Tales from the Fade

Hamin mourns as he does many things since unexpectedly waking up in the dark and damp of Haven’s Chantry dungeon, silently and in private. Halani. For all that his parents named him ‘rest’ they were his. So much smarter than him, and ever so hard-working, but Halani never let being the clan’s First never come between making time for him. When Deshanna made the announcement she would be sending her First to observe and report back about the Shems’ meetings over the fate of Templars and Mages, Hamin volunteered. Sharp eyes, an even sharper shot, and more motivation than any to protect them. He would travel with them, keep them safe. But he’s failed. He’s failed Halani. He’s failed the Keeper. He’s failed them all.

Do you intend to go back, Cassandra asks. Can he? Could he bear to? Would it be safe? Would the Clan even take him in the wake of his failure to protect one of their most treasured, their most precious? How can they possibly forgive him when he can scarcely begin to imagine forgiving himself? 

And yet, he misses them. Acutely. A pronounced ache in his chest at the thought of his fellow hunters, his friends, their Hahren, and the Keeper. Misses too the familiar sights, sounds, and smells of the lands they’ve roamed, so different from these across the sea. His clothes are sturdy and warm, Hamin spent a good portion of an afternoon complimenting and speaking to Harritt as such good craftsmanship had merited, but nicer still would be not to need them. For a climate warm enough to feel the earth beneath his bare feet again. He takes up roost at the top of the steps, a silent sentry, the night of the first full moon since waking to this nightmare. The sight of her had thrilled him once. She feels remote now like a shore made little more than a speck on the horizon by unfathomable distance. To say nothing for the great ugly scar that diminishes her beautiful shine and paints the snowy landscape in hues of green.

His heart and blood still race, feet restless to track, to stalk, and finally to run. But Haven already has hunters. Passing good, if the elf is feeling charitable. And Hamin can just imagine what the sight, word of a savage knife-ear hunting just beyond the walls would do for the whispers already flying about amongst ignorant soldiers and pilgrims. Sound though Varric’s advice probably is, there is nowhere for Hamin to run. Halani’s death and whatever strange twist of fate which burned this mark upon his hand have both unmoored and anchored him. Indifferent and distrustful as he may be, abandoning the Inquisition when he may be the only one with the means of closing these rifts isn’t really much of a choice. He will stay for the sake and future of his Clan, whether they still acknowledge and accept him or no. He will stay because it’s what Halani would have done, always the better of the pair of them. Hamin wouldn’t wish the pain nor any of the difficulties that are sure to accompany his mark on anyone else, though the world might yet, and if any of these people had known the true envoy of Clan Lavellan, if they had any inkling of just what they’d lost at the Conclave, they’d be right to.