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Plugging the Sky-Hole Rubbish	By : Ghost-of-a-Chance Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 346 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own Dragon Age Inquisition or any of its related characters or devices I'm not making any money from this.

Chapter List
- 3
- 4
Well, that took for fricking ever, huh? To fill y’all in, husband (Cold) and I finally completed our move back across the state. After all the weekend trips, hours upon hours of packing, drama, complications, etc, we’re home, and that’s brought new stressors. The fact that we're so much closet to the western border again (and as a result, dealing with more storms) has my PTSD going haywire, too, and that says nothing of the state of the world right now. I’ll manage. It’s just taking some time, and in the process, I’m a mess.
Hopefully the chapter is worth the wait. I'd like to offer my thanks to BronxWench for giving this a Ghost-is-overthinking-things-again look-over. Gal, you're amazing, I owe you, and I appreciate you!

Songs: Steeleye Span “The Weary Cutters,” Joan Baez “Donna Donna,” Steeleye Span “The Elf-Knight,” Celtic Thunder “Seven Drunken Nights,” and Steeleye Span “Dance with Me”

4: Contradiction and Confusion, and Compassion
When Félice Hafter learned of Haven, her imagination painted a vibrant, peaceful, and impressive sight. The Haven of reality was crowded, chaotic, and full of contradictions.
Chantry mothers and sisters argued verse with Templars. Templars ate at the same tables as mages with no fists or spells thrown; mages coexisted with Templars with little more than the occasional wary expression. Nobles and commoners, soldiers and diplomats, each received the same treatment. Strangest of all, though, was something her grandfather—her late grandfather, she amended—might have called “mingling.” Humans, dwarves, elves, and even a few qunari filled the ranks, and all showing no sign of how unusual that was. No sign, of course, other than the literal parchment signs nailed to various walls and doors.
In her search for purpose, Félice had made her way around Haven proper thrice—she had the stitch in her side to prove it, too—and counted no less than ten such signs. She suspected she could recite them in her sleep by now:
Haven welcomes everyone regardless of creed, class, race, or past; entry to Haven indicates agreement to our rules. Those who break rules or use banned words may be subject to expulsion and banishment.
At the bottom of one poster, scratched out, a messy hand had scrawled something that Félice would swear was racist ducks can suck a toad; how anyone could misspell ducks was beyond her, however.
On each poster was a list of what Félice’s grandmother called low language; her mother, a more sensitive if blunt sort, called them “slurs.” This surprised Félice. When people talked of Haven, they said nothing of visitors being tossed out on their fannies for calling elves “rabbits” or qunari “ox-men,” but here she was.
Perhaps such policies were too revolutionary for Thedas. Underneath the respect and polite manners lay an undercurrent of wariness and resentment. Across the way, a disgruntled blond merchant haggled with a red-haired elf over the price of a vambrace. Aside from tense silence and their expressions, one might assume the pair had no quarrel. Down by the gate, however, a nobleman in a bejeweled mask ranted and gesticulated about being ‘muzzled’ and denied his Maker-given rights.
Before the noble, a woman in gleaming golden silk shook her head and pointed her quill at the sign pinned to one heavy wooden door. “All arrivals to Haven enter the same verbal contract, Marquis,” she said almost pleasantly, “a contract which must be signed upon the first breach. The noble house of Pêcheur* has been notified of your impending return and the circumstances of your expulsion.” Through the entire exchange, no one stopped to watch or listen…or so Félice thought until she heard the scratch of a quill. Nearby, the dwarven archer from the Hinterlands—Varric, they called him—perched on a crate with his back against the wall and his feet propped on a burlap sack. Now and then, he glanced at someone nearby and scribbled something in a small notebook with a knowing smirk.
A particularly uncouth phrase out of the marquis’ mouth, however, ended the standoff. The archer cringed and raised his free hand to whistle, then two burly soldiers jogged over to frog-march the noble through the gate. “Impressive,” Varric called down to the exasperated diplomat. “He hit every word on that list at least once, and Scruffy might have some new ones.” He grimaced as if he smelled something foul. “Scruffy …nope, that doesn’t work either.”
Without warning, the hair on the back of Félice’s neck prickled to attention, and the smell of snow, sweat, and smoke gained a new layer, something like impending rain.
“Sticks and stones may break our bones, but words leave wounds we cannot see.”
Félice scrambled away and turned to face the owner of the voice in her ear; a pale young man crouched on the stone wall like a gargoyle, eyes hidden under the brim of his floppy hat. Surely, she would have seen him there before…she had seen him before…right?
“Who—”
He looked up, and the sight of his pale eyes in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat drove Félice to silence. She had an impression of a snake coiled in the grass at her feet, capable of harming her but not yet attacking. “Words have power,” the young man told her, still in a way that defied nature and made her skin crawl. “Wounds from words hurt more than any weapon. She wants to unarm, to arrest, lest others be harmed.”
Out of everything he said, maybe half made sense and the rest made her head ache. For a long moment, Félice hesitated, eyes locked with the snake in the grass, waiting for it to strike or flee, and scrounged around in her memory for his name. She saw him somewhere before, but where? How could she forget anyone so unnerving? Finally, she summoned her courage and opened her mouth to speak.
At that moment, a groaning hinge and ensuing silence drew her attention to a cabin tucked away by the stairs. In the open doorway stood a tall Elven woman with unkempt brown curls and cunning green eyes, clad in Orlesian blue and samite grey. Félice’s breath caught in her throat. Over the last few days, whispers from the occupants of Haven filled her ears about the Dalish mage called Iaspis Lavellan—of Andraste, divine provenance, and heretical claims. Félice didn’t quite know what to make of her, and judging by the sudden lack of chatter in the vicinity of the cabin, neither did anyone else. Iaspis, like Haven itself, was one contradiction after another.
Iaspis passed a long moment at the top of the steps looking impressive, then just as suddenly as she appeared, the spell broke. She shuddered, muttered something under her breath with a panicked expression, and bolted into the cabin again; a minute later, she emerged wrapped head-to-toe in a thick fur and sprinted to the tavern. The door slammed behind her, and the people gathered around returned to their tasks.
“Squirrels don’t mind the cold. She hates it.”
Félice spun around and found a pale young man crouching on the stone wall behind her. Although she felt sure she had never seen him before, something itched in her brain like a forgotten line of the Chant or a misplaced stocking. Something about him felt like a yet-to-be-fulfilled threat, like a weapon slung over someone’s shoulder or a drawn knife glinting in the sunlight. At the same time, he gave no sign he wished her harm. A well-dressed noblewoman pacing before the gates held the young man’s attention for a moment, and then his pale eyes met Félice’s askance. “Tomorrow, at eight bells. The journey may last weeks.”
When Félice turned to ask what he meant, she found herself alone, unsure, and unaware of why she felt like she needed to say something to anyone. Only mad men and abominations spoke to themselves, after all, and what else would one call speaking to someone who isn’t there? She never noticed the assessing stare of Varric, let alone the knowing smile he wore.
The sound of music arose in the tavern beyond the square, a familiar voice singing unfamiliar lines, and Félice remembered; the Herald and her companions would return to the Hinterlands soon, perhaps as soon as tomorrow morning. If not in Haven, she may be able to support them on the road. Either way, she owed the strange elf her life and letting that price go unpaid would go against everything in her character. If she didn’t wish to be left behind, she needed to be ready early.
Across the square, Cole squatted at the foot of the stairs and dug around in the snow with his bare hand; a moment later, he watched the winter sun glint off the surface of an old Silverite ring in his palm, tinged green by the Breach. As his fingers closed around the lost ring, he looked up to the walkway where a fretful young woman steeled herself to the task ahead.
Voices must speak before they can sing.
Iaspis missed energy drinks. She missed plowed roads. She missed drive-through coffee, warm coats that didn’t stink like dead animals, heated cars, indoor toilets, and all manner of things that Thedas didn’t have. What did missing things accomplish? Nothing, that’s what. So, instead of whining, she sucked it up and did her job. If she survived working for Sam Walton’s Evil Empire during a modern plague, then she’d survive this.*
…she hoped.
…wait…did that even count?
Wind stung Iaspis’ skin, so she tugged her August ram fur and leather armor tighter around herself and tucked Flissa’s packed lunch down the front; less cold if not warmer, she made her way down to Harrit’s smithy. Mere moments later, a scent like leather and herbs stung her frigid nose, and she wished she had lingered in the tavern a little longer. Just at the edge of her peripheral vision, a familiar person fell into step with her and nodded without looking at her. “Da’len.”*
Solas. It would have to be Solas. She wasn’t awake enough for walking, let alone scrambling for half-forgotten Elvish. She missed the internet. Thedas didn’t have Google, so she took a chance on a word that sounded at least half right. “Harellan.”* A sharp look told her she chose the wrong word and, belatedly, she remembered the correct one. Hahren. It’s hahren.* Get on your game, Melanie.
…but it’s not really a game now, is it?
“Is it not rather early for such animosity?” Solas had a point, but…
“It’s early for existing,” Iaspis countered as she mounted the block and slung herself up into Moose’s saddle. Naturally, she banged her head into the gaudy crystal atop her staff. Again, she questioned the logic of wearing staves on one’s back. Thedas mages needed to make like Harry Potter and switch to wands before she concussed herself. “Animosity just kind of happens.”
Solas, unfortunately, didn’t buy her explanation; instead, he stood with his arms crossed and his lips pursed, looking like he ate a sour apple and didn’t approve of her face. “Have I offended you somehow?”
Dunkin Donuts give her strength. Iaspis leaned over and buried a frustrated groan in Moose’s mane, and got bonked in the head again for it, but this time, the culprit was an antler. “No, you haven’t offended me.” If the statement came out mocking, she found it hard to care. “I’m tired, Solas. I’m tired, I’m overworked and under-caffeinated, my head hurts, and everything smells like fish.” (A blatant lie. As if her nose was capable of smelling anything over whatever drool-inducing substance he used as soap. In another life, the bloody elf would have to beat off Bath and Body Works with a stick.) “So yeah. Excuse me if my brain isn’t awake enough to hold a conversation.”
Fortunately, the arrival of Blackwall, Cole, Varric, and Cassandra cut off whatever retort Solas was planning. He returned to outfitting his mount, but by the jerkiness of his movements and his pinched expression, he was irritated. With her. Again. As much as it pained her, though, she knew the truth: it’s better to keep a wolf out of your pasture before it can develop a taste for sheep.
Unbidden, she recalled another lifetime, another world, and another version of Solas, and swore to herself, not this time. She clenched her dominant hand in Moose’s mane and stared down at the traces of sickly green light spilling through a gaping seam in her glove. Of all the stories to get yoinked into, it had to be one that would end with losing her dominant hand.
As Iaspis blinked the final crumbs of sleep from her eyes, the company gathered for departure, then she led the way toward the valley path. At the last moment, though, Cole veered toward the gate, slid down from the saddle, and waited; moments later, that ash-haired Fereldan girl rushed down the steps and stumbled face-first into the Strider’s barrel-ribbed side.
Iaspis missed cellphone cameras; the stunned expression on Félice’s face would have made quite the satisfying meme. What she would give to slap a caption on it—something like when you’re late for work and the boss meets you at the door—and text it to her best friend. Sasha would doubtless expound upon it with “holding a pink slip” and send it to everyone else on her friends list who would wonder who this Melanie dork was. Every year after, it would pop up on her Timeline because Facebook loved reminding her she wasn’t funny, and she’d have to convince herself hating strangers was lame.
After a moment of staring at her feet, shifting back and forth, and chewing her lip red, Félice ducked around the horse and started off down the path. Cole tellingly continued on foot. Iaspis turned to each of the other members of her party in turn, but none had any answers for her. Varric shrugged, Solas rolled his eyes, Cassandra grunted, and Blackwall shook his head. Cole ignored her. Iaspis muttered, “I guess the Sparrow is flying south for the winter?”
And there was Solas again, looking at her like he couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or peeved. There was just no winning with that elf.
Traveling on foot took a lot out of a healthy person, let alone a too-thin, too-small, traumatized orphan; within half an hour of leaving Haven, Félice was dragging behind and favoring one leg, and Iaspis couldn’t handle the judgmental looks anymore. She never even told Félice they would leave that day, so this wasn’t her fault!
Wait. Iaspis’ narrowed eyes fixed on the bobbing shape of a broad, floppy hat just beside the unridden horse. She knew they were leaving. This had Cole’s name written all over it. Of all the ways he might think to help, why choose this one? What did he see that she, as of yet, didn’t?
The smack of Iaspis’ right palm against her leather-clad thigh broke the tense silence and made the girl jump. “Alright, Kiddo.” She held out her left hand and waved Félice over to the nearest tree stump. “If you walk all the way to the Hinterlands, you’ll leave a trail of blood to follow, then we’ll be up to our butts in brigands. Up.” She punctuated the statement by slapping Moose’s right buttock twice and got an irritated snort in return; who knew elk were so dramatic?
For too many minutes, the younger woman hemmed and hawed, fretted and fidgeted. Iaspis’ heart—Melanie’s heart—went out to her. She knew how it felt, feeling uncomfortable, burdensome, anxious, and determined all at once on account of a crowd. Still, she’d needed to learn to socialize, and Félice was no different; she wouldn’t always have her emotional support spirit of Compassion to plot her path.
Maybe this world had some mercy for its unintended heroines, because Félice mounted the stump and then the Strider, all without ever meeting anyone’s eyes. With Cole seated behind Iaspis, the party continued onward. If every trip out of Haven would be this painful, Iaspis needed to brainstorm a way to ditch the kid that wouldn’t offend the resident hedge mage. She brought enough awkwardness to the table on her own without help, damn it!
Time passed as it always did on the road. Someone complained about something and someone else one-upped it; somebody turned that one-up into a long, drawn-out rant, and so on and so forth. They shared topics and opinions like influenza on the MetroLink* and for a time, the trip flew by. Conversations ebbed, though, and about an hour after leaving Haven, a long, awkward silence settled in.
Speaking of awkwardness. Iaspis waited for someone to suggest a new topic. She never could handle long lulls in conversation anymore—to be fair, they were only bearable in her previous life, thanks to earbuds and music. Her lungs itched to fill the silence after a mere five minutes, but she could never rustle up a decent conversation topic for the life of her.
Her companions exchanged uncomfortable glances. Cole’s hands squeezed the leather at her waist for a moment, and that was all the permission she needed. Enough quiet. But what could she fill it with? What in her repertoire would pass the time without offending Solas, scandalizing Cassandra, making Varric suspicious, or upsetting a traumatized orphan? Her options were limited.
Iaspis locked eyes on Cole over her shoulder and, one after another, considered the first line of several songs.* ‘Oh, the weary cutters and oh, the weary sea…’ Cole glanced at Blackwall. That was a no. ‘On a wagon bound for market…’ Cole shook his head; that would be even worse. ‘The elf-knight sits on yonder—’ She didn’t even need Cole’s disapproval for that one; the quickest way to get on Solas’ pissy side was to sing something showing elves in a negative light, and that one was a doozy. And why were only slow songs coming to mind? They needed something upbeat, dammit! ‘I went home on a Monday night as drunk as drunk could be…’ …right, Cassandra. Varric would get a kick out of it, but Cassandra would disapprove at the top of her lungs. Ugh.
Yep. That would be her reaction. Ugh. Over. And over. And over.
After the longest time, Cole squeezed Iaspis’ sides again and whispered in her ear: “Yes, that one.” Iaspis wanted to slap herself for even thinking about the song he chose. That one left her out of breath even when she wasn’t being jostled about by a crotchety elk, and it would peeve off Solas, too. Still… She glanced over at Félice, who looked like she was trying to vanish into the Strider’s pale mane, red-faced and stiffer than over-starched bloomers.
Enough. Iaspis was many things, but no one could count heartless among them, especially with a spirit of Compassion jammed up against her butt.
A sound broke the silence, something the company had grown accustomed to: the sound of a palm smacking a steady rhythm on a leather-clad thigh. Iaspis cleared her throat, thinking back to a life long gone, an old boombox and a CD full of pirated songs, and shared giggles with a friend she missed more than anything.
Solas shot her a few dirty looks—the song, after all, lacked positive PR for elves—but Félice’s secretive smile made it hard to care. In no time, the gap in conversation felt less like a gap and more like a breather. Iaspis was no beautiful Elven princess tempting a virtuous knight into stag-night hedonism, but the sentiment was the same:
“Dance, dance, while ye may. Tomorrow is your dying day.”
Hours away from the Herald and her party, storm clouds hung heavy over the Crossroads. In the healer’s cabin, a wet, tight cough broke the stillness, and an Elven man listened, hoped, and fretted.

Notes
in order of occurrence
* The line Contradiction and confusion is from a line in Rush’s “Different Strings.” The title also applies to the early dynamic between Solas and Iaspis, in a way; they get along like a house on fire when they aren't thinking, but the minute the brains start operating, all bets are off, and that house turns into a dumpster.
* Pêcheur – French, “fisherman.”
* Sam Walton’s Evil Empire during a modern plague – Walmart and the Pandemic of 2020-onward.
* Da'len, Hahren vs Harellan - I don't intend to use much in the way of Elvish in this story on account of Iaspis' origins (pun fully intended) as a casual nerd but there will be an occasional instance. Solas starts out with respect, (Da'len, "little one" or young one, often used by elders and teachers) which should have been responded to with Hahren. ("Elder," used as an honorific by the Dalish.) Instead, because Iaspis is a hot mess, she used Harellan meaning "trickster," used by the Dalish as a synonym for "one who betrays/betrayed their kin." Frankly, if I was dropped into Thedas with only what I remembered of the canon, no way would I remember enough Elvish to not indirectly insult somebody's mother.
* The MetroLink – the subway train in Saint Louis, Missouri, US where Melanie is from.
* Songs - The Weary Cutters concerns young men being stolen away from their homes, be it by military conscription or crime; Donna Donna is a parable about a farmer driving his calf to market and berating it for not valuing freedom enough to grow wings. Neither one is a good idea for Blackwall. In The Elf-Knight, a woman hears the elf-knight's horn and daydreams about owning it and him; instead, said knight kidnaps her with the intention of murdering her as he has seven others. The good news? She uses the power of the poon to put him to sleep, then guts him like a fish. |Solas greatly disapproves.| Seven Drunken Nights concerns a drunken man coming home to find a man in his home and being told by his wife, “You’re drunk, you’re seeing things.” Insert Cassandra’s signature grunt every other line. Lastly, Dance with Me tells of a knight out walking the day before his wedding, during which the Elf King’s daughter tries to tempt him away from his plans. Each time, she offers him a greater and finer gift, each time he refuses, until she offers him a crown; this, he agrees to take but refuses to go with her, anyway. So, like a well-adjusted adult, she curses him with “a plague of death” to follow him throughout his life and punches him. Y’all, if a modern artist tried to write songs like this now, their manager would order a drug test or something.
By the way, "It's early for existing" is my reaction to anyone who asks me, "isn't it early for ___?" Doesn't matter what the blank is. A nap? Coffee? Bed? Half a pizza and several glasses of wine? Asking dumbass questions? It's too early for coherent thought; leave me alone unless you have coffee.
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Plugging the Sky-Hole Rubbish