Chapter Text
Ayarah choked on her laughter as she appraised her reflection in the mirror. She looked ridiculous. Her usual braided, mud-and-sweat-caked hair had been replaced by a delicate updo. Each lock of auburn hair was perfectly pinned in place, with a few strands let loose on the sides.
She wore a light pink gown adorned with an intricate lace bodice and a corset that cinched her waist into a smaller, apparently more feminine shape. So far the only tangible impact it had was restricting her breathing. The gown’s color seemed garish against her dark skin and her skins natural warmth was replaced with red sheen of discomfort from excessive scrubbing.
The only thing that reminded her of herself was her nails, destroyed by years of swordplay and anxious biting. Her hands trailed obsessively down the silk that was much too soft for her rough, warrior’s hands.
“Ayarah!” Shianni ran into the room, her mouth agape. “I have never seen a finer woman in all of Fereldan!” Shianni stood at Ayarah’s side, watching her in the mirror with reverence and admiration.
“I look like a prized pig trussed up for auction,” Ayarah replied, scowling. Shianni gasped, then erupted into a fit of giggles. Ayarah shot her a reproving glare, but her friend’s laughter eased her irritation.
“Aya… don’t say that!” Shianni gasped between giggles, “You are breathtaking. Just wait until Alista—”
Shianni faltered, the words dying in her throat. Ayarah’s eyes stung. For one terrifying moment, she worried tears might fall. But seeing Shianni’s petrified face in the mirror, she steeled herself and smiled.
“Come on, da’len. We have work to do.” Ayarah took Shianni’s hand and squeezed it gently. Shianni flinched but returned the gentle squeeze with a wan smile.
Ayarah went to her desk and began looking for her knives. She needed something familiar, something that made her feel somewhat in control.
“Aya… can I ask you a question?” Shianni asked, her voice trembling. Ayarah turned to look at Shianni. Her heart sank at the anxiety etched across her face.
“Of course, da’len.” She sat on the bed and gestured for her friend to sit beside her. The bed creaked under their weight as Shianni perched on the edge, twisting her hands in her lap.
“Ayarah, do you think that arch… arch darkspawn… thing…” Shianni shuddered. “Will it return?”
Ayarah breathed a sigh of relief. This was something she could answer. She placed her hand on Shianni’s, her voice firm with reassurance, “Of course not, vhenan. The archdemon is gone. I saw it die with my own eyes.” She squeezed Shianni’s hand gently, “You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
Shianni’s eyes glistened with tears, and she surprised Ayarah with a sudden, firm embrace. Ayarah gently returned the hug, afraid of frightening the girl. After a few moments, Shianni let go, her face wet with tears. She smiled at Ayarah.
“Then it’s time to celebrate, my friend!” Shianni grabbed Ayarah’s hand and pulled her from the bed.
“But by the grace of Mythal, please leave your knives!” Shianni half-laughed, half-pleaded. Ayarah sighed dramatically, but nodded in mock defeat.
Shianni left the room, and for a moment, Ayarah smiled to herself. The past year had been hell, but it was worth it to see Shianni safe. She deserved every scrap of peace that Ayarah could provide her with.
She didn’t blame Shianni for fearing the archdemon would return. She could still see the dead, sunken eyes of the centuries-old beast that bore into her nightmares for the better part of a year. Every night that the Blight had grown her dreams did too, until she could barely sleep through the night without waking up screaming.
The only thing that had gotten her through those nights was having Alistair beside her, comforting her with sweet promises of a better future. A future with the two of them together. Her heart constricted, and she shook off the thought.
They had made their choices. Alistair was king now. She needed to accept that.
Ayarah sighed and ran her fingers through her hair, the once unruly strands now caught in an elaborate updo. She cursed under her breath as she tried to remove her hand without taking out any pins or baubles. “Fen’Harel’s tits, what am I doing?”
Her thoughts spiraled as she hiked up her gown to strap her knives to her thigh holsters. It was a flimsy defense, but it offered her some sense of security. A flimsy reminder of the warrior she still was, a fraction of control in a world that was quickly slipping from her grasp.
When the Blight ended, and the terrible grip the archdemon was released, she’d thought she would find some measure of peace and control. But she should have known better. She was an Elf. An Elf from the Denerim alienage. Every day was about survival. A new day, a new threat. And today’s threat just happened to be a group of pompous nobles.
But her father’s words rang in her ears, back when she had first been appointed as the first ever elven Bann representative.
“You have a chance, Ayarah. A chance to truly help our people.” Her father’s eyes had burned with so much hope and conviction that she could make a difference that she almost believed him.
“Halam’shivanas, father.” She murmured as she looked at herself in the mirror, her green eyes flashing with determination, “Duty is sweet sacrifice.”
Ayarah took one last scowl at her dress, then headed toward the door, her heels clicking against the polished floor.
Maker help me. Ayarah thought to herself, then threw open the door and headed toward the den of beasts that was Fereldan’s noble council.