Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jayen Harajatish wakes up in a dank jail cell with a glowing mark on his arm. 

His life is about to change, but it certainly doesn't feel like it was going to be for the better, with the huge human woman threatening him with a painful death, with the bite of freezing steel making his skinny wrists numb, with the giant hole in the sky that sizzles and tears and strikes him when he steps outside into a changed world. 

Words are caught in his throat when the human women try to interrogate him, he doesn't know what happened, he's just a servant, he couldn't even meet anyone's eyes. He obeys, swiftly and silently, when Lady Cassandra Pentaghast hauls him up from the agony in his hand, dragging him from the debris when the bridge collapses. He hides when she slashes through the demons that appear in thin air. 

When all that's left of them is ichor, Lady Cassandra sheaths her sword and eyes a discarded blade lying in the rubble. Jayen shivers from fear and cold. 

"Do you know how to use it?" She asks, retrieving the weapon and checking its integrity. 

Jayen gives a tight shake of his head. 

Lady Cassandra presses the hilt of the blade into his hands. "Take it anyways. You must defend yourself if I am unable to." And it takes all his effort not to drop it as his fingers grow weak. 

Their trek up that mountain was a blur. Jayen's heart feels like it might beat out of his chest, his rapid breath frigid and painful on his upper lip. He bites his tongue not to scream as he hides from bolts of magic thrown by green spectres, from the frightening clashes of steel and bone, from the defiant yells of warriors that instead remind him of other things. Lady Cassandra protects him and he fears her, but he does not disobey. He wants to hunch into his knees and close his eyes, but the Seeker's gaze of expectation drives him to follow. 

Now's not the time to think. 

When they reach the first rift, he allows the tall elf to grab his hand even though Jayen wants to jump and pull away. He allows himself to be cajoled by the dwarf, the tip of an arrow gleaming on the weapon on his back. Lady Cassandra urges them to continue, and he does. 

Adrenaline is the only thing keeping him going, at this point, and it's not running out anytime soon. 

A man with chantry robes accuses him of being a murderer. Lady Cassandra and the hooded lady want him to make a decision. The words barely register, but he looks to Lady Cassandra, trusting the choice she wants to make as he's been trusting her defence this whole time. 

They charge through with the soldiers. The sound is overwhelming, and every step Jayen takes to close the distance between them and the temple has him wanting to throw up. He knows this path -- he’s worked in this freezing mountaintop for the past several months, cleaning hidden crevices and scurrying around in closed passages, preparing for this grand event. 

It’s all up in smoke, now. Death and blood and destruction, the building stands crumbling and open to the elements despite housing Thedas’ most Divine just several hours prior. Jayen can see the remains of the room the conclave was meant to be held, pristine banners they’d hung up for the occasion now burned and tattered. 

He can see the remains of the people. The elves are smaller, ears still visibly pointed despite being charred to the bone. 

A giant blond man seizes him when he stumbles, yelling and pulling him out of the line of fire. Jayen can’t hear, shaking even as the green light on his hand grows ever-brighter. It stings. 

He gets passed off to Lady Cassandra again, who raises a hand to his face. Jayen flinches before he realises her goal was to put out the embers that singe the tips of his locks, and even then he nearly buckles under the force of her swipes. Her eyes are hard. They press on. 

There’s so many people. The elf man, the dwarf, but mostly humans about -- armed and bloodied and breathless. They make their way down into the main hall, down into the depths where the air is brittler, tasting of metal. Red gems with an energy that twists the atmosphere populate their route. Voices boom through the temple; an enemy, the divine, his own. 

They fight. This one is even more a blur than anything -- Jayen raises his hand, and then light, and then fire. 

He’s never struck anything in his life. He’s never fought back, he’s never stood against anything more terrifying than a boar. He’s never encountered magic, the terror, the wonder, the fear. He’s never thought he’d ever be a part of this kind of life. 

But somehow, somehow, he lives through it. 

Jayen blinks dazedly as he wakes up in soft furs, aching and sore but suddenly on high alert as he realizes the presence of another elf in the room. 

He recognizes the straw-like brown hair. 

"...Dhaval? Raavi Dhaval?" He calls out softly, and the other elf nearly drops her tray. She stares at him with watery brown eyes. 

"...Harajatish," she breathes, approaching his bedside with haste. She sets the tray aside and helps him sit up, slim fingers cool to the touch as Jayen grabs her hands and doesn't let go. 

He remembers this younger elf because he worked with her family. Then they were sent to Haven together, to serve during the conclave.

"Your-- your father," he tries to begin, croaking the words out but she squeezes his hands. 

"We don't need to talk about that." Raavi's words waver, but her grip was firm. "Jayen, you saved us." 

Confusion tinges his gaze at first. Then the events of all that has happened catches up to him and he snaps his neck to look down at his left hand. 

Raavi follows his gaze. "The breach has stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand." There's a reverence in her voice that makes Jayen uneasy, and he turns to face her only to see an equally unfamiliar expression. "It's all anyone has talked about for the past three days." 

"I'm just Jayen. I'm just a servant," he insists. Raavi gives his hands a final squeeze before letting go. 

"They're calling you the Herald of Andraste." 

Raavi needs to rush off soon after, worried about being caught dallying when she ought to report to the Seeker. Jayen realises he should accompany her, present himself to whomever is calling for him, before anyone was punished on his behalf. She nods at his reasoning, "I'll bring you to Lady Cassandra; she's in the chantry, with the lord chancellor."

Together, they slip from the cabin, weaving behind buildings to remain unseen, unheard. The clothing they've put him in... he realised is new. New and clean with wool on the inside, to keep heat. It contrasts against the threadbare cloth Raavi wears, scurrying non-stop to keep from shivering. 

The crowds of people don't see them as they avoid the chantry's front door, instead entering through a side entrance. Why would they, when elven servants were trained all their lives to keep attention off them? Unwanted attention begets trouble. 

He overhears conversations about the Breach, about demons, about the mark upon the Herald's hand. Jayen worries this mark is going to give him more attention than he could deal with. 

When Raavi knocks on the Seekers door, he kneels with her when it opens. 

"My lady, the Herald of Andraste has awoken." Jayen feels the same twinge of unease when he hears Raavi refer to him as that astronomical title, but… a human wouldn't know his name, he supposes. 

"...and who is this?" Lady Cassandra says with her Nevarran drawl. Jayen cringes as eyes shift to him, including Raavi's, which widen when she realizes he had knelt behind her. 

"The-- the Herald, my lady." 

" Arrest him ," hisses the human man with Chantry robes. 

Jayen spares a moment to be bitterly amazed that no one recognized him, then prepares himself to be manhandled. There were specific muscles you wanted to avoid being tensed so that they wouldn't get injured -- 

"Disregard that order, and leave us." 

Jayen blinks up at Lady Cassandra, who moves to stand in front of him. The two armoured templars -- armed, large, threatening -- salute, and… just leave. 

“Herald -- Jayen, Jayen Harajatish?” her tongue stumbles over the elvhen name. “Please, join us.” 

“You invite a prisoner -- a murderer -- rather than taking him into custody?” the Chancellor spits. 

“I consider the Breach to be a much more pressing threat,” Lady Cassandra shouts back, and Jayen has to blink at their argument. Two humans, both taller than him, both stockier. He presses himself against the wall as the door to the room closes shut. 

He doesn’t try to insert himself into the conversation between the Seeker and the Chancellor, both barely withholding their anger. He tenses when he sees Lady Cassandra’s hand wander to the sword on her hip, before thankfully moving away, though it slams on the table instead. 

Then there’s a presence beside him, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. 

“Do you know who I am?” the hooded lady from the bridge watches him with piercing blue eyes. the argument between the other party in the room continues. 

Jayen has to break his gaze, shaking his head tersely. 

“I am Sister Nightingale,” she says, and the words send a chill up his spine. “You will help us.” 

He thinks he’s heard Lady Cassandra call this woman another name -- Leliah, Lisandra or something -- but Sister Nightingale, that name he recognises instantly. While Lady Cassandra wore her face openly as the Right Hand of the Divine, Sister Nightingale as the Left Hand was quieter. 

Again, this series of events continued to unfold beyond Jayen’s wildest imaginations. 

Jayen gazes again at the mark on his left hand. It’s silent now that that the Breach was stable, a damning scar rather than a pulsating, agonizing source of magic. There’s talk of reforming the Inquisition, of doing more to close the Breach permanently. Jayen only hears more conflict, even as the Chancellor leaves the room in disgust. 

He can feel the weight of the gazes of the two women left in the room. Jayen takes a hesitant step closer to the table, trying to be light footed, but the step echoes in the silence. The eye on the cover of the Inquisition’s tome also seemed to be looking straight at him. 

He swallows. “I’ll help. I don’t know what I can contribute, but I’ll help.” 

Sister Nightingale steps up next to him. “That is all we ask.” 

Preparations begin immediately.

He’s introduced to Cullen Rutherford, the commander, and Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador. He learned Sister Nightingale’s name is Leliana, and of her role as spymaster. 

“Andaran atish’an,” the ambassador greets him after being introduced. 

“...I am not Dalish,” Jayen responds regretfully, gripping the bottom hem of his tunic.

She blinks. “Oh, I apologise.”

He does his best to commit these human names to memory, though he just knows they're all going to slip from his mind as soon as he leaves the room. 

The flurry of activity doesn’t help. There’s organizing to do, letters to be sent, talk about the Inquisition and what it means, a list of tasks they need to fulfill. Jayen is unsure of his place in all of this -- he… truly has no role here, apart from being someone to close the Breach. Someone eventually remembers to involve him, with a question that unintentionally fills him with shame. 

“Can you read?” Lady Cassandra asks bluntly, and it’s ironically the bluntness that cuts the most. 

“Yes, milady.” Out of the corner of his eye he spots the ambassador wanting to cut in, but she restrains herself. Jayen continues, “I used to be in service of the Comte Sedille Blanchette de Verchiel as a high servant.”

The commander coughs, making eye contact with the other women in the room. “..Herald,” he starts haltingly. “...You don’t need to bow to us.” 

Jayen… has heard of nobles who like to play this game. He decides to proceed with caution. “I am in service of the Inquisition.” 

The tips of his ears pick up a quiet sigh, though he’s unsure whom it was from. 

Discussion continues, and Jayen tries his best to keep up. Talks of the Chantry disavowing him and the Inquisition. Talks of approaching the mages, or the templars. Though his ears perk up when Leliana mentions sending letters to the former group, Jayen again has no worthwhile contribution to this conversation. 

It’s Sister Nightingale who finally gives him something to latch onto. 

“There is a Chantry Cleric by the name of Mother Giselle who has asked to speak to you,” she says, again piercing him with a hawk-like stare. 

“I am to… find her?” Jayen asks, to which she nods.

“You will find Mother Giselle tending to the wounded in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe."

“... that is in Ferelden,” he says, then berates himself for stating the obvious. There’s an awkward pause that has Jayen chiding himself more, before stating, “I… cannot ride a horse.” 

The four humans exchange a glance. 

“He cannot defend himself either,” Lady Cassandra states -- though she means it as fact, Jayen can’t help but feel the words as demeaning. “I will accompany the Herald, along with a small party.” 

“My sources say there are small rifts opening up around Fereldan and Orlais, with a significant number in the Hinterlands. Will your team be able to keep the Herald safe enough for him to close them?” Sister Nightingale asks with the severity of someone with her stature. It seems to do nothing against the Seeker’s facade. 

“We will have to make plans around it.”

“Fine. You will leave in several days, after we finish preparations here.” Sister Nightingale’s face twitches as she turns to face Jayen, and he knows she’s withholding an expression she doesn’t want him to see. “We will need to teach you how to ride, but for now there’s no time. We’ll come up with another solution.” 

“There is a lot we’ll have to teach you, to fulfill your role, Herald,” the ambassador speaks up. 

Jayen takes a deep breath, and nods. 

He slips away as soon as they release him, as the sun starts to set.. Jayen doesn’t want to cause trouble, but all that scrutiny was something he was deeply unused to. As soon as he steps out of the Chantry and into the shadows of the alleys between the buildings, the tension that’s been present since he woke up dissipates ever so slightly. 

The layout of this small village has changed ever so slightly. Newcomers, with faces he doesn’t recognise, are the biggest change -- a grim reminder that Jayen was the only survivor of the conclave explosion. The thought causes his stomach to flip. Buildings and tents were erected in any available space to accommodate this increase in population. Inquisition soldiers, with uniforms different from ones the templars and chevaliers wore. Jayen truly wonders how long the Left and Right hand of the Divine has been planning this Inquisition, if it was really their plan all along. 

They’re not his people. He serves these humans, he has all his life. He can’t say he’s happy with this turn of events, but if it helps the world, if it helps his own people -- who was he to say no? 

And now, Jayen Harajatish really needed to find his people. 

When a settlement gets as large as this, filled to the brim with loud soldiers and people running to and fro, many gaps start to appear in between places of interest where those that get ignored can just slip into. Jayen finds a dilapidated hut in between a larger one and the stony mountainside, not in view of the main path but clearly in use. 

He taps on the door lightly, and Raavi opens it with wide-eyes. 

“Harajatish.”

“Dhaval.” 

She pulls him inside. It’s only slightly warmer than the icy chill, a draft blowing in from a broken window that had been attempted to be patched with a tarp. It’s dark without the natural light of the sun, a small oil lamp with its meagre fuel lighting this building. There was only one room, cramped even for human standards, but inside Jayen meets the eyes of about a dozen other elves who look at him with the same reverence Raavi wears.

“Harajatish,” another elf greets, with cloudy grey eyes and dirty blond hair. He reaches out and clasps the sides of his face. Jayen returns the gesture, and they touch foreheads. 

“Nehnis,” he says the other’s name. Yahin Nehnis wasn’t from his alienage, but they met while he was being transported to Haven. Yahin was taken to Halamshiral instead, avoiding a terrible fate. The other elf seemed to be aware of this, with the unsettled look he wore even though the relief of meeting Jayen again shone over it.

Jayen greets others he recognised, though not all of them were familiar. 

“Harajatish.”

“Roshan.”

“Harajatish.”

“Sulaini.”

There were many new faces, but they were all similar in one way. City elves, with faces unmarked by tattoos but burdened by the reaches of poverty instead. Old and young, the humans just took whoever was available. Some had scarred nubs for ears instead of pointed tips, coming from Orlesian cities where that was the standard. All skinny and shivering inside this small hut. 

Before, Jayen would just accept it. Suffering was a part of life, especially being born into this one. It was just how elves born in the city were, they couldn’t do anything more. They couldn’t do anything more without being beaten back, hurt but the humans who ruled over them.

Now, a quiet, tiny voice inside Jayen’s head says something else. As he tightens the hand bearing a green mark into a fist, Jayen wonders, could I do something about this?

He gets introduced to the elves he doesn’t recognise. Tarasun, Meral, Illonen, Firavun. Jayen knows the family of some of these elves, though not the elves themselves. They come from Lydes, Halamshiral, Jader. When the humans realised they needed to set up here, they needed servants and labourers in a hurry, so they snatched up elves from any alienage they passed through. 

“How is everybody?” Jayen asks Raavi. She wasn’t the oldest, but she seemed the most healthy, most capable. 

“We’re alright for now. We…” there’s a hesitation that preludes bad news, and Jayen braces himself. “We lost two on the journey here, once it started getting cold. We’re alright for now but.. I think the cold is going to kill more of us, eventually.” 

She gives him another wide-eyed look. Though she doesn’t voice it, Jayen can hear her voice clear as day. The weight of expectation feels different now, ever-present. He’s starting to realise how much things are going to change. 

“I’ll ask, see if I can convince them to do anything about that.”

Raavi squeezes his hands in gratitude. 

There’s one elf that’s out of place.

She’s older than him, grey hair verging on white. There’s a straightness to her shoulders and back that isn’t present in the other elves, a pride that she still hangs onto in the tilt of her chin, the turn of her stance. 

Jayen spies a red handkerchief hanging from her belt loop, and is instantly on edge. 

“Gehenne,” she introduces herself.

“No family name?”

“I only need Gehenne,” she says, again with a confidence that was out of place. 

They’re in the back of the house, where a wall for the kitchen hides them from the front entrance. The closest to privacy they were going to get, with no working interior doors. Jayen is uncomfortable, but won’t feel safe until he has this conversation. 

“You’re a friend of Red Jenny?” he wants to be accusatory, but ends the sentence with a gentle lilt of a question. 

She smiles at him patronizingly. “And you’re the Herald of Andraste. Yes, I am a Jenny. I’ll watch out for these folk here, but I do have a message for you too, Herald.” 

Jayen knows the Jennies. He’s had run-ins with them before. Despite doing his best to avoid them, they somehow knew who to approach and what to say, in order to keep their plans moving. 

But he’ll never trust them. When he was still young, his mother trusted the Jennies to keep them safe, after revealing vital information. They couldn’t, and Jayen was still paying for it now. 

“We’ll watch out for you when you head to Val Royeaux, Herald,” Gehenne says. “We look out for one of our own.” 

“Sure,” Jayen says, looking away. The fact that she didn’t use his family name to refer to him was telling enough.

Chapter Text

The elf, Harajatish, wasn't much to look at. 

On the older end, for an elf - weary lines on the corners of his eyes and mouth, a crooked nose that's definitely been broken once before, and a jaw that's been broken twice and set improperly. Tanned skin that's been beaten by harsh weather, fingers rough and calloused from labour with tiny white slivers of scars where his hands were exposed. Dark hair with streaks of grey shot through, longer strands starting to curl in on themselves, though hair on one side of his head was shorter from being singed by the earlier battle. Soft brown eyes that couldn't bring themselves to meet yours.

Forgettable. A perfect servant. 

Leliana's already pulling information from his background, of course. You could never be too careful with people from Orlais, not even with the most forgettable servant. You could never know who was playing the Game in earnest. 

… But whatever game Harajatish had been involved in, he certainly hasn't been playing it as a flax farm labourer for the past six years. 

Leliana considers this report on the newly christened 'Herald'.. a servant of the Blanchette family, working in the castles for most of his life before abruptly being sent to the outskirts farms in 9:35 Dragon. Then finally being transferred to serve at Haven several months before the conclave, along with many other elven servants. City, alienage elves, all holding similar less important jobs that their labour could be loaned to the Marquis DuRellion, who needed more hands to prepare the location for receiving so many high profile guests.

No family, though he was involved with his community. City elves were not the naive rabbits most nobles thought them to be -- rather they were wary of outsiders, extremely so. Leliana’s people only got through to them by virtue of being elven themselves. 

Leliana truly should know better than most. She’d journeyed with a city elf, fought and bled and suffered together with one during the events of the Fifth Blight. 

But the bard couldn’t help but compare the differences between this timid Herald and her sanguine Hero of Ferelden. 

Perhaps that wasn’t fair. The life of a city elf was hard enough already -- the Warden had stories of life in the alienage that had most of her human friends, who were mostly unaware of these matters, see red. Moreso the fact that the Warden came from a Ferelden alienage. Leliana wasn’t personally aware of the differences between a Ferelden alienage and an Orlesian one, but she has heard the rumours. 

Despite her thoughtful contemplation over this matter, Leliana still keeps an ear out to the hubbub of activity outside her tent. It barely kept out the noise, anyway. 

It’s easy to hear the voice of the Herald, speaking outside, when he has filled her thoughts so thoroughly for the past few moments. 

Might as well see what that was about. 

Leliana peers from under the flap of her tent, not wanting to draw attention to herself until needed. There’s an intent in the way she moves, from years and years of training and experience. It’s become almost second nature, and sometimes she forgets how surprising it might be for her companions to have her turn up so suddenly. 

Regardless, everyone’s attention was currently centred around the Herald. He would wear this scrutiny like a cape in the coming days, yet another thing Leliana and the rest of the advisors would have to concern themselves with. Leliana can see him only slowly becoming aware just how many eyes lay upon him, even in this small Haven camp. 

He’s speaking to the Quartermaster. Threnn doesn't speak with anger, though the rising volume and firmness was her way of expressing a growing frustration. Leliana is surprised to see the Herald continue the back and forth -- his shoulders were tense and his ears were almost flat to his head, but he was still pushing his case rather than fleeing. Something about trying to get more blankets for the elves around the camp. 

There might be something they could work with, after all. 

Leliana approaches. "Herald," she greets, watching they way Jayen's ears flick as he stifles a jump. "May I have a word?" 

He glances over his shoulder at Threnn, but nods tersely, beating a hasty retreat from the Quartermaster. 

When they arrive back in her tent, he waits quietly and doesn't speak first. It was… typical, for a servant, but not for the first time, it makes Leliana think of what ironic game the Maker was playing with them. What on earth was He trying to say, by sending a Herald like this? 

She breaks the ice. " Do you prefer Orlesian or Common?" She asks in her native language. 

His eyes flick to her, but then quickly back downwards. "Orlesian; it is my mother tongue." His Orlesian definitely flowed easier, rather than being caught up on the harsh syllables of Common. Leliana had to train her diction and delivery in order to achieve her deliberate accent -- they might need to give the Herald the same training to avoid how native Orlesian speakers tended to blur words together incomprehensibly. 

Leliana nods. “ Very well ,” she states. 

“ ... I know that things are sudden,” she begins. Leliana’s back faces the Herald as she turns towards her table, sorting through paraphernalia. “ We’re attempting to give you the space the adjust, though our timelines are tight, and things need to be completed.

“I do have a question, though, and I’d appreciate an answer.” She finds the document she was looking for, but keeps it rolled up. Instead, she turns the full weight of her gaze on Jayen.

“What does being the Herald of Andraste mean for you?”

“Sister,” he says, dipping his head. “ I am faithful.. My family was Andrastian. Whatever the Maker wills, I will obey.” His voice grew hoarse near the end of that sentence, and he clears his throat. 

“ What will do you think that would be?”

Jayen’s eyes are glued to the floor. Leliana spies the small clenching and unclenching of his fists that he was trying to hide behind his back. 

“ I do not hope to understand the will of the Maker.” Coy, non-committal. 

“ Try me.”  

“ Sister…” he clears his throat again, licking dry lips. “ I… simply hope to be used to help people. I want to make a difference, like the Hero of Ferelden.”

Then quieter, “ I want to help my people, if I ever get the chance.”

She hums, not responding. Then holds out the scroll she had in her hands. “ This is for while you’re away. Please review it, and tell me your thoughts on the matter upon your return.” 

He accepts it, and bows, understanding the dismissal. 

Though, Jayen seems to hesitate when leaving. The second time his eyes flick backwards at her, Leliana grows peeved enough to speak up. “ Yes? ”

Stopped in his tracks, the Herald gives up trying to be subtle, and turns to face her. His eyes still point downwards. 

“ Sister… I have a.. not so much request, but --” He steels himself, before continuing. “ Sister, you are sending letters to the mage’s congregation, yes?” 

Leliana assents with a hum, which only causes Jayen to grow more agitated. She really has no patience for this, but forces herself to relent. 

“ I… had a younger sister, who was taken to a circle.” The words are halting, raw. As if they’ve never been said before. “ I do not know if she’s still alive; I have not heard from her for thirty years. But…” 

He trails off, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Leliana picks it up. 

“ I’ll ask around.” 

There’s not a waterfall of relief, no dramatic release of breath. But gratitude is apparent when Jayen meets her eyes for the first time since she’s met him. 

“ Thank you.”

Everyone in Thedas knew of the Diary of Iovha Tabris. 

Published two years after the Fifth Blight, it was a collection of raw and mostly-unedited journal entries written by the Hero of Ferelden, released posthumously. Edited mostly to keep Grey Warden secrets concealed, but keeping most of the horrors of the Blight uncensored. The person who made this possible never claimed responsibility, and the only author was listed as Warden Tabris. Royalties seemed to be funneled back into communities of city elves, of which Warden Tabris was once herself. 

It boomed in popularity when it first came out. The Fifth Blight came so suddenly, violent and destructive, and it was over before anyone realised it had happened. Previous Blights had lasted for decades, with uncountable deaths and tragedy. But the last Blight was centuries ago, and with the swiftness of this recent one, the people were dying for answers. 

Stocks flew off the shelves. A first, second, third printing before anyone truly realised the full depths of her accounts. Then the Grey Wardens issued a statement, then the Chantry. Publication was shut down. 

It was by far a rare book -- too many copies were in circulation already, before the authorities could prevent it. But it certainly seemed to have the first stepping stones to becoming a scarce cult classic, a thing of legends, fifty years down the road. 

Cullen’s not all too surprised that the Herald owned a copy of his own. 

Well worn, lacking a cover but wrapped in a threadbare cloth and twine. Pages falling out if you were too rough with it and held it the wrong way. Cullen accepts the small package from a soldier, who gingerly places it on his desk, where it sits out of place. The soldier was of the team that brought the Herald back to Haven after his collapse, and who guarded him while he slept. She’d found the book while helping Adan change him, and brought it to Cullen for safekeeping. The potion master apparently ordered all of the Herald’s old clothes to be burned, given its state, not caring to check between the folds for any personal belongings. 

Cullen thanks the soldier for her attention to detail, before dismissing her. He’s busy, going over rank organization, encampment lists, sign ups. More and more people are coming to seek out the Inquisition, once news begins to spread.

If the Herald wanted his book, it’s easy enough for him to ask a soldier and be brought to Cullen. It’s a fairly logical assumption in his mind. 

...The day passes without much event, on that front. Cullen busies himself with his tasks, which keep piling up like a mountain. He leaves his tent from time to time, walking amongst the people and talking to representatives. He makes sure to alert the guard stationed by his tent to be on the lookout for an inquisitive Herald. 

When he returns in the evening, a guard is holding a shivering elf at sword point. 

Cullen hastens his steps towards his tent. The guard looks up, addressing him. "Commander, this elf was asking around and attempting to get into your belongings." The elf was a tiny slip of a thing, kneeling in the snow with terror in her eyes at the sword at her neck.

In the same breath, the Herald of Andraste makes an appearance, pale faced and panicked. Jayen very nearly wants to jump on front of the other elf, but flinches when the guard's sword catches the light. He instead turns to Cullen with a deep bow.

"Milord-- Commander, please forgive her -- please milord, she was acting at my request --" 

"For what?" Cullen's unamused by the turn of events, nodding at the guard to get him to sheath his sword. The elf throws herself at his feet, muttering similar babble of requesting forgiveness. 

"M-milord, I was just looking for a possession of mine. I didn't mean to cause trouble, so I asked the other servants --"

"Your book?" Cullen realises with surprise. He brushes past the guard and into his tent, grabbing the small parcel and holding it up. "This one?" 

"Yes milor-- Commander." The Herald seems to calm down ever so slightly, the light of panic fading from his eyes. 

"You may leave," Cullen addresses the servant, who bobs her head in reverent gratitude. Another nod at the guard, who also removes himself from the situation and returns back to his station. 

Jayen approaches Cullen hesitantly, as if every step he took in the human man's tent would spark a fire. Cullen ends up making multiple gestures of 'go ahead' before Jayen feels comfortable enough to retrieve his book from the Commander's desk. 

"Th-thank you, for keeping hold of this." 

Cullen' simply nonplussed at how big a fuss this grew into. "You could've asked for me, or any one of the soldiers -- they would've brought you to me" 

"I apologise, milord," comes the automatic reply.

"Also, again -- you don't need to… bow to me. Or call me milord. I'm not noble born." 

"...yes, Commander." 

Still in that subservient tone. Cullen gets the feeling that the Herald was walking on eggshells around him, being so careful with his words as if a single mistake would cause Cullen to blow up. It honestly irks him to no end; yet another reason why he worked best with soldiers, his own people. 

"Do you have a problem with the soldiers?" Cullen presses, because if there was an issue he'd rather resolve it earlier than later. 

"No, Commander," comes a response so quick it was a definite lie. 

"Please, speak your mind," Cullen says, unable to keep the edge of irritation out of it, and regretting it greatly when Jayen cringes. 

There's a pause, and Cullen decides not to push it. He turns back to his work instead, though he watches the elf from the corner of his eye.

Cullen didn't grow up noble, and the circles didn't have servants, so he is admittedly unprepared for how… skittish this new Herald is. Well, the circles had Tranquil, though could a comparison even be made? The Tranquil weren't servants after all -- and the apathy they had was so vastly different from the way the elven servants were constantly on edge. 

Yet in some ways, they were similar -- in both quiet apathy and frightened obedience, both parties never wanted to displease the people they served.

There’s a quiet clearing of a throat, and Cullen looks back up. The Herald steels himself, before saying… “It is… well, the Inquisition… we wish to fight for all of Thedas, yes? But the majority of your -- our numbers, they are human.” That said, the Herald quickly deflates. The last bit is almost mumbled. “It’s just… I wonder if you’ve ever thought of why that is.” 

Cullen’s first reaction is to balk. The Inquisition was open to other races too! Elves, dwarves, qunari -- just like how there was no barrier for mages and templars, there wasn’t going to be a barrier for races. 

Surely the numbers were fairly equal -- the number of mages and templars from either side matched up well enough, there were just as many from both factions who wanted to help. Yes both factions were made up of mostly human folk, but did that matter?

But when he thought about it… elven combatants were hard to come by, and well, the dwarfs stayed underground. It’s easy to see why the numbers don’t come close to those of human recruits -- elven were fairly weak -- they contributed as servants and labourers, those still counted as part of the Inquisitions numbers! And dwarves -- dwarves never got along with human folk all too much. They were rowdy and abrasive and kept to themselves, down in Orzammar. 

But… there was the Dalish, who were frightful fighters who were willing to die for the right cause. A couple of Dalish elves could wipe out an entire troupe of regular soldiers. Same with Dwarven legionnaires, berserkers, lyrium experts. There were plenty of surface dwarves as well, many who left their home to live in the wider world.

They wouldn’t want to help the Inquisition. They just didn’t like mixing with others. 

...but did they? Surely they would want to fight for their world too? 

It would hurt morale if Cullen brought in people who couldn’t work as a team. Not when the Inquisition was on its early legs, not before things got stable.

… but… was the Inquisition doing enough to be welcoming? To advertise themselves as an international, interracial organization? 

It would damage their cause even further! Their standing with politicians and the Chantry was shaky enough as it is, it would ruin the name of the Inquisition, it would ruin trust and reputation and their standing in this world!!

....

… did that truly matter? 

Jayen fidgets quietly as Cullen’s thoughts rampage through his head. When he looks back up at the elf, Cullen realises with a start that the Herald was waiting to be dismissed. 

Cullen really didn't know what to say. 

"...you may leave," coughs the Commander, after a beat. 

The Herald scurries away. 

Josephine always has a handle on the situation. Even if the situation is currently a vexed Marquis DuRellion in her office. 

She truly could handle this issue on her own -- but when she spies the Herald of Andraste through her open door, she wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip by.

“But allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked his life to slow the magic of the Breach --” trapped in a hunter’s gaze, Josephine loops Jayen into the conversation. “Master Harajatish, this is the Marquis DuRellion, one of Divine Justinia's greatest supporters.”

Josephine tries to give a supporting smile in response to the pleading look the Herald gives her once the Marquis launches into his appeal. Admittedly, doing something so underhanded was usually beneath her, but Josephine wanted a quick look at how the Herald would handle himself when thrown into a situation like this. To give her a more thorough understanding on how far she’d have to push him. 

In the face of nobility, the Herald’s expression closes off, a neutral look overtaking his features. A loosening of the body, to prevent giving off any air of aggression, but still so tightly held that it couldn’t be anything but deliberate. Truly, this elf could have grown to become a bard, in another life. 

Josephine's eyes also can't help but linger on his head for a moment, making small notes to herself about his appearance. She really ought to ask someone to handle his hair, first and for most -- certainly there was a maid somewhere who knew how to salvage it? There wasn't much they could do about his jaw and teeth, which sat crooked, unless they could get a cosmetic healer from the north. At least Josephine thought the slight lisp he had, combined with the soft Orlesian accent, was charming

When Jayen struggles to come up with a response, Josephine steps in. Using Cassandra as a trump was heavy-handed, but honestly she was growing more and more tired with this man, and she really wanted to turn her attention to the more interesting person in this room. 

She was afraid Jayen would run off as soon as the conversation was over, but the opposite was true. As soon as the Marquis vanishes out of sight, Jayen turns to her with a look of barely-restrained anxiety. 

“Is it true? Are we not allowed to stay here?” There’s emotion in that statement that’s laden with history, and Josephine is mildly taken aback. 

“The Marquis’ claim is not as strong as he makes it out to be,” Josephine reassures. “Unless he wishes to involve the Empress, who has bigger matters to concern herself with, he will not be able to remove us from this place.”

The concern doesn’t fade, joined instead by a growing grief. “People like the Marquis… generally refuse to hold back, when their property is threatened. I don’t --” he cuts himself off. “Though perhaps it is different, when your people are involved.” 

Your people, like Antiva? Diplomats? Perhaps the answer is the most obvious one. Your people, as in human. 

“Please, sit,” Josephine invites him in, gesturing to a chair beside her own. The Herald sits but does not settle, barely allowing himself to sink into the cushion. Josephine prepares a cup of tea from her own stash in her drawer. A small kettle of water is kept warm beside the fireplace in her office, useful for times such as this.

“...Is there really no better place for the Inquisition to base itself? Is settling on land we are unwanted a smart thing to do?” Jayen asks in the ensuing silence. Josephine presses a warm mug of anise-spiced tea in his hands, which he almost looks confused at. 

“There’s no need to panic, Herald,” Josephine says. “Matters such as this are under the purview of the Left and Right hands of the Divine -- and no one would dare question their authority.” 

“But surely there is someplace better? Orzammar? Soldier’s Peak? Ostagar?” 

“I thought you’d never been to Ferelden before…” then she blinks in realisation. “...are you just listing off places from the Warden’s diary?” 

The Herald seemed to have found a topic to latch onto. At least the earnestness has replaced his discomfort, though his tea seemed to be going ignored in his hands, which both grip the side of the cup firmly. 

“If the Warden was able to emerge victorious in these battles, then surely.. it would be a good omen, of sorts.” 

City elves looked to Iovha Tabris as a symbol, Josephine knew. One of their own, who had grown so much in power and renown. Who’d leapt beyond the walls of her alienage, in order to claim a fate so incredible and amazing and tragic. There were city elves who kept her diary as bibles, who spoke of her with worship on their lips. A city elf who’d lived an extraordinary life. 

In Josephine’s eyes, Jayen Harajatish was simply another elf who held the same potential for greatness. 

“That is true… in all of these places except Ostagar,” Josephine responds. Jayen’s ears twitch, flattening against his head slightly, but he rebuffs:

“She returned to that place later, to clear the darkspawn threat. She emerged victorious again, eventually.” 

Josephine hums to herself in thought. “Ostagar truly would be a place suited for our cause. If not for the darkspawn roaming the lands.”

"There are still darkspawn in Ostagar? " Jayen gasps fearfully, the first bit of unrestrained emotion Josephine sees from him, that she has to stifle a surprised laugh. Did he truly believe the Warden was that powerful?

"Now and then, though a Grey Warden would be able to reduce their activity. It is a natural world order -- the Warden wouldn’t be able to permanently remove them." Josephine responds. "You must not like them very much, Herald." 

Jayen bites his lip. "No, very much no. It is the one thing I do not comprehend how the Hero of Ferelden had the courage to face." 

"Warden Tabris truly was an incredible woman, till the end…" Josephine agrees, before peeking up slightly. "That reminds me, Commander Cullen mentioned you owned her book?" 

Josephine can watch the apprehension return to the elf's face in full force. She'll get there, eventually. But for now, slow and steady. "He mentioned the state of it," she brings up gently. "I wanted to offer to rebind it with a new cover. I enjoy restoring books in my spare time." 

He looks at her for a beat. "...I do not want to take your valuable time…" 

"If I did not wish to spare it, I wouldn't have offered," she chides lightly. 

Mug of tea thoroughly undrinked, Jayen sets it down on a side table before reaching into his tunic to pull out a small package wrapped in linen. Removing the twine that held it together, Jayen presents his copy of the Warden’s diary to Josephine. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Josephine promises, accepting it gingerly. There’s a twitch of a smile on the Herald’s face, gone as quickly as it appeared. She’s glad that she was able to help with whatever unease the Herald was feeling. “But now, if you’ll excuse me -- I’d better be getting back to work.” 

“Thank you, ambassador,” Jayen murmurs, taking his leave.

She waits until the door closes with a resounding click before speaking again. "What do you think, Leliana?" 

A hooded form slips out from behind a dresser, stepping out into the light. "We have our work cut out for us, indeed." Leliana sighs. "I am thankful, so ever grateful that we have a means of combating this, that the Maker has given us providence. But this entire thing is…. Complicated." 

Josephine puts an arm around the back of her chair, turning to face the spymaster, her friend. With a roll of her eyes, she says, "Don't begrudge the elf who had no say in this. Besides, I was more meaning the talk about settling elsewhere. I am aware that I'm not the leading expert in combat matters, but… Haven is hardly a prime position to camp." 

Josephine meets the other woman's eyes. "You've been to these places on your travels with the Warden, yes?" 

"To Soldier's peak, yes. The property is still considered to be owned by the Grey Wardens, though their main camp is in Amaranthine, and they hadn't claimed the fort in earnest." 

"And we're still waiting to make contact with them," Josephine says with an edge of irritation. You'd think an international organization like the Wardens had clerks to keep their paperwork moving! 

"Also, I do believe the keep is… too small, for the forces we have in mind." 

"What of Ostagar?" 

Leliana pauses. "I did not go into the main area myself, as the taint was deemed too dangerous a risk. Only the Wardens went in. I can't imagine the land is any less sick -- Lothering has also been similarly abandoned, tainted as it is." 

"Could anything have changed in the past decade?" Josephine asks. After hearing that, she's honestly not hopeful -- but her curiosity wants to press on. 

Leliana hums in thought. "I might have people I can ask to scout the area." The spymaster begins to take her leave, mentally planning the letters she has to send out. 

As she rests her hand on the door handle, she takes the last word. "No promises, though."

Chapter Text

"Nice haircut, Herald," The dwarf jests playfully, swinging his crossbow over his shoulder. The lightest touch of colour begins to appear on Jayen's cheek, and the elf looks away as he proceeds towards the rally point. 

"Aw, c'mon, it's really not that bad," The cheerful man back steps. He does a little jog to keep up with Jayen's frantic pace. "I'm serious. You look fine!" 

Jayen runs a hand through his hair, significantly shortened. Clipped on both sides, to remove the burned locks, with the centre and top of his hair being slightly longer. Jayen's always preferred keeping his hair longer than this… the wind on the nape of his neck makes him shiver. 

He tugs at his sleeves, the fit of new clothes feeling snug like a second skin. Two wooly long-sleeved tunics, and a leather jerkin on top of that. Several leather belts holding his breeches in place, tightened to their smallest setting. Jayen’s never worn this many layers before, never really touched anything of this quality freely. They even gave him a change of clothes, for Maker’s sake -- it sat in one of the packs currently tied down to the wagon. 

He was going to have to… pay this back, somehow. With his work, as the Herald. 

The thought of all the debts he owes have been a cause of dread, these past few days. 

“So… before we join in with Cassandra and the others --” the dwarf begins, voice lowered. Jayen’s pulled back to reality, and snaps his attention back to his companion. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how have you been holding up? You’ve been having a couple of full days; I hadn’t even been able to catch you before now.” 

...the dwarf was trying to talk to him before this? “Ah, I’m sorry.” 

“Nah, don’t be. You went from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would've spread that out over more than one day."

Jayen pulls to a stop, and the dwarf reciprocates, waiting patiently. Jayen grips his hands together, wondering exactly how to answer that. This man has been very casual so far -- so much more casual than any of the conversations he’s been having with anyone these past few days; barring the interactions he’s had with his people. 

“I’m honestly surprised you survived Cassandra,” the dwarf continues, then grins roguishly. “You did good.” 

… so he knew Cassandra? Jayen quickly wipes the look of confusion off his face, though not before the other picks up on it. 

“...You don’t recognise me, do you,” the dwarf says drily.  Jayen stifles the flicker of panic at being caught out, as the dwarf continues. “Well, I can’t say I blame you -- you were having a hell of a day.” 

“Varric. Varric Tethras,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. 

“I will… do my best to remember it, this time,” Jayen promises, taking the dwarf’s hand. His grip was firm and steady. There’s a beat where the dwarf -- Varric -- seems to be waiting for something, and Jayen feels himself start to flush with the awkwardness of not really knowing how to respond. 

“Okay, wow, you’re really pulling my leg now,” Varric says with a hearty chuckle. “You truly  don’t know who I am! Incredible.” 

"Sh-should i?" 

"Well, I suppose only if you like reading -- hey, how do you feel about books?" 

Jayen gives a very confused shrug, indicating that he really didn't mind in the slightest, but was very lost in this current train of thought. 

"You're going to be bored at the back of that wagon this whole time; okay, hang on -- I'm going to run back to my tent, tell Cassandra not to leave without me!" 

Varric appears at the rally point five minutes later, once most everyone else is ready to leave. The grin he wore was somehow sheepish yet self-serving at the same time. Cassandra gives him a harsh look that grows into an audible scoff when she sees a copy of Tales of the Champion switch hands. 

Jayen scans the cover of this book from his perch on the supply wagon. He'll be making the bumpy ride from here while the rest of the party is mounted on horseback. 

He looks up when Varric gives him a pat on the shoulder as the dwarf walks past. "Enjoy." 

“Again,” Lady Cassandra commands, voice even but sharp. 

Jayen readjust his grip on the blade for what must be the twentieth time. His fingers tingle and his wrist feels disconnected, and when he brings down the sword with a swing, it doesn't come down in a straight line and barely even leaves a mark on the tree trunk they were using as a training dummy. 

Cassandra makes a frustrated noise, and Jayen just wants to drop this weapon to get feeling back into his hands. They've been feeling numb ever since she asked him to take the pommel, even with the warmer Hinterland weather. 

Their camp sits thirty feet away, where Inquisition soldiers were still bustling and noisy, finishing the set up. Having arrived at their campsite closer to evening than to noon, it was decided that stopping now was for the best. The Herald and his defence would journey to the crossroads in the morning. 

Lady Cassandra was using this opportunity to drill Jayen with basic fighting stances. She grabbed a recruits sword and shield, pressed them into the Heralds arms, and dragged him off to a nearby clearing. Solas and Varric, considering themselves part of the entourage, invited themselves along and were watching from a fallen log they used as a bench. 

"If I may interrupt," Solas says, making his way over to the Herald. Jayen feels small when the other elf approaches, towering above him. He looks away. 

Solas turns him around to have a look at his back, placing a hand on Jayen's left shoulder and another under Jayen's right arm. He brings the arm up and moves it in a circular motion, and Jayen bites his tongue when it gets manipulated into a position he tends to avoid -- as it caused a sharp spike of pain that's been present for years. He'd just learned to avoid making that motion. 

"Oh," Solas says in surprise. "Did that hurt?" 

How could he tell? Did Jayen flinch, or twitch his ears? He's usually a little better at concealing his pain. 

"...uhm, yes, but it's been hurting for a long while now." 

Solas hums in thought. He gets Jayen to put down the weapons for a bit, and just that action fills Jayen with relief, as he begins massaging his wrists. 

"Did you have an injury here?" Solas asks, kneading his fingers into sore spots on Jayen's shoulders. He presses firmly, but not hard enough for it to hurt. 

"...yes." 

He hums again, a sound Jayen was started to associate with bad news. He doesn't… want to talk about how he got his injuries. Doesn't want to go into detail about then. Doesn't want to say that everytime they ask him to pick up a blade, he's reminded of the time his master brought a knife up to his wrists, threatening punishment for daring to hold a weapon -- 

"I don't know how effective this will be, as the injury is an old one. But I'm going to try to heal it." Solas' voice washes over him in a cool wave, and Jayen shakes himself out of the memory. He nods, giving his assent, and there's a flare of -- warm, but minty; something that tickles his muscles down to their individual fibres, stimulating and cool and numb at the same time. Jayen gasps. 

Cassandra watches with a critical eye. "Are there any other pains which are withholding you from this training?" She asks. 

Jayen hesitates a moment, before saying, "My… back. Though it only hurts when I lay down to sleep. Otherwise it's simply a dull ache." 

Solas takes that as his queue to move his fingers down to examine Jayen's back. With their length and litheness, the taller elf could probably wrap both his hands around Jayen's waist and have the tips of his fingers touch. Jayen sucks in a breath when he touches a specific ridge in his spine, and Solas promptly withdraws. 

"That one seems to be more complicated than what I'm able to heal, at least while we're without equipment. It also appears to be an injury that's healed incorrectly." 

"I… apologise." 

Lady Cassandra's face is unreadable, but she holds out his discarded sword to Jayen again. "You've done nothing to warrant an apology," she says. "Just tell us when you suspect you might be hurt, rather than keeping your silence. You could be aggravating your injury more." 

Jayen's ears twitch, stifling a sigh. While something like that was obvious, that hadn't always been possible, and the words she said seemed to be presented with cruel irony. Still, he accepts the blade and obeys. 

Solas walks back to his vantage point, where Varric was now joined by a Scout Lace Harding. She carried her bow and quiver on her back, but held another training set in her hands. 

"The Seeker asked me to… show the Herald the ropes, if I could," she answers his inquisitive gaze. 

"Heh, I'm still questioning the wisdom of even letting him near the rifts," Varric sighs. 

"We really have no other option on how to close them," says Solas, full of rational thought and common sense.

“So sue me if I want to be a little bit concerned,” Varric says, rolling his eyes. He changes the subject. “How was his shoulder?” 

Solas hums, lips twisted into a tiny grimace. “A proper healer should take a look at it. But with what I’d done, The Herald shouldn’t be in any pain for the next hour or so.” 

There’s a clang of metal banging, and they turn back to watch the Herald's attempts of training under Cassandra's watchful eye. A full head shorter than the Seeker, Jayen looked even twiggier than usual, with a sword too long and a shield top large in proportion to him. 

Varric makes a noise of concern. "Looks like there's still the same problem." The Herald's grip is shaky when he brings the sword down, unable to even perform the action despite trying over and over. 

"Is the sword too heavy for him?" Lace asks, also watching with determination. 

"It might be mental." 

The two dwarves turn to look at the elf in their company. Solas elaborates, "He doesn't have any combat training, but I think it is patronizing to think of our Herald as a weak man… undernourished, perhaps, and we're remedying that. But he's likely worked harder in his life than anyone else here has. The meat in his arms were muscle. There shouldn't be any physical cause for this, now that his pain is alleviated for the moment." 

Varric turns the thought over in his head. "So he might not be able to protect himself, even if we teach him." 

"We'll have to see." 

"I honestly don't think that's so bad," says Lace contrarily. The two men now gaze at her, and she shrugs. 

"A Herald who doesn't resort to violence… I don't know about you, but it seems to be a cause I could bring myself to believe in." 

The recipient of the anchor truly wasn't someone he expected. 

Solas’ people have become so… different, to what he remembers. Lesser, simpler beings. There is a disconnect between the people now and the people he knows to have existed, separated by a thousand years of sleep. 

These are not his people, he is coming to understand. Solas walks with bare feet through the snow, with only the clothes on his back and the staff in his hands and no longer has a connection to these communities of elves. The Dalish, the city elves -- they’ve evolved to different extremes. Both so far away from the people they once were. The Dalish devote themselves to things they do not comprehend, throwing themselves into a history so lost and twisted it has become a different culture entirely. City elves struggle, barely a shadow of the people they have the potential to be, beaten down and oppressed. 

But there is one common truth, one that has persisted since even before Solas’ time. 

Poverty is a universal language. The poor and destitute have existed before the veil -- slaves who had no choice in their station in life, who live and die never knowing anything but the rotten existence given to them. This, perhaps this is a remnant of his people -- the only thing remaining of the elvhen world Solas grew up with. The thing that will continue to live and breath and decay and spread even after his plan is completed. 

The Herald of Andraste. The bearer of the anchor. A city elf. 

The events of this world are written by an ironic god indeed. It was never within Solas’ plan for the anchor to attach themselves to anyone but himself -- but now it amuses him to think of the likelihood of this exact scenario. The conclave was filled with so many people of note -- The darkspawn creature he had allowed to take his foci, the grand Divine Justinia, leader of her people, her nation, her religion. Dignitaries from all over, who have travelled across continents to have their voices heard, representatives of their people. 

And the only survivor is a servant. 

There is a strange hope here. Even Solas could see it. An elevation of a being to far above whatever he could dream of accomplishing within his lifetime. Putting a man who has struggled for decades, living the hardest life anyone could imagine, on a pedestal -- to be viewed, to inspire, to chain down and adore. 

Jayen Harajatish could do a lot of good. He understands the worst of this world, and could use his newfound power to make the unheard heard. He could help his people -- Jayen’s people, Solas’ people -- lift them out of poverty, too.

But unless something drastic changes, unless the fundamental issues are addressed; for every person Jayen is able to help, there are going to be hundreds, thousands that he cannot reach and will continue to suffer, unless the system can account for it.

This is something Solas will have to think on, for his new world.

Solas honestly hates the directions his mind wanders, on quiet nights. 

"I have been meaning to ask, what clan is the name 'Harajatish' from?" 

Solas and Jayen sit by the campfire, alone in the night where everyone else has gone to sleep. Quiet snores emanate from the tents encircling them. The only other person awake was a sentry stationed at the edge of camp, and their eyes were turned outwards, towards the forest. 

Jayen had gingerly exited the tent he was sharing with Cassandra, only to find Solas already here, in a similar state of awakeness. Perhaps the other elf was like him, and didn't require much sleep. Who couldn't sleep. 

Jayen is not blind to the staff Solas carries on his back, the open use of his magic even in front of a Seeker. He's never met a magic user -- well, never seen an adult magic user, after they've grown into their own. He's heard the stories and warnings and the terrible news of the mage uprising, the deeds they were capable of. 

He's a little scared. But if Cassandra thought Solas was safe enough to have travel with them, for Jayen's protection, perhaps he should trust this mage. 

Jayen ponders his answer, taking his time. Solas seems to wait patiently, no signs of being agitated by his slow answer, which Jayen takes as encouragement. 

"We think it is from Clan Ithilien of the Heartlands. They died out in the Black Age." Jayen's gaze is affixed on the smoldering wisps of the fire, dancing gently in the windless night. "Many of the family names my alienage chose were from Clan Ithilien… it was said that they managed to make peace with the humans, for a time. They settled down long enough to start a farm, establish trade."

"And then they were wiped out." 

"Yes." The syllable comes out in a breath, quickly and wanting to forget the truth of it. 

Silence reigns while the fire spits and crackles. It is, while not relaxing, a comfortable one, with no expectations and pressure looming overhead. 

“You say you chose your names?” Solas asks again. His voice is inquisitive, as if he was truly just curious. 

“...You’re not Dalish, are you, Solas.” Jayen says it as a fact, rather than a question. 

“No, I am not.”

Another beat, as Jayen composes his answer. 

“My people… my whānau ^†... many of us aren’t related by blood. We came together, like seeking like, and we didn’t have a name to link us together. So we chose them. It is the name we choose for ourselves, rather than given by blood -- the name we greet each other with, recognise each other from.”

“That is different, from many other Thedosian societies.” 

“I think I know what you mean -- for others, the chosen name is their first name, and their family name is the one that they were given. But for everyone, the chosen name is the name we wish to be called by.” Jayen sighs. “We take what we can get.”

Jayen wants to ask for Solas’ family name -- most elves had one, as the Dalish also considered last names to be important. It was rare for any elf to go without a family name in this day and age, when city elves came up with names together, and Dalish granted names from their ancestors to continue their line. 

But Solas didn’t offer a name, and Jayen wasn’t going to press. He could see the thoughtful contemplation on the other elf’s face as the conversation progressed, though he didn’t know what to make of it. 

Maybe one day, Jayen will find out if the other ever had family to call his own. 

They travel as soon as the sun rises. Blood is spilled as soon as the sun rises. 

Cassandra and Varric and Solas take their positions with ease, flinging spells and weaponry as if they’ve been doing it their entire life. Blood splatters across Cassandra’s face, which she wipes with a ferocity that only calms down once she’s satisfied that the threats are gone. 

Jayen’s knees shake as he pushes himself to a standing position, having taken cover behind an abandoned wagon. They’ve done a good job keeping him away from the action, but he truly wonders how they expect him to live through this. If that even is the plan.

The crossroads are chaos, not so much a war than it is a nightmare of violence and desperation. There is no strategy to these people’s actions, no thought apart from keeping themselves alive to fight yet another day. 

Jayen’s not surprised at the number of invalids there are, when they finally reach Mother Giselle’s camp. 

When they meet the Revered Mother, it's over the body of one such victim, begging not to be healed by a mage. 

Mother Giselle talks to Jayen about Andraste, the sick, the power of his title. The machinations of the Chantry, the politics of her own people. 

When Jayen asks for her help, she instead asks, “ Which city do you hail from, child? ” 

“ Verchiel, Mother. ” They speak Orlesian, the language of their people, as they walk through the camp. Cassandra follows behind at a distance, to allow for privacy, but also to step in in case danger approaches. 

“ I have heard of the stories of the alienage there, how much your people have suffered. I wish my people could have done more to help, rather than being the cause of pain.” 

Jayen’s never heard a person from the Chantry speak so openly, so directly. He’s initially stunned.

“... I think I know of you, too ,” Jayen says. Her name has been bothering him, since he had heard it from Leliana’s lips. “ Yes, I know of you. ”

Human names were difficult for his tongue to grasp, and slip from his mind easily. There were so many of them, so many people of note, so many humans in places of power that could destroy you for a misstep, misaddressing their family or title. It was easier to remember a select few, and address the rest with ‘milady’ or ‘milord’. 

But ‘Revered Mother Giselle’ -- this was not a name he himself had used. It was a name uttered by his people, with hope, with gratitude. His people in Jader trapped during the war, starving, sick, dying. 

“ You helped my people, during the Blight .” They tell of how she was meant to help the clergy first - the ones most deserving of faith. But she disobeyed -- disobeyed the Chantry -- and helped the poor instead. Indiscriminate, unconditional. 

“ I know some who are alive, because of you .” 

“ And what will you do, to keep your people alive? ” 

The question was a test, similar to the one asked by Sister Nightingale. Jayen grew up with the Chant of Light; songs of the Maker -- instead of the Dales -- around their Vhenadahl tree. Jayen does believe, he truly does -- in Andraste, her kindness, her warmth. But the people of the Chantry, they were less to be trusted and more to be wary of. 

Jayen does not yet know what to make of Mother Giselle. 

“ You disobeyed the Chantry to save my people. Is that what I must do too, if it comes to it?” 

“I believe you are here for a reason,” comes Mother Giselle’s measured response. “ I believe you are here to choose the right path. People will follow, once you speak, once you make your stance known. That is all I am asking. Talk, rather than fight. Speak and let them understand you.” 

And so, she agrees to help them, in the end. 

They talk and plan, before they even think of attempting to close the rift.

It isn’t as easy a matter of running up to it and shoving Jayen’s hand into it. There was no rush now, not like on the Frostback mountains. The fade rift has been present for several days, and the locals were wise enough to steer clear of the area for now. 

Cassandra asks Solas if using her templar magic would affect the rift. Varric suggests timings, positions -- he’d given the location a quick scout, hidden in shadow, so light footed that the demons didn’t even notice his presence. Solas discusses the use of his shield, and how best to use it, how best to keep everyone safe. 

They would proceed with Inquisition soldiers as backup, Jayen would stay behind while the first party clears the initial demons and drains the rift of energy. Then he would come in with the second party, who would defend him while he closes it. 

Minimal risk. They had to adapt, they couldn’t lose their one tool for closing the Breach, not this early on.

Shit happens, anyway. 

Cassandra sends down smites on the demons, sending them into Varric’s line of sight, an arrow from Bianca sprouting from wraith to wraith. They take down the demons efficiently, unafraid. Cassandra calls out an order and Solas nudges Jayen forward, and they proceed into the valley with two other soldiers on their flanks. 

The air is electric, the taste of ichor hitting the back of Jayen’s throat. He’s done this once -- twice, before now. The shock of the pull of the rift, when his hand makes contact with the hole in the Veil, still takes him off guard. 

There’s a sound like the sky is falling, a weight plunging down and threatening to crush those beneath it. Jayen closes his eyes and prays for it to work quickly. 

There’s a crack and then a screech and then a ear splitting BOOM , shouting from those around him, a ringing in his ear, he’s on the ground --

Chapter Text

Author's Note: Kia ora!! I. forgot to update this work for a bit. I actually do have some words that could use some polishing up before they're ready, so I'm going to try and get that out, but no promises on how soon I can update lmao. I am very fond of this project and have a notebook full of notes for it, but I struggle with motivation to write so its very sporadic.

But! I wanted share something I completely forgot about sharing. In 2022, I participated in a POC OC Dragon Age Zine, and made a piece for Jayen, the protagonist of this story! It was for the Lotus and Root Zine on Twitter

There is also an accompanying short story in the form of an in-canon codex entry, written by my partner for that zine. You can find that here: https://archiveofourown.to/works/39851223 

Unfortunately, I believe the hosting site for the zine has been taken offline (oh god it was in 2022). Since that's the case, though -- I think it's perfectly fine for me to share it haha. This a link to it on my google drive. If you're so inclined, please support the charity that the zine was donating its profits to: The Navajo Water Project.

Cheers!! 

-- Ashley / Locke