as holy does

Since mending the Breach, it was unclear to Melisande precisely what her role was within the Inquisition. It seemed being named the Herald of Andraste came with a peculiar set of perks and restrictions.

Melisande liked having a whole cabin to herself--As an archer in Ostwick's army, she waived all the comforts of her noble upbringing, and the luxury of private quarters was one that Melisande hadn't enjoyed in over a decade. She was less grateful, however, for the steady rotation of nosy guards who took post at every potential entry or exit.

And while Seeker Pentaghast had assured her new comrade that she had free reign of Haven, Melisande allegedly "strayed too far from the premises" while hunting. Inquisition officers confiscated her bow and quiver yet again. Melisande probably would have been detained in cuffs and placed under house arrest yet again if Commander Cullen hadn't intervened on her behalf. To her surprise, he even ordered his soldiers return her arms.

Then there was Chancellor Roderick who, of course, made no pretenses of his suspicions. Never mind Haven's other parishioners were tripping over themselves (and each other) to serve her at every turn--That damned bureaucrat threatened her with a Divine arrest when she so much as dared to exist within the same space as he did.

Judgmental glares and proud smiles, hushed prayers and constant vigilance--Was she a prophet or prisoner?

She supposed, upon further consideration, they didn't have to be mutually exclusive conditions.

But also supposed that prisoners typically weren't invited to offer their opinions and insight during war councils. As Melisande nodded her silent goodbyes to the Inquisition's advisors, all still huddled over maps and markers, she mentally added a tally to her unofficial "prophet" category.

Melisande tightened the belt around her waist, cinching the leather jacket in preparation for the burst of brisk air waiting outside the Chantry. She had been cautioned prior to her journey across the Waking Sea that Ferelden was a harsh, cold land, but even with the warning, Melisande was unprepared for the frigid air and perpetual snowfall of Haven; the Inquisition had outfitted her with more suitable wear for the wintry climate, prompting another tally for prophet status.

She had only just mustered the willpower to leave the warmth of the Chantry when the doors flung open. Chancellor Roderick stormed through the threshold, and she took a quick turn to the nearest escape she could find.

That escape apparently led her back to the dungeon beneath the chapel proper.

Melisande pressed her face between the rusted bars, squinting at the flickering shadows cast by the candles behind her. She could make out books and rolls of parchment, thick with dust, shoved carelessly into the bookshelves. Steel glimmered in the corner, the dulled edge of a blade catching light. Smaller blades, chipped tonic bottles, and little satchels covered an awkwardly placed desk in the center of the cell. She was about to resume her escape deeper into the dungeon when the Trevelyan crest caught her eye.

Melisande leaned in closer. She had assumed her personal belongings had been destroyed in the explosion, but by some miracle, it seemed her copy of The Chant had survived.

She gave the bars a test tug, not truly expecting the door to open but hoping it'd be that easy anyway. Glancing over her shoulder to confirm her privacy, Melisande unclipped a set of picks from her belt. She knelt before the lock, shifting her weight to avoid casting another shadow in her work space, and wiggled the tip of the pick in the keyhole. She leaned a little closer, listening to the clicks of the locking mechanism. Melisande was by no means a skilled lockpick--most doors weren't locked to a woman of her status--but if Roderick continued to claim attention above, she figured she'd have the time to figure it out.

A darkness drifted in and settled over her workspace, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat disapprovingly. She peaked out of the corner of her eye, confirming her guess. Commander Cullen was standing behind her, arms crossed and gaze disproving.

She made no pretense of hiding the picks, but wasn't about to verbally incriminate herself. Your move, she thought at him with a small but amenable smile.

"What are you doing down here?" he asked, leaning back slightly.

Melisande gestured to the cell with her picks before clipping them back in place. "Something that belongs to me is in there. I was hoping I could retrieve it."

Cullen's brow furrowed, and Melisande prepared herself for a lecture. Instead, Cullen pulled a set of keys from his belt.

"What is it?" he asked as he unlocked the door with a click.

Melisande pointed to the book with her crest on it. He reached for the tome, opening the cover and scanning the parchment inside. The inscription her sister wrote for her was on the first page. "I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see the Light is here."

"It's just a book," she said, inexplicably defensive of her sister's gift.

"It's the Chant," he replied, as if that made a difference, but offered the book to her. She quickly snatched it from his gentle grip.

"I don't mean to pry," Cullen explained apologetically. "Most of the items locked in here were from the cult who lived in Haven before the Fifth Blight. There was some, ah, sensitive materials in there that Leliana wishes to keep hidden."

"And you still don't trust me," Melisande finished for him. She drummed her fingers on the leather cover of the Chant, "Righteous Herald of Andraste, the only hope to save all of Thedas, and I'm still under suspicion every turn I make."

"You were trying to break into a cell with materials locked away for a reason," he countered dryly.

Fair enough.

"You also haven't been exactly receptive to that title," he added.

"I've played along," Melisande said, frowning.

"In public."

"Isn't that when it counts?"

"I believe that would depend on your intentions," Cullen said.

"My intentions are to close the Breach. I can't very well do that locked away in Orlais awaiting a death sentence."

"Indeed." Cullen cleared his throat. "You are a part of the Inquisition, Lady Trevelyan. You are welcome to our resources, especially your own belongings. You only need ask."