Chapter Text
The campfires twinkled over Haven, rivaling the stars overhead. The stars that she could actually see, finally, now that there wasn't a massive rift messing everything up and shitting out demons. It was incredibly satisfying, being able to look at the sky without feeling like she was staring up the Fade's putrid green asshole. Kestra took a swig from her tankard and brought her gaze back to earth, where the party was in full swing. Her party. She still wasn't sure how she felt about that.
She was saved from further sappy introspection by a familiar voice drawling, "Herald," from beside her. Seggrit leered at her, his own tankard clutched in both hands. Kestra snorted, half amused, half exasperated.
"Sod off, Seggrit," she said without malice, "I'm enjoying the celebration."
He tipped her an exaggerated toast. "You sure you don't want to go celebrate some more in my quarters?"
"While you're drunker than a nug in a brewery vat? I do have some taste. If you're that desperate, go fondle a pile of gold or something and jerk off. I'm staying here and watching the party." She took another drink and glared pointedly.
"Ah well, worth a try," he shrugged, and staggered off. Kestra chuckled, sipping her beer. It was good – they'd really let loose tonight. She wasn't surprised that the merchant had overindulged a little. She'd be tempted to do the same, but a lifetime of looking over her shoulder for trouble was hard to shake off. Get drunk and pass out in the corner in the Carta, and you may as well paste a sign on your forehead saying Rob me. You'd be lucky if you didn't end up stabbed to boot.
But she wasn't in the Carta anymore, was she. That was a stupid thought, of course — you didn't just leave the Carta, she'd even gone after some of those who'd tried — but... Now that the Breach was closed, could she really go back to that life? Running lyrium shipments through the wilderness, sticking arrows in anyone who looked funny at their "supply wagons"; extorting protection money at knifepoint from people who couldn't really afford it; hunting down the poor sods who thought they could outrun the Carta's reach... Sure, she'd been good at it, and reaped the benefits of that prowess, but it was all so petty. So... small. The Inquisition was bigger than that. Better. She hadn't thought that there were actually genuinely good people in the world before she'd met some here — Leliana, Josephine, Sera. Blackwall. Kestra was under no delusions that she could put herself on that list, but... People were toasting her name down there tonight. The thought put a strange warmth in her chest. She wanted to blame it all on the alcohol, but deep down, she knew that wasn't true. It felt... It felt nice.
Damn it. She really was hopeless tonight.
A cheer went up from somewhere in the crowd. Kestra craned her neck to see the cause, grateful for the distraction. A group of tipsy mages moved out of the way, revealing a trestle table littered with empty tankards. Warden Blackwall and the Iron Bull sat across from one another, chugging merrily, while the Chargers' second in command — Krem, that was it — stood by with arms folded. As she watched, the pair slammed their cups down in tandem, accompanied by the whooping of the crowd. Kestra grinned as Blackwall threw his head back and laughed, clapping the Qunari on the shoulder. The press of people shifted again, blocking the pair from view as Krem refilled their tankards. Kestra took a long pull from her own drink, draining it. This time, it was definitely the alcohol that was responsible for that weird warm feeling. She was sure of it. She hopped down from her perch to get another beer.
A little while later, she pushed through the crowd with a full mug in one hand and a plate of food in the other. She hadn't quite gotten back to her ledge in front of the chantry when someone spotted her and raised a shout. The cry of "Herald!" from many lips made her roll her eyes. It was all bullshit, obviously, but after the Breach, people were more determined than ever to make her out as some sort of savior. And she couldn't deny the heady rush of pride when she raised her tankard and drew forth a roar of approval. Someone slapped her on the back, nearly spilling her drink. Finally, Kestra made it back to her seat overlooking the town and plopped down to eat. Smirking, she shook her head, chewing a mouthful of roasted boar. They may all be idiots, but they threw a damn good party.
A giggle and a crunch of snow behind her announced the arrival of possible trouble. Kestra turned, raising an eyebrow as something was dropped on her plate. She recognized the small boy beside her. He was about as tall as her shoulder, even sitting down, with tousled mop of dark hair, and a grin that seemed too big for his thin face. Matthew, maybe, or Martin. Some stupid human name with an M, anyway. He was hopping from foot to foot and staring expectantly. Kestra eyed her plate, inspecting his offering. He'd given her a hunk of badly-cooked meat, clearly not taken from the succulent roasts they were serving below. The pink slab was charred on one side and raw on the other, speckled with a bizarre assortment of spices, but she would recognize roasted nug in any form.
It looked awful. She took a bite anyway.
"This is gross, kid," she said, and grinned at him. "Thanks."
M-something clapped his hands and giggled. Kestra tipped him a wink. To her shock, the little squirt responded by throwing spindly arms around her waist. She froze for a moment, then patted him awkwardly on the head. When he let go, she flipped him off, still smiling fondly.
"That's for making me get all sentimental. Now go grab some real food, kid."
The lad scampered off towards the cooking fires, and Kestra turned back to the scene of revelry before her. Tonight was definitely a good night. Perhaps the best she'd ever had. She sighed contentedly. She thought she'd remember this for the rest of her life.
The celebration only seemed to be growing as time went on. It did seem a little weird that anyone would go light a fire outside the walls when all the good stuff was here inside, but—
The shrill blast of a horn cut through the noise of the crowd. Kestra raised her eyes to the mountainside, icy dread creeping down her spine and snuffing out the comfortable warmth. The spots of light extended all the way to the pass. Those were no campfires.
Shit.
They were under attack.