Lavellan had been thrilled to learn about the new hot springs, and had been quick to take the opportunity to take a dip. Though, of course, it being public meant that when she showed up and slipped into the water, she was wearing a light, cotton shift and shorts, easy enough to relax in the water, without revealing too much. There's no miniature cheese wheels to place on her eyes, unfortunately, but otherwise she's quite content to nod politely to whoever else is in there, lean back, and let herself relax.
That is, until she hears the voices.
a. becoming the chosen one
The waters form into a rendering of Lavellan, significantly younger, with vivid green lines tattooed boldly upon her face--the vallaslin of Mythal, for any who knew to identify it as such. Walking by her side is another woman, sharp in face and voice, a thick Nevarran accent accenting her words as she speaks to Lavellan.
"The Inquisition requires a leader: The one who has already been leading it."
As the two of them walk up the stairs, Lavellan's gaze pans to a large gathering of people--elves, humans, and dwarves all stare up at her ponderously (though a strapping blond man and a beautiful Antivan woman stand out against the crowd, through the lens of her memory). Lavellan and the woman exchange words, dimmed in the memory, as Lavellan looks back at her, shocked. Then another woman approaches, offering up an ornamental longsword. Lavellan stares at it, then at the crowd. They stir, restless, and the emotion across their face is a desperate, adoring hope. They need that hope.
They need her.
"I was chosen by the Maker, sent by Andraste's hand to restore what Corypheus could never destroy." She takes the sword, and turns towards the crowd. "I will be a servant of the Light, and I will spread that Light across the world. The Inquisition belongs to the faithful, and I will be their leader." The blond man faces the rest of the crowd, and yells out over them, voice confident and triumphant.
"Inquisition, will you follow?" The crowd begins calling out loudly in agreement. "Will you fight?" The cheering begins to get louder, and up above them, Lavellan's eyes begin to widen, clearly taken off guard. "For your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!" He has a sword in his hand now, pointing to Lavellan, as the crowd bursts into a cacophony of adulation, screaming and shouting, hands raised, pointing towards her, or reaching for her. They are hopeful, they are jubilant, they are adoring.
And Lavellan stares down at them for a long moment--then a change. A light in her eyes. A smile slowly growing on her lips, as she comes to the realization of just what is happening here. That this crowd is all calling for her. They are her people. And she begins to realize that she likes it.
Her sword raises, to the cheering of the crowd, and Lavellan looks down at them with an intense, pleased look in her eye. It is the moment that she realizes: She can do this. She can rule over them.
b. a scheme hatched
The water reveals the scene of a dark hallway, and Lavellan is there, walking down it, dressed in beautiful formal wear, a dark green dress embroidered with golden vines, jewelry and makeup elaborately done. Trailing after her are three people, the woman Cassandra, from the last memory, a stout dwarf that others from Thedas might recognize as Varric, and then one person anybody here could recognize: none other than Solas himself, all three of them just as richly and fancily garbed.
"Inquisitor," Cassandra is telling her, as they hurry. "We must stop Florianne from killing the Empress. We have to tell her--"
"We will not." Lavellan interrupts her calmly, waving a hand. "Florianne is going to succeed, and then we are going to sweep in, to make sure everyone knows it was her, and put a stop to her." This declaration is shocking enough that Cassandra wheels to a stop, staring open-mouthed.
"You cannot mean--"
"Celene murdered hundreds of elves. Burned alive in their very homes, because people said she was too soft on us." Lavellan's face remained calm, but her eyes were alive with animosity, voice laced with venom. "She dies, Cassandra."
"Not to say that she doesn't deserve it," The dwarf speaks up, or drawls, really, not seeming surprised by Lavellan's declaration. "But you know Gaspard isn't a friend of the elves either, right? He hunts the Dalish--hunts your people--like you'd go after a deer. If Celene dies, he's going to become Emperor."
"Which is why," Lavellan straightens, and there is a suspiciously smug look growing on her face as she smooths the front of her dress. She is enjoying herself. "it would be very convenient if all that information we found that ties Gaspard to his own schemes against Celene were to be placed in the hands of the elven ambassador. The elven ambassador that would owe us a great favor."
"And Gaspard would have to dance to Briala's whims," Solas finishes off. His eyes are soft as he watches her speak, and when she turns to him, his expression is a mix of pride and adoration. His beautiful, scheming beloved. "Gaspard will rule only at the discretion of an elf. She will protect the elves in the city out of her own interests, and guard the Dalish out of loyalty to you." He takes a step forward, and Lavellan is already leaning towards him. "Well done, Vhenan."
"If you two start getting mushy, I'm leaving." Varric threatens, waving a hand. "Do whatever you think is best, Inquisitor. But we'd better do it fast." Cassandra is the only one that looks hesitant, even as the group starts to move forward again. "Inquisitor, you are playing with fire. I hope you know what you're doing."
"Look at it this way," Lavellan turns to assure her, and the smile on her face looks positively nefarious. "Orlais will not take the Venatori killing their Empress lightly. Celene will become a blessed matyr--for our cause."
---
c. good bye to a good friend
The waters resolve into what appears to be an office, one with a large wooden desk right in the middle, and a map of a continent that anyone from Thedas would recognize as home. Lavellan is standing next to it, the dwarf known as Varric next to her. She's turning away from the map, face pulled into a tight mask of worry as she faces her companion. This time, she looks different from the first two memories--her face is missing the green tattoos of vines, and her arm is missing. So is the prosthetic, the sleeve of her left arm being empty and neatly tied.
"Varric, you're the only one I can trust for this."
"You mean, I'm the only one you trust to not try to kill him on sight." The dwarf drawls, turning to face her with a warm smile. "Maybe the only one you trust to be able to talk some sense into him."
Lavellan laughs hollowly, rubbing her face. She looks tired. Far more tired than she did in the previous memories, or she seems now. "Both in one, I fear. You're annoyingly good at that."
"Let's just hope it works on him." Varric replies, shaking his head with a smile. He lifts up, away from the table, and then pauses right when he's about to step away, turning to face Lavellan with a thoughtful expression.
"Hey, Inquisitor. There's one thing I need you to do before I head off across Thedas, for however long it takes."
"Name it, Varric. If I can do it, consider it done."
"I need you to cry for me."
Lavellan meets the declaration with a startled stare, the silence stretching on for a moment--then another, and on until they gathered into a stretch of time. Varric smiles patiently, waiting until Lavellan could manage a choked "I--I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." He waves around him, then to the map. "I'm not blind, Inquisitor. Your world has been falling around your ears. Your gods aren't your gods, your friends are scattering, and your dear--"
"I get the picture."
"--The point is. Everything that's been going on, and I haven't seen you cry. Not once. You just...zone out, and stare off into the distance. Like you're on another continent, by yourself. It's not healthy. If I'm going to leave you behind, then I have to know that you're going to be okay without me. I have to know that you're going to be able to cry."
"Varric--" And true to her word, her voice is already choked when she mutters his name.
i. waters of memory
That is, until she hears the voices.
a. becoming the chosen one
The waters form into a rendering of Lavellan, significantly younger, with vivid green lines tattooed boldly upon her face--the vallaslin of Mythal, for any who knew to identify it as such. Walking by her side is another woman, sharp in face and voice, a thick Nevarran accent accenting her words as she speaks to Lavellan.
"The Inquisition requires a leader: The one who has already been leading it."
As the two of them walk up the stairs, Lavellan's gaze pans to a large gathering of people--elves, humans, and dwarves all stare up at her ponderously (though a strapping blond man and a beautiful Antivan woman stand out against the crowd, through the lens of her memory). Lavellan and the woman exchange words, dimmed in the memory, as Lavellan looks back at her, shocked. Then another woman approaches, offering up an ornamental longsword. Lavellan stares at it, then at the crowd. They stir, restless, and the emotion across their face is a desperate, adoring hope. They need that hope.
They need her.
"I was chosen by the Maker, sent by Andraste's hand to restore what Corypheus could never destroy." She takes the sword, and turns towards the crowd. "I will be a servant of the Light, and I will spread that Light across the world. The Inquisition belongs to the faithful, and I will be their leader." The blond man faces the rest of the crowd, and yells out over them, voice confident and triumphant.
"Inquisition, will you follow?" The crowd begins calling out loudly in agreement. "Will you fight?" The cheering begins to get louder, and up above them, Lavellan's eyes begin to widen, clearly taken off guard. "For your leader! Your Herald! Your Inquisitor!" He has a sword in his hand now, pointing to Lavellan, as the crowd bursts into a cacophony of adulation, screaming and shouting, hands raised, pointing towards her, or reaching for her. They are hopeful, they are jubilant, they are adoring.
And Lavellan stares down at them for a long moment--then a change. A light in her eyes. A smile slowly growing on her lips, as she comes to the realization of just what is happening here. That this crowd is all calling for her. They are her people. And she begins to realize that she likes it.
Her sword raises, to the cheering of the crowd, and Lavellan looks down at them with an intense, pleased look in her eye. It is the moment that she realizes: She can do this. She can rule over them.
b. a scheme hatched
The water reveals the scene of a dark hallway, and Lavellan is there, walking down it, dressed in beautiful formal wear, a dark green dress embroidered with golden vines, jewelry and makeup elaborately done. Trailing after her are three people, the woman Cassandra, from the last memory, a stout dwarf that others from Thedas might recognize as Varric, and then one person anybody here could recognize: none other than Solas himself, all three of them just as richly and fancily garbed.
"Inquisitor," Cassandra is telling her, as they hurry. "We must stop Florianne from killing the Empress. We have to tell her--"
"We will not." Lavellan interrupts her calmly, waving a hand. "Florianne is going to succeed, and then we are going to sweep in, to make sure everyone knows it was her, and put a stop to her." This declaration is shocking enough that Cassandra wheels to a stop, staring open-mouthed.
"You cannot mean--"
"Celene murdered hundreds of elves. Burned alive in their very homes, because people said she was too soft on us." Lavellan's face remained calm, but her eyes were alive with animosity, voice laced with venom. "She dies, Cassandra."
"Not to say that she doesn't deserve it," The dwarf speaks up, or drawls, really, not seeming surprised by Lavellan's declaration. "But you know Gaspard isn't a friend of the elves either, right? He hunts the Dalish--hunts your people--like you'd go after a deer. If Celene dies, he's going to become Emperor."
"Which is why," Lavellan straightens, and there is a suspiciously smug look growing on her face as she smooths the front of her dress. She is enjoying herself. "it would be very convenient if all that information we found that ties Gaspard to his own schemes against Celene were to be placed in the hands of the elven ambassador. The elven ambassador that would owe us a great favor."
"And Gaspard would have to dance to Briala's whims," Solas finishes off. His eyes are soft as he watches her speak, and when she turns to him, his expression is a mix of pride and adoration. His beautiful, scheming beloved. "Gaspard will rule only at the discretion of an elf. She will protect the elves in the city out of her own interests, and guard the Dalish out of loyalty to you." He takes a step forward, and Lavellan is already leaning towards him. "Well done, Vhenan."
"If you two start getting mushy, I'm leaving." Varric threatens, waving a hand. "Do whatever you think is best, Inquisitor. But we'd better do it fast." Cassandra is the only one that looks hesitant, even as the group starts to move forward again. "Inquisitor, you are playing with fire. I hope you know what you're doing."
"Look at it this way," Lavellan turns to assure her, and the smile on her face looks positively nefarious. "Orlais will not take the Venatori killing their Empress lightly. Celene will become a blessed matyr--for our cause."
---
c. good bye to a good friend
The waters resolve into what appears to be an office, one with a large wooden desk right in the middle, and a map of a continent that anyone from Thedas would recognize as home. Lavellan is standing next to it, the dwarf known as Varric next to her. She's turning away from the map, face pulled into a tight mask of worry as she faces her companion. This time, she looks different from the first two memories--her face is missing the green tattoos of vines, and her arm is missing. So is the prosthetic, the sleeve of her left arm being empty and neatly tied.
"Varric, you're the only one I can trust for this."
"You mean, I'm the only one you trust to not try to kill him on sight." The dwarf drawls, turning to face her with a warm smile. "Maybe the only one you trust to be able to talk some sense into him."
Lavellan laughs hollowly, rubbing her face. She looks tired. Far more tired than she did in the previous memories, or she seems now. "Both in one, I fear. You're annoyingly good at that."
"Let's just hope it works on him." Varric replies, shaking his head with a smile. He lifts up, away from the table, and then pauses right when he's about to step away, turning to face Lavellan with a thoughtful expression.
"Hey, Inquisitor. There's one thing I need you to do before I head off across Thedas, for however long it takes."
"Name it, Varric. If I can do it, consider it done."
"I need you to cry for me."
Lavellan meets the declaration with a startled stare, the silence stretching on for a moment--then another, and on until they gathered into a stretch of time. Varric smiles patiently, waiting until Lavellan could manage a choked "I--I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." He waves around him, then to the map. "I'm not blind, Inquisitor. Your world has been falling around your ears. Your gods aren't your gods, your friends are scattering, and your dear--"
"I get the picture."
"--The point is. Everything that's been going on, and I haven't seen you cry. Not once. You just...zone out, and stare off into the distance. Like you're on another continent, by yourself. It's not healthy. If I'm going to leave you behind, then I have to know that you're going to be okay without me. I have to know that you're going to be able to cry."
"Varric--" And true to her word, her voice is already choked when she mutters his name.