Archive of Our Own ^beta

This was Lace Harding's life in ten steps. Repeated ad nauseam. It could have been worse. Her mother tried to proselytise the merits of the hand loom, reminding her of her given name, and how she should at least try to live up to it. Thankfully, her father recognised her penchant for the outdoors; enlisting her to work at a nearby farmstead. As tiring as it was, at least she wouldn't suffocate under piles of hideous plaidweave.

Lace often thought about her name, and how horribly mismatched it is. Lace, the material, is delicate; a symbol of elegance and finery. Lace the person, however, is nothing of the sort; bold, tenacious, adventurous. Not that there was much adventure to be had checking sheep for mites. Every time she wheeled that barrow of droppings, a longing to see the 'real Ferelden' thrived within.

Lace was ten years old when she finally left the Hinterlands. Her Pa had business negotiating wool prices in Denerim, and thought it apt to drag his 'favourite' daughter along. With her bag packed, a lingering thought cropped up in her mind, just how many children has he sired during his travels? “Wonderful,” he exclaimed, as he gave Lace a hearty pat on the back. “Soon you'll be cutting your own deals.” Of course Ma fussed over her; the teary-eyed matriarch encasing her in several layers of lambswool; a barrier to ward off the harsh realities that lay beyond the threshold. At the sight, Pa laughed brightly, overjoyed to have a walking advertisement for his trade.

At last, this was her chance to see and experience the height of Ferelden culture; Andraste's birthplace and the seat of Queen Anora's power. 'The real Ferelden.' It wasn't quite as grandiose as she had allowed her imagination to conjure. Parts of the city still remained in disrepair following the final assault of the darkspawn horde. It was, nevertheless, a far cry from the familiar country-lanes and timber cottages.

At first, it was exhilarating. The sights, the sounds, the smells! The city pulsated with life. Throngs of market-goers buzzed around, zig zagging along the crud-stained cobbled streets. Enchanted, her eager legs led her to a cheese stall; olfaction overwhelmed by the options on display. Blissfully caught up in her dairy daydream, she scarcely noticed that Pa had disappeared from sight. Upon realisation, dread pooled in her stomach, and the flame of her fascination faltered to embers.

Throwing herself back in the fray, desperate eyes searched in vain for his stout form. Before she could call out, the torrent of people swelled. The great mass of bodies surged forwards, closed in, enveloped her whole. Air snatched from her lungs, the small dwarf found herself drowning in a sea of shoppers. Wave after wave of bodies crashed into her; unrelenting, merciless. Nausea fermented within, but she persevered. She would swim to safety and return to what she knew. Spotting the narrowest of openings, she clawed her way out to her figurative shore, but she wasn't safe yet. Everything here was strange. Unfamiliar. Lace Harding stood shipwrecked in unchartered territory.

Heavy clouds blotted out the sun, and the slender, labyrinthine streets stretched out menacingly before her. She wandered with pace, maybe for three or so hours, she'd lost count. Nothing made sense; dwellings and hovels thrown up haphazardly with muddy tracks that led seemingly to nowhere. The most markable memory was the smell; the fetid stench of the city's cesspools that clung to the humidity. She'd smelt animal dung before, but this was different - monstrously oppressive. Little did she know she was in the city's Poor Quarter; Ferelden's shame manifest for all to see. From serpentine alleys, hollowed-out eyes stared back. Barren. Sombre. Resigned to their circumstance. The poverty here was tangible, and she tasted their famishment as if it was her own. Staggering into a walled-off section, it only worsened. Naivety tuned to cynicism that day. The day she learnt of the alienage.

That experience left its mark, and Lace discovered that life in the city wasn't for her. She returned to the humdrum of her familiar country-life routine, but remained unhappy. Perhaps she wasn't meant to be Ferelden. She sometimes felt that her spirit, her essence belonged elsewhere. With a hollow heart, there remained ceaseless hunger for something more.

The passage of time, and some chance encounters saw to that.

Lace was sixteen years old when she met a local eccentric with an unfortunate name - Seema Clampitt. The one-eyed woman with a wild mane often regaled Lace with stories of the Ferelden rebellion. Casting herself in the role of the plucky rogue who aided Queen Rowan in slaying the Orlesian commander. “My arrow pierced his plump arse cheek, and thereafter, we rebels hid in the Korcari Wilds, feeding on lichen and frog spawn.”

Lace was no expert in her country's history, but even she could see Seema looked to be no older than forty. Not the eighty or so years needed to have been at the Battle of Southron Hills. Unless licking lichen really did do wonders for the skin. Regardless of the repute of the yarns she spun, Seema was a dab hand at a bow, and all too willing to take Lace under her wing. Unsurprisingly, this horrified Mrs Harding.

“Stay away from that crazed lady, Lace! She reeks of bog water and...” The elder dwarf scrunched her nose up in revulsion. “Wanderlust.” Spiritedly, she shoved a pile of fabric towards the uneager hands of her rebellious daughter. “If it's excitement you want, how about you join me in embroidering these undergarments?”

There was no chance Lace would spend her days needle in hand, stitching dandelions onto ladies bloomers. Without a second thought, she threw herself wholeheartedly into archery practice. In no time she was nocking, drawing and releasing arrows with ease, celebrating each new callus and blister that adorned her fingers. They were trophies, symbols of potential. A fork in the road, where one path formed an exit from the bland nothingness of her life.

The skin on her feet also hardened. Seema would guide Lace on lengthy hikes, enthusiastically explaining the topography as they went. Together they meandered through chocolate-box hamlets, waded in wild ravines and clambered up craggy cliff faces. Sometimes she'd bring Contessa along; the mabari contentedly lolling her tongue as she bounded ahead with wild abandon. True, Lace had wandered these parts before, namely to retrieve a certain gallivanting goat. With Seema however, the youthful zeal befitting her age blossomed, eclipsing her once jaded eye.

One memory still burns in her mind to this day - two tents pitched under a canopy of stars. Forannan Ravine drifted into a state of blissful slumber, as she and Seema enjoyed the balmy air of twilight in summertide. Lace noticed that evening that Seema had been more subdued than usual. Normally, the woman would talk her ear off with some crazed anecdote. The last involving some swamp hag named Flemmeth, and a talking salamander who recited the Odes to Bees in an Antivan accent. Was she snorting blood lotus? Lace often wondered. That night though, the mellow hooting of the owls joined them, but Seema barely uttered a word; neck forlornly hung over a bowl of black pudding stew.

“You ever try food that's not Ferelden?” Lace asked, wracking her brain for a conversation starter.

Seema scoffed, not in a derisive way, more half-amused. “I've travelled. Went to Oralais a few times.”

“And the food was..?”

Seema's face twisted into a grimace. “Disgusting, it had-”

“Flavour?” Lace interjected with a breathy laugh. Seema had never been one to season her food; complaining that her tongue burnt at the taste of turnip. Alcohol was an entirely separate matter; the closer to dragonfire, the better.

“Ferelden is for me though, always will be.” Seema affirmed, in a mantra-like fashion. There was an indescribable expression on her face, her voice hitched, as if choking on a suppressed emotion. Lace suspected the woman was well travelled, though her tall tales were often nationalistic in tone, and forever Ferelden focused. It made Lace question a few things.

“I often think that I don't belong here.” Lace was taken aback by her own admission, but if Seema judged her, she never let it be known. “But it's all I know, and maybe I should stay... Maybe it's not worth seeing what lies beyond.” As soon as it left her mouth, a creeping shame coiled itself around her heart. After all, not everyone has the privilege to just up and leave.

Seema perked up, a soft smile spilled on her lips as she pawed at her eyepatch. “No.”

Lace angled her head, baffled, but Seema continued.

“You're a bold one, Lace Harding. Ferelden can't contain you.” With an air of mirth, Seema sprung to her feet, and motioned for Lace to join her. Confused, Lace looked on as Seema unsheathed a dagger from her hip. “We should immortalise this moment, my young apprentice.” With that, she proceeded to carve out three figures into a tree trunk. There were two humanoid ones, resembling the pair (somewhat), alongside them, on all fours, was something else, it looked to be-

“Is that... a bear? Some kind of a bogfisher?” Lace questioned, squinting eyes tried to discern the crudely carved image.

“It's your mabari, you cheeky dust bugger.”

After that night, Seema disappeared from Lace's life, never to be seen again. Lace asked around, but the woman was a mystery to most people. On occasion, Lace questioned whether she was some spirit of adventure, born in flesh; drawn to Lace's deep-seated yearning. It was only a year later, and another chance encounter, did she realise - Seema was very human, warts and all.

Lace was seventeen years old, when she embarked on one of her many solo hikes. Weary legs forced the young dwarf to slow her pace. She wasn't quite used to trekking this route yet, particularly the steep inclines that set her calves aflame. When she thought she'd made progress, the weather betrayed her. The sun mourned behind the darkening clouds, and the sky wept unreservedly. Having spotted an abandoned farmstead, she made a beeline for it, her cumbersome rucksack relinquished, propped against the mangled picket fence. Surely no one will mind if I squat here for a bit, she pondered.

The cottage's salad days had long passed. Reeds clung to the thatch roof for dear life, a few lay scattered; slain victims to the forever war with the Ferelden elements. Gaps in the roof allowed for rainwater to trickle into the interior. It didn't deter her though, shelter was shelter, as meagre as it was. Upon entrance, a pervasive musty smell greeted her. Lace mouthed a silent prayer, hoping the rotten floorboards wouldn't give way. Carefully, she padded over to the crumbling stone fireplace, having noticed a framed painting propped up against the side. Freckled hands flipped the canvas over and discovered a simple family portrait. The father, hair and beard a bush of wildfire loomed over his daughter, no older than eight. The hue of her braided pigtails matched his. Stood next to them was-

That posture, it's familiar.

It was a woman, if Lace had to guess, but the face had been obscured by a shroud of black ink.

From behind, she heard the creaking of floorboards. Tense with fear, she somehow managed to pivot on the spot, blanching when she came face-to-face with a an elderly dwarven man. Walking stick held aloft, he looked close to clobbering his quarry.

“Sorry! Please! I err...” Lace backed away slowly, an escape route already formulated in her mind.

“Have a habit of breaking and entering do you? Now missy, I still keep an eye on this spot, and-” His eyes lingered on the portrait, and his mood shifted. Anger subsided, and gave way to sorrow.

“The woman in the portrait, do you know her?”

“There's a reason this place was left to rack and ruin, locals said it's cursed.” The elder dwarf hobbled over, his fingers brushed along the bronze frame contemplatively. “Those two, father and daughter, they died. The blight took 'em, during the Fifth.”

Lace swallowed hard. Could this be? She needed to know. “And the woman..?”

A grunt escaped him as he flipped the painting, shielding the family from view once more, as if to preserve their dignity. “Away. Traipsing across Thedas like the common strumpet she was. Poor excuse for a mother if you ask me.”

Light-headed, Lace leant her weight against the dank wall. It groaned under her, but did not buckle. “Did she... Did she have one eye?”

“How do... So you know her then? Probably know how she lost it then.”

“I don't actually, could you tell me?” A peculiar guilt crept within her. For all she knew, Seema was probably dead, but it still felt like she was snooping, prying into the private life of her former mentor and friend.

“Some say she lost it during one of her wild exploits, but others... Others say she was so overcome with grief she went mad and...” He pursed his lips. “Plucked it out.”

Lace doesn't recall much of the encounter after that. Just the tears that clouded her vision. Her feet pounding against the gravel path as the storm whipped around her. Distance. Distance is all she wanted from that cursed place.

Lace was nineteen years old when she finally found the distance she sought. The Inquisition rolled into the Hinterlands, and just as Ma continued to weave her garments, the powers that be wove Lace's story into the annals of history.

Even when the Inquisition disbanded, fate wasn't done with Lace Harding. The hunt for the Dreadwolf catapulted the seamstress' daughter to all four corners of Thedas. From the parched plateaus of the Anderfels, to the torrid, tropical terrain of Rivain's jungles, the scout saw more in the space of ten years than any single person could dream of seeing several lifetimes over. With the eluvians, the once boundless world shrunk, and so did her appetite for adventure. The further she strayed from Ferelden, the more she found herself drawn to it.

Lace was thirty-one years old when she made good on her promise to Rook. They'd defied the odds, and now it was time to stop. Breathe. If only for a short while. 'Ferelden. Cottage. Quiet' – a concept once loathsome now somehow seemed right.

Lace often took her friends camping; retracing the routes she took with Seema all those years ago. Whether spelunking in the caves near Hafter's Woods, or dragonling spotting in Lady Shayna's Valley, she felt something she hadn't before, pride.

Her latest hike was one she had been putting off for months, but here she was, side-by-side with Rook, facing the very tree-trunk that memorialised her last escapade with Seema.

“Cute," Rook commented. The warrior's index finger traced the outline of one of the stick figures. “It really captures your shapely-”

“Rook, stop fingering me!” Lace barked. Flustered when her verbal blunder became apparent.

“Never,” Rook spluttered between peaks of raucous laughter. The heavyset warrior trundled towards their bedrolls, but she didn't get far; the toe of her boot caught on something concealed within the undergrowth. Groaning like a felled tree, she plummeted face-first into a bed of blood lotus.

Forever graceful, you two-metre-tall boob.

“Are you okay? I-”

Something caught Lace's eye.

Rook's calamity had unearthed a small, metallic flask, which Lace instantly recognised as Seema's. Unscrewing the the lid, Lace braced herself. An expectant nose awaited the stench of Mackay's Epic Single Malt, but it didn't come. Hazel eyes peered into the vessel to find a roll of parchment, neatly bound with-

Eww, is that a lock of her hair?

Callused fingers reluctantly untied the binding. It was a short letter, in a sort of chicken-scratch that made Rook's handwriting look legible.

Dearest Lace,

I'm not sure when you will find this, if at all, but I hope your life is one full of colour and adventure.

I meant what I said, that Ferelden cannot contain you, but what I didn't say is – You CAN contain it.

It's not about the lines drawn on the map. It's about the ones we draw around ourselves. Around our hearts and minds.

Your eternally wise mentor,

Seema Ducie Clampitt.

Lace clung onto the edges of the parchment as if her life depended on it. The ink of the salutation smudged when a single salty tear slid from a glassy eye. The message was frustrating cryptic, and very Seema.

Before pocketing the note, she noticed one final line, penned clumsily at the bottom.

P.S. Stay away from Blood Lotus.

Crud, she thought, when she turned to Rook. Lace's lover rocked back and forth; a jittering ball of saliva and pupils.

That evening was certainly eventful. Lace begged Rook to put her clothes back on, lest she catch frost-cough. All-the-while, the wide-eyed warden hissed, stalking the Hinterlands hunched-over, utterly convinced she had been born a deepstalker. But why Rook was wearing a pair of frilly knickers on her head... It was beyond even the Maker's comprehension.

The next morning, Lace sat on the porch of their cottage retreat. Her hands hugged a steaming mug of apple tea, snubbing the icy chill that signalled autumn's departure. Soon the height of winter would be upon them. Maybe they would travel to warmer climes, where she could trade her tea for a refreshing glass of ice-cold pickle juice. Images of sun-drenched Rivaini beaches flickered in her mind's eye, but she soon found herself shunning them. Odd, she thought, as the pull of a log-burner, a cosy blanket and cup of hot cocoa won out.

While she contemplated the changing seasons, Seema's letter lay sat on her lap. She'd read the words countless times over, mind still searching for what lay hidden between the lines of poor penmanship.

A cantankerous groan emanated from the open doorway. Rook's lumbering form lurched forwards, hands glued to her temple as she nursed an almighty headache. “Don't mind me, just came out for some air.” Rook croaked, body slumped against the balustrade. “Say, Lace, whose knickers...” With a cocked eyebrow, Rook noticed Lace was off in a world of her own, and for once, it wasn't cheese inspired. She gestured to the note. “What did you find?”

Tearing her eyes from her lap, Lace considered the woman before her. She took in the slight upturn of her lips, and the way her grey eyes reflected the warm, golden hue of the autumnal light, as it flickered between the trees. Around them was a wondrous marquee of vivid reds, oranges and yellows. There was so much colour, and Lace could scarcely believe that she hadn't noticed it before. Just as she opened her eyes, she opened her ears. Sparrows and nightingales flitted between the vegetation, bathing the surrounding wood in birdsong. In the distance she could hear the faint trickle of water, as it flowed from the hilltops, collecting in small channels formed within the earth. Serenity stretched across the landscape, and Lace found her answer, when she opened her heart up to it.

“I've found my Ferelden.”