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My first moments after waking are pure bewilderment. Four men, swords drawn, to fight one bound dwarven woman? It seems madness. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, I ache, and I am afraid. "I will hold," I whisper to myself, breath catching as I recite the words my mother and my grandfather taught me. "I will hold. I am of the Stone, and stone does not yield."
I will not yield, even as I learn that the Conclave is lost, and I am to bear the blame. It is all too much to take in. I will hold. The proud, angry woman pulls me forwards, toward the hole in the sky. "Maker be with us," I hear her say.
Each time the Breach flares, the pain in my hand is so strong it nearly blinds me. I stumble as the snow shifts beneath my feet, powder-soft and slippery as talc. I do not know how to stand on such a base, yet I struggle to my feet anyway. I will hold. I will not yield.
It is almost a relief when the demons attack us. At least with an enemy in front of me, I know what to do. The dagger in my hand is a comfort. I am not an accomplished fighter, but no one lives long in the Carta without some skill at brawling. If nothing else, this thin piece of metal will do me much more good than my captor's prayers. I know this dance; slash and dodge, slide to the side, never be where the enemy expects.
One fight, then another, struggling through the snow, as the pain in my arm grows. I will hold. I stumble forward automatically, trusting my body to keep moving, though my mind is paralyzed by fear. My body knows how to fight. I am floating above it all. It hardly seems strange when an elf grabs my hand and a torrent of green light pours out.
When did I learn to do that? What else is living in the empty places in my head?
My legs burn as we trek up yet another hill. It seems the Hinterlands is nothing but hills and mountains. Well, that and angry bears. And mad templars and homicidal mages. I still don't know when this Inquisition has brought me out to fight them both. It is no business of mine who wins their war. It sells lyrium either way.
And now we are searching for a Warden, to satisfy Leliana's curiosity. I don't see how this will help.
I don't see how anything we are doing will help, in truth. "This will never end well," I say, mostly to myself.
Cassandra bites her lip. "We will have to trust in the Maker."
I can barely suppress a laugh. Has she read her own stories? "Andraste had the Maker's favor. What good did it do her in the end?" I ask.
I can see Cassandra's brow furrow in disapproval. I dare not push any farther. For now, they think they need me. How long until they realize I have no control over the strange fade magic that pulls at my bones? How long until they decide this mark will work just as well from inside a cage? Or on a corpse, for that matter. Humans will execute their own for the most trivial of offenses, in a way dwarves would never do. Those who fail us will die in service, not on a gallows. There are too few of us, and our children are rare and precious.
But that is something I cannot afford to think of now. I crouch to hide the pain on my face, searching for phantom footprints. My fingers trace the rocks. There is gypsum here, delicate twinned crystals emerging from the stone, covered in scratches. Gypsum is soft; it does not last long on the surface.
I wonder if I can run.
They said I was free to leave, in tones that promised death if I tried. Everywhere I walk in Haven, one of Leliana's people shadows my steps. Outside, Cassandra's eyes follow me everywhere, and I can feel Solas's constant silent disapproval on the back of my head. Here, above the ground, I have no chance to get away. If I can find a cave, though, or an entrance to the Deep Roads, I might just make it.
Varric might even help. He knows this is not the sort of story that heroes survive.
I straighten up. "The farmer said Warden Blackwall went this way. I think he may be down by the lake." It is nothing but a guess, in truth, but the lake is blessedly downhill.
For once, I am right. "Help or get out!" Blackwall yells, shield raised, as he runs toward the bandits. Help or get out. That is the question, isn't it? I think of the farmers, trembling fingers clasped tight to swords. They were little more than children. How many mothers will bury their sons and daughters before this is over? I think of the Warden, putting himself between strangers and those that would harm them.
Help or get out.
If he can stand and fight, so can I.
The mark still hurts, a bone-deep ache that spreads though my body. It is bad at night, when its serpentstone glow lights the walls of the tent. I lie in my bed roll, listening to Cassandra's soft snores, and try to keep my breath still and even. I cannot afford to give anyone else a reason to doubt me. Even when I manage to fall asleep it is strange and restless. When I wake, uncanny visions plague the edges of my consciousness. I fear the Fade is trying to claim me.
I have spent most of my life around lyrium. When lyrium is stable, it makes a not-quite-sound, like a high, pure note echoing through your mind. If you want to survive life as a lyrium smuggler, you learn to pay attention to that sound. When you feel it shift into dissonance, you have about ten seconds to find cover before the explosion.
The mark is like that. It is a high buzzing sound, a chord just slightly out of tune that sets my teeth on edge. In the darkness, I can almost feel the manna churning, trying to escape. A dwarf is a poor carrier for magic. What god would choice me to be a vessel?
In the morning, I drink bitter potions of elfroot and rashvine to stay alert and powder the circles under my eyes. I think Blackwall sees it. In his way, he watches me more closely than anyone, but somehow I do not chafe under it. Perhaps I am too tired now to care.
So yes, the pain is bad at night. It is worst, though, in the light of day, when I walk through camp or the paths around Haven. The people around me stare, hope bright in their eyes. They have forgotten my name, those who knew it at all. Instead, they call me Herald. The weight of their faith is so great, the pain of the mark pales in comparison.
I do not believe in their Maker, their strange, silent god, but oh do they believe in me.
Closing a rift is the most terrifying thing I have ever done, each time I do it. I will never get used to the sensation. My right hand is marked as well, an echo of the left, with four small crescents where I have clenched my fist so tight my palm bleeds. The magic tears through me, holding me rigid. I cannot even turn my head to watch for an attack. I am utterly defenseless.
It is Blackwall who sees my fear in these moments, when everyone else sees power. His shield is always between me and the demons. There is iron in him, I think. Iron is potential, waiting to be shaped. It is soft enough a smith's hammer can bend it, but strong enough to cut deep. I can see him shaping himself to my needs.
I am not worthy of this devotion, but I will take it anyway. I am selfish, to steal his smiles for myself and hold them in my heart. Weak, to make his strength my own. Yet I cannot help it. Everyone around me wants so intensely. Cassandra wants me to be a prophet, Varric wants me to be Hawke, Vivienne wants me to make her powerful, and Sera wants me to make everything okay. Solas wants...something...but there is a need in him so strong it burns.
Blackwall wants many things, but only from himself. Maybe that is why he can see me, not just the Herald. If he will be mine, I will have it. Ancestors preserve us all.
Many people believe that all you need to do to make steel is heat iron. True, you must make the iron white-hot to burn away impurities, but this is not enough. Good, strong steel also needs many other things: air, charcoal, and a touch of manganese. If there is a flaw in forging, the steel is weak and brittle.
This is perhaps a strange thought to have at this moment, as Corypheus lifts me like a rag doll. Up close, though, I can see this twisted god is nothing but a man. He burns bright with need and pain, but something went wrong in his crucible. I can see the cracks.
I have spent the past few months drowning in fear, but in this moment I am not afraid. The man in front of me was beautiful, once, before his gods consumed him. I hate him and pity him in equal measure, this man who would destroy the world for his own gain.
Isn't that the way of things? Men make ill choices, and women pick up the pieces. Women weep over the bodies of children.
There are precious few things left in the world that I love, and he will not have them. If the price of my defiance is my life, so be it. I am stone. I too was forged in pain. I will pull this mountain down around our heads and see which one of us is made of stronger steel.
Inquisitor. The title sounds odd on my tongue. It is ill-fitting, but everything about this life is, now. I will wear it anyway.
Are you still a liar if you become the lie? Prophet of a god I don't believe in. Surfacer who keeps to the Stone. Mother without a child.
There is joy in it, still. Skyhold is beautiful, strong old stone. The weight and age of it is comforting. For all the sun, it feels a bit like the Deep Roads. I feel balanced here.
Maybe it is Blackwall who makes it home. I am drawn to him, a pull so powerful it aches. I know he feels the same, for all he is clearly uneasy with it. We circle each other. He is wary. For some reason, he still thinks himself unworthy of me. There is some secret in his past he is not ready to share. Fair enough. There are plenty of secrets in my heart too.
I can wait. Obsidian, too, is hard to work, but with patience you can shape it into beautiful things. Its darkness makes it shine brighter in the light.
Lover. That is a title I can wear honestly.
Quartz is easy to miss because it is everywhere. There are hidden veins in most landscapes, if you know where to look. It takes many colors and many forms, and each of them is beautiful in its way.
Joy is like that. The life I chose (or the one that chose me) is hard and terrible. I spend so much of my time in butchery, killing bandits or templars or rebels, that I do not think my hands will ever wash free of the blood. I will certainly never escape the weight of our own dead, each soldier and civilian that walked into death in the Inquisition's name. Yet there are moment of light studded throughout. Cole's soft smile as he soothes some small hurt. Cassandra and Cullen, bickering through messengers. Josephine's singing echoing through the hall when she thinks no one is listening.
Blackwall's hand reaching for mine. A stolen moment pressed against the wall of the barn. A wry glance as I sit on my throne, listening to hours of petty grievances.
Each small thing is a moment of light, a stolen glimpse of a brighter future. They are what sustains me. The road ahead is treacherous, but it does not have to be dark.
Strangely enough, it is Vivienne who is first to my side as I leave the prison. I would not have thought should want to be seen with me after the terrible scene I have made. Instead she bustles right up me. "My dear, let's get you out of the street. I have lodgings nearby." Her gentle hand on my shoulder is as good as an embrace.
I am not crying. My face is a mask, as much as any noble in Orlais. I am stone. I will not yield.
The servants are flawlessly cordial. They do not even bat an eye at me, the dwarf who screamed at her lover as he climbed to the gallows. Just an average day in Orlais. It is kindness I am ill-prepared to tolerate right now.
The room they place me in is elegant. I reach over to the table and pick up a figurine. It's a figure of Andraste, lovely and delicate, carved from emerald. It is so clearly a human thing. Dwarves are master carvers, but they build things that will last. No dwarven artisan would think of making something so fragile.
Perhaps it is the human's faith that makes it so. They believe their god will protect them. Dwarves know no prayers will save us. We believe in walls.
I turn the figure over in my hands. I want nothing more than to hurl it at the wall and watch the prophet break into pieces. Emerald is a strong stone, but carve anything thin enough and you will weaken it.
Stone does not yield. It shatters.
Instead, I set the statue down and fall the bed sobbing. I am shaking with the force of built-up tears. I cry for everything I have lost: my family, my name, my freedom, my hopes, and the secret paths I used to walk alone.
I will allow myself this. In one hour I will rise from this bed and clean myself up. In one hour I will walk into the darkest alleys of Val Royeaux and find someone who can steal my lover from his cell. It will be easy enough. There are people enough who owe me a favor, or want me to owe them one.
They have taken enough from me. They will not take him too.
Blackwall--Thom--whatever I will call him now--is pacing the room, avoiding eye contact. He is angry, and perhaps he has a right to be. He did not ask to be saved, after all. Then again, I did not ask to fall in love. I did not ask to need him like I do. I did not ask for this mark, or this life, or the burdens I carry. Life gives us things whether we want them or not.
"Why did you do it?" He asks finally. "I am not worth the price you paid."
"Because I am weak. Because I am selfish. Because you are mine and I will not let anyone take you from me." For him, and him alone, I will always speak truth. It is the one gift I can give that it truly my own.
"You are none of those things, my lady. You are the strongest woman I know."
"The luckiest, perhaps. Though whether my luck is good or bad I cannot say." I am holding my arms to my sides with all the force I possess. I will not touch him without his leave. That is one choice I will leave to him.
"I cannot bear to see them look at you with disgust," he says.
How fast would these proud, pious people turn on me if they knew all I have done? "Someday I will list for you all my sins, and you will know that I deserve it too, at least as much as you do. We are neither of us clean."
He shakes his head at that. Maybe he will always believe in me as he does. Maybe I will be worthy of it some day.
"Know this, Thom Rainer," I say, "I want you for my own, more than you will ever know. But whether or not you will have me, I believe you are worth saving."
From my pocket, I draw a small gem, cut from deep red bloodstone. My hand shakes as I hold it out to him. "I have nothing to offer you but myself. I doubt I will survive this war. Loving me may bring you more pain then you know in the end."
"I believe you are worth it, Hanalah Cadash." His hand clasps mine.
It is a small thing, to speak each other's names, but in this moment it is enough.
Diamonds form in turmoil, deep inside the ground, in darkness and pressure. I have seen them in the stone, and they are small and dirty-looking, unremarkable in every way, except for how they catch the light.
But cut and polish them and they will sparkle.
I am of the Stone. I will hold. I will shine.