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Chapter Text

Torrin Lavellan was fury made flesh. From the moment she had awoken in the prison cell, to The Temple of Sacred Ashes, and finally to Haven, where the people stared at her in open awe and titled her "Herald of Andraste," Torrin Lavellan had rebelled.

She had twisted her face into a confused, yet still somehow disdainful sneer when she had first heard the title.

"Me?" she had exclaimed. " A Dalish? Herald to some shemlen god? You can't be serious."

Solas had listened with mild amusement as Josephine had enlightened him to how very disapproving a look that Cassandra had leveled at the "Herald" in response. But there was an undercurrent to his amusement: bitter resignation. He feared his prejudices were correct-- that she was every bit the same as every other blindly proud, stubborn Dalish elf he had met. Shemlen, indeed. His lip curled at the irony of it.

Though, he supposed, perhaps it had been foolish of him to hope, even if for a moment, that she was something more than all that. He had wanted the fact that his mark, his magic, somehow attaching to a Dalish elf had meant something more for the remnants of his people-- for it to be more than random happenstance. But it remained nothing but a cruel taunt, a reminder of what had been lost.

What was even more ironic, as if such a thing were possible, was the fact that she had chosen for Mythal's symbol to be emblazoned on her face in bright, icy blue. Torrin seemed to be the embodiment of everything that was the exact opposite of what Mythal had stood for.

Solas sighed, shoulders deflating. He leaned into the grip he held on his staff and once more, for the hundredth time, stared frustratedly up at the Breach.

She was the only being in existence who held any chance of closing it, of fixing his mistake.

What had he done?

"Hahren?"

At the sound, Solas straightened. There was only one person who addressed him as such. His hands tightened on his staff before he turned to face her. He raised an eyebrow.

"Ir abelas," she continued. "I did not mean to disturb you." She folded her hands almost demurely in front of her, angling her head so that her yellow eyes caught the light of the Breach.

Her eyes were...yellow? That was...odd. He stared at her for a few more moments and she waited patiently for his response. He couldn't read her expression.

"Not at all," he replied smoothly. "Did you need something?"

Her lips changed easily into a wry grin. As for why, he could only imagine. Likely some private joke. She shook her head, a few strands of black hair slipping free from the braid she had tucked carelessly behind her ear.

"Not at all," she parroted lightly. "I just feel...out of place."

And she was coming to him for...what? Something familiar? If that was all, she would be likely to find herself disappointed.

She blinked and turned to lean casually against his cabin. "Where are you from?" she asked, rather suddenly.

Solas couldn't help that his eyes widened slightly; he quickly tried to conceal it. "Why do you ask?" he said.

He watched her brow crinkle in confusion. She blinked a few times, thinking. "I--" she started, then took a breath. "I would like to get to know you--the people I'm going to be working with. Is that so strange?" She offered him a tentative smile, the corners of her lips lifted just so. "Besides, we seem to be the only elves working for--"

Ah, there it was. Exactly as he had thought. He shook his head sharply, ending her sentence.

"Forgive me," he said, inclining his head. "But I believe you are mistaken. I am not Dalish, in fact, I have been scorned by your people on multiple occasions." He smiled. "You may be disappointed--I'm afraid our similarities likely end at our pointed ears."

This girl was the same, he knew it as surely as he knew the sky was blue. The same Dalish arrogance pervaded her figure. He had more important things to contend with, considering, than entertaining a misguided---

She scowled at him, face shifting to immoble stone. Once again, he found himself taken aback. Not that he was necessarily surprised, he suspected that her likely wounded pride was the cause of her anger, but he had expected her to perhaps be more civil than this. Maybe it was the fact she had been what could be considered shy only a few moments ago.

She stood, feet crunching the snow and stabbing the silence that had fallen over them. When she looked at him again, her eyes were ice.

"So that's how you see it," she said. She brushed by him, rigid as she went.

"Bullshit," he heard her whisper to herself. And then, she was gone.

Solas felt very much like a storm had blown by him. He watched as she slowly disappeared from his line of vision, his eyebrows anchored with his confusion.

For once, he found he had no idea what to think.

Chapter Text

Thump.

Thump.

The sound was intensely satisfying. Torrin wheeled her arm back, and with all the fluidity and timing of a striking snake, flicked her wrist to send another one of her knives forward to embed itself within the trunk.

Thump.

She sighed, reaching for another knife, only to realize they were all poking out of the tree. She straightened, cracking her neck side to side in an attempt to relieve her stiff shoulders. Her mind was blissfully empty-- she couldn't be more glad of it. Ever since the damn explosion that had careened her into a veritable lion's den, she hadn't had a moment of peace. Either due to the shems around her, or due to her racing thoughts, sleep had been turning into a coquettish stranger.

She thought then of the sweet-tempered elven messenger, entering the hut where Torrin lay carrying her bundle of herbs ever so carefully; her shock as she realized Torrin had been awake. How scared and nervous she was. One of her own people-- scared by her. Torrin listened to her feet as they crunched softly in the snow. She was pleased at how soft the sound had became after shedding those ridiculous boots she had worn as a spy.

The sound stopped as she reached the tree. She shook her head as she pulled the first knife free.

"Hahren."

Torrin snorted. "Our similarities end at our pointed ears."

That particular brand of nug-headed judgement was the one thing that never failed to make her skin crawl in revulsion. It was something that Torrin found the Dalish to suffer from on more than one occasion, but then she found that city elves suffered just as strongly. The same could probably be said for other people, if she was being honest. But both the Dalish and the City elves generally stewed deep in the swamps of their own prejudices against each other; the word 'sethlin' itself was proof enough. And Solas was steeped in that very same prejudice, apparently. She had expected him to be different than all that. And yet, he remained prejudiced against the Dalish for their being prejudiced. The hypocrisy of it made her lip curl. Hahren, indeed.

She missed Keeper Deshanna and all her calm and level kindness. As far as could be said of the Dalish, Deshanna was a rarity. Not only did she find the more traditional Dalish practices pertaining to 'too many' mages distasteful, but she was also somehow more...progressive, more forward-thinking; the words sethlin and flat-ear were not to be spoken amongst Deshanna's clan. She would go so far as to actively punish those who ever dared. Torrin smiled wistfully, thumbing a knife blade as she remembered the first time Ryarthan had called her 'flat-ear' in Deshanna's presence. He had been acting the typical little boy; seeking to make little girls cry, but Deshanna's resulting glare could have melted one to the earth beneath their feet. Torrin had been glad she was not the one at the other end of that glare. Ryarthan was cowed into stunned silence after Deshanna pulled him away by the tip of his ear, his embarrassment so great that he had not complained when Deshanna had been sure to give him the more undignified chores for the next month. It turned out that little boys didn't like cleaning up Halla shit from around the camp and washing the clan's underthings. Deshanna (in all her humor) would even make him do all the washing if he 'missed a stain.' Ryarthan had found the whole affair to be the stuff of nightmares.

So as far as her Keeper was concerned, they were all Elvhen. The geography to which one happened to be born in didn't matter. Blood ran thicker than that and blood was the only thing left that could connect The People. Torrin sank into the ground at the base of the trunk and looked into the gray-green sky. For one ludicrous, brief moment, the sickly sky looked hauntingly beautiful even as it taunted her.

She couldn't stop questioning her decision to stay, likely because of the fear it was based on. After what had happened at the Temple, The Seeker had made it clear that Torrin was free to leave and nothing would have made her happier than to disappear out of that Chantry room that very moment. But it was the Nightingale's words-- the threat laced within them that had given Torrin pause. It had made her fear.

"Here, we can give you protection. We cannot guarantee the same if you leave us," said the Spymaster, eyes narrowed and lips curled into a poor attempt at a genuine smile. Those words had chilled Torrin's bones more than the cold mountain air of Haven ever could. They had frozen her in place enough to stay with these people for the time being. Normally, Torrin would have laughed at any dumb shem that attempted to frighten her into submission, but...Torrin knew within her heart that if the Nightingale didn't want her to get away from Haven, she wouldn't, one way or another.

So here she was, decidedly and blessedly alive but alone. Alone with a title that made her own blood draw back from her.

That was what had made her reach out to Solas, she supposed, to seek his friendship, his kinship. He had never looked at her the way the others did: never like she was the answer to all his problems or like she was something more, something divine and untouchable. It had been her mistake that she took that fact to mean he saw her as his equal. That he didn't see her only for her damn title. It had been a moment of miscalculated, naive hope.

No. He saw her for her title and he would not see the person behind it. He saw only a Dalish elf hiding there, 'Torrin' the person didn't exist for him anymore than she did for the others. He dismissed her on account of her Dalish-ness; she was beneath him. And that fact continued to sting at her.

The pedestal she was forced to perch on was more precarious than she could likely handle. Was that how everyone was to be then now that she had this mark? Would she always be either above or below, never on equal ground? Never equal? She stared at the gaping green, hissing hole in her palm and scowled, muttering a curse.

She missed Deshanna.

"Uh, this a bad time?"

Torrin's neck snapped up to the direction of the intrusion. Varric stood about six feet away, looking at her with a wide-eyed and slightly concerned looking expression. The concern softened her own expression before she noticed the tension in his shoulders; she followed his eyes as they glanced quickly at the knife marks in the tree behind her back. When he looked to her face again, he was frowning. She was no longer sure if it was out of concern or not.

He was waiting for her to respond. Torrin shrugged her shoulders, not moving to get up from her solid ground.

"No," she said. "What's going on?"

"Aside from the demons and the hole in the sky?" he said. "Nothing too exciting." When she didn't laugh, or even crack the stone that her face had become, Varric cleared his throat. "I, uh, thought that maybe I should be the one to get you."

"Get me," she repeated, not understanding what he wanted.

Varric sighed and rubbed the back of his neck for a moment, looking at the ground. "Seeker and Nightingale went looking for you. They have some plan they want to go over to get to the Hinterlands-- some Chantry thing, but well, they didn't know where you went. I happened to see you walk off in this direction and volunteered to find you."

Torrin pulled her face into a frown, nose folding into her eyebrows. "They need me to plan?" she asked.

Varric blinked a few times before he answered, "Yeah, pretty sure they wanted you there."

Torrin figured that was probably due to her being their 'Herald' but..."And you specifically wanted to fetch me. Why?" She wasn't overly suspicious-- just curious. As much as he tried to hide it, Torrin could tell that after the temple, Varric was filled with the same reverence the others were, albeit to a lesser degree. Varric looked all the world like he was lost from her question. Torrin couldn't fathom the emotions he was feeling. He barely knew her-- she hadn't upset him had she?

He held his hands up, palms out before his next words. "Look, I've written my share of hero stories," he said. "I know that it never really goes all that great for the heroes. I wanted...I wanted to let you know you have a friend. If you need it. I'm not good at this shit." He lowered his arms and gave her a small, unsteady grin. "You're not alone here. Don't let the hero stuff go to your head. Focus on the positives. Like the fact that you're still breathing-- a miracle considering the hole in the damn sky. That you apparently fell out of."

Torrin felt warmth flood through her veins until it pooled in her face. She spent a few of her heartbeats trying to keep her eyes from widening with her surprise before she failed miserably. He had been concerned after all, genuinely so. She hadn't expected that to have been his reason; she hadn't thought he saw her as an...as an equal. For a long time, she couldn't offer him a response.

Varric chuckled. "You look like a nug that stumbled into a hungry dwarf," he said. "Aside from the blush, but all of this makes the whole shadowy-stabby thing that you do seem somewhat less intimidating."

She barked out a short laugh. "My reputation better not go to shit after this," she said giving him a glare empty of real anger, even though her next words dripped sarcasm, "Don't want to ruin their whole 'Herald' thing they have going."

"Oh, I don't think you need to work too hard at keeping that image alive," he mused before shaking his head. He grew more somber after that, frowning again. He exhaled. "You...you alright? You've gone from most wanted criminal in Thedas, to joining the armies of the faithful...most people would have spread that out over more than one day."

"Bit of whiplash," she said. "But I'm alive, right?"

"Looks that way to me," Varric said. "But...I've been talking too much. We should probably get going. Knowing the Seeker, she's probably getting a bit..."

"Frothing with rage?" Torrin offered.

"Nah," Varric answered. "That's too much emotion for her-- disgruntled and unamused, maybe. But she likes to stab things when she's 'unamused', so..." Varric laughed and looked pointedly at the holes behind Torrin's head. "Seems like you two have something in common."

Torrin lithely stood, unfolding her legs slowly and brushing the backs of her legs with her hand as she went. She paused for a moment to re-tuck her braid behind her ear, she didn't feel right when it was out of place. She looked at Varric. "The horror," she said, giggling. Creators, it felt good to finally laugh. At the sound of her laughter, Varric's face broke into the largest grin she had ever seen him have, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with shared warmth. Torrin thought she could get used to that warmth, he was like the sun.

"I swear on the Creators, I won't let her stab you Varric," Torrin said jokingly as they began their slow walk back to Haven.

"Oh, don't fight her over little ol' me," he said. "Actually, no, do that. I'd pay good money to see it."

Torrin laughed again. They spent the rest of the too short walk talking of who else they would like to see fight each other. Torrin noticed that the hole in her hand felt a hell of a lot smaller as they talked. She finally had some breathing room; the pedestal came a little closer back to the dirt she wanted desperately to stand on again.

Chapter Text

"And you honestly expect them to listen to me?" Torrin asked in disbelief, the tip of one pointed ear twitching. She stared at this stranger of a Chantry Mother standing serenely in front of her with eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. Torrin couldn't quite put what she was feeling into words, but there was something about this woman, about the way her smile didn't quite reach her otherwise warm eyes, that filled her mind with unease. It was strong enough that she couldn't tell herself with any honesty it was only due to her instincts against the shemlen church itself.

"It is only that the clerics are afraid," she replied smoothly. "But if you go to them, show them you are not a demon to be feared, you will find many will be amenable to helping. They have only heard frightful tales of you so far." It took Torrin longer than she would have liked to decipher the woman's words. The thick Orlesian accent was still too strange.

Torrin's wariness did not exit her posture. "You think that would work?"

"You needn't convince them all; you only need some of them to...doubt. Their power is their unified voice. At least, it is better than doing nothing, is it not?" She paused to make eye contact then, one corner of a wrinkled lip lifted into a wry smile. "I honestly do not know if you have been touched by fate, or sent to help us, but I hope. Hope is what we need now. The people will flock to your banner as they have to no other. You could build this Inquisition into a force that will deliver us, or, destroy us."

Torrin's eyes widened at the sudden intense pressure she felt-- her pedestal rising up once again. It was then she realized why this woman made her uneasy-- Torrin was the idol of all her hopes. She could have sworn her blood froze in her veins. How could she begin to respond to this woman? Torrin's fists clenched at her sides. One second she was imprisoned and hearing cries of 'knife-ear', the next she was faced with those like this woman, those who saw her as a savior, the one they could both idolize and blame if things went wrong.

I'm not your 'Herald.'

She looked away to glare at the ground. "I didn't want this," Torrin muttered, more to herself than anything.

The Mother laughed briefly then, a laugh devoid of humor and full of pity. "We seldom have any choice in our fate, I'm sad to say," she said gently. Torrin's face and ears burned-- with rage, sadness, or shame, she didn't know. "I will go to Haven," Mother Giselle continued after a short silence. "I will inform Sister Leliana of those who would be amenable to a gathering."

Torrin did not answer her, she chose to wait until the soft sounds of Mother Giselle's robes faded into the comfortable sound of the slight breeze rustling through dry grass. She cursed under her breath, staring once more at the mark glowing in her palm.

When will they see that I'm just an elf?

Torrin turned sharply on her heel and jumped down the steps, full of sudden energy that she needed to be rid of. She did not want to rejoin her 'companions' just yet. She snorted. 'Companions.' She used that term as loosely as she could, of course, making an exception of Varric. At the thought of the rougish dwarf, the harsh lines around Torrin's eyebrows softened ever so gently. She wasn't sure what she would have done without him. Solas had not spoken a word to her since that day he sent her blood to boiling, not that she had done much to remedy that situation. She was merely returning his frosty-yet-begrudgingly respectful attitude with one of her own; it was starting to become as easy as breathing.

Cassandra's brand of hostility was easier to deal with, as much as it still grated on her nerves. Cassandra, all scowls and mistrustful side glances, was still treating Torrin as if she were indeed a prisoner. Torrin sighed, feet slowing. She supposed she was, to some extent, given the Nightingale's subtle threat. But all this hostility buzzing in the air she was forced to breather made her jumpy. She didn't like being jumpy.

Thank the Creators for that dwarf. She mused, watching a raven take flight from its fence at her approach. Since Varric had approached her two days ago, Torrin had spent the majority of her time in his company. Drinking, gambling, listening to his tales; it calmed her, filled her with a pleasant, though fleeting, sense of normalcy. A normalcy that had thus far been absent everywhere else she went.

Torrin paused to lean against the fence the raven had relinquished and stare at a sky blissfully absent of the Breach. Help plan. She shook her head, eyes closing. Torrin still didn't know why that bunch of shems had called her into that war room. She hadn't 'helped' at all; the others had made up their mind on what needed to be done and all but ordered her to go and complete their plan. Well. They had gotten what they wanted; Mother Giselle would be joining them at Haven to do whatever else they had planned. She took a long, slow breath of air, relishing the feeling of it filling her lungs.

"Hello?" came a stuttering voice.

Torrin's body whipped off the fence, eyes landing on an elvhen man standing cautiously away, hands fidgeting with the front of his tunic. Torrin looked at his face twisted in worry and desperation. She raised a curious brow.

"Y-you're her aren't you?" he asked. "The one they're calling the Herald of Andraste?" Torrin did not answer and the man's eyes shifted away. "I-- don't mean to bother you." Her face softened.

"It's alright lethallin," she said kindly, watching as he looked back up at her with the gentle tones of her voice. She waved him closer. "What is wrong?"

His mouth opened and no sound came. He coughed. "It's my wife, she's...ill. When the weather is foul, she can't catch her breath-- like cobwebs in her lungs," he sounded close to tears. "Our son, Hendel, makes a potion, but he's run off to that cult in the hills. Could--could you get to him? Get that potion? He won't answer my letters, and I'm scared to leave her by herself." She watched as his hand wrung and twisted over and over. The man was at his wit's end. Torrin's heart lurched for him. "W-without that potion she'll die."

She reached behind her to pull the faded map Josephine had given her from her belt. She unrolled it with a snap, laying it on the fence. She pointed to it. "Do you know where this 'cult' is?" she asked with conviction. At the small look of surprise on his face, she continued still gentle, "I don't know where it is. Point it out to me; I'll get your son." She watched his face fill with what could only be called hope, the tears spilling down to his chin. He nodded mutely and bent over the map, she watched his eyes scan the surface for a few seconds.

"There," he said and pointed. Torrin studied the map closely, it would likely be half a day's journey, perhaps faster if she could...She shook her head when Cassandra's face intruded on her inner thoughts. No, the Seeker would not let her out of her sight. It was useless to get angry over it; anger would not get her to his son any faster and time was important. She quickly glanced at the sky. It was filling with orange; dusk would be soon. Torrin nodded quickly.

"I will leave now lethallin, and I will find him, I swear it," she said and placed a hand on his shoulder, attempting to reassure him. He hadn't asked for this blighted shemlen war anymore than she had-- she needed to help him, at least. That much she could do.

"Thank you, Herald," he whispered.

Her smile involuntarily did not reach her eyes. "It's Torrin," she said.

He hesitated. "Soris," he replied. "I'm Soris...Torrin." He rewarded her a small, shy smile. "Thank you."

Torrin applied light pressure to his shoulder, then turned to leave. She had to find the rest of them; she wanted to reach the cult before nightfall. She squinted at a figure off in the distance and hurried her pace once she recognized the gold chain nestled against a crimson tunic.

"Varric," she said. He turned around, raising an eyebrow when he looked to her face.

"Please don't tell me there's another hole in the sky," he said glibly. "Here I was just thinking how lucky I was to have one."

Torrin grinned. "Sorry to disappoint, but no," she said. Her grin faded slightly, more serious when she expressed why she needed him. "There is, however, a father, a son, and a dying wife. We need to stop the dying bit. Up for a little trek to the hills?"

"And pass up the chance for a compelling retelling of our benevolent Herald's heroic antics by yours truly?" he said dramatically, taking on the tone Torrin called the 'story-teller voice.' "Not a chance Stormy."

Torrin groaned. Varric made it hard for her to stay serious for too long. "You know you doing that doesn't help me," she pointed out. "At all. I want to stay as anonymous as possible."

Varric rolled his eyes, waving a hand and grinning. "Yeah, yeah," he said. "I'm what's keeping you from being 'anonymous.'"

Torrin shoved his shoulder, rolling her eyes in return. "Just go get the others would you, Master Dwarf?" she asked.

He scoffed. "Sure thing your Herald-ness," he said sighing, but Torrin noticed the sparkle of his eyes and knew all his annoyance was feigned. "Oh, but one more thing, since we're going out and all, do you think we could get these refugees some food?" He gestured a thumb over his shoulder. "Their hunter said he's scared to go off in the hills and hunt for food because of the mages and templars tearing shit up."

Torrin blinked, the muscles of her face going slack. How much war did these innocent people have to go through? She immediately felt a rush of empathy and knew what she had to do. "Yes," she said. "Let's do what we can." She sighed, thinking of the mess the Conclave had created. "This entire situation is turning into a steaming pile of nug-shit."

Varric snorted. "You don't have to tell me," he said. "I was dragged into this too." He shook his head briefly. "Stay here, I'll go find Seeker and Chuckles."

The dreams came back to Torrin that night while they were nestled in the hills, waiting for daybreak, for the first time since before the explosion at the Conclave. She hadn't been prepared, their absence for the past few days had settled her into a blissful complacency. That was now ripped away as her dream-mind began to realize where she was. She stood in a lone patch of dying grass in a sea of mud, the faded sounds of campfire chatter in the distance. She knew at once she was a passenger, only able to watch as the Fade gave her the memories she no longer wanted. She went still with icy apprehension when she saw the little girl, no more than eight, with shining yellow eyes skirting the edge of the forest.

"Niall!" called the girl, a hint of fear beginning to lace her voice. "Stop hiding! This isn't funny!" The girl's eyes squinted into the darkening tree line. Torrin burned with hate for all of it; what she knew she was about to witness.

"Da'len!" another voice called, stern and laced with age.

The little girl froze, turning slowly and frowning, lip pointed to a pout. The new figure came into view and Torrin felt her heart skip when she looked at his wrinkled face. She took in the rust colored marks of June lining him, the tree-bark hair turning into silver, the still-familiar strength of his shoulders.

Gods.

He reached the child. "Da'len, you should be in bed," he was scolding.

The girl stuck her chin out. "Papae! Niall is gone!" she said, young voice cracking. "We were asleep, I promise, but I woke up and she was gone! I thought she was hiding, but I-- I can't find her. Where's Niall?" She looked at the ground, sniffing.

Torrin saw the hesitation, the thinning of lips and tightening of muscles that the child could not-- did not. He bent to his knees to stare eye-level at the girl.

"She's not hiding da'len," he said. "She's not here, she had to leave."

Torrin looked away, powerless to intervene. She felt tears brimming unbidden, stinging her eyes. She couldn't watch this anymore. Her shoulders curved forward, caving inward with her chest.

That was when she heard it-- the demon she knew was waiting for her tears. "Yes, Torrin," it hissed. She cringed at the sound of her name in its voice. "Niall is never coming back is she? She died that night." It chuckled and the images of her family began to fade into blackness. Torrin was surrounded by shadows thick as mud, with nowhere to turn. "Poor Torrin. It's all your fault. You didn't wake when they took her away. You just could not find her, could you? And she died, alone."

Torrin scowled to the blackness, not giving the demon the satisfaction of answering and fighting the Fade-haze creeping in on her bones. She struggled, swimming through unconsciousness to find her physical body-- to feel her muscles. The demon shrieked at her when it realized what she was doing. She felt the Fade begin to ease away and she could just hear the sounds of the mountain breeze around the camp. When she finally snapped her real eyes open, the demon's shriek echoed around her. Torrin flung back the furs of her bedroll, immediately on her feet. The sudden chill did nothing to dry the sweat coating her arms. Not bothering with her tunic or her foot-wraps, she ran out of her tent into the open air, trying as she went to calm her breathing. The world was shrinking around her, stars dancing with her struggle to breathe normally.

Once she was far enough away to not be overheard, she collapsed onto the ground, hugging her knees to her chest. The Fade-dreams had never been easy. Ever since she lost Niall, they had plagued her mind. Torrin never told a soul-- who would believe her? She wasn't a mage; only mages were plagued by the Fade and its demons. But regardless, she hadn't been prepared for that tonight. She looked up at the starry sky through blurry eyes.

Fenhedis.