Blessed - Part Four

She is a strange woman, this Bryony Hawke.

And that’s all right. Good, even. Strange seems to be a requirement for joining the Inquisition; there’s no other explanation Elera Lavellan can think of for how she ended up at the head of a force that includes among it a former Ben-Hassrath spy, a Tevinter mage, and a Spirit of Compassion, to name but a few. Since she stumbled out of that Rift at Haven, she has become used to having incredibly unusual people around her; one more makes little difference. Besides, did she honestly expect any friend of Varric’s to be normal?

And she is hardly one to talk. A blind Dalish apprentice, a Dreamer, apparent Herald of Andraste, accidental leader of a small army – she has no right to criticise anyone for oddness.

‘You girls stay here and chat. Get to know each other,’ was what Varric said, as he headed down the steps to the courtyard, leaving them standing on the battlements together. ‘Have all the talk about dresses and shoes, get it out of your system.’

‘That is an outrageous stereotype and you will suffer for it,’ Hawke shouted after him, but there was a smile in her voice. Varric’s snorts of amusement slowly faded away as he descended the steps, and they were left standing on the battlements together. The Herald of Andraste and the Champion of Kirkwall.

Elera could easily have felt a little ill at ease. Normally, to be left alone with a woman she’d known for a mere ten minutes would make her feel... uncertain. Unsteady. When their conversation is done, she will need Hawke to help her down the steps and guide her to the war room, and this task is not one she feels comfortable trusting to just anyone. But she is fairly certain that she has no reason to worry about being left in Hawke’s hands. There are a great many reasons for her to feel that she can trust this woman. Hawke is a friend of Varric's, they have a common enemy in Corypheus - and she is mother to an elf-blooded child.

‘In case you were thinking of taking Varric seriously, I have no conversation to offer about dresses or shoes,’ Hawke says. There’s a clank of metal against stone, as if she has leant against the balustrade and her armoured plates are scraping the wall. ‘I can wear a dress if the occasion is extremely important. I do own one or two pairs of shoes that don’t have steel plates all over them. And that is the grand total of my shoes and dresses knowledge.’

Elera smiles. ‘And how much knowledge of those things do you expect me to have? I’m a Dalish elf and a blind woman. My friend Vivienne’s choosing my wardrobe for the Halamshiral ball for me; she keeps threatening to put me in pale blue. She says it'll look stunning against my colouring; I say I’ll look like an icicle. I’m tempted to ask if I can just turn up in my mage robes.’

‘If you do, you have my full approval. An unapologetic Dalish apprentice turning up in all her magey glory in the Winter Palace? I would pay to see the look on all those nobles’ faces.’

The thought makes Elera chuckle, and it’s pleasant to hear Hawke laugh along with her.

‘You know,’ Hawke says, ‘it’s rather nice being in the company of someone who isn’t my boyfriend or a seven-year-old boy. I can’t do shoes or dresses to save my life, but sweet Maker, have I missed general girl talk.’

Elera reaches out until her fingers find the rough stone of the wall, and carefully leans against it. ‘It can’t have been easy, living with just your family for company for so long. Or going on the run from Kirkwall with such a young child.’

‘You have no idea.’ Hawke lets out a groan. ‘All the normal parent problems, transferred to the middle of the Free March wilderness. It was a nightmare. And you’re talking to someone who’s been into the Fade and walked around in someone else’s nightmare. That mess didn’t even come close to trying to bring up Conan while on the run.’

Elera’s mouth twitches. ‘I can imagine.’

‘You can’t imagine it properly unless you’ve been through it. The constant moaning about I’m cold, and I'm hungry, and the crying over all the toys he had to leave behind in Kirkwall… though I’m the first to admit, he had a lot to complain about, and any whining he did was utterly justified. Help your friend start a rebellion and then run off to live in the wilderness with your gang of insane friends and your apostate sister in tow, your three-year-old under one arm and a pack of Templars on your heels is not something you’ll find written at number one position in the how to be a good parent guide. At least it was a character building experience.’

She snorts at her own joke, but when she speaks again, her tone is more sombre. ‘To be honest with you, it was… frightening. For the first few weeks, after all the others left and it was just me and Conan and Fenris, finding enough food for him was a struggle. It wasn’t until Varric split from us that Fenris and I realised neither of us could use a bow.’

Elera winces; any Dalish knows what hunger is, for there are times when every clan finds that prey is scarce and frost has killed the plants. But at least when such times fell upon her clan, she was around dozens of strong, talented hunters who had the weapons and the skills to bring down any prey there were lucky enough to find. ‘What did you do?’

‘Well, for some time, Fenris just used his lyrium abilities to chase down deer and rip their hearts out,’ Hawke says, as casually as if she were discussing the weather. ‘Not pretty, exactly, but it got the job done. Eventually we gave in, bought a bow at the next town we passed through, and taught ourselves how to use it. We’re still terrible shots four years later, but it works.’

She sighs, a long, quiet sound. ‘I often wondered what kind of a mother I was, bringing up my son like that. I still do. But we learned how to survive. The three of us, together, as a family. Sleeping under the stars and moving to a new place every morning just became normal - I don’t think Conan even remembers a time when he lived any other way.’

‘It isn’t a cruel way to grow up,’ Elera says gently. ‘That was how I was raised, too.’

‘You had a whole clan to help you and your parents, though. And everyone around you knew exactly how to survive in a life like that. I didn’t have the slightest clue. Fenris had only what he was taught by a group of Fog Warriors he once knew, and he had what he picked up from running across Thedas from his former master.’ Another sigh; then Hawke claps her hands together in a businesslike way. ‘Still, it all worked out well enough. We learned what we were doing before long, we now get to enjoy an endless family camping trip, Fenris has had an opportunity to track down and slaughter a bunch of Magisters, Conan’s grown up tough as a Qunari, and the three of us are as close as people can be without living in the same body.’

Despite her brisk tone, there’s a definite sorrow hanging in the last few words, and Elera feels her heart go out to her, this bold young mother who has left her family behind to join a war against an enemy she thought defeated. ‘It must have been very hard for you, leaving them behind.’

‘Like cutting off one of my arms and walking away from it.’

Elera closes her eyes (not that closing her eyes changes anything, of course, she can see nothing either way), and thinks of the feel of her mother’s hand in her hair, her father’s stiff but warm embrace, the sound of her siblings’ laughter. There was no moment of separation, no moment where she had to say to them, I’m leaving the clan – when they sent her to the Conclave, no one ever expected that she might not come back. Even for those first few months at Haven, she’d always intended to return once all of this was over.

But now she is too much a part of this. She is the Inquisitor. She has forged friendships, built an army, even fallen in love, for Mythal’s sake. And she knows that if she returns to her clan, it won’t feel the same. Thinking of her family is hard, even painful, when she remembers that though she may see them again (well, not see, but still), she will never again live among them.

Bryony Hawke does at least have a chance to go back to her lover and her son, once her part in this is over. But if the pain she felt walking away from them was anything like what Elera feels when she thinks of her clan –

Well. It’s impressive that Hawke is even here, when leaving must have hurt her so much.

‘You’ll see them again soon,’ Elera says, and she sends a silent prayer to the Creators to help her make sure that promise is kept. ‘We will find a way to stop Corypheus, and you can go back to them.’

Hawke lets out a snort. ‘It’ll take more than some addled darkspawn Magister to stop me from seeing them again, I promise you that. Is there a word for a darkspawn Magister? A Darkister? Magispawn?’

A smile tugs at Elera’s mouth. ‘I quite like Magispawn.’

They stand together in silence for some time, while Hawke drums her fingertips on the top of the wall and Elera wonders if she has a right to ask the questions she wants to. Perhaps it’s intrusive, seeing as they’ve only just met – but Hawke seems open and friendly, untroubled by Elera’s curiosity so far. She may at least try.

‘If you don’t mind my asking,’ she says, ‘does it make any difference, that Conan is elf-blooded?’

‘Any difference to what?’ Hawke sounds bewildered. ‘I’m sure you’re not asking if I care for him any less. Because that’s up there with does cabbage taste disgusting on the list of stupidest questions ever asked.’

Elera chuckles. ‘No, of course not. And I’ve never tasted cabbage, so I’ll defer to your judgement on that. What I meant was – do people treat him any differently? Does your family care? Does his father find it… strange?’

‘Strange to look at his son and not see pointy ears? I have asked him that, but he says it doesn’t. Says that if he doesn’t mind that Conan has paler skin than him, there’s no reason for him to mind the ear shape.’ There’s a quick rustling and a clink of metal, as if Hawke is shrugging. ‘As for Bethany – she’s just thrilled to be an aunt. His father could be a human or a dwarf or a dragon and she’d dote on him just the same.’

A sigh escapes her. ‘But other people in general… well, for the most part, you can’t tell just to look at him that Conan’s elf-blooded. It only shows with his eyes; they reflect in the dark, like an elf’s. But people do realise, if they see the three of us together. It normally doesn’t go beyond a few stares, but…’

Her voice trails off, and there’s a moment of silence before she speaks again.

‘The Chantry didn’t accept him,’ she says, and there’s a curtness in her voice, a tone that Elera can only describe as betrayal. ‘They wouldn't take him. I know that you’re Dalish, that being leader of the Inquisition doesn’t mean you believe in the Maker at all. But I do. I have faith in Him and I’ve done my best to be the kind of person I think He wants me to be. And I’m fairly certain that if He approves of me saving lives and protecting Kirkwall as best I could and putting my life on the line to duel the Arishok... all of that didn’t stop meaning something to Him the moment I conceived an elf-blooded child out of wedlock.’

‘Not to your Maker, perhaps.’ Hawke is right, Elera does not believe in the Maker – but she does believe that deities should probably be a little less petty than that. ‘But to those who claim to represent him…’

‘Got it in one. I don’t know whether it was because he was elf-blooded or because he was illegitimate, but… Elthina said he couldn’t be dedicated to the Chantry.’ Hawke huffs loudly. ‘I visited that Chantry two or three times every week. I exposed corruption among its members. I asked for the sisters' blessing whenever I was there. Yes, I got into a few battles there and got blood on the carpets, but the Chantry was important to me. And yet... for all of that, for all my faith, for all that I’d done – I wasn’t important enough to the Chantry for them to accept my son.’

She almost spits the final words.

The Maker means nothing to Elera. He is a god whose name the humans have used to destroy and subjugate her people. But that does not matter now; what matters is how much it must have hurt, for Hawke to see her son denied her faith. She tries to imagine what it would be like if her Keeper refused any child of hers the right to their vallaslin because of their birth, and she feels a wave of indignation sweep through her. Not that any child she has is likely to be raised among the Dalish, but the thought still stings.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says quietly, and can’t resist adding, ‘Is that why…?’

Hawke laughs. ‘I hope you don’t think I started putting explosives beneath the Chantry because of that. No, whatever anyone says, I didn’t actually know what Anders was planning. And I didn’t side with the mages because I was angry with the Chantry, I sided with them because it was the right thing to do.’ She makes a thoughtful hmm sound. ‘But it did make it easier, turning against the Templars. It made it easier to forgive Anders, too, to understand why he did it. I was so angry with him at first, but it’s hard to stay angry for long with the man who delivered your child. And eventually I realised – he’d lost faith that the Chantry would ever find a better way. The truth is, Inquisitor… by the end, I had too. I have never lost faith in the Maker, but by the time the Chantry went up in flames, I’d lost faith in his servants.’

‘That’s understandable,’ Elera says. ‘My friend Dorian is reading The Tale of the Champion to me, a chapter a day. We haven’t finished it yet, but I think I’m far enough in to say that the Chantry’s people did not cover themselves in glory.’

‘They resoundingly did not. And whatever I think of what Anders did – the people he killed, the chaos he caused – he had one thing right. The Chantry needs to change. The world needs to change.’ A new, fierce intensity has crept into her voice. ‘If anything’s going to change, Inquisitor, it’ll change now. The Divine is dead, the Templars are gone, the mages have been accepted as part of the Inquisition. And I think it’s likely that you could change a lot of things. I know you’ve no reason to feel invested in a human Chantry, but if there’s anything you can do to make it better, to make it into something that’ll accept children like Conan –’

‘I do have reasons to be invested in it,’ Elera interrupts. ‘A Chantry with an open mind is one that doesn’t see a need to order Exalted Marches on my people. A better Chantry is one that doesn’t let the world come to a place where a Conclave has to be called to stop a war. I have plenty of reasons to want to see things change. And I will do whatever I can.’

Hawke says nothing. But she lets out a long, slow breath, as if she has been carrying something heavy and now, at last, she can set it down.

They stand for some time, again, without speaking.

‘Why do you ask?’ Hawke says at last. ‘About Conan and elf-bloodedness, I mean. Just curiosity, or did that Seeker ask you to interview me for all the details Varric left out of his story?’

Elera smiles and shakes her head. ‘No. Only curiosity, I’m afraid.’

That’s a lie, she tells herself, and she has a worrying suspicion that she might be blushing.

‘Hold on.’ There’s a laugh in Hawke’s voice. ‘You’re blushing.’

Fenedhis.

Hawke snaps her fingers. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it. I’ve spent enough time around Varric to know how to spot parallels in a story. You’ve gone and fallen for a human, haven’t you? And now you have to deal with the prospect of little elf-blooded rascals of your own.’

Elera sighs. ‘I hadn’t though quite that far ahead yet –’

‘Oh, go on, spill the beans. It’s been years since I could enjoy some good old-fashioned girly gossip. Is it Cullen? He’s nice enough, I suppose, but he did arrest my sister, you know, so I’ll have to question your taste –’

‘No. Not Cullen.’

‘The egg-head, then – no, wait, he’s not human. Or the Warden with the majestic beard?’

There’s no stopping the smile that spreads across Elera’s face. ‘It is impressive, isn’t it?’

Hawke laughs again. ‘You admire the beard without even having seen it! It must be true love.’

There’s a rasp of metal as she pushes off from the wall; it’s hard to tell, of course, but Elera thinks that Hawke is turning to face her. ‘Then let me tell you something, Inquisitor. It is worth it. Whatever doubts you have, whatever problems it brings your way, however hard it gets – it’s worth it. If you're worried about knowing that your children won't be elves like you, don't be, because as soon as they're born, the only thing that will matter to you is that they exist and they're yours. I doubt a blind woman cares all that much about appearances anyway.'

'I don't care about their height or the shape of their ears, no.' Elera bites her lips. 'All I worry about is... I have turned my back on enough of my family's expectations as it is.'

'I know. And that's rough. But whether or not your family care isn't the question, because this won't be their future and their happiness. It's yours, and that makes it your choice. You've got a right to go for what makes you happy and seize it in both hands and not let go. And that's true no matter how many people give you looks. That's true even if your own family is angry with you for falling for a… what’s the word, a shemlen. Even if people refuse to accept any kids you have. Believe me, it’s all worth it. Because the truth is…’

A pause, then she draws in a breath and goes on. ‘The truth is that I have no regrets. Maker knows how hard it’s been sometimes. But Conan and Fenris – they make everything worth it. I don't need the Chantry to accept my son, and I don't need the world to accept the three of us. There are nights out in the wilderness when I’m colder than I ever imagined a person could be, when I’m hungry and tired and I just don’t know what the hell I’m doing. And then I look at Fenris and I look our son and I think, I’m protecting them, I’m caring for them, I’m making them happy. That’s all I need to keep myself going. So don’t ever listen to anyone else. You want to fall in love with a human? Do it, because when he looks into your eyes and smiles at you, you’ll forget what it meant to be alone. You want to have half-human, half-elven kids? Go for it, because hearing them laugh makes everything right again. I promise you that.’

Elera smiles. There doesn’t seem to be much else she can do.

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she says. ‘Thank you, Hawke.’

‘Oh, please. If we’re having deep and meaningful discussions together and sharing gossip, then you get to call me Bryony. It’s very strange, really, how many people insist on calling me by my surname. It’s like they don’t know how to say my first name.’

‘You aren’t alone. I sometimes wonder if the people around here think my first name is Inquisitor. And you’re welcome to call me Elera, if you so choose.’

She doesn’t need eyesight to know that Bryony is smiling. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Elera. Now, shall we head to that war room of yours to do all the boring talk about battle plans?’

‘I suppose we better had.’ Elera fumbles around for a moment until her fingers find her staff, where she left it leaning against the wall. ‘The sooner we get started, the sooner you can return to your family.’

Hawke chuckles. ‘True enough. And the sooner I can save Fenris from having to do all the parenting by himself. But I’m sure he can cope in the meantime.’

***

Fenris was not coping.

It wasn’t that caring for Conan was hard. Perhaps it would have been, if he hadn’t been learning how to do it for the last four years. Now that he had learned, more or less, how to use a bow, and had become used to setting up a tent and a campfire every night, keeping his son safe and fed was not too much of a struggle. The hard part was not having an extra pair of hands steadying the tent for him as he pitched it, no second pair of eyes keeping an eye out for predators or bandits, no warm body to lie close to at night. It wasn’t even her help that he missed most; it was her presence. He simply missed Bryony.

They had become a single entity, over the years. Father, mother, son – part of one body, moving and breathing together. Now a third of that whole was missing, and it felt so wrong.

Now, Fenris felt at his lowest ebb. He had promised Bryony that – for Conan’s safety - he would not continue his usual campaign against the various Tevinter slavers he’d been tracking since they left Kirkwall, not until she returned from Skyhold. So he did not even have a purpose, other than keeping himself and Conan alive. They had set up a hiding place to keep to while Bryony was away, a quiet area not far from Cumberland that both the war and the demons seemed to be leaving untouched so far. There was a small village nearby where they could receive letters and by supplies, and they had travelled there in the morning. It had rained for the entire journey, and they’d been ambushed by wolves on the way there and by a bear on the way back. In the village, a group of scrawny youths had called Fenris a knife-ear and Conan a mongrel, throwing stones alongside their jeers and only fleeing when Fenris sent his lyrium marks glowing (which had at least made Conan laugh.) It had taken four attempts to set alight the damp wood he’d found for that evening’s fire, and, thanks to the wind, three attempts to set up their tent.

All in all, he was exhausted.

The one good thing that had happened was that in the village, a letter had been waiting for them, delivered by courier from Skyhold Keep. Fenris had promised Conan that he’d read it aloud for him as soon as they had settled down for the night; reading what Bryony had written for them, he’d thought, would be a good way to comfort them both after their miserable day. And it was comforting, yes, hearing that she was well and that she’d arrived safely and that Varric sent his regards and that the Inquisitor seemed like a nice enough woman and that Cullen had apologised about arresting Bethany and that the Skyhold cooks hadn’t, thus far, forced Bryony to eat any cabbage. It was comforting reading words she’d written, tracing with his fingertips the marks made by a quill that had been held in her hand.

It was also very, very lonely.

‘We plan to set off to meet Stroud in Crestwood in a few days.’ Fenris frowned and moved the paper further into the light; even after all his practice, his reading skills were still only a little better than Conan’s. ‘Varric is coming, so it will be like old times. With any luck, Stroud will have some answ…’ Fenris gritted his teeth – he hated silent letters. ‘Answers for us.’

‘Answers isn’t a hard word,’ Conan said, with the kind of innocent smugness that only seven-year-olds can really manage. ‘I can read it.’

‘You’re young. It comes naturally to you.’ Fenris raised one eyebrow. ‘If you’re such a clever one, why don’t you read the letter?’

‘I like it when you do it,’ Conan said simply, and wriggled a little closer, resting his head against Fenris’s arm. ‘Go on, father.’

And Fenris obliged, running a finger along the words as he spoke them. ‘I’ll send another letter as soon as I know more about what’s going on - as much as I ever know what’s going on, that is. Please try to stay out of trouble, though I know that’s like asking night not to come after day. Take care of each other. Eat your vegetables. Give me a few weeks, and I’ll be back to keep you both in line again. All my love, Bryony.’

He folded up the letter and set it on one side, then turned to look at Conan. His son was sucking on his lower lip in a way that always indicated deep thought.

‘How many weeks is a few?’ he demanded.

Fenris sighed. ‘I don’t know, Conan. There’s no way of telling how long it will take her and the Inquisition to find out what’s happening with the Wardens.’

Conan’s look of concentration grew deeper. ‘How many weeks is a month?’

‘Four.’

‘She said weeks, not months, so that means it’s less than a month. And she said a few, not a couple, so that means it’s more than two.’ Conan grinned suddenly. ‘So that means that she means three weeks. Because it’s more than a couple and less than a month.’

Fenris couldn’t stop himself from smiling, just a little. ‘That’s very… insightful.’

‘So she’ll be back in three weeks?’

‘It’s not that simple.’ Fenris lets out a sigh; it’s understandable that after all these years of having his parents responsible for everything in his life, Conan should have trouble understanding that his mother and father don’t have the answers to everything. ‘Your mother doesn’t know when she’s going to be back, Conan. She said a few weeks, because she hopes that’s how long it’ll take. But… it might be much longer.’

Conan pulls away from him, a frown creasing his brow. ‘Why?’

He doesn’t look the least bit impressed, and Fenris can hardly blame him. ‘Well… imagine that when she finds Warden Stroud, he tells her that they need to go all the way to Orlais to find what they’re looking for. It’ll take a long time for them to travel there and back.’

‘But why couldn’t we go with her? I’m good at walking.’

Fenris chuckles. ‘That you are. And I’m sure that if we ever did need to walk to Orlais, you’d be fine. But that isn’t why we stayed behind. It's not because you couldn't cope with it. I’ve tried to tell you – we’re safer here.’

Conan nods towards the letter. ‘Mother said the Inquisit-thingy has a castle. She said it was a safe place. Why aren't we safer there?'

‘There are… different types of safe.’ Fenris glances away, wondering how to explain. ‘The Inquisition has a strong keep – much stronger than our tent if wolves or bears attack them. But the Inquisition have something that we don’t have. They have enemies who have an entire army, enemies who might attack their home. They already attacked once, and many people were killed. We have to stay behind so that if those enemies try to attack again while your mother’s there, we won’t get hurt.’

There’s a long silence, while Conan tucks his knees against his chest, wraps his arms around them, and stares into the fire.

‘What if they attack the castle and mother’s there?’ he says at last.

Fenris winces; he should have seen that question coming. ‘Then she will fight. As will the rest of them. The Inquisition are many, now –’

He stops, because Conan has drawn his limbs closer to his body, and his lips are pressed tightly together. He’s too quiet, and too still, for Fenris to feel comfortable.

‘Conan?’ he says gently, and reaches out to place his hand on his son’s shoulder.

‘She wants us to stay because she knows she could die,’ Conan says, in a small, hollow voice.

And there it is. The harsh truth. Raising your son while on the run from most of Thedas, while fighting for survival… it makes him different, older than he should be. Conan has seen more death in his seven short years than most people twice, even three times his age. He knows that death is not something distant and incomprehensible – it is a part of life.

It is not a struggle for him to imagine it. Not even when he’s thinking of his own mother.

‘Your mother is very strong. You know that.’ Fenris swallows – he’s never been all that good at this comforting business. ‘She isn’t alone. The people she is with are all fighters. And she loves you, Conan. She will fight the Maker himself if that’s what it takes to let her come back to you.’

Conan doesn’t look at him. His jaw is clenched, and his hands have curled into fists.

‘Conan, I am here.’ Fenris inches closer, and a sharp pain spreads through him as his son turns his head away. ‘Being angry – it will not bring your mother home sooner. I am here for you. You know that I miss her too.’

Elven eyes reflect light in the dark, and Conan has Fenris’s eyes. So now, as he whips his head around to glare in Fenris’s direction, his eyes are full of the firelight, and for all his small size and the softness of his face, he is suddenly one of the fiercest things Fenris has ever seen.

‘I just want her to come back!’

He roars the words, as much as the high, shaking voice of a child can roar anything, and raises one tiny fist and slams it into the ground –

And there’s a flash of lightning, bright and vivid and purple-white, and Conan shrieks and scrabbles backwards and Fenris surges to his feet. The energy sparks for a few moments, crackling in the air over the place where Conan’s fist struck the earth. Then it fades away, leaving only a circle of scorched earth and two wide-eyed, blinking people in its wake to show that it was ever there at all.

Conan is the first to move, lifting his hands in front of them and staring at them as if he expects them to separate themselves from his wrists, come to life, and clench around his neck. Fenris stares too, unable to move, unable to speak, the breath frozen in his throat. Everything seems to be still, as if Conan’s spell had been frost, not lightning, as if it struck the entire world and turned it to ice. One step forward, just the tiniest touch, and that ice will break apart, and Fenris and his son will both be falling.

His son. His son. His son, who is a mage.

He’s a mage. Of course he’s a mage. His grandfather was a mage, his grandmother from a family filled with mages. Both his aunts are mages. Maker only knows if there is more magic in Fenris’s bloodline. Conan’s blood was always going to be rich in magic – it should be no surprise, really, that he should have the ability to use it, it should not be a surprise, it should not be a surprise - 

My son is a mage.

Somewhere out of sight, a blackbird lets out a shrill alarm call, a few sharp ascending notes. The silence is broken for only a heartbeat by the sound before descending again. Conan is still sprawled on the ground, staring at his hands, and Fenris is still staring at him. He knows that he has to move, has to speak, that the world can remain in this silent limbo for only a few moments more before they have to move on and face what they have just learned.

My son is a mage. Like Danarius. Like Hadriana. Like Varania –

Conan pushes himself up into a kneeling position, and looks up. His eyes meet Fenris’s - and all thoughts of Tevinter vanish instantly.

‘I’m a mage,’ Conan whispers, as if this is the only clear thought that he can form, and his voice cracks with fear.

Slowly, very slowly, Fenris kneels on the ground before his son, and opens his arms. Conan throws himself into them, and they cling to each other, as close as they can get.

‘You,’ Fenris growls, ‘are my son.’

That is all there is to it. That is all that matters. Everything else can wait. Later, there will be time to sit and think and work out what this means, for all of them. There will be time for Fenris to explain to Conan that he doesn’t care, he simply doesn’t care, because even if he has always hated magic he can never, never hate his own child. There will be time to track down Bethany and ask her if she can teach him, so that he can learn to control it, so that he can be safe from demons, so that no one can ever call him dangerous.

The thought swims into Fenris’s mind, the image of men in faceless helmets and armour with a sword of mercy stamped on the breastplates marching for them, snapping chains around Conan’s wrists and dragging him away. The thought of his son being taken to live within the walls of a Circle, taken to a place where Fenris could never see him again, never hear him laugh. The thought of demons whispering to him in his sleep. The thought that someone might someday decide that Conan is dangerous, that the sunburst mark should be placed upon his forehead and all his emotions should be eaten away -

Fenris holds him tighter.

It will never happen. Never. Never.

At last, he leans back, and rests one hand on each of his son’s shoulders. Conan’s face is streaked with tears, but he has stopped trembling, and the dread has faded from his eyes.

‘That was impressive, for a first spell,’ Fenris says. ‘We’ll have much to tell your mother, when she comes back.’

Conan’s mouth twitches up, as if he doesn’t quite dare to smile, but would like to.

‘You are a mage. And you are my son. You are the same son I had before. I will not stop loving you because of this. I never will.’ Fenris feels his eyes sting, but he makes no attempt to blink away the tears. ‘You are my son, Conan. And I am here. I am here.’

He whispers the final three words again and again, like a mantra. Everything is going to be different now – and yet nothing, really, has changed. Conan is still Conan. Fenris is still his father.

Conan’s existence was always a blessing, and nothing – not even magic – will change that.

***

There were no other travellers, that day, on the stretch of road that joins the small Orlesian village of Montallion to the Imperial Highway. It is a road seldom travelled, for there is little to be found in Montallion that cannot be found in other Orlesian hamlets – a marketplace, a Chantry, a few farms scattered around the outskirts. If there is one thing to be said for the village, it is that it lies only an hour’s journey off the Highway, about halfway between Val Chevin and the border with the Free Marches.

And so, if a traveller happened to leave a hidden keep in the Frostback Mountains and travel north and take a boat across the sea to Val Chevin...  it is the perfect place for such a traveller to reunite with two others, heading to join her from a hiding place near Cumberland before they all head north to journey to Weisshaupt Fortress.

There was no one on the road that day, but if there had been, they would have seen the unlikely trio appear at opposite ends of the horizon. On one side, a woman in battle-worn armour with a red scarf draped around the neck, dark blonde hair tied into a low ponytail behind her head, shield strapped to her back and sword in easy reach at her hip. And approaching along the road towards her, an elven man, tall for one of his kind with a sword almost as tall slung over one shoulder, dark skin woven through with white lyrium brands – and at his side, a boy with his mother’s hair and his father’s eyes, trekking along with a doggedness not often seen in one so young.

If there had been another traveller on that road, they would have seen the woman stop dead in her tracks as the other two appeared in the distance, seen her lips silently shape their names, seen her face split into the widest of smiles. They would have heard her call out to them and break into a run, and they would have seen the elf look up sharply and shout in return, and the boy let out a gleeful cry.

They would have seen them reach each other at last, the woman dropping to her knees on the path despite the stones and the mud, throwing her arms open – and her son leaping into them, wrapping his arms around her neck and holding tight. They would have seen her stand up and spin the boy around until at last she heard his laugh again for the first time in months. They would have seen her kiss her son’s forehead, then set him down and turn to embrace his father in a long, silent clinch.

Perhaps, another traveller passing that way would have been able to hear some of the words they shared, as the father – keeping one hand on his son’s shoulder – spoke to the mother in a soft, serious voice, telling her of something that had happened while she had been away, while the boy held his hands up in front of his face and flexed his fingers. Or they might have heard the mother’s resigned sigh, her murmur of, we always knew it was a possibility, before she knelt again to hug her son a second time and assure him that this would change nothing, that Aunt Bethany would give him some lessons, and that the Inquisitor seemed to be a good sort, who’d make sure that mages would never have to be locked away in Circles again.

And had there been another traveller on the road, they would have seen the little family turn around together, heading for the Imperial Highway that would take them to Weisshaupt, with the boy perched on his mother’s shoulders, gripping her armour plates and badgering her for every last detail about her time away. They would have seen the elf walking alongside his lover and his child, saying little, merely watching them both with a smile playing around his lips, content to know that they were here and they were happy.

And they would have heard the mother’s laughter mingling with her son’s as they all vanished together over the horizon.