#lavalampelfchild

The air was no colder than it normally was, and still Cullen was shivering.  The report in his hand shook.  He closed his eyes and calmly replaced it on the desk, releasing a controlled breath. This was always how it started. First quivering, then headaches. Depending on how bad it was, he might have to sit down, or he might be able to breathe through the worst of it.

Either way, he would be making no more progress today.

Cullen scowled at the ladder in his office.  He could still see the light from the setting sun.  Earlier than the headaches normally set in.

More tests to his resolve from the Maker, it seemed

He lost himself for a moment to several breathing exercises he had devised, to his struggle against the oncoming headache, and he almost missed the sound of his office door opening.

He heard the intruder step into the room and blinked, his muscles tense, body snapping around like a whip as his hand went to his sword.

“It’s alright, Commander, I’ve no intention of hurting you.”

Cullen recognized the voice before his mind registered the face before him.  For one frozen second, he could only stand and stare, until he realized that his hand was still clenched about the pommel of his blade, an arrested motion hanging between them.  He bit back a curse and pulled his hand away as though the sword were on fire.

“By the—”  He cut himself off and shook his head once, roughly.  Then straightened, chin high.  “Warden Aja.”  The name felt both foreign and familiar as it rolled from his tongue, and Cullen remembered many things at once.  Exchanging shy glances, blushing as he was caught out, giddy whenever he had an excuse to be in the same room with her.  Then fear, and betrayal, and distrust as he looked at her and saw only someone who could kill him with a wave of her hand.

But this wasn’t the Aja of those older days.  (And he wasn’t the Cullen of those days either, but he never liked to think about that.)  Her eyes were heavy, her skin seemed to have lost the warm glow it used to have, and her shoulders were bowed forward, heavy with some weight that Cullen could guess at with more certainty than he would have liked.

She bore her burdens and wore her age well, though, Cullen thought. There was more of a dignified air to her than there’d been before, she was older now and wiser.  And her eyes were still that beautiful rich shade of brown.

Cullen shook the thought away, the Inquisitor’s face flashing before his mind’s eye.  He winced.

“Please,” Aja sighed, waving a hand in a heavy motion. “Just ‘Aja.’ I don’t much relish being a Warden these days.”  She took careful steps forward, as though it took significant effort just to keep steady. “With all that’s been happening lately, it seems like we’re more of a hindrance than—”

Her words tapered off as she swayed suddenly.  Cullen was halfway across the room before he could think about it.  

It wasn’t necessary; Aja caught herself and held up a staying hand. Cullen pulled himself up, watching her carefully.

“Everything’s fine,” she said quickly, her voice hard and sharp. Brittle, Cullen’s mind supplied.  He shoved that thought aside too.

“Is there something you need me for?” he asked when she’d righted herself.  There was a pause.  Then Aja’s gaze moved slowly and purposefully down his body, then back up, lingering on his face.  Her eyes narrowed.

“I was told you might require aid.”

Immediately Cullen stiffened, mind frantic as it repeated, she knows, she knows, how does she know? And then he remembered… It was not a secret.  That’s the point.  Closing his eyes, Cullen breathed in deeply through his nose and exhaled slowly.  Aja was patient and said nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, Cullen fixed Aja with a guarded stare.

“May I ask who told you this?” he asked.  Aja met his gaze.

“The Inquisitor,” she replied.  Cullen almost sighed in exasperation.  Of course…

On the one hand, the Inquisitor’s worry flattered him, inspired a small wash of warmth and contentment to fall over him; it was… nice, knowing that she cared enough to worry, seeing the softer side to her, the one that lay beneath the sharp-edged steel and cool authority.

But on the other hand, Cullen bristled at the implications; it was no secret how the Inquisitor prized and emphasized strength and resilience above all else, especially with regards to the Inquisition’s conduct.  How else was Cullen to interpret this except as a belief that he was too weak to do his part?

And to make matters worse, his headache was beginning to flare up, affecting his ability to concentrate, thus proving the Inquisitor right.  

Cullen turned back to his desk and picked up the report.  

“Well, thank you for your concern, but as you can see I’m quite fine.”

“Your hand is shaking.”

Cullen froze.  He glanced down at his hand, then back to Aja.  Said nothing.  Aja’s face was painfully sympathetic.

“Your lyrium withdrawal,” she said quietly.  Cullen swallowed and held his hand at his back.

“It comes and it goes,” he admitted.  Aja’s lips quirked ruefully.

“More coming than going recently, I’d guess.”

Cullen inclined his head, the only concession to dignity he was willing to make.

“Perhaps.  But it’s not so painful that I can’t do my duties to the Inquisition—”

“Oh, don’t patronize me.”  Aja’s voice was heavy and annoyed, her shoulders lifting with her agitation. “I’ve lived in the Circle all my life, I know about ‘lyrium-addled’ Templars.  I know what the stuff does.”

A sharp surge of irritation rose in Cullen’s chest.  

“So do I.”

Aja pulled back instantly, holding up her hands and gentling her features.  The irritation didn’t abate.  Now who’s patronizing?

“I’m sorry,” she offered. “I didn’t mean to—”  She sighed.  “It seems I’m only making things worse.”  She looked away and shook her head, brow furrowed as though she was trying to call something important to mind.  

Cullen found he was no longer in the mood for pleasantries.

“If that is all you need, then I—”

“That is not all I need, thank you.  I came up here to speak with you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  You can be as stubborn about it as you want, but it won’t—”  She paused and let out an annoyed huff.  She held her silence for a moment, but then her features softened and she laughed softly to herself, as though indulging in a private joke.  When she caught Cullen’s gaze again, the expression was gone.  “You should know, I have some experience dealing with stubborn former templars.”  

Cullen raised an eyebrow and stared.  She turned and moved to close the door to his office, leaned against it and stared back.  Her expression was tired, but her smile looked sincere.

“I don’t intend to keep you for long.  But there are matters that need to be discussed, and I…”  Her words trailed off, and she swallowed.  “I also just wanted to speak with you.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed, but he felt some of the fight leave him.

“And to think, I once thought we were too hard on you.”

“I hope your compassion hasn’t doomed us all.”

“A mage, of all things.”

Everything he had said, everything he had done, and still she spoke to him willingly.

Pushing back against the regret, against the nerves, and against the impatience, Cullen faced Aja fully and leaned back against his desk.

“Well, since you now have me held captive in my own office…”  He gestured with a wave of his hand, feeling himself start to smile as Aja chuckled.

“That does seem to be the state of things, yes,” Aja played along. For a moment, they both regarded one another from their respective perches, saying nothing, just observing. Cullen had a feeling that Aja was taking in his differences just as he was taking in hers.  He wondered what she saw.

They’d changed so much over ten years.

“Your Inquisitor gave me very firm instructions not to speak overly much of matters relating to your work.  She said you didn’t need the stress,” Aja said, pulling her gaze up to meet Cullen’s. “So.”  She waved a hand, gesturing about the office.  “This is a lovely space you have here.”  Cullen snorted under his breath, feeling the beginnings of a grin tugging at his lips.

“Better than a tent outside,” he countered, shooting Aja a look. She laughed.  

“Is that what they had you in while you were still at Haven?” she asked.  Cullen nodded.

“Nothing I haven’t experienced before.”  The grin grew.  “But still, I much prefer to have a sturdy wall to my back instead of a ratty old piece of fabric.  We didn’t even have proper hides for the tents at first.  In those early days, we were quite poorly equipped, if you can believe it.”

“I can.”  Cullen tensed and cast a subtle glance in Aja’s direction, uncertain of just how serious her comment was.  He saw the playfulness edging her features, and tried to relax his posture.  Aja seemed to sense the change and cleared her throat, turning her head away.

“So.”  She looked down at her hands.  “So.  You’ve done well for yourself.”  Cullen huffed out a breath, only slightly rueful, taking in the sight of his office with outward equanimity.  

“I suppose,” he responded, distracted as familiar thoughts – doubts, uncertainties, failures – rushed into his mind.  

Truth be told, he had thought that the Maker was showing him a new path, that day when Cassandra approached him about heading the Divine’s forces.  And the following events seemed only to enforce that, even taking into account – Maker forgive me – the explosion at the conclave. He was called to this, he thought, called to give his skills, his time, his effort, his very self to the cause of the Inquisition, which was trying to do good in a land that seemed to have forgotten what ‘good’ was supposed to be.

But then came the attack on Haven, and Cullen’s hopes and beliefs were thrown into chaos once again.

He had failed.  He hadn’t seen or even known of the army marching right for them until it was at their door, almost literally.  He hadn’t been able to pull together a defense quickly enough, and in the end it had been the Inquisitor who’d allowed them to escape, the Inquisitor who’d somehow managed to get the Elder One to turn away from Haven, despite having no army at her back, despite never having been trained for anything even remotely similar to that encounter.  She had saved them.  He had been useless.

Cullen didn’t even want to think about the following failures, of trudging through the mountains with frozen and starving refugees, unable to agree with the other advisors on anything.

The Inquisitor had not been lenient with him (with any of them, really) in her assessment of the events and his actions, and he didn’t want her to be.  He deserved to feel the sting of those failures.

When he pulled himself out of his thoughts, he found Aja surveying him, expression unreadable.  She pushed herself away from the door and crossed the room to stand beside him, only slightly unsteady.  Wordlessly, she turned and leaned back against the desk.  Cullen fought the urge to stiffen.

“And you—”  He broke off to clear his throat.  “You’ve done fairly well for yourself as well.”  It was clumsy and he knew Aja would be able to see through it, but Cullen would really rather talk about anything at that moment than Haven, or anything that had happened since Kirkwall.

His head was beginning to throb.

Aja sagged forward, dragging a hand over her forehead, pressing hard against the skin.  Her breath, when she exhaled, was shaking.

“I’ve tried,” she said softly.  It almost sounded like a confession.  Cullen’s brow furrowed and he looked at her, curious despite himself. She wasn’t looking back at him.  

“I’ve made… plenty of mistakes these past few years,” she went on. Her lips twitched weakly.  “Just ask the other Wardens.”

Cullen opened his mouth automatically to reassure her.  ‘It can’t be all bad.’  ‘It’s not your fault.’  Even, ‘You can fix it.’  But something stopped him and no words came out.  He just stared at her for a moment, jaw slack, mind abruptly… cast back.  

The faces of three innocent apprentices floated into his mind, frightened and helpless as he came at them.  The cries of a mage he’d helped drag off to undergo the Rite of Tranquility because the poor man had been caught writing a love letter.

There was no reassuring that.  There was no making it go away.  It had been done, he had done it, and the consequences were there to stay.  

The same would be true of Aja’s mistakes, whatever they were.

Cullen opened his mouth again, heard himself say, “You’re still here, though.”

Aja scoffed.  “And what a place to be.”  She looked up at Cullen, her expression resigned and tired.  But still she smiled.  “It’s dismal here, cold.  Everything hurts, and I—”  She cut herself off and looked away, breathing in deeply through her nose.

“But it’s important,” she admitted eventually. “To all of them… Velyn, Tristan.”  Her face contorted.  “Alistair…” She swallowed.  Bit her lip.  “They are all here because of loyalty and responsibility.  They want to right things, and I… for that I must be here as well. I want to be.  After everything—”  The words seemed to catch in her throat, and Aja’s body went tense.  Cullen frantically sifted through his mind, tried to think of something to say, but even the most basic of reassurances refused to come to him through the headache that was steadily getting worse.  Through his unfamiliarity with Aja as she was now. He hadn’t seen her in ten years.

“And I notice you’re still here, too.”  Aja’s voice pulled him back to their interaction and Cullen blinked, his vision blurred momentarily as the pain in his head flared.  He pushed past it, focused on her, waited for her to continue.  When she didn’t speak, Cullen realized it had been an invitation.  To share, as she had.  Sort of.

Cullen looked down.  He didn’t want to speak of the things that plagued his mind.  Not the fresh wounds that he thought might never heal, nor the old scars that twisted and pulled even now, so many years after having acquired them.

But… somehow… with this woman whom he hadn’t seen in a decade, who was all but a stranger to him now, who seemed to feel the sting of regret as he did…

Cullen pulled in a breath and took a risk, “I’m as conflicted about it as you are.”

Aja’s eyes were wide when their gazes locked and for one pregnant moment they said nothing, and Cullen feared he had presumed too much.

But then she drew in a breath, her lips curled, shoulders lifted, and like the evening tide, the tension slowly ebbed from her.  And as her smile grew and her eyes crinkled, Cullen’s own body seemed to unwind, the taut discomfort easing somewhat in his chest in the face of their shared fears.  He offered a small smile of his own.  

After a moment, Aja let out a small chuckle and quirked an eyebrow.

“And so here we are,” she said, holding out her hand. “I suppose we’ll just have to make do, won’t we?”

Cullen huffed out a laugh, barely there and weak in his ears. But it felt… better.

“Maker willing,” he replied.  Aja shrugged.

“From your lips to His ears.”

They lapsed into a silence that was less uncomfortable than Cullen would have predicted.

Until the pain flared up.  Cullen tensed and moved his hand to press against the desk, on the side Aja couldn’t see.  His head throbbed and throbbed for what felt like hours, and Cullen clenched his eyes shut.

“—again.”

Cullen blinked and turned to Aja, his mind clearing slowly. It was always like this.  Like a fog lingered in his mind and he couldn’t see past it until it evaporated.  He stared at Aja, uncomprehending, and she stared back, tired and older and maybe a little too knowing.

“What?” he eventually blurted.  Aja’s expression turned patient.

“I said, I didn’t expect to see you again,” she exclaimed.  Ah.  Cullen inclined his head, something uneasy stirring in him.  Was she really going to recount the last time they’d seen—

“You know, you look much less boyish than I remember you being,” she said innocently. “I suppose ten years will do that to a man.  And yet you still keep your hair exactly the same way you did back in the Circle.”  She shot him a grin, tentative but genuine, and Cullen raised a hand to his hair without thinking.

“What’s wrong with my hair?” his tone was perhaps more defensive than the comment warranted, but Cullen could hardly regret that as Aja let out a ringing laugh, surprised and hearty.  

“Nothing, nothing!” she assured. “It’s just… do you remember that incident, when you had just been initiated—”

Cullen gaped.  

“That was you?”

Aja shook her head and waved a hand.  “No, no, that was all Anders.  I was the one who went to Irving about it, and then found a delightful present glued to my forehead afterward for all my troubles.”  She paused and gave a comical wince.  “But I should say, Anders may have gotten the idea from me when I told him that the alchemical makeup of that stuff you used in your hair was actually a highly flammable mixture…  Completely by accident, of course!”

Cullen shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, “The things you learn.”

Aja chuckled, and again they fell to silence, more companionable this time.  And then Cullen remembered…

“The templars knew about your secret trips to the dragon pen, you know,” he said casually, trying for an innocent tone.

Aja turned to him in surprise.

“What?  How did they…?”  

Cullen fought back a smirk.

“You weren’t as subtle as you thought you were,” he said. “I, um…” Cullen felt himself flush at the memory. “You weren’t accounted for one night, and I… I volunteered to go look for you.  I asked one of the tranquil, and he said he’d seen you going upstairs. I went to tell one of my peers, and she was prepared to dispense the swiftest justice until I told her you were the culprit.”  

Aja raised her eyebrows, “Why should that have stopped her?”

Cullen gave in to the smirk.  

“She said, and I quote, ‘oh, it’s just the Amell girl.  She won’t do anything.’  And then she advised me to save my energy for the ‘real’ troublemakers.”

“She underestimated my capability for troublemaking?” Aja exclaimed, the pitch of her voice rising indignantly.  Cullen snorted.

“That, and I think she was just lazy,” he corrected.  Aja’s eyes narrowed.

“Arse.”

Cullen laughed.  Loud and boisterous, and the sound was too much; abruptly his head began to throb with the vibrations ripping through his skull.  Cullen bit down on his tongue and clenched his eyes shut as he waited for it to pass, nostalgia forgotten.

“Cullen.”

He couldn’t answer.  

He heard Aja shift beside him.  “Cullen, let me help.  Please.” Cullen finally managed to open his eyes and turned toward her.  Her brow was furrowed with visible concern, her lips pressed tightly together in a familiar expression of worry.

Irrationally, guilt flared in his stomach.

Cullen’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Aja’s hands hovered between them, palms up, fingers just slightly curled, as though in supplication to the Maker or Andraste.  

“Nothing excessive,” she promised. “Only enough to ease the pain some.”  Cullen could feel the pulse of the magic coming from her body, centering around her hands, waiting to spread outward, and his templar’s instincts threatened.

He had been healed by magic before, of course, and many times recently, and it had never been any kind of problem for him.  But this was Aja, and the last time she had approached him with healing magic had been right after—

Cullen shook himself roughly from that thought and forced himself to look directly at Aja.

“I would appreciate that.”  

Aja smiled and slowly reached her hands toward him.  Cullen instinctively lowered his head, his eyes. It reminded him of receiving benediction.

Ironic that now, he should be serving a cause denounced by the Chantry while receiving a healing blessing from an apostate-turned-Grey-Warden.

Ten years, indeed.

Magic flowed over him, soft and cool, like the creek near Honnleath that he’d played in as a boy.  Smooth and controlled, and Cullen knew he could extricate himself if he wished.  He was his own this time, no one else’s.

Gradually, the pain eased.

Aja’s breaths were slow and deep.  Measured.  Unconsciously, Cullen’s breath slowed to match.  He breathed easier, counting every inhale and exhale, noting with relief every time his chest expanded fully to take in the air.  His eyes slipped closed.  His lips parted and he began to pull the air in through his mouth, no longer feeling the sharp sting in his head when he breathed in too quickly.

“Better?”  Aja’s voice was low and soothing.  Cullen released a slow breath, and there was no unsteadiness to it.  

“Much.”  

The healing spell came to a stop, and Aja pulled her hands away. Cullen opened his eyes and caught her gaze.  His body was calm, and his mind clear.  He inclined his head.

“Thank you.”  

Aja smiled softly, but it left her face quickly, replaced by something more unreadable.

“I know it’s not my place, but if I may, I would advise you to tell the Inquisitor about this,” she said carefully.  Cullen felt his expression harden.

“She already knows,” he replied stiffly.  Aja held up her hands and shook her head.  

“I don’t mean to presume.  I only think that this would be… easier if she knew the specifics of—of what you experience in this struggle.”

Something cold twisted in Cullen’s gut at the thought of admitting to the Inquisitor everything he suffered from the residual effects of the lyrium.  The headaches, the shaking fits, the inability to sleep some nights.  He swallowed convulsively.  

No.  He couldn’t admit this to her.  Not after everything he had already failed to give her.  She deserved—the Inquisition deserved the same effort from him that he had given the Templar Order.  They deserved the same success from him!

His fingers clenched and he pulled himself out of his thoughts, leveling Aja with a fiercely determined look.

“If it becomes necessary, I will.”

He simply wouldn’t allow it to become necessary.

Aja’s body tensed.  She nodded once, rigid and hard, as she had been when she first came in, as she was when walking outside among the troops.

“Very well.”  All the gentle warmth from before left her voice, and it rang now with a cold and firm sound.  Hearing it, Cullen drew his shoulders back, steadied his feet.  Preparing for a blow.  

They stood there, facing each other, neither willing to yield, until Aja abruptly looked away.  Her face softened, and all of a sudden she looked exhausted.  “Just promise me one thing.  At least tell me if you feel this pain again?  I will help you as I did today.”  

Cullen’s brow furrowed and his mouth thinned.  She was trying to help, and it was appreciated.  But he did not need to be coddled.

“Thank you, I will.  But I’ve kept you too long.  I should let you get back to your fellows.”

Aja looked at him a moment longer, expression unreadable, body language tight and controlled.  

“As you say,” she sighed, moving toward the door.  As she opened it to leave, she turned back and gave him a last smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes, one that Cullen used to hate seeing when he was younger.  “It was good to see you.  I hope we get a chance to speak again soon.”  She bowed forward slightly.  “Good evening, Commander.”

Cullen inclined his head.  “Good evening, Warden.”

Aja left, and Cullen watched the door close behind her.  The sun had set while he’d been speaking to her. Perhaps he should retire for the evening?  Cullen looked to the ladder.

Aja’s face was fresh in his mind, and it was all too easy for him to see that same face ten years ago, when he had demanded she not touch him with her vile magic, when she had tried to speak to him before she left and he had called her a traitor to the Circle and declared they were better off with her gone.

With her face came the memory of others, the memory of many things. Things Cullen knew would only make any attempt at sleep a literal nightmare.

It’s been a long time, but there are plenty of things he remembers. He remembers a wry voice, but the anger behind it, burning fierce and hot, bright no matter how hard the man tried to hide it. They think we don’t know. They reek of blood magic, can’t you sense it? The Veil’s fluttering like a torn handkerchief around them with every step they take, and they’re just smirking and telling the younger ones, ‘Yes, keep up your studies, because with discipline and practise someday you might be as powerful.’ As if they’re worth admiring. 

That bitter laughter, so quiet and often wine-soaked; and even with the alcohol, quiet was dangerous, when it was Dorian. It meant the man was planning, calculating, working out problems in his head. It meant the rage was building until it would be unleashed, perhaps explosively.

He remembers laughing eyes and long, steady fingers on the stem of a wine glass, because Dorian was rarely as drunk as he pretended to be – and he’d discovered that after he’d glanced around and realised he was watching the Pavus’ son, the half-drunk thaumaturgical genius in the corner of a family party, soaking ink into a silk handkerchief. He’d watched the Pavus heir pass restless fingers over it, shaping magic, watched ink become absentminded, hasty equations and notes, and thought, Oh. And then Pavus had looked up, as if sensing his interest, and their eyes had met.

…Oh, he’d thought again, more significantly, swallowing.

He remembers papers covered with manically scribbled calculations and muttered swearing in a half-dark study, and Dorian looking up, those bright eyes landing on him. I didn’t think you’d still be awake.

He remembers taking the other seat at the desk and saying cheerfully, We have to stop meeting like this.

You took the words right out of my mouth. A genuine smile, not the fierce thing full of teeth and rage used for the magisters and the jumped-up nobles’ sons. Stop that, by the way, or I’ll have no wit left. I’ll have to rely on my glorious visage to daze people until I can run for it.

A lie. Dorian was never one for running. He remembers finding Dorian spitting out blood, face nearly a snarl, and The bastard called my father… Well, it’s not worth repeating. He remembers that, so many times: my father, said with fondness as if the man were an oddity, with impotent frustration, with a faint air of mockery – but always with that quiet pride, something like respect. Or... reverence, perhaps.

He remembers numbing that split lip with a little ice magic. Dorian looking at him, eyes wide and dark in the firelight, and saying quietly, with that raw, frightened honesty in it, Why are you still here?

Because someone has to be. And he’d nearly leaned forwards, done something foolish, but there had been a clatter outside and the door had flown open – he doesn’t even remember what it was, now, probably some alchemical disaster or that time Laius had managed to set the philosophy section on fire, and –

He remembers that dark, sad laughter again, as they sat up at a time when anyone sane should have been asleep, and Dorian saying, Do you ever hate the Imperium? Seeing his surprise at the question, Dorian had continued, Not that I mind the architecture, and the fashion’s entertaining. But… there must be something more. More than backstabbings and blood magic and making sure your amulet is bigger than everyone else’s. If I ever… And there was a rare hint of hesitance, and Dorian all but swigged his wine before he said, If I ever found someone, I would want to give them something better than this. I’d want to show them that there was more to life. Sometimes I just want to… run. To go off and eat grapes in Orlais somewhere, or freeze my backside off in some Fereldan shack if it means that I don’t have to stop slouching, Dorian, and remember that you are representing House Pavus, Dorian, and you must excel, because mediocrity is unbefitting of one of our line, the magic runs strong, Dorian… Do you think anyone would? Just… leave it all for something like freedom?

He’d swallowed, wide-eyed. It’s… a lot to ask. It would be a lot to lose.

I’d be worth it. Have you seen this face? And then Dorian had laughed and things had turned to lighter topics, but the quietness, that barely-hidden sadness had been there, too.

He remembers the slow drift away, later, the demands of bloodlines and Circles and society, but for a moment...

He grins to himself, there in the rain, and knows he probably looks Fade-touched. Congratulations, he thinks, even now. You finally got away.

He would have said yes. Not that it matters now, but... he would have said yes.

Somewhere in Ferelden, the only son of House Pavus, the man who could have been Archon, makes his way through a freezing fortress and ignores the blisters from a truly exhausting fight in the mountains. Dorian tries not to sigh, and thinks that it’s been far too long since he’s got his hands on any decent wine…

“Like lead to gold,” a quiet voice says behind him, and he half-jumps, glaring at Cole. Cole, who carries on, unperturbed, “It can’t change back, though it almost wants to, but this is… better. Braver.”

“What are you - ?” he starts.

Cole says, unperturbed, “You’re different now, Dorian.”

She was told they expected that she would become Saarebas.  Those who had given birth to her had done so illegally, their union not sanctioned by the Tamassran.  One had been Saarebas, the other, Karasaad.  Karasaad had been reeducated.  Saarebas had been executed. 

She did not know why she had been allowed to live. 

Her number was 246-0078314-0.  She was never called that.  When her superiors required her talents, she was called ‘Saarebas.’    

She was young when her powers had been discovered.  There had been older Qunari watching her.  She had been told not to speak to them.  They had always suspected she would show signs, they said, and thus they watched. 

Her first spell had been an accidental summoning.  A light, small and bright, had appeared and bounced around above her cupped hands.  She had watched in stunned silence, a flood of warmth filling her body as the light danced for her. 

That was when the older Qunari had grabbed her, and the light disappeared.  She was told later that it had been a demon, and that she had summoned it. 

She was told later still that it was not a demon, but was instead a harmless spirit.  She still wasn’t quite sure whom she believed.

That had been her first taste of magic.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  They began to teach her immediately after her magic was discovered. 

She had always been isolated growing up, always kept from others her age, though there was always at least one other older attendant with her. 

Today that changed. 

She awoke before dawn as she had been trained, and when she pushed herself up to her feet, there stood two warriors waiting for her.  At that moment, she did not know that they were Arvaarad.  That would come later.

“Come.  Now,” one commanded.  She obeyed wordlessly, moving toward them without hesitation.  She stopped, no less than five paces between them, as she had been taught. 

“Keep your distance, but don’t go so far that no one can reach you.”

“Saarebas, to me,” the other one ordered.  And then they began to walk.  She followed, never having heard the term ‘Saarebas’ before, but knowing somehow that it referred to her.

They covered her face once they were outside, and led her forward by a hand on her shoulder.

“It is for you to learn to rely on them, Imekari, that you will never think to move without first seeking their guidance.”

Saarebas counted as she was moved, practiced her breathing.  She only stumbled once, and her escorts silently corrected her without a hitch.  She almost wished they would speak, even to berate her.  There seemed to be no sounds but their footsteps on the uneven ground.

Finally, she felt one of them at her back, deftly removing the cover from her face.  She blinked and raised a hand to rub at her eyes. 

“Saarebas.” 

Saarebas paused and looked up at her escort. 

“Look.”

Saarebas looked.  Her jaw slackened. 

Ahead of them was a great ravine, wide around and long across.  At the bottom there looked to be a great body of water, rapid and rushing, white-capped and aggressive.  Saarebas watched in fascination for a moment before a controlled press against her shoulder drew her attention away.  She followed her escort’s gaze and caught sight of the platform, far above the ravine, isolated between the cliff edges, supported by a single pillar, narrower in the center, wider at the ends.

Leading to it, across the ravine, were two bridges, one on each side of the ravine’s cliff edges.  They were narrow.  They had no hand rails.  Saarebas could not tell how sturdy they were.

“Come.”

Saarebas hesitated.  A hand gripped her shoulder.

“Come.” 

She went.  They filed forward, one escort in front of her, one behind her.  The grip on her shoulder didn’t ease until her first escort had gone nearly halfway across.  When it loosened and pushed, she walked toward the bridge.

At first, she was scared.  She was high up, higher than she could ever remember being, and she could feel the strength of the wind all around her as she moved.  It could upset her balance so very easily, if she proved to be too careless.  Automatically, her body compensated where she felt the wind push.  The wind made her sway, and she made it sway right back. 

Halfway across the bridge she smiled to herself.

You test me, she thought.  You seek to test my resolve, my strength.  Almost as if in answer, the wind whistled and pushed at her arm. 

“Eh!” she called to it, jerking her arm out, against the direction of the wind. 

You won’t find me wanting.

“Saarebas!” 

Saarebas looked up, and the smile fell from her face.  Having finished crossing the bridge, her first escort stood on the platform, facing her, watching her intently with sharp eyes.  His hand was on his weapon. 

“Come.”

Saarebas bowed her head and continued walking.  But as soon as her head was lowered the smile returned.  Her escorts knew what she was doing, they had to.  This was their test.  They had to be firm with her, but she had succeeded in this, she knew.  She knew.

Once she had crossed, she waited silently by her first escort until the second finished the journey, and then she was taken to the center of the platform. 

She blinked, confused, as they stood and stood and nothing happened.  What was supposed to be done?  Did she have to do something?  There were no others there aside from her and her escorts, and there seemed to be no place to go from the platform but to the other side of the ravine.  And that—

Her thoughts ground to a halt as several figures appeared on the other side of the ravine, coming through the trees of the forest that led to the great city that she had only heard tales about.  Her eyes widened.

She couldn’t quite make them out, but she caught the glisten of jewelry or armor of some kind, and her heart began to pound. 

They were here for her. 

The figures drew closer, and the pounding in her chest grew louder, at least to her own ears, and then they stopped before the bridge.  And that was when Saarebas was able to see them more clearly.  And she saw, the glisten wasn’t from jewelry; it was from chains.  The chains about one of the figure’s necks.

The chained one began to walk across the bridge, the one holding his chains following closely.  The others moved after. 

Saarebas’s own escorts stepped forward, weapons at the ready, between her and the chained one.

Once across, the one holding the chains faced her escorts.

“Saarebas is here to teach the child,” he said.  Her escort nodded.

“So it shall be,” he replied.  It sounded like the words to a ritual; invocation and response.

At that moment everyone seemed to be moving, and Saarebas watched in nervous confusion as her escorts separated and began to walk to either side of the platform.  Startled, she tried to follow them, unsure of which one she should follow until the one on the left turned and stopped her. 

“Stay.” 

Saarebas looked up at him and took several shaky steps back to the center of the platform.  Her escort paused and looked down at her.  He inclined his head.

“Do not fear, child.” 

Imekari.

He turned and resumed his stride, and Saarebas tried to banish the fear from her mind.  Imekari.  That word somehow always carried with it more lightness than weight, and Saarebas did not know why.

When the movement stopped, all but she and the chained one stood by the edges of the platform, weapons still out, expressions impassive. 

Saarebas observed the chained one in silence, a slow churning in her gut getting louder and wilder the longer she looked. 

His arms were bound behind his back, the rope tight and painful-looking.  His wrists were cuffed together with some contraption Saarebas could not see well from where she stood.  The chain that had glistened in the sunlight was attached to an elaborate golden yoke about his neck that sat heavily against his shoulders.  He wore a mask over his eyes, and Saarebas could barely see through the elaborate metalwork. 

But the thing that frightened her the most, the thing that Saarebas could not stop looking at, was the chained one’s mouth. 

A long string, maybe a rope, criss-crossed morbidly across his mouth, from top lip to bottom and back again, over and over, ensuring that he could not move his lips, could not speak, and what purpose did that serve? 

The string glowed and Saarebas stared in open awe for as long as she dared.  The chained one didn’t move, didn’t make a sound as he endured her scrutiny. 

After several minutes of this silent observation, Saarebas became emboldened.  She remembered the wind, and the way it pushed, and wondered if this was another of her tests.  She would not be afraid.

Drawing herself up, Saarebas took one step forward, then another, eyes on the chained one. 

When she had gone three steps, he made a sound in his throat, a small whimper, and tried to shy away.  Her brow furrowed and she stopped. 

Why…?

She took another step, expecting to hear the same sound from him.  But it seemed he had mastered himself in that moment; nothing happened. 

She reached him and raised a hand to touch the collar around his neck.  She caught herself just in time, just as the one holding the chain yanked it hard and sent the chained one crashing to his knees. 

“Down!” he shouted.  The chained one looked to be frozen, but Saarebas was not afraid.  She knew she was supposed to overcome this.  This was another test. 

She kept moving forward, gently and slowly lifting her hand again.  She managed to place it on the chained one’s shoulder before he could move back any further.  She peered at him closely and sucked in a breath. 

Beneath his mask, he was crying.  Saarebas recognized the sight of tears.  Tracks, nearly invisible to her eye, dark against dark, ran down the chained one’s cheeks, and a spike of worry pierced something in Saarebas’s chest. 

Without thinking, she raised her hand to his face, awkwardly reaching over the collar, stroking and soothing as best she could.  As her caretaker had once done for her as a young child.

“Are you in pain?” she asked softly.

He did not respond.  No one said anything. 

Later, Saarebas would learn that they had allowed her to do this, allowed her to go to him, because they were waiting to see how he would respond to her.  Like animals, Saarebas and the chained one were thrown together to see if they would come to accept one another, or savagely attempt to kill each other. 

But in that moment, Saarebas knew nothing of the sort, and her eyes were only for the other, kneeling before her, submitting himself to the actions, the judgment of all those around him, even her. 

She hesitated, then left her hand where it was.

“It will be alright,” she said quietly. “This is a test.  I know it.  It will all be well.”

The chained one made a sound in his throat, an awful choking sound, like a twisted parody of a laugh, and his body jerked away from her.  He began to glow, and the cuffs began to rattle.  Saarebas gasped and jumped back.  The chains were jerked and the chained one was dragged to his feet as the one who held his chains rushed swiftly forward. 

“Saarebas, move away!” 

Saarebas blinked and began to move away, as instructed, but realized that the one who had spoken had not spoken to her.

“Imekari, to me!”

Someone grabbed her about her waist and pulled her up.  It was her escort, the one who had told her not to fear, but she wasn’t thinking about that.  Her eyes were wide as she watched the chained one shake and stumble, jerked about by the one holding his chains.  He had been the one told to move away. 

That was when it hit her.

They said that someone – Saarebas – had been taken here to teach her – Imekari. 

He is Saarebas too.  He, Saarebas, was there to teach her, also Saarebas.  Saarebas to Saarebas.  And he was chained.  Silenced.  Saarebas’s eyes widened as she watched the chained one submit to his master.

That was to be her one day.  Perhaps one day soon.  She would be told to submit, made to submit, by a chain about her neck, and ropes about her arms.

The chained one – Saarebas – was brought back to his knees.  The one holding his chains – she did not know what he was called – held a rod at his back.  The rod was glowing, and so were the cuffs.  Saarebas shook.

There were supposed to be lessons.

There were no lessons.

She received the stitches to her mouth that very evening.  The next day she received a new teacher.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Being Saarebas was… many things. 

From her teachings and the constant reminders of her superiors, it was ‘evil.’  But from the manner in which she was employed in battle, used to fight the Bas Saarebas, she was only able to conclude that it was also ‘necessary,’ which she did not understand.  Her hands were bound, her mouth stitched shut, and every waking hour she was shadowed by her Arvaarad.  She was allowed no liberties because of the danger she posed.  Everything she had come to know about what she was had led her to believe that she would better serve the Qun if she were dead.  Yet none would allow her to die.

On the contrary, she was guarded almost religiously.  It had been thus for decades.  Since that first lesson on the platform when she was a child, and even before.

Her primary function was to serve the Qun in battle, fight insurgent Tal-Vashoth, and counter the magic of the bas nation Tevinter. 

She never questioned it.

Her Arvaarad was, she had heard, a warrior of great honor and skill.  Once before, he had had guardianship of another Saarebas, who had been killed in a skirmish with the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter.  He was proud of his skills, and had every right to be, and many young soldiers of the Berasaad looked up to him, as one who held great power – great evil – in check.

When she had met him, Saarebas had not been sure if it was confidence he possessed or arrogance.

She bowed anyway.  

He held the rod aloft and bid her to her knees.  Others stood beside him, looked down upon her in unreadable silence, their faces indistinguishable while they wore identical helmets.

“Saarebas,” Arvaarad spoke in a firm tone.  His voice was low and rough like gravel, and Saarebas shivered, thinking involuntarily of a faceless Qunari from her memories, with a voice like this one, who had led her to a raised platform, and told her not to fear.

“We are to be Karataam, and you are our charge.  As your kind must be, you are a blight on the world, and cannot be allowed to move unchecked.  But you can still serve the Qun, even with this curse.

“You will answer to us, and obey, and in your obedience, you will prove devotion to the Qun.”

Silence followed his words, and Saarebas went over those last words in her mind. 

Devotion to the Qun…  Yes.  She wanted that.

“Now stand.”  The hold over her body lifted, disappeared, and she stood.  Her Arvaarad seemed to tower over her.  He bore the marks, the vitaar, of an honored one, and Saarebas felt a moment of envy.  Were she not a vile and dangerous thing, she could be allowed to earn such markings herself, even if not in battle.  His bindings proved his honor as well.  Saarebas’s bindings were for function, there was no honor in them.  Her arms were bound back, her horns bound symbolically together, everything about those ropes meant imprisonment.

Arvaarad held her gaze and something behind his eyes flashed.  Saarebas wanted to look away.

“Saarebas,” he greeted.

She said nothing and inclined her head.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She served with the Arvaarad and the Karataam for several years, and they traveled down to Seheron, where Saarebas was told to direct her cursed magic against the bas of Tevinter who constantly attempted to siege what belonged rightfully to the Qunari.  She was allowed to continue serving the Qun in the way she did best.

It was easy to stand in battle against the bas of Tevinter.  She learned their tricks through observation and turned them back against their Bas Saarebas.  Her skills grew as she fought and she became stronger and stronger the more battles she survived.

She became easy with her Karataam, or at least easier, and they with her.  As time passed, there passed fewer looks of distrust, of disdain, between them, and they came to rely on one another in the heat of battle, in the thick of a fight.  Many times, Saarebas had saved the life of one of her companions, only to have them turn around and return the favor come the next skirmish.

Perhaps it was that easiness and familiarity that caused Saarebas to miss the change in Arvaarad, in the looks he gave her every time she cast a powerful spell, and after every battle when they regrouped and Saarebas’s wrists were cuffed and her arms were bound.

It had been suspicion in his eyes, she knew that now.  But then, she was none the wiser to the distrust that crept onto his features – distrust and conflict, and no matter how much she thought on that, she was never able to comprehend it.  Sometimes she still wondered if the distrust had always been there, or if it had been new.

The final mistake was made south of Seheron, in the wild jungles that hid the true dangers of that land. 

A unit of the Antaam had been cut off from the Kithshok’s main camp, penned in by the Fog Warriors, and were unable to extract themselves to escape the jungle.  They had sent for reinforcements, and the Karataam had been the closest unit in the area. 

They reached the others within two days, and when they arrived, it was clear that the soldiers would not last more than another day or two without aid.  They had soldiers dead, soldiers wounded, and one soldier had deserted. 

The Sten of this company and Arvaarad had formulated a plan to help them all hold out until the other reinforcements arrived.  It was nothing entirely too inspired.  Ultimately, it amounted to, “stay together and don’t die.”

When dusk arrived, there was nothing Karataam could do but wait.  So they dug in and prepared themselves.

Then the fog rolled in, tendrils of thick choking death, and the Fog Warriors attacked.

The battle raged.  And though Saarebas and her fellow Qunari were pushing themselves well beyond their limits, chasing victory with all the madness of a starving man in the desert, they were slowly worn down by the methodical, patient, and unrelenting attacks of the Fog Warriors.  The fog never abated.

Sten’s unit fell easier and quicker thanks to their exhaustion, and the Karataam’s inexperience with Fog Warriors handicapped them.

Saarebas took a strike to the side and an arrow to the leg.  Her wounds tired her, and the constant use of magic drained her.  They were losing.

Soon, she found herself on her knees.  Arvaarad stood before her, breathing heavily, weapon clenched in his fists.  At least two of the Karataam were dead.  Sten’s unit was separated from them. 

They were alone.

Other shapes began to form in the fog, and Saarebas knew them to be the Fog Warriors.  A loud whistle sounded somewhere to her right.  Arvaarad swung his sword wildly in the direction of the sound.  He met with nothing but air and fog, and grunted as something hit him from behind, knocking him to the ground. 

Their enemies were toying with them now.

Arvaarad bellowed in anger as he scrambled to his feet, sword again at the ready.  Another shape came at him from behind.  Knocked him down again. 

Saarebas released a helpless whine as she watched the Fog Warriors get between the Karataam soldiers, distract them from one another.  Separation was what they wanted, it was how they defeated their enemies, they had to see this, had to stop it!

But what could she do!?  On the ground and helpless, with no energy left for her spells! 

No.  No, no, no.  She couldn’t surrender yet.  She closed her eyes and took in a breath.

Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it.

She remembered the wind.

I refuse.

It had pushed.

I refuse to suffer this.

She had pushed back.

A form was coming toward her, painted and wild, daggers in hand.  She couldn’t stand, not with the arrow still lodged in her leg, the wound still throbbing at her side.  Her vision was beginning to blur.  She raised her hand, pointed it toward the figure, and poured all the energy she had into one final spell. 

The warrior yelped as the cage closed around him, the bars of energy pinning him in place, locking his body into an unnatural grip.  Somewhere beyond her, Saarebas heard a shout of surprise, but she ignored it.  She watched the warrior shake in her spell’s hold.  She twisted her hand and slowly pulled her fingers in, formed a fist.  And then she ripped.

The warrior didn’t have time to scream. 

His body fell and Saarebas dropped her hand.  Her body sagged but she fought the lethargy and exhaustion.  A shadow fell over her.

“Saarebas…” Arvaarad called.  Saarebas’s head snapped up and she looked at him through the cage over her eyes. 

It was the first time she had ever heard him speak her name with anything other than authority or firm detachment.

He held her gaze for a moment.  She couldn’t read his features.  A barrier.  They needed a barrier. 

Trying to summon the last bit of strength she no longer had, Saarebas forced the energy of the beyond into a field of magic to surround them all.  It flickered and sputtered, and most likely wouldn’t repel even the simplest of spells or projectiles.  Saarebas’s eyes narrowed, and she felt the sting of oncoming tears. 

Come on!    

“Saarebas.”

Arvaarad.  Saarebas raised her head.  Arvaarad looked down at her for a moment and nodded.  He raised his weapon.  Turned toward the fog.  Roared a battle cry, one he had not used before.

“Nehraa kadan!”

Brothers, sisters, comrades, companions.

Arvaarad charged through the dying barrier.

No… 

Saarebas collapsed.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  They did not die.  They held the warriors off long enough for the other reinforcements to arrive.  The Fog Warriors had been pushed back.

Arvaarad survived. 

It almost would have been better if he had died in the battle.  Then at least Saarebas could have remembered him as honorable.

She didn’t find out that she had been reported until Arvaarad delivered her to the Viddasala. 

“This is the one who has been using blood magic?”

Something froze in Saarebas and an impossible weight settled in her stomach.  Blood magic?  No… That was vile stuff, truly evil, the unmistakable sign of a soul lost to demons, and they thought that she—

“Yes.” 

Her Arvaarad’s voice rang in her ears, and Saarebas could not stop herself from turning to face him, eyes wide.  She caught barely more than a glimpse of him before she was forced back around.

“Do not move without my leave, Saarebas.” 

The Viddasala’s face filled her vision and she bowed her head. 

“Arvaarad.  Speak.”

Saarebas could only look at the ground as her Arvaarad explained the spell that he had seen her use against the Fog Warriors.

But that hadn’t been blood magic.  That had simply been Saarebas.  She knew, she had felt the pull of the energy herself, had pushed when it pushed back, had sent it through, directed it at the Qun’s enemies.  There had been no blood.

But she couldn’t say that.  She couldn’t speak, not even to defend herself.

And in the end…

“This sounds like an exceptionally dangerous creature, Arvaarad.  You have done a service to the Qun in bringing her to me.  We will keep her here to determine her fate.”

Reeducation or execution.  Saarebas had an idea as to which one was more likely.

“You need not concern yourself with this matter any longer.  Dismissed.” 

Saarebas felt the urge to turn and face him so strongly that it physically hurt.  If only to see his face, to see if there was any sign there that he had not wanted—

But she was not allowed to move without the Viddasala’s leave.

No footsteps sounded.  Saarebas closed her eyes.

“Dismissed, Arvaarad.”

There was another pause and then the sound of footsteps echoed in the chamber.  For several moments, that was all there was, until they finally receded and the sound of a door closing followed. 

Saarebas was left alone with Viddasala. 

Her death would come soon.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Again, events did not transpire as she had expected. 

Saarebas sat waiting in a cell for weeks, starved and weak, knowing only that her execution was imminent.

She would have been surprised when Viddasala came to her one night, cloaked and hooded, had she the energy.

They took her from the compound where she was held, with her face covered, and when she was able to see again, Viddasala stood before her, expression cold, eyes colder.

“Saarebas, kneel.”

She knelt.

“From this point onward, I am Arvaarad to you.  You obey me and only me.  Disobey, and your life is forfeit.” 

There was no question of understanding, no waiting for Saarebas to acknowledge her new master; this was the way things would be, and if she failed to comply, she would be killed.

Saarebas lowered her head.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She never learned why Viddasala had kept her, but everything became worse afterward.  The ropes were never untied, the cuffs never unlatched, and instead of a mask that covered her eyes, Saarebas was made to wear one that covered the entirety of her face, grotesque and heavy as it pulled her head lower down, closer to the ground, a constant reminder that she was lesser, that she was no more than a thing, disgusting and dangerous and the antithesis of what they all said the Qun meant.

She did not know how long she had been in Viddasala’s service when she heard the rumors.  Four Qunari had defected.  They had booked passage with smugglers, and none had been able to find them.  It was quickly covered up, but not quickly enough; Saarebas was the slave to a spy.  And it was just as well.

It was this rumor that pushed her past the point of no return. 

She had to escape too.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  She got her chance a week later.

Viddasala wanted a live prisoner from the army of Tevinter, someone important, a Bas Saarebas leader, who would be interrogated for information on the bas nation’s movements and magical practices.

Saarebas was sent into battle with a unit of the Ben-Hassrath with the express intent of finding and capturing such a subject.

But the thick of battle was a confusing place to be.  And very often, one found oneself separated from companions. 

Saarebas made sure of it.

It helped that the Bas Saarebas of Tevinter were just powerful enough to distract her Ben-Hassrath handlers.  It was not the usual role for spies, to be at the vanguard in a fight, and Saarebas took advantage of that.

She did not know where her rod was.  It did not matter.  Soon the trappings of a Saarebas would be gone, and then the rod would be useless. 

She fled through the carnage, the battle raging around her as she moved her way around the outskirts, through the trees to hide from bas and Qunari alike.  She did not know where she would go, but the sooner she got away from there the better.

She made it to the surrounding woods not unscathed, but well enough to continue, to make her way to a port town, and without any of her handlers following her.

There were no cuffs about her wrists and no ropes around her arms.  The mask had been cast off.  The chains were broken.  It was a good start.

The path she took was no path at all; it wound its way through the jungle, and she was lucky that none found her. 

Against her will, she imagined that Arvaarad had been there, at that battle.  That he had seen her flee and let her go.  That he had whispered, “nehraa kadan” to the wind as she fled, and prayed for her safety.

But to garner comfort from such thoughts would be to take solace in an illusion, and she would not be overtaken by desires for something that never existed.

She pressed on.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  The nearest port town was not far from where she was.  Thankfully, the ships harbored in the port were still there as well.  She would not be stranded here.

However, Saarebas then found herself faced with a new problem: how to book passage aboard one of these ships.  She suspected that one of them was harboring smuggled goods, and so perhaps would smuggle her, but she was not simply fleeing Qunari looking to make their way south to escape the skirmishes; she was a Saarebas.  No ship captain in his right mind would take her on as passenger.

Then again, she had spent months as the slave of a spy who excelled in underhanded dealings when it was necessary to further an agenda. 

In the end, all it took was a subtle threat, a hint of danger, a smooth suggestion.  The mousiest of the captains saw the stitches in her mouth, the broken chains dangling about her shoulders, a controlled ball of fire in the palm of her hand (hidden from onlookers by her body, she was no fool), and had come to the conclusion himself.  All she had to do afterward was gesture to herself and then his ship.

“Fine, fine, just stay down with the cargo!”  “Just don’t hurt me” went unsaid.

She had her ship.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  Saarebas quickly learned that she did not like sea travel.

At least, not in the cargo hold of a smuggling ship. 

The journey was long, the waves were choppy, and no matter where she moved within the hold, she could never quite escape the feeling of the ship’s rocking. 

The one thing that eased the discomfort of the journey – or at least it distracted her somewhat from it – was listening to the people who spoke around her.  It wasn’t often that anyone was close enough to listen, but occasionally, a few bas sailors would venture down below to check on the cargo, and Saarebas would hide away and listen as they chattered.

She never understood what they were saying, but she found that she enjoyed the sounds they made nonetheless.  The difference from her own Qunlat fascinated her.

Even the captain sounded different when he descended to the cargo hold with one of his crewmembers, speaking rapidly in some language Saarebas had never heard before, instead of his broken smatterings of Qunlat.

Sometimes she would make the whole thing into a game to pass the time; she would remember certain phrases that she’d heard multiple times and go over them in her mind, trying to figure out where one word ended and another word began.  And then she would listen to the tones of their voices and try to figure out what the phrase meant.

It was certainly preferable to focusing on the nausea when it hit, roiling about in her stomach so that even the smallest of the meals the captain slipped her wouldn’t stay down.

All she could do now was wait.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

  When the ship arrived at a port late one afternoon just before the rain hit, Saarebas was hungry, weak, and confused.  She woke to a rough shove at her shoulder and reacted instinctively by grabbing for the offender and pulling them away.

“Hey, let go!”  It was the captain.  Saarebas forced open her eyes – crusty and unused from too much sleeping – and focused her gaze on him.  He glared. 

“Time to leave.”  Saarebas did not resist.  She was glad to be rid of him.  She went.

The only courtesy he paid her was to tell her the best places to avoid detection, before shooing her away and leaving her to fend for herself.

The port was a strange one, and Saarebas did not know its name, did not know where in Thedas they were.  She suspected Rivain by the smell of the spices in the air.  She had heard stories of this place as a child.

For a moment, she stood on the docks and looked around, curious and with nowhere to go. 

Bas milled about on the docks, some working, others simply passing through, others still just talking.  The language was foreign, and their manner of dress still more unusual.  Saarebas felt her differences from these people to the core of her being in that moment, and wanted to draw her hand up to cover her face. 

Some of the bas turned and stared at her.

Her stitches pressed against her lips in a way they hadn’t for the entirety of the voyage.  She could break them now, remove them from her body now that the rod was gone, now that there was no longer an Arvaarad to use it.  It would, at the very least, render her slightly less obvious.

She resisted.  There was a reason she had kept the bonds in her skin intact for so long.

She ducked her head and hurried away from the docks, her shoulders hunching forward in a familiar and – she hated to admit – comforting motion as she fled the port town.  The enormity of what she had done was catching up to her, the overwhelming fear of having nothing clawing at her insistently, but she pushed it back with the discipline honed from years of devotion to the Qun.

Later.  She would worry about all those things—

Food, water, shelter, money, magic—

Later.

She refused to allow herself to move faster than the brisk stride she had assumed while leaving the docks.  She forced herself into a state of control, counted in her head, practiced her breathing. 

She would not be mastered by her fear.  And she had something she needed to do.

  -x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x- 

  This place looked more like the mountains of Par Vollen than the jungles of Seheron.  And yet it was entirely foreign.

Saarebas stood alone in a land that wasn’t home, knife ready in her hand.  She felt the stitches in her lips, sitting snuggly where they always had been.  They had stopped paining her skin years ago. 

There was a small knot in the rope, she could feel it against her skin, which Arvaarad would untie in order to change it for a new one.  This was only ever done to avoid infection.

She would not use that method. 

Raising the knife to her lips, she guided the tip to the rope and cut.  The rope tightened, then snapped. 

Her lips twitched reflexively and she pulled in a slow breath, composing herself.

She gently placed the knife on the ground before her, straightened, and began to weave the rope through the holes in her skin.  One stitch at a time, the rope came out, and soon it was gone from her body completely. 

Saarebas held the rope – it really was little more than string, wasn’t it? – between her thumb and forefinger and stared at it.

This was the last rope Arvaarad had changed before he’d—

She dropped it to the ground.  This wasn’t over. 

There was a rope she had hidden in the folds of her clothes, taken from the ship as the knife had been.  She pulled it out and held it before her.  It wasn’t the rope of her people, sanctified by the priesthood.  It wasn’t the physical manifestation of the sacred bond between the Qun and its followers.  It was twine, used to tie crates and boxes together, and it was the thinnest rope she could find aboard that damned ship.

It would do.

She took the twine to her hair.  Slid it under to her scalp, pulled tight.  Over, then cross, then under, repeat.  When the binding of the rope was done, she stood straight, relishing the press and pull of it in her hair, against her skin.

Willing submission to the Qun, as she had always desired, but was never allowed.  Her choice to submit, to offer herself, and she would. 

Somewhere – the tide ebbs and flows, rises and falls – those from whom she descended looked on her devotion with pride.  For she had mastery of herself, and still she chose to serve, and that meant more than any coercion she suffered in Par Vollen or Seheron.

Standing in this strange new land that would have to be home, path clear before her in a way it had never been before, body and soul strong in the conviction of her mind, Saarebas breathed in deep, opened her mouth wide, and screamed.