Sisters of Tevinter

Forged

     It took three more excruciating hours to settle things with the council, but when it was finally done, Cullen stopped Jor in the hall as the others dispersed. 

      "Lady Trevelyan."

      "Commander?" 

      "I wanted to apologize-"

      "For what?" Wearily, Jor laughed. "Being practical?" 

      The commander shut his mouth.

      "Cullen, I understand completely. In fact, I'd have been concerned if you didn't react the way you did. I'd have asked you things like 'hey, are you feeling okay?' or 'How much sleep have you been getting?' " She chuckled helplessly and rubbed her eyes. "I understand your past relations with mages. I understand that this is out of the blue and inopportune timing-- for which I'm sorry." Her voice was soft. "So sorry." 

        "...It's a privilege, as well as a burden." Cullen smiled slightly. There was a sadness to it. "But it is nothing the Inquisition cannot handle. When the time comes, we'd be honored to have you join us in the War Room again."

         The words touched Jor. She smiled softly. "I'm grateful you're not booting me out on my ass to land in the snow."

        The commander laughed. "Unthinkable. Who would we hurl at the rifts?" 

        Jor had gone to bed that night praying for silent, darkened dreams. No nightmares. Just rest. She got her wish. She woke early and wandered in the dawn, feeling restless and achy but no longer on the brink of extinction. Snow fell in gentle wisps around her as she aimlessly found herself following the cobbled path to the lower levels of Haven. 

         Down past the gates was a small cluster of tents and the stables set against the mountains. The heady scent of hay and the steam rising off the horses' hide made the cold almost forgettable.  Beyond that, Jor heard the steady ringing of an anvil. 

          Uncertain, she ducked beneath the constructed wooden awnings against the mountain rock. It was stiflingly warm inside the nook and surprisingly dark for all the bright whiteness outside. 

         Sparks flew from a hammer, a heavyset man was bent over his work. Not wanting to disturb him, Jor kept to the fringes of the darkened alcove. A forge laid out across the center, embers still glowing a sweltering red. The bellows were inactive, set beside the firepit. 

        Weapons and shields of every size hung along the walls. Jor tentatively reached up to touch a round buckler emblazoned with lines of iron in the shape of twisting vines. It reminded her heavily of the tattoos on her left hand. She closed her eyes, pained. 

          "Listen, we don't dawdle in here- You gonna buy something?" 

         It was then, as she flinched, Jor realized the ringing of the anvil had ceased. She turned. "No, I'm sorry. I heard you, and I was out so early..."

         The man squinted at her, his narrow eyes discerning above a bristling red mustache. "Maker's Breath, you're that Herald of Andraste, aren't you." 

         "Yes. Jormungandr." She tried to smile, even though the chasm in her chest felt made of solid lead. She extended a hand. 

           The blacksmith took it readily, his soot stained glove leaving streaks on Jor's fingers. "Harritt. Well you're here now aren't you. What can I do for you?" 

            "Oh... Nothing really, I just-" Jor blinked. "Wait a minute." She took a step back to lift the side of her coat and pull the black dagger she had found from her belt.