Chapter Text
I have often wondered: Did Athanis Tilani’s fate seal itself the moment she stepped foot into Haven, into the veridian glow of the Breach?
And when no answers come to me, I then imagine myself intercepting her path, warning her of what awaits.
—Excerpt from Athanis Tilani, Discoverer by Brother Genitivi
Athanis regarded the Breach from where she stood at the edge of Haven’s wooden walls, which wouldn’t stand a chance against renegade Tevinter mages. Somebody needed to put down runes to activate wards, though those wouldn’t be a permanent solution. The nature of the Breach might affect the end result, too…hmm. She needed to discuss it with the people in charge. Even if their southernness made them reluctant to listen to the idea, especially coming from her, surely they’d see the benefit of it.
“It’s very big,” Carisian commented. He was nestled at her side, clutching his fine coat close to him. Her poor boy wasn’t used to the cold. Athanis herself hadn’t experienced a true winter in thirty years. It slipped her mind that the very air could hurt to breathe in, and that once the shivers started, they didn’t tend to stop.
As such, heating stones stuffed their pockets, and warmth radiated ambiently from her staff to take off the biting edge.
“It is.”
“I can’t wait to get closer.”
She smiled and looked down at him. His olive cheeks were ruddy red, curly blond hair unkempt from travel like hers were, but those green-gray eyes were bright with the thought of discovery, brighter even beneath the Breach’s undulating light.
“Neither can I. But first, we must find your father.”
Carisian whipped his head around, suddenly focused on the fact that Papa was somewhere close. “Do you see him?”
“No, but he can’t be that hard to locate. He’d be quite shiny among all these folk.”
Haven bustled with members of this curious Inquisition, born from the cataclysmic event that swirled and rumbled in its interplanar storm above them. Even with the Orlesian Divine dead, they stopped the Breach from its expansion across the world, where it would have eaten the Veil away like flame on parchment until the world was a twisted version of its former state so long ago.
Athanis thought what they accomplished in the face of destruction was quite commendable, really, but they did need to fortify themselves. Wood burned so easily, and lightning loved metal armor and weapons.
They were getting southerner stares as expected. Despite the wear of hard travel and the extra layers to protect them from the weather, their clothes were foreign and fine, and her staff was too sleek and well-crafted for the usual ex-Circle mage or backwoods apostate. When she attempted to approach the nearest soldier wearing a leather vest stamped with the Inquisition’s sigil, the man caught her Tevinter accent, balked, and muttered something about tending to requisition orders before he hurried off.
After being brushed off two more times, Athanis sighed at the inconvenience and said to Carisian, “Well, let’s go see if the stables will take Halla. We have to start somewhere, yes?”
“Why are they so rude to you?” Carisian asked as she led the reins of their horse to the area outside Haven’s walls that seemed to be where the mounts resided. Their cream-colored Imperial Warmblood knew that she was bred for better things than carrying their supplies, but she bore the indignity with honor and never once endangered Athanis, Carisian, and all the precious materials that weighed her down.
“In this part of Thedas, most don’t really like people from Tevinter.”
“Because they think magisters tainted the Golden City?”
“That’s one of the many reasons. They also have a different view of mages. They don’t quite like them, mm, going about freely like citizens of the Imperium do.”
Carisian’s brows drew together, and he frowned just like his father did whenever he disagreed with something. “That’s strange.”
“Yes. I’ll explain more later when we find Papa and get settled—I should have done so earlier, which I’m sorry about.”
“Oh, it’s alright! We have been very busy.”
“Speaking of busy, here, take Mama’s hand so we don’t get separated in the crowd.”
Carisian sighed at having to remove his hand from his pocket but otherwise didn’t complain The muddy road that led to the stables had been frozen over, resulting in a congealed slop that sunk around their boots. Carisian had already decided on the journey that he hated mud, and he wistfully said aloud, “I wish they had real roads. Oh—our coats are getting all dirty again! Mama!”
“Hush,” she lowly chuckled, glancing around at the people who overheard. Some were amused at his declaration while others were annoyed at some snooty little brat being too good for this place. “We have to get used to roads like this, remember…?”
She noticed the horned shadow fall over them. It was a good thing she had prior warning about the qunari among the Inquisition, so when she saw him, she didn’t let surprise show on her face.
“Need some help?” he rumbled, a friendly, open tone to his deep voice.
Leave it to a Ben-Hassrath agent to be friendly and open. He certainly came to them because he wanted to offer a lone mother and child assistance, not because he heard that another Tevinter magister had shown up at Haven and wanted to investigate before anyone else.
Athanis turned around to him, and she hoped that she held back any outward hint of shock at just how massive he was, even for a qunari. Probably not.
Carisian had no such concerns and gasped.
“Oh! You’re the biggest qunari I’ve ever seen!”
The qunari didn’t anticipate such positivity, but he chuckled. “I am, huh?”
“Absolutely! Mama, we’ve never seen a bigger qunari, have we?”
“No, we have not.”
With the qunari now in the road, the throng was forced to part around them instead. Not wanting to inconvenience the flow, Athanis led Halla off to the side while she said, “You’re Iron Bull, correct? My husband mentioned you. We’re here to join him, and I’m wondering if you knew his whereabouts.”
“Your husband,” Iron Bull repeated as he followed.
“Yes—Dorian Pavus.”
“…Dorian Pavus. Is your husband.” His one eye slid from Athanis to Carisian, the unmistakable offspring.
Ah, so the Ben-Hassrath didn’t know everything. And here she thought the Qun had a consistent interest in her ever since the golems, and a special interest ever since she published her fifth book. Either he wasn’t part of that particular network or the Breach’s ensuing chaos didn’t spare Qunari spies from information passing, so any word of her journey to the south had been delayed.
Still, Athanis was amused at the calculations going on between Iron Bull’s great big horns. Dorian Pavus, obvious admirer of men, married to a woman with slightly pointed ears.
Of course, just saying her husband’s name summoned him.
“Athanis! Carisian! There you are—thank the Maker! I was beginning to fret.”
Dorian hurried along the edge of the road to greet them. Carisian would have raced to him, but Athanis didn’t want him running right alongside the active crowd, so he danced in place instead. Behind Dorian, a dwarf with a scandalously low-cut shirt strolled along and watched the scene with great interest.
“Fret no more,” Athanis smiled once he was within arm’s reach. Dorian picked up Carisian to hug him, then pulled her in as well. She relaxed in his embrace. He warmly kissed her cheek, bristly scruff scraping her jaw. She hummed, “You need to shave.”
“Yes, yes, but in my defense, I’ve been quite the busy little mage since the moment I arrived.” In a faux whisper, he added, “Though for some inexplicable reason, they don’t quite trust me.”
“It’s the mustache. You’d look less like a nefarious magister without it.”
Iron Bull huffed a laugh. Dorian glared at him before replying, “The mustache stays. In aeternum. And besides, Carisian loves it. Don’t you, sweet boy?”
Their son nodded in firm support.
The dwarf caught up to Dorian. Standing by Iron Bull, he crossed his arms and drawled, “Say, Sparkler, you didn’t mention…” he briefly but emphatically gestured to Athanis and Carisian, “any of this. Quite the surprise!”
“The surprise was purposeful. I’d rather ask forgiveness for bringing my evil Tevinter family to the Inquisition than permission.”
“Oh, come on, nobody would have said no!”
“Hmph. Well, now they certainly can’t.”
Turning his attention to Athanis, the dwarf extended a hand. She clasped it, and neither he nor Iron Bull missed the two intricately carved metal prosthetic fingers, replacing the pinky and ring finger, that curled in tandem with the natural ones.
“Varric Tethras. A pleasure, madam.”
Delighted curiosity poured into an already near-full reservoir. Here stood the distant relation through Maevaris and Thorold’s marriage who politely told her to fuck off when she sent a letter regarding the lyrium elf in Kirkwall. Maybe she could try again now that he had met her in person.
“Varric Tethras? That is quite the surprise, I’d say. Did you come to the story, or did the story drag you to it?”
“In times like these, I’ve found, there’s hardly a difference.”
“Still. You stayed to see it through; that is what matters.”
Something in Varric’s smile twinged. An old ache unexpectedly prodded.
Athanis looked to Dorian to correct whatever misstep she made. He smoothly placed one hand on the small of her back like a proper husband, and in Tevinter fashion, introduced her to Varric and Iron Bull.
“A word of caution for you two esteemed liars: my wife is troublesomely sincere, which makes her sarcasm all the more dangerous. I blame it on not having any friends her own age and on this side of the Veil when she was growing up, but alas. Gentlemen, meet Athanis Tilani, one of the Imperium’s best and brightest and an expert in, well, mostly everything.”
They straightened at her name.
“Oh,” Iron Bull drawled, full of so much irony that his breath took an almost tangible shape in the air. “you’re that Athanis Tilani. Fuck me.”
After a strained, aborted laugh, Varric said, “Talk about surprises. We’ve got the Tevinter Heretic in our midst! Shit, it doesn’t get funnier than that.”
“You can’t be a heretic if you never believed in the Andrastian faith,” Athanis pointed out.
“Sure, if that’s what makes you feel better.”
Feel better?
At Athanis’ confusion, Dorian said, “Remember, darling, that your book caused quite the stir down south before the Chantry banned it.”
“Less of a stir and more of an explosion,” Varric amended, much of his friendliness withdrawn.
She recalled the events of Tale of the Champion. What that apostate did to the Chantry. Why he did it. What he left in his wake.
(And the Breach churned in the sky, tombstone of the Temple of Sacred Ashes.)
Athanis took no offense, so she calmly responded, “It was but one ingredient in an already over-boiling cauldron. The timing was poor, but discovery often is…until it isn’t.”
She then patted Halla’s neck. “And I intend to continue such discoveries here while offering my services to the Inquisition, whom I’ve heard was founded by heretics. Perhaps I might belong.”
She wouldn’t, but that was the nature of this life. So long as she had her family and her research, she couldn’t care less about what others thought about her.
To Dorian, Athanis said, “The supplies need unloading. Did they offer you a place where we can put it?”
“Yes, though it may be a tight fit. I’m…sharing the space already, you see, with another mage, but he scarcely has belongings of his own, so I’m sure we can make it work.”
“Hmm. Is there a bath of any sort?”
“A bath bucket. Utterly humiliating.”
Athanis sighed. They truly were in the south, weren’t they? And this whole time, she had thought Tevinter superiority exaggerated Ferelden’s conditions.
“What’s a bath bucket?” Carisian inquired.
His father promptly replied, “Something you’re going to hate.”
Iron Bull was happy to take Halla’s reins and allow Athanis to walk unhindered beside Dorian and Carisian. Varric excused himself to “let the family have their moment,” though Athanis heard enough people make up reasons to get away from her that she saw it for what it was. Not that she minded. Varric wouldn’t be the first Thedosian author to have beef with Athanis. Brother Genitivi sent her a novella-sized review of Design of the Veil that oscillated between harsh criticism (coming from the Andrastian side) and abundant intrigue (coming from the scholarly side). She kept the original and had a copy returned to him with the note that he should publish it because his voice was so impassioned, and plenty of mages, students, and researchers would benefit from using his review as a secondary source for either support or rebuttal.
He took her suggestion.
Dorian said that since Sister Leliana, the spymaster and one of the Inquisition’s founders, likely already knew of Athanis’ arrival, she might as well have a bit of a refresh before she went to them and introduced herself. Iron Bull helped them unload the supplies, and after he left to return Halla to the stables, Dorian muttered, “Going back to report to the Qun how many pairs of underwear and perfume vials we brought with us, I’m sure.”
“He was at least nice about it. I wonder: does the cold not affect qunari in the same way as heat? Or does he pretend to not feel it for his persona?”
“Just have a peek at his nipples, darling, and there’s your answer.”
“Have you peeked at his nipples?”
Dorian turned up his nose and dropped the last small chest at the foot of his small, overcrowded bed with furs piled on it. Carisian was enthralled by the coarse, hairy texture. “Certainly not,” he replied. “The nipples peeked at me.”
“Hmm.”
“It’s the truth. You saw them! They’re everywhere no matter where you look.”
Despite the close quarters, the cabin was wonderfully warm, and Dorian situated a large bucket next to the fireplace. Athanis stripped Carisian out of his clothes while Dorian cast ice in the bucket, then steadily began to melt it. “A more sanitary method,” he explained.
Carisian stared at his parents. “You mean they don’t have water here? What happens when they’re thirsty?”
“They haul water out of wells, like the old one we have at our home.”
“The one that’s covered up?”
“So you don’t attempt to fall headfirst down it again, yes,” Dorian chuckled. Carisian giggled back. “Which reminds me—don’t be sneaking off alone the moment you get the chance, alright? It’s a very different place here with very different people who don’t like magic very much. You must stay by us until we give you permission to go anywhere.”
“I know. Mama already told me.”
“Let’s wash off that cheeky tone! And wash your dirty bum cheeks, too!” Dorian lifted Carisian up and over the bucket. His toes dangled above the hot, steaming water, and when they touched the surface, he jerked his feet back.
“Ouch! You made it too hot!”
“I did not. It’s just the way you like it. Your feet are cold; put them in slowly.”
Carisian hissed and whined as he gingerly submerged his feet into the water, but once he adjusted, he relaxed happily. A boy of five, he was small enough to curl up in the bucket so the water reached his chest. Athanis dressed down to her shift and used a wet, soapy cloth to scrub his back and shoulders.
“This hair, dear Maker…” Dorian muttered as he poured oil atop Carisian’s head like they didn’t need to ration it in rural Haven. “We’re never traveling south again, you hear me? Never. Look at what it’s done to his poor curls. Yours are no better, either.”
“Your honesty continues to humble me.”
“If we wish to talk about humility, might I warn you about the other modest aspects of Haven.”
Dorian listed his copious complaints against the Inquisition’s failure to even hold itself to “Orlesian standards.” Athanis let them pass over her like waves on the shore; he knew the truth of the Inquisition’s struggles and actually found its people and the Herald quite commendable—they wouldn’t be here to help save Thedas from the Breach, evil Tevinter mages, and an enemy named the Elder One otherwise—but it was best to let him get everything out in one go without any interruptions. A sympathetic hum or nodding agreement sufficed.
As soon as he finished giving his colorful opinion on the shoddy tavern’s lack of wine varieties (“Which is to say, no wine varieties! The tavern mistress said there wouldn’t be another shipment until next week! All they have to offer is Fereldan mead, or as I like to call it, Fereldan mud.”) he exhaled, satisfied for now, and turned the conversation elsewhere. “But I should say that the Herald isn’t half bad despite all she’s been forced into. She’s doing her best to get this chaos sorted.”
“And the Mark? Have you examined it yet?”
“Briefly. She wanted to eat, so I didn’t have much time before she snatched her hand away to shove a spoonful of worrisomely brown stew into her mouth. The other mage here—” Dorian gestured to the empty bed on the far side of the wall, “proclaims himself an expert on the Fade and has more knowledge about it.”
Athanis brightened at the information, thrilled.
“Oh? What are his credentials? The Circle he belonged to?”
Dorian snorted. “None. To both. Solas is an elven apostate, but not Dalish like the Herald is. He’s very sensitive about the subject, so don’t make the same mistake I did by presuming as much. Not that anything would truly appeal me to him; he has, shall we say, a poor opinion of our countrymen, myself included. But apparently, he’s spent his whole life studying the Fade. Kept the Herald alive while she was unconscious those first few days she had the Mark. And he’s quite the talented spellcaster, so despite the lack of an academic background, he’s no pretender.”
“Hmm.”
“Time to stand up, Cari.”
“No! It’s cold!”
“It’ll be quick, I promise.”
“You won’t be quick because you’ll start talking too much again.”
Athanis and Dorian laughed. “You won’t hear a squeak from me. Swear upon my beating heart.”
Carisian gave him a dubious look that he inherited from Dorian but ultimately believed him. He stood up, shivering despite the cabin’s warmth, so Dorian and Athanis could make quick work of wiping down his lower half. Carisian was at the age where he’d normally like to bathe himself, but his combined exhaustion and the strangeness of the place made him docile.
And Dorian almost kept his promise, too, until the cabin door swung open, and the mentioned elven apostate stepped in.
Solas was tall for an elf, slim but sturdy as well, carrying a small stack of books and wearing plain clothes befitting a backwoods apostate—but his eyes spoke of keen intelligence.
Until they landed on Dorian, Athanis, and a very naked Carisian. Then they narrowed, swept to Athanis’ plain shift and her exposed ears, and soured with frigid judgment along with the rest of his angular face.
“Ah. You did not make mention of sending for your slaves to join you here, Master Pavus.”
Dorian stared, agape, before a very loud laugh overtook him.
“My good ser! You’re sorely mistaken—this is my wife and child!”
Carisian further proved the statement. Arms wrapped tightly around his shivering body, he declared, “I’m not a slave; I’m FREEZING!”
He dunked back down into the bucket. Water splashed everywhere, soaking both Athanis and Dorian. She managed to turn her head away in time, but the rest of her wasn’t so fortunate. Dorian faced a similar fate.
While he spluttered and Solas was mortified to the point of paralysis, Athanis nudged the door shut with a light wave of her hand and sealed off the cold funneling in.
“I wasn’t mistaken for anything other than a wife until we reached Jader. Then I passed as a servant for appearance’s sake. This is the first time in years I’ve been called a slave…though I don’t recall ever being named one by an elf until now. It’s uniquely refreshing.”
Solas broke from his hold and hastily said, “Forgive me. I thought—well.”
“Horribly of me,” Dorian finished with an impetuous, exaggerated sniff. “And wrongly. Had you taken the opportunity to get to know my intriguing life these past two days, you’d find that House Pavus owns no slaves, and that my son somehow manages to make a mess during bathtime no matter where he is. Instead, you made assumptions and never bothered to reevaluate them. How careless of you!”
As he went on, Athanis unfolded a linen towel and spread it wide. Carisian leaped out of the bucket with a yelp. More water sloughed off him in wet spatters. She caught him and wrapped the linen around his small, shivering body. Her hands warmed with magic, and when she ran one atop Carisian’s freshly cleaned curls, they began to dry back into their fluffy, golden shape.
Solas tracked her movements. His gaze then followed Athanis’ hand when she extended it toward him, but he stepped forward to take it. His fingers were warm, and his pinky grazed against her prosthetic one, prodding it with mild investigatory magic—and was met with an equally curious tendril of her own.
It felt like the Fade, deep and sweet and dangerous, brimming with power.
His sharp gaze lit up with surprise.
“Athanis Tilani,” she said. “A pleasure. Solas, was it?”
The surprise elevated to astonishment.
“Seems like I don’t need to list her qualifications based on that look on your face,” Dorian commented wryly. He stood and casted a brief sweep of magic to dissipate the spilled water on the floor. Steam rose up. As he moved to his clothes, he joked, “You may have to remind the Inquisition of your usefulness now that she intends to join its ranks.”
“No, you don’t,” Athanis sighed. Still holding Solas’ hand, she used the leverage to help herself upright. He was steady, withdrawing only when she had straightened fully. “By keeping the Herald alive, you kept the world from falling apart. Nobody could forget that.”
“One would hope,” Solas said back, a polite smile flickering across his mouth. He then lightly bowed to her. “I must apologize again. My instinctual reaction toward your presence was highly inappropriate. Had I known you were married to Dorian…”
“He keeps me a shameful secret because he’s jealous of my accomplishments and embarrassed of my heritage. I see no need to apologize, but you are forgiven, nonetheless.”
Dorian rolled his eyes, and Solas saw the jest for what it was. His smile returned, still polite but more comfortable.
Carisian tugged on her shift, also wanting to be introduced. She squeezed his shoulder. “And this is our son, Carisian Pavus.”
At that, Solas softened considerably. He took great care to be gentle as he clasped Carisian’s small hand.
“Well met, da’len. I must apologize to you as well. I didn’t mean to shock you with the cold.”
“It’s alright.” Carisian gave him a grin that displayed his three missing teeth, all of which he lost on the journey south. The tooth spirit traveled very far to leave coins in his coat pocket. “You didn’t know I was in here.”
“And now I do. It will not happen again.”
Solas moved to set his books on the small desk, found it cluttered with their own materials, and placed them on his bed instead. He wasn’t wearing shoes but instead footwraps. The Dalish didn’t wear shoes, and some slaves went without, so it wasn’t an unusual sight. But there was snow on the ground. And mud. And horse poop. Mabari and nug poop, too. Probably a bit of people poop as well because of the lacking sanitary conditions.
How courageous. And proud, for whatever reason. After all, Dorian’s pride had him wearing unsuitable clothes this far south simply because he considered layers unscrupulous. If only he bore such pride with dignity—it’d keep all that hot air in his lungs instead of expending it on bitching about the cold weather.
Nodding respectfully, Solas said, “I shall leave you to your rest.”
Dorian began to rummage through their bags for something relatively clean and warm to put Carisian in. “Do join us when everybody else goes up in arms over this unexpected arrival. It will be quite the spectacle no matter how it goes.”
“I admit, the day has grown substantially more interesting because of it.”
“And no doubt that Athanis will need your support as the resident Fade expert if she’s to have any hope of examining the Herald’s Mark without the Seeker yelling ‘blood magic.’”
Dorian’s Nevarran accent left much to be desired.
“Indeed. You both shall have it.”
Athanis smiled, excited at the prospect of anticipated research and relieved that one person amongst the higher levels of the Inquisition wouldn’t be an obstacle.
“Thank you,” she said.
With another nod, Solas stepped back outside, this time careful to slip his body along the door without opening it too wide. He also used his own magic to dispel any cold that tried to whip in.
When they were alone again, Dorian laughed in his chest.
“To be perfectly honest, that could have gone much worse.”
Athanis cast a spell to evaporate the used water. Humidity thickened the air.
“I’m sure the real trials are up ahead.”
“Yes, well, what else can you expect? These southern Andrastians do love their trials. Suffering brings them closer to the Maker and all that.”
She glanced at the Breach’s iridescent green steeping into the cabin’s fogged window.
“They suffer enough already; they shouldn’t suffer the judgment of a nonexistent god as well.”
“Please, dear, keep your wickedly unfaithful thoughts to yourself for the time being. The don’t punish objectors like the Order did by having you sort miscellaneous tomes and reenchant the chandeliers; this lot will simply name you maleficar and chop your head off. Or worse.”
Worse meaning tranquil.
“I don’t think they’d go that far,” she said as she refilled the bucket with ice. “They’ve welcomed a qunari spy and an elven apostate among their ranks, and whether or not they wanted a Dalish elf to be named Herald of Andraste, they’ve let everyone from here to Minrathous call her that. They even listened to you about Alexius and his time magic.”
“That was before they found out I have a harmonious union with you.”
“Surely the spymaster must have known, and she did nothing.” Leliana, was it? Former Left Hand of the now-incinerated Divine?
“For now. Perhaps she was simply waiting for you to pop up in Haven like the little Tevinter snake you are, gardening rake at the ready. And by gardening rake, I mean poisoned daggers.”
Dorian’s sarcastic dramatism layered his true worry. Athanis was used to it, so she comfortingly patted his cheek and said, “I’ve survived poisoned daggers before.”
He huffed and batted her hand away. “You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do.”
She watched the last of the ice melt, and once it reached the desired temperature, she pulled her shift over her head and cast it into the pile of dirty traveling clothes.
“How am I supposed to do this?” she asked rather uselessly, verging on a whine.
Pinching the corner of his mustache, Dorian replied, “The wealthy and elite use a stool to sit on while they wipe down, or so I’m told. Everyone else has to…crouch.”
He pointed to an old, rickety wooden stool in the corner that looked as if it came with Havard when he arrived to place Andraste’s ashes in the mountains. His smile was saccharine. “Oh, how fortunate are we.”
Athanis neither sat nor crouched. A touch of magic drew the water over her body and kept it suspended there until she had sufficiently scrubbed herself and washed her hair. Not a drop spilled. She then rinsed, dried, and applied skin cream from a jar that was already too low for her liking.
Afterward, she laid out her jewelry on the bed—careful not to disturb Carisian, who’d fallen asleep the moment he was dressed—and considered what to put on. Nothing too ostentatious that screamed Tevinter, but nothing too humble that also screamed Tevinter and Trying to Hide It. Athanis had never been the most fashionable, but she was of House Tilani, led by a sister who commanded entire floors based on appearance alone, and before that, still someone who understood that clothes, jewelry, hair, and makeup made a certain point.
“Do the silver discs,” Dorian chose for her. “They’ll pair well with the sapphire coat and the silver embroidered belt.”
“They’re heavy.”
“And yet you brought them all this way because they’re your favorite.”
She gave a conceding shrug and hooked the large earrings’ wires through her lobes and up and over the back of her ears. They were a birthday gift from her father. She hadn’t been fond of how they looked on her at first; the earrings were a statement piece, through and through, meant for an Altus with true standing—not the likes of her. But shortly after she received them, he was arrested on conspiracy against the Imperium, promptly tried, and more promptly executed.
So Athanis wore the earrings often during the mourning period, where they inevitably grew on her. Shale had once said that they liked how the silver discs caught the sunlight.
In Haven, the earrings caught Breach’s light more than anything else. They bore a comforting weight as she walked up the path to the chantry. Her elegant coat, bell-sleeved but tapered into a slim cut at the forearms so loose fabric wouldn’t get in the way of spellcasting, hadn’t been made to keep the cold out but to provide her with attention—and protection. It was a special kind of degrading to be gawked at and whispered about while not adequately clothed for the occasion.
Other than her fine, silver-embroidered belt depicting moths and moon phases, which was a tool to show her waistline as much as it was to defend her with various enchantments and supplement her with practical pouches, Athanis wore simple, efficient clothing. Mud-worn boots, fitted trousers, a leather vest, and a blouse with a collar that stopped just below her chin. All black in color to hide burn marks, bloodstains, and a five-year-old’s sticky fingerprints while being stately. A bone hairpin with a resting moth carved into the thicker end jutted through her low-set bun, and a few curls sprang free around her hairline.
She was immensely jealous of Carisian, who got to be wrapped up in a fur pelt while Dorian carried him. They didn’t trust Haven enough to leave him alone in the cabin despite whatever wards they might have put up, so he continued his nap with his head resting on Dorian’s shoulder.
The chantry doors were much too big for anyone to casually enter and exit without bringing in a swath of cold air. It pushed at their backs as they stepped through the opening and resisted being shut out when Athanis closed it.
Going from the harsh, green-leeched daylight to the confines of the chantry made her squint and comment, “Would a few windows hurt?”
“Renovations aren’t at the top of their priorities right now, darling,” Dorian said. “But I’m sure there’s a little box somewhere to put your suggestion in.”
“It smells like bad incense.”
“Reminds you of the Order’s weekly service, doesn’t it?”
“More like it reminds me of watching you carve all sorts of sinful things into the pews while Sister Rowen coughed her way through the Chant.”
There was nobody vocalizing the Chant at the present moment. The interior’s bustle died down as everyone stopped to watch Dorian and Athanis. The air didn’t feel outright hostile, but it was far from welcoming. Fortunately, she had learned to be quite comfortable in this sort of environment.
Quite a few people were gathered at the far end of the Chantry, all of them centralized around a Dalish woman who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Her gloved left hand clenched and unclenched, and she regarded Athanis, Dorian, and their bundled boy with slight, crinkling tension at the corners of her eyes.
Livia had that same squint whenever a headache bothered her.
Solas and, surprisingly, Varric stood along the edges of the Chantry. Content to observe, to judge. Others at the more active center included an armored woman and a hooded woman, both exuding their own types of danger; a woman with a writing board and a Tilani quill poised between her fingers; a blond man who gripped the hilt of his sword; and an exquisitely-dressed woman who could be none other than Vivienne de Fer.
All of them, human.
The armored woman glowered squarely at Dorian. She broke away from her position and stomped up to him, exclaiming, “Tevinter rat! You purposefully did not—!”
“Shh, Seeker Pentaghast,” Dorian interrupted sternly. “You’ll wake up Carisian. He’s had a very long journey, you know.”
She stopped, mouth still open, as she seemed to realize that he wasn’t carrying a large object but a small person. Her growl was then replaced with wide-eyed shock, a confused noise, and a pink tinge to her sharp cheekbones.
“I—I didn’t—” Her voice, considerably lowered, was full of exasperation. “You brought a child here?”
“‘Here’ as in the chantry to this meeting of sorts? Or ‘here’ as in Haven, right under the Breach?”
“Both,” she snapped.
“Tevinter rats wouldn’t leave their young anywhere unprotected, surrounded by the unfamiliar,” Athanis said. “We had little choice in either matter.”
Seeker Pentaghast didn’t like that response, but she gritted out, “…Very well.”
Dorian breezed past her. Athanis followed at a calmer pace. When she came to the Herald, she noted the woman’s faint maroon vallaslin, traced in the honor of June if she remembered correctly, and her honey gold eyes set against warm, light brown skin. Chestnut hair was shorn close to her scalp, and her elven-sloped nose bore bumps from past breaks.
Melora Lavellan, but Dorian said that she preferred it if people called her Mel.
“Even my clan knows the name Athanis Tilani,” said Mel. A wry smirk grabbed the corner of her mouth for a moment. She had a Fereldan accent although she was reportedly from a clan in the Free Marches. “I heard the Chantry considered an Exalted March against Tevinter because of that book you wrote.”
Seeker Pentaghast made a harsh, protesting noise.
“Tevinter would have given a half-elf upstart like me over to the Chantry before it got anywhere near that. The perfunctory assassins were sent my way, but I didn’t mind.”
“Oh, didn’t mind?” she scoffed. “Sounds like your people did a shit job, Leliana.”
The hooded woman sweetly replied, “They were not my people, and those clerics who took great enough offense to the writing are gone with the rest of the Conclave.”
Informative. Purposefully so.
Before Athanis could decide on giving condolences or saying that she didn’t have any part in blowing up the clerics who hated her existence, the writing woman said in a perfectly polite Antivan cadence, “Let us adjourn to the war room for a more private conversation, yes?”
Still, none of the Inquisition people moved until Mel turned on her heels and sauntered toward the back door. However, she straightened when Vivienne de Fer lightly cleared her throat.
Athanis and Dorian strode forward among the southern skeptics, and although she should have been more concerned about what she would say to endear herself, all she could think about was how the war room’s doorframe was reminiscent of the doorframes at the ancient temples of the Old Gods. How fascinating that Tevinter architecture made it all the way here! Though, that could be expected, she supposed, given the time period when Andraste’s ashes were brought to the mountain and a cult established around it…
She craned her head up as she passed under the doorframe, then leveled it again to survey the war room.
Which was undoubtedly a war room. Table, map, markers, candles, serious people gathered around. It wouldn’t smell so great after a while with all the bodies crammed in, but at least she and Dorian wouldn’t be contributors.
Mel leaned a hip against the table’s edge and folded her arms to hide how tightly her left hand curled in on itself.
“Well, go on, Madam Famous Magister,” she said. “Persuade us.”