming. He wanted to bask in that feeling for an eternity. He wanted to shut it away and return to the safety of his solitude. His soul, as it ever did, vacillated between the two extremes.
Before he even realized it their task was finished, the last remnants of the statue finally devoured by his fire. The gold now glimmered in its new form, sitting tidily inside the molds. How long had this taken them? Solas felt unmoored from time, here in this small sunless room.
“Now we just need to wait for the metal to cool.” Lavellan turned to him. “You can leave if you want, Solas. I can handle the rest on my own.”
His whole being rejected the offer out of hand. Such a small decision, at least, he could still make. “I’ll stay with you.”
She smiled at him, every part of her beautiful.
—
The sack made a satisfying thump as she tossed it on the war table, the golden sheen of its contents winking at them through the opening.
“Here. Golden ingots, as promised.”
All three advisors stared at it with a combination of morbid curiosity and awed cautiousness. The Commander even used his sheathed sword to open the sack fully, with a hesitance more suited to unveiling torn-off heads or malevolent artifacts than innocent, inert metal.
“I hope this doesn’t end up cursing us,” he muttered darkly.
Lyanna bit back a smile. “Like I said, I take full responsibility for this. I’ll bear any curse that comes our way.”
To her surprise, she realized she meant it.
“It’s more than I thought it would be,” Josephine said, the first stirrings of excitement gaining strength in her voice. “It’s more than enough to solve our previous problem, and the remaining money will give us some real bargaining power!”
“Indeed.” The Nightingale turned her sharp gaze to Lyanna. “We have some new decisions to make. Perhaps you’d like to make a suggestion?”
Lyanna blinked. “You want my opinion?”
“Is it that surprising? This isn’t the first time you’ve solved a dilemma we all struggled with. Clearly you have a talent for covering our blind spots. The more important question is,” she continued, her eyes intense, “do you want to share your opinion with us?”
Lyanna sucked in a breath, a thrill of excitement and alarm going through her. This moment felt significant, the weight of an important choice heavy in the air. Should she go along with this? Solas’s words echoed in her mind, the potential he thought she was capable of humming under her skin.
She couldn’t trust these humans yet, not fully, but…
But she wanted to try.
“Alright,” she said. She looked down at the familiar map and its countless tokens, patterns already forming in her mind. “I think I have a few ideas.”
She took a step forward, crossed her arms, and planned.