#without them qun society would be devastated

[senseandaccountability]

If you'll take another one from the poetry prompts, how about #50 (“With a memory all fragmented but inclined to miracles”)?

Small secret spaces  Iron Bull’s Tamassran reflects on the boy she raised.  Also on AO3: here

This is soft, okay? I’m soft for tiny babies and their not-mothers. * * *

They call her Aqun, a nickname that sticks through the years, though to all the children in her care, her flock of imekari, she is Tama. Tama with the stories, with the stern reprimands, with the cool hands in the middle of a sweaty nightmare. Some of the women work with paper and quill, some with breeding administration, yet some can be found in the temples and the hospital wings tending to those with the broken minds that qamak leaves behind. She has friends that re-educate and friends that deal with nothing but death, its final stages, its remains, its practical matters. Aqun considers herself lucky that her place is to work at the other end of things. Imekari are life, messy, brutal life that shakes her up every day, at every turn. It keeps her awake, it smashes her heart open. She will lose them. She will lose them all, but some will carry pieces of her with them as they go; it’s a thought that sits well with her, a flash of pride that she allows herself. A Tamassran’s job is to evaluate and educate; she isn’t meant to have favourites but she always has. She considers it a rebellion, a reward, or both. * Ashkaari is a big baby, arrives loud and dark-haired and screams for half a day when they place him in her arms. He’s the genealogical product of a Sten, now lost to glorious battle, asit tal-eb, and a re-educator nicknamed Asta though Aqun does not know this. The Tamassrans in charge of recording never show her the notes of the children given to her house. It would cloud her judgement, upset the scales. Aptitude triumphs over inheritance, as it must in any civilized society. Because he will not settle at night she rubs his back and stomach, sings to him to drown the screaming. He is meant to cry it out, they all are; infancy is a test, one of her old instructors echoes in her memory. But Aqun’s head hurts from listening, so she sings. A made-up song of a made-up nug, the king of all nugs, living in a cave. She feeds him another bottle of milk, mutters a rhyme she vaguely recalls from her own childhood and places her mouth against the crown of his head. A snug little nug, small as a bug. The baby looks at her, blinks, and falls asleep. The warm weight of him in her arms, the softness to his mouth, his tiny fists against her palm. That swelling in her chest, its terrible gentleness. The Qunari don’t have motherhood; she understands why.

* The streets boil in the afternoon heat but the heart of the classroom is cooled by heavy stone and clever architecture. Some of the smaller children shiver as they huddle over the letters, painstakingly forming them with mouth and quills. Baqo sits near Ashkaari and Vasaad, one head shorter than the boys but her mind is sharper, her feet faster, her capacity for mischief endless. They love her, magnificently; Vasaad and Ashkaari would both lay down their lives for the troublemaker with the red eyes. Words have always wielded themselves easily out of her,  her mind is strong and supple and she makes up stories where the Qun ends, follows its logical conclusions into tales of dragons and war, of ancient times and endless knowledge. “Tell me about the green dragons in the desert again,” Ashkaari implores, big and towering but gentle, his hands shields rather than weapons. He’s apt at storytelling himself, prone to the fantastic and the untrue. Vasaad heeds them both, moving around them like a protector.

Tama allows them slices of freedom when she can. Moments of play, of pretends. Soon enough they reach their true calling and get scattered across the North but days like today, there are green dragons and friendship, willfully blind eyes and make-believe. *

The Arvaarad comes for Baqo only months later, in the middle of the day, as the other children make equations and build models. Four men march in and lift her up, without a word. Her eyes are wide with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream and Vasaad holds Ashkaari back - or perhaps it’s the other way around, perhaps it will never truly matter. They are two now where they used to be three. Aqun shoves the children back into the classroom, hands on their shoulders, their backs. Herding them like cattle. It’s not a bad metaphor; cattle, too, are meant to serve. “She will serve the Qun with honour,” she tells Ashkaari; his eyes are narrow and dark. “She has found her purpose,” she tells Vasaad who stares back at her, his lower lip trembling. They do not cry over saarebas, she reminds them. They do not cry over finding one’s place, wherever and however that place may appear. The one who was called Baqo takes the chains, takes the stitches and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one. 

*

The one who was called Ashkaari becomes Hissrad, becomes a grown man so tall and broad of shoulder that Aqun ages a decade just looking at him. He still calls her Tama, still comes by to see her though he has no reason for it anymore. She tells him this once and he scoffs. They share a mindset, she knows, a flair for the inappropriate, a disregard for the brutality of absolute truths. Some days she thinks that it is her greatest failing that she has allowed it to slip into him, a poison in his soul. 

* She learns that Hissrad has been given command. That he’s tracking down Tal-Vashoth. That he’s transferred to Seheron. What an honour, she says to everyone who needs to hear it. Basks in the knowledge that she had been right, that she had seen the boy’s cleverness behind those fists, the sharp wit inside the body of a warrior. The other Tamassrans nod and tut, the way they do. All of them know there is also regret, unspoken, treacherous regret for every name they put down on the lists for the positions that will take their imekari far away, into danger and death. The one that was called Ashkaari, who slept soft-faced and defenseless in her arms when no one was looking, takes the orders he is given and Aqun thinks she can feel them, every single one, the devastation of them rattling inside her chest. * Once, he comes to visit.  He’s in Par Vollen, temporarily liberated of the burdens of Seheron, his face cut in stone but his embrace is tight and warm and Aqun smiles into the crook of his neck when he lifts her up from the ground. He’s brought cocoa beans and spices; she makes supper and refrains from staring at him like an overbearing old Tama. They don’t speak much at all; he stays the rest of the day. * Once, in the Viddathlok of Qunandar, she sees him when he has returned. He’s shipped from the island of asala-taar like a caged beast, rumour has it; he arrives in chains and is accompanied by soldiers on each side of him. The gossip is unremorseful, crisp, but it tastes of ashes. They had found him surrounded by so many dead they had lost count. That’s a lie, Aqun knows, they always count. The Qun is nothing if not a balance. Ashkaari who used to fear demons, his teeth clattering in the dark, his hands tugging at hers. They get inside your mind, he says. I don’t know how to hit things that live in my head. Hissrad who spends two months with the re-educators but they refuse his request for qamak. It’s partly her fault that they send him off, his faith broken and his mind all fragmented but inclined to miracles. The one that got away. * The one who was called Hissrad becomes the Iron Bull and Aqun first hears it in the queue outside the baker, waiting for her daily bread, then from an agent with red eyes and a hoarse voice. 

She hears it and all the way home, her heart hammers the rhythm of the words. He got away, he got away. The Ben-Hassrath agents frown over her, towering like conquerors before a bas and Aqun looks them in the eyes and says: “yes, I failed. I should have seen. He was unfit for the job. I will do better, allow me to make amends.” Says it, while she thinks run, Ashkaari, there is much to struggle against, you always knew. There’s a note, deep and low, singing of her own defiance and she thinks one of the agents can hear it because he holds her gaze for so long Aqun begins to prepare for her own re-education. Then he lets her go. She’s old, she’s beginning to lose her rough edges and her patience shrinks with every passing day, they don’t count on her to rectify her mistake; they let her go. They will go after him instead. * Years later, she hears the news in the streets outside the market. This time, no one deems her in a position to have the reports so she has to make do with gossip. They tell her the attack that Par Vollen loudly condemns while sending resources to Orlais, sneaking ships and coin past all boundaries, has been a failure. That the Inquisition still has the Tal-Vashoth in their midst, that he had not listened to reason or respected the chain of command. They tell her the Viddasala’s direct orders had been refused by the one they once called Hissrad. Nothing but a savage now. His soul is dust. He’s lost.  The words sound like curses but they fall like relief in Aqun’s chest, fall like tears on her aging hands that used to hold him. She has educated her last flock of imekari, told her last batch of night time stories. They have been so many, her body is full of their voices, their faces, their nicknames. She has been theirs. Some of them, like Ashkaari, have been hers. She will lose them all but some will carry pieces of her as they go and she has given him her heart, as much of it as he has ever dared to give and loved him in all the small, secret spaces she was never allowed.