Chameleon didn't know a lot about herself. She barely remembered anything from before the Templars had her: not her parents' faces, not the village where she'd lived, not any friends she had before (assuming she'd had friends). She knew a few things: how to read and write, how to ride a horse, how to calm a dog during a thunderstorm, how to thatch a roof after a fire. And she was coming to learn a few things about herself after the years underground had nearly wiped her clean. She liked soft fabrics, like the ones Josephine and Vivienne wore. She liked the sound of rain, the smell of fresh hay, the feel of grass beneath her feet. And holy shit, did she like Kita. Kita'd been one of the first people with the Inquisition to treat her like a person. Not the Herald, not a monster, not someone to be feared or wary of or bowed to. Just a person who needed hot soup and a kind word every now and again. Also, Kita was incredibly beautiful. Sometimes the light would catch her hair just right, floating in a beautiful brown cloud around her shoulders, and Chameleon would have to stop midsentence so her brain could catch its breath. Hopefully Kita didn't notice, but Chameleon had a sneaking suspicion that she did. There was no way her gawky, awkward puppydog love was anything but painfully obvious. All this was to say that Chameleon was entirely convinced that she could never love anyone half as much as she was in love with Kita.
And then she met Isa.
There were few people in Haven who didn't know who Chameleon was by this point. The glowing hand had been a huge giveaway at first, and most people had used it to connect her face to her title by now. But at this point she'd managed to muffle the mark in enough bandages to keep it from announcing her presence to anyone who looked at her for five seconds. Still, there were always people in and out of Haven who still hadn't officially met her, and Chameleon was pretty good at hunching over and pretending like she wasn't almost six feet tall. This was normally an asset. It allowed her to slip unnoticed through the back areas of Haven, listen to the chatter of the normal people and see what it was like to not have the fate of the entire world resting on your shoulders. Sometimes she liked to imagine that Leliana was proud of her for it.
Unfortunately, this backfired sometimes. And one day, it backfired in the worst way possible. She was hunched over in a tattered cloak, her hand wrapped in as many layers of rags as she could find, looking like any of the many refugees that were still trickling into Haven, and slipping her way into the tavern. It had been a very long mission in the Hinterlands, and at that moment she wanted nothing more than to sit quietly in the back of a room filled with happy chatter. She had almost made it to her favorite bench near the fire when someone knocked into her. She stumbled back, rags fluttering, and the firelight gleamed on the breastplate of a Templar soldier.
Oh no.
The soldier sneered at her as apologies dropped from her lips, and for a moment she could almost feel the iron bite of the chains around her wrists. "What's the matter, huh? Never seen a Templar before?" Chameleon clenched her fists under her wrappings. Raggedy nails bit into her palms. "What sort of garbage nowheretown must you be from?"
"Please, I-" The words choked Chameleon even as they came out of her mouth, and the Templars at the shoulders of the one who had shoved her laughed. She stumbled backwards, knocking into a bench, and she only barely managed to keep herself from tumbling to the floor.
She heard the scrape of the bench she'd bumped into moving, and she turned. A dwarven woman with a shock of white hair was rotating herself over the bench, kicking her short legs around and scooting forward to stand up. Mortified, Chameleon began to apologize for bumping into her, but the woman didn't seem to hear her. Her attention was focused on the Templars, who were still laughing as if Chameleon's struggles were the best joke in the world.
"Hey." The woman's voice was a low rumble. "You doing okay?" This seemed to be directed at Chameleon, even though the woman was still glaring at the Templars. Chameleon nodded, then, realizing that she probably couldn't see her, stammered assent. "Good." The Templars had stopped laughing by now, and were watching the woman warily. Chameleon didn't know anything about fighting, but she knew a lot about anger, and she could practically see the anger radiating off of the dwarf. "That means I can take care of them first."
Chameleon screwed her eyes shut before the first punch connected, and the next few minutes were a blur of shouts and thumps. When it was resolved, the woman and the Templars had both been thrown unceremoniously out of the tavern. The Templars took it badly, shouting a few oaths at the barmaid who'd hustled them out, but retreated soon enough to lick their wounds. The dwarven woman, however, continued to lurk around the door of the tavern, as if she had nowhere else to go.
She turned her head when Chameleon approached her, and in the dim illumination of the light spilling out of the tavern Chameleon got her first look at her face. There was a cut on it from the gauntleted hand of a Templar, and the red blood was a harsh contrast to the black tattoo that adorned one cheek. The woman was scowling, but it seemed like that was less a product of her mood and more her resting face position. And speaking of face, holy shit.
Chameleon knew for a fact that she was hopelessly, desparately in love with Kita. But looking at the woman who had just saved her from a panic attack and three Templars by punching one of them in the face, she felt that rushing feeling of oh god oh no not again and couldn't help but stare.
"You catch a lot of flies, mouth open like that?" Chameleon shut her jaw with a click, embarassed that someone had finally noticed her infatuated staring.
"Sorry, it's just- thank you? For doing what you did, I'm sorry I bumped into you and got you kicked out-"
The woman waved a hand dismissively. "Eh, shit like that happens. Not much I can do about it. Fuck the Templars though, right?" She stuck her hand out. "Isa Cadash." Chameleon reflexively took her hand to shake it, and it wasn't until Isa's eyes widened that Chameleon realized she'd offered her left hand. Rags could staunch a glow, but the feel of the Mark was unmistakable in clasped hands. "You're-"
"If you say one blessed thing about the Herald of Andraste I will-" Chameleon cut herself off, realizing too late what she was saying, but Isa's full-throated laughter dispelled her panicked worries.
"So you're the bigshot around here, then? Fuckin' Templars don't even know who they're working for." Isa rolled her eyes. "Hey, if you ever want to hire anyone who isn't a festering sack of shit, I've got nothing to do, so..."
"Really?" Chameleon's mouth was beginning to tug itself into a smile. "Because I could see if Josephine would let me hire you, you seem nice and I really appreciate what you did back there and..."
It was apparently Isa's turn to stare at Chameleon, mouth hanging open in shock. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah, I mean, if you were also serious about needing a job, the Inquisition's always in need of new help, and it seems like you're, uh, your talents are being wasted just hanging around, or whatever, so."
Isa laughed, more of a snort than anything. "My talents at getting into stupid bar fights against three people all twice my height, you mean." She ran her fingers through her hair, making it stand up all over and doing something to Chameleon's heart. "Yeah, fuck it. What do I have to lose? You got yourself a deal, Her- wait, fuck, you don't like that. What the hell do I call you?"
Chameleon's heart flopped over again. "Chameleon is fine."
She was so fucked.
Author's Notes:
Written 5/21/2017. Em and I made a really extensive Dragon Age AU to mash all our gals together.