#YOUR PETTY SQUABBLES ARE AS ALREADY FAINT CRIES ON THE WIND TO ME

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newfragile yellows [37]

The first report comes during midday, just before noon. The messenger’s horse is covered of a foam of sweat and the messenger herself is no better off. Her eyes are wide and her face is pale. This is not new or uncommon.

But there’s something else.

There’s hope.

The messenger grasps at Rylen’s hands, “It’s Haven.”

The report is short and brief, delivered and pieced together through gasps of air and a baffling image that no one can believe.

Earlier, just before dawn, something was seen destroying Corypheus’ forces around the ruins of Haven.

The remains of Haven are a sore point to many for multiple reasons. But the Inquisition and the remaining resistance forces don’t have the time or resources to reclaim it. It holds no strategic purpose, just morale.

Corypheus holds it under watch to show them, to flaunt his victories, to revel in their despair.

And yet -

Something has begun to pry Haven from his grasp.

It isn’t quite believable.

The second messenger comes a little under an hour later as they’re arguing as to what this could mean, as to what is going on.

This messenger had left almost as soon as the first one -

“It’s her,” He says, pale and shaking, eyes bright with something that isn’t a fever - for once.

Her.

There could be only one thing that’s a her at the ruins of Haven. There was only one her left behind. There was only one her lost.

It is impossible.

Lavellan’s name has long gone down through rumors and legends and myths. Many who have joined the Inquisition know of her through the stories of how she died to save the shambling fragments of the Inquisition.

And yet -

When the forces of Corypheus were decimated, when the area had been cleansed of Red Templars and their forces, it was her who remained.

They had seen. They had watched.

“How do you know it’s her?” Solas asks.

From the ashes and the ruin, a single light of green. And a woman, dark with ash and blood and violence. From the wreckage of what was once a grim reminder of loss, she stood, and she let out a mighty scream that shook the heavens, the mountains, the dead. And with that scream, she unleashed a torrent of green.

There is no mistaking that specific and particular shade of green.

“Look to the sky,” The messenger says. “Do you know anyone else it could have been?”

For the first time in years, they look to the sky.

In the distance over Haven, they see it - almost imperceptible, but clear if you know what to look for.

And they do.

The Breach glows, the red and ash of the sky almost smothers it, but they can see it clear as anything. The Breach glows, the green of what was once their only problem.

It glows.

It shines.

And just like it did, years and months and deaths ago -

The Breach lets out one, ear-shaking pulse that washes overtime like a heavy blow of an invisible tide.

And it cracks the red and blighted heavens.

-

“A reason?” Lavellan’s voice cracks like heated stone, steam pushing the heavy layers of rock apart, “You want a reason to fight with me? A reason to follow me?”

Lavellan’s dark eyes seem to burn as she stares at Cullen.

Cullen is no longer the man he once was. None of them are.

“You are all under some sort of misapprehension,” Lavellan says, eyes fixed on Cullen but addressing the motley gathering of the remains of Inquisition leaders and various resistance group leaders. “I do not need you. I do not care if you decide to add your forces to mine or not. With or without your approval and help I will tear Corypheus down from his false throne and I will make him suffer. This,” Lavellan’s voice softens, simmers, slides, “Is not a promise. This is not a dream or an aspiration or a goal or any sort of intangible dream. That is the truth. I will do it. Whether you are there or not when it happens is your choice.”

Bull traces the side of her face, the side of her body where the Anchor once was - the ruined mess of flesh that her shoulder and upper arm abruptly end in, the black and otherworldly twist of her veins underneath her skin. He believes her. Bull hasn’t believed in much for a while, but when she says that, he believes. He remembers someone else, something else, a long time ago.

It isn’t the same creature. Same bones, different scales.

“I am not going to ask you for anything,” She says, “I will not promise you anything. I will not bribe or bargain or negotiate or otherwise request anything. I am simply going to give you all a choice. I am going to give everyone a choice. Fight or submit? Resist or disappear? Live or die? Strive or accept? Reclaim or rot? Struggle or wither?”

Her eyes swallow the air and the space between. They swallow everything.

“Your Maker has turned his back on you,” Lavellan says. Her voice takes a turn for something sweeter, something incongruously more soft and warm, “Your Andraste closes her eyes and ears to you. Your prayers have gone unanswered, your cries unminded, and your suffering unnoticed. The Great Mother and Father and their brood shut themselves away. The Wolf turns his tail to run. You want something to believe in? You want a reason? I am here.”

The ruin of Lavellan’s arm slowly raises, and from it a bloom of magical green that swirls like the smoke of the Breach and the Fade, condensing into an arm as she gestures out towards them.

“I, and I alone, stand before you. I, and I alone, will hear you. I, and I alone, have returned for you. Your Maker and Andraste have left you to your fate. The Pantheon and the Wolf remain negligent. The Gods of the Avaar war amongst themselves as petty creatures, consumed with their own squabbles. The spirits of Rivain flee and are scattered like dried and wasted leaves in the wind. The Qun is a hollow promise that moves like a shambling creature towards its own death. You ask for a reason? The fact that I stand before you is your reason. You want someone to answer your prayers? You want something, someone, to believe in? You want a miracle? I will be that,” Lavellan’s spectral fingers curl into a fist, “Corypheus wants to become a god? Fine. Then I will do unto him as has been done unto all gods. I will silence him. I will shackle him. And I will unmake him in my image”

-

“And what are you?” Lavellan’s sharp eyes land on Cole. “You, the boy from Haven - you are different, now. Duller in new ways.”

“You remember,” Cole’s voice is so faint, so low, it might as well be the creaking of wind through the eaves.

Lavellan’s teeth gleam when she corrects him, “I do not forget.”

“Cole is a spirit,” Bull answers, “Solas says he was once Compassion.”

“And now?”

“Apathy,” Bull says.

Cole turns his face away from them, curling on himself in his corner. A gray thing.

Better this than the frantic mess he was before, Bull thinks. Sad as it is.

“And you?”

Bull looks back towards Lavellan. “Me?”

Her eyes scan him, reading every line of age and every fight and every moment since the fall of Haven and her supposed death.

“What are you?” She asks. “You did not return to your Qun.”

“Not much point, really,” Bull shrugs.

The Qun remains. But it is clear to see that the Qun is on the losing end of the fight. Their numbers dwindle, their forces idle, and their leadership faces constant struggle and doubt. The poison of doubt is killing them faster than the Venatori can.

“You remained here,” Lavellan says. “You and your Chargers chose to stay.”

“Couldn’t really go anywhere else, Boss,” Bull muses, “So it wasn’t much of a choice.”

“It was,” Lavellan replies, something easing up in her eyes, “Tell me, what do you believe? Why did you choose to stay here, to fight here? You could have returned to the Qun or struck out on your own. Why did you choose the Inquisition?”

Bull doesn’t know how to say that he didn’t want to leave his guys to go back to the Qun. He doesn’t know how to say that when the Qun called for him, he ignored it - by then it was already too late. He was already supporting a large chunk of the Inquisition since Cullen began to falter from withdrawal and the corrupting presence of the Red Lyrium, and the Chargers were quick to pick up the slack of their untrained forces.

He doesn’t know how to say that he kept thinking that the Qun’s efforts and mantras were falling short and crumpling in on themselves even as they continued to try and recruit and expand. He didn’t know how to say that out of all the stupidity and foolishness of every single crown and country fighting amongst themselves like empty headed children, at least the Inquisition had some sense to it left.

Bull doesn’t know how to say that after she was - pretty sensibly - assumed to be dead he didn’t know where to go, where to look, where to turn from there.

He doesn’t know how to say any of those things.

So he doesn’t.

“Standing orders,” Bull says instead.

(“Keep them safe, keep them level,” Lavellan turned away from him, “Get as many to safety as you can. I’m going back.”

“Got it, Boss,” Bull replied, already directing his Chargers to help get civilians towards the Chantry, to clear a path for soldiers and anyone else and to keep it open.

“Hold the line,” Lavellan said, “Until I’m back.”)

Lavellan’s pale and death-touched face blooms into a smile. Bull’s gut clenches and his hands jerk.

“Very good,” Lavellan breathes. “You’re still my man, then?”

“Dragons, demons, Venatori, death apparently,” Bull replies. “Which one first, Boss?”

“I’m thinking we start small,” Lavellan answers, “Ease ourselves back into things. Let’s start with the Avaar god in the South. That should be an adequate warm up for the main event.”