#arelan

“You’re not...like what I’d heard of either, begging your pardon,” said the human, glancing quickly away.

“If we were to judge a person just by the length of his fingernails, how wrong we would all be,” said the priestess with a faint smile. “You’ve probably only seen soldiers, if at all. They are the body of the Qunari, but in Seheron you will find our mind and soul, too. We are whole here.”

“I still don’t see why I have to give you my name for that soup,” she mumbled while picking at the sleeves of her new robe. Senaan had called for soap and water, scrubbed her down very thoroughly indeed, and sent for new clothes to replace her soiled shift. The blue underskirt and white tunic were light cotton, well-made, and so comfortable they might have been tailored for her alone. She was still trying to take it all in.

“I have already mentioned. Hunger must be affecting your memory. The Qun tells us: to know a name is to understand its true self. To name a thing wrongly is kin to putting out your own eyes. You already know I am Arelan--a priestess of the temple here--but I know nothing about you. And if you are to join us, it is imperative that we can see what you truly are.”

“Maker!” the human groaned, rather blasphemously for someone surrounded by what Tevinter’s Divine had once called ‘the scourge to the Chant’. “You can see what I am! I’m sitting right in front of you!”

“All I know is that you are a human female of childbearing age. You could have come out of a tree for all we know, thanks to the leaves and mud Senaan found in your hair. You could be a Fog Warrior, or a Tevinter spy. Even a particularly clever demon.”

“I’m not--ugh.” The woman folded both arms, hugging herself sullenly at the waist. “I’m not any of those things. I’m nothing special, just some farmer’s daughter is all. I can plant, and sew, and read and write too. I make a good loaf of bread. I can work hard, and prove any of what I’ve just said if you’d just let me.” She shot Arelan a sharp look. “Isn’t that enough?”

The placid expression on Arelan’s face could have rivalled a statue of Andraste herself, and her pale gold eyes betrayed nothing. “That is what you did, human, but it tells me not who you are - beyond someone who will not say her name.”

“I can’t--look, listen, please, I can’t give you my name. You know it yourself and so does the, the Qun. Names have power.”

“You think some curse would befall you if we knew it?” She sounded almost bemused.

“No! No, not like that, I’m--” Her eyes lit with panic, then closed. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant. I was running from a magister. He knows my name, who I am. If he found out I was here, he might choose to attack Seheron. That would put this whole city in danger. I’m not willing to take that risk.”

Arelan raised one highly-arched eyebrow. “You think rather highly of yourself, that you feel this magister of yours would storm the gates of Seheron to try and reclaim you.”

“I know him.” The human winced. “He has a band of soldiers at his command. I’ve seen them at drills. And he is a man extremely possessive of everything he owns, or all he thinks he owns.”

“Does he have a name?”

“Can I trade his name for that soup?”

“A sly attempt. No. You were his slave?”

“I’m not a slave.”

“You seem proud of it.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” Her voice was taking on a tinge of genuine irritation. “Maybe I got lucky, but I’ve been a free woman all my life. I did what I could to stay that way, even when--” She saw Arelan looking at her expectantly, and sighed. “--even when I lost everything else. Do you have any other questions?”

“Just the one. I need to know your name.”

“I need to not give it to you.” Her eyes softened. “You took a complete stranger in, and I haven’t even been here a day. I will not put you all in danger. That’s not how I was raised.”

“And this leads us nowhere...though I do feel some sympathy for you.” Arelan sighed. “Rest for now, human. I will come again tomorrow.” She turned her back and made to leave the chamber--with, of course, the soup.

The woman swallowed, tossed her head. “Sparrow,” she finally called out.

“Pardon?”

“Sparrow. That was my name, in a way. It’s what my mother and father used to call me, when I was still a small child.” It was superstition. Name properly nothing you are afraid to lose. They had stopped when it looked clear she was going to survive her childhood.

“But it is not what your world called you.”