When I was a child, a hurricane flooded the alienage.
I stared out the window and watched the guardsmen and the templars stand and watch as little elf girls and boys screamed for help that would never come.
I wondered if this was how they felt.
Alone, thrashing, the force of the world upon them, pulling them down, deeper, like weights tied to their feet; the hand curled around my neck like a noose and pushed, again and again, down deeper into the current of mud and muck and fish.
I struggled. I fought. I clawed at the riverbank until the stones cut my hands.
Seconds were minutes. Minutes were hours. A cold pressure pressed in and out all at once. The pale morning light beamed through the river, and darkened as the world flattened. A dark voice beckoned down, and as my hair curled around my throat, as the pain blossomed from deep in my chest, I inhaled.
People didn’t help little girls like me. They locked their doors, turned away, and waited for us to stop screaming.
Cold hands ripped me from the river.
A rush of biting air burned my throat. I convulsed and vomited water from my lungs. Sticks and rocks dug into my bloodied hands. My hair clung to my body. Unintelligible shouts roared above the ringing in my ears. A thousands hands and a thousand faces gripped me and groped me and dragged me across the stones. I kicked, and screamed, and I choked on the fluid in my lungs, as the darkness in my eyes receded into blinding light.
“Kid, it’s me!”
Child, he’d said. My child, beautiful child, with his fingers tracing my spine. The hands wrenched me, then released me, and then snatched my face to press between them.
“Isana!”
Dark eyes stared back at me, but they weren’t his, they were soft, wrinkled, and struck with deep, deep terror.
“Varric?”
Behind him, Bull with his greataxe stood over a motionless body, the pale corpse of a dwarf. A metallic scent imbued the air. Varric’s hands trembled against my skin.
“I’m here. I have you.”
They burned the dwarf.
I watched the smoke lift from deep in the forest, sat under the alcove, my knees to my chest, shivering in the upwind that blew through the cave. Harding’s shoulder grazed against mine as she shifted on the stone.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, when the smoke finally dissipated from the air. My throat still burned, but I spoke anyway.
“Not your fault.”
“But it was. I should’ve gone with you.”
I ducked my head behind my knees. Bumps rose from my skin with a cold gust of wind. My tongue tasted of bile, but if I ate anything now, I would vomit it up again.
“Isana…” she began, slow and gentle, but firm. “What’s going on?” In my silence, she took my hand and clasped it tight in her calloused fingers. A stabilising comfort, but it wasn’t enough. It couldn’t ever be enough.
“I can’t.”
Not now, and not ever.
“Can I see your hands?”
I eyed Harding warily from my side of the cave.
“Let me help?”
A request, not a demand. Why ask at all? Why not just tie me down?
I let her take them. She explored the scrapes and cuts as though she were counting freckles, not wounds. I hissed when she applied a salve, and though her touches were gentle, her lips were set into a hard and straight line. She bandaged my palms then squinted into my eyes.
“How do you feel?”
They stung like a thousand little paper cuts. “Better.”
“No, I mean… I mean, how do you feel? ”
Like the world was ending. Like tomorrow, I wouldn’t wake up––or worse, that I definitely would.
Bull crossed the invisible border that separated Varric from the rest of the camp. His quill scratched against parchment in stern, studious silence. All pretense melted away the second they met each other’s eyes, and the tension––like a rope under pressure––snapped.
“You going to tell me what the fuck is going on?”
Little rhythmic droplets dripped from the mosy alcove. Varric’s voice was brittle and tight.
“I can’t.”
“Cut the crap, dwarf.”
“There’s no crap, I can’t tell you.”
With one hand and one finger, Bull twisted his arm, and pointed right at me. “You still going to be saying that over a pile of her ashes?”
His face paled, then reddened, and then was pulled taught as his upper lip curled and his hand closed into a hard fist around his quill. “That why you’re hear, Tiny? To butt into my shit?”
“You know damn well why I’m here, dwarf.”
“Oh, right. Sorry. I forgot you were on the Inquisitor’s,”––he mimed a vulgar motion with his closed fist––”leash.”
Bull didn’t move, or growl, or even flinch. Harding’s fingers grazed against my elbow, ready to pull me away, but she was just as transfixed.
“You don’t want the Boss in your ‘shit’? Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to––”
“Don’t!”
The desperate cry burst from him like a river from a dam; wide-eyed, jaw trembling, his mouth parted. He pointed one shaking finger.
“Don’t.”
Bull shifted the weight on his legs, unsheathed his greataxe from his back, and––for one terrible moment, I feared he would attack––in silence, stalked out of the cave.
“Bull––” Harding started, “where’re you going?”
“To hit things.”
Quiet settled like an oppressive blanket. Varric tore his parchment in half. He abandoned the pieces on the cold stone floor as he scrambled to his feet and stormed to the far corner where our ponies were kept.
I leaned into Harding to whisper. “What was Bull going to say?”
She frowned, and shrugged.
“Varric, what was Bull going to say?”
He swayed in the saddle with a sour expression.
“Not important,” he said.
“I want to know. I could die tomorrow.”
“Don’t––” His fists clenched. “Don’t say things like that. Okay?”
“Fine. Asshole.”
“You… you feeling okay?”
Another day of travel led us to the Frostback Mountain Pass. I glared up at Varric from where I sat on a pile of twigs and rocks, just behind the campfire and a billowing pillar of smoke that followed me no matter where I was.
“ Now you ask?” I spat.
His arms flapped at his sides like a chicken. Several quiet moments passed. Harding and Bull exchanged whispers over a game of cards that Varric didn’t want to join.
“I’m not,” he ran his tongue over his teeth, “good at this.”
“I can see that.”
“People. Feelings. I can talk up a whole lot of shit, but––”
“Shit’s all it is?”
He moved around the campfire and settled next to me. How small he was, with his back hunched and his chin ducked to his chest.
“Bull’s the one who pulled that fucker off you. I was halfway down the damn creek, didn’t even know what was going on ‘til he started yelling.”
A knot formed in my throat. Varric continued.
“He pulled you out the river. Then I––I tried to get you out. I’m sorry I was so rough.”
“You weren’t rough.”
“You were shouting and kicking…” He lifted his gaze to mine. A thousand hours could have passed in that moment, his eyes twinkling, not just from the firelight. “I didn’t hurt you, right?”
I picked up a stray stone and turned it in my bandaged hands. Every small cut was scabbed over, but Harding fussed over them anyway.
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “Good.”
“Varric––”
“Yeah?”
He blinked rapidly I clutched both hands around the stone. An invisible spider crawled up my spine and onto my neck. “Please don’t call me ‘kid’ anymore.”
“Oh.” He frowned. “Yeah. Sure. Okay.” A pause. “I was just biding my time ‘til I could think of something better, anyway.”
“A nickname? I don’t want a nickname.”
“Aw. But what if it’s a really good one?”
“Mm. Hmph, fine, but, I won’t accept anything like ‘Rocky’, or…”
He laughed. “I’ll cook something up. You’ll see.”
The greataxe swung through the air and came down with a rush of wind. The log splintered into two perfect halves at Bull’s feet, and, satisfied, he discarded them onto the pile then replaced it with another.
I sketched him from afar.
The anatomy was unfamiliar to me. Too many contours. I struggled with the perspective on his horns, and nearly tore the page in frustration as the lines got darker and it slowly became unfixable. At my angry grunt, he looked up, saw me and my book, and stood straight.
“Make sure you shade the muscles just right. A lot of work went into this.”
I made a sour face. “How do you know what I’m doing?”
“You think I don’t know when someone is taking my portrait? In Seheron, you let someone do that, it gets sent out? Now everyone knows exactly who they’re killing.”
My hands stalled on the parchment. “Should I not––?”
He grinned. “Nah. Go ahead. I’m flattered.”
I hummed. He swung the axe again and split another log. We didn’t need that much firewood, but no one had stopped him yet, especially not Varric, who he still wasn’t talking to.
I realised too late that I’d sketched the eyepatch on the wrong eye, and glared at the page. I didn’t struggle this much with Harding or Varric, but they were rounder, softer, if Varric could be described as either of those things. Bull was… was… big.
“Bull––”
“Yep?”
“Varric said… that you’re the one who saved me. In the river.”
“Yep.”
I put down the charcoal. It rolled off the book and into my lap, where I let it stay. Why was this so difficult? I glanced back over my shoulder, to Varric and Harding setting up the tents; just as I turned back, Bull split another log.
I drew in an uneven breath. “Thank you.”
He stuck his axe into the earth and bent down to collect the logs. “No problem.”
Was that it? No fanfare? No favours? Men like him––they always wanted something back.
I plucked up the charcoal again and turned to a fresh page. “I’ve a question.”
“Sure.”
“What did Varric mean, when he said you were on the Inquisitor’s leash?”
“Hmmm.” With a half dozen logs in his arms, he stood straight and considered me, carefully, with his eye. “We’re having sex. That’s all.”
“What?!” I slapped my hands over my mouth. That was much louder than I’d intended. “But she’s… she’s tiny!”
“No smaller than you, dwarf.”
“But you’re––“
“Hey. You wanna hear logistics? Ask her about it.”
“No!”
He grinned, shrugged, and hauled the logs back to camp.
Hooves clicked rhythmically on the dilapidated stone of the Imperial Highway. The night was young, and the moon was low in the sky, hidden behind trees and tall hills. The flickering lantern dangling from the saddle of Bull’s horse kept us from straying off-road and into the grass and the mud.
A swaying wooden sign, eroded with age but still legible, welcomed us into Jader with howling wind above our heads. Lights slowly filtered into view, lit buildings and flickering torches, and though most were asleep, many still bustled on the streets. Horses and carts splashed mud onto unsuspecting late-night venturers.
“Never been to Jader,” Bull admitted, as we slowed to a halt outside an inn. “Thought it would be smaller. Hope I can find my boys in all this.”
I slid off my pony. “Andraste was born here.”
“What?” Harding tied hers to the hitching post. “I thought that was Denerim.”
“The Sisters in Kirkwall always said it was Jader…”
“Jader is Orlesian. Andraste was born in Ferelden!”
The inn doors swung open, and a drunk man stumbled out, took a step, and face-planted into the mud.
“Lovely,” Varric mused. “Shall we?”
A burst of warm, smoke air blasted my face as we shoved into the inn. Light and noise overwhelmed the crowded space; mostly humans, many drunk. Bull ducked one horn under the doorfame, then the other, narrowly avoiding hitting it against the wood. Would it hurt if he did?
“I’ll get us some rooms,” Varric said, “but if you wanna hang around for drinks, or…”
“Sure.” Bull’s eye narrowed, just slightly. “I’ll play a couple rounds.”
“Okay. Yeah. Sure. I’ll get us set up.”
It was the most words they’d spoken to each other for days, and that was progress, I supposed––though I pitied Harding, as I left her to her fate.
The tub behind the partition was already filled when I stepped into my room, and I feared to ponder how much extra Varric paid for it, and if it was some sort of commentary on the state of my hair. I was grateful regardless. It was steaming, and I hissed as I tested the water with my finger.
I draped my clothes over the partition and stepped in.
Maker. A hot bath. How many years was it since I had a real, hot bath? It burned my skin, but I didn’t care. I scrubbed my body with soap, but when I got to my hair, I hesitated.
Oil, tangles, thick unruly knots. I tugged at it and winced at the pain that shot through my scalp. The door swung open, and through the partition, I watched Harding enter the room with a heavy sigh.
“I’m in the bath,” I warned her.
“That sounds nice.” She sighed again. “I’ll have one after you’re done.”
“The water will be cold.”
“That’s okay.” There was a creak of wood as she settled on one of the beds. “Maker, they’re insufferable.”
“Were they fighting?”
“Not fighting, but…” she paused, and I wondered what kind of scrunched-up face she was making, “you could smell the masculinity. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?”
“Or the sweaty, gross humans.”
She giggled, a lyrical sound. “Or that!”
I hissed at a particularly sharp jolt of my scalp, just as Harding let her boots clatter to the floor.
“You okay?”
“My hair…”
“You want some help?”
My fingers froze in the air.
Help me? Help me? Wash my hair? I glanced down at my bare body, red and raw from scrubbing, and then back through the holes in the partition. Harding waited patiently in the silence, kicking her feet against the wood frame of her bed.
I was no stranger to nudity. Regularly I would find myself in the one bathhouse Lowtown had room for, and I didn’t shy away from other women’s bodies, nor them from mine, but though the ladies there would gossip, bicker, and comb each other’s hair, I kept to myself and spoke to no one.
Why help? Boredom? Charity? Pity? Because she wanted the bath while it was still hot? I wiggled my legs. The water sloshed against the edges of the basin.
It might be nice. To be taken care of for once.
“Okay,” I breathed.
I covered my chest with my arms when Harding padded, barefoot, around the partition. She sat on a stool behind me and inspected my mess of hair. Her fingers worked quickly, gracefully, and pulled apart the tangles and knots with a gentle tenderness.
“I usually never let it get this bad,” I murmured, “but with everything…”
“I understand.” Her voice was low and soft. “My hair is such a mess. So thick and frizzy. I like yours.” The points of a comb dragged over my scalp. “It’s pretty.”
“Yours is pretty too.” Like an apple in the sun. “I wish mine was a different colour.”
“Hm. Why?”
Why?
Because that was what mother wanted. Maybe then she would have stood to look at me.
“I just do,” I said.
Harding scrubbed and rinsed my hair. She was gentle and slow, not harsh or rushed like mother would be, and when her nails dug into my scalp, tiny shivers ran down my spine. By the time she was finished, the water was barely warm, and my eyes struggled to keep open.
“Isana?” she whispered. “Are you asleep?”
My head was heavy. “I’m awake.”
Her hand made one last pass through my hair, before she dropped it over my shoulders. “I wanna talk about something.”
“Okay.”
Absently her fingers tapped on the edges of the basin. “Why did that dwarf attack you? I mean, he—“ she breathed, “he was gonna kill you, and Varric won’t tell us anything. But you know. Right?”
I gazed, half-lidded, at my own reflection in the wavering water, Harding behind me and peering over my shoulder, and drew my knees closer to my chest. Water dripped from my chin.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
After a beat, she nodded, and stood.
“Okay. I’ll let you get dressed.”
Harding emerged from her bath just as I blew out my candle and lay my head on my pillow. She crawled under her covers, hair still damp, and rolled over to face me in the darkness.
“The Inquisitor could help.”
I doubted that. Important people didn’t bother with the little people under their boots. “Why would she help me?”
“Because Varric cares about you. And she cares about Varric.”
“Varric’s helping me, but that doesn’t mean he…” I sighed. “And she had Bull spy on him. That doesn’t sound like care.”
“Well…” There was a ruffle of sheets as she shifted onto her back. “She’s just worried. We’ve talked a lot, you know? Before she goes on big missions. And before the Approach, her and Varric, they were really close.”
I stared at the ceiling. “I still don’t understand what happened.”
“She had to choose, so she did.” Harding pulled the blankets up to her chin. “She did what she had to do.”
“Sounds like a politician.”
“No. She’s not like that.”
Then what was she like? She was the Herald—fine. The Inquisitor? People don’t just happen upon untold political power.
Harding sat, and pressed her back against the wall behind her. She was the size of a child in the large, human-sized bed. “I just remember when she first held up that sword, and sat in that chair, I felt safe. Like nothing could touch us, you know?”
“She’s one woman.”
“You didn’t see her at Haven. She saved all of us.”
“You believe she’s holy?”
Harding thought for a moment. “I think so.” After consideration, she shook her head. “I want her to be.”
A holy figure, revered beyond measure, heralded upon a pedestal. It all sounded so familiar. “What if she isn’t?”
“Then… then I don’t know.” She slid down again, until her face was buried by the pillow. “World keeps spinning anyway.”
“Isana. Hey.” Varric poked his head through the open door of my room, frazzled and dazed with dark bags under his eyes. “You ready to go?”
“Just a moment.”
He disappeared into the hall again, and I bent down next to my bed. Underneath, hidden, the corner of a dilapidated book jutted out, wedged between the frame and the bedside drawer. I pulled and pulled until it tugged loose, and I yanked it into my hands.
Oh, Maker.
Of all the fucking books.