Her home away from home—the Veilguard—had arrived first and stayed the longest, some had helped set up, others had gone about fixing old roofs, helping the farmers repair their equipment, planting gardens, bringing ingredients from all over and cooking large meals, and talking to her and her husband about all Lace had done.

Then more and more started arriving, celebrated for three days and three nights. Many Harding’s mother had not known at all—Tevinter civilians, assassins from Antiva, fortune seekers, and seers from Rivain. There had been Elves with beautiful, delicate tattoos from far-off northern forests, Grey Wardens in uniforms so different from what she had known, Dwarves dressed in peculiar garb who had not stayed long, and Nevarran scholars with dark jewellery, black robes, and warm, generous dispositions.

And old friends too.

Commander Cullen, Lily Trevelyan, and their young family had brought fruit and fruit seeds from their small farm in the valley over.The Iron Bull—the tallest Qunari Harding’s mother had ever seen, and the kindest and most respectful—he and his Chargers had brought crates of honey mead, before starting up a game of sport with the village children. Soon after, they had been joined by Sera, Lace’s fellow archer, who had offered to let each child try out her bow. Watched by Dorian, who had soon grown bored and returned to the garden to Neve, whom he had walked around and introduced to old friends.

Josephine had arrived late, flushed, and emotional without a hair out of place, but had made up for it by immediately taking charge of herding the crowds this way and that. The Herald, Lavellan, had sat outside in the sun watching her young daughter play in the grass, frail and weakened by what the mark had left—and was still taking. Yet she had spoken to every person who had passed by. Many faces had wandered through to sit beside her and speak. In particular, Lady Cassandra—silver lines of hair mixed with her black—had sat with her the longest. Both had been stricken with the loss and the burden of leadership, a hole in each of their hearts for the knowledge that Harding had died dressed as an Inquisition Scout.

Harding’s mother had never seen the Divine up close, but had heard a great deal about her from Lace. Her strength as a spellsword, quick wit and sharp mind had made her an intimidating idea. Yet, she had come dressed in simple robes—perfectly tailored and beautiful, but simple. With just a cape and a modest headdress. No guards. If you hadn’t known who she was, you would have been forgiven for mistaking her as a high-ranking Circle mage—nothing more. She had arrived with no great entrance, heading immediately to her and her husband. She had sat with them for an hour, as the sun had glistened in a golden afternoon light, before walking with them to the small chantry that sat in the centre of the village. After that, she had gone to old friends, sitting on a wooden bench beneath the cherry tree, speaking with a rugged, rough-looking man with a black beard streaked with grey and looking like he had lived a thousand lifetimes—a complete contrast to her well-kept, elegant appearance.

As the friends and family had gathered for the formal ceremony, Vivienne, had performed the Chantry rites. Afterwards, a few people had taken turns to speak. The Herald, then Rook—their young leader of the Veilguard—before the dragon hunter, tall and stoic, and so young, who had been so blunt and informal it had been almost funny. The days spent in Harding’s home with her mother had softened Taash’s heartbreak just enough.

The Inquisition Spymaster and the Witch of the Wilds had made an odd pairing as they had stood away from the rest, beneath the oak tree on the hill. They had stood so close you might have mistaken them as sisters—or perhaps simply two people who had experienced too much together. Later, as the sun had begun to set, they had been joined by another. A man, around the same age, but his face had been in shadow. He had worn simple travelling robes, and a cloak with his hood up, a strawberry blond beard speckled with silver, and a sword at his side. The three had stood informally in a line looking down at the gathering. Later, in the evening, as guests had begun to wander off for rest, the man—brown eyes, heavy yet still shining—had asked to speak to Harding’s mother and her husband privately, to pay his respects to a “Hero from Ferelden.”