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my god is made of stars and
that acidic burn at the back of your throat
when the alcohol hits it.
he eats fire for breakfast and
plays poker with human lives
as the stakes.
not a nice god?
no, i suppose not.
he was nice once upon a time,
but then faith fell out of favour and
basically he just got bored.
i mean, if you got the choice,
would you pick compassion or chaos?
(bear in mind that compassion is small kindnesses,
and chaos - well, chaos is an infinite.
set yourself down in history.
choose chaotically.)
Majalis Lavellan is born on a dark, starless night.
(At least, that’s what the bards sing in the years yet to come.)
She is born early, so small the Keeper thinks she may not live through the winter, so silent they wondered if she was dead in the womb. But she reached out of the swaddle of blankets into the cold night air, her left hand grasping at nothing, towards the sky, and everyone breathed in relief and cheered and rushed her to her weary mother’s side, who held her close to her chest and brushed the wisps of blonde hair to lie flat.
“Majalis,” her mother names her in a whisper, after the fragrant white blossoms that sway like tiny bells in the wind.
Humans call it lily of the valley.
They are small, beautiful, and every part of them is poisonous.
Majalis grows up lithe and quick-witted, her mouth getting her into trouble more often than not until she learns to coat her words in honey, how to smile and tilt her head to show off the charming dimple in her cheek, to clasp her hands in front of her (not behind, because she has nothing to hide.) She makes a point of getting along with everyone in the clan - she’s practical and tactful, if you ask her opinion, and a fair peacemaker when there’s a fight. She’s trusted.
All of these things, Majalis thinks, make her a good leader. The adults of the clan tend to leave her in charge when they’re away to hunt or trade. The other elves her age come to her with their secrets, when they fall in love, when they don’t know what to do.
Sarel asks her what to do to win Elora’s attention, and Majalis answers. Elora comes to ask how to refuse Sarel - but kindly; Majalis helps. The two stay friends, the hurt dissipates swiftly. Heartbreak and resentment do not poison the clan.
Ilen wants to leave - wants to go see what the human cities are like, wants to meet new people, and test himself against them. He’s the best with a sword and wants recognition for it - the Dalish have no traditions for martial competition. His skill is useful for hunting and protecting the clan, but that he is better than others matters little.
She advises him against it, knowing it’s not what he wants to hear. Ilen has never ventured outside, and is convinced the warning tales the elders tell them of shemlen are meant to make them too scared to dare curiosity. He accuses her of having no vision, of listening too closely to the old stories, and leaves the next day anyway.
(She hears, distantly, that the guards saw an elf walking around with armour and a weapon and cut him down without question. Outwardly, she mourns, but internally she shakes her head. He should have listened to her.)
Majalis has gone, once, to trade with a small village. She remembers the sneer of the merchant as he knocked their wood and some of the leathers off the table and to the ground, the burning anger and the red of shame that tinged the tips of her pointed ears and the nape of her neck. She’d kneeled in the dirt to slowly pick the bundles back up, when a trio of shemlen children ran up to kick her and pull at her ears.
“Look, it’s a knife-ear!”
“A wild one! A real wild one from the forest!”
She remembers their high, cruel laughter and then the scream the girl had let out when Majalis shoved them aside, jumping to her feet and baring her teeth. They thought her wild thing, she could be one - and then the clang of heavy armour coming towards them had reached her ears and she’d jumped back, frantic and vicious all at once. Her heart had been pulsing rapidly. She’d wanted desperately to fight, but it was not a fight she could win, and so she had run.
Only later, when she was panting at the edge of the forest in the shadow of the trees, did she remember the goods she had left scattered at the merchant’s stall. The clan would not blame her, exactly, if she came back empty handed and told them what had happened, but it would be a heavy blow. They needed medicine for their sick and cloth to repair the aravels, food to keep the young fed while the hunters recovered.
So she’d waited until the sun set and the shemlen returned to their homes, small structures with yellow lamp light glowing in the dusk, and then crept back out to the market. The materials she’d brought to trade were gone, of course, but it was easy enough to pick the lock on the storage chest hidden under a heavy broadcloth. The merchant had thought to take his coin home with him, but he kept most of his goods at his stall, and so she took what she needed and a little more besides, as much as she could carry. The rest she’d left open and uncovered. If others found it convenient, it was of no importance to her.
She had returned to the clan very late at night, her arrival causing a flurry of noise - “Majalis came back! She’s safe!” “Oh da’len, where have you been? We expected you back hours ago.”
“Ir abelas, hahren,” she’d apologised. “I spent some time trying to get a better price. Look at what I’ve brought back!” The others had brightened as she began unpacking her bags, revealing the supplies she’d gotten for them, and the youngest cheered when she dropped a wrapped bit of confection in his palm.
“We can always count on you, Majalis,” Keeper Istamaethoriel had murmured gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Ma serannas.”
(They move soon after, before the humans can come looking in the woods for retribution, and nobody ever knows the truth.)
The problem - the only problem - is that Majalis is not a mage.
It does not matter that she was born to lead, that nobody else is as good at negotiating with outsiders or keeping the peace within the clan. It does not matter that she absorbs the old knowledge like a tree takes in water, that she keeps to the old ways and honors the Vir Tanadahl with utmost dedication, that she is first amongst her peers to take her vallaslin. She accepts the markings of Andruil without a sound or even a grimace.
None of it matters.
Without magic, she cannot be Istamaethoriel’s First, cannot become Keeper. She can become a storyteller or a hearthmistress, at closest, and they are pale imitations of what she should be.
Years pass and nobody shows sign of the talent. Clan Lavellan is already unorthodox - they interact with humans frequently in comparison to their brethren, and have shown themselves open to change. Majalis wonders, in the deepest part of her heart, if this too might be another way in which they break tradition. If against all odds, they will take her instead.
When Majalis is 17, her clan attends the Arlathvhen for the first time since she was born. It occurs every ten years, but a decade ago there had been many young children and they were too far from where it was being held to travel. This time, Istamaethoriel goes, taking some of the elders with her, and returns with a bright-eyed twelve year old who conjures fire to her hands.
She knows nothing, but for those flames, she’ll get everything.
Majalis smiles, reaches out to her in greeting, and feels a burning inside her chest that has nothing to do with magic.
After that, it’s easier to spend time away from the camp. It’s easier when she doesn’t have to watch that girl.
Majalis becomes a hunter for the clan full-time, honoring her vallaslin. She’s best with a bow, which is ideal for hunting, since she can track and kill from a distance instead of risking her prey escaping while she closes in on them. In private, she trains with her daggers so she’ll always have a hidden weapon.
Whatever comes next, she’ll be prepared.
Or not.