Chapter Text
The day that I will die is a beautiful one.
The skies are blue, the clouds drift across the sky, and sometimes, in bustle of the city, a bird sings.
My cell is dank and dark, with a single barred window that opened into Denerim's streets. I could smell the faint scent of rotten fruit and of animal shit, and from behind me, the smell of damp. The cells were full, several of the prominent 'troublemakers' had been rounded up by the guard. In connection to the murder of heir Vaughn, they claim.
There is no trial, not for any of us.
I'm not sure a trial would be any better. Who would listen to the words of a group of elves over humans, especially nobles?
I would be the sole execution, as a confessed murderess, but the others might be worse off. They required me to walk to my death, so I was not beaten overmuch, but the others would be lucky to walk out of the cells. On the more troublesome they would charge them with fines, and when they inevitably failed to pay up, they would be imprisoned again and again and again. Until we submitted, just as our parents and their parents had since the beginning of the alienages.
This is the end of my cycle, though, a rare occurrence. Surprisingly, the Arl didn't like executing elves. It could always provoke a riot, since by Fereldan law and custom, executions were open events. They were the only things that could draw a crowd of elves together outside the alienages.
The sun began to peak overhead, and the heavy footsteps of guardsmen finally came. The guard on duty, a pale woman who sneered as much as she spit, pulled her keys off the hook, meeting the men who would take me to my death with what could be classified as a smile. Her eyes lingered on the front one, a man I knew well. Kevon Benn stood over most men, all elves, and could meet a Qunari eye-to-eye. He was well-paid and showed it, wearing neat armor embossed with Denerim's heraldy. Benn's a man who likes order, at whatever the cost. Even my head. He didn't acknowledge me, merely gesturing his goons to take me from the cell.
I walk slow, even though the jerking of the men hurts me. It seems as though everything's more significant, the smell of sweat off the guard to the clank of armor as the guards woman settles back into her watch. On a perfectly sunny day, I'm bone deep cold. I would die, and the thought is impossible to even grasp. My mind thought over contingency plans, escape attempts, but the firm truth sets itself on my shoulders like a mantle. I would die because I defended myself, because I dare stood up to the, what did the Dalish call them, shems?
The rage is finest alcohol that I'd ever tasted, and it burns all the way down. I want to scream, to rage at the prisoners that gawk, at myself for staying there compliantly in my cell. The anger is so much that I almost give into it, almost give them what they want. A raging knife-ear, just another day.
There is no point.
I will die either way, my name forgotten. I'd not even married, so my records would end at engagement. I knew that sometimes they threw out records like that, demeaning them a waste of space. My parents would mourn, but who else? Shianni, perhaps, but she would forget me in time as well. I was nothing, I was alone.
We finally meet the streets, the door to the dungeons slamming solidly behind us. The execution stage was set up not far from here. It takes a few steps before I can see the stage, its solid mass haunting. The crowd before it is too large. I know that immediately, even as the stage, the bloodstains draw bile from my throat. They aren't the typical masses, either, only a handful rather than a majority drunk.
Unease nests itself in my throat, though it could also be fear. I can barely walk, and the overly firm grip of the men are suddenly the only reason I am standing.
It is painfully real, my death, while smelling the copper of a previous execution on the air.
It takes but a moment to arrive at the stage, for the charges to begin to be read. They are a river of words I do not try to transcribe, my eyes seeking out the face I know will be there on instinct. Shianni is not there. It takes me several sweeps, but no, I could not find her. There was no way she would willingly miss it, if for no other reason than the fact that we were friends.
A dreadful thought occurred me, like a knife to the gut, and I wonder if she's not here because she's dead or squirrelled away for some noble's revenge. If the humans had disposed of her like a pest. I have to put that thought aside. Shianni has to be alright, or else my death means nothing at all.
Before they put a bag over my head, I see him. I'm not sure why he caught my eye at the time, dragging my attention towards him like a performer. He was bald, well fed in the way City elves never were, his eyes intelligent. His mouth was twisted in something. Disgust? Anger? Hatred for me? I could not decipher it. Yet, just before the bag touched me, he met my eyes.
A moment froze. For a breath, everything fell still and slowed to a painful crawl.
Something wakes inside me, like a yawning abyss just beneath my feet. The ice creeps into my veins, sharp and cutting, and it feels almost as though a lover embraces me from behind. It is a familiar feeling, horrifying and strange as it is.
I see you, cousin, it says, even as I kneel.
I am freedom. I am chaos. Years ago I had a childhood friend and then I forgot as children do. It has not.
I invited it in. Daern'thal rested in my dreams, content, but now it presses in all the cracks into a doomed body.
I fell into darkness.
I woke to the whistling of the wind. Dreams, fragmented and strange come to me, but I'm up in an instant. The room is unfamiliar, barren. The singular window is stained glass, depicting Andraste praying to gods that did not listen. It is a dark image, most chantries favor the meeting of Andraste and the Maker.
"Ah. You are awake." I turn. The sight of a Chantry sister is strange, the smile on her face doubly so.
"What- why am I here? Who are you?" A thought occurs to me, and I check my pulse. My heart beats too swift, but it makes it all too clear I am alive.
"I am Sister Leonas, and you are here because Andraste has blessed you with Her holy mercy. Her Grace has declared it so."
"The Queen?" I asked, quite sure that this was a dream now.
"The Grand Cleric Elemena."
"Why? I was condemned." There is something strange afoot here. The Chantry did not intervene in justice unless it was a matter of Chantry Law.
"You do not remember?" The Sister aks, but the question is rhetorical, for she swiftly answers. "I was not there, but they say it was though the light of Andraste's pyre burned through you. You yet still glow. Here." The Sister crossed the room, retrieving a mirror. The shiny, smooth kind that nobles kept. I peered at myself, and saw my familiar face, the crooked nose, all too long and messy blond hair, and too wide grey eyes. Beneath my skin was a glow, one that reminded me of the chill. Of it.
"A few declared you a mage, but Her Grace was there and provided Templars to prove it was miracle." The sister chatters, eagerly.
"I am an elf." I said. Elves did not receive miracles. Andraste did not help anyone, her compassion silenced by death, her Maker casting His eye away from us sinners. Especially elves and magi, elves for the betrayal of Shartan and magi for the betrayal of the Imperium. The miracles of the humans were luck given to those of high station. I knew this.
"The blessings of the Maker are strange. Her Grace has conveyed a letter to Most Holy to inquire her wisdom." Sister Leonas recites. I place the mirror down.
"What am I to do?"
"Her Grace wants to speak with you, this evening. Until then, I am to robe you-"
"What? Why?" I stare at her perfect white robe. I cannot imagine myself in one. While I knew of the Maker and Andraste from numerous Sisters who braved the alienages to educate young elves. None of them were elves. I didn't think elves could be in the Chantry.
"It would only be right that one who the Andraste so clearly blessed be a member of the Chantry." The Sister says, with the firmness of the truly faithful. She is clearly uncomfortable with the idea yet... I do not like her, but I can respect her for standing so firm for her faith.
"I don't have a choice?" I ask. It's a foolish question, but I ask anyway.
"It is the will of Maker. I know it is be frightening, but you will find the light of Andraste as I did. My family dedicated me when I was ten, you see."
"Oh. I didn't know you could be a Sister so young." I say, even as a part of me cringes at the thought of leaving my parents at ten. I had been barely ready recently, and I was fifteen. She laughs, like a bell chime.
"No, no, I was an initiate. Just as you will be." She smiles for a moment longer, before gesturing. "Come."
Few disguised their emotions towards me. I get shades of everything: anger, disgust, fear, and reverance. The Revered Mother seems to be shades of the second and the latter, but is still polite to me, strangely. They were in the halls as I passed, until she leads me into a store room.
The robes were heavy, made of finer fabric than I had ever touched, and the shoes were actual leather. I stare at myself. My ears were hidden under the hood, but my features were too... sharp to be anything but elven.
"You will receive a second set, and a pair of small clothes." The gruff Sister in charge of the store room said. She seemed to fall into the unique suspicious and slightly indifferent category.
"Thank you." I say. I would not know how to put the cap and veil on had she not helped, and though she had not been exactly kind or patient, she had helped. I had a feeling I'd need friends or at least people who did not exactly despise me. Everyone seems to have expectations for me, and I am drowning in them. No one expects anything from an elf but trouble. Until now, apparently.
"It's my job, but you're quite welcome. Manners will get you far around here, elf."
I pressed my lips together. Don't insult her, don't insult her, I chant to myself.
"My name is Kallian." I say, finally. It still sounds hostile, but it's the best response I can manage without cursing.
"Hmm." The elder woman said. Lavender eyes narrowed at her. "I am Sister Helen."
"Oh, good. You're done." Sister Leonas says, cheerfully. She reappears without a sound. "Her Grace wants to see you now. Thank you, sister."
She tacks on the last part with a little smirk and Helen stared at her as though she was a particularly strange type of insect. I coughed.
The sister regained herself, offering a gesture to the door. I walk into the hall, the boots strange on my feet. My hair also feels odd, constrained beneath the cap. Sister Leonas shows no discomfort in her uniform, nor did Helen. I suppose it's a matter of time.
I'm unsure how I feel about my seeming imprisonment at Chantry hands. They saved my life as I'm some sort of sign of Andraste's mercy. In truth, it's likely whatever waited inside me. Likely something non-Chantry approved. Yet this is a better fate than I had waiting for me, and my family was safe. Perhaps I could use my position to improve the lives of elves.
We meet with the Grand Cleric in what must be the Revered Mother's room. While not grand, they are not entirely modest. I don't think I could sleep with a statue of Andraste sleeping over me.
"Thank you, Sister Leonas. I will speak with her now." A voice speaks. It is older, but no less strong for it. The face that matches it is one of maternally caring. The sort of face that would fit right into the ideals of the Chantry's servants, yet with a spark of bright intelligence. Leonas bid her goodbyes, leaving us alone, minus the two Templars by either wall.
"Kallian Tabris. I am Grand Cleric Elemena, I was witness to the miracle this morning. I am glad to meet you."
"And you too, your grace. I thank you for intercession on my behalf."
"I do nothing less than a servant of the Merciful Lady should. Please, sit." Elemena offers the chair across from the large table in the center of her rooms. I sit carefully, well aware of my own poor posture and lack of cleanliness next to this woman. She serves tea carefully, and I accept it just as carefully.
"It is likely the Divine will call us to Val Royaleux."
"Orlais?"
"Yes. You are a powerful figure, though you do not know that yet." The Grand Cleric says, as though she is simply relating the weather.
"Yes, you truly don't know. You want to questions me, but you won't. The alienages grows restless, the regent dangerous. Many see you as a hope. There has been much disease and with those Tevintors down there..." The Grand Cleric frowns.
"Hope? I was... I am... I was a condemned criminal. I cannot be hope for anyone."
"Yet Andraste has blessed you. What makes you glow is not magic, so it must be divine, though her Holiness will have the last word on that." She said, firmly. I cannot argue against that voice. "You will study the Chant. Hopefully, your purpose will reveal itself to us soon."
My studies begin immediately after that meeting, though they are made somewhat complicated by my poor reading. Or as Sister Alissa puts it, my borderline illiteracy. However, my skills in listening are considerably better, if not suited to recitation. Still, I am barely to the Canticle of Trials before I am summoned by her grace to accompany her to the Landsmeet.
As for the topic at hand, Alistair Theirin's case for the throne is made quite a bit more complicated by the fact that the leader of his fellow wardens is quite clearly a political savvy Orlesian and the rest are accomplices in the latter charge. Or so the Grand Cleric quietly informs me. I dislike Orlesians, sure, but I had been sure it was an elven bias. The Orlesians were crueller, after all. However, it is helped by the fact that Gerod Caron, the young leader, has been very helpful to some important Fereldans and plans to marry Alistair to Queen Anora, Elemena also tells me. She seems all too willing to tell me about the careful dance of politics at work here, though I understand little.
Yet, the court finds in his favor, and it is with grace that he executes the regent for treason. The sight brings a sharp sickness to my throat and a bit of that iciness. Dark, dark abyss. Yet apparently it is Daern'thal who gives me the power to glow, for it is made clear by the muttering that I am doing it again.
"Go, bless them." The Grand Cleric urges me. I do not know any blessings. I am barely a lay sister.
Expectations of the crowd are too powerful, however, so with sweaty hands, I walk to the new royal couple. I almost trip on the carpet, unused to the robes of a Chantry sister. Alistair is splattered in the blood of the Loghain, and I suppress a flinch. On instinct, I take their hands, and join them with a swift move. Anora's shake, slightly. I cannot blame her.
"And so two come together to wipe away the shadows that loam over us all." I start, the words barely thought out before I speak them. My voice is thankfully strong, even if my mouth is bone dry.
"'Though all before us is shadow, yet shall the Maker be our guide. We shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"
"We have but four brave champions to face the dark, one of them our own King, like his brother and many before him. Yet behind them will be the legion of men, who will fight by their side, brave sons and daughters of Fereldan. Beside them also shall be stout dwarves, the swift Dalish, and the gifted magi, who are all equally children of our land, brought together by the darkness to return the light." I pause, partially for breath. I don't think I've spoken this much in years, and the sheer fear of the reckless words I speak makes Daern'thal a presence so strong I feel frozen solid. There is silence and I have no read on their possible reactions. "Should we fight, side by side as brothers and sisters of the Maker, we will end this blight and return light to these shadowed lands by Andraste's Grace, for Fereldan."
For a long second, there is a moment of reverant silence. Then, Arl Eamon steps forward.
"For Fereldan!" The shout was taken up by many, and I release the king and queen's hand, noting the blood stains on my own.
I have met half the Arls in Denerim before the Grand Cleric manages to pry me free. She is swift of her praise of my words, just as the Arls were.
"It will be a hearty inspiration in times to come. You have brought them together." Elemena says, an odd look of satisfaction on her face.
"The Warden-"
"Is an Orlesian. For all his pretty words, it is not his homeland. His words are not as powerful. For now, however, words will do little. The battle comes, and the Chantry must be the first place of refuge.
The Chantry service that Sunday is full. Benches have been pulled away for standing room, and most of them are soldiers. The Revered Mother plans three services, and though none of them involve me directly, after each service there is always a line of people who want a blessing. I thankfully do know some blessings now, even if I often change them. They are so cold, though. I know how it feels to walk to one's own seeming death and it takes a great deal more than faith to do it willingly.
The mixed emotions have solidified into three camps: fear, jealously, and reverence. The former avoids me, the second makes my life harder, and the latter makes me uncomfortable. Among all of this are the elves, who all treat me casually, and the dwarves, who look at me like a strange puzzle. Though, according to the Revered Mother, this is the first time that either race has truly attended in so many numbers.
It is only when I see Shianni that I can finally breath. She's at the end of the line, as well, so I kidnap her, though she willingly comes with me.
"Shianni. I was so worried."
"Stuck with the shems, huh?" She gives my clothes a look.
"Yes. It's weird."
"That it is, cousin. But this is the first time I've seen any of alienage really look hopeful, so I won't complain that you left us for the shems."
"No. I would never leave you, not really. The alienage is my family, every single one of you." I say, the words an absolute. "But I can help you here."
Shianni watches my face, checking me for truth, before she almost runs forward, hugging me fiercely. After that, the conversation strayed from serious topics into the more casual, until I was forced to leave by the third wave. Still, we hugged again goodbye. I was not forgiven, yet, but I would be.
After the battle, the Divine finally speaks to the Grand Cleric. While I had no doubt she worded it well, the gist of it, as Elemena told me, was come to the capital and provide proof. So we would, departing Denerim just before the refugee flood hit, and travelling swiftly to Orlais. I glowed the entire way, my heart ever in my throat, fear ever haunting my steps. Fear of discovery, fear of what it would be to blessed My fate would be decided soon for the final time.