#sethalla

She moved in an instant, pushing herself up, turning over, expecting to see the same scene as last time she woke—

He lay peacefully, his left arm quiet and…almost normal. Only the softest green glow came from his hand, pulsing gently, showing between his fingers where they lay closed on top of the blankets.

She reached out slowly, haltingly, until her fingers rested on his knuckles. She waited a moment—the glow did not react to her touch, and he didn’t stir. Carefully, she turned his hand over, coaxing his fingers open to see…

“Halla?”

She flinched badly enough to wake him the rest of the way. “Sorry, I…I was…” I was seeing for myself in case you tried to lie to me again. “I was making sure.”

He lifted himself onto his elbows, turning to see her with his hair falling into his eyes. “It’s all right, Halla,” he promised. “It’s quiet now, see?” He turned his palm up to show the Anchor’s green light muted, dormant. “Nothing to worry.” The hand moved to cradle her face as his soft smile grew into a grin. “I have nothing to worry about,” he declared. “Not with this one for a wife.”

Wife. Somehow, she had completely forgotten the gold band on his finger—and the matching one on her own. She was married. She was a wife. He was her husband. That’s why last night had distressed her so much—to find him clenching his teeth against the Anchor’s anger on their wedding night…

“Halla?” He brushed her hair from her face. “Everything all right?”

“I’m fine, Seth,” she promised. “Better than fine.” She put her hand over his on her cheek. “I’m a married woman, and it still would have pissed off the old bitch. I find a decent amount of humor in that.”

Seth laughed a little as he put a hand behind her head and kissed her brow. “Don’t bring her up now. This is for us. Just us.”

“Just us,” Halla repeated, closing her eyes to enjoy the feeling of his lips on her forehead. “Seth?”

“Mm?”

“Can we start again?”

“What do you mean?”

Halla leaned back, just enough to look into Seth’s eyes. “Good morning, husband.”

“Do...do you need uh, a ladder?” The Herald of Andraste offers. Or so they call him. 

“I’m fine, thanks.” Halla replies curtly. Herald of Andraste? Or the culprit behind the explosion that killed her brother and every important leader between the Chantry, Templars and Mages? 

He looks scared, the way he fidgets, Halla thinks. He does not recognise her. Small blessings. 

The qunari looks about, back up at her, looks like he wants to say something, opens his mouth to start, closes it, looks away embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” He says, and jogs on, leaving Halla to her solitude and grief. 

It is a long while later that she reaches a decision. It’s what they would have wanted. Or more importantly, right now, this is the right thing to do. Closing the Breach, restoring order to the chaos. Saving these people, even if thanklessly. And if she finds out that worst case scenario, this was all a Qunari or twisted Tevinter plot for war- as some have whispered- then all the better that she be positioned close to the enemy. Resolving to write a quick missive home, Halla slides off the roof and heads towards the Chantry by way of the training grounds. Ah. Might as well inform the Commander along the way. 

-

“Ah, no matter. We can always-” 

“Commander.” Halla greets him, interrupting his sentence. Commander Cullen Rutherford, surrounded by a throng of fresh recruits pathetically clanging their practice swords and shields together, turns around. 

“Speak of- Lady Trevelyan, this is perfect timing. May I present you the Herald of Andraste?” He gestures to the qunari from before. 

“We’ve met before.” Halla quirks an eyebrow and tilts her chin to look him in his eyes. His very wide eyes. Even his eyelashes are white, Halla notes in passing. Interesting.

Cullen turns suddenly to Seth. “I thought you said you couldn’t find her?” 

Seth is immediately apologetic, hands raised in a plaintive, placating manner. Like he’s expecting physical punishment. Interesting behaviour. “Commander! I- I’m sorry. I- I must mistaken. I heard Lady and I- well- I should not have-” He glances to Halla, and his cheeks flush darker. Seth falls into a deep bow, bending 90 degrees at the waist. “I am most sincere apologies! I will improve on mistake!” 

Halla blinks. Several recruits stop to look. The trainer yells at them to continue. 

“No, no, it’s fine. Adaar, please.” Cullen sighs, muttering quietly and quickly to Seth, words that make the qunari straighten up again. Cullen clears his throat. “Anyway. Sethras Adaar, this is Lady Halla Trevelyan, the Savior of Ostwick.” 

“Don’t forget Whore of Ostwick, too.” Halla folds her arms dismissively. 

Cullen feigns deafness. The Herald… looks a little constipated. Like he’s holding in a fart and a belch at once. How he does that without moving is a little amusing, Halla supposes. 

“Well-” Cullen starts. 

“It is a big honour!” Seth exclaims, like a soldier answering his commander’s orders. He bows again, and straightens up immediately this time. “To meet you, is a big honour for me.” He says, with feeling. 

Cullen nods approvingly. “Yes. Ah, but you wished to see me, Lady Trevelyan?” 

“I would like to pledge my services to the Inquisition, Commander.” Halla turns to Cullen, remarking with some amusement how the man, certainly of a respectable height and build, unfortunately looks small next to the towering Herald, who probably looks twice Cullen’s bulk when in armour. He still looks formidable without, dressed simply in what looks like a cloak cinched with a belt over standard trousers. The pattern, cut and hem of the cloak looks suspiciously like a woolen blanket. 

“You will? Excellent! The Inquisition is honoured to have you on board. Your assistance is greatly appreciated.” Cullen says, relief lightening his tone. Seth nods behind him. 

Cullen launches into a quick briefing of the procedure from here. He will send a runner ahead to inform the Inquisition’s official Ambassador, Lady Montilyet, so accommodation can be arranged. Sister Leliana and Seeker Cassandra will be informed as well. Halla volunteers to meet Sister Leliana herself, seeing as she is headed in her direction to request a crow. Halla will then meet Lady Montilyet to discuss arrangements. Cullen nods, and finally addresses Seth, who has been standing at ease quietly in the background. 

“Then with that settled, Adaar, I would suggest you head to the Crossroads once again today, as discussed.” 

“Yes, Commander.” 

Again, like a soldier. Not very Herald-like. Not very evil-mastermind-like, either. Maybe that Roderick was spouting nonsense, as so many Chantry people do. “Take me along, too.” Halla chips in. 

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan. Commander, sir, may I take Varric and Solas with me again?” 

Cullen exhales with a little smile. “You can ask them directly.” He pats Seth’s arm. “You don’t need my permission to do that.” 

“Yes, Commander. Sorry, Commander.” 

Cullen definitely looks like he wants to say something, but a scout is at his elbow. “Nevermind.” And he turns to the scout. “Report.” 

“So! Where do I meet you, O Herald?” Halla asks. 

Seth looks constipated again. “Lady Trevelyan,” He bows again, slightly this time. “I- uh- if... no, my name is Seth. Not Harald. I’m not-” He looks down and unconsciously flexes his left hand. 

Halla wants to laugh. Not Harald. “Seth then.” 

Seth exhales like he’d been holding his breath, and along with his diaphragm, his shoulders and very posture seems to relax. “Thank you, Lady Trevelyan.” 

He said the words with such feeling, Halla couldn’t help feel a little moved. He must really dislike the title. Like how she loathes hers. 

“U-uh. Sorry. Small distract. Sorry. Um, please, when ready, to meet at gate. Big gate? Front gate there, yes. Uh. Can ask scouts there for provisions.” He points to the little set-up outside the Chantry. “But no- um. No hurry. Crossroads not very far. Maybe you need rest? I mean. If tired no need to follow, but- hahhh.” Seth grunts in frustration, his hands are fidgeting faster, and his frown deepens the longer he speaks, eyes darting down and away. “Sorry for disrespect, Lady Trevelyan.” He bows again. 

“Meet after lunch at the big gate, yes?” Halla fills in the blanks. Seth nods, momentarily forgetting to yell his reply as he did with Cullen. Halla smiles. “See ya later, Seth.” 

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan!” Seth SALUTES her. Halla groans, deep and offended. 

“And you have until then to figure out a nickname for me!” She jabs a finger at him, jogging up the path towards the Chantry. 

-

My burden grows heavier with each new dawn. The weight of sins past, and the sins I have committed against you now. 

The Maker promises mercy and grace anew every morning. Strength for each day. Maker, I have been saving my daily portion every day, but it isn’t enough. I am not enough. 

“Oh, Holy Man! Good morning!” Your voice booms, bright and weightless with blessed ignorance. 

I sit at your table, but you are fortunately busy, already convening with other members of the clan. Good. You should not see that your hospitality turns to ash in my mouth. 

I am not a holy man. I am a former Templar, ashamed of what I have wrought in zealous wrath throughout my years of service. I have sought to free myself of the lyrium that chains me to the Chantry through ascetic devotion, to spend my days in solitude and silence, fasting and praying for healing from the Maker. I have failed, and it is in that valley of death you found me, lying wasted for lack of food and will to live. You carried me here. Tended my wounds, fed and clothed me. 

In return, in recklessness, I said I was an Andrastian acolyte seeking enlightenment. Yet you believed me and welcomed me into your hold. 

I do not deserve your kindness. - I have walked a whole day twice now, following the directions you gave me, yet I cannot reach the cave in which you found me. 

Andraste help me, what a burden I have been to you, to carry me so far. 

“It’s because you’re not at full strength yet, Holy Man.” You tell me cheerfully. “You will see! It is less than a day’s trek both ways. Still, good exercise! Well done.” 

Somehow, I do not think it is simply because your legs are far longer and stronger than mine. 

-

In my career, I have seen many leaders. The tyrannical, the firm but kind, the gentle but manipulative, even the inept and arrogant, swollen on pride and wealth. 

But you, great Thane, you are in every way different. In the past, I have learnt to regard qunari with caution and distrust; their horns and giant physique signs of their savagery. Yet here you are, a Thane of all things. A Thane knee-deep in mud, coated in sawdust and greeted cheerfully everywhere you call. I have never seen a noble with a retinue of delighted children, following you like ducklings. The women complain that doing your laundry is such a pain, but their words glow with a mother’s pride. 

You glow, for the lack of a better word. As much as your light casts my sins in deeper shadow, I find my eyes drawn to you anyway, honing in immediately every time I hear your hearty laugh in the distance. It rings like Chantry bells, and I feel it reverberate in my heart as it races. Like a death knell, reminding me of my doom. 

I have disgraced the Thane of this Clan, and the wages of sin is death. 

-  

Some days I watch you in the arena, sparring with the warriors. You are formidable, as terrifying as I feared, the strikes of your wooden weapons like thunder. I watch your movements closely, the ebb and flow of your muscles as you swing, my own tensing in response. I would block here, sidestep, parry- no, impossible. Every possible spar in my mind ends the same- that you would end me, and the competitive fire in those golden eyes of yours would turn blood-thirsty, that playful grin red with malice. 

-

But there is such a softness in you, in the lines of your defined thighs, in the strength of your back, in the chiselled sharpness of your jawline. I cannot put my finger on it. There is an irresistible sense of ease about you, and I feel comforted in your presence. More than that, I feel the growing need to protect you. From myself, from the lies I’ve told you. 

And when you wrap your hand so easily around your wife’s waist and kiss her, my heart clenches so hard I feel it’s pain in my palms and in the soles of my feet. I want this. If I were a different man,  I would pledge my sword to you. 

If I were a better man, I’d confess my lies, apologise and accept my punishment. 

I watch your wife laugh at whatever you just said. Her laughter lifts my heart, her smile is a beacon of hope. I take my seat for the evening meal. No, I am not a good man. Not by a long shot.

- 

My knees are shaking. My whole body trembles with the sheer effort it takes to hold me in this kneeling position. To hold my voice in, keep my breath steady. The physical aftermath of withholding the truth, held so long it festered into a gangrenous wound. Thane Sethras is one of the last to know the truth of who I am, what I’ve done...and the love I have for Halla. The words have spread spitefully through the Clan, whispering of their Thane’s dim wit. 

I’ve said what has to be said. Contrary to my quivering body, my heart is calm. I will accept my judgement. However harsh, it is right and just. 

Your cold fury is just. 

“There will be a trial, over which I will preside. Thane Halla will have no part in this.” 

“Yes, great Thane.” 

“Such disrespect warrants death, Cullen. You’ve lied to me. You’ve knowingly taken advantage of my hospitality.” 

“Yes.” 

“Get up, Cullen.” 

I look up, and my heart misses a beat. There is no fury, no righteous demand for blood. None of the disgust or the cold indifference when regarding the lowest filth. 

“Come sit,” You say, with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting. You gesture to a seat by you, on the furs laid down by one of the lesser hearths in the great Hall. Undeserving, I obey. 

“Will you tell me why you left the Templars?” 

The Thrones are empty behind us. We are sitting here alone, off to a side, on the ground together like equals. In the darkness, your hair shines silver, the warmth of the fire is reflected in your eyes. Soft, quiet, still. I noticed for the first time that your eyelashes are long and white like your hair.