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The ease with which she infiltrates the beginnings of the Inquisition are laughable.
It shouldn’t be, but, well, in the chaos and malaise, she just kind of slips through the cracks, Veronica guesses. She’s tall but slight, always has been, taking after her mother, and with her hair covering her ears – well, they just take one look at her and figured she’s an elf.
To be fair, a closer look might have garnered more scrutiny – clear skin, white teeth, good hair and hands notably lacking callouses for anything other than writing? Yeah, she would have likely been pegged as a noble in this world or something. But having fallen out of a newly-formed rift, stumbling away into the forest, dazed, falling unconscious and only waking hours later, shivering, clothes ripped and covered in smoke and ash over her face and attire? Yeah, slipping through the cracks is laughably easy.
Believing where she is, less so. Luckily, she’s always been an introvert – quiet, observant, reluctant to reach out to strangers unless necessary. So, sat in a daze, staring, she’d been commanded to go help the healers and had just followed the orders, mindlessly, trying to wrap her head around it.
Nothing reassured her faster that this was not just a set-up than being surrounded by the smell of puss, blood and vomit, by hearing people scream and whimper in pain, by seeing the healers shake their heads at a soldier’s bedside and move onto another one, even though the one they left is still awake, still breathing, still hoping – still alive. Not for long, but still.
Everything else becomes a secondary concern after that, somehow. She’s been displaced. This world is stuck in the Middle Ages except with magic. It’s the Dragon Age series and people are dying – will continue dying. And she’s somehow caught right in the middle of it all. Veronica has lost her world, her friends, her family, everything she held dear.
But that can wait, because these people, the ones in front of her, need more help, need it now.
And she really wished she knew more medicine than just CPR; if only she’d read more, learned more – maybe she could have saved some of them. Veronica knows it’s not a rational thought – the very idea that she somehow should have gleaned that she’d be transposed to another world (universe?), that she’d lose access to books, google and the internet? Well, that makes no sense, but there is still the faint sense of guilt as she, when she is not required to assist the living, sits and tries to comfort the dying.
But still, she is part of the Inquisition in one fell swoop – another knife ear, another rabbit, another faceless servant in the masses. And that’s how she disappears. No one even looks at her face – head down, cleaning equipment in hand, and she’s practically invisible as far as the people in Haven are concerned.
The Herald of Andraste turns out to be Ellana Lavellan; she’s giggling, flirting with Solas at every opportune moment. She’s not a completionist – hasn’t even taken the time to talk to Adan. She sneers at every elf without vallaslin, and when she has to interact with them she’s patronising, soft voiced and kind faced, suddenly, as if none of them could tell her false kindness, as if they couldn’t tell she thought them beneath her – like so many others.
Still, it could be worse, she knows.
But the decision on whom she should give notes and hints to is remarkably easy; Ellana may not invest time and effort in all the tasks, may decide not to help people she doesn’t see as worthy. Leliana would doubt and doubt and would investigate and try and find her, never using what she wrote down for fear of it being manipulation. Josie would pass it all on, but it could either incite ire by going after the non-combat oriented member of the advisors, or fall by the wayside under the other diplomatic endeavours. Neither is a good solution. Cassandra may see it as either a sign from the Maker or that she’s involved in the Breach – either way, she’d investigate and would be unlikely to follow the hints. Cullen was too militaristic; he’d keep the information, evaluate it and use what he deemed important, but others may fall by the wayside as the greater good would be prioritised over the individual.
Solas could - and probably would - use magic to track anyone who left him notes.
That left one candidate – the one who just so happened to be her favourite anyway.
Varric.
A rogue who would assess the accuracy of the notes first, then likely keep it to himself and nudge, push and prod Lavellan into doing things. He was good at that.
And if he ever found out who she was? Well, he was an incredibly loyal friend to have and would, by that point, hopefully see the benefit in keeping his mouth shut.
The real issue was the language – speaking and writing it was hard. It was akin to English, but a step off. To be fair, she hadn’t seen Germanic languages in Dragon Age that she could recall, but there appeared to be French and possibly Latin? So, close enough, but not quite there. Still, speaking and understanding what she’s told is far easier than writing.
Veronica was certain that Threnn had marked her down as being somewhat retarded, but there wasn’t much she could do about it.
Learning the runic written language was even worse when you were still struggling with the verbal one and had no dictionary or translation, but she was muddling along.
It also meant her first note to Varric was more along the lines of a very roughly hand-drawn map of the Hinterlands with waymarkers. She didn’t remember everything, nor the location of every side quest, but she remembered one in detail.
The woman whose husband had been killed in front of her for his supposed ‘magical’ wedding ring, their meagre food supplies stolen by the very Templars who murdered him. Veronica figured it stuck with her because it was the first one she had encountered in Dragon Age: Inquisition, and reading about what had been done to this woman and her husband, the utter contempt and vile nature of people and desperation, the loss of hope, it had remained with her. A game, but a touch too realistic, too heartrending.
With her best drawing skills (fairly non-existent but even she could do a wedding ring) she drew a woman at her hut and the prone husband’s body along with a ring in mid-air with an exclamation mark (she hoped they had those here and that the people were somewhat recognisable as such). The ring was then drawn at the location of the Templars she found it with along with the Templar sword insignia (so much easier to draw than people).
The woman struggling to breathe, Corporal Vale’s location, rams and she tried to draw blankets but it probably looked more like rugs. Either way, it would become more recognisable when Varric talked to them. Hyndel and the castle was easy enough, as was Ritts. More marks for the dragon, the rifts when she remembered them, warnings for the bears and highlighting astrariums. The horse farm, the druffalo (stupid little thing took ages to get) and the wolves and tower locations. The darkspawn entrance. The waterfall secret. The rage-ram. The grave for the elven widower in Redcliffe (flowers were blessedly easy to draw).
And all of it had to somehow fit onto the scrap paper collected by the chantry for servants and children – paper was, naturally, a valuable resource and cost money – but scraps with unimportant information were always made available as usually one side remained blessedly free and empty for use.
As Veronica had to practice (learn) writing anyway, taking one more scrap paper didn’t raise any eyebrows. Hopefully by the time that Varric returned, she’d be able to put words to things – until then he would likely have to put a lot of guesswork into what each drawing meant, but hopefully it helped, and he would encourage Ellana to aid the people.
The moment Ellana left for the Hinterlands, Veronica retrieved the notes for Adan, marked down iron deposits and the logging stands as well as the empty cabin for Threnn. When Threnn questioned her why she told her (and likely suspicious as to how she knew what the Quartermaster had been looking for), she told her Adan wanted his old master’s notes and she found these on the way. Or well, a reasonable facsimile thereof.
Threnn definitely thought her retarded or addled judging by the too-wide smile and hard clap on her shoulder, but so long as she wasn’t suspicious, it was something she could handle.
Head down, and keep going on, she reminded herself.
So far, she’d managed to not end up in the fade, somehow – her dreams were normal-Earth kind of whacky; clowns chasing which turned into cuddling bunnies who then grew teeth and she had to race them on a motorbike (which she had yet to learn how to use). The usual fun nonsense which Thedas didn’t seem to have (Veronica wasn’t sure if they were missing out or if she was – one the one hand, demons, death by somniari, spying and fighting… but on the other hand – memories and spirits like Cole or Wisdom, being able to recreate her world in her dreams).
Nevertheless, the moment she was alone, she found the tears coming back, the memories, the grief, the profound loss of everything and everyone she’d ever known, the feeling of being adrift and lost in a world where her prior skills were all but useless and ended up crying silently more often than not.
Being alone was hard, though. Veronica had been assigned a tent with ‘other’ elves, five of them back-to-back, with just enough space at their feet for a few belongings and otherwise nary enough room to breath before you came in contact with one another.
Should she identify herself as a human, even as a servant, Veronica knew Threnn would assign her to one of their tents, where they only had to share between two of them, rather than five. That was probably, ironically, the very thing, even more than the blessed lack of attention anyone paid elven servants, which convinced her to continue pretending to be elven.
Racism should – ought to be, at least – a thing of the past but it wasn’t quite, not for many, not even on Earth. It wasn’t fair that elves were treated worse for no reason other than the shape of their ears – she refused to accept it, to be part of it, refused to think that this was in any way okay and would rather be among them, suffering, seeing the world from their view, what they had to tolerate and accept, than allow herself to be treated better by simple virtue of her parentage, the race she was born into.
Veronica had never known how she could help in her world, outside of joining protests, a quiet participant among thousands, lending her voice and presence to the injured minority. But in Dragon Age? What avenues of help could she really seek? If she spoke up and garnered attention, she could be assassinated with startling ease, as helpless as a newborn fawn in this cruel world. But being among them, that, at least she could do. Being part of them, helping them up, trying to curb others and lift her fellow servants up.
Although at the beginning it was more them who had to help her rather than her being able to assist them. Even though she had decades of education, attended university, her difficulties in communicating both verbally and written, meant she struggled to assist as much as she would have liked to, but at the least she could lend an ear and offer affection freely.
Still, this world was astoundingly beautiful, and untouched, and filled her with wonder when she allowed herself to explore, to familiarise herself with the world as much as the creatures within it.
The latrines, on the other hand, she could very much do without.
Still, life moved on, and she grew accustomed to her new circumstances, learned as much as she could in her spare time. When the healing tents started emptying, Veronica’s new job was cleaning and maintain the stables and chantry (excluding the advisors’ rooms and the war room). She was also assigned washing-up duty on a rotational basis in the pub.
Soon enough Varric returned – or, well, the Herald-soon-to-be-Inquisitor with her party, which happened to include Varric. Her next map was already prepped – Val Royeaux, naturally – and in Varric’s tent.
This time she’d made a change and included at the top a list of the companions, current and future with rough approximations of their name and a sign for them. Solas got an egg – she’d contemplated drawing a wolf, but figured that could backfire rather seriously if Varric shared and she had no intention of having a demi-god after her head. Cassandra was her shield. Varric a book. The Iron Bull his eyepatch. Dorian a moustache. Blackwall a griffon (well, close enough to one, anyway, she figured). Cole his hat. Vivienne the weird horned hat. Sera a bee.
It made it easier for her to draw on the map. Hopefully, Ponchard was still (already?) there and they could get Dorian’s amulet (a drawn necklace and moustache including Dorian’s last name). Three locations for the Sera-red-things-hunt were marked easily enough with a small bee. The templars waiting and a fist over the wimple for the sisters as well as the recruitable merchant.
At the bottom of the map she put a tick and put down both Sera and Vivienne’s names. She then added Fiona’s and wrote down talking next to her to make clear it wouldn’t be recruitment.
Veronica was working on a map of the Stormcoast and the Fallow Mire in the meantime, ready to be slipped into Varric’s tent when finished.
It was an amusing, in retrospect, coincidence that she happened to be the servant walking past when Varric exited his tent – the first one he saw as he stepped out, and therefore the one whose arm he grabbed.
“Hey. Do you know who has been in my tent?”
Veronica had, for a moment, been frightened that she’d given herself away somehow, eyes wide and trembling.
“I- No, I’m sorry, Messere,” she told him, voice shaky.
“Hey, kid, forget it,” he told her, tone genuinely apologetic – she really must appear frightened out of her wits to him. He probably thought it was due to mistreatment and expecting him to abuse her rather than her own guilty conscience and fear of the Inquisition and the Dread Wolf.
Either way, it was helpful.
“Sorry for grabbing you,” he continued and she fell into an automatic curtsy, eyes still lowered.
“Yes, messere. Sorry, messere.” Being quiet and apologetic by nature worked well in a world which saw servants as lower class who needed to apologise for every slight, even ones done against them.
He sighed under his breath and Veronica wondered if she had somehow reminded him of Oriana. The dwarf issued another apology, and then left, clearly thinking he’d get no further with her. He was headed for Threnn; which was fine because Veronica had never been assigned to his tent – she’d just jumped in to help a fellow servant who fell behind when a noble cleric (Rodderick, she assumed) made a fuss about things in his room needing to be just-so and delaying him from his other work. Not that she needed it to sneak into his tent. It was normal for them to tidy away ashes and restock fires during the day – slipping a bit of paper into an open tent was child’s play when you were cleaning right next to it anyway.
It was funny; she had fallen in love with these people, these characters, in the game and they didn’t even know her. Other than the servants calling her ‘Vera’, no one had even asked her name. Threnn went by people’s faces and, having stood in line behind a human servant, Vera knew that Elves were being paid less – supposedly due to deductions for food and accommodations, but the human servants would have had to pay that as well. And, seeing as they had less people per tent, they should have been paying more rather than the elves – nevertheless, they all kept their mouths shut.
Sure, she’d thought about bringing it to Josie’s attention, about raising a fuss – after all, the Inquisitor was an elf, how much discrimination could they really afford in such an open forum? – but she figured it could wait until they reached Skyhold and had more noble support once the breach was closed. Until then, the Inquisition was likely spending more than it earned, anyway.
Other than paying for writing utensils, Vera figured she didn’t need anything at the moment – the chantry had given her clothes after her first stint at the healers’ tent, which had included a jacket. And seeing the small children the parents were trying to feed and entertain, it was an easy decision to give her money to those who needed it most around her.
It was such a dichotomy, going from the land of plenty, a world which thrived on cheaply manufactured and mass-produced goods furthering a capitalistic indulgence and hoarding in most people, to somewhere where she had nothing – and felt like she didn’t need anything. It was freeing and frightening both, but easy enough to accept and muddle through – and the grateful smiles and hugs from her friends among the servants were enough at the moment. She was contributing, repaying them for their quiet understanding and helping hands when she’d floundered in an unfamiliar world, when she hadn’t known how to brush her teeth or tie her hair back, how to wash clothes without rubbing them raw, how to curtsy, how to behave, how to talk and which soldiers and residents to avoid for fear of either being touched, hit or verbally abused. They were a supportive, small community, who looked after one another. It was nice to finally be able to repay even a small part of the aid they’d given her.
By this point Vera figured she was probably staying here – she couldn’t see any way of going back home, at least none which didn’t involve risking her life by walking among the demons to a rift or telling the Inquisition.
The hard labour was straining, but luckily, even though she was slender, she had been trying her hand at pursuing a career as a dancer and had the muscles and physique to go with that. The language was gradually becoming easier through simple immersion. Varric had suspiciously eyed everyone who walked past with a hawk’s eye, before he had been called away by the Herald and gone on their latest trip – but it was still satisfying to know that she flew enough under the radar that she wasn’t even suspected of being the culprit.
Luckily, when Dennet came to the Inquisition, she could finally be more valuable – she was still slow compared to the others in cleaning and washing, but horses? Well, those she knew. Once she’d demonstrated her knowledge of not just being able to brush and clean hooves, being able to handle impatient and stubborn horses, he trusted her and asked for her to be assigned to him. The horses were an all-day task, not just from the feeding and cleaning, but that they needed to care for the injured ones, exercise the ones stuck in their stable, make sure the younger horses were appropriately trained – it was hard work, but it was work she was, for once, familiar with and work she adored. Horses were the same wherever you went.
Well – almost. There would be the Bog Unicorn, the Harts and Dracolisks. But for now? It was comforting.
By the time she was fluent enough, she was finally able to contribute at the evenings spent around their campfire. Not everyone was there – there were tasks to be done even during the evenings, but all the children were there. It was the only time their Elvhen could be shared, their stories, the only time they could share.
And finally Veronica was at a stage where she could ‘translate’ fairytales for the children into a comprehensible Dragon-Age-suitable story. Although she excluded Hansel and Gretel for its portrayal of magic, she did include things such as the little mermaid, the little match girl, little red riding hood, the pigs and the wolf and anything else she could remember. She also told the story of Eragon, of the Silmarillon, of the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings over the next few months while the Inquisition built and spread out.
Vivienne and Sera had been recruited, as had Blackwall and the Iron Bull.
The day the breach was closed it had taken very little convincing to get the elves to keep their belongings in the chantry.
“If you take a noble man’s favourite toy away, what does he do?” A pause, realisation dawning among the people at the campfire.
“They take it back by force,” an older elf says quietly, but certainly and the rest just exchange looks, quietly agreeing to make sure their children and belongings are tucked away safe.
And they had all nodded, understanding the potential at once and shared their thoughts and fears with those they trusted, making sure more people were safe, their children and belongings secure for when the time came to bury Haven.
The map of those needing rescuing within Haven was already in Varric’s tent and he’d been staring at it for the last two days, frowning. Still, from what she’d overheard so far, he had used what she’d given him so far, so she didn’t doubt that this would also be one of them.
Veronica had intended to remain quiet and invisible for as long as she could – but the march to Skyhold was long, the blizzard cold, the dark and uncertainty frightening. So, she gathered the children and she told them stories all day and evening until her voice gave out.
She told the story of Mulan – the children had been bemused that woman hadn’t been allowed into the military and Veronica had nodded sagely.
“You’re imagining telling someone like the Lady Cassandra she’s not allowed to fight, aren’t you?” she’d asked and hundreds of tiny faces had turned to look at the Seeker, bursting into giggles, nudging each other.
“Now imagine someone like me,” she’d said with a wide grin tugging at her lips and winking at them. “A baby nug could probably push me over,” she told them and the children were laughing again, even when some of them tried to earnestly reassure her that while a Halla may be able to do so, they didn’t think she would fall prey to a nug. Hugging the adorable little children closest to her, she thanked them and patted them on the back for trying to help a friend.
Unfortunately, it had drawn some attention from both Leliana and Cassandra, who then proceeded to listen in to the stories she told. Not bad yet, but not quite invisible anymore.
She followed this up with Disney stories like Balto (very suitable considering the weather), Beauty and the Beast, Cinderella, Rapunzel, Dumbo, Toy Story, Frozen (a bit precarious given the magic), 101 Dalmatians, Tangled, Brother Bear, Robin Hood, the Lion King and any other story that came to mind. Anything and everything, so long as it had a happy end, that is.
Along with that came teaching them songs like ‘You’ve got a friend in me’, ‘the circle of life’, ‘Hakuna Matata’, ‘Look through my eyes’ and ‘you’ll be in my heart’.
It helped cheer up not only the children but also the adults to have the happy kids bouncing, singing loudly and often off-key, but enthusiasm and joy made up for a lot. Krem shared the little woven nugs with wide-eyed little children who practically had stars in their eyes when he distributed them, making the mercenary second-in-command blush to Veronica’s quiet amusement.
Still, Veronica had never been more happy that she’d taken a degree in literature and the many, many hours she’d spent babysitting her younger nieces and nephews. You could only watch Disney movies on repeat so often before it became engrained in your memory.
Still, with the added attention paid to her, Veronica wasn’t as surprised as she should have been, when Varric waved her over one night, to the campfire silently reserved for the companions, advisors and the soon-to-be-Inquisitor.
“So, Songbird, do you have any stories to share with us?”
This was not the fire servants were usually allowed at – not that anyone had turned them away, but rather an implicit understanding which had kept them well away from it. The chargers were sat close by, just behind the Iron Bull but everyone else was a bit more distanced – or as much as one could out in the open when one had huddle together for warmth.
Head lowered, Veronica knelt down a bit behind Varric, between him and Cassandra, hands folded gently in her lap within view.
“Plenty,” she reassured him. “What kind of story are you looking for?”
She was already tempted to tell the story of Lois and Clark, but, well, first a world without magic, then you’d have to explain lasers (how?) and then she would have to explain journalism, freedom of the press, aeroplanes and a whole host of other things. It’s like Star Wars all over again. How do you explain interstellar travel to a world which did not have cars, aircraft or even gliders. Yeah, that was, rather unfortunately, not happening.
“You got any stories about Dragons?” The Iron Bull naturally asked before anyone else could raise their voice. Veronica should’ve expected it, really, but she didn’t actually have many stories about dragons other than Eragon and How to train your dragon.
“Depends,” she tells him. “are you alright with a long story? It may take more than one night to tell.”
Iron Bull shrugs but Varric is shaking his head already.
“Maybe start with a shorter one?” He gave her a quick wink. “Still need to find out if you’re any good.”
Leliana is staring at her from underneath her hood, red hair slightly obscured, eyes fixed. Veronica remembers the bard from Origins, the softer one who told her stories, who sang, who had such strong, unfaltering faith.
Josie’s beside her, leaning forward, looking intrigued. Cullen’s rubbing his head – likely suffering still from persistent headaches. He’s prettier still than she expected, she admits, as she has to every time she’s close enough to see the hairs curling around his head, the roguish smiles or annoyed squint in his eyes, the scar pulling at his lip. Yes, that man is definitely too pretty for this world. Blackwall is whittling away, but his eyes keep flickering to her – they’re both taking care of the children; it’s a nice thing to have in common with someone, despite his history. Sera sits beside him, restless, making quick, quiet little comments which have Blackwall huffing and chuckling on occasion, beard moving as he smiles. Somehow Vivienne has ended up beside them, and Solas beside her. That’s – yeah, she’s not sure how that happened but it’s not quite the greatest position for the companions to be in, judging by the banter she’s listened to for hours. Beside the elvhen not-God sits the Inquisitor, offering the elf shy glances and tentative touches, Varric on her other side. Cole keeps leaving, and reappearing where he wishes, so he doesn’t have an assigned seat and Dorian sits between Leliana and The Iron Bull.
And suddenly she knows just what story to tell, smiling to herself, brightening.
“How about the Princess Bride?” She asks, despite knowing it would mean nothing to them. “It’s got adventure, friendship, romance and humor.”
“Well then,” Varric says, an eyebrow raised at her obvious enthusiasm, “colour me intrigued.”
“As you wish.”
“Just because you"re beautiful and perfect, it"s made you conceited.”
“Do I love you? By the Maker, if your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.”
“He didn’t fall?! Inconceivable!” – “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”
“Life isn"t fair, it"s just fairer than death, that"s all.”
“Look, are you just fiddling around with me or what?” – “I just want you to feel you"re doing well. I hate for people to die embarrassed.”
“It’s not my fault being the biggest and the strongest. I don’t even exercise.”
“I told you I would always come for you. Why didn"t you wait for me?” – “Well ... you were dead.” – “Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.” – “I will never doubt again.” – “There will never be a need.”
“We’ll never survive.” – “Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.”
“Surrender.” – “You mean you wish to surrender to me? Very well, I accept.”
“Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.”
Cassandra, hands twisted in front of her heart, turned her head aside as she quickly swiped away tears, clearly taken in by the romance.
“That Tal-Vashoth was hilarious. Would love to meet him if they were real,” The Iron Bull tells her, obviously probing to see if she has incorporated or likened characters to real life.
Veronica giggles slightly – she can’t help it. The Iron Bull, a Qunari, a fictional character, is trying to pry information from her. It’s so surreal.
“Not as far as I know, but it’s not my story.”
“You ever thought of writing them down, Songbird?” Varric asks, tapping his pen against his notebook.
She shrugs. “I remember stories and songs very well, but I’m not very good at writing things stories. I never quite know how to phrase things right.”
“It is difficult,” Cassandra agrees with a frustrated grunt.
“Why, Seeker, is that a compliment I hear?” Varric teases, sly smirk pulling at the corners of his lips and Veronica has to bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from either cooing or laughing.
“Well,” she diverts before the two can get into it, “you’re welcome to write these things down so long as I get some of the profits.”
She would be able to help out so much more. While almost all the Elvhen servants had made it, due to their preparations, not all servants were Elves and not all had listened. There were also the orphaned children and while the chantry was helpful on occasion, it also indoctrinated the young ones with propaganda and racism. If she could help and assist without those, if she could get enough together to build a school in the Inquisition, to teach, even just for a few, short years – yeah, Veronica liked the idea of leaving them at least a little better off in the world if the organisation disbanded at the Exalted Council.
Plus, she’d need some to figure out her life post-Inquisition. She was still keeping a wary eye on the elves who had come in from Kirkwall, but so far none of them had said anything or made any kind of move, not mentioned the Qun. It was difficult when you had to keep secrets from everyone around you, when you knew with certainty that you couldn’t even trust your friends.
“Interesting. Let’s have a talk once we get to the mysterious place discovered in the fade.”
“I have to say,” Solas adds in slowly, eyes intent on her – a wolf fixed on his prey. “in all my journeys across the fade, I have never heard this story before – or the ones you told the children over the past view days. Nor the songs.”
Veronica hunches in on herself, wondering if there is some sort of evolutionary response triggered inside her by being surrounded with these medieval warriors and this Elvhen god, for all that he proclaims not to be one, a sort of survival instinct which tells her to make herself small and invisible, to hide and freeze and hopefully remain below the notice of the larger predators.
“I don’t know; I’ve listened to them with my family. I wasn’t aware of how rare they were, until I shared them here,” she says quietly, aware her voice is shaking, eyes fixed on the ground. She still remembers Solas’ eyes flashing and people turning to stone in an instant with only the barest flex of his power.
“And where is your family?” Leliana butts in, eyes hard as they gaze at her, all attention fixed on her.
“Gone,” Veronica breathes out, her voice a mere whisper, heart aching for the people and the world she lost. The tears are, luckily, slower in coming these days than they used to be.
“Ma serannas sul Era,” Solas tells her and she parses, slowly, thank you for the story. It’s lucky she’s such a nerd – unlucky it’s not Lord of the Rings – she was so much better at that Elvish.
“Sathem,” she tells him with a nod and is pleased to see his eyes widen slightly. You’re welcome.
“You understood that?” The Inquisitor, Ellana, asks, brows furrowed and looking surprised. She wonders if the First of the Lavellan clan expected non-Dalish elves to not understand anything.
“Vin.” Yes.
“Eurk. And I thought you were one of the little people. But you’re all up your arse and Elvish like these two, aren’t you?” Sera grumped, looking frustrated already. Veronica barely hid her sigh – she never had quite understood Sera.
“Language is important,” she says instead of retaliating as she wants to.
“Why? Can just as well all talk in Trade, yeah?” Sera says, still not thinking, not engaging, stubbornly set in her views. That’s alright – so’s Veronica.
“How do you destroy a people?” The question’s rhetorical, but she asks it anyway, allowing a slight pause for them to answer before continuing. “You take away their culture. Their language, their history, their very identity. When people lose their language, it’s not just the language you lose. It’s all their poems, their stories, their songs. Language is more than just words, it’s our mothers’ first lullaby, the first time we say ‘I love you’, and the last words we utter before we die.”
Veronica pauses for breath. She’s familiar with this topic at least, from two decades of education. From history lessons, from the many, many people her world destroyed, whose language they took.
“There’s another word for it – assimilation. You’re told you’re now part of this world, these people, and it’s your job to fit in. Your job to look like them. Your job to talk like them. To act like them. Don’t you dare be different. Don’t you dare dispute their version of history. History is written by the victors and those they conquered have no more say in how they’re portrayed, how they will be viewed for the centuries to come. Your job is to give up on everything you’ve ever known, and become like them, swallow the lies and not stand against them.” Veronica shrugs. “Or you will be cut down.”
“Damn,” Krem says with a quiet whistle from just behind The Iron Bull, eyes wide. “You’re not holding back, are you?”
Veronica shrugs again.
“Sera is allowed her own point of view, but I just think she’s grown up indoctrinated by the very culture which banned her books which may have said otherwise, banned her language for fear they may talk to each other in a way those oppressing them couldn’t understand. While I understand why she thinks we’re just ‘stuck in the past’, she also hasn’t been given the opportunity to understand why we are so fixated on retaining the few pieces that we have and hold on tight, refusing to let go, even if it incurs punishment.”
“Don’t tell me you’re another revolutionary, Songbird,” Varric half-begs, “I’ve met enough of them.”
“No,” she tells him with certainty. “Never. Violence just hurts those who are already hurt. Instead of exposing the brutality of those oppressing, it justifies is. We need to overcome oppression and violence without resorting to oppression and violence.” She breathes out quietly. “There’s a very good quote from a non-violent revolutionary before my time: ‘I refuse to accept the view that mankind is so tragically bound to the starless midnight of racism and war that the bright daybreak of peace and brotherhood can never become a reality. I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word.’”
“What happened to that person?” Solas asks into the sudden quiet.
“The same thing that happens to most revolutionaries: his life was cut short and he was assassinated.”
“Mind if I quote you on some of the things you said, Songbird?” Varric asks and Veronica nods.
“They’re not my words. But I like the idea that they’ll find their way into your book and live on a little bit longer, reach the hearts of more people, even if the ones who said the words are forgotten by history.”
Varric pats her gently on the knee, other hand occupied taking extensive notes on what she said.
“Why did you join the Inquisition?” Cullen asks, looking curious and wow, his voice is warm and silky. He would make a fortune in audiobooks.
“I didn’t know where else to go and it looked like you needed every available hand on deck.”
Cullen grimaces but concedes gracefully. “Fair enough.”
“I stayed,” she adds after a pause, deliberately slowly, “because I believe in your cause; in closing the Breach, in helping people where you find them, no matter where they’re from, and in fighting back against these red lyrium people.”
Veronica only barely stopped herself saying Corypheus but the name has not yet made it across the people and until that information is disseminated amongst the masses, it’s not knowledge she should have or expose she has. She also knows that Varric is the only reason they are actually reaching out and helping everyone and not just a select few – more than one person joining the Inquisition has shared that the dwarf was the one convincing the Inquisitor to aid others. Veronica’s not sure what will happen when Varric will inevitably, at some point, be left at Skyhold when the Inquisitor takes other companions with her and leaves him behind. Who will take on the role? Whom will the dwarf entrust with her notes?
There’s a genuine smile curving Cullen’s lips upwards at her words and Veronica ducks her head back down quickly, a flush covering her cheeks. Her infatuation with the man on a screen back from Origins has only grown since she met the real-life person back in Haven. She’s barely resisted asking him about vows of chastity, but doubts he would be as indulgent with a random servant / message runner as he was with the Inquisitor, and she had no intention of scaring the man away.
“You do tell a brilliant story,” Varric says, changing topics. “Just as you said – humour, romance, adventure. Any chance we can get more stories out of you?”
Veronica hesitates but continues with her first impulse. “You may join us anytime at the servant’s fire. We share stories and songs every night.”
It’s an invitation for mixing with the lower-class, the elves, but more than that – it’s her telling them that she’s off working hours and they will not take precedence over the ones who helped her first in this world. A few of the companions are smirking, clearly having understood the underlying message, but Elana remains rather naïve for a Dalish elf and has not yet reached that conclusion. It’s alright – she’s not an evil Inquisitor, she’s not the kind, open-hearted one she’d hoped for, but it’s not bad, Veronica surmises, as she stands up, ready to leave.
This is not her group, she has to remind herself. She’s not the Inquisitor. She cannot joke with these people, not laugh with them. Can’t prod Solas with questions on the fade, can’t share romantic poems and stories with Cassandra, gush over cute little pets with Leliana or admire the Bull’s chargers and make The Iron Bull brag about them like a proud father. She loves them, but they don’t know her, don’t reciprocate. She can see the thinly veiled suspicions and curiosity barely hidden in their eyes. They only stopped asking because they could see she was done answering.
“Isn’t there usually a song to finish off?” Dorian asks curiously, leaning around The Iron Bull to hold her gaze.
Servant, Veronica reminds herself quickly and drops her gaze from his. No eye contact – it’s the hardest one to learn, given how in Western culture a lack of eye contact is seen as offensive, dismissive rather than subservience.
“What kind of song would you like?” She asks, barely withholding a sigh. By this point, as much as she loves meeting the real version of these people, she’d much rather be back with the servants. Not only are they less intrusive, she can relax more around them – not all the way, not with Fen’Harel’s and the Qun’s spies, but partly, at least.
“Actually,” she says, “hold that thought. I got the perfect one.”
She clears her throat, slightly stepping away and back from the group.
We could just go home right now
Or maybe we could stick around
For just one more drink, oh yeah
Get another bottle out
Lets shoot the shit
Sit back down
For just one more drink, oh yeah
Here"s to us, here"s to love
All the times that we fucked up
Here"s to you, fill the glass
"Cause the last few days have kicked my ass
So let’s give "em hell
Wish everybody well, here"s to us, here"s to us
Stuck it out this far together
Put our dreams through the shredder
Let"s toast "cause things got better
And everything could change like that
And all these years go by so fast
But nothing lasts forever
Here"s to us, here"s to love
All the times that we messed up
Here"s to you, fill the glass
"Cause the last few nights have kicked my ass
If they give ya hell
Tell em to go fuck themselves, here"s to us, here"s to us
Here"s to all that we kissed
And to all that we missed
To the biggest mistakes
That we just wouldn"t trade
To us breaking up
Without us breaking down
To whatever"s comin" our way
Here"s to us, here"s to love
All the times that we fucked up
Here"s to you, fill the glass
"Cause the last few days have kicked my ass
So lets give "em hell
Wish everybody well
Here"s to us, here"s to love
All the times, that we messed up
Here"s to you, fill the glass
"Cause the last few nights have kicked my ass
If they give ya hell
Tell em to go fuck themselves, here"s to us, here"s to us (Go fuck themselves)
Here"s to us, here"s to us
Here"s to us, here"s to us
Here"s to us, here"s to love
Here"s to us, wish everybody well
Here"s to us, here"s to love
Here"s to us, here"s to us
It earns her a round of laughter and applause from the group. She gives them a quick curtsy before dashing away to join the servants again, collapsing in a puddle against one of her friends there, breathing out now that she’s finally away from the eyes staring at her, analysing her every move.
By the time they’re at Skyhold, Veronica has somehow ended up promising that she will hold a ladies’ night at the campfire twice a week with romantic stories. Naturally, The Iron Bull, Dorian and Varric all manage to finagle their way into the group as well – somehow.
Titanic and Notebook take up the first fortnight, including the accompanying songs. Veronica is rather proud to say that Cassandra is in tears by the end of Titanic (as is Dorian, much as he tries to hide it) and quite a few others. Funnily enough, Cassandra always starts out near the edges of the campfire but by half-way through the story, she’s usually in the frontlines. She can already see the wheels in Varric’s head spinning, the way he does a double-take when he notices that the Seeker is not paying an ounce of attention to anything but the story, the way she’s enthusiastic and moved by them every time. Vera really hopes he’ll figure out the bit about her reading his novels soon – it promises to be rather amusing.
This is followed by Atonement – more tears – before she lands on one of her favourites – Pride and Prejudice.
“So, what do you recommend, to encourage affection?” - “Dancing. Even if one’s partner is barely tolerable.”
“I’m no longer surprised at you knowing only six accomplished women. I rather wonder at you knowing any. I never saw such a woman. She would certainly be a fearsome thing to behold.”
“My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”
“Are those the words of a gentleman? From the first moment I met you, your arrogance and deceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others, made me realise that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry!” – “Forgive me, madam, for taking up so much of your time.”
“Handsome face. Lizzie?” – “Yes, I dare say he is.”
“But he says you play so well.” – “Then he has perjured himself most profoundly.” – “No, I said played quite well.” – “Oh, quite well is not very well. I am satisfied.”
“Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now tell me, once and for all, are you engaged to him?” – “I am not.” – “Will you promise never to enter into such an engagement?” – “I will not and I certainly never shall.”
“My affections and wishes haven’t changed, but one word from you will silence me forever.”
“You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love- I love- I love you. I never wish to be parted from you, from this day on.”
Veronica could now proudly say that she’d heard Cassandra squee with glee and even Leliana had joined on this one, looking unusually soft-eyed by the end of it. Dorian made a quip about how much harder the men in Skyhold would now have to work to vie for a woman’s heart when the threshold was set so high.
More than once, now, she’s also stumbled into meeting the Commander – Cullen – walking across the fortress at night, admiring the stars.
“You have a beautiful voice,” he tells her one night, and Vera feels her lips twitching.
“So do you,” she says, winking at him, remembering his voice from the Dawn-song, and gets to see the first time that Cullen blushes in her presence, ears turning red. It’s just adorable and attractive as she had expected it to be.
“Ah- That is to say. I-Thank you?”
She laughs. “Are you asking me?”
“No,” he quickly corrects, more certain this time. “Thank you, my lady.”
“It’s the truth,” she confesses with a slight shrug and the fading blush on his cheeks comes back.
He clears his throat, shifting.
“What brings you out here at night, Lady Vera?”
Still, no one has actually asked her name. The companions expected everyone to know their name – which, true enough, she does, so the opportunity to ask her name never arose. And now they all think they know; it’s still kind of funny.
“Just Vera,” she says, “no lady. Or Veronica.”
A wicked smile pulls at her lip as she glances up at him from beneath her lashes. “As you wish,” she tells him and the blush this time is even darker. Cullen’s rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact, clearing his throat – she’d love nothing more than to pin him to the wall and snog him (or be pinned, she wasn’t picky), just to see if she could make that blush spread further.
“Anyway,” she starts, eyes automatically turning back to the sky as they had been before Cullen joined her. “I just enjoy looking out at the stars. There’s something about them – makes you feel so tiny and insignificant by comparison, looking at the vast universe out there. I like looking at them and thinking that these are the same stars my friends and family looked up to, that they will be the same stars people will look at in a hundred years and although I will be long dead and gone by then, there’s something reassuring in that permanence. We are important because of our impermanence, because in this vast world we’re just flickering candle lights, burning up quickly – but we burn brightly and for that short time, we can do our best to share our fire with others, to illuminate and burn away the darkness around us. There’s some beauty to be found in that, I think.”
Cullen huffs slightly. “You keep surprising me, Lad- Veronica. You keep sharing these profound, moving words,” he shakes his head slightly. “You make me look at the world around myself with a different eye.” He glances at her, amber eyes steady yet soft as they take her in, before continuing quietly, voice just a quiet whisper in the night. “And I see more beauty in this world than I thought could be found.”
The blush racing across her cheeks is blazing with heat, and she ducks her head down. A gentle tap under her chin makes her look up, meeting the eyes of the blonde ex-templar, lips slightly parted.
“Thank you,” he tells her sincerely and this time the smile on her lips is wide and genuine.
“Any time,” she reassures him, hands fastening around his. If this has given him a respite from withdrawal, helped him through it, she’s all the more glad for it.
“Would you grace me with another song?”
The smile drops but she nods. Of course she would – for him, anything.
But he notices – of course he does. It’s heady, being the focus of his attention, even as much as it worries her.
“A song you’d enjoy, one suited to your mood,” he tells her softly and Veronica hesitates.
“Even if it’s a sad one?”
He smiles gently. “Especially then. Giving voice to our grief, by whatever means, can be a soothing balm and comfort our souls. If you were willing to share, I would be grateful to see you entrust me with such a gift.”
Her heart aches and she pulls his hand closer, placing a soft kiss on the knuckles of his hand, noting the callouses and scars he bears even as she relinquishes the hold she has on him.
Her voice is soft, shaky, as she starts, thinking of all she’s lost, of the people lost at Haven, of the things Cullen had gone through, of Anders and Varric and Hawke, of everything this world had lost.
“There"s a grief that can"t be spoken. There"s a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables. Now my friends are dead and gone
Here they talked of revolution. Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about tomorrow. And tomorrow never came.”
Her voice is soft, dark, thinking of the young people who died, never seeing the very thing they were fighting for come to pass. It happened so often, in every world. She’d always been soft-hearted, taking losses and pain of people she never knew deeply to heart.
She breathes in deeply, her voice rising slowly with the lyrics, becoming more powerful, carried and echoed back by the stones around her.
“From the table in the corner. They could see a world reborn.
And they rose with voices ringing. And I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung. Became their last communion.”
Her voice drops to a softer tone again.
“On this lonely barricade. At dawn
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me. That I live and you are gone.
There"s a grief that can"t be spoken. There"s a pain goes on and on
Her voice strengthened, along with her grief, as she sang it out into the world, into Skyhold, barely noticing Cullen’s hand gently resting on her lower back supportively.
Phantom faces at the window. Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables. Where my friends will meet no more
Oh my friends, my friends! Don"t ask me what your sacrifice was for.
Empty chairs at empty tables. Where my friends will sing no more”
She finishes softly, voice low but carrying still, tears running down her face as she turns to face Cullen.
This time he takes her hand, places a soft kiss on the back of it, lips lingering longer than would be appropriate.
“Thank you,” he tells her again, “for choosing to share this with me.”
She doesn’t even think to stop him when he reaches for the curly hair which has fallen across her face, just keeps her eyes steady on his as he tucks it behind the shell of her ear and realises, undoubtedly, that she is human, rather than elven.
His eyes widen, but he doesn’t change his behaviour, continuing the movement before slowly retracting his hand.
“Thank you,” she tells him after another pause, once her voice sounds a little less like she’s about to break down in tears. “I needed that,” she confesses quietly, wiping away the tears on her cheeks.
“The pleasure was mine,” he assures her and, oh, look at that, her cheeks blush still under his attention. There’s a smirk curling at his lips now, a new confidence, but his eyes are still soft as he reaches to brush softly across her cheek. She leans into the touch for a moment, closing her eyes, releasing a deep sigh as her body relaxes at the wonderful feeling of safety emanating from the man in front of her. He’s loyal to a fault, protective, and she knows he’d stand in front of her, protecting her, in a second if anyone came after her. That reassurance is hard to come by in this world and she soaks it up, as long as he lets her.
After a moment, the hand falls away and her eyes blink open. For the first time, she wonders how people flirt in the Dragon Age – how do they court?
“I- When,” she hesitates, but continues after a second, “When can I see you again?” She asks, peering up beneath her lashes, hoping he will understand. Her question seems to settle for a moment before his eyes widen and he clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully.
“Would you be able to join me for lunch, tomorrow, my lady?”
Her face brightens as she offers him a wide smile and quick nod.
“I would be delighted to,” Veronica assures him and he smiles back at her. That scar on his lips should not be this insanely attractive, she thinks.
“I will have it set up for the midday bell in the gardens, if that would suit you, La- Veronica?”
She curtsies quickly with an irrepressible smile still at her lips.
“That would be perfect, Sir Rutherford,” she says teasingly and he laughs, voice rough from exhaustion but oh-so-perfect nonetheless. She could drown in that voice.
She takes a step away, pausing, before turning back. Her hand reaches up to his neck and she sees his eyes widen as she tugs him down and places a soft kiss at the corner of his lips, just by the edge of his scar.
“To carry me through until tomorrow,” she offers with a cheeky grin, watching the blush bloom across his face.
She longs to know more of him, to see more, to understand more than the small insight offered by the game. Not just his favourite colour, but his dreams and aspirations, whether he wants a family, what his sisters are doing, what he thinks and wants – she wants to discuss books with him and lie back, staring at the sky. She wants this war to be over, wants to help him accomplish his dreams, see his family, have a mabari and whatever he wants in his life. She wants him to look at her, always, the way he did tonight – like she is all he sees.
Damien Rice’s ‘Can’t take my eyes off of you’ starts falling from her lips almost automatically as she walks away, first in a quiet hum, then a murmur, until she is singing to herself, genuinely happy and content for the first time since she’s been here.
She will make this world hers. Will make sure this world will have an ideal ending, a happy one, for all the companions, but especially so for one Cullen Stanton Rutherford.
“I can’t take my eyes off of you.”