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“Hey, Chief, let’s join the Inquisition!” The Iron Bull purposefully takes a longer swig of his drink than planned, buying him some time to conceal the surprise that shoots through him. With practiced control, he sets down his pint and gives Krem a thin smile. “Getting bored of killing people?”Krem walks further into the tent and plops down on the nearest chair, slouching like a kid. Who is he kidding? He is a kid. Wide-eyed, hopeful, and trusting to a fault. Too trusting. “Not bored of what I’m killing, just what I’m doing it for,” he tilts his head to the side as he looks up at him. “Don’t get me wrong, money and ale is good and all of that, but half the time the bastards that hire us turn out to be the next bastards we kill.”“That is how mercenaries work. They pay us to kill someone, and someone else usually pays us to kill them.” “I know that!” he scoffs, but then, he leans forward. Bull knows that glint in his eye. He gets it every time he’s about to talk him into something. “But wouldn’t you rather have a regular payday, complete with room and board, and the promise of a good fight for a good cause?” Bull leans back and squints at him. “I don’t know, Krem, I hear there are demons.” Krem waves at him dismissively. "Ah, don't worry about the demons, Chief! I'm sure we won't see many!"“There’s a giant hole in the sky, Krem.” “I know! We can help plug it back up. You like plugging things in holes!”“Yeah, but the holes I plug aren’t squirting demons.” With a sigh, Krem deflates into his chair, pouting. Yes, pouting. As cute and helpless as a kicked puppy. “Out with it, Krem. What’s the real reason?” For a brief moment, he actually looks offended. “I’m that obvious?” “That obvious,” Bull confirms. Defeated, he sighs again, bottom lip still pulled forward in a slight pout. The crazy kid. Always wearing his heart on his sleeve. Good way to get himself killed. “So, we’ve been talking and–” Bull raises his good eye at him. “So it’s ‘we’, is it?”“Yes it’s ‘we’!” Krem exclaims in frustration, throwing up his hands. “So it’s really the whole of the Chargers in on this.”Krem crosses his arms. “Do you want to know or not?”“Just like to know all the details.”“Well, the details are that we know you’ve been brooding, and we thought it’s about time we do something about it.” The Iron Bull smiles thinly at him. “That’s just my normal, ugly face. I thought you were used to it by now.”“That normal, ugly face of yours has been staring off into the distance too much, and we don’t like it.” “I’ll try to only stare closely then.” With a growl, Krem throws up his hands, but then stills and looks up at him again with those sad puppy eyes. “Chief, we’ve been wandering for a while now. It’s been good for a time, but don’t you think it’s about time we went somewhere where we matter? Somewhere we can put our skills to good use? Save some people? You know, like how you saved us?’ Once, Bull had a boulder dropped on him, and at his first-in command’s words, he feels that same heaviness now. “You saved yourselves. I just gave you a hand.” “You gave me an eye, Chief.” Bull smirks. “Fine, an eye. Same difference.” “Let us give you one,” Krem whispers. “Nah! I like the patch. It makes me look badass and scares the shit out of people.” Krem rolls his eyes. “Not that! I meant let us help you for once.” Bull drops his smile and frowns. “I know.” They stare at each other in silence, and Bull tries not to give into those pleading eyes. He fails. “The Inquisition huh?”Krem grins. “Do you want to hear what the Herald did at Madame Vivienne’s salon?” Picking up his pint again, he takes another sip. “You mean how she knocked out that asshole with one punch in front of an entire ballroom?” “You knew?!” Bull downs his drink and smiles. “I knew.” He shakes his head. “When can I give the word to leave, Chief?”“Soon,” he says, staring down at his empty pint. “I have to get permission first.” Krem doesn’t ask who from. He knows. _____What he finds out about the Herald of Andraste is confusing, and also very, very interesting. Some say she fell from the Fade by the Maker himself, but Bull is more interested in the smaller rumors. Rumors that she’s really not from Thedas, and that when she first woke, she spoke a strange language. Also, she can do things similar to mages, and yet, is not a mage. Her faceoff with the Lord Seeker in the markets of Orealis is spreading like wildfire. So, he watches, he listens, and he waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. There are reports that the Inquisition has sent out scouts to the Storm Coast and are clearly looking for something, but that’s not all. Some strange group of unknown elves have also been spotted along the coast doing the same thing. Even more curious, both groups seem unable to find what they’re looking for. After a carefully planned “run in” with one Inquisition scout, complete with drinks and no clothes, he gets his answer. Apparently, she claims to be a Commander of a ship. A ship from somewhere very far away. The scouts have been ordered to scour the Storm Coast in search of evidence of her alleged shipwreck. Bull frowns before slipping the papers back into the scout’s bag and leaves before they wake. So she may have come from across the sea, huh? That explains what the Inquisition’s interest in the matter is, but who are these groups of elves? Who are they working for? And how did this Commander wash up here without anyone seeing her? The more information he finds, the more questions he has. It’s time he met this Herald of Andraste. _____With a massive swing from his greataxe, Bull cleaves the last warrior’s skull in two. He likes the sound of his ax slicing through metal, less so the sound of squirting blood, but it’s part of the job. That leaves three mages left, and by the looks of things, Dalish has one of them cornered. Heaving his ax over his shoulder, he squints through the rain and sees them. Three figures on horseback. An elf, a human, and a dwarf. Not a common sight, but he can guess at who they are. Especially when he sees the dwarf. Varric Tethras. The Quanari know much about him. The whole incident of the last Arishok aside, he writes good stories. The elf he knows less about, except that he claims to be some sort of fade expert. Whatever the shit that means. That just leaves the human, and based on Krem’s description, he knows it’s her. Damn. She does have purple eyes. Huh. Dalish kills one of the mages, but out of the corner of his good eye, he sees one of the others about to blast Grim from behind. Before Bull can issue a warning, the mage suddenly glows blue, and by the look of surprise fear on his face, that isn’t supposed to happen. Then, his feet are lifted off the ground before he is flung through the air and splashes far out into the stormy waves ahead. By the looks of things, he most likely hit the rocks beneath, for he doesn’t surface. That leaves one more. Bull turns and runs up behind the bewildered mage that is staring in shock at his fallen comrade. He never sees Bull’s ax as it splits open his stomach. When he looks up, he sees purple eyes, black hair, and a commanding gaze. Grinning, he wipes the blood out of his eyes with his arm and pushes his ax into the sand. “Chargers, stand down! Krem! How’d we do?”“Five or six wounded, chief. No dead.”Still smiling, he finishes giving Krem orders. Then, he turns and stares at the woman again. This is the Herald of Andraste? Bull lets out a loud, unbelieving laugh. “Hot damn, it’s true! Oh, the Chantry must love you. A foreign mage that isn’t a mage as the Herald of Andraste. Who’d’a thought?”Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “And just how do you know all of that?” So she pays attention to people’s words. Good to know. Then again, he wasn’t trying to be subtle. For now, he doesn’t answer, and instead invites them for drinks. As he walks them over to some driftwood to serve as seats, he does not miss the cutting glare of the elf. A suspicious one, he thinks. Smart man. When he sits and faces them again, he catches a look of concern from the elf, and a look of confusion from the Herald. So, they’re close. Or at least, close enough for the elf to try to warn her of his mistrust of him. Something to keep an eye on.“Let me guess… Iron Bull?” “The Iron Bull,” he corrects. Damn people always leave out the important part. “Yeah. The horns usually give it away.” “Really?” she says deadpans.He smirks at her. “As for you, the unusual glowiness gives you away.” “And foreigner?” She really does pay attention and follow through. Another thing to note. “Aren’t you? You came from over the sea, right?’“And how would you know that?”“Word travels fast,” he says evasively. “Not all of it.”Well, what’s the harm? He was planning on telling her anyway. It’s a good way to gain her trust. No one suspects that spy that tells you he’s a spy. It makes you look harmless, like you're not so good at your job. Meanwhile, they think you’re giving them the control. It’s like sex. Finally, he nods. “You’ve got good instincts. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”“Can’t say I have. Foreigner, remember?”That gives him pause. “But you do know of the Quanari.” He watches her carefully, and starts to notice the small things most people miss. Like the way her shoulders roll back and she lifts her chin. A common defensive response most do when they are trying not to feel vulnerable. “You’re the first I’ve seen.” He doesn’t hide his surprise, wanting to test her further. “Really? Huh. My people come from across the sea too, you know.” She shrugs and shifts in her seat. Another thing people do when they’re uncomfortable. “It’s a big ocean.” It doesn’t add up. Bull believes only three things about this woman. One, that she’s a soldier, and used to commanding people. Scar on her left brow aside, he sees it in the way she walks and carries herself. Two, she’s never seen a Qunari. Though she doesn’t stare at him like he's a curious spectacle like most do, she takes in his appearance like a child does when meeting the kid on the street: open and honest curiosity. Three, she’s no sailor. That, he knows. Her skin is the palest and smoothest he’s ever seen, and Bull knows that any true sailors worth a crap are as tan and rough as Antivan leather. Yet, somehow, she’s a commander of a ship? It doesn’t add up. “Not very big,” he replies, but moves on. “It’s a Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically.” He pauses, then corrects himself. “Or, well, we’re spies.”Her reaction is one he suspected, and one he hoped for. “An honest spy?”“When I need to be. Someone would have eventually tipped me off. Best you hear it up front from me. Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side. The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people. ”“And you won’t get in trouble?”“Not if I report on your efforts to close the Breach and help you succeed, no.” “What would you report back, and what information would we get?”She’s curious. Good. Time to give her a little more. Make her feel more in control, and he’s the one submitting. “Enough to keep my superiors happy. Nothing that’ll compromise your operations. The Qunari want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. You let me send word of what you’re doing, it’ll put some minds at ease. That’s good for everyone. As for information… enemy movements, suspicious activity, intriguing gossip. It’s a bit of everything. Alone, they’re not much. But if your spymaster is worth a damn, she’ll put ‘em to good use.She gives him a sharp look, but not without some amusement. “Ah, I see you’ve already done more research than just on me.” He smiles and shrugs. “I’ve always had a weakness for redheads.”At this, she laughs. It’s a pleasant sound, and tells him that she isn’t as ‘all work and no play’ as she appears to be. “Careful. That redhead is very good at her job, and no doubt good at fighting, though I’ve never seen her in action.” Time to test her bit more. See how far he can go. “I like a little pain, maybe even a little poison, if it's the right person.” Then, he gives her one of his careless winks that often lead to swooning and clothes being torn. To his surprise, and a bit of disappointment, she doesn’t swoon. In fact, he’s not sure she even realizes he was flirting with her. “None for me, thanks. I’ve had my share of both. Neither were pleasant.” He looks at her incredulously. She took him seriously. “You didn’t have the right kind then.” At this, her eyes flicker, and he knows that she suddenly understands him completely. However, she is distracted from responding both by the dwarf’s laughter and Krem’s sudden appearance. Too bad. He would have liked to have seen her response. In the meantime, he catches the elf glaring daggers at him, and somehow, he doubts it’s just because he’s a Quanari spy. After Krem leaves, she sniffs her drink and crinkles her nose. Though not a redhead, she’s kind of cute in her own strange way. “So, you want to work for us?” “I do! Not before my drink, though,” he says, take a long, generous sip.“What is this, exactly? Not poison, I take it.” It’s not an accusation. Very generous of her.He laughs. “That depends on who you ask. This is Golden Scythe 4:90 Black. You spill it, you’ll kill all the grass.”“But not your innards?” “That depends on the person.” He looks her in the eyes steadily. Just how tough is she?She meets his stare, as well as his unspoken challenge. With one, long swing, she throws her head back and drinks. He watches her, waiting for the usual sounds of choking, followed by burning eyes and puking in the grass. Instead, she licks her lips and looks at him. That’s all you got? She seems to say. Alright, he admits. That’s impressive. “Guess you need a stronger dose.” She smirks, and then downs the whole fucking mug. Bull stares at her. Damn. That was badass. “You were honest, so let me do you the same courtesy and tell you something about me,” She leans forward, never breaking his gaze. This time, he knew she was the one challenging him. “The man who poisoned me? Dead. The man who abused my trust? Dead. The man who stabbed me in the back? Dead. The people who didn’t follow my orders and tried to overthrow me? All dead. Is that alright with you?” It clicks for him then. She knew. She knew what he was doing, and she was telling him that she has no mercy for betrayers. Badassery aside, he had a deeper respect for her then. She would make good in the Ben-Hassrath. He couldn’t pull out now. Not when he now had orders to infiltrate the Inquisition and win her trust… at any cost. Guess this job is going to be more challenging than he thought. Bull downs his drink and throws mug. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” “Welcome aboard, Bull. You’re hired.” She offers him her hand. No one offers a Qunari spy a hand. And yet, she is. He shakes it. Her hands are soft, but he feels the callouses on her fingertips. But they’re unusual. They’re not from wielding any sword. How did she get them? “Thanks, boss.” “I’m not our boss. Oh, and one last thing. You’ll need something stronger than that to poison me.” Forget badass. That was fucking hot. “So I noticed. I’ll try harder next time,” he promises her.A promise he intends to keep. Although, the elf might be a problem.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
The Chantry says that when the Maker’s children perish, they pass through the void to join him at his side. But who are the Maker’s children? Certainly not elves. He has heard tales that the Dalish say it is a place of disease and torment, but he isn’t Dalish. No, elves like him know better. The void is nothing. There will be no emerald shores waiting for his
mère
and three little
sœurs
. Not even a place of torment. Instead, they are nothing. Gone. Never to return or linger in this world. The thought does not make him weep, like his
père
, who even now weeps as he sweeps up the ashes of his family into a large jar. No. It does not make him weep.
It gives him comfort.
For it was in life they had lived in torment and disease. It was in life they were filled with blind hope and bitter anguish of empty promises of a better tomorrow. No more. Now, they will only know the blissful peace of nothingness.
It gives him comfort.
They will know no more pain, but what of the men who slew them? Will they? He should kill them. Burn down their homes with their families in them, and he would. Hecould have before, if not for his
père
. He has seen his proud father slowly wither away into a bent-backed coward, kissing the boots of the Orlesian swine. And what has it gotten him? How has his bowing and scraping been returned? Not with death. No, that would be too merciful for them. Instead, they have rewarded him with the curse of the living: the knowledge that nothing they do will ever matter.
His father did not save their family. He never could have. He will have to live with that knowledge now, and Tavin can see that it is breaking him.
“I’m going to kill them,” Tavin hisses, breaking through his
père
’s sobs.
Brok gasps for breath and turns to his son, the last of his family. “No,” he heaves, his eyes growing wide with mad panic. “No! No!” Slowly, and with great effort, the old man crawls through the ash and debris to his son’s feet. Once there, he lifts up one hand and clutches at the bottom of Tavin’s shirt. His other arm still presses the jar of ashes to his chest. “You must not! You will not! I forbid it.”
Tavin sets his jaw as he looks down upon his
père.
His father. Tavin scowls. Once, when he was a little boy, he used to watch this man with awe for hours as he sweated and hammered metal into the long hours of the day, bending and shaping the seemingly indestructible metal to his will. In those days of growing up in his father’s smithy, he had wanted to be like him. He wanted to be a man who could bend the impossible to his will. He wanted to be strong like his father. But now, his father is at his feet, begging. Once, he had thought his father was the hammer, but now Tavin sees that he has been the metal all along.
“You can’t stop me,” he scoffs again. “Look at you! Look around you! We did things your way. We kissed their boots and let them rob us every time they came here, and what did that get us?”
“Tavin, please—” Brok chokes, more sobs emerging from deep within his chest.
“I’ll tell you what it got us,” he continues, angered by his father. “A jar that could be filled with the ashes of furniture for all we know!” At this, he yanks away from his grasp so hard that the jar slips from his
père
’s grasp and onto the floor.
It shatters.
With a wail, Brok’s hands reach down and try to scoop up the ashes, but his hands are shaking, and only disturb the pile even more. For the first time since Tavin was thirteen and had stolen a gold piece from a blindman’s bowl, his father yells at him. “Have you no heart? Have you no understanding of how long I have fought for you? For your sisters? For your mother?” Fresh tears start to stream down his cheeks anew. “Your poor, beautiful mother. She wanted more for you than a roof over your head and food in your bellies. A future, hope: that’s what she wanted for you. That’s what I wanted for you. For them…”
For the first time, Tavin’s heart feels a twinge of guilt. Slowly, he kneels down next to his father and begins brushing the spilt ashes into a pile. “I know,” he whispers, too prideful to answer in a true apology.
“No, you don’t know, you ungrateful brat!” his father yells again. Suddenly, Tavin feels a sharp sting across his left cheek as his father slaps him across the face. “Do you want to die? Fine! Go. Burn down the bastard’s houses. Get yourself killed. I won’t care, since you don’t. But tell me, Tavin: who will stop them from burning down the rest of us? Hmmm? Have you ever thought of that?”
Tavin blinks, both in shock of the slap and at the truth in his
père
’s words.
“I know you don’t respect me, son. I’ve known about it for a while now. Grieved it, even, but I’ll be damned if you throw your life away and condemn the city for your selfishness. You’ll have to kill me first.” His
père
’s eyes shine bright with blue fire. The hottest kind. The kind that melts metal. “Think you can do that?”
A lone tear falls unbidden down his stung cheek. He doesn’t notice it, but his father does. “No,” Tavin says in a choked sob.
Brok nods, the fire still burning in his eyes. “Good.”
After that, they work in silence. Both ever aware of each other’s presence and pain, and both not knowing how best to acknowledge it. So, instead, they sweep and clean up the remains of their small hovel of a home. It is night by the time they finish, and all that is left are large, charred planks of wood too heavy for them to carry.
“That’ll do,” Brok says, sighing wearily. “I’ll ask Hahren and the others to give us a hand with the rest tomorrow.”
“What will we do now? We have no money, no home, and no smithy,” Tavin replies, “How do we start over with nothing?”
“We’re not alone, my son. For tonight, Hahren has offered us his lean-to for the night.” Before Tavin can argue, he lifts up a small vase filled with ashes. “Come, we have one last thing to do before curfew.”
Silently, they walk through the labyrinth of dirty hovels until they reach the vhenadahl. The tree of their people. What a joke. Tavin thinks it would do more good as kindling, but for once, says nothing. He watches as his father brings the vase to his lips and gives it a parting kiss.
“Farewell, my beloved, my lady. May your spirit fly free from this place to land full of sunlight and fresh air.” Three more times, he kisses the vase. “Farewell, my darling, precious girls. May you fly with your mother with laughter and joy.” Reaching in, he takes out a handful of ashes and lifts it into the air, letting the wind take it as it will. “Farewell, we will forever miss you, but not forget you.”
“Farewell,” Tavin whispers, joining him.
They continue like this for while, taking turns until the vase is half empty, and then his father stops. “That is enough, for now. Come, let us sleep.”
“What do you mean?” Tavin asks, confused. “We aren’t finished.”
“We will save the rest for our journey. I wish for a part of them to fly free in the wide, open air and far from this place.”
Tavin stops in his tracks and stares at his father, then snaps his jaw. “Our journey?! You mean to leave and join the Inquisition, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s run by humans, father! Don’t let that silver tongued bitch tricked you with her pretty words and fake sympathy!”
Brok turns on his heel to stare at his son. “Then what would you do?”
His chest burns and his nostrils flare in the heat of his anger. “I wouldn’t bind myself to more human bastards!”
“I asked what you would do, not what you wouldn’t.”
He opens his mouth, ready to reply with a heated retort, but no words escape.
His father shakes his head. “You’re trying to strike at metal before it’s heated, son. You’ll never make what you want out of life that way.”
“And did you get what you wanted?” Tavin snaps, and instantly regrets it.
Once again, hot blue fire stares back at him through his father’s eyes. “I will not leave you to burn the alienage down with you!”
Tavin flinches, expecting another slap, but none comes. In all his life, no matter how angry he was, his father had never hit him. Until tonight.
Seeing his son flinch away from him douses the fire, and his shoulders hunch over with an old weariness. “As you said, we have nothing. Hahren and the others could scrape up enough to help us a little, for a time, but they have their own bellies to feed. As you said, we can’t start anew from nothing. Not here.”
“But what about travel fees? Isn’t that why you said we could never leave before?” he points out.
Brok bows his head, looking down at the half-empty vase in his hands. “Before, there were more of us, and none to offer aid. Now, we are two, and have someone willing to pay for it.”
“But they’re humans!” Tavin spits.
“Not all. The lady had an elf with her, no?”
“Her servant, no doubt! I will not leave here to become some bitch’s pet!”
His father looks up at him and shakes his head. “What other choice do we have, Tavin? We could wither away here and die, true, but I know you. In the end, it will be your ashes I will have to lift to the wind, and I will not do that.”
Tavin looks away. “Fine. I’ll go with you, but I won’t be forced to be little more than a slave!”
“Metal can’t be shaped into a sword until it is heated and broken first, my son. I thought I taught that.”
“I do know that,” he snaps back, “and we aren’t talking about making swords!”
“Neither was I,” he father replies in a light whisper.
They continue walking until they reach the lean-to and settle into the cramped space for the night. For a long time, Tavin lay awake, listening to the whispers of his father’s breathing.
“Father?” he whispers, hesitantly.
A slight hum is his only response.
“You’re right. I don’t respect you,” he confesses, his voice fraying a little, “but I— I love you.”
His father does not reply, and Tavin lies still in his bed listening, waiting for an answer, but none comes. Swallowing, he shoves his emotions further down within him until all he can feel is the weight of it in his chest. Then, just before he gives himself over to the blissful nothingness of sleep, an answer comes to him in a whisper.
“I know.”
In the morning, he can not remember if it was real, or the whispers of a half-forgotten dream.
_____
The woman and elf had already gone, but an Inquisition agent was left to assist them should they decide to appear. While his father took this as a sign to place further faith in the bitch and the human Inquisition, Tavin had no such faith.
“They just don’t want to lose their precious, free labor,” he grumbles under his breath.
The Inquisition agent then provides them with a sack of twenty silver and ten coppers, to which his father accepts with a thankful bow and a pointed look at him. “An interesting way of obtaining ‘free’ labor, isn’t it?”
Tavin scowls. “They can always steal back what’s left.”
In all, the journey will take them about five weeks by cart on the Imperial Highway, which, again, the Inquisition agent is all too eager to escort them to. But with no better plan, Tavin lets his father have his way, and soon, they leave the dark alienage and the tall walls of Orlais behind them. Though he has always hated his life there, it has been the only home he has ever known, and for the first few hours of their journey beyond the city gates, fear takes hold of him. Fear, both of the unknown and for what fate awaits them in this strange, new land.
That fear leaves him, however, when he sees mountains for the first time. He has heard of mountains before, of course, but has always pictured them to be as tall and unfeeling as the walls of the alienage, which only let in light at noon. Never in his wildest imaginings could something so tall and made of dirt and stone make him feel so free… and so alive. For the first time in his life, breathing the fresh air isn’t a saying, it’s an experience. Gone is the smell of soot, filth, and sewage. Instead, he smells something sharp and sweet. Pine, he is told, and with another breath, he smells something new: a faint sweetness in the air.
“You mean grass?” the Inquisition agent asks at his question, not even trying to keep the mirth out of his voice.
After that, Tavin stopped asking him what he was smelling. Smug bastard. His father, however, smiles and pats his knee. “It’s been a long time since I traveled this far out of the city. I had forgotten what it felt like: smelling the open air, hearing the wind sing through the trees, feeling the warmth of sunlight on my face for more than four hours a day. This is part of the future I always wanted for you, son. I just wish…” he trails off for a moment, looking at the carefully packed vase in the cart beside them. “I just wish it could have happened sooner.”
Tavin wants to scream at him.
Then why didn’t it? Why didn’t we run away? Live in the woods? The Dalish do it. It couldn’t be that hard!
But he grits his teeth and says nothing, because for the first time since he was a little boy, he remembers how nice it is to see his father smile, and how much he has missed it.
_____
When they first reach sight of Haven on the horizon, his father asks the agent to stop the cart for a moment as they take in the sight of their new home.
Home.
Sometimes, when Tavin was a boy and used to bind his ears to his head and put a hat over it, he would wander outside the walls and into the heart of Orlais. There, he would sometimes meet other children who were dressed in bright, clean clothes and ready smiles. Occasionally, he would play tag or sword fight with sticks with them, and one time, a boy invited him to see his home. The boy was smiling when he said the word, his eyes bright and eager, and his voice overflowing with pride. That is the moment that Tavin envied more than just the boy’s clean clothes and rounded ears. He envied what made him say the word in such a way that made Tavin feel empty. Tavin didn’t go with the boy to see his home. Instead, he rubbed his face in dirt until his clothes were dirty and torn and he was crying for his mother.
His own mother was so angry when she found out what he had done that she’d told his father to whip him with a belt. Never in his life had he seen his gentle mother so angry, but he was more afraid that his father might do it, but he didn’t. Instead, he had looked at him quietly for a moment before saying to his mother, “No need. He won’t do it again. He’s learned his lesson. Nothing comes from looking for something you can’t have, eh boy?”
He was right. Tavin never went outside of his home again, but he still longed for the secret warmth behind the human boy’s eyes. Now, staring out over the endless, rocky cliffs, and towards the village of tents and wood in the distance, he wonders if the word will mean anything different for him here.
Suddenly, his father hops out of the cart with the vase held tightly in the crook of his arm. Then, he carefully makes his way to the edge of the mountain overlooking Haven. Tavin jumps out after him and watches as his father holds up the vase towards the sunlight. The snow glistens like diamonds beneath their feet.
“Look at it, my love!” he exclaims with tears in his eyes. “Look at it, my darling girls! This is our new home!”
Then, with a smile, he tips the vase over, and the ashes blow down over the mountains, onto the free wind, and to the glistening valley below.
_____
Their escort dropped them at the gate and left to take care of the horse. With no possessions but the clothes on their backs and the bag of coins they were given, they walk past the camp of training soldiers and through the gate. Tavin didn’t know what he had pictured Haven would look like until he saw it. He had just assumed it would be like Orlais, with tall, stone structures decorated with gold, and people swarming about in silks and satins. Instead, it was… rustic. Plain. It was as though someone had taken their alienage, scrubbed it clean, and built sturdier homes and called it a day.
Bewildered, he looks around at people dressed in worn leathers and tattered cloth and fur coats. This is the mighty, human Inquisition? Did they truly live so plainly? If humans live this bad, what of them? What of elven servants? The small light of hope that had squeezed and pushed its way through into his heart was in that moment extinguished. It was foolish to come here. It was foolish to expect anything better. At least in Orlais they could steal and get lost in the crowd. Here? Pft. Here they will be slaves. How could such humans, who were most certainly poor, be willing to treat them any better?
His growing resentment grows worse when Seeker Penteghast directs them to their blacksmith, Harrit. The man is just standing there, watching as other people do the work for him, and they call him a blacksmith. He knew they were going to be slaves. He knew it. The Seeker, looking every inch the disapproving Chantry bitch explains to the man why they are here and that they will be here to stay.
“What? Them skinny knife-ears? Can they even lift a hammer?”
Tavin clenches his fist and moves to punch the man in the mouth when he feels his father grip his arm.
“Be still.”
It takes all of his little store of will to obey.
“They are elves, Harrit, elves,” The Seeker hisses in a whisper. “They were personally invited here by the Herald of Andraste. Remember that.”
Beside him, he hears his father gasp in surprise. “The Herald? She was the Herald?”
Immediately, the blacksmith huffs and lowers his head. “Pardon me. Didn’t mean anything by it. I’m an old man whose tongue leaps without thinking. That’s all. They’ll have no trouble with me, so long as they can lift a hammer.”
“Thank you, master Harrit,” his father answers. “We look forward to being able to put our meager talents to good use. Although, I am afraid all of our tools were lost recently. Do you have any to spare or know where some might be acquired?”
Harrit huffs. “Talk to Dennet up the steps a bit there. He’s a wily bastard who keeps the goods we can use so he can make a bloody profit. But, he’s the only one around selling anything worth buying. Don’t let him cheat you though. Damn snake he is.”
His father bows his head, “Thank you, I shall go see what I can obtain while my son settles in.”
Tavin clenches his fist to his side. “Father, I don’t think—”
“That’s your problem,” he interrupts him with a warning look. “Do a little until I return.”
When his father leaves, he has every intention of being as silent as possible, but the old man makes that impossible when he tells Tavin to find a place in the stables.
The stables.
Soon, before he knows what’s happening, he is standing toe to toe with the bastard as the Seeker bitch yaps at them to stop. When the old man repeats again that he must live with the animals, Tavin feels all his anger rush back up his chest, especially when he looks down on him and calls him ‘boy’. He steps forward again, fists at the ready by his side.
“I am no boy you toothless ba—”
At that moment, a stocky, broad man with dark hair and a bushy beard pushes his way in between them. “Now hold on moment. He speaks the truth. Look around. Everyone here is trying to find decent shelter. Now, I have been given a room just attached to the stables. A room I share with Master Harritt here. Now, since I do not mind sharing the night with the horses, why don’t you and your father take my space. It might be tight, but we can find you an extra cot just fine.”
Tavin curls his lip at the snoopy intruder. “I will share no roof with him,” he says, then spits at Harrit’s shoes.
To his surprise, and anger, the old man looks unfazed and waves him off. “A fool you are, boy. May that temper of yours not be your doom.”
Boy? How dare he? He tries to push his way around the bearded man, but he is held back. “Come back here and face me! Then let’s see you call me a boy!” When Harrit continues to ignore his challenge and the man doesn’t step away, he pulls back his fist for a punch and—
“Punch him, and you’ll be picking your teeth off the floor.”
Swinging his head around, he sees a woman standing off to the side with short, black hair and violet eyes. It’s her. It’s the human bitch that waved a dream under his father’s nose and dragged them out here to live and die with the animals. Tavin has felt hate. He’s felt it towards the little boy, he’s felt it towards the men who murdered his family, but now, he knows the kind of hate that lives and breathes and takes shape. In that moment, that shape is her. Hope.
“You,” he seethes. You have a lot of nerve, don’t you? All humans do. But to feed my father lies and promises of a better place after all we went through— The Orleasians are monsters, but at least they don’t give us false hope. You are worse. People like you should be killed where they stand.”
He waits, ready for a fist the face or an order to have him killed. He waits for it eagerly, for he is tired of living, and even more tired of living with nothing but his anger to make him feel alive. Just then, the bearded man grabs Tavin by the shirt and hoists him up in the air with one hand. His feet dangle uselessly in the air. Normally, Tavin would be afraid of the cold darkness in the man’s eyes, but not today. Today, he’s never felt more ready to fight, even if it means death.
“Don’t you ever threaten to kill her around me, boy. She is the Herald of Andraste, and a good woman at that. Just try touching her, and you’ll have more than a few missing teeth to worry about.”
Any moment now, and the man will snap his neck, and he will be free. Not a coward, like his father, but also not left alive to live in this torment. Nothing. Soon, he will be nothing.
“Blackwall,” the so-called Herald snaps, then adds calmly. “Put him down. He’s my guest.”
To Tavin’s disappointment, the man doesn’t snap his neck. He does, however, speak one last time before releasing him. “If you’re looking for an easy way to die, be man enough to seek it honestly.”
Surprised, Tavin looks at the man, Blackwall, and wonders how he knew. His anger and wish for death is momentarily forgotten as his feet hit the ground once again. Blackwall meets his gaze, and though his eyes soften, his voice remains stern.
“Remember what I said, boy.”
Tavin snaps to his feet, remembering his anger. He will show them just how much of a man he is. He will show them all, even if he has to burn the place down with him. There is no alienage here, so what should he care?
“Tavin! That’s enough!”
He knows the voice before he sees them, and he knows he’s in trouble, but he doesn’t care. “Father! These people lied to us! As I told you they would. They are worse than the human scum in Orlais. They want us to live like animals!”
“We would never—!” exclaims the Seeker.
“These are groundless claims, Herald. I assure you,” seethes a glowering commander.
“Silence, boy!” his father snaps. “You shame me.”
Tavin blanches. In all his life, his father has never hit him or said those words until now. Now, because of the false hope these humans have fed him, his father has done both. “But they—”
“If you will not be silent, then go back to Orlais.”
His anger stills, then plummets into his belly. He had followed. He had come. For his father. Everything Tavin has ever done has always been for him.
“Wait,” the Herald says, interrupting his spiralling thoughts. “Let’s just take a moment before we say something we’ll regret.”
His father bows his head. “Greetings, Herald. Had I known who you were before, I would have–”
“I am simply a soldier,” she says, hastily. “Nothing more, and you, are my guests. Thank you for coming.”
Tavin, as well as his father, both look at her in surprise. However, while his father accepts it in good grace, he keeps it in silent suspicion.
“Thank you, Herald, for having us, and I apologize on my son’s behalf.”
Tavin snaps his eyes back to his father. “I have done nothing!”
The Herald holds up her hand. “I am not interested in apologies. All I’m interested in is making sure you have what you need. Now, Seeker Cassandra, Commander Cullen, would you please wait for me in the Chantry? I will be there in a minute.” Though reluctant, the two do as she requests. “Warden Blackwall?”
The man steps forward beside him.
“Thank you for your kind offer earlier, but I will see to it that they have everything they need.”
Blackwall bows. “Of course, my lady. I only hope some will be grateful for it,” he adds, casting Tavin a quick glare before bowing again and walking over to Harritt. Tavin stares daggers at his back.
“So, how was your journey?”
“It was long, but after… after everything that happened, there was little for us to bring. With the accommodations the Seeker left us, the travel was easy on these old bones.”
Tavin huffs and crosses his arms. It is obvious to him what she’s doing. He’s seen Chantry sisters do it before. They act the noble and caring benefactor before then turning around and taking what they wish from you. Why couldn’t his father understand that?
“And how was your welcome?”
“Better than we have been accustomed to, Herald.”
“Please, call me Shepard.” She cocks her head at him. “It just occurred to me that I don’t know your name.”
“Oh, of course. Forgive me,” he says, bowing. “I am Brok, my lady.”
“Nice to meet you again, Brok,” she smiles. The snake. “I gather there’s a bit of a problem with your lodgings.”
Tavin feels his father’s eyes burning a hole through his head.
“It has been explained to us that there are more coming to Haven every day, and that there are no more proper rooms for them to give us. Master Harrit has been most kind and offered us a place in the stables. An offer, which I most gratefully accepted. I fear my son, however, didn’t understand this, otherwise he would never have made such ungrateful comments as I heard earlier. Please, forgive us for the disturbance.”
At this, he can be silent no longer. “I misunderstood nothing! She lured you here with promises of a better place, and then insists we sleep in the stalls like animals!”
“Be still, my son. She is not to blame for the lack of rooms, and Master Harritt was to secure us cots.”
Tavin throws up his arms. “Ah! Well, that makes it all better then! At least we can now be in bed with the animals!”
“Tavin, please. Do not shame me more.”
“I shame you?!” All his anger, all his need to fight has been for him, because Tavin knows his father, for some strange reason, is too cowardly to do it himself. So, instead, he gets angry for them both. He yells for them both. He fights for them both. And yet, and yet… he’s a disappointment? He shames him? Fine. He will leave. He will go back to the place with grass and trees and live on his own. That will show his father.
“I owe you an apology.”
It takes a moment to realize the meaning of the words, but when he does, he looks at the Herald anew.
“I am afraid they were misinformed. There is one cabin left. It isn’t big or grand, but it is clean, has a warm fire, and plenty of room for the two of you. So, if you would forgive me for the confusion, I would like to take you there now.”
“Oh, my lady,”his father says, blinking back tears. “We would be in your debt even more.”
“No. You owe nothing, remember? This is part of your job.”
“Then we thank you again,” he says, then looks over at him, a silent plea in his eyes.
Tavin looks between the two: the first human to ever give an apology, and the only one left in the world who would mourn his death. Reluctantly, he gives his acceptance. He will stay. He will give this one more chance.
With a slight smile, the Herald turns. “Follow me.”
_____
She leads them to a small cabin just inside the inner gate. It is one room, just like their old home in the alienage. That is, except it is warm, clean, and smells of freshly made food. Not only that, but there, right beside the large fireplace, is a large wooden tub. Not an oversized bucket used for watering horses. An actual, full length tub, and from the looks of the steam rising from the surface of the water, it is hot. Never in his life has he had a hot bath. Tavin is so stunned by the sight he tunes out the conversation around him until a small, surprised voice alerts him to a newcomer.
“M-my lady! Y-your b-back!”
Tavin tears his eyes away from the tub to see a small, pale elven woman with short, choppy hair and green eyes standing in the doorway. In her arms, she carries a large bucket of fresh, steaming water. Ah. So they do have servants here. Just as he thought, and by the looks of her, she doesn’t seem well fed. Indeed, he is surprised she can lift that heavy bucket. Also, by the stutter in her voice, she is obviously afraid of the Herald. He sneaks a knowing glance at his father to say “I told you so,” but then, he soon whips his head back in surprise at the Herald’s response.
“I know! Hopefully longer than last time. I’ve missed your cooking.”
The servant’s pale cheeks flush a rosy red as she looks down, not in fear, but in pleasant shyness. She even smiles. “The b-bath is almost ready,” she says before shuffling past them and dumping the hot water carefully into the tub.
Is that servant… happy?
“Thank you, Sala. I am sure our guests will appreciate it after their long journey.”
This time, the servant girl, Sala, whips her head up, then ducks it downward again and away from view. “I s-see,” she stutters, as though scared she has done something wrong. Tavin feels relief settle on him again. So, not happy, just good at playing a game to keep her master content.
“Brok, Tavin, may I introduce you to possibly one of the most important people here. This is Sala. She’s smart, kind, and will have your clothes washed and your meals cooked before you even notice you're dirty or hungry. The Inquisition couldn’t do without her.”
Again, Sala looks up, fear on her face and in her voice. “I—I—I’m n-not all of th-th-that!”
“Don’t believe a word she says about herself,” The Herald says, her teeth forming a cruel, predator smile that makes his skin crawl.
Sala cheeks flush again as she stands. This time, he does not mistake it for kindness, but from overworking herself. “I-I’m n-not l-like y-you, m-my lady.”
The Herald gives a cruel laugh at her servant’s discomfort. “And thank the stars for that! People always want to kill me.” Then, she turns to introduce them, all while giving her servant a stern, commanding look. “Sala, this is Brok, a blacksmith, and his son Tavin. They are my special guests and have come to help the Inquisition at my request. I trust you will take care of them as you have of me?”
Tavin feels anger and bile rush to his throat. How dare she? He looks to his father, who looks stupidly unaware of how blatantly the Herald is antagonizing and threatening her servant in front of them. It is a show of kindness. Kindness masked in a promising threat to know their place.
Sala nods at her master in solemn fear. “I w-will. Th-they w-won’t w-want for n-nothing.”
The Herald grins at her like a cat with a mouse. “Thank you. I can always count on you.”
Sala returns her awkward, stinted smile. Just then, another figure stands in the open door . It is the Seeker, reminding the Herald that she is needed elsewhere. Thankfully, the Herald makes to leave. Tavin can’t wait to be away from that smiling cat.
“Well, rest well, and let me or Sala know if you need anything.”
“Thank you. Thank you,” his father says. “May the Maker smile upon you.”
Tavin gives her no such compliment. He stares at her with all the hatred he can muster, but she pays him no mind and leaves. Sala rushes out after her for a moment, leaving both men alone for the first time all day.
“We need to leave, father. Now. Surely you can see that?”
His father sighs and shakes his head. “What is it now, Tavin? I am too tired for any more of this. If they can not secure another bed, I can sleep on the floor. I’ve done it most of my life.”
“It isn’t the blasted beds!” Tavin yells. “Were you really fooled by that Chantry bitch’s smile? Did you not notice how terrified her servant was of her?”
Brok’s eyes flash to the side, then back at him, his voice once again growing stern and cold with warning. “Tavin, enough. You’re thinking too much now, I think.”
“You aren’t thinking at all!” Tavin says, throwing up his arms. “She was terrified! She couldn’t get a single word out without stuttering.”
“Tavin, enough!” his father growls.
“No!” Tavin screams, “No, it is not enough! You just don’t want to accept that you were wrong and I was right. You don’t want to accept that the Chantry’s human bitch was using her fake smiles and honeyed words to lure you here and then keep you under her thumb with fear. You’re a coward, father. I know it, and she does too. She’ll keep you here as a pet, because she knows you’re trained to not bite back.”
“Tavin!” He yells, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “You’ve gone too far!”
Before he can respond, there is a loud bang as the door slams shut, shaking the little cabin to its core. Both men part from each other and stare at the slender frame staring back at them. It is Sala. Her eyes stare at them in wide shock. Instantly, his father takes a hesitant step towards her. “My apologies, did we startle you? I must apologize. It has been a difficult journey and—”
“Wh-wh-what did you s-say?” she whispers, her hands are shaking so bad that the metal bucket she is holding clanks like a bell in the wind.
Brok frowns and speaks more slowly. “I said we didn’t mean to freight—”
“N-no,” she says, her voice becoming stronger. Then, slowly, she raises her arm and points towards him, her eyes never leaving his face. “H-him. Wh-what d-did he c-call m-my l-lady?”
Tavin looks at her with pity. “It’s alright. You don’t need to be afraid of her. You can leave here, with us. We can go to the woods and live off the land like the Dalish. We don’t have to answer to human scum like her anymore.”
Sala lowers her hand, but now, the rest of her body is quaking. “Wh-wh-what did you c-call her?”
He frowns, confused at her repeated question. “Human scum? The Chantry’s bitch? What does it matter? It’s true, isn’t it?”
It happens so fast, Tavin doesn’t remember how it happened. One minute, she is standing across from him, and the next minute, she has her fingers grasping the hair on the back of his skull and drags him to the tub. Then, with more strength than he would ever give her credit for, she pushes his head underwater and holds him there. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off, but when it does, he chokes in surprise and consequently inhales some water before his head is yanked backward. His gasps, and chokes as he simultaneously tries to cough up water and breath in air.
“Y-you ungr-grateful b-bastard!”
Another shove, and he is once again gulping down hot water before being pulled back to choke on air again.
“D-d-on’t you ever—”
Dunk.
“Ever—”
Dunk.
“Speak about my lady in such a way again!”
Dunk.
Finally, his body remembers it can fight back and he yanks himself away from her, but by the sting at the back of his head and the clumps of red hair in her hand, it wasn’t without a price. “What the blazes is wrong with you?!” He manages to shout at her between coughs. His throat burns, both from the coughing and the swallowing. The mad woman steps towards him, and he backs towards the wall, fully expecting her to lunge at him again. “Father, stop her! She’s trying to kill me!”
His father sits down at the table and pours himself a glass of wine. “Good! I had half a mind to do it myself. She’s saving me the trouble.”
“You!” She says again, lifting the fist still clutching a ball of his hair. “If I ever hear such f-filthy words about my lady come from your mouth again, I-I-I’ll pluck all your hair out!”
“Why are you defending her?” he yells. “You were afraid of her!”
Sala’s nostrils flare. “My lady w-would never harm a hair on my head, or y-yours!”
“She’s human. Just like the rest of them,” he retorts. “Do you think because she smiles at you that she doesn’t think of you as anything else than a stupid knife ear?”
“Do you kn-know what sh-she’s given you?” her voice drops to a low simmer. “L-look around. This w-was her bath, her bed, her food, and she gave it to you b-beacuse she wanted to.”
Tavin opens his mouth, but no words leap to his lips.
Satisfied with his silence, she gives a firm nod, throws his wad of hair on the floor and goes to the door. As she opens the latch, she pauses and looks back at him again. “Not a-all h-humans are c-c-cruel. Sh-she’s sh-showed m-me that.” Then, she gives a shy, apologetic glance to her father. “I’m s-sorry to d-disturb you, s-ser, but not for wh-what I did.”
“Good,” his father says, plopping a piece of mutton in his mouth. “Bought time he got some sense dunked into him. If he needs it again, I’ll let you know.”
Blushing, she nods and shuts the door behind her. Tavin stares blankly at his father, who is still contentedly chewing away at his dinner. “Well? Are you going to stand there like a wet fish, or have you learned your lesson?”
“I thought—” he starts, then stops at the flash in his father’s eyes.
“Well, if you haven’t yet, you will soon enough,” his father chuckles. “That young lady will make sure it.”
That night, even after the best meal, the softest bed, and the warmest fire he has ever had in his life (he skipped the bath) , Tavin doesn’t sleep a wink. Instead, he stays up thinking about how such a little mouse could be so loyal to a lion that could eat her up.