Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Admittedly, it has been a mistake. A severe mistake her now throbbing headache won’t let her forget any time soon.

“Sure” she has told to a skeptical Leliana “I’ll bring Sera and Solas to the Fallow Mire, what could possibly happen!”.

Note to self: always listen to Leliana when she’s skeptical. Unless she’s talking of stabbing people and getting stupid revenges, that is, but Aisling is starting to think that Leliana is most often right, when she doesn’t have a dagger in her hand and that look in her eyes. The scary one.

“Boss.” The Qunari says, stepping to walk beside her and waiting for Aisling to turn her head and look at him with the face of a woman who is about to beg the other to just toss her in the water and leave her there. “There’s a Ben Hassrath technique which would save us.” He informs her, with the same look in his eye.

“I’m listening.”

“A firm pinch on the back of their neck. If I hit the nerves right, they’re gonna fall unconscious.”

“Have you done it before?” She asks, hope in her voice.

“Yes.”

“Did the recipient survive?” The hope raises.

The Qunari falls silent for a moment, then lowers his head, sighing heavily.

“No, he did not.” Comes the answer, killing all hope and leaving them in their misery.

“Uuurgh.” She groans.

Aisling honestly considers it, as the reason for her current distress -save the constant rain, the corpses left on the side of the road after the pestilence and the fact that a lot of said corpses don’t really like to stay dead and are overly friendly- stubbornly keep on quarrelling at her back, as it has been for the good part of the afternoon.

In conclusion, bringing Solas and Sera together was a terrible, terrible idea. Particularly if the surroundings are the very definition of depressing, the task ahead so nasty even Scout Harding couldn’t be cheerful about it, and lighting Veil Fire under constant rain, when her hands are freezing over and she can’t even regret the rain, as it’s the only thing preventing the air to smell really, really foul from the swamp and all the deads around. She doesn’t even know what the other two elves are discussing about, by now: she has zoned out since an hour, after getting yelled at when she tried to mediate proposing her own opinion on the subject and getting both of them to reply angrily at her. So she walks on, leading the group and enjoying the start of a headache, all her energies focused on trying to at least keep herself and the Qunari dry with magic. Solas has been the one to insist on performing the drying spell on Sera, and that has been just one further reason for further discussions.

“Five corpses ahead!” Bull booms, freeing his axe from its scabbard.

“Oh, thanks the Creators…” Aislings comments, sincerely relieved from the interruption to the endless discussion.

The Qunari laughs at that, charging on, as Aisling follows. With all that water and the rain, electricity can become a problem, fighting in a group, so she prefers to just be a little closer to exert more control over her magic. Between the slowness of the reanimated bodies, all cracking joints and rigid muscles, and how much exactly Cullen has been insisting on her drills and form, she’s more confident in engaging from a closer position. The Fallow Mire at least has a good use, letting her put in practice her new shining training without having to restraint from magic. So, covered from the distance by Sera’s arrows and Solas’ ice -and their mutual very welcomed silence-, she runs forward, holding her staff close and concentrating lightning just on the point. It crackles, but she is careful to contain it at the minimum, holding the spell under even closer control until she ducks a swing of a rusty sword, easily turning around the undead who attacked her, and lunges on, hitting the sternum and just then releasing the spell, lightning shooting through old nerves and frying the body from the inside.

She doesn’t wait too much, taking the staff back towards her body and turning to the next opponent. She ducks against a wide swing of Bull’s axe, running under his arm to charge the last undead standing. Solas freezes him, just before she can swing her staff in diagonal, hitting it on the shoulder, hard, and again conjuring lightning in the same overly-precise fashion, just contained to convince the enemy to just stay dead.

As the last one falls on the ground again with a disgusting moist sound, she relaxes and drop her arms, resting a little and catching her breath, leaning on her staff.

“Nice job, Boss.” Bull praises her, a big hand coming to pat her shoulder heavily. “Next time you decide to pass under my blade, tho, give me a signal.”

“Good job to you too. Wouldn’t a signal tip off the enemies?” She smiles at him, returning the praise and patting his hand in return.

“Choose a very improbable word and shout that. Like I don’t know. Some shit in Tevene, so I know it’s you, and you’ll weird everyone off as well.” He proposes, fixing buckles after placing the axe on his back again.

“Got it, what about Apokolokyntosis(1)?”

“…Is that a real word?”

“It’s the title of a play Dorian lent me to practice. It’s fun, the Archon gets turned into a turnip. Or was it a pumpkin… Or a squash? I should ask him what’s the right meaning of kolokynthe…”

“Ok, that will weird everyone out, Boss, even me.” Bull guffaws, jovially, patting her shoulder.

“So that’s perfect!” She agrees, stretching a little as she casts a look at the other two party members.

Solas is standing, straight as a pole, righting his clothes and side-eyeing Sera, scowling as he spots the other elf sticking her tongue out at him, as she slowly gets her arrows back from dead bodies. They’re silent, at least, but they’ve been quiet before, and it never lasted long. According to Harding’s scouts and the Sky Watcher’s informations, there’s still one standing stone with runes to activate, before reaching the fort. And she’s had enough. She looks at Bull, again, grimacing.

“Wish me luck?” She asks, sheepishly.

“Let it be known I warned you this was a terrible idea. But good luck, you’ll die with honour.” He replies, overly serious.

And with that, Aisling schools herself, straighten her back trying to summon whatever there’s left of her professionality and dignity under her throbbing head, and walks towards the other two elves, plastering a wide smile on her face she’s overly tired to care anymore if it looks too forced.

“So. Can we just agree that we all did a pretty good job in fighting all together, and we can appreciate each other’s skill and find some common ground in the reciprocal proficiency, like adults?” She realizes she’s using the tone she used to use with the children, back at the clan, the condescending tone that doesn’t do much in hiding how her patience is running short, with a shit-eating grin plastered on her face that’s happy on the verge of murderous. Pavyn has always, always been better than her with children for a reason.

“I’ve never put in doubt her skill with her bow, it’s the stubbornness of her beliefs and her Friends that I’m questioning.” Solas replies, the very image of calm, but if in the last months there’s one thing Aisling has learnt, is to recognise that he’s judging the other person, and badly, when he just squints his eyes in that particular way. And he’s squinting his eyes that way at Sera.

“Sure yer questioning, ‘cause your prissy Elfship is too prissy to deal with real people.” Sera, which to her honour is at least much more open and very clear about her opinions, retorts, spiteful as ever.

Solas is opening is mouth to start anew, but Aisling isn’t gonna have it. She raises her free hand in front of her bust, palm open.

“Please, stop, the both of you.” She firmly interrupts, sighing. “We still have work to do, and you’re making us lose time with your constant bickering. I get it, you don’t get along, I’m sorry I dragged you both here, believe me I am.

But, I happen to be in charge, hence I must remind you we’re rescuing people, we don’t have time. Either you stop and focus on the task and save trying to jump at each other’s throats for later, or one of you is returning to camp.” She finishes, as matter-of-factly and patient as she can muster. Which is not as much as she would like, but seems to be enough.

No one starts yelling at her, which she counts as a success, waiting some moments for them to consider. None replies, more side-glances get thrown, and before anyone can say anything, Aisling’s back at it.

“And before any of you suggests the other goes back-“ She adds, noticing Sera trying to speak with a mischievous glint in her eyes she doesn’t really like. “The one to decide who’s going back is me, not you. And I remind you that I can’t keep three people dry and fight on my own, and there’s a whole ass swamp full of corpses and mud for whomever gets back on their own.”

She just needs to look at Sera to have the blonde elf frown and huff in disappointment, puffing her breath so it slightly ruffles her fringe.

She turns to Solas, expecting something from him and gesturing him to speak. He exhales slowly through his mouth, lowering his head.

“I will refrain from further questioning how the Red Jennies operates and why, if she can stop with the whole Elvhen Glory thing.” He concedes, and right now Aisling can’t care how begrudgingly. He may disapprove all he wants, all she cares right now is completing the mission and return to camp as soon as she can.

“Good, thank you. Sera?” She turns to the other. This whole endeavour at least has given her the idea that Red Jenny doesn’t really work with people ordering her around, and need a calmer approach.

“Urgh, I hate you when you’re so elfy-elf and wiseshit.” She groans, tossing her head back. “But fineish, I’ll shut my mouth.”

“Thank you, to both of you.” She sighs, smiling for real, this time. “Now let’s go.”

She urges them on, turning around and reaching Bull again at the start of their line, keeping her staff out as a proper walking stick, and who cares if it’s an improper use and the blade at the bottom will lose its point and bla bla bla. It’s just nice, finally, to be able to hear the sound of the rain on stones, water and on the last leaves standing on their branches. It wasn’t enough to make that forsaken place anything remotely good, but it still was better than before. Her headache, tho, is still there, getting heavier by the minute until it painfully throbs in both her temples.

She sighs, slowing down her pace to fall back in line and get closer to Solas, eyeing him tiredly. They have spent together enough time for Aisling to just know when he’s really angry and when he’s not. And now, he is, judging by the minute line between his eyebrows and the way he holds his chin a little higher and lips contracted, prideful thing that he is, true to his name. She wonders, sometimes, if it’s a pseudonym, if he changed his name, or if his parents just had luck. He’s been particularly secretive on his past, however, the few times Aisling has tried to ask something about it, and she doesn’t really want to insist.

“Hey.” She greets him, earning a side-glance.

“Do you want to scold me some more?” He asks, his lips quirking up in half a smile.

“Mock me all you like, go on. If you can please do some healing on my head, you can vent all your frustration on me, I won’t reply and just push you in a puddle when I’m bored.” She replies, shrugging it off.

“Come here.”

He stops and so does she, turning to face him and pulling her hair back from her forehead with the free hand, chin up so he can work. He places his palm on her forehead, mana trickling and cool flooding her head in blissful ripples.

“Urgh, thank you, that feels much, much better…” She sighs, releasing her hand when he’s done and gifting him a delighted smile.

“Move, elfy-elves!” Sera chides from ahead, urging them on.

Which they do, falling in silence as Aisling softly glides over the good feeling of not feeling like having a press squishing down her head, feeling light and yes, tired but not so overly as before. She may also reach the evening, she feels, with one more quarrel. Even if tossing them both into a puddle doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Or asking Bull to toss them for her, he’ll surely manage. She considers him carefully, squinting her eyes.

“What is it, da’len?” He asks, with a knowing voice.

“Do you really hate her?” She asks, speaking softly and gesturing at Sera.

“I don’t hate her. I would just like for her to make any sense, maybe I question too much.” He replies, turning bitter all over again.

“She does make sense, you know.” She chides, kindly, but still pointing it out.

“She doesn’t.”

“She does. Maybe not on magic, but… You just speak two different languages, that’s it.” She insists, not caring if she earns a scolding glance in answer.

“I disagree.” He just says, coldly.

“Do you want me to help?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re helping me with magic and the mark.” She wiggles her left hand explicatively, even if the gloves cover up much of anything. “Let me help you with people, for once, you said it yourself that you’re rusty.”

He considers it, sighing heavily and not replying for a good couple of minutes. She doesn’t insist, walking on beside him and waiting for him to speak again, casting sideway glances every now and then when she can focus on not stepping in mud or deeper freezing water than the slight film that covers up the cobblestones of the pathway. She has patience, she’s waited a year before a particularly diffident halla, one they had found in the woods with a leg in a trap and took into the pack to heal, all but got closer to her. She knows how to wait, and will wait until Solas is ready to talk.

“If she just stops with the Elvhen Glory, do as you want.” He finally concedes, sighing.

She’s not really sure he doesn’t say it just to have her walk away, but she turns to smile brightly at him, and with a final “Thank you!” trots off on the hill where the standing stone stands, concentrating to summon veil fire and, hopefully, get it done with this hateful place.

---

Dorian,

To reply to your former questions: No. No, it hasn’t stopped raining yet, I still can’t decide if I’d prefer a dry but smelly swamp, or a frozen, drenched but decently smelling one. You’re right in saying that the smell of the air is distracting, but constant pouring rain is even worse than snow, also maybe the stench would have helped in making Solas and Sera stop quarrelling. Oh they have stopped, but the Iron Bull and me got real close to toss them in the swamp. Real close.

I’d dare say that you could make up for the misery you left me to face alone by offering me the first drink when I get back, and we can complain together to our hearts’ content. Yes, ditching this mission off was the wise choice. Still, chatting via letter is just not the same thing. I wish there was some way to make it quicker.

And by all means no, I’m not bringing you samples of the zombies, I’m sorry, we’re not at that point of confidence yet. I can confirm, tho, that it’s some sort of spell: the Veil is very thin, also according to Solas, and there are beacons fuelled by Veil Fire which attracts the undead… But it’s hardly my field of expertise, and whatever magic is there feels… Laved down and impalpable, as if the rain washed that away? I hope it makes sense, it’s hard to describe, really. When you kill them another time, they stay dead, tho.

You, tho, please tell me you didn’t really challenge Varric to a game of Wicked Grace. Or, tell me if you did and how much did you lose. And of course I read the Tale of the Champion! First thing when I came here, it was good entertainment and I really enjoyed it. There’s a copy in my barrack, take it when you go watering my Elfroot (you didn’t forget, did you?) and have fun, you’ll tell me what you think of it.

If you haven’t already sent your reply, don’t forget to say hi to Felix from me and to keep it up with everything, I’m sure he’ll manage to fix everything up with what documents and letters Josephine’s sending him. I wished it was easier tho, for him and for you as well, I know it’s difficult being stuck down here, but… Is it too little to thank you via letter?

It’s getting mushy, it’s better if I stop writing.

Hoping your next will reach me very close to Haven, and that this one survives the rain…

A very soaked up herself,
Aisling

*a stylized and simplistic drawing of one of the beacons, wavy lines with sparkles where the Veil Fire brazier is, and a doodly drawing of a very miserable Aisling, mouth shaped like an upside down U. A little on the side, Solas -recognizeable because he has no hair and a staff- and Sera -who has eyelashes and a bow- are screaming to each other. The Iron Bull, bigger and squarer than the other and with horns, has the same expression of misery of Aisling. Big puffy clouds with raindrops frame the group and the beacon*

---

The next day, the rain still hasn’t stopped, big gray clouds travelling far up ahead and crying all over the Mire. At least the covered spaces are dry, thanks for some hastily done requisitions and a couple of discreetly waved spells -she’s still not all that confident in using magic as she would back at home, so she had waited for a dead hour at night, on the first day, to cast a water-proof spell on the camp. The same she used on the aravels back home, preventing the wood to soak in and sails to get drenched.

As it is, she checks with Scout Harding and the Requisition Officer in the central tent, the one they assigned to the potion table and the requisition one and is serving as a base of operations. The reserve of medicinal herbs seems well stocked, resources are plenty to resist until more people and supplies will be sent from Haven, to retrieve the wounded soldiers they rescued the former evening and who are now in the infirmary tend. Some rationing must be done, but between the three women, they manage to make a solid plan to keep the camp up and standing with no one starving for at least three more weeks.

“Ok, so we can do another quick rundabout of the Mire, and get going in the early afternoon… Bull’s wounds aren’t that deep, but I’ll have Solas look at him.” Aisling decides, moving a couple of papers to take a better look at the map and evaluating roughly how far can they get from this cursed place if they leave when she suggested.

“Actually, Lady Herald…” Scout Harding intercedes.

“Aisling, please. Or Lavellan if you must. Not Herald.” She corrects her, with a sigh. She’s starting to lose all hopes of getting somewhere with her pleading, but at this point it’s automatic.

“Lady Lavellan… You may want to delay your journey to tomorrow.”

“Why? Did we forget something? The artifacts that Warden Blackwall mentioned must be in that tower, but we don’t have anything that can open up the door without risk of damages…” She asks, starting to look at reports again looking for anything she may have forgotten.

“No, no, it’s just-“ Harding giggles, placing a hand on her arm to stop her. “Sera. She wasn’t looking good at breakfast, poor thing, I don’t think she’ll be able to travel so soon.”

Aisling blinks at her twice. How did she miss it? She tries to recall what has happened that morning that made her skip Sera and… Oh. She had breakfast sitting with Solas, discussing whether healing magic or herbalism is the best way to get around wounds and sickness. She was so busy in trying to explain why she’s good with herbalism and doesn’t need to learn Spirit Magic for that, thank you, that she must have totally missed the Archer.

“I’m not much of a figure in charge, am I?” She sighs heavily, tossing her head back.

She hears the other two women giggle softly, Harding patting her arm again, friendly.

“You’re fine enough. I’ll organise patrols, you go and have fun picking all the Elfroot around.”

She smiles, and greeting the other two takes her leave, running not to be under the rain for more than strictly necessary and making a beeline for Sera’s tent. Indeed, she can hear the other elf sneezing inside.

“Sera? Are you in there?” She calls, knowing full well she’s being rhetorical, but still not entering without an invitation.

“You can hear me snotting, Ladybits! What is it?” Comes a reply.

It doesn’t take Aisling more than half a look at the other elf, once raising the flap with a hand and quickly slipping inside, to make a diagnosis. She has seen her full share of colds, as the First of a Keeper who was marked by Sylaise’s tattoos for her prowess with Healing herbs and magic. Sera’s eyes are puffy, her nose is red and angry and leaking, and she’s curled under three blankets -her own, the extra everyone’s given, and one more she doesn’t ask where she got from. And yet, all cocooned like so, it’s evident she’s still shivering like a leaf.

“Whaaat?” Red Jenny asks, complaining and frowning at her, defensively.

“Just checking on you. Harding told me you weren’t looking well today. I’m sorry I didn’t notice you at breakfast.” She tells her, making a couple of steps forward to kneel in front of her, levelling up their eyes.

“Pfeh. You were all busy being an elfy-elf with old Droopy Ears.”

“Yes, I was, and I’m sorry. Can I help you, now?” She asks, giggling at the way she addressed Solas.

“You’re not magicking me over, right?” Sera asks, glaring at her.

“Nope.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know healing spells, and I got the feeling you don’t want Solas. But if you let me, I have some more practical methods and some herbs to give you to make you feel better. No magic if you don’t want me to, not even to warm the air up, I promise. Deal?”

She offers her right hand to shake, the same way Cassandra did with her in the Hinterlands. Sera, tho, is much more diffident than she has been, and watches her warily.

“Why d’you want to mother me, Ladybits? I’m sick, I’ll sleep and it’ll pass, without snotting over you and making you sick in turn.” She grumbles.

“The sooner you get healthy again, the sooner we can leave this awful place.” Aisling still keeps her hand in the air, not yielding. “I admit I’m that selfish, I want to leave and luckily for you, I helped to heal a lot of people from cold, back home, you’ll have to spit out a huge amount of snot to scare me away. Don’t you want to get better sooner?”

Sera considers for a while, but another heavy sneeze shaking her from head to toe has the nice effect to make her give in, and shake Aisling’s hand in affirmation. In the following minutes, with a not so cooperating and slightly awkward tall city elf, Lavellan has discovered that the cold has developed in a fever, which doesn’t appear to be high, but still. The brazier has been moved in the centre of the tent, closer to the bedroll, a fresh charge of wood added to revive the flame. Sera also laughs at how Aisling is not so used to light a fire without magic and struggles a little until she gets some help from the other girl, and the tension eases up a little, at that.

A quick trip to the potion table and back again gives Aisling all she needs to keep working and enter in full professional mood, movements coming in automatically from experience, working quickly and precisely on the floor of Sera’s tent, as the other elf lies down on her bed roll, close to the fire, a metal pot full of water placed on it to boil. The temperature inside raises a bit with the extra wood on the brazier and the steam, but it’s still not as high as Lavellan would like it to be. She doesn’t dare warming everything up with magic without a clear permission, tho, even if tying her hair in a bun leaves her neck to exactly feel a nasty gust of cold air sweeping in from the opening flaps, so this will have to do.

As the water starts to boil, Aisling grabs a cloth and takes the pot away from the fire, filling a mug she has already prepared with a bunch of dried elfroot, some grated ginger and a couple of other herbs she had dried back in Haven and brought with her. The rest of the water stays in the pot again on the fire, so the steam will contribute in warming up the room and clear the lungs.

“There, as soon as it’s cooled down a bit, drink this.”

She scuddles closer to Sera, placing the mug beside her head on the floor and rubbing her shoulder over the blankets, soothingly. An automatic gesture she had done a thousand of times with more familiar people.

“Uuurgh, what is it?”

“Tea. Dried elfroot is not a great painkiller as the fresh plant, but it’s good to ease back pain and all the nasty hurts of fever. Ginger will fight the sickness and free your nose, it’ll be a little spicy, but please bear with it. And a couple other things which are an elfy-elf secret recipe, but they’re gonna lower your temperature.” She explains.

“All righty, I ain’t asked for a lesson, you nerd!” Sera complains, pushing on her elbow and raising up to sit.

Aisling laughs and stops speaking, as she fixes her blankets to drape on her shoulders, so she doesn’t have to, but Sera grumbles and tries weakly to squat her away. Aisling stops abruptly at that, without taking back her hands, to understand if the weakness of the gesture means the elf doesn’t like it, or if it’s just pride. Sera tho stays still, letting her continue. Which the Dalish does, happily, covering her up as best as she can, humming lightly.

“You good? Should I- Oh, yes, wait.” She asks, before snapping and scuttling away towards a bucket of water in a corner, tossing a piece of clean cloth she had taken with her for cleaning purposes and yet not used.

She tosses the cloth inside the water, sploshing it down until it’s soaked through. After rinsing it, she returns to Sera, asking for a permission with eyes and hands raised.

“What?” Suspicion is still there.

“Nothing. I’d like to place a wet cloth on your forehead, to lower the temperature if that’s ok.” Aisling explains, with the same calm tone.

Sera snorts, snatching the cloth from the other’s hand unceremoniously. Her grasp is slow and weak, tho.

“Stop mothering me, Gracious Ladybits, I can take care of myself.” She grumbles, and as she raises her hands to her head to fix the cooling patch, a blanket slips off.

“I know you can, Snarky Smartass, I’ve seen you fight. But everyone needs help from time to time, particularly when they’re feverish.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not my mom.”

“I do not wish to be? Why do you think so?” She asks, without understanding where this is going.

“Because you’re all caring and kindish.” A huff, the tall figure of the city elf curling around herself a little more. “We don’t know each other from so long, you don’t have a reason to be here and take care of me, right. That’s what moms do.”

“… Or friends?”

“Yeah, well, you ain’t a friend either.”

“No?” Aisling smirks. “Weird, because after convincing two templars, a bard and a diplomat in Haven to spend time and resources to gather bees, I considered myself a true Friend of Red Jenny…”

And that’s what makes Sera laughs, finally. Or at least, until the laughter is broken down by a fit of cough shaking her up. As she’s done with it, the Dalish takes the mug in her hand, still hot but not scorchingly so, and passes it on to her companion.

“Come on, Smartass, drink up your tea and go back to sleep, ok?”

“You’re still mothering me.” Sera chides, but takes the mug and sips anyway, sticking out her tongue as the bitter taste of the herbs fights a little with the spiciness of the ginger root. “Yuck!”

“My job in my clan was to mother people, so… Drink, smartass, come on, it doesn’t have to be tasty. Or I’ll explain more of medicinal herbs and what they do, and I can go on all day.”

Huffing and still grumbling, but with none of the stubbornness she showed since she came to Haven, whenever Aisling tried -pointlessly- to involve her in activities she did with her friends in her clan, Sera finally starts sipping the infusion, little by little and blowing on it. And strongly telling Lavellan to not dare blowing on her tea for her, which made the latter laugh and promise she won’t, before turning back to work.

She cuts the root into smaller piece, deftly with a little knife, tossing everything in the mortar and not caring if her hands are dirty when she takes the pestle and start grinding everything down, her movement practiced and automatic. It’s quiet and it’s something so familiar she starts even humming an old folk song, while she works.

“So, you’re the official mom of the clan?” Sera asks, after a while.

“Kinda, not yet. The official mom is the Keeper, she decides where the clan goes and stops, takes care everyone is fine and do their work, or tell them to rest and tend to the sicks, wards the camp, does all kind of magicky stuff. I’m the first apprentice, soon to be an official Mother of All, if you wish.” She laughs, explaining carefully and keeping up with the mom joke. It’s fitting, she must say.

“Don’t you elfy elves have mothers? Do you need a common one?”

“We do. Some of us at least. But living constantly in the wild, means that you need a big, huge mama to make all the mamas work together.”

“Sounds like yer shiting me.”

“I swear on Mythal’s pretty bosom, I’m not! Just following the comparison you made, it’s a fitting one.”

She takes the mortar, once the content has turned into a smooth paste with the addition of a little water, and scuttle closer to Sera back again, sitting beside her.

“Here, you can distribute this paste on your chest, it’ll help you breathe and free your nose. Hopefully soothe the coughing as well. You’ll be up and about in no time if you have the strength to joke.”

She places the mortar down in front of her, with a smile. Sera just squints at her again over the mug, sniffing soundly.

“So yer mothering me and be all supportive and taking my shite seriously?”

“I heard that’s what mothers do...”

Aisling turns her back when Sera finishes her tea and starts complaining there’s no privacy in this tent all of a sudden. The Dalish makes a show of covering her eyes with her hands, teasing back about how the archer can’t take a perfect chance with a pretty girl if it falls in her lap, and Sera obstentatiously utters fake puking noises, snapping back that this is the worst possible scenario to take a good chance with a short, elfy elf wiseshit who likes to spend time with Lord Droopy Ears as he screams of Elven Glory. By the time the archer urges the other to turn around, they’re both laughing heartily, the atmosphere is more relaxed, and the Dalish can even ease the other to lay down and sleep a little.

But as she agreed to lay down, the archer doesn’t seem to want to sleep just yet. Aisling keeps on working here and there, fixing up the little mess of herbs and tools she created in a corner by carefully wiping knife and pestle with a cloth, closing all the herb pouches neatly and slipping the now empty pot outside so it fills up again with rainwater, not noticing that the other is intently looking at her with half-lidded, suspicious eyes.

“Hey, wiseshit.”

“Mh?”

“You really don’t believe in Andraste?”

“Sera…”

“No, really. You’re her freaking Herald!”

“I’m not, Sera, please, I just-“ Aisling groans loudly, not wanting to have this conversation again. Not after they managed to get along so well today, without any of them saying something offensive for the other. “I don’t deny she existed, and I’m not offended if you or other people believe she’s the Wife of a god…”

“The Bride of the Maker.” Sera corrects.

“Yes. I just… I think she existed, she was a mage who made great things worthy of being remembered and admired. If I have to ask for guidance, tho, I ask my gods.”

“But Andraste existed, your gods didn’t!”

“We don’t know if they didn’t… We lost too much of our history to know for sure.”

“It’s as well as saying they didn’t!”

Lavellan is suddenly very, very tired. She sighs loudly, dropping her back and pointing her bust up on her hands, unfolding her crossed legs and straightening them on the ground. Oh, it would be easy, so much easy, to reply on her irritation and to start discussing and go on until all words are gone. And yet, she just clenches her fists and takes a deep breath. Sera makes sense, she’s sure of that, and she agrees with the philosophy behind Red Jenny. Maybe, Aisling can’t but think, maybe she makes sense even in this. Maybe there’s a reason and she just fails to see it.

“I want to believe in somtehing that allows me to exist without considering me a potential abomination, and promotes freedom and peace and knowledge. I’m for living my life as a normal person, the Chantry wouldn’t allow me. I’m not for Elven Glory, and neither is Solas, he doesn’t even believe in the Creators… You would actually get along on that if you could just try to understand each other, you know.”

“That’s some shite again.”

“It’s not! You’re both skepticals and people who doubts and question traditional conceptions. You just are both incredibly stubborn in your convinctions!”

“I ain’t stubborn!”

“Who’s trying to convert the other for the third time, and still isn’t sleeping as the doctor ordered?” Aisling quips back, this time annoyed, turning to look at the others.

The two glare at the other, none willing to lower eyes first. After a minute, it’s Sera that is forced to give in as another fit of coughs causes her to double over herself. The Dalish, on her part, exhales heavily from her nose and move to get at the other’s back and rub it as she coughs, soothingly.

“Come on, smartass, there’s still some paste for you, but you really need to rest.”

“You can go, y’know?”

“You want me to go?”

“I got you angry, I get it, you don’t have make a show of being all kind and motherly, you can go, I’ll get better.”

“Sera, I-“ She sighs deeply, shaking her head.

She pauses, tho, gently placing her free hand on the nearest shoulder of the Archer and gently guiding her to rest on her back, putting a little force as the other puts up resistance.

“-I’m not angry at you. And I’m not here because I have to prove something to anyone. Not even to you, ok? I’m here because this was my job and I liked my job a lot.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“I don’t like being told that my culture is stupid, as you don’t like it yourself. But I can accept you believe in something different than I do, if you can do the same. I had fun, today…”

“Me too… But you’re the freaking Herald of Andraste… Must be. Because the Inquisition is right, no? We’re helping people because Andraste chose you and us, not taking advantage of them, right?”

Aisling stops, an illumination forming as she looks at the other elf turning on her side with a frown on her face and eyes wet. So that’s the point? Indeed, since the time they recruited her, they hadn’t done much of concrete, but… Her heart clenches a little, all the speeches of Cassandra and Josephine about why it was important for her to keep up with the narrative falling on her heavily. It is a little too much to bear, and she feels a glump forming in her throat, cold anxiety creeping in as she was left to ponder what to answer, exactly. She doesn’t want to have this power over people’s heart. It feels acidic and it feels wrong. None speaks, the fire in the brazier popping merrily and the incessant plicking of raindrops over the waxed cloth above them filling the silence with a white, soothing noise that’s needed, as they both sense a deep gap forming between them.

It’s Aisling, unsure in her word but still forcing them out, a hand placed on Sera’s shoulder that’s more for her own reassurance than anything else.

“I… I don’t remember much of what happened. I was in the Fade, a woman helped me out, I don’t know who she was. I don’t feel like a chosen one, I just… I feel confused most of the time. I hope I can keep up with the narrative and place some change for the better but… I’m just me, and I hope it’s enough. Doesn’t feel like it, most of the time.”

It may not be what Sera wants, but it’s true. The other doesn’t move nor reacts, but the Dalish counts a lack of answer as the lack of anger or offense. It’s not a bridge between two different point of views on metaphysics and the world, but she hopes it’s enough. To at least savage some tiny amicable moment between them. After a minute, she sighs and get back from the other, scuttling to gather her things. She retrieves the pot from outside, and places it right beside the fire: enough to warm up and evaporate a little, not enough to boil and ruin the pot if left on direct flame unguarded too much.

She gathers the mortar and the tools that could be needed by others, and slips a hand under the flap, to exit. She can’t do that, tho, because the Archer speaks again.

“Hey, wiseshit.”

“…Yes?”

“I… I don’t know if I’m ok with everything. It’s freaking scary.”

“… I get it. Can I ask you tho to avoid comments on Elven Glory with Solas? Just to… You know. Keep it professional.”

“Ok. Will you return here?”

“…Do you want me to?”

“Eh. Dunno. But it was… Nice. To have someone to care for me.”

“I’d be glad to, if you want me to.”

“S’ok. I still don’t need a mother, tho, don’t get comfortable.”

“I won’t.” She smiles. “But everyone needs a mother, sometimes. Now, please, shut up and sleep.”

---

Aisling,

I don't know if you want to make me envious of ditching this mission or not. If your intent was to make me regret my decision and begging you to please, please bring me along the next way round, you need to put some more effort into it. I'll leave you to decide if it's better to smell corpses rotting or freeze under the rain, but by all means let me know all your considerations, I'll read them thoroughly over a cup of... I can't call it mulled wine, because calling that wine is an insult to every vineyard up North, but the spices are nice and it's warm, perfect to sip when outside it's snowing. The doodle made me almost doubt this decision, but it lacked a tiny me being absolutely gorgeous to balance all the misery out.

I'm so hurt that you don't want to bring me samples. So very, forlornly hurt, how will I curl my mustaches in the morning? Don't you know that in good old merry Tevinter you don't gift flowers to the person you're trying to befriend, but body parts? I can assure you and the lovely Spymaster who’s totally not reading this, that it is most definitely true, and that I’m absolutely bringing you on the bad, bad road of dissectioning corpses and dancing naked under the moon. Oh no wait, you’re Dalish, you already dance naked under the moon. But just saying, if you wanted to commit to it, nothing in Minrathous says "Oh Dorian, I greatly admire your brilliant company and refined sense of humour and also please offer me alcohol" like the liver of a zombie. Nothing.

I added your greetings to my letter to Felix. If I know him, and I do, he’d be more than happy to receive them, you made quite the impression on him as well, even if yes, you get quite mushy at times and you're not bringing me samples. But whom am I to deny my time when you ask so nicely? Be quick to get up here, I'm a busy man and you wouldn't want to arrive when I'll have drunk all the mulled wine to forget that it wasn't Varric, but Josephine to absolutely destroy me at Wicked Grace. Don't worry, tho, I'm saving all my best complaints and snarkiest comments for you.

Oh, I hope you didn't care too much for that Elfroot plant. I may have been too busy for it, oops. If you’re ok, I could try and experiment a couple of spells on it, to thank you for lending me your book. It’s not like I can kill it more…

Get back here soon, it's getting boring without you,

D.

*A doodle of a peacock wearing a scarf, all swirly lines for the tail, surrounded by sparkles*