Chapter Text

Several days had passed since the unsanctioned establishment of the Inquisition. In that time, Cassandra Pentaghast had halted all activities to do with the Breach until her reinforcements arrived. The breach in the Veil had been stabilized, allowing for such a luxury. Due to her contributions, Liandra spent the freedom wandering the mountains in an attempt to escape the crowds. So many shemlens that begged for word from the Maker, or Andraste, or a miracle, or to seal the Breach and save them all.

The trees outside of Haven were dangerous to climb, too thin to support her weight with the snow. She had taken to scrabbling up boulders and perching on top of them instead, shrouded by the leaves. The warmth of the Free Marches provided for better trees, but she took comfort in being off the ground, shrouded by the leaves. Her staff made an impression in the snow beside her. The rock was cold, albeit welcome, while she pulled her coat tighter around her against the wind.

So much had happened since she left her clan to spy on the Conclave. She had just been under orders to observe, to gather information about the Divine, to bring word of the final verdict. She wished she could remember everything that happened, that brought the Breach to Thedas. A tightness filled her chest and closed her throat. All those mages and Templars, dead, while she remained. All those soldiers lost battling the demons while she slept, recovering from whatever magic sparked on her left hand. Whatever marked her hand, using her control over it to contain the evils of the Fade, to stop this madness, to help the shemlens and elvhen and the world, this would be her redemption.

Green magic scorched through her arm, life breathed into it at her very thought. But where had it come from? It felt ancient, older perhaps than even the Creators. Perhaps the shemlens were right, maybe she had been marked by the Maker. The Temple of Sacred Ashes had once held the Urn, a real object, that held the ashes that healed a nobleman from Ferelden. Disbelief in the Maker did not make the evidence of his existence any less real. The Creators were just as real, though the shemlens would never admit to it. The mark calmed as she pondered, allowing her a reprieve. She lifted her knees toward her scarred chin and wrapped her arms around them.

She looked up to the sky. The Gods and Goddesses of both races blessed her, perhaps. The pantheon needed a Herald and maybe she had been chosen. Whatever she had done to deserve it escaped her. A Between Dalish elf for several years before the Keeper permitted her a task. Liandra had proven her disposability, so if the worst should happen, she would not be terribly missed. Or missed at all. Her lips pressed together, dry from the cold. Whatever love she had for her clan faded as her hand sparked again, burned her veins to her shoulder.

“Seems dangerous to be this far from the village walls alone, serah.”

She should've heard him coming. She scooped up her staff and spun around to the voice. She peered over the edge of the boulder, eyes wary.

He wore heavy armor with a large mane of fur around his shoulders. The helmet covered his face, but his accent belied a well-educated Ferelden. A Chantry shemlen, perhaps.

“I can take care of myself, shemlen.” She kept her voice amiable. Chantry shems came in two varieties: Clerics or Templars. Neither option comforted her.

“All the same, I would escort you back to town, miss. If that's agreeable.” His horse shifted his hooves in the snow, the rider shifted with it, unfazed. She furrowed her brow. A Templar then. What had Cassandra called them? Cavalry?

Much like the Hunters of her clan, Liandra grew to fear the Templars. Rarely had the shemlens visited their aravels, but their numbers seemed less after the shems left. They hunted mages from their tower, a world apart from Liandra’s. Sometimes they would pass through after capturing their prey, their quarry in chains, sometimes hooded. The Hunters would make pointed remarks about the treatment of the shem mages, a threat to the clan’s mages that their fate might be similar if they did not adhere to their order.

She stood fully and brushed snow off her backside. “I suppose I've been missing long enough, shemlen.” Concession worked best with the Hunters. No need to start a fight with a well-meaning stranger. She moved to the edge of the rock, and judged the distance.

The feather in his helmet jerked back. “Miss, wait, no!”

Liandra ignored his protests and hopped toward the horse’s flank. She summoned a gust of wind to guide her descent, startling the horse. The horse whinnied, stepping nervously around in the snow. The rider struggled with the reins, the flank jerking Liandra to and fro. A soft voice calmed the beast from the depths of the helmet, metal armor jangling as he stroked the creature’s neck. Confusion settled over Liandra.

“Whoa there, boy, it's all right.” He shushed the large brown beast, patting and stroking its neck. “Just a bit of magic, no harm done.” The horse finally calmed, huffing loudly. The feather brushed against her face as the shemlen looked over his shoulder to her. “Are you all right?”

Liandra started. Not even most elves would ask that, given the situation. “Am I-... Yes, I'm fine.” She looked down to the horse. He had not deserved her impetuous behavior. “I'm... sorry for startling him.”

The rider nodded. “Thank you. It was foolish of you to do.” He squeezed his thighs and the horse started moving, a slow canter toward Haven's front gate. “But at least you recognize it. Apologizing is a good start.”

Her shoulders lifted. She felt undeserving of her vallaslin. He had treated her like a weak woman, a child to be protected, but that did not mean she had to act like one. And the horse, it had done nothing to offend her. The rock of the horse's canter felt more pronounced this far back on his body. She clutched at the back of the saddle, struggling to remain seated.

“Miss, you should hold onto me to keep you steady. The horse can tell you are uneasy.” A smooth voice flowed over his shoulder, no malice or animosity even touched his words. Only worry and fatigue. He must’ve traveled from very far.

“I'm sorry, ser.” Her hands found his sides and she tried to move them up, but found armor under his large coat. A well-armed Chantry shemlen. Definitely a Templar. “Are you here to join the Inquisition's forces?” She slid her hands around toward the front of his abdominal area. She fought the urge to burrow her face into the lump of fur at his back.

The feather bobbed. “I received word that my services would be welcome. What of you, serah?”

She blinked. News of the Herald had to have spread further out than just Haven. “I... have already joined.”

A chuckle rumbled through both of them. The clang of swords reached her ears, initiates practicing at the camp outside the gate. “Not many elves would pledge themselves to a campaign lead by the Chantry. Do you mind if I ask what brought you here?”

She took a breath. He veiled his question in polite conversation, but she understood. Had she been forced to join as a slave of someone else? “My Keeper sent me. She thought it would the best thing for me.” It wasn't a lie.

“So you're a Dalish mage, then?” His curiosity sounded piqued.

She pressed her lips together. The tents on the edge of Haven drew into view. “Yes.” How much should she tell him?

“Do you know if the Dalish clans have chosen a side of the Mage-Templar War? Or if they have chosen a side at all.” The feather in his helmet shifted from side to side. “I... am sure they would not side with the Templars, but what of the Mages?”

A question she had not fielded before. The intent of the Inquisition, formed unsanctioned by any authority, made the question moot. What would it matter?

Though, he had asked specifically after the Dalish. As if the Dalish had a singular authority figure to form an opinion. But her Keeper had said one thing about it. “As long as we are left out of it, you shemlens can kill yourselves however you see fit.”

The horse wandered past the tents on the edge. She could feel the silence building, despite his easy demeanor. Initiates continued their sparring as heled the horse to the stable. Fire burned through her left arm, forcing her to clutch it against her body. Hopefully he had not noticed.

“Apologies, serah, it was not my intent to offend.” The worry and fatigue did nothing to diminish the softness to his voice.

Again, the stark difference in her actions and his reactions forced her to come to terms with the way she acted. He only wished to engage in a friendly, academic dialogue, curious about her or the Dalish opinions on matters. And she reacted rudely. The mark sparked slightly, forcing a growl from her. She flexed her hand, her glove creaking in the cold.

He nudged her gently and she leaned back. He carefully swung his leg over the horse and dropped one foot on the ground. He turned around to stroke the horse’s neck again. Warm and polite and worried had been all this stranger had been. He had done nothing to deserve her actions.

“I'm sorry if I gave that impression.” She offered him an apologetic smile. He offered her a gloved hand. “I'm finding it hard to adjust to being here among so many shemlens.” Her left hand reached for, realizing as he grasped it that the spark had dimmed already. She took his hand and slid carefully off the horse's flank.

She felt herself carried to the ground by his strong arms. Being on the horse, only seeing him from above, had done nothing to educate her to his size. She stood a head shorter, the width of his body blocking her view. She hadn’t met any shemlens near his size. Or strength. Though, she realized, the Seeker had the strength.

The lion helmet nodded to her while his hands left her. Only her, then. He stretched his neck out to unstrap the helmet. The large decorative thing revealed a chiseled jaw peppered with dark stubble, a scar that stretched from his upper lip toward his right eye, and smile lines wrinkled at the corners of his eyes. Eyes of golden hazel under dark, hard eyebrows and golden brown hair. Eyes that had seen demons, touched by the Fade, dark circles pressing in underneath. But he smiled at her, and her hand stopped hurting. Her voice caught in her throat and she felt the demons preying on her.

“Thank you for allowing me to escort you, serah. I would never have forgiven myself if I left you alone out there.” He stood back to hold a hand out to her, a proper, civilized greeting.

The shemlen before her destroyed all ideas she had of Templars, of soldiers, even that of other shemlens. Strength and courtesy, respect and warmth. She looked to his hand. “Yo-You're welcome.” Her hand did not have far to go to find his. He grasped it and she felt a hesitation.

“Ah, Cullen, you made it.” The Seeker approached from the training dummies to their left. “Thank you for coming.”

His features shifted all at once, hard in the presence of the Lady Seeker. Duty before pleasantries. “I appreciate the offer, Seeker Pentaghast. I am grateful for this chance to make a difference.”

The Seeker frowned at the formalities. “Cullen, please, there is no need for that. We should get you set up straight away.” She looked to Liandra. “Ah, but I see you have already met the Herald of Andraste.”

The shemlen started and looked back to the elf. “I-... The Herald...?” Liandra swore she saw a blush to his cheeks and couldn't help but smirk. “I suppose I have, yes.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

The Seeker motioned to Liandra with her armor lined gloves. “Her name is Liandra from Clan Lavellan.” The shemlen straightened up. “Liandra, this is Cullen, a former Templar. I thought he would be the best to serve as Commander of the Inquisition's forces. He has much experience fro-”

Liandra's ears stood up. “Commander of the forces?” She dropped all pretense. “You want this shemlen, a Templar, to serve as Commander?” Cullen stiffened beside her. The mark sparked in her hand, forcing a growl unbidden from her throat. “How can you expect to trust him? Templars are part of the reason this whole war started in the first place!” She felt the demons again, led by her rage, by the Mark.

“Herald-” Both shemlens shouted at once. The Seeker quieted at other's hand.

“Herald, if I may.” Liandra narrowed her eyes, tightening her grip on her staff. “All you have is my word, my oath, that I have no conflict of interest.” He raised his free hand toward the Breach. “My only concern rests with closing the Breach and seeing Thedas protected.” He tilted his head slightly. “Regardless of race or power, the Breach threatens us all. I would see it closed.”

Liandra narrowed her eyes at the taller man. She heard no lie in his words, conviction instead lined his voice. A story rested there that he did not share, the demons behind his eyes stirring slightly at the memories he willed away.

The Seeker tilted her head, the tall shemlen awaited her judgment. While she had been consulted on to clear up a few disagreements, the idea that they desired her approval for one of the leaders of the Inquisition baffled her. She felt the weight of her decision impacting far more than the shemlen’s ego. But, his kindness before and his words now swayed her.

She felt the demons leave her as she calmed. “Fine.” She loosened her grip and stabbed her staff into the snow. “The Seeker seems to trust you, at any rate.” She looked to the Lady Seeker. “And she found the will to trust me.” The Seeker nodded. “Then I will trust you as well.” She held out her hand to him again. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Commander.”