#i want to force all the elves to confront their contempt for humans in relation to the respect they have for riders

[hiddenwarlock]

very tempted to write an Eragon fanfic just to have my Human Rider oc Theopania call Vanir “kid”

[brialavellan]

Summary: It has been 20 years since Inquisitor ‘Manehn Lavellan defeated Corypheus, and 18 years since the Exalted Council. Solas is furthering his plans and so far, all efforts to stop him seem to be in vain….until the Well of Sorrows begins to speak to ‘Manehn once more. Led by ancient magics and beset by enemies from Ferelden and Orlais to Antiva and Tevinter, ‘Manehn must gather allies old and new in a race against time to defeat Solas - at any cost.

(NOW ON AO3)

Chapter 1 ||  Chapter 2 || Chapter 3 || Chapter 4

CH 5: Old Ghosts

She had not been expecting this.

Briala fiddled with the summons in her hand, expectantly and anxiously peeking outside the windows. The small carriage space still made her stomach turn even years after, since the burning of Halamshiral, when she was bound, heading for a cell.

The sight of the palace was familiar, and she took little interest in the gilded gold gates and the statues of lions, mouths open in a snarl. Orchestral music streamed through the carriage windows and the courtyards as the Palace Gates gave away, allowing Briala’s carriage to enter.

It had been years since Briala had seen Celene last, with sad eyes and a gaunt face, looking frail, almost wizened, a skeletal shadow of the Celene she remembered. Those memories of their time together, as confidantes, as lovers, were slipping like loose sand between her fingers. It was almost a small mercy, as the pain of their breakup was nothing in comparison to the pain of betrayal - as she stared out at Halamshiral in flames so long ago, acrid smoke choking her lungs as she was dragged to a jailer’s carriage in handcuffs. As she learned Celene had killed her parents all those years ago, their blood pooling at her feet as she hid behind a curtain in the reading room. The pain of her betrayal was sharper than the pain of their breakup, and though she should always expect it in a place like Orlais, it hurt even more that, at the end of the day, this was all just politics.

Nothing personal.

Perhaps this is why she loved ‘Manehn’s sentimentality. Everything was personal to her. Briala had no other word for this willingness to help her at their first meeting, her eagerness to give Briala the leverage she needed to wrangle a concession out of Celene, accomplishing in one night what over a decade of Briala’s soft whispers paired with sweet kisses could not - recognition and rights.

At first, they developed a working relationship, Celene being, if not supportive, at least hands-off as Briala administered the Dales with a deft hand. The humans groused and schemed and plotted against her because of course they would. They either threw down their tools, packed their wagons, and left or they begrudgingly accepted their new elven Marquise. Those that did not were swiftly dealt with. “Eyes in every corner and a dagger at every throat” was the whispered truth to every human who later dared to challenge her reign. Jests about big ears were told with a tinge of fear behind racist overtones.

And as long as Celene accepted it, so did they.

But Celene’s support was conditional on ‘Manehn having a political mandate, and in the intervening years after the scandal of the Exalted Council, her favor had fallen fast. Whatever political pull she did have came from reverence of deeds long past, or towards the Chantry and her role as Right Hand, the visible arm and instrument of the Divine’s Will.

And Celene wanted nothing more than meddlesome elves to finally fall out of favor.

The carriage pulled over and Briala quickly stepped out, not even waiting for the carriage driver to rush to her door. She ascended the marble stairs quickly, her stomach fluttering with every step. The chevaliers stood at attention, still incredulous at the sight of the Elven Marquise despite her years in power.

Elves with titles still shock.

She entered the vestibule and heard the hurried whispers of very familiar faces as she approached the throne room: the one who summoned her, and one she hoped to avoid encountering. The guards announced her arrival as they pushed aside more gilded golden doors and as she strode across the marble floors, the clicking of her heels silencing the conspiratorial whispers.

Her heart sank at what she saw. Any hopes that this uneasy peace would remain shattered at the sight of Grand Cleric Natalie at Celene’s side.

���My lady Briala,” Natalie said, her rs rolling with a hint of contempt and malice that seeped into the stone and gold gilding of the overly ornate throne room, “it’s a surprise to see - .”

“Leave us,” Celene interrupted with a small flick of her wrist and a harsh glare, “I wish to speak with the Marquise privately.”

“Of course, your Radiance,” Natalie said with a curt bow and a slightly sour look, the clicking of her heels echoing through the cavernous space as she skittered away.

“Bria…” Celene said softly, greeting her with the pet name she bestowed so long ago. Briala would have winced, but she maintained a perfect stony facade behind an emerald mask. She knew now why she was summoned, and her heart sank at the implications.

“I heard what happened during the celebrations - an attack on the Divine in my palace. It’s fortunate I was elsewhere, and that the culprits were thwarted.”

“Due to the quick action of the Divine’s Right Hand and Arcane Advisor,” Briala said quickly, “but their leader still lives. And we are doing -”

“Everything in your power, I am sure.” Celene interrupted her. Whether it was because of their history or her age, she didn’t know, but Celene saved no flowery words and meandering metaphors for Briala.

Her words, and intentions, were clear.

“But I have to ask if I can trust that this unrest would truly be resolved by a woman with a history of…poor judgment in affairs relating to this ‘Dread Wolf’. And whether this may lead to complications in Halamshiral.”

“You would not find another person in all of Thedas who has more reason and more dedication to ending this threat. Have you found another in twenty years?”

“I am not concerned about her dedication.” Celene said with a slight sigh, “I am concerned about infiltration.”

She rose from her throne, meeting Briala’s gaze with steely and stern grey eyes. “I cannot risk another uprising. I cannot risk my empire, and my people, falling to this threat because I failed to act. Not again. I will be forced to act if you and the Right Hand cannot.”

This was a threat. A hard lump rose in Briala’s throat and she forced it back, stomach violently churning as flashes of flickering orange flames and the snapping of wood and steel burned briefly in her mind’s eye, as the memory of ash and smoke choked her lungs. She could see Celene’s fingers twitching at her sides. She was ready to light the torch.

One misstep, and Halamshiral would burn again.

“We will not fail.” Briala said, followed with a deep curtsy. Her practiced perfect mask hid the fear, the anguish, that curled within, a tight knot that pooled deeper and deeper in her chest. Old and new fear mixed and muddled in the pit of her stomach, curling and churning tighter and tighter until she wanted to vomit. She held her head high as she left. Now, with Celene’s leave, she walked out, with new resolve and growing anger.

As she departed, she noted the Grand Cleric clamoring into a small carriage, her face still soured and her hands shaking as she climbed aboard. Briala paused for a moment, out of sight, but not out of earshot.

“Where to, your Reverence?”

“Back to the Cathedral,” Natalie declared with a heavy sigh. “And quickly.”

Briala waited until her carriage departed then rushed towards her own. She climbed inside and tapped her driver on the shoulder.

“I need to get to the Grand Cathedral now.”

‘Manehn hated alienages.

Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the rotted wooden gates, smeared with grit and grime, rusted locks barring entrance and exit, a cage not even fit for animals. Recovery had come for all except the elves, it seemed. As it always was. She noted Halamshiral still smoldered from the fires that had consumed it over twenty years ago, despite Briala’s adept administration.

Mirwen, however, was obviously disgusted, and scrunched her nose at the sight of the gates. She was not unaware of the privilege she enjoyed, but she could not stand the visceral sights and smells, the reminders of quite how well she lived in comparison to her brethren.

A full complement of city guards followed them, led by Varric and Guard Captain Aveline, who obviously hesitated at the sight of the gates, gripping the hilt of her sword. The templars that followed ‘Manehn and Mirwen took note and gripped their hilts, eyes scanning for any sign of a threat.

“Are you sure about this?,” asked Aveline, eager to avoid any sort of confrontation with any of the viscerally angered elves inside.

“Absolutely,” Mirwen said, “this is the only way we’ll find what we’re looking for.”

Aveline motioned to two guards and they rushed forward, undoing the locks and heaving the gates open. The sight of the entering entourage sent most of the elves scurrying, eyes all watching from windows and shadows, some curious, most angry, bloodlust in their narrowed eyes.

“The alienage has seen the most unrest,” Aveline commented as they entered, “I don’t dare send anything less than a full complement here if I want my guards to come back alive. We’ve been able to maintain order, for now. Checkpoints, curfews, and the like.”

“Gently, of course,” Varric said, at the sight of ‘Manehn’s suspicious glare, “the nobles have been begging for a purge. I’m not giving it to them.”

“Because elves had no reason to rebel beforehand, of course.” ‘Manehn said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “how else could Solas amass followers when all elves live such lives of privilege and contentment?”

“That doesn’t excuse murder.” Aveline snapped. “Order must remain.”

“And hopefully,” Varric interrupted, “we’ll find answers in Merrill’s home.”

As they arrived, Varric rapped on the door. Once, twice, but no response.

“Remind me to buy her a new door,” he said as Aveline and another guard bashed the lock. They went first, swords drawn, sweeping the small space for any sign of intrusion.

The house was as sparsely decorated as it was small, but it had obviously been ransacked. A fine coating of dust had settled over a small fireplace and overturned table. Scrolls littered the floor, and scorch marks lined the walls. Amidst the mess stood a broken eluvian, shards still poking out from the frame.

Varric frowned at the mess. “This isn’t good…” he said, almost to himself, “Daisy, what did you get yourself into?”

“Why does she keep a broken eluvian in her house?” Mirwen asked as she went to examine it.

“Beats me,” Varric said, eyeing the shattered remains, “Hawke finally convinced her to stop working on the cursed thing, but…”

“That was foolish,” Mirwen said, wrenching a shard of mirror from the base of the broken eluvian, “we could have used something like this.”

“It cost her her Keeper, Mirwen,” Varric said, turning away from the mirror. “When lives are at stake, some prices are too high. Especially when you’re playing with blood magic.”

Mirwen said nothing, turning over the piece of shattered eluvian in her hands, careful not to rub against the raw edges. The shard hummed with a dull magic, shimmering even in the dark space.

“The spirit said I can use this to scry for unbroken eluvians. It will tell us whether there is one nearby. ”

“And then we destroy it?” Aveline asked.

“Or we use it.” ‘Manehn said. “If it’s active or if we can unlock it, we can trace the paths to a base of operations. That’ll get you a quieter city than breaking one measly eluvian,” she added as Aveline shot her a slightly incredulous glance. “Turns out, smashing all the eluvians in Thedas isn’t much of a plan.”

A tense unease permeated the space as Mirwen worked the magic the spirit had taught her, using the eluvian as a focus. The shard began to audibly hum with magic, bands of light pulsing from the shard, filling the small space with the tingle of mana, setting hairs on end and giving everyone goosebumps.

Mirwen closed her eyes and focused, letting the thrumming of the magic touch her mind's eye.

She opened her eyes, a satisfied smile in her face.

"There is an active one near the base of a mountain. Past a small forest, near a clearing of some sort." she closed her eyes, focusing on the scene laid bare before her. "There's flattened grass there, as if many people camped there recently."

Varric’s eyes widened. "I know exactly where that is," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turned towards 'Manehn. "Davhalla's clan was recently camped there. If there's an active eluvian nearby...."

"Then they're in big trouble," 'Manehn interrupted. "We have to go there. Now.” She paused for a moment and looked at Mirwen. “But if we encounter any trouble when we’re there, I want Varric to take you right back to the Keep.”

Briala frowned as her carriage approached the Grand Cathedral and saw Natalie enter, her mind working to piece together old details and new, to figure out Natalie’s machinations and motivations.

Natalie was ill suited for the Game, Briala noted, but both were all too familiar with the Chantry's ability to sway hearts and minds from the pulpit. Surely, she had planned a sermon of some sort for this day, an attempt to succeed at pinning the attempted assassination on the Right Hand - what she had failed to do the first night after ‘Manehn had deftly thwarted her in front of the nobles. If she should not agitate from the top, she would start from the bottom, and the whispers would trickle up.

Unless Briala could find some way to take her down.

The interior of the Grand Cathedral sweltered in the summer heat. Streams of sunlight pierced through the stained glass windows, the multicolored lights dancing on the smooth marbled floors. Parishioners sat dutifully on mahogany benches with velvet cushions, gazing up at the stern face of a golden, glittering Andraste, arms outstretched, holding two braziers that burned with incense. Vivid painted frescos lined the entire bottom half of vaulted archways, telling the story of the life of Andraste. Marble statues, their bases lined with gold, stood in between pillars, depicting Andraste’s disciples, Hessarian, Havard, and even Mafarath the Betrayer. And among the austere beauty stood four Revered Mothers, singing the Chant of Light in soprano, their soft angelic voices filling the vaulted ceilings and sifting between the pillars and pews, as worshipers bowed their heads and mouthed the words along, some rapturously, some by rote, but all still entranced by the beauty in their song. It was during this song that Briala was able to slip in the Cathedral without notice, carefully closing the door and shrinking behind one of the stone pillars that graced the entrance.

The Chant came to a close and the Cathedral fell silent, interrupted only by Grand Cleric Natalie’s footsteps against the marble floors as she walked towards a small pulpit. She cleared her throat and regarded the crowd before her.

“All shall know the peace of the Andraste’s love,” she began, raising her arms in reverence to the glittering gold Andraste that stood above her. “And all shall know the Truth of the Maker. For you are the fire at the heart of the world.”

The crowd chanted in response.

“And comfort is only Yours to give.”

Natalie smiled at the crowd, a wicked, hungry smile like predator baring her fangs. “All should know the Truth of the Maker. We know what this means. We will see His return, my children, when his name is spoken in all four corners of the World. Twenty years ago, the sky split apart with magic, our beloved Divine was lost…all seemed hopeless….and in our confusion, in our moment of grief, we strayed from the path of Righteousness.”

The crowd began to murmur, heads shaking, with some confusion. Briala read the crowd and took some comfort in their reactions. Surely they remembered the Herald’s deeds. Surely they wouldn’t turn so quickly? Had she squandered all good will so easily?

“We turned to desperation to the only one who could heal the sky, but ask yourselves: are we safer now with this Herald as the Instrument of the Divine’s Will? Are we better off when we turned Halamshiral over to the elves? One of their heathen gods almost murdered the Divine not a month ago, and we do not question why, at her side, sits a woman who worships them?”

Natalie stood at the pulpit, fists clenched and shaking with her righteous fury as she spoke her sermon to the eager masses that bowed before her.

“They have strayed from the true Chantry, the one that served Thedas for a thousand years! Have we forgotten that she led a movement designed to destroy us? Have we forgotten that this enemy of Orlais, of the Divine, was one of hers? ”

She slammed her hands down on the pulpit, the thud echoing across the Cathedral and forcing the congregation to rapt attention.

“We now bow to elven heathens in Halamshiral instead! We gave them land they did not deserve, land we took and made pure by Andraste’s light. Have we truly strayed so far from what we were? Are we better for it? What next, shall we ask a Qunari to be our next Divine now?”

She laughed at the thought, a rueful, rage-filled laugh. Her quaking voice echoed throughout the Cathedral as the congregants whispered murmurs of assent.

“We brought light to the Dales. We brought the truth of the Maker to the elves, who abandoned the god who gave them life and the Prophet who gave them freedom. By our hand, this corner of the world was touched by the Maker’s grace! And by giving it back to the elves, we let that light grow cold. Worse, we snuffed it out!”

She paused now, gathering her composure. Her last words hung hauntingly in the feverish air, a cold power behind every syllable, a different kind of echo that reverberated among the throngs of rapturous eyes turned towards her pulpit.

“The Maker turned a little further from us when we placed Halamshiral in elven hands.”

Briala watched with wide worried eyes as the crowd frothed with fury at her words. Not towards Natalie, but towards the so-called audacity of it all. She whispered silent curses under her breath, small beratings saved for herself. Of course she had overstretched herself. She had been careless - so overfocused on the Dales, she was, that she had let resentment fester in the capital. Resentment bubbling barely underneath, ready to resurface, all within the earshot of an Empress who had no qualms sacrificing elven lives to save her throne.

Even hers.

Even the Herald’s.

She had to warn them all, and soon.

“We’re close.”

Mirwen led the nervous group up the summit of Sundermount, her hands still holding the eluvian shard, which began to pulse and glow brighter as they approached their destination. ‘Manehn followed directly behind her, dagger drawn and uneasy with letting her daughter take the lead. She eyed the shard in her hands warily, the thrumming of magic agitating the Well’s voices and stealing her concentration. The five templars sent by the Divine to guard them grumbled as they followed, gripping their hilts. Aveline and Varric marched behind them, stony-faced and silent. All knew their duty, and they would not falter, but all were uneasy at following this mage’s instructions all concerned about where it might lead.

Tears began streaming down Mirwen’s face as they ascended. She quickly wiped them away. Sorrow and Despair pressed heavily against the Veil here, pushing and pulling, warping the Veil around them that threatened to tear at any second. She could feel the hidden pockets of pain deep within her chest, her heart wrenching tighter and tighter with every footstep towards the summit. 

“Are you sure this is where we need to go?” ‘Manehn asked

“The Fade is very thin here,” Mirwen said between small sobs, “can you feel it?”

‘Manehn heard her whimpers and rushed to her daughter’s side. “We can turn back now, you can stay at the Keep, just tell us where…”

“No,” Mirwen said, brushing away still-streaming tears, “I’m fine. I’m safer at your side.”

“I don’t think anywhere is safe anymore, Sugar Plum,” Varric said grimly, “not as long as Chuckles has the advantage.”

“There must have been a lot of death here,” Mirwen said, “for the Fade to respond so…forcefully.”

“It’s always had a reputation for being haunted,” Varric said. “Why Dalish elves seem almost insistent on camping here, I will never understand.”

“Should the Dalish camp in your city then?” ‘Manehn said, voice steeped in sarcasm, “I’m sure the nobles would be more than amenable to it.”

“Fine, you got me,” Varric said, wincing slightly at her pithy remark. “It’s not like the Dalish have a lot of options.”

“Wait….” ‘Manehn stopped and took the lead, eyes narrowed as she scanned the small clearing they approached. “This is a good spot for…”

A dark skinned Dalish elf burst forth from the trees, dressed in Keeper’s regalia, flinging spectral bolts behind her at unknown assailants. She spotted the party before her and rushed towards them.

“MOVE!” she screamed, as a volley of arrows followed at her heels. 

‘Manehn and the rest darted backwards, weapons drawn as the elf joined them, locs sticking to her sweating and fearful face. “You need to leave, now!”, she said through bursts of heavy breathing, “before -”

Another volley of arrows burst forth from the trees, blocked quickly by the elf summoning a barrier. The arrows bounced off the edges of her spectral shield, clattering like rain on a tin roof. 

‘Manehn turned towards Varric and pointed at the templars in her entourage. “Get Mirwen out of here!” she yelled at the templars as she and Aveline rushed towards the tree line, taking cover within the forest. Two templars followed. The other elf hesitated for a moment but rushed to their side.

Varric nodded and grabbed Mirwen’s wrist, falling back behind three remaining templars. Mirwen glared at her mother but did not resist, and all five disappeared from the line of sight. 

They made it to the tree line and Varric made it out of sight just before another volley landed in the clearing, arrows blotting out the sky before splintering and seeping into the ground.

‘Manehn turned towards the elf that warned them and shook her head in disbelief. “Davhalla? What are you doing here?”

She threw up her hands in frustration in response as they moved through the trees. Talk would be saved for later. Stealth would not be an option, seeing as Aveline’s and the templars’ plate armor jangled with every step. They would have to face them head-on. Unless...

An elf rushed them, sword drawn, eyes screaming. ‘Manehn sidestepped the man and parried the blade before sinking her dagger into his back. He fell with a loud thud, twitching and screaming in agony, blood pooling on his back and belly. She searched his pockets as he bled out, looking for any clue as to the identity of their assailants. She found a couple scraps of parchment and a shimmering red gem, warm to the touch, glowing like a red ember in the palm of her hand.

“It’s a keystone.” ‘Manehn said in a low whisper. “We’re close.”

Yelling and rustling from the trees signaled a change in strategy from their mysterious attackers. Several advanced from hidden cover into their position, blades drawn. One fired an arrow directly in the helm of one of her templars, sending him stumbling back and falling. ‘Manehn took him down with a flung dagger to the chest. Another lunged forth from stealth, taking down another with a blade to the belly. She turned to attack Aveline, but Aveline parried the blade and cut her down with a firm slash. Davhalla stood behind, hands glowing with mana, firing bolts at the shifting shadows with varying degrees of success. Shadows circled them from the trees, watching and waiting to pounce. 

“We can’t just stand here waiting!” Aveline finally said, eyes darting back and forth at the dead templars and gripping her sword and shield. “We have to move forward or we die here.”

“Then we head for the summit,” ‘Manehn said, bolting forward through the trees. Aveline and Davhalla shrugged and raced behind her, ignoring the sounds of twigs snapping and elven curses as they fled towards the summit. Arrows whizzed by as they raced forwards, hearts pounding and legs aching. 

They raced through the trees until they arrived into another small clearing, and, noticed too late, directly into a trap.

A group of several elves popped into a small clearing, surrounding them. Aveline, Davhalla and ‘Manehn fell back into a small huddle, eyeing them anxiously, weapons drawn.

A leader soon emerged from the small pack, eyes glinting with smug arrogance as she surveyed the three before her.

“We’ve been waiting for you to arrive, and I see you’ve brought friends,” she said, her tone as cool as it was cocky, pointing at Davhalla and Aveline.

“That’s me, going above and beyond,” ‘Manehn said with a wicked smirk and a glare.

“Of course you would court oppressors and sympathizers in your misguided attempts to stop my master,” the elf replied, her voice rising with a cold anger as she regarded the women before her. “You call yourselves Elvhen, but you are a traitor! You serve the shemlen! You serve the Chantry, the very people responsible for the destruction of our homeland!”

“And you serve a madman who would destroy you all to revive a past long dead.” ‘Manehn snapped. 

She scoffed at ‘Manehn’s retort.

“Capture the Herald. Kill the other two.”