Author's Note: This story has a slow build, meaning things take time to develop (romantic feelings, in this case). So please, bear with me! This fic will only be a few chapters long anyway. This first chapter contains NO romance or romantic feelings – so keep reading if you want to get to the good stuff! It's in the very next chapter! Thank you and enjoy!

Of all the things one might expect the Fade to spit out after a catastrophic explosion, the rather meek Dalish girl was not one of them. Her inherently large eyes widened in fear and confusion as a severe, dark-haired woman spat out accusations and grew increasingly aggravated in her interrogation. The irons dug into her already raw wrists as the Seeker brought up the elf's bound hands, an eerie, unnatural, crackling green coursing across her left palm. It made her muscles twitch. The hooded woman's eventual interference did little to soothe her, tears freely flowing. She couldn't remember anything. What if she'd actually done something wrong? What if it really was her fault, somehow?

Her pulse quickened the longer she gazed at the Breach mangling the sky overhead. Then came the pain. The dull burn suddenly burst into sharp, searing shocks, running along every inch of her skin from its epicenter. The sensation contained the ghost of familiarity. She was well acquainted with magic, its hum and its tingles. This, though… it somehow felt… spiteful. Her brow furrowed at the thought. Even her mind knew it sounded absurd. Nevertheless, she could not find a better word to describe it.

"I'll do what I can," she breathed, her hazel eyes continuing to paint her panic clearly on her face. "Whatever it takes."

Mythal protect her.

Dawn crept languidly in the Frostbacks, the jagged horizon providing an extra hurdle for the light to clear. Slender fingers, stiffened by the winter cold, plucked the youngest buds from an elfroot stalk with painstaking gentleness. She gathered them in a small linen pouch, each blossom falling and settling as softly as the snow around her. She stood and moved on to the next. Only silence followed her, and the trees offered great company.

By the time she made it back to Haven's gates, the modest town tucked away in the mountains began to wake. Passing the smithy, she nodded to Harritt as he fired the forge. She could hear Dennet and his stable hands scooping hay. Across the way, beyond their camp, the soldiers engaged in their warm-ups and exercises. The guards had already switched shifts, so she received a puzzled greeting rather than an understanding 'welcome back' from those stationed at the doors.

Within, early-risen passersby bombarded her with salutations. An impressive feat, given her lodgings sat mere meters from the gates in which she entered.

"Good morning, Herald!"

"Your Worship."

"Good day to you, Herald of Andraste."

"Maker watch over you, Herald."

"Lady Herald."

Ora'ana did her best to return the gestures as warmly as she'd received them, not necessarily succeeding. Did anyone even know her name? Perhaps they thought it inappropriate to use if they did. She would likely never know the answer. Besides, she needed to be 'the Herald' first and foremost – at least, according to her advisors. For the sake of the people.

But which people? Only a handful of elves resided in Haven, and most of them worked as servants. The entire reason for her attendance at the Conclave was on behalf of her clan. The Keeper believed that the outcome of negotiations would affect all elves, not just the Dalish, and so sent her to observe. And instead of returning to them, she remained as a bewildering, scandalous shemlen icon. Somehow she had a difficult time imagining this could have been what the Keeper meant.

That was not to say she did not like the Inquisition's purpose or humans, for that matter. Her clan's residence in the Free Marches gave her more than ample time among them as their aravel glided along their tenuous borders. While her clan manipulated the political climate of rivaling city-states, the farmers, traders, and families suffered it. Childhood lessons in compassion coincided with helping struggling shems on the outskirts of these provinces on more than one occasion. Should they be desperate or, perhaps, tolerant enough to accept their help, Keeper Istimaethoriel saw to it that those in need were taught to hunt; instructed on which herbs were safe to gather; or shown which paths were soundest to traverse during certain times of the year, among other things.

As she glanced absently up to the Breach in the sky, she knew better than to think the Inquisition interpreted her role that narrowly. She had to believe she was the person everyone needed when they needed her. At the same time, she did not feel completely comfortable doing this all in Andraste's name. Plenty of bad hunkered in the shadow of the good done under the same Andrastian banner, the woes of the Dalish notwithstanding. It was something she had yet to reconcile, even as she fought and bled for the infant Inquisition. For all the humans knew, it might have very well been Falon'din on the other side of that rift that fateful day.

That being said, maybe it was too much to ask to be a person to everyone in Haven. She couldn't possibly know them all by name, know their life, and expect them to do the same for her. Not like back home. A question still haunted her, though. How did one go from person to symbol and survive the transition?

The answer dangled beyond her reach. Regardless, she resolved to tucking Ora'ana Lavellan away as best she could, even if just for a short time. The Herald of Andraste couldn't exactly be seen mimicking nug sounds when one scampered by or coaxing fennecs in hopes of getting a just a quick pet. The decision eclipsed mere worries of image and perception, however. A Dalish elf calling herself the Herald of Andraste came with its set of risks. Being the First of Clan Lavellan was, extraordinarily, quite a bit less intimidating. Never in her life did she think she would partake in something that was more.

Varric seemed to be the most accepting. His easygoing nature took off the edge Cassandra's constant presence offered. Not that she disliked Cassandra there. Although their relationship started off… awkwardly, Cassandra became that fountain of resolve Ora'ana could draw from whenever a demon looked her in eye, or when a templar charged hatefully in her direction at the sight of her staff. And the two of them together – the Seeker and the dwarf – made it that much more difficult to maintain her already flimsy mask. Often she resorted to biting her lip to keep the laughs from escaping. She'd lost count just how many of those disgusted groans Cassandra let out already. Yes, she very much liked those two, even if they'd only been acquainted for a month or so. Welcome distractions.

Solas seemed a mixed bag, at least at the moment. Not too fond of the Dalish, the Fade-wandering elf made that quite clear. Ora'ana had grown as accustomed as one could to negative sentiment towards elves, but never really from another. Still, his knowledge of the Fade helped them seal the rifts. She was anything if not indebted to him for that. Nevertheless, he seemed oddly pleased whenever she came to him with questions, which was often. Talking with him had a tendency to stir up homesickness; Solas reminded her so much of Keeper Istimaethoriel, and his journeys into the Fade, however terrifying in theory, mystified the Dalish girl, filling her with possibilities. If she could do as he did, what could she learn? Keepers were already tasked with safeguarding the Elven language and traditions. But much had still been lost. Imagine what she could recover. Imagine the kind of Keeper she could be.

Was that even still an option?

That very panic paired with the mere gut-wrenching possibility of guilt fueled her all the way to the forward camp. It made traversing the snowy, uneven mountain paths easy. She welcomed the weight of a staff in her grasp, hoping it might quell her constant shaking. If it worked, she did not notice. Too busy fending off demons falling from a hole in the sky. But she could close the rifts. She could help. But did that also mean she'd opened them as well? She prayed the confidence radiating from Solas and Varric's levity would obscure her clawing anxiety. She saw the knowing in their eyes, however. They said nothing about it.

Roderick's words stung all the more. She would later reflect angrily on the small jump her heart took when he suggested falling back. But that was not an option. When given a choice, she took little time to deliberate. Any other day, she would have chosen the mountain pass without a second thought.

"I say we charge," she announced, puzzled by the mask of certainty coating her voice. Adrenaline had long taken over, and the ache in her arm from the mark's recent outburst felt fresh. The agony crept over her like vines. "I won't survive long enough for your trial. Whatever happens, happens now." It sounded stronger, braver than she felt. The Seeker Cassandra sent her a firm yet subtle look of what seemed to be approval. The elf did her best to keep her own disappointment from her outward expression, letting it instead settle into the pit of her stomach with the rest of her feelings. Varric's sidelong glance let her know he caught it, at least. She was no good at this.

Andruil give her strength. She must not waver.

Her quarters looked no more different than when she had first awoken after sealing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, except for maybe a change of bedspread and the various herbs hanging to dry. Never one to really accumulate possessions, Ora was unaccustomed to having such a large, stationary space to herself and often unwittingly departed soon after entering. This time, at least, she had something to do. She did not even shed her coat before placing the elfroot sprouts on the windowsill to wither. She threw a few more logs on the flames for good measure, hoping to strip the air of as much moisture as possible. The bundles already strung up were drying quite nicely. Ora then grabbed a cast iron kettle from the hearth and set it over the rejuvenated fire.

Her stay at Haven would be short-lived. Mother Giselle's advice to travel to Val Royeaux to confront the Chantry was being set into motion at that very moment. They'd returned only to deposit the holy mother and deliver the horses from Master Dennet. But that did not mean a time of rest and reprieve. As soon as she left her quarters, a messenger delivered a summons to the war table at noon. Unsurprising. She'd been in brief correspondence with each of her advisors while working in the Hinterlands, only just starting to get a reign on how it all worked. Josephine in particular kept her up to date as much as possible on any developments within the Inquisition; at the same time, she did her best to explain how the rest of the world worked without writing a novel or coming across as condescending – or both. Ora'ana thought her a saint for it. A Dalish elf suddenly in charge of the fate of a world in which she barely felt she belonged? She would eat anything Josephine – or any of her advisors - fed her if it meant not letting everything crumble in her grasp.

How frustrating it must be for them, she thought. Like crowning a child king after the untimely death of his parents. Her rueful sigh came out in a large cloud. Her naiveté did nothing if not fuel her resolve for ridding herself of it. The elf grew tired of the twisting ball of guilty inadequacy lodged in her chest.

She wrung her thin hands and made her destination the stables. If horses were anything like halla, maybe she could be of some use until it was time to convene.

After having accidentally interrupted Josephine's meeting with the marquis and receiving yet another lesson from the amicable Antivan, Ora walked with her to the war room where the conference was set to commence in a matter of minutes. They turned out to be the last ones to arrive; Leliana and Cullen already stood over the map. Closing the door behind them, the well-dressed diplomat joined the advisors on the opposite side of the table, leaving Ora to herself on the other: an unsettling formation.

"Since we're all here, we may as well begin," Josephine initiated smoothly. "I was going to inform you sooner, Herald, but the marquis prevented me. I have something here for you." All attention lay on Josephine as she handed a piece of folded parchment to her. "It arrived this morning, from your clan."

At that revelation, Ora'ana quickly unfolded the paper and eagerly read the words. A small smile snuck its way through. The Keeper must have felt her thoughts from across the Waking Sea.

"I take it all is well?" Leliana asked. Josephine nodded.

"They simply wish to ascertain your status, Lady Herald. A relatively easy task."

"I should have sent word sooner," Ora trailed off, shaking her head in dismay. "They think I'm being held captive and ask for my release," she mused with a bit of ironic laughter lacing her tone.

Leliana let out a tickled chortle. "Talk about misinformation!"

Ora welcomed the good humor. It refreshed the overwhelmingly stern atmosphere in the war room. "The Lavellan clan has no spymaster, that is certain. They sent me to listen in at the Conclave and look how that turned out." This squeezed rare chuckles out of everyone but the commander who scoured the map intently.

"Could have been worse, I suppose." Eyes sped to Cullen who adjusted some markers. A strained silence rode on the coattails of his deadpan statement. Ora blinked, grin faltering. The commander noticed and hurried to recover. "Andraste could have chosen our beloved Grand Chancellor instead." The Herald's smile returned as Leliana and Josephine jovially concurred.

"Comforting, Commander," the Herald countered in spirit. He cleared his throat, one end of his mouth climbing up his cheek.

"This really is the end of the world. There are tears in the Veil, but now Cullen's telling jokes."

"That's enough of that," he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thought this was a tactical meeting."

"Yes, Herald," Josephine segued, "what would you have us do?"

"Have we any agents in the Free Marches? This time of year, the clan should be in this general region," Ora indicated on the map where they'd likely be found.

Josephine combed a lock of fine hair behind her ear, her silk ensemble shimmering in the low lamplight. "Not presently, but we have options, as always. I could have one of our elven scribes take a message to your clan, so as not to alarm them and inform them of the Inquisition's fair treatment."

"A decent plan," Leliana admitted, "but the Dalish respect deeds, not words. Let my elven agents deliver something the clan needs as a show of good faith." Josephine nodded, scribbling that mote of information into her notes. It would be something she could utilize in other Dalish negotiations.

"Why does it always have to be so complicated?" Cullen chimed in. "My troops can deliver news of your safety and make it clear that the Inquisition should be taken seriously." Ora's face immediately went hot. The commander moved the corresponding pawns on the map to the Free Marches to solidify the plan in his mind, visualizing different approaches. The Herald's next words jerked him from his contemplations.

"Excuse me?"

The commander's hard brown eyes flicked up to the elf across from him. Leliana and Josephine swapped concerned looks, saying nothing. "Herald?"

Traces of disbelief and a degree of abject horror contorted most of her features. Tinges of anger, disgust, or both filled in the rest. "What do you mean by 'make clear the Inquisition should be taken seriously'?" Cullen slowly straightened, the implications of his words coming through bit by bit. "The only thing needing clarification is my well-being." Unbeknownst to Ora, the letter crumpled in her grasp. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. "Had they not taken the Inquisition seriously, we would not be having this conversation."

Commander Cullen seemed at a loss. "Forgive me, I did not mean to come across as patronizing, or aggressive towards your clan for that matter. I only meant…" The longer he mulled over his words, the more he understood just how bad they sounded. There was no way of salvaging them. His jaw tightened. "Forgive me. I misspoke." He massaged the bridge of his nose. "This is why we have an ambassador."

Softly, she cleared her throat. The adrenaline rushed straight to her head, making it feel as if it could float from her shoulders. Numbness followed. "Leliana, if you would have one of your agents bring them a bushel or so of embrium, I—they would be grateful."

"At once, Herald."

"Ma serannas." The words came out demure, almost regretful. Josephine radiated concern though decided it more appropriate to address the matter at the conclusion of the meeting. The Antivan reenergized the room with a change of subject, though for the remainder of the conference, Ora stood stiffly, shoulders squared, limbs rigid.

"Let us discuss Val Royeaux."

"Lady Cassandra," he began, formal as ever though his armor dripped blood, his usually blond hair a splotchy brown, "you managed the close the rift? Well done."

"Do not congratulate me, Commander," she countered dryly, unfazed by the gore. "This is the prisoner's doing." Her gauntlet-laden arm gestured behind her, where the prisoner stood offset with Solas and Varric.

"Is it?" Sauntering past his colleague, the commander made his way towards the group. He bolstered his voice. "I hope they're right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here." When the prisoner's face met his, the grief and strain in her gaze almost made him rethink his tone. Her efforts to appear composed, at least, were somewhat admirable. She straightened out as best she could and maintained eye contact.

"You're not the only one hoping that." Her answer seemed more like an aside than an actual reply, as if she did not mean to say it aloud. The commander was unimpressed, his mouth flattening into an even broader line.

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?" At this, her eyes finally strayed to her feet, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. His attention immediately switched to the Seeker, whom he neared once again. "The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there."

"Then we'd best move quickly." Cassandra aimed this statement at the prisoner in hopes of dragging her from her thoughts. It worked. The prisoner took a deep breath, winced, and balled her hands into trembling fists at her side. "Give us time, Commander."

He shifted from one leg to another, glare landing upon each of them at least once. It lingered on the prisoner a second longer, discerning and scathing. Astonishingly, she met it. Regardless of this show of resolve, he was far from convinced. "Maker watch over you – for all our sakes."

Ghilan'nain grant them haste. She could not last much longer.

He may not have been the best person to talk to concerning such things, but Varric was probably the least critical individual in a hundred mile radius. She would say he was the most down to earth, but that would seem like a bad dwarf joke. That, and he took talking as a sort of pastime. The sky had long grown dark, and the two of them sat in the wake of the fire roaring near his tent.

"I made a fool of myself." Ora'ana's head hung despondently, her shoulders slumped and eyes cast to the dirt. Despite this confession, the charismatic dwarf let out a single chuckle.

"So that's why Curly stormed past here earlier. Don't be too hard on yourself."

"It just wasn't very… Herald-y of me."

Varric crossed his arms at his burly chest, amusement twinkling in his bright earthen eyes. "Everything you do is Herald-y. You're the Herald."

She snorted, the ends of her mouth twitching involuntarily. "You know what I mean."

"So, you're saying that just because you're the Herald of Andraste, you're not allowed to get protective over the people you care about?" Shadows danced on the elf's face, highlighting the crease in her brow and the curve of her frown. He exhaled, a grin tugging gently at his lips, fingers scratching at the stubble on his chin. "I'm pretty sure that's Andraste's thing, actually." That managed to extract a few lackluster laughs from the elf. He counted it as a small victory. "Look, if it's still bothering you that much, then talk to the others about it."

"I've already done so with Josephine."

"Then there you go."

Ora took a deep breath. The chilled air felt good in her lungs. "I guess I just needed to be talked through it. Again."

"Hey, if that's what it takes. You've got a lot on your plate. You're not supposed to carry it alone; not even Andraste did. And even though it was thoughtless, I guarantee Curly meant well."

The Herald nodded, running fingers through her dark hair. An echo of her own people's wisdom reverberated in Varric's words. Vir Adahlen: together, we are stronger than one. "You're right."

"You knew that. Sometimes you just need to hear it from someone else." Varric's smoky baritone might as well have been a magic more potent than her own.

For a while, they listened to the crackling of the flames. After all day of worrying about it, Ora finally began to feel peace settle into her nerves. "Careful, Varric. If you keep giving such good advice, you'll never see the end of me." She fidgeted, more truthful than she wanted to be.

"Anything to keep an audience," the dwarf retorted with a quick wink.

"Vir assan; fly straight and do not waver."

Ora'ana lay in bed, curled on her side, knees pulled up to her chest. Normally cool nights after a day traveling with her clan made this position ideal and by all means efficient – it conserved and generated more heat.

"Vir bor'assan; bend, but do not break."

But this was not in the wilderness in a tent. At the other end of the room, the well-fed fireplace made the small cabin quite cozy. The blanket cast over her lithe frame carried in it the warmth of goose feathers. There was no need to conserve heat. Eyes clamped shut, her whispers continued.

"Vir adahlen; together, we are stronger than one."

She had not been a hunter, but Andruil's Vir Tanadahl was her Chant of Light. It came as a surprise to many among her peers, at the time for her to obtain her vallaslin, when she announced her devotion to the Great Huntress. Typically, Firsts and Keepers alike were partial to receiving the markings of Mythal or Dirthamen for obvious reasons; even Falon'din and Sylaise made more sense than Andruil as an apprentice's choice of blood writing. That did not stop her. It hadn't been Mythal's protection or Dirthamen's wisdom; nor had it been Falon'din's guidance or Sylaise's calm touch that warded off the creeping darkness those awful nights. The fear of failure, the pressure of expectation, the paralysis of terror, the inaction of discouragement, the anguish of loss… all chased away by the Goddess of the Hunt's charge.

Guilt was trickier. Guilt had hide too thick for an arrow to pierce: a quillback whose every spine was a failed attempt. When turned away, guilt nipped at your heels with its sharp beak, each time a little harder to try to provoke your attention. Should that work, it would remain just as evasive when faced head-on, dodging in zigzags and charging when you've finally run out of arrows. That is the best time to strike, however. Guilt meant getting hurt a little, because you know you deserve it. Most times, anyway. So you let it take you down. And while it tears at you, you jam its jaw with your arm and pierce its soft gut. That bit of blood was your penance, because guilt has a purpose, if you learn from it. Never trust anyone who says it does not.

Ora's eyelids opened calmly, pupils focused on nothing at all. Sweeping the blanket from her body, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to her writing desk. She'd already delivered a note to Leliana for her scouts to give to Keeper Istimaethoriel along with her own apologies for her behavior earlier. That left the commander. She penned something quickly in the dim glow. With any luck, the night guard she left it with would hand it off to him in the morning.

Commander,

Good morning! Or, at least I hope, presupposing this has been delivered accordingly and you have slept well. As busy as I am sure you are, I felt it best to send a note ahead to request an audience with you. Should a free moment arise, I ask that you please send word at your earliest convenience. Apologies are in order, and I would like to give them personally.

Until then,

Ora
the Herald

She'd expected a timely response from the ex-templar, to be sure, but she did not intend to be awakened at dawn with one. Groggy yet panicked, the elf scrambled to wash up and prepare her words at the same time. Distracted, she failed to notice just how bitterly the wind blew; the impending confrontation paired with her rush falsely shielded her against the weather.

Ora reached the soldiers' camp to find it almost deserted. Fires still burned but there was no one to be found. Her heart sunk into her abdomen. Had she misread his reply? Digging it from a pocket, she squinted against the gale to reevaluate his note. No, she read correctly. The temperature finally began to sink into her flesh. She shivered, scanning her surroundings once again. Perhaps he was still in his tent? The commander's quarters were easy enough to spot; his tent was probably about three times the size of a soldier's, and when she entered it, she saw why. Beyond the fire pit in the center sat an austere desk heaped with scrolls and report boards. She almost thought he did not have a bed until she noticed a pile of mussed up blankets and pillows set haphazardly in the corner set not too far from a large chest. And his signature cloak hung in all its fuzzy glory on his desk chair. But no commander. She exited hastily, feeling more like an intruder than a visitor the longer she lingered.

Her next stop was the makeshift sparring ring, logs and branches encircling a barren patch of land. One hand picked up an abandoned sword from the dirt while the other rubbed futilely against her bicep in hopes of generating warmth. She ditched the effort soon enough, especially when she realized she'd need the strength of both arms to wield the blade she'd discovered. Without much thought, she brought it to a nearby dummy and began swinging as she'd seen Cassandra do so many times over. Her muscles burned almost immediately. She was not any good, to no one's wonder, but the maelstrom shrieking about her did little to help either. She let loose a few cocky laughs for each blow landed.

"For the Inquisition!" she bellowed in an octave as low and as manly as she could muster, sword lifted precariously above her head. She brought it down, as forcefully as gravity and momentum permitted, into the dummy's wooden face. And there it stayed. The elf gasped, a distressed hand to her mouth, hair whipping about in a violent frenzy. Her attempts to dislodge it were met with comical failure. She fled the scene, seeking refuge near one of the fires.

Eventually, the hum of voices and the rustle of footsteps filtered into the camp. Ora swiveled on her heel to see a contingent of the Inquisition forces return from what seemed to be a run – Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra both among them. Red-cheeked and windswept, the two looked quite different compared to their usual put togetherness. In particular, the matrimony of melting snowflakes, sweat, and biting gusts freed rebellious locks of the commander's hair from its customarily immaculate mold; and all at once, Varric's silly nickname hit the elf with the force of a well-placed arrow from Bianca herself. Fortunately for Ora, the weather had frozen her cheeks enough that the epiphany barely registered on her face.

"Herald," Cullen spoke, intonation a question as well as a greeting. His breathing had only just begun to even out. Cassandra regarded her as well but took her leave.

His apparent confusion confused her. "Commander. I… received your message."

"What?" Realization struck him suddenly, darkening his expression as he groaned. "I told him to deliver it after—Maker's breath, I apologize, Your Worship." He combed back his hair, only partially succeeding in restoring its typical style. "Please, meet me in my tent. I will be there momentarily." She nodded and headed that way, inhaling and exhaling methodically. Cullen's shouts to his men fought against the wind, miraculously prevailing.

Ora was in the continued process of thawing by the time the commander entered his tent.

"Forgive me again, Herald," he went on instantly, "the messenger," he stressed with contempt, "must have misunderstood my request. I pray you were not waiting in the cold for long."

"No," she genially lied. "No need to worry, Commander."

He seemed relieved. "Good." He rounded his way to his desk whereupon he grabbed his maned coat. "Now, there was something you wished to discuss?"

The Dalish elf scrunched her fingers to be sure they still functioned. The resulting sting was only mild: a good sign. She glanced to him from her peripherals rapidly a few times, feeling vastly unprepared for the conversation. "Yes." She faced him now, conjuring the courage to hold her eyes to his. Fly straight, and do not waver. "I wanted to… apologize, for my actions yesterday." The sharp ends of her ears prickled. Her heart fluttered. Had her complexion been fairer instead of a rich brown, her humiliation would have been readily noticeable.

"No need," he interjected matter-of-factly with a dismissive wave. "If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me."

She blinked a few times before scrunching her nose and shaking her head. "No, I reacted poorly." She wrung her hands at her waist. "You are all here to help me, and you all know far more than I do about, well, almost everything. Unless you have some secret knowledge of… halla shepherding, herbal teas, or elven mythology. Then everything."

A set of shockingly warm chuckles bubbled from his chest. "You sell yourself short, Herald. I do not know much about the Dalish, but you were what they call the First, yes? I can only imagine that your experiences in that regard have carried you this far, among other things."

She had never really thought about that. She'd been so focused on feeling inadequate and ill-suited that she did not realize she was maybe a bit more qualified than the average person. Something in her mind shifted. "I suppose things may have been a bit more difficult if I hadn't already been preparing to lead my own people."

"Which is why I hold nothing of what transpired yesterday against you." She gazed up to his face only to see his countenance had gone from friendly to quite grave. "Your clan is your family and was, until a short time ago, your responsibility. And I suppose if you plan to return to them after this is all said and done, that sense of responsibility remains. Despite feeling like an utter imbecile, I came to think that if you could harness that passion for the Inquisition as you do for you clan, then you would be a fearsome Herald indeed."

"A fearsome Herald of Andraste?" Ora questioned skeptically. "Wouldn't that be a bit contradictory?"

"Considering Andraste led armies against Tevinter, I would think not."

"Fair point." The wind viciously shook the walls of the tent. How effortless this conversation had become stunned Ora. She'd always known Cullen to be a reasonable man, but an approachable one? Not particularly.

"I spoke with Sister Leliana," he announced, breaking the small silence that had joined them in the tent. Gradually, he made his way from behind his cluttered desk. "She tells me you often shadow her as well as Josephine in their duties. I offer you an invitation – perhaps, when the weather is more agreeable – to spend some time among our forces. I can show you how things are done here, and hopefully get to know you better so as to avoid any more misunderstandings."

Wrangling her elated gratitude to digestible proportions was a daunting task. Her eyes, as always, betrayed her. Standing just a few feet from her now, Cullen emanated a solid patience she found surprising. "Thank you, I—" she began before inevitably faltering. Her expression sobered. "In all earnestness, I… I still hope you accept my apology whether you think you deserve one or not."

He let out a soft grunt. "I do, and likewise." He glanced to the side thoughtfully. "What is it that you say? Mass seraniss?"

"Ma serannas," she returned affably, undertones of flattery too delicate to detect. She gathered a ream of dangling hair behind her long ear. "I hope I haven't taken up too much of your time. Thank you, Commander." Bumping her fist to her heart, Ora'ana leaned forward in a modest bow before heading for the exit. He mirrored the gesture.

"Well, that was a disaster."

Leliana, puzzled, challenged that assertion in her glassy Orlesian accent. "What are you talking about?" She and Cullen walked nearly side-by-side after the meeting had been dismissed, he on his way back to his men and she to her tent. A good few decisions had been made while others had been thoroughly discussed. She would hardly call the productive meeting a disaster.

"You know what I'm talking about."

Her thin eyebrows jumped. "Our Herald's instability or your complete lack of tact?"

"Both."

"I cannot speak for you, but I believe she is doing the best she can with what little she has. And, all things considered, she is not doing too badly. She is still growing into her Heraldry."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean? Since when are you one to dance around an issue?"

He seemed frustrated that he needed to explain. "Did you not see the look on her face?"

"You're a human ex-templar. Shouldn't you be used to scaring elves and mages by now?" she jested darkly.

Cassandra offered no better. "It was a misunderstanding. Move on."

"She overreacted a bit, yes, but you must understand the reality of the Dalish." Josephine scolded him over a desk covered in various documents the next time they met. "Civilized men, not wild animals, threaten them the most. For you to suggest a show of force because you assume they do not recognize the authority of the Inquisition sounds like any other noble finding an excuse to bully them." She dipped her quill into her inkwell. "And as if the Dalish aren't always a target already, her heretical clan is now the clan of the heretical Herald of Andraste. They are targets presently more than ever. I do not blame her sensitivity. The fact that she even considered you would do something like that, however, is another matter entirely."

The first part he'd anticipated more or less, but the last part bewildered the Fereldan commander. "What do you mean?"

"Miscommunication and misunderstanding are usually a result of disconnect. In other words, Commander, you need to be a bit more diplomatic with our Herald."

"Are you sure it is that simple? To her, I threatened her family."

Josephine briefly glanced up from her paperwork, and her eyes couldn't have conveyed more dismay if she tried. "Yes, Commander. It is that simple. What else could you do?" Cullen did not react. "Have I not said what you've wanted to hear?"

"Pardon?"

"Cassandra, Leliana, and I actually talk to each other, and not just at the war table. Apparently this incident has perturbed you enough to come to all of us about it."

Cullen's mood soured. "Maybe you should try being less diplomatic," he growled, exiting her office. Josephine heaved a disappointed sigh, resuming her work. The commander marched down the Chantry corridor, gripping the hilt of his sword. The snow snorted unhappily with every step he took.

"You alright there, Curly?" Varric's gravelly voice called as the commander made his way to the gates. The dwarf sat by a fire cleaning his crossbow. Ignored, Varric chuckled and shook his head. "Your fur looks a bit more ruffled than usual." The glare Cullen shot him made those light chuckles transform into full-bodied mirth.