#soris

"- ...Apparently your groom's a dream comes true. My bride sounds like a dying mouse..."

"- You need to leave this place! - Ha! Do you have any idea, who I am?!"

"- Please do not let me interrupt further. We shall speak more later."

"- Well, here we are...Are you nervous? - I was untill I saw you. -I'll spend every waking moment learning to make you happy..."

"-...And where's the bitch that botteled me?

- Over here, lord Vaughan!

- Let me go, you staffed-shirt son of a...!!"

"- And see the pretty bride...Ah, yes...Such a well-formed little thing."

"- You villains!"

"-Oh, we're going to have some fun!"

"- Oh, thanks the Maker, you've come to. We were so worried..."

"- That Grey Warden, Duncan. gave Nelaros and me his sword and crossbow, but that's all we have... Nelaros is guarding the end of the hall. Let's figure this out with him..."

"- You killed Nelaros!"

"- NO! I WANT YOUR HEAD!"

"- You killed them...You killed them all, didn't you?.. - Like dogs, Shianni. -...Good...Good."

"- The arl's son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through entire palace. I need names, and I need them now! - It was my doing."

"- I herebuy invoke the Grey Warden's right of Conscription. I remove this woman into my custody."

Outside the alienage, Denerim city has its streets packed with people heading to the Chantry. Throngs of people fill the roads like a stream, shuffling along to fill the Chantry's courtyard to the edges of all of its walls. Even more so, as folks climb the roofs of nearby buildings, clambering as close as they can get to hear the Grand Cleric speak, to see the sparks of the giant bonfire wisp upwards into the sky. 

Within the alienage, the procession is quieter, but with no less fervour. The people dress in their best clothes, gather around the vhenadahl to hear Hahren Valendrian speak. Off the edge of the raised platform, a smaller, humbler fire is set alight. It's heat rises, then gets cradled by the overhanging leaves of the massive tree. The warm aroma of herbs burnt in the flames lingers in the courtyard. 

Their version of fire is a little different from how the humans do things. 

Hahren Valendrian speaks. It's a speech he's done many times, for as long as he's been hahren, that Adaia wants to yawn. Valendrian was one to rarely deviate from something that works, and he seems to have gotten the All Soul's Day sermon down pat. He talks about their history -- the proud, long history of the clan of their alienage.

Adaia always thought that this part was kind of bullshit. She gets the "pride" -- quotation marks and all. She understands their pride as city elves was something defiant, something to wear in the face of all their persecution. It can never be something they can truly be "proud" of, in the sense of the word. It will be a fight every time it is acknowledged, and it's a fight she damn well will throw herself into, each time it needs to happen. 

And long -- well. It's only as long lasting as it is because they forced it to be this way. 

City elves didn't necessarily pass down their names through bloodlines. Their people were too few, too desperate. Adoptions happened often, with any able adult taking in any orphaned child. If someone didn't already have a family name, they were given one -- a family name that kept its oral stories and traditions, as much as they were able. A last, desperate attempt to keep it alive. 

Being a city elf was fighting every moment of your life. Adaia was proud of this. Adaia wanted to keep doing this for a long, long time, despite any obstacle she needed to face. 

So yes, she gets what Valendrian was saying, but she still thinks it's kind of bullshit. 

A kick in her belly startles Adaia, and she barely hides her jolt. Cyrion gives her a sideways look. 

"All good?" He mouths. 

Adaia actually has to hold back a grin that's more cheeky than its own good. "I think our baby agrees with me," she whispers back. 

She can see the silent question in the line of his brow, a confused, "Agrees with what?" But then  he shakes his head, content with not knowing. Adaia snorts at that, attracting some annoyed glances that she easily brushes off. She sincerely doubted that anyone here had heard Valendrian's speech less than twice, which was more than enough, in her opinion. 

But it was almost over. Valendrian thumbs through an ancient tome, one that dates back to the Dales, if it was to be believed. Adaia was certain it wasn't the original version -- a copy, or a copy of a copy, she believed, and it didn't really matter to her. What mattered was the contents. 

Valendrian systematically reads through the names of all the clans listed. For each name, a slip of paper is cast into the fire, causing the flames to swell. These were the names of lost clans. Whole families, reduced to one name, the only thing they could be remembered by. All Soul's Day was about remembering them, giving them the final cleansing through fire, especially if there were no remains to burn. For many of these families, there was nothing left but this. 

Adaia forces herself to sit still through this, the most sombre section, but then reasons that surely everyone else will cut her some slack for being as pregnant as she currently was. The moment the final prayers are said, Adaia practically jumps up from her seat so that she can join Cyrion's sisters, already in conversation. 

"I'm so glad we didn't have to do any funerals today," the younger sister, Cela, says. She quickly clarifies, "Because, obviously, it's very good none of our people died this year, of course." 

"Oh yes, obviously," the older sister, Varanni, agrees with mock seriousness. "And not because it would've stretched the ceremony so much longer." 

Cela squeaks. "No, of course not! Ranni! It's a good thing!" She seemed genuinely embarrassed, ears already a bright red. 

Adaia steps in, not wanting to waste anymore time. Her impatience was bubbling over. "Girls, we should go find him now." 

Three women, of the same house, of similar ages. Three elves who grew up with different circumstances, together now, laughing under the same vhenadahl tree. Sisters, who easily accepted Adaia as one of their own when she married into the family. With all the factors that surrounded them and their city, the struggles they have gone through, the things they had to face to get here -- 

-- how utterly, thoroughly, miraculous it was that all three sisters were pregnant at the same time. 

"If only he could've gotten out that stupid book earlier," Adaia complains, as they reach the door to Hahren Valendrian's home. The other two giggle at her tone, but then the door to his premises opens to Valendrian himself, who tutts. 

"It's a sacred tome, Adaia," he says, with the patience of having already explained this several times. "I only bring it out for the All Soul's Day ceremony, and then it goes back into a safe place until next year." 

"Well, you're lucky one of us hasn't popped yet! Cela's going to burst any day now." 

Cela makes some indecipherable noises at the teasing, but she's glowing a little too much to be insulted. She runs a hand over her swollen belly, and is the one to sweetly beg, "Oh hahren, please show us the names!" 

Valendrian grumbles under his breath, but it's without heat, and he invites the ladies into his home. The tome is waiting on the table, and he gingerly flicks though the thin sheets. 

"This is a tradition we haven't been able to practice for many years," Valendrian says. He gives Adaia specifically a quirked grin. "I am so happy to see it brought to life again."

"If the name sucks, I'm not using it," Adaia rebuts immediately. 

Cela swats her arm. "Oh come on! We have to hear it first! Hahren, have you found it?" 

Valendrian sighs. "Yes, yes, lethalin... here." 

He runs a finger down a dense block of text. Names upon names, crammed together on a page.

"House Tabris..." he reads under his breath, tracing all the names that came before. "You know, your house is one of the oldest ones in our clan.. these names are from generations that come from the Dales --" 

"We know!" Adaia cuts him off. Varanni, though also impatient, continues in a more polite tone. "What's the name for the next generation, hahren?" 

His finger stops on a character, and there's a pause. The women crane their necks to see what he's pointing at, but the elvhen character is outside of their understanding. 

"What does it say?" Cela whispers, but the other sisters can't answer her. 

Hahren Valendrian clears his throat. "...nuven meaning, 'a great desire'. It can be shortened to the 'nn' sound." He exhales with some exasperation, but mostly pride. "What an apt word to describe this next generation." 

"Oh!" Varanni jumps. "The name I have is perfect, then! What a coincidence!" 

"I thought we agreed that we were going to come up with names together, Ranni!" Cela whines. Varanni at least had the decency to look sheepish. 

"Remember," Hahren Valendrian says, trying to temper all the excitement that was happening in his household. "You do not have to use the generational character to name your children. The tradition is old, but there's a reason it's fallen out of use." 

"...I think I can make it work. I'll have to change what the name I had in mind, though. Soren'n?" Cela tastes the name on her tongue, but then makes a face. "I think I like Soris better..." 

"Who was just complaining about picking names in advance? Huh?" Varanni swats her sister. 

Adaia's a little lost in thought. A great desire. That much was certainly true, and highly appropriate for the babies that were on the way. Adaia touches her belly, feels a reciprocal kick, as if her baby knows what she's thinking, as if it responds. 

"Adaia! What about you? Do you have a name in mind?" 

Adaia thinks for a moment, and then smiles.