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Chapter Text

Bann Jorrick Trevelyan of Ostwick and his wife, Aria Nerrenti of Hasmal, had not expected any more children. Over the course of their twenty-four-years of marriage they had had four children: Crystal Grace was the oldest and would inherit the estate and titles; Felandaris was two years younger, and was learning to play The Grand Game and manage trade so that he could support the family, and lead in the event of Grace’s death; Laurel was another three years younger, and had been promised to the Chantry at birth; and Dawn Lotus had come five years later and was also promised to the Chantry. It had been ten years since Dawn was born, and Aria was well past her child-bearing prime.

But the Maker granted them a fifth child: a healthy baby girl, delivered safely on a rare sunny day as the coastal winds started stripping the trees of their browned leaves in Harvestmere, 9:16. She was named Amrita, following her mother’s wishes for her children to be named after plants and flowers. Her older siblings doted upon her, and her parents affectionately referred to her as their ‘Unexpected Blessing’, thanking the Maker daily for her. She, too, was promised to the Chantry at birth.

Amrita was sung the Chant by her mother and two youngest siblings, and started crooning the anthems before she could speak. She was fed stories of brave, kind templars fighting apostates, corrupted mages and maleficar to protect innocent people, as well as the history of Thedas and Andraste. Many of her aunts, uncles and cousins had pledged their lives to the Chantry or the templars, and so Amrita grew up never far from the red and white robes and the burning sword of Andraste. Her favourite place was the Trevelyan family chapel, and if she ever crawled or toddled off on her own, it was more than likely that someone would soon find her curled up at the feet of the Maker’s spiritual wife, sleeping soundly under her soft gaze.

Amrita glowed with beauty in the way that all happy, healthy children do. Everyone said that she was the spitting image of her eldest sister, Grace, when she had been a child, as they were the only two of the siblings to share their father’s grey-green eyes, although the shape and angle of them came from their half-Tevinter, half-Nevarran mother. Their mother was also clearly the source of the striking profile and darker hair and skin that set all five siblings apart from their predominantly pale, snub-nosed ginger cousins, but they at least shared the copious coverage of freckles that all Trevelyans seemed to have. The three sisters’ hair seemed a plain chestnut brown and only shone gold when the light was warm and low, at dusk or dawn or by the fires of the hearth or Eternal Flame, while their brothers’ looked auburn in all settings.

Amrita loved her family and loved the Maker, and so long as she worked hard to be good and kind, they would love her too.

And that was enough.

~~~

She was five when Dawn left to join the Order.

“My darling, hush your tears,” their mother soothed Amrita, “for Dawn has gone to serve the Maker with her sword and shield. She has prayed for guidance and fervour, and although she is only fifteen He has called her to protect our people from evil.”

“The evils in the stories?”

“The very same, my darling. She has joined the templars, and will be guarding mages against succumbing to the horrors scratching at their cursed souls, once she has been trained. She will hunt down and slay those who cannot be saved, so that children like you can sleep safely at night, free from the fear of demons and magic.”

“Why has she gone to Kirkwall? We have a Chantry here, and a Circle for her to serve in.”

“Templars must be sustained by their faith so that they are strong and unwavering when they meet evil face to face, and so they are trained away from their family, away from any other source of comfort. As the Canticle of Trials says: But my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, Should they set themselves against me.”

“I think I understand – if we help her now, she may not be strong enough to fight the demons with only Andraste by her side. But I will miss her.”

“As will I, Amrita. As will I.”

~~~

She was six when she was first asked to sing a canticle of the Chant in the private chapel. She already knew several of the canticles, having heard them daily since before she could remember, but her brother, Laurel, who was twenty-one, had been coaching her to sing a particular one most beautifully.

“…Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.
Foul and corrupt are they
Who have taken His gift
And turned it against His children…”

She stopped singing, the urge to question and learn overcoming her delight at making music. Her brother said her questions were good: Faith is made stronger by facing doubt. Untested, it is nothing. “Laurel?”

“Yes?” Laurel looked up from his sheet music at the clavichord. He was a fine musician, and the Grand Cleric of the Ostwick Chantry had requested his services in teaching the young devotees the Chant. Amrita was lucky to have him to teach her.

“The Canticle says that Magic is a gift from the Maker. But Mama says that mages have been cursed by their close links to the Fade, and that they can and will harm us with their gifts. Are there any mages who follow the Chant?”

Laurel paused and thought. He was so different to Mama and Papa and Grace in the way he took time to make sure he knew what he wanted to say and to say it right. Amrita admired that. “I do not know any mages,” he said carefully, “so I cannot say that there are none that at least try to adhere to the Maker’s guidance. In fact, there may be many who work tirelessly to ensure they do not harm His children. But— Well, in Tevinter, they use that Canticle as justification for mages to roam free, and rule, and the whole country is full of magisters, blood magic and slavery. And it seems to me that that goes against many parts of the Chant.” He paused again. “I believe it is better for mages to be safeguarded and helped along the Maker’s path. Does that answer your question?”

Amrita nodded. “Thank you, Laurel.”

The next day, she sang the whole of the first Canticle of Transfiguration so sweetly that her relatives cried and told her mother that the Maker had blessed Aria with a child destined to capture the hearts of the people with her voice.

~~~

When she was seven, she joined Laurel’s chorus of children at the Ostwick Chantry to sing. Her companions came from all layers of the city’s human population, from her own noble blood to talented commoners to orphans – including those born to mages in the Circle, and not yet sure of whether they would be sent to a foreign Circle in a few years.

Those ones kept to themselves, and were given a wide berth by the normal children like Amrita.

Amrita enjoyed her time with the other choristers: she loved her family, but apart from a few of the servants’ children – who were generally kept busy or away from the main house – she knew no one else her own age.

The following spring was darkened by the murder of her other brother, Felandaris, and his husband, Yulias. They had been attacked by mercenaries in Antiva City while trying to establish trade with a reputable family who were struggling to do business further west of the Free Marches. The deal fell through as the family was scared off, but they arranged for the bodies to be returned to Ostwick – along with a letter which mentioned that there had been mages among the mercenaries.

Laurel was asked to sing the Canticle of Trials at the cremation, but broke down at the crucial moment. The mourners stared at him aghast as he sobbed by the pyre, until Amrita’s little voice rose above the sound of raindrops sizzling on the hot embers.

“Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.
For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light
And nothing that he has wrought shall be lost.
Draw your last breath, my friends,
Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Rest at the Maker’s right hand,
And be Forgiven.”

As she sang, other people joined her remaining brother in his tears.

After that, everything was quiet for a long time.

With Dawn in Kirkwall, it was just Grace, Laurel and Amrita living with their parents now.

Their father was the first to leave. That evening, when he drank himself into a rage against heretics, mages, and templars who couldn’t do their jobs, Amrita hid in the chapel. She prayed for her brother and his husband, she prayed for her parents and siblings, and she prayed that she would never suffer at the hands of mages.

~~~

She was eight when she woke from nightmares to a room frozen over with white ice crystals. She screamed of demons, and was so hysterical that she had to be fed a sleeping potion to sedate her.

It saved her from hearing the vitriol of her father’s ranting and the keening of her mother as they discovered that their ‘Unexpected Blessing’ was in fact a curse upon the family.

It saved her from hearing the servants go through her room, mopping up the melted ice and packing a small bag of clothes to take to the Circle.

It did not save her from the whispers when she woke up again, groggy from the drug and confused by the squelchy carpets, and was escorted down to the entrance of the manor before she even had a chance to eat breakfast or comprehend what was going on.

“Accident.”

“Spellbind.”

“Abomination-in-waiting.”

Mama, Grace, her husband Aaron, Laurel, and a man in full templar regalia waited for her by the door. Mama was pale and shaking, clutching her eldest’s arm for support; Grace looked nauseous as she rubbed their mother’s back soothingly, while Aaron rested a hand on Grace’s shoulder. Laurel was a few steps away, one hand over his mouth and unshaven jaw, his copy of The Chant of Light tucked under the other arm, and tears in his eyes. The templar was unfamiliar, not a family member, but his armour marked him as fairly senior in the hierarchy. Papa was nowhere to be seen.

“Mama!” Amrita cried, running forward and throwing her arms around her mother’s waist, crying into her dress. “I had such terrible dreams, Mama — dreadful creatures and monsters, and spiders everywhere!” Her mother flinched as though struck, and extracted herself from Amrita’s grasp. Amrita stared up at her mother, bewildered. “Mama? What’s wrong?”

Her mother took a deep, shuddering breath, patted her on the head, and swept out of the entrance hall. Grace glared at Amrita — Why are you glaring, what did I do? — before muttering, “I cannot fucking believe this,” and striding after their mother, tailed by Aaron.

Laurel crouched down to look Amrita in the eye. “Amrita,” he said in a low, trembling voice. “Last night, you… You dreamt of the Fade. And demons. And you used magic in your sleep.”

She stared at him, then shook her head, ignoring the cold sweat that had broken out. “Silly Laurel, I can’t do that! I’m not a mage!”

The templar spoke, a low grumble. “The evidence says otherwise. You understand that I must take you to the Circle?”

It took a moment to process.

“I am a mage?” Amrita breathed. It could not be true. Maker, please, no—

“Yes.”

“The Maker… has cursed me? Made me a danger?”

“Yes.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she scrubbed them away with the heel of her hand. “I… d-do not understand w-w-why, but…” She sniffed hard, and looked up at the templar. “Do your duty, serah.”

Before she could do anything else, Laurel wrapped his arms around her. “As a mage,” he said, voice usually so composed but now thick with grief, “you are excluded from the family succession. But you are still our little sister, our Unexpected Blessing. Mama and Papa just… do not know how to react to you being a mage, because they love you so much and wanted so much for you. If they let me, I will write to you. Will you write back?”

“Of course,” Amrita replied, now almost dazed. Is this happening? Am I really a mage? Is this just another nightmare?

“Good,” Laurel said, finally pulling away. He took her bag from the servant and slipped the tome inside. “Do you remember that you once asked me about mages following the Chant?” When she nodded, he went on, “Show everyone that a mage can be a child of the Maker. Pray, study, learn, sing. Do what the templars tell you, and let the Chant be on your lips so that others might hear it.”

“…Yes, Laurel.”

The templar opened the door and gently pushed Amrita out. Waiting outside were four more templars, ready to escort her to the Circle. She hesitated, but eventually stepped into their midst. They are here to protect me, she reminded herself, as well as any others who might be in danger because of me.

She did not look back.

Though all before me is shadow,
Yet shall the Maker be my guide.

Chapter Text

Amrita shook as First Enchanter Hamlin lightly drew a blade across the pad of her thumb, splitting the skin and drawing bright crimson blood. He squeezed the digit, brightening the pain; she squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head. Then she felt a glow, but by the time she dared to look he had released her so that he could seal her phylactery, and there was nothing left on her thumb to indicate any harm.

Healed? She had never known that magic could do anything but destroy and maim. Perhaps there was a way for her to use her curse for the better.

“There,” the old mage said kindly. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He put a wizened hand on her shoulder. “Now — what did you say your name was again?”

She sniffed. “Amrita Trevelyan, First Enchanter.”

His wrinkly hand tensed as she said her family name.

“A… Trevelyan,” he said, a little nervously. “Well. I cannot say I ever expected to take on a member of such an… esteemed family.” He swallowed and looked at the templars standing behind her in the office. “Does that mean Knight-Captain Hans and Serah Filip will be reassigned?”

Amrita thought hard. Uncle Hans was her father’s youngest brother and came to First Day meals, while Filip was a… first cousin once removed? Or a second cousin? She had never met him, anyway. She surreptitiously scratched behind her ear, trying to get to an itch that had been bothering her since she had left her home.

“That’s correct, First Enchanter Hamlin,” the templar who had brought her here said. Serah Brent. “We have sent missives to Kirkwall and Markham to enquire about transfers, but in the meantime they will keep their distance from the apprentice. Knight-Captain Hans is ready to recommend that I succeed him here in the Circle.”

“I see.” First Enchanter Hamlin’s face and voice gave nothing away, but the grip on Amrita’s shoulder tightened. “Very well. Amrita will stay in the Isolation Chamber and have the usual one-to-one tutoring until she can control her powers, and then join the other new apprentices in their classes and the dormitory. If you will escort her down, I will arrange for robes to be brought for her.” He glanced down at her. “You will not need anything from your previous life, Amrita. You will live out your days here, and will be provided with everything you need.”

Amrita bowed her head. “First Enchanter, if I might be so bold as to ask… Please may I keep my copy of The Chant of Light? It was a gift from my brother, and—” She broke off, swallowing back the grief constricting her throat. It was Laurel’s own annotated copy that he had used to teach her and the choristers. “—And I feel I will be better able to resist temptation and sin if I can continue in my faith. I know that mages have been cursed since the Magisters tried to enter the Golden City, but also that all men are the Work of Our Maker’s hands – perhaps, if I hold true, I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.”

The First Enchanter was silent for a moment. “You… have an unusually developed vocabulary and knowledge of the Chant for one so young.”

“My family promised me to the Chantry when I was three, and made sure I was educated properly so that I might serve the Maker.”

“I see,” he said again. He sighed. “Yes, you may keep it. But I would advise that you do not… draw attention to it, or your faith. There are members of our community who…” He cast about for words. “…Are rather inclined to blame the Chantry for their situation, and might not be too kind to you for your… alignment. Do you understand?”

“I am… not sure I do.”

He sighed again. “You are free to practise whatever religious beliefs you wish to in this Circle, Amrita, so long as they do not lead to blood magic or harming others. Keep the book if you want. Serah Brent? Please take her down.”

“Yes, First Enchanter Hamlin.”

~~~

Despite her very best efforts and her desperation to cause no harm to others, Amrita’s connection to the Fade increased over the first few weeks. The itch in her mind turned into a constant stream of unintelligible whispers during the day, and soothing words in her dreams that she could never remember when she woke. She did not trust them, knowing that demons were clever and deceptive. The link to the Fade also manifested itself in random flurries of snow, jolts of electricity and tongues of fire. After the first week she begged her tutor, Enchanter Filal, to keep hold of The Chant of Light so that she did not accidentally set it on fire. Enchanter Filal had looked stunned, but had agreed.

There had been no word from Laurel.

After one gruelling afternoon’s work in the middle of Haring, she thanked her tutor for her work as the enchanter left the Isolation Chamber and shut the door. However, it seemed that one of her colleagues had also finished their work for the day, and Amrita heard someone call out, “Filal!”

“Brionne,” Enchanter Filal replied wearily. “How goes it with our newest apprentice?”

“He is doing well,” came the answer, the voice coming close to Amrita’s door. “He has only been here three weeks and the outbursts are decreasing. He will be with the other children by First Day. And what about yours? You have the Trevelyan girl, do you not?”

Amrita crept over to the door and pressed her ear against it. She had seen the frustration on Enchanter Filal’s face during their sessions, but she was intrigued to hear what the enchanter would say to one of her colleagues.

“Not good,” Enchanter Filal replied, and Amrita’s heart sank. “Six weeks in and still increasing in outbursts.” There was a pause, and Amrita could picture Enchanter Filal rubbing at her forehead. “I am hoping that it is just a sign that her powers will be strong, rather than that she cannot control herself. I do hate it when children are made Tranquil.”

“Considering her family, I do not know which option is worse. Poor mite.”

Amrita did not listen to the rest of the conversation. She slid down the door to the floor, buried her nose in her knees and covered her ears. Even among mages, she seemed truly cursed. “Maker,” she whispered, eyes stinging with tears. “Why would You do this to Your children? Make them a danger to others, despite all their efforts to control themselves and do no wrong?”

Even as she spoke, she could feel a chill falling over the room, and crystals of ice started forming on her fingertips. She dusted them off against her unwashed, unkempt brown hair – it was a few days since Enchanter Filal had last helped her to bathe properly – and jammed her hands under her armpits. The cold seemed to be the element she summoned most naturally, although the voices she heard in her head suggested that she might be suited to calling upon spirits – or demons. She shuddered at the thought and shook her head to clear it of the susurrus that incessantly clawed at her brain.

“Can I not control Your gift because I am so foul that I will do harm, no matter my intentions? Am I so evil that I should be stripped of all my mind and sense of self, and any connection to You, just to prevent myself from sinning further?” The thought was dismal, and Amrita fought hard to control the sobs that threatened to break out again; as she breathed in, out, in, out, she thought of Laurel, and the first song he had taught her after Dawn had left:

Shadows fall, and hope has fled;
Steel your heart: the dawn will come.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky, for one day soon
The dawn will come.

“No,” she said, as firmly as she could. In the emptiness of the Isolation Chamber it did not sound much, but she carried on. “No matter what lot I have been thrown in life, no matter the curse laid upon me, I will not give up. It may be that my death will serve some higher purpose, and I shall accept the Maker’s will if that is where He leads me. But I will not give in to the demons clawing at the edge of the Fade. I will let the Maker be my guide, and I will use the gifts I have been given to help others.”

The noise in her mind died down and the chill faded from the air; she looked up to see that the ice had vanished from the room.

A faint smile tugged at her lips, and she pushed herself up and over to the basin of cold water in the corner of the room. Alhough she could not yet heat it to a more tolerable temperature yet, she felt better for freshening up with the frigid water. Once clean, she knelt down on the stone with the weak heating rune – the room had to be bare so that she did not set anything on fire, but they were not so cruel as to make her endure the piercing cold of rock in winter – and sang through her most comforting Canticles, before lying down to sleep and face the Fade again.

~~~

After her personal epiphany, her powers quickly stabilised. For safety’s sake, Filal kept Amrita in the Isolation Chamber an extra week, but she was allowed out in the middle of Wintermarch. She joined a dormitory of about twenty other six- to eleven-year-olds who had been in the Circle for anything from a few months longer than her to almost six years. She was to be educated with two other children who had come to the circle in the past six months, one of whom was the boy she had heard Brionne talking about that night.

The first night she tried to say prayers before she slept, she was set upon by a gang led by one of the biggest girls – a Kirkwaller named Rilana – and declared ‘a fucking Chanter’. Most of the children avoided her after that, afraid of Rilana’s wrath, although one of the oldest ones took pity on Amrita when they found her nursing a bloody nose in the communal baths: he told her that Rilana had been born to a mage in Kirkwall’s Gallows and raised in the Chantry there until her powers manifested and she had been delivered along the coast to Ostwick. There were rumours her father had been a templar who had forced her mother to have a child – and the way some told it, her father had been a Trevelyan.

Amrita did not understand what was meant by someone forcing a woman to have a child, but she wisely decided not to pursue the potential familial relationship with Rilana. In fact, she avoided the girl whenever possible, although when it was not possible she tried very hard to remain kind.

She may have given Rilana a bloody nose of her own when she caught the Kirkwaller trying to burn The Chant of Light. Nobody would tell the enchanters how both girls ended up covered in blood and bruises. Certainly, Rilana kept her own distance after that day, and the little ones ran to Amrita when the big children started being scary. Amrita told them stories, although not ones that celebrated the templars or painted mages as the villains that they were, and when she ran out of tales she made up her own and taught them songs she had heard the servants sing in the kitchens and gardens at home.

Most of the older mages treated Amrita with caution; although her relatives had been relocated, there seemed to be some concern that Amrita would report mage activity to the templars. She also heard whispers when they thought she couldn’t hear, telling stories of the awful things Trevelyans were said to have done in Ostwick and elsewhere. Amrita did not know if they were true; but just in case, she prayed for the redemption of her sinful relatives.

She grew accustomed to the voices in her head. They usually receded during her waking hours, and never seemed to ask her to do anything on the rare occasions she could hear the words; Amrita could not believe that demons would go for so many months doing nothing but soothe her fears without asking for something in return. She found it helpful to imagine that the Maker or His bride was taking pity on her and sending good spirits to take care of her in her dreams.

No news came from her family, but that ache slowly faded. Much as she had loved them, only Laurel seemed to have not cared that she was a mage, and she came to realise that she was probably better off away from them. It was one thing knowing that mages were cursed, and another to treat them cruelly. And she might have hurt them by accident.

No. She was better off in the Circle. The Maker stood by her side, and she lived on.

~~~

She was ten, almost eleven, when she met the boy.

“Amrita, this is Ema’an. He is about the same age as you, and has just completed his period in the Isolation Chamber. Show him around.” And without another word, Enchanter Prins swept out of the dormitory, leaving Amrita and the elf staring at each other.

Then he grinned and offered his hand. “Ema’an.” He had black hair and eyes, and although Amrita was a shade or two darker than most of her fellow Free Marchers – Mama's family had come from Tevinter and Nevarra – his brown skin was striking against her hand as they shook. Perhaps he had some Rivaini blood in him?

“Amrita Trevelyan.”

His brow furrowed. “Oh, I’ve heard of you – your family are bigwigs in the Chantry, right? Bit of a scandal when you turned out to be a mage. Talk of the town, even made it our way.”

Amrita felt herself flush bright red, and she swallowed. “It was not my choice, believe me.”

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe not a choice, but for me at least this is better. I’ll take lifelong imprisonment over life in the alienage, not knowing when the next meal will be.”

She did not know what to say to that, so she asked, “Shall I show you around?”

It turned out that Ema’an was chatty, witty, illiterate and unbothered by Amrita’s faith. He had grown up in the alienage with a gang of orphans, looking out for each other and stealing when they had to. Amrita was scandalised by this at first, but the more he talked, the more she wondered if it was the fault of the adults, and those who forced the elves to live in such squalor. She had never really considered the plight of elves before, but wanted to learn more now that her eyes had been opened. He did not mind talking to her about the Chant, and asked her difficult questions that made her think.

He also told her the stories the city elves shared from their limited heritage, and soon he was being dragged to sit on Amrita’s ‘storytelling’ bed to share with the little ones. He would not join in with the singing, but accompanied the ditties with rhythms he drummed on her bedstand with his bare hands. They were not in the same classes, as he needed to learn to read and write before he could begin his studies, but the enchanters came to be unsurprised to find the pair of them curled up in nooks and crannies around the apprentices’ floor, deep in conversation or playing chess. Rilana and her gang, who had all moved on from the dormitory, gave them both dirty looks when they passed, but with Ema’an at her side, Amrita had the courage to laugh it off and pity them.

~~~

Amrita was twelve when she was taken from the dormitory and given her own room. The bed was off the ground, so high that if she stretched while sitting on the mattress she could touch the ceiling. Underneath the bed was a little desk and chair for her to study at. There was still no personal sink and bath – she had to be a full mage to get those – but there was a chamber pot and a flat shallow basin for her to wash herself in. Most importantly, she could finally pray again without fear of being hurt. She still kept from singing the Chant, afraid other apprentices would hear her, but she went to bed each night sure that she had made her peace with the Maker for her failings during the day. Mostly they consisted of laughing at Ema’an’s rather irreverent jokes.

She and Ema’an still sneaked into the dormitory and told stories every evening. She was sure that the Maker was smiling on her for bringing some ease to the frightened children, and she could have sworn that the voices in her head listened too.

~~~

She was thirteen when she first felt such pain in her belly that she thought she had been possessed or struck down for unknown sins. Either way, she thought she was going to die, and she stayed in her room all day, ignored Ema’an’s knocking, and sang Canticles under her breath to stave off any demons and placate the Maker.

When she woke the next morning she vomited from the pain. Exhausted and trembling, she rose to clean up her mess, but paused as she felt hot, sticky liquid trickle down her thighs. Surely she had not wet herself? She lifted her nightdress and found her legs smeared with blood.

She screamed, half-fell down the ladder and stumbled her way to the door of her room. Had she committed the ultimate sin and used blood magic? Had she become a maleficar? Had those voices finally revealed themselves to be demons and manipulated her while she slept? Maker, if I have sinned, strike me down—

A templar came barging in, casting a Silencing on Amrita before she could even shriek in fear. Then, sword at Amrita’s throat, they demanded, “Are you practising blood magic?”

Amrita tried to speak, found no words came out, and burst into tears.

The templar did not press her for a moment, presumably realising she was unable to speak because of the Silencing. A few seconds later, Amrita heard a quiet, “Oh,” and the scrape of a sword being sheathed. Then her arm was grabbed, and she was forcefully steered back to her desk. Another wave of terror rose in Amrita’s throat, fearing that her time to be made Tranquil had come, but the templar simply shoved her onto her chair, stood over her and waited for her to calm down.

It took some time.

“Good news is, you are not possessed or practising blood magic,” the templar said once Amrita had subsided into sniffles and the occasional hiccough. The templar spoke with an unusually gentle voice, and Amrita realised that it was one of the few women in the Order. “What you are going through is called Bleeding. It happens roughly once a moon, and it is—” The templar paused, seeking the words. “It is a penance all witches go through – a gift of sorts, from Andraste, to remind mages of the pain and suffering they will cause if they misuse their magic or, Maker forbid, use blood magic.”

“…O-oh.” That… did make a horrible kind of sense. Truly, mages were cursed: her family had been right about that much.

“But, you must not talk about this. Each witch must suffer this penance alone, in the same way that templars become stronger by leaving their families. Do not use magic or potions to heal the pain, or the Maker will know you have not atoned for your sins, and the sins of mages before you. Do you understand?”

Amrita nodded, although she felt dizzy. Templars, while not the shining beacons her family had made them out to be, had never lied to her, hurt her, or given her reason to doubt that in general they were there to protect. It did not vastly contradict anything she knew of the Chant and Chantry Law, and if each mage had to remain quiet about the Bleeding, that would explain why she had never heard about it before.

A small part of her queried why nobody had said anything, but she swallowed it down. She had no cause to disbelieve what this templar told her.

And so she listened to the instructions on cloths, cleaning and hygiene; thanked the templar for her time and help; and forced herself to persevere through the pain each month without showing it. Ema’an was the only one who ever questioned her unusual paleness, and never pushed when she claimed it was merely nightmares. He just squeezed her hand and changed the topic, usually saying something charming to make her smile.

Life in the Circle was nothing like her early childhood. But mages deserved none of that luxury, and the small moments of peace and happiness comforted Amrita that the Maker was pleased with her efforts; and thus, life continued.

Chapter Text

Amrita and Ema’an were almost fourteen when word came to Ostwick of the fate of Kinloch Hold.

The change in the atmosphere was almost palpable. While the mages and templars had cohabited the Circle with polite disdain and quiet acceptance of the system until 9:30 Dragon, within days the two sides eyed each other with open distrust. The number of instances of ‘blood magic’ being found in the Circle skyrocketed, and the number of mages dwindled month by month. First Enchanter Hamlin did nothing to stand up for the mages, and many residents became even more disillusioned with their situation.

Templars were assigned to oversee all teaching of Spirit Magic as the perceived dangers merited monitoring. As Spirit Healing was one of the specialisms Amrita had decided to pursue – after much deliberation with her conscience and Ema’an, who had chosen to specialise in Primal Magic – it meant she had a templar breathing down her neck whenever she called on the friendly whispers in her head, and she sensed it upset them. It made it much harder to feel confident she was summoning kind spirits. But so long as she kept her intentions pure, the Maker’s uncorrupted first-born were the only things that came to her aid.

The templars were also much freer in the use of force to subdue any mage who spoke out. Amrita gained a set of scars across her right temple when she was given a back-handed slap by a templar still wearing his gauntlets. She took it without complaint: the blow had been aimed at a newly-accepted apprentice who had made the mistake of saying that templars were scared of mages.

That was the day when Amrita first understood that the templars were no longer servants of the Maker.

~~~

When they were seventeen, Rilana was accused of using blood magic to persuade a templar to sleep with her. By the time the news swept through the Circle in the dining hall over breakfast, she had already been judged and executed.

~~~

One dark night in Drakonis 9:35, when Amrita was eighteen, the door to her room was slammed open, jolting her from her sleep. She scrabbled her way upright, sheets tangling around her limbs as she prepared to face whatever painful interruption a templar had decided upon today. Thoughts of Rilana’s fate raced through her mind. It was not one of the now-routine disruptions of the Fade connection, supposedly to prevent demons from getting a hold on the mages while they slept, though she only knew this because she had been woken by noise and light, not pain and the screams of the voices in her head before they vanished, not to return for hours.

She scarcely had time to glimpse the reflections on the guard’s helmet before she was yanked roughly off the bed. She yelped in alarm but was caught, and then a sack was dropped over her head. The templar pulled her to her feet and then dragged her out of the room. The floor was cold, and she nearly tripped several times as she was pulled up flights of stairs. She had gone up at least three staircases before her brain started thinking clearly.

The only reason she would go up this many would be for her Harrowing.

Maker preserve me.

She started reciting the Canticle of Trials under her breath.

She heard the sound of hinges squealing under the weight of heavy doors, and the sudden hush of voices stilled by her arrival. The room felt large and spacious, but when the sack was torn off and she was thrown to the floor, she saw that the ring of templars around her was tight, no man out of his sword’s reach of her. Each of them had their face covered, as did the enchanters lurking behind them.

One enchanter hurried forward with a potion. Though Amrita had never taken lyrium before, she had seen the bottles on senior enchanters’ shelves. She dutifully opened her mouth when the rim of the bottle was pressed to her lips, and when the tingling liquid hit her tongue she swallowed.

Maker’s breath! Never before had she felt anything like this. Heat rushed through her body like molten pleasure, and if someone had said she could jump off the Circle roof and fly she would have believed them. The lyrium sang, and it sounded like the whole of Thedas had joined in the Chant.

Then the enchanter tapped Amrita on the head, and she was in the Fade.

Or at least, that was where she assumed she was. It looked an awful lot like the garden in the Trevelyan estate, complete with its flowers in full bloom and ducks in the pond. And ducklings too! A cursory glance around suggested she was otherwise on her own, so she tentatively tiptoed to the edge of the pond. As she approached the ducks swooshed their way through the water to greet her, presumably thinking she had food for them. She smiled and crouched down, hugging her knees to her chest. “Hello,” she said quietly. “I was expecting demons, not waterfowl. So what are you?”

^{“We’re neither,”} said a voice.

Amrita shrieked and fell backwards, jarring her wrist as she landed awkwardly. Looking around wildly, she could still see no one who could have spoken. That did nothing to ease her fear, and as the ducks hopped up onto the bank she shrieked again. “Stay away from me!”

The birds stayed where they were, but opened their mouths. ^{“Amrita,”} said a familiar voice, hardly more than a whisper, ^{“don’t you know us?”}

^{“We have been near you for ten years, Amrita.”}

^{“We have brought you peace when you struggled to love our Father.”}

^{“We have helped you in your healing magic.”}

^{“We are not demons.”}

^{“We are spirits of faith—”}

^{“—and compassion.”}

Amrita stared at them, and she watched the ducks dissolve into mere wisps. Though this was her Harrowing and she had expected treachery from demons, this was beyond anything she could have predicted. The voices were familiar, soothing, but that did not mean that they could be trusted. A demon pretending to be a good spirit was entirely possible, as was the idea that the spirits she had heard whispering in her mind for a decade had been demons very carefully biding their time, waiting for her body to be made accessible by the Harrowing. She did not answer them.

^{“Somebody is trying to hurt you, Amrita. They summoned a demon here.”}

^{“But we have been close to you for so long that you met us first.”}

^{“We wish to protect you. We like watching you and your life, and how kind you are to people.”}

^{“Faith is such a rare thing to find in those attuned to the Fade.”}

^{“If you will use us, we will guard you in your fight and shape the Fade to your advantage.”}

Amrita pushed herself up using her good hand, and questioned the spirits as she probed at her other wrist. “What reason do I have to trust you? This is my Harrowing. Familiar though your voices may be, I have no reason to believe that you are uncorrupted children of the Maker. And before you suggest I summon you or feel your essence, I am not falling for that.”

^{“For a Harrowing there should only be a single demon called to tempt you."}

^{“Go into the house.”}

^{“In the entrance hall you will meet a demon.”}

^{“We will follow you.”}

^{“If you choose to call on us then, we will answer.”}

Amrita frowned, but nodded. “In the case that I need you, I may require aid in creating a weapon and barriers for my protection.”

^{“We understand.”}

Without another word, Amrita turned and stalked into the house via the garden patio.

It was unnerving. The interior was much the same as she remembered it, but coloured by a sickly green light. When she glanced out of the windows she saw flickerings of spring, autumn, summer, winter, dark black clouds, the coastline. Walls shivered as she passed them, and when she turned to look back there was a moment when there was nothing but vapour – and then it was solid again. She encountered nobody, but heard snatches of laughter, song, chatter, lute-playing from behind closed doors. All the while, the spirits drifted along behind her. When she eventually came to the door leading to the foyer, she rested her fingertips on the handle, hesitating. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” she murmured. Then she twisted the knob, pushed the door open and strode inside.

Standing before her was Laurel. But he looked the same as last time she had seen him, barely older than she was now. By all rights, if he had not passed on from the realm of the living, he should be thirty-three now, not twenty-three. He opened his arms in greeting. “Amrita! Unexpected Blessing!”

Amrita stopped ten paces away from him. She did not need to use his appearance to deduce his falseness: there was a taste, a scent, something in the air that set her teeth on edge and raised the fine hairs on her arms and neck. “You are not Laurel,” she said. “I know not what type of demon you are, but I know enough. You will not succeed in corrupting me, for the Maker has made me strong enough to know and withstand you.”

This did not seem to upset the demon, who did not change shape. However, the angle of the smile on its face shifted, and suddenly she could see its inhumanity. “But Amrita,” it wheedled, “I can give you what you want! I see into your heart, and all you need do is come to my embrace.”

“So. You are a desire demon, then.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Tell me,” Amrita said, curious despite herself. “What can you offer me that is worth my own possession, and likely immediate death at the hands of templars?”

“The thing your heart desires most? Acceptance. You are an unusual one, I will grant that, but variety is delightful. You wish for your family to see past the malediction put upon you and welcome you back to their lives.”

“Perhaps I do,” Amrita admitted. It was a feeling she regularly forced herself to bury, and had on several occasions convinced herself she had got over it, but every now and then the thought of her family reared its ugly head. “But even you cannot do that. Even if I survived the escape from the Circle, my family are devout enough to reject me when possessed.” There was a bitter taste in her mouth. “They managed to do it when I was no more than a child.”

“Well,” the demon said, the corners of its mouth curling into a grin. “The easiest thing I can promise is that elf boy you long for.” And with a flicker, Laurel was gone and Ema’an stood there, absolutely naked and head thrown back as he worked his hand over—

Amrita looked away, face hot, to the spirits floating peacefully at her feet. She nodded to them, and the largest and brightest – she guessed it was the spirit of faith – leapt to her hands, leaving a hefty staff in her grip. She tested its weight, and checked the material at its tip: onyx, which channelled Winter magic best. A tight smile spread across her face, though it dropped as the demon uttered an erotic moan in a disturbingly good imitation of what she thought he might sound like while making love.

Not that she had given it any thought, of course.

“Amrita!” it cried. “Come to me, and this could — a-aah! — could be— Oh gods, oh—”

She did not grace it with a response. She simply blasted it with the strongest Winter’s Grasp spell she could muster. It froze solid, hand still on the fake-Ema’an’s genitals. Amrita wasted no time in striding over and striking it with the blade of her staff, shattering the demon into millions of glittering shards of ice. It was only when it had settled that she realised she was breathing like she had run a mile, and shaking violently.

^{“Well done,”} a voice said. Amrita looked up to her staff; it shimmered and dissipated back into blue mist. ^{“Your faith saw you through. Go now; we will remain at the doorway to your mind and stand watch.”}

And with that, Amrita woke up.

~~~

It was a rare sunny day in Cloudreach, about a month after Amrita had completed her Harrowing. She was curled up in one of the library alcoves lit by the sunlight streaming through the glass, waiting for Ema’an to join her.

“Amrita?”

She looked up from her book and smiled faintly as she recognised the figure hovering at the entrance to the aisle. “Senior Enchanter Filal. How can I help you?”

“I—” The enchanter shook her head, and Amrita dropped her smile sharply. This was a level of distress equal to seeing her colleagues’ bodies being dragged out after execution for supposedly practising blood magic. “Andraste’s arse,” she muttered under her breath. “This never gets easier.”

“Senior Enchanter, would you like to sit down? You do not look well.” Amrita moved the pile of books that had been saving the space for Ema’an, but he would survive the indignity of standing for a few minutes if he arrived before Filal left.

“No, I am alright. I— I just came to let you know that Ema’an did not survive his Harrowing.”

Amrita stared at the enchanter. Then she put her book down on the sill, rubbed her eyes and massaged her temples. “I do not think I heard you correctly, Senior Enchanter.”

“Ema’an is dead, Amrita.”

Numbness gripped her body. “I— I don’t understand. He cannot be dead. He is much stronger than I am. We were telling stories to the children just last night—”

“The templars said he should be ready and took him before dawn, but he gave in to a pride demon. I am sorry. If it helps… he did not suffer long. He was struck down cleanly.”

“No,” Amrita whispered. “He— I was going to tell him when we were both mages that I— He— No, he cannot be dead!” The numbness was wearing off fast, and her eyes were burning, her lungs felt stripped of air, her stomach churned, her heart ached. The spirits of compassion buzzed in concern in her mind.

She had been going to tell him that she loved him once he had become a full mage. She had known for months now, years, and the events of her Harrowing had only confirmed it, but she had not wanted to risk the pain of loving and losing, or putting him through that pain. Now, she regretted every moment she had sat at his side and not let him know. Uncontrollable sobs started wracking her body, and she buried her face in her hands, trying to stifle the noise in her palms.

She flinched when a hesitant hand touched her shoulder. After a moment, it started rubbing her back in a soothing motion, and it was all Amrita could do to stop herself from wailing and incurring the wrath of the librarian – or any patrolling templars.

When her tears had subsided a little, she heard Filal cough quietly. “There… was a parcel addressed to you in his room. We have not opened it.” Amrita felt the enchanter put something down beside her. “I took the liberty of removing you from the duty roster for the rest of the week.”

“Thank you,” Amrita said thickly. “I th-think… I would like s-s-some t-time to m-m-myself, p-p-p-please.”

“Of course,” Filal said quietly. “If you are returning to your room, I would advise taking the back staircase. The templars are rather out in force after this, and I would not like them to question your emotional state. You… may be targeted for checks. Many people here know you were very close.”

Amrita nodded into her hands, and after giving her shoulder one last squeeze, Filal left.

It took several minutes longer before Amrita felt she had the strength and wind to even stand, let alone walk up to the mages’ quarters and open the package. She went slowly, forcing herself to breathe steadily, offering up a prayer of gratitude for Laurel’s teaching about the importance of her lungs and diaphragm. She pushed away the thought that in over ten years she had never received word from him, and focused on the task at hand.

It was not made easier by the whispers trying to understand her grief.

The only mages she passed took one look at her and walked on by with knowing looks and sympathy on their faces.

She eventually reached her room. Collapsing onto her chair, she gulped in air to stop herself from crying again. Then, hands trembling, she picked up the package. It was a flat square box, wrapped in her favourite paper that the Formari made: a dark blue colour, with flecks of flower-petals mixed into the pulp. She had never had any for herself. It was tied with cream ribbon, and her name had been scrawled on a card with black ink. She smiled through the tears: Ema’an’s penmanship had never been up to scratch. Nor had his spelling. With a deep breath she pulled apart the knot and eased open the paper.

Inside was a letter and a plain white box. She hesitated, unsure which to open first, but in the end the desire to read his words won out. Shaking hands made it hard to unfold the paper, and in the end she had to set it down on her desk so she could read it.

Amrita

If you are reading this and I am not standing next to you, a blushing, stammring mess, then I must be dead or made Tranquil. If that is the case, then I can’t say sorry enog enoph enuff times. Lately Ive had such a deep feeling of dred that I needed to write this down in case I could not say it myself.

I love you, Amrita. I do, with all my heart. I love the way your hair goes from the colour of my own skin to the gold of hunny when it catches the lite. I love the way your eyes lite up when you see me across the room. I love the way you purss your lips when your trying not to larff, and the way your nose scrunches up when you finally give in. I want to draw consta contsel stars between your frekles, and find out how far down your back they go. I love the way you are with the children, how you tell storys and make them feel safe again, even if they never will be again now they are mages. I love how you never seem to stop humming and singing. I love how you think about your fayth, and know that it can be used to hurt others – which lets you use it only to care.

I know its not usual, a human and an elf, but its not as though your family give a shit now you’re a mage. I would be happy to liv out my days in the Circle with you at my side, no matter how orfull those bloody templars get. You say the Maker gives you comfort to stay strong, but you are my comfort and strenth.

I am only sorry I was not strong enough to tell you while I had the chance, and that I am now throwing my feelings on you after I am gone.

The necklace is for you.

Amrita stopped and opened the box. Inside, on a piece of royale sea silk, was an asymmetrical, teardrop-shaped lapis lazuli pendant on a silver chain. It was a greener shade than the rich blue she usually saw, but it was very much in the spectrum of her favourite colours. It was impure, flecks of other gems breaking in, but somehow the imperfections made it look like the seabed in a sheltered cove she dimly recalled from her childhood. She lifted it out carefully, winding the chain around her fingers and watching the way it reflected the light before remembering the rest of the letter.

I remember you saying how much you missed the sea. I know its not quite right, but it made me think of the Waking Sea on a clear summer day - not in the nasty parts of the docks, obveusly - and I thought the colour would go with your beutifull wayvy hair when it cascay falls arownd your neck, your gray-green eyes, your torny skin and those adorable brown frekles. Fuck, I want to see you wairing it. Honestly, I want to see you wairing nothing but it.

Amrita covered her mouth with one hand, choking back a sob. Under her fingertips she could feel her cheeks flushing in pleased, heart-broken embarrassment.

I don’t know how things will work when I die. Will the elven gods come for me? Or your Maker? Or will I be left drifting? I don’t know, but if there is any part of me that stays me, it will be woching over you and hoping to steer you towards happyness with another. You deserv to be loved, even if you don’t beleev you are worthy of any kindness, you idiot. Maker be dammed, you are preshus and werthy. Liv on for me, Amrita.

With all my love,
Ema’an.

Amrita read the letter again. And again. Then she put on the necklace, and went to look at herself in the mirror, unbuttoning the top of her undershirt so she could see. He had been right. It did suit her, though she was sure it would look better when she was less pallid and worn from tears and sorrow.

No mage can guarantee that they will not fall foul of demons, she realised, staring into her own eyes in the glass. That is why we are locked up and hated. This is our burden. No matter how strong we seem, no matter how strong our will is, we cannot be trusted not to stumble and fall. Many of us do manage, but it is not a risk anyone else is willing to suffer the consequences of.

“Why,” she breathed. “Why, in Andraste’s name, would You take him from me? Do I not suffer enough for my innate sinfulness? Have I not worked every day of my life to follow You and care for Your children?”

But no answer came, and even the whispers of the spirits had stilled. For the first time in her life, Amrita felt truly, truly alone.

Chapter Text

Amrita was allowed to withdraw and grieve for a week before she was pulled back into everyday life in the Circle. The apprentices organised a small, informal wake for him with some of his favourite songs and dances, and although they got in trouble with the templars for causing a racket, it brought a small amount of closure to her mourning. Amrita prayed again that night, still greatly conflicted about whether it was worth it, but the words were familiar and calming; perhaps she had not been faithful enough, and that was why she had lost her love. Even if it had nothing to do with her dedication, she could see no harm in trying to live a good life in the way of the Maker.

After that, she was kept busy. Filal appointed her as her part-time assistant, a few steps below Junior Enchanter Manda; whenever Amrita was not in classes, she was running errands for the enchanters, taking messages to and from the Formari and organising the paperwork that was not too sensitive for her to see. Filal never expanded on why she had appointed her, apart from a vague, “Manda has their own research to keep up, I cannot expect them to do all the tedious work,” but Amrita suspected that it was to make sure she did not sink into depression. It was true that between her studies and the work she was rarely bored, and though she still had lows she managed to fight through them.

The work also forced her to talk to other members of the community. Religious beliefs aside, she had been on civil terms with most of the other mages, but between Ema’an and the children she had managed to avoid building relationships with almost everyone older than her. Now, she had to learn the name of every mage and enchanter, where their rooms were, what their job was and where she would find them at any given time of day. It took time, but by the time First Enchanter Hamlin died of old age and Filal was voted into the position during the summer of 9:37 Dragon, Amrita was fully integrated and although she could hardly be described as chatty, she had built a rapport with most of the others through taking an interest in them and being kind and respectful. She still harboured a base fear of mages and, by extension, herself, but she covered it well. On her twenty-first birthday she was granted permission to begin working towards becoming an enchanter so that she could teach the apprentices.

Unfortunately, her tuition had to be put on hold when Serah Carver Hawke of the Kirkwall Templars rode up to the Ostwick Circle a month later, and the world went to shit.

~~~

Amrita was waiting in the Circle foyer, sat in one corner and sketching out results tables for an experiment she would be conducting as soon as the Formari entourage returned from their weekly trip to the town with some plant samples she had ordered in from Nevarra.

The templars on duty kept an eye on her, but knew she was one of the meeker mages. Amrita was not involved in the Circle politics, beyond assisting the First Enchanter with administrative tasks, and the scars through her eyebrow were the only sign that she had ever stepped out of place.

There came a commotion from outside, and Amrita looked up, expecting the thick oak doors to groan open and reveal those who had been made Tranquil. Instead, in stumbled a pair of templars supporting a third, unfamiliar knight who looked pale with exhaustion and could hardly stand upright. There was a distant whinny from outside – presumably the horse he had ridden in on. Amrita rose, anxious to help yet hesitant to approach: she knew templars could lash out when one of theirs was hurt.

The on-duty templars approached, and the stranger waved them away. “I… I need to speak to… the highest-ranked knight you… have here, and… the First Enchanter,” he wheezed, legs finally giving way beneath him. Knight-Lieutenant Erd caught him and guided him to the floor before he hurt himself. “I can’t… I can’t stress how urgent this is. I rode… straight from Kirkwall… on Knight-Captain… Cullen’s orders.”

“The knight-captain?” one of the templars – Serah Maikel – queried. “Not the knight-commander?”

“I said… the knight-captain,” the stranger growled. “Now get me… whoever’s in charge!”

“Maikel, fetch Knight-Commander Brent!” Knight-Lieutenant Erd barked out. “He will be in his office now. Bring him— No, not here— Bring him to the guest room.” As the recruit clattered out, Erd looked around and his gaze settled on Amrita. “You! You would know where the first enchanter is!”

She thought for half a second. “She… should be observing the enchanters at the moment, serah.”

“Get her. Now!” he snapped.

Amrita turned and ran out.

She found Filal hovering at the back of one of Junior Enchanter Silas’s lessons on how to use a staff to focus spells. Silas looked a little nervy when Amrita popped her head into the classroom, but his expression quickly shifted to relief when she said there was an urgent message for the first enchanter. Filal frowned, nodded, and swept her way out of the room.

“What is it, Amrita?” she asked in a calm, low voice once the door was shut.

“There’s— There is a knight here from Kirkwall. He says he was sent by the knight-captain there, and that he needs to speak with you and Knight-Commander Brent immediately. I— I think he must have rode here with hardly a break, he looks exhausted.”

Filal’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps… Never mind,” she said. “Where is he?”

“The guest quarters.”

“Then I shall go there at once.” She paused for a moment. “On second thought, I want you to come with me. Something dreadful has happened, I am sure, and I want a record of the details we have. I know you are a good scribe, and trustworthy too.”

Amrita bowed, flattered by the praise but unsettled by the prospect of bad tidings. “Of course, First Enchanter.”

“Do you need to fetch writing materials?”

“I have some with me already.”

“Then let us waste no more time.” Filal set off, Amrita at her heels.

Brent was already there by the time they reached the room. The stranger was sat hunched over on the end of the bed, stripped of the bulkiest parts of his armour and looking like there was nothing he’d like to do more than fall back and sleep for a week. He held a waterskin in his trembling hands, and someone had managed to procure some food for him.

Filal nodded curtly to Brent, and bowed elegantly to the stranger. “Forgive me for the delay, serah. I am Filal, First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle. This is Amrita, my assistant.”

The stranger sucked down another mouthful of water and nodded to her. “Carver Hawke, knight of the Gallows in Kirkwall.”

Amrita hardly stifled her gasp. Even the children knew the name of Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, and she had been privy to a few extra stories when she worked more frequently with the now-first enchanter. The apostate – some said blood mage – was the source of frequent contention in the Circle, as the ethics of his methods and his exemption from the law elicited both praise and condemnation from the different factions. However, the Champion was a mage, and this man was clearly a templar, and so—

Carver's mouth twisted into a sour expression. “I can tell what you're thinking: and no, I'm not the Champion. That's my older brother, Garrett. I’m the little brother no one gives a crap about.” He looked up at Brent. “Ser, should this mage be here? This information is… delicate, to say the least.”

Brent raised his eyebrows at Filal, who crossed her arms as she replied. “Serah, I am sure it is delicate, which is why I want to have what you tell me recorded. Amrita has experience as a scribe, and is one of our most discrete peers. She would not disclose any information without express permission, and either the knight-commander or myself would hold her writing.”

The knight-commander sighed. “She is reliable, certainly, and she holds both mages and templars in the same esteem so will likely represent both sides equally.” Amrita lowered her eyes and held her tongue. “I am willing for her to act as scribe here.”

Carver shook his head. “Whatever you wish, Knight-Commander.” He took another swig of water. “Four days ago, the Kirkwall Chantry was blown up by an apostate mage with Grand Cleric Elthina inside; it came to war between the Order and the Circle; First Enchanter Orsino resorted to blood magic and became an abomination; and Knight-Commander Meredith went insane. The Champion had to kill them both, and now he’s fled for fear of retribution after supporting the mages. Knight-Captain Cullen is trying to restore order, but the city is as good as lost. I came here on his orders to request reinforcements, and to give you the facts.” He buried his head in his hands as everyone gaped at him. “It’s only a matter of time before the Circles rebel, but Cullen thought that if we could at least get some facts straight then maybe—”

“Serah,” Filal interrupted, voice a little weak. Amrita closed her mouth and glanced over, and saw that the older woman was supporting herself against a table. Amrita pulled out a chair for her, and Filal gratefully sank into it. “This is indeed grave news, and you are right: without the full story it would be all too easy to let our hearts rule our minds. I see why you came yourself. Please: tell us everything we need to know in order to decide how to proceed.”

And so out came the whole story. Carver had to break often to drink and eat, and even dozed off in the middle of a sentence at one point, but otherwise he gave a rundown of the situation as he knew it from the past six years. Amrita struggled to keep up with it all, but managed to keep some notes on all the key political machinations and incidents with dissidents. As the hours went on, her admiration of the former-Champion sank a little: sharp-tongued, sarcastic and a bedmate of a possessed apostate, he had avoided consequences for any criminal actions through money, connections and the fact that only a fool would tackle a man who defeated the Qunari's military leader in single combat. His unfailing support of the mages' plight had contributed to the growing tensions. He had spared Anders, who undoubtedly had killed the Grand Cleric and many more. Now Hawke, his lover and his associates – except for the guard captain who was assisting in the relief efforts – had vanished, leaving half the city damaged by the explosion and many already pitiably poor people in even direr straits than ever.

“Knight-Captain Cullen sent messengers to follow the messenger birds out to all of Thedas, it seems,” Carver concluded. Amrita did not know for sure what time it was, but the sunlight on the floor had shifted from one side of the room to the other. “Val Royeaux, Cumberland, Tantervale, Starkhaven, here. Some have gone to Ferelden and Antiva, even. We know that bad news travels even faster than the crows, but if anything can be done to stop outright war…” He ground at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Maker preserve us all,” he whispered.

“Maker preserve us,” Brent agreed. He looked up at Filal, who looked as though she had eaten uncooked wyvern liver. “Well, First Enchanter? Must I strike you down before you follow in Orsino’s footsteps?”

That seemed to shake her out of it. “Do not be ridiculous, Knight-Commander. My first concern is for the welfare of the mages in my care, but I would not walk the path of the maleficar even if it meant all of my charges dying.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Serah Carver… Thank you for your efforts, but I believe you may have acted in vain. Certainly, I cannot imagine that the Libertarian faction will not take this opportunity to rally and revolt, should they gain the numbers needed. Even I will not deny that Knight-Commander Meredith and Knight-Captain Cullen condoned, even ordered, many atrocities against mages if your account is accurate – and I do appreciate your candour, Serah Carver.” She sighed. “I… understand why the mages in Kirkwall rebelled, and I even feel some sympathy for them. Our own knight-commander has taken cues from the city,” she went on, ignoring Brent’s suddenly venomous glare, “and though I now understand that it could have been far, far worse, the physical abuse, rape and dubiously lawful executions have angered many in Ostwick.

“However,” she went on, taking a deep breath, “I will not lead my charges where they would not go. I will present them with the facts and let each mage cast a vote to decide our fate, once the Grand Enchanter has decreed the College’s plan of action. I would… personally prefer to remain here to provide a safe haven for my kind and continue to educate our apprentices. The people fear us, and with good reason. Going to war will not further our cause. Of course,” she added, looking pointedly at Brent, “if the templars were to stay, they would need to return to their true duties and protect, rather than harm us. What do you say, Knight-Commander?”

Brent looked away to Carver. “I… will do the same for the knights. Any who wish to stay may do so, and the rest will come with me to aid Kirkwall.”

Head dropping in gratitude, Carver said, “Thank you, Knight-Commander. Kirkwall will gladly welcome your aid. May the Maker smile upon you.”

He said nothing more, and Filal and Brent took this as their cue to stand, the First Enchanter picking up the pile of notes that Amrita had accumulated. “Serah Carver,” Brent said, “feel free to rest here as long as you need to. Thank you for your service and news: we shall leave you in peace.” Then the pair slipped out.

Amrita hung back. “Messere Carver?” she asked meekly.

He grunted in reply, chin resting on his sternum.

“I… am sorry to trouble you further, but… Do you know what befell any Trevelyans in Kirkwall? They are my relatives, you see,” she explained as he wearily raised his head. “I have heard nothing of them since my powers manifested, but I know that my sister Dawn at least was there ten years ago.”

“Dawn?” he asked, peering blearily at her. “I… did not know a Dawn Trevelyan, but there was a woman called Dawn Selwyn in the Gallows who looked… a little like you, I suppose. A lot like you, now I think about it. Early thirties? Married, had a little boy called Larch. I think I met them a few times on my rounds.”

Amrita smiled weakly. “That sounds quite likely. Do you know what befell her?”

His expression darkened. “She— She was on duty in the Chantry the day it was destroyed,” he said in a low, hoarse voice. “I’m sorry. There were a few Trevelyans in Kirkwall – most zealous bastards I ever met – but I do not know the fate of the others. There was— There was so much gore and chaos, and we were still sifting through bodies when I left, and—”

Throat constricted, Amrita shook her head. “No, of course, I— I understand. Thank you,” she croaked out. “I will leave you to rest.” She rose, bowed, walked calmly back to her room, and wept.

~~~

The next three years passed in a blur for Amrita, and while she could recount the simple facts of what had happened, only a few events evoked any kind of memory of time and place and emotion.

A week after news of the Kirkwall Chantry’s destruction, Amrita was asked to read Carver Hawke’s account of the events in Kirkwall to the hall of mages and templars, her throat as dry as the parchment she held in her trembling hands. She remembered the relief that filled her chest when most of the wisp-lights the mages conjured for voting turned purple rather than blue or red: a majority vote to remain in the Circle for the immediate future, neither fighting the templars or their newly ‘liberated’ brethren.

Days later, First Enchanter Filal began trying to build positive links with the city of Ostwick, sending Amrita along with a senior enchanter to persuade the revered mother – one of Amrita’s cousins, it turned out – that mages could be useful, if not a force for good, directing their powers to serve man.

Amrita remembered standing in front of the chantry, her knees shaking under her heavy robes from both cold and the fear that she would be struck down once she crossed the threshold. She remembered the look of betrayal on a Chantry sister’s face when the elderly aunt realised that no, Amrita was not a suddenly-youthful Grace, heir to the Trevelyan family, but merely the outcast, cursed spellbind girl. She remembered the cold look the revered mother gave her when she meekly asked if she could use her spirit-healing to tend to the sick and wounded in the city. She remembered the dismissal that mages would not be allowed to attend to the humans – but that if they were truly desperate to serve, they could go into the alienage and care for the ‘dirty knife-ears’. She remembered the surge of anger that filled her at the words, and the strength that guided her words when she swore to do everything she could to help those in the slums. Ema’an would have approved.

She remembered walking out of the revered mother’s office and finding herself face to face, and almost eye to eye, with Laurel. He had stared at her, mouth agape, before sweeping her up into the kind of hug she hadn’t had since Ema’an had died, whispering apologies into her hair and thanking the Maker for answering his prayers for her safety. That, that was the first time she remembered feeling safe and loved for a long time. Pulling the pendant around her neck had been a source of comfort, but was always accompanied by the quiet, sad acceptance of her first love’s death. In Laurel’s arms, the long buried hope that her family would accept her and her efforts to be a good child rose again.

She remembered him inviting them back to their home for dinner that evening, and then arriving to find nobody at the gates but the guards with a letter in hand. Their parents had told Laurel that they would not have one of those who killed Dawn under their roof, and that if he continued to support the spellbind – they did not refer to Amrita by her name, or even suggest that she was a Trevelyan – he would leave too. Though it broke his heart, he had promised to support the family foremost; not because he agreed with their views, but simply because their parents could not handle the grief of losing a fourth child.

She remembered that being the moment she finally steeled her heart and accepted that she could rely on nobody but herself to support her in her journey of faith. She kept her beliefs private and shared them with no one but the Maker himself.

~~~

She remembered that her time in the alienage as a healer was full of blood, illness and most of all, hatred. Hatred for ‘shems’, hatred for mages, hatred for Andrastians, hatred for people with saviour-complexes who ‘didn’t give a shit’ about the actual problems and just wanted to make themselves feel less guilty. She accepted the elves’ anger, better than the other spirit healers who joined her, because she knew she could not ever comprehend their justified anger.

A few of the elves were grateful, though, and many kept coming for help because no one else would aid them. After a year, many of them bordered on being friendly – certainly, they were civil – because she came back, every day, and she did what little she could. Her templar minders hated the fact that she forced them out every morning and trudged back in late at night. She made no pretence that she knew anything about elves and their struggles, even though she had loved and lost one elf, and gained respect the same way she did in the Circle: she asked questions, listened to the answers, and remembered what she was told.

She learned a lot about healing on the job, but also picked up little bits of knowledge from the elves: herb properties and how to prepare poultices; how to stop bleeding and prevent infection when a spirit healer was unavailable; how to amputate a limb and how to deliver a baby.

She remembered liking the work. She was always exhausted, always a few hours short of what sleep she needed, but she felt like she was doing what the Maker wanted her to do. She was away from the politics of the Circle and Chantry as much as she could be, and between her templar guards and the elves who wanted her to keep coming back and healing their families, she was relatively safe. Probably safer than most who spent any time in the alienage.

When the revered mother of the Ostwick Chantry finally relented and gave permission for the Circle mages to start working in the city proper, with those humans who were willing to put aside their distrust of them, Amrita declined the offer to move ‘uptown’. It was at this point that she was permitted to settle permanently in one of the hovels in the alienage, which allowed her to receive patients in one place. She even set up a room for healing and surgery, and employed elves to help with the minor injuries and illnesses that did not need magic, paying for them out of her stipend. The templars checked in on her every day, but simply could not spare the manpower needed to constantly supervise her.

She remembered something like pride when, on her twenty-third birthday, in 9:39, she received a letter from Filal informing her that she had been promoted to Enchanter for what had effectively been studying spirit healing in the alienage for nearly two years. Shortly after that, she was entrusted with two apprentices – Wynny and Den, both newly through the Harrowing, both old enough to remember her and Ema’an telling stories in the dormitory – to train on the job. With them came two templars to oversee the trainees; one trusted mage by herself was one thing, but three left alone could spell trouble. She pushed her students hard, almost as hard as she pushed herself, but between them they managed to negotiate permission to research the possibilities of non-magical doctoring as an alternative or support to their own work.

She remembered the fury she felt when Wynny’s templar escort returned alone and reported with a shrug that he had lost sight of her while outside the city – the next he knew, she had been killed by a separate patrol of templars.

Wynny had been doing nothing more than gathering herbs to make soap for surgery or delivering babies.

She half-remembered drinking beyond her limits and letting the fury spill onto paper in a letter to Filal, after the First Enchanter demanded that Amrita returned to the Circle tower. Amrita had refused, simply sending Den back in order to protect him: there were still people who needed her with them.

She remembered being rounded up, along with all the other Circle mages who had been working in the city, when news of the uprising at the White Spire in Orlais reached Ostwick at the end of Harvestmere, 9:40. They were brought before the Chantry to listen to a joint decree from Bann Jorrik Trevelyan, Crystal Grace Trevelyan, and the revered mother: mages were now forbidden within the city walls.

Amrita had stared up at her father – he was in his mid-seventies now, and it showed in his white hair, the family freckles that had become age spots, and the bitter expression he wore – and his gaze had passed over her as it had with the others. Grace, however, was not so oblivious, and in the brief moment the sisters made eye contact, the elder one somehow conveyed her utter loathing for the disowned one.

For the first time in her life Amrita felt real anger towards them for everything they had failed to do for her, for their ignorance and intolerance and for taking her away from the one place she felt she had been working to clear her sins. Then a great sense of shame wrapped around her throat, and she spent the journey back to the Circle praying for forgiveness for her moment of malevolence, and for their own redemption. They were, after all, trying to protect their family and people from the evils of mages. Her father was the Bann of Ostwick, Grace his successor; it was their responsibility to do so. How could she hate them for doing what was probably right?

When Filal returned from the meeting of the College of Enchanters, she seemed half the woman she Amrita remembered from when they last spoke face to face almost three years ago. Filal had survived the uprising in the White Spire and been released by an agent of the Divine, but despite her experience, she had remained true to her belief that mages should stay in Circles. The vote had gone against her, with Enchanter Rhys leading the Aequitarians to war, and so Filal had returned. She opened the gates to the grounds and told anyone who wanted to leave that they could.

Some did. Some stayed. Most of the templars left to hunt the new apostates. One or two stayed in case the remaining mages became abominations.

It was almost inevitable that at some point there would be a siege of the Circle and it came shortly before the end of the year. The mages waited it out for two weeks before voting to retaliate. They were undisciplined and unused to fighting, but had the advantage of a defensible position and ranged attacks. They routed most of the templars with huge, jointly-conjured storms of electricity, fire and ice. The survivors were quickly hunted down and silenced so they could not bring reinforcements.

Amrita stayed inside with the children and kept their minds off the violence outside. She prayed fervently for the souls of all involved: both those who died, and those who killed.

Little did she know that, within a matter of weeks, she would be sent from her home and have to fight both mage and templars as she performed what others told her was Andraste’s work.

Chapter Text

Amrita hesitated in front of the First Enchanter’s office. Although Filal had gone above and beyond the call of duty in caring for Amrita – tutoring her, comforting her, pulling her out of grief and sending her out as a representative of the mages – the two women had exchanged nothing more than stiff nods and tight smiles since Filal returned from Orlais.

However, she was here now, called up from the Firstday celebrations where she had been singing songs learned in the alienage for her peers’ entertainment.

As her hand hovered before the lacquered door, it trembled ever so slightly. She shut her eyes and talked herself through the breathing techniques with which she had calmed so many crying children and panicked patients. Then she scrunched up her face, shook her head and, with a bland expression that belied the fluttering of her intestines, knocked.

“Come in!”

Amrita turned the handle and forced the winter-stiffened door open with a sharp shove. As she made eye contact with the middle-aged woman hunched over the paper-strewn desk, Amrita demurely greeted her: “First Enchanter.” She scanned the room and her eyebrows twitched in concern; even before Amrita had become her assistant, Filal had never been one to let her quarters or workspace fall into chaos: now, piles of books and parchment were stacked haphazardly on every surface. Even Filal herself had allowed her greying hair to become disarrayed, and her robes were fraying at the cuffs.

Amrita kept her eyes down as Filal said, “Welcome, Amrita. Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, First Enchanter.”

“And drop the deferential act, will you?”

She glanced up through her eyelashes at that. “I am not quite sure what you mean, First Enchanter,” she said as she shut the door and sat herself down, fidgety fingers stilled as she laced them in her lap. “You are my superior, and it would be wrong for me to be too familiar with you without your assent. Though we were quite close three years ago, we have not spoken in almost that long, and my letter in response to your instruction to return to the Tower following Wynny’s death was not…” She paused, casting about for a diplomatic term.

“Worded with your usual delicacy?” Filal suggested, an eyebrow quirking upwards.

Amrita coughed and raised her eyebrows at her knees. “The night I wrote that was the first and only time I have imbibed enough alcohol to become inebriated, and I think getting in such a state ranks about fourth in the list of worst decisions I have ever made, just below writing to you while drunk.” She shuddered, her stomach already churning at the memory of burning bile in her throat and her head pounding like Maferath’s war drums the morning after.

“You were certainly… emphatic, in your refusal.”

“If I recall correctly, I was downright rude.” Amrita shook her head. “Calling my deference an ‘act’ makes it sound false and manipulative, but I truly thought it better to be thus until amends had been made. We all police ourselves and our behaviour depending on company, do we not?” She flexed the muscles in her jaws. “I am truly sorry for my language and any offence I may have caused you. You have always looked out for my best interests and been very kind to me – even more so since Ema’an died – and you are not deserving of all the vitriol I harboured at the world for killing Wynny simply because she had a staff strapped to her back.”

She felt hot tears pricking at her eyes and rubbed them away with her fingertips. She forced her abdomen to be still, and her voice was steady when she opened her mouth again and finally met Filal’s eyes. “But my insubordination is not why you called me up here, is it? It has been two months since my father forced us out of the city, and one month since the College made its decision. You are not one to interrupt brief moments of celebration. So, First Enchanter: what do you need me to do?”

Filal leaned forward, one elbow on the desk and her chin in the palm of her hand while the index finger of the other tapped quietly on the surface, displacing a sheet of parchment. “Amrita, my dear, I am very fond of you, and I accept your apology. But I have known you for sixteen years, yet I feel I have never worked you out.”

“If it is of any comfort, neither have I.”

That provoked a laugh, and Amrita felt some tightness in her chest ease as a few of the creases in Filal’s face softened. “I think I have a better picture of you than most,” she said, good humour quickly fading, “which is why I feel I can ask you this.” She sat back in her chair. “I received a missive today. Divine Justinia is holding a Conclave to broker peace between the mages and templars. I want you to be our representative.”

The breath caught in Amrita’s throat. “Me?” she squeaked. She coughed and tried again. “Me? Why?”

“Because,” Filal said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “you are intelligent; you gather and assess information before you act or even speak; and, regardless of how well things worked out in Ostwick, you have a foot in many camps, so to speak, with your magic, family and religion. In addition, I trust you, and you are one of the few enchanters that I can afford to send.” Amrita tipped her head to one side, and Filal looked a little guilty. “Most of our aggressive peers left when we opened the gates, and we are short enough of mages to defend the tower as it is. While I do not mean to imply that your skills are not valued, we do have other healers here. You are old enough and experienced enough to leave the tower, and you have. You lived outside for almost three years. You have lived with and talked to other people. Our insularity means there are precious few mages who know how to talk to non-mages. Half of them still call non-mages ‘mundanes’.”

Amrita lowered her head, conceding the points. “Still,” she demurred, “I cannot help but worry that I would struggle to accurately represent the wishes of the mages here. You know I refrain from discussing religion with my peers because our differing viewpoints would only make life more unpleasant. I cannot promise in good faith that I would do what you want. Are you sure you could not send Manda, or Gronje?”

There was a long, heavy silence.

Then Filal sighed, sat back and crossed her arms. “Let me tell you what I see before me, Amrita.

“I see a young woman who has lost her family and lost a love through no fault of her own. I see a strong woman who has kept living and has shaped the lives of those around her for the better. I see a faithful woman who has upheld her beliefs and morals through trial and tribulation, and never raised a hand to anyone, yet leaps to sacrifice her time and health in order to help others. I see a noble woman – perhaps ejected from the gentry, but noble nonetheless – who knows something of both the privileged and the under-trod. I see an intelligent woman who applies herself to her studies but also knows that knowledge can be found everywhere, not just in dusty tomes. I see a personable woman who listens and cares about what others have to say. I see a dutiful woman who sees what must be done and does it, even against the advice of others. I see a thoughtful woman, who takes time to gather information before passing judgement, and who avoids conflict where she can.”

As Filal spoke, Amrita’s chin sank lower and lower into her sternum. She is misinformed, or else she has little better to go on, being a mage herself. I try, and… I am delighted she perceives me in such a way, but we are both mages, and nothing I have done changes the corruption we are afflicted by. She heard Filal rise and approach her, but did not lift her hot, blushing face.

“I see a woman whose noble birth might have some clout outside of the Free Marches. A woman whose devoutly Andrastian roots might have some weight when showing that mages need not be in conflict with faith and the Chantry. A woman who may have been sent through all her suffering in order to prepare her to help bring peace to Thedas.”

Amrita inhaled sharply.

“But most of all,” Filal said, reaching her and tilting Amrita’s head upwards with a finger under her chin, “I see a girl who has grown into a woman I would have been proud to call my daughter had circumstances been different.” She shut her eyes and pressed her thin, dry lips to Amrita’s forehead. “Please, my dear child,” she said, pleading with words and expression as she pulled back. “Our Circle needs all the help it can find in these dark times. Mages have been leaving to join the fight, and I must keep all my allies here to defend those who remain. You are the only mage of your calibre who is not tied by responsibility and whom I can trust to follow their head and not their emotions. Please.”

Amrita let her head fall again so Filal could not see the doubt that lay heavy on her heart. “Yes, First Enchanter.”

~~~

For the eighteenth time that night, or possibly the nineteenth, Amrita swore into the emptiness of her room, dragged her eyelids shut with her hands and cast her forearm over her eyes. She did not know how late it was, but it was sometime after the customary midnight patrol by the remaining templars. Fat raindrops had been battering her window since before the early winter sunset. Normally exhaustion from her work – previously healing, now learning about politicians and how to use her magic to defend herself – was enough to send her to her dreams in the Fade. She spent the nights explaining the complexities of the living world to her compassion spirit companions when they were not aiding her in fighting off the demons that took a similar interest in her; she routinely summoned benevolent spirits to aid her, and so malevolent ones lingered in the hopes of being brought through.

But on this night, the eve of her journey to the Conclave, sleep eluded her like an urchin fleeing a shopkeeper with a loaf of bread to feed their starving siblings tucked under their arm. It was an image she had become uncomfortably familiar with while in the alienage, and one of many reasons she had employed children for her errand-running. For some families, the few extra coppers each day were the difference between life and death, freedom or incarceration.

Regardless, the misery of Marcher elves was not what kept her awake this night. Her fingers itched with the fear of facing the world weaponless: the senior enchanters had ruled that it would attract too much attention if she took her staff. Her heart pounded at the idea of clashing with men and women with quicker wits and tongues than her. Her stomach churned at the prospect of being responsible for representing the best interests of her peers when her beliefs were so disparate from theirs. Andraste preserve her, she hardly knew what she believed herself these days. How can I choose a path to support when I know not what I believe is best?

She groaned and wearily pushed herself upright. She climbed down the ladder, sliding her slippers onto her feet before she touched the chill stone floor, and picked up her enchanter’s staff – a gift from Filal upon her promotion – from its place against the wall. The nevarrite tip glowed at her touch, faintly illuminating the room. It was enough for her to locate a warm robe to throw over her heavy nightclothes; the leather armour she was to wear in the morning stayed in the corner. Then she picked up a sheaf of paper, ink, pen and her well-worn and well-loved copy of The Chant of Light, and quietly let herself out of her room.

She descended first of all to the chapel. The sisters who had felt it was their sacred duty to attend to the cursed mages had abandoned the Tower after the White Spire uprising, and ostensibly the only devotees remaining were Amrita and the templars who felt it more important to protect mages than follow the Lord Seeker’s directives. Yet the Eternal Flame still burned, and Amrita had never been the one to tend it.

In its light she sang through the first Canticle of Transfigurations: the same one she had performed for her family in their own chapel eighteen years ago. Some of the words now gave her pause – particularly those regarding those of other faiths.

Once done, Amrita went to the library and sat down in the alcove she and Ema’an had played chess in and talked for so many hours. For some time she just pressed her cheek against the cold glass, her teeth vibrating faintly with the force of the rain pounding against the window, and stared into the darkness outside.

It could almost be the Void, she idly thought, pulling out her necklace and twirling it between her fingers. I wish you were still here, Ema’an. You would have insisted on coming with me, and you would have debated all night with me until we had an agenda. I suppose I will have to make do with pen and paper.

And so, one hand clutching the cool stone hanging from her neck, she started writing.

~~~

She had just frozen one of the spider-like fearlings when ―

“Amrita!”

The green-tinted world of the Fade vanished, and Amrita found herself hyperventilating as she stared up at the mage shaking her shoulder. Her surviving student. “Den?” Maker, she was stiff. Curled up against a window on a stone seat was an awful place to sleep. One side of her face was numb with the cold.

“Andraste’s arse, Amrita, everyone’s looking for you! When you didn’t show up to breakfast Alex went to check on your room, and the templars were preparing for the worst!”

Amrita shuddered at the thought. “I am sorry, Den. I just…” She trailed off and rubbed her eyes, trying to clear them of sleepdust. Her throat constricted and she would have been unable to say anything even if she had found the words.

Den patted her arm sympathetically. “Just get dressed – I’ll call off the search party.”

Amrita nodded and clumsily gathered up the things she had brought down to the library. She hobbled upstairs as fast as she could until she was back in the safety of her room. Then she reverently placed The Chant of Light on her desk, rested her staff against the wall – Andraste preserve her, was she really going to leave without it? – put her writing tools in their box and thumbed through the many pages of fatigued scrawl. Those that had been drafts were burned to ashes with a quick spell, until she was left with a single sheet of parchment, both sides covered in small but just about legible handwriting.

My name is Amrita Trevelyan and these are my beliefs.

I believe in one god, the almighty Maker: creator of heaven and earth, the Fade and the Abyss; of all things visible and invisible, knowable and unknowable.

I believe that He chose Andraste to be His betrothed, conveying His message to the people of Thedas through her. I believe she led a holy war against the Tevinter Imperium and its false gods, and that when she was betrayed by Maferath and martyred by Hessarian her spirit was taken up to the side of the Maker.

I believe that all people, from kings to slaves, are His children, and must be treated with kindness. I believe that it is a sin to harm another without provocation.

I believe that Tevinter magisters performed the greatest taboo, forcing their way into the Golden City and turning it Black with their maleficence. I believe that they were cast out of the City and became the first Darkspawn.

I believe that all those born with magical powers are cursed. Magic was once a gift from the Maker, but after the magisters turned their gift against Him the blessing became a curse that marks each mage as innately sinful. This, along with their ability to consciously roam the Fade, makes them particularly susceptible to possession by demons.

I believe that magic should be used to serve people and not rule over them. I believe that mages may be able to mitigate some of their inherent sinfulness through using their magic to protect and heal.

I believe that mages have the free will to choose whether they put their powers to good use or not. I believe that any mage, regardless of their good works or intentions, can fall victim to a demon, and that they are dangerous and not to be trusted to be safe.

I believe that the templars were once an honourable organisation that protected mages from themselves and others, as well as the world from mages. I believe that is no longer the case, and that while templars do not share the same innate sinfulness as mages, they are in some ways worse as they choose to abuse their charges.

I believe that blood magic is the most evil form of magic a mage could seek to use.

I believe that mages bleed once a month to remind them of the pain they would inflict upon the world were they to use blood magic.

I believe that sex is an unpleasant, painful experience, most often for the person being penetrated. I believe that sex is used as a way to hurt and punish people. I believe that its only function is for procreation, and that it is better for mages not to have children so as not to bring more cursed people into the world.

I believe that my family was prejudiced against other races. If I believe that the Maker created everything then I believe that all races are children of the Maker, and that they all deserve to be treated well. I believe that I may have internalised some of my family’s prejudices, and that I need to be open to learn about other peoples so that I may improve myself and cause them no harm.

I believe that there are benevolent, ambivalent and malevolent spirits. I believe that they normally reside in the Fade but that they can be brought through the Veil unwittingly, when they possess someone or the Veil becomes weak, and deliberately, when they are summoned.

I believe that I have attracted the attention of a number of spirits of compassion. The spirit of faith left after my struggles following Ema’an's death. I used to believe that they were demons trying to tempt me, but over many years they have guarded me while in the Fade and aided me in my healing. I can often hear the suggestion of their voices even when waking, but I have shown no signs of possession and so I believe that this is due to a particular sensitivity – perhaps like that of a spirit medium – as opposed to my being an abomination. I believe that I am particularly at risk of possession due to this sensitivity. From what I understand of the spirits of compassion, they can sense my actions even while I wake – indeed, they frequently question me on what they have seen through my eyes and my thoughts, and this has honed a degree of reflectiveness and both intra- and interpersonal awareness – and it is this that drew them to me. The same facts are likely what draw demons to me when I walk in the Fade, and I have fought alongside the spirits against minor demons. I have fortunately never entered the realm of one of the more powerful demons.

I believe that belief is not the same as behaving. People who consider themselves Andrastian are not always followers of her teaching. People who do not believe in the Chant are entirely capable of being good people.

I believe that many mages in the Circle are publicly against Andrastians because of the Chantry and the Chantry’s treatment of mages. However, I also believe that many of them are privately Andrastian: certainly, I can think of no reason other than fear of divine judgement to hold them to the path of neutrality in this war.

I believe that belief is not the same as knowing. While I believe these things, I do not know them to be true, and therefore I cannot condemn others for their beliefs so long as their beliefs do not cause harm to others.

Amrita Trevelyan, on the 6th day of Wintermarch, 9:41 Dragon.

Something in her stomach unknotted itself as she read the last line. It might not be what everyone else believed, but at least she now had her guiding principles on paper for her to refer to when in doubt.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in!” she called, folding the paper up.

The door eased open slowly, revealing a fourteen-year-old apprentice pushing it open with her back. The girl was holding a tray with a breakfast meal in her hands, while a cloth was draped in the crook of her elbow. “Good morning, Enchanter Amrita,” she greeted her as she cautiously entered.

“Good morning, Abatha,” Amrita replied softly, privately marvelling at when the girl had become taller than herself as she took the tray from her and put it down. The smell of honey-drizzled porridge made her mouth water. “Did Den send you?”

“Yes. And he said I could be the apprentices’ representative.” She held out the cloth, which turned out to be a grey scarf. “Gythain and some of the others made this for you. They said it would help protect you from any apostates who try to hurt you.” Amrita picked up the cloth, and felt her throat constrict again as she rubbed her fingers against the soft weave. “We wish you lots of luck, and want you to come back and tell stories and teach us songs again.” Abatha crossed her arms and pouted. “We missed you for the last three years, and now you are leaving again – you have to come back soon. You are a much nicer teacher than most of the enchanters.”

Amrita laughed at that, a loud sincere laugh that she felt in her belly. It was the first one in a while. “I am sure that if you ask Den what I am like as a teacher he would tell you I am a hard task-master.”

Abatha looked away huffily. “Well. We’ll just have to find out for ourselves, when you come back.” The teenager side-eyed her for a moment before throwing her arms around Amrita’s neck and burying her face in her curls. Amrita staggered back half a step under the unexpected weight, but swiftly recovered and rubbed the girl’s back as Abatha started sobbing. “You have to come back,” Abatha wept. “Ema’an died, and Tam went to fight the templars and Wynny didn’t come back and―” She broke off to gasp in air. “You have to come back.”

Amrita felt a jaded smile stretch her face as she stared at nothing in particular over Abatha’s shoulder. “I promise I will try, Abatha,” she murmured.

“Good.” The girl withdrew and wiped her eyes and nose with the hem of her sleeve. “Den says you need to be ready within the hour.”

A fond smile tweaked Amrita’s lips. “Thank you. Take care of yourself and the others, Abatha.”

The girl nodded vigorously and then exited, still dabbing at her eyes.

Amrita sighed quietly and shut the door. There were people relying on her, and she would do her best for them.

~~~

An hour later she was standing on the threshold of the tower grounds, sheltering from the drizzle with the senior enchanters under the archway of the gates. She wore the same brown and green leather armour with steel spaulders that had seen her through her time in the alienage, though it was considerably more patched than it had been three years ago. On her belt was a purse, pouches with herbs, all the lyrium potions the circle could spare and a water-proofed book with all her notes on healing, the political situation and the people she was likely to meet. Pressed between its pages was the invitation from the Divine so that she could, in theory, pass through Thedas without being challenged as an apostate, as well as her creed. On her back was a bedroll and blanket, with sovereigns tucked inside to pay for her escorts and any emergencies. In her pocket was a warming runespell etched on a pebble provided by Ostwick's Formari, intended ensure she did not have to actively draw on her magic, to draw attention to herself, in order to stop herself from freezing to death in the winter wet and cold.

The only thing that was out of place was the sword at her hip instead of the staff at her back: she had protested, but her superiors had overruled her. The sword was so that nobody wondered why she was travelling unarmed and became suspicious. She felt exposed, naked without the familiar smooth wood close to hand, ready to crackle with electricity to warn off any threats. She felt another wave of yearning for Ema’an and his combat-oriented training.

Filal interrupted her thoughts. “You will meet your contact in the city.” Amrita nodded morosely, but jumped when Filal took her hand. “Go with our blessing,” the First Enchanter said with a smile on her worry-worn face, “and return safely when the talks are over.” Filal pulled Amrita’s head down so she could press a dry kiss to her forehead.

Amrita closed her eyes so she could no longer see the bleak, distrustful looks on the other enchanters’ faces while she replied, “Thank you, First Enchanter.”

Then Filal released her, and without another word, Amrita turned and stepped out into the rain, heading for Ostwick.

Chapter Text

Amrita tugged the scarf further over her face as she passed the guards at the city gates, her fist pulling the fabric taut, but none of them even spared her a second glance. It seemed that the senior enchanters had been correct in their assumption that many people equated mages with staves, and followed the logic to believe that anyone without a staff could not be a mage. It was a dangerous fallacy.

As she emerged back into the rain, her eyes were immediately drawn to the looming, drizzle-softened silhouette of the Chantry, hardly distinguishable from the slate clouds darkening the sky. She took a step towards it before faltering. Then she shook her head and turned down the road headed to the Ostwick Lowtown; she had already lost too much time with her unintended lie-in.

Within an hour, it was dark and she was lost.

Although Ostwick was her place of birth – indeed, had she been the Bann’s firstborn and free of magic she might have ruled the city one day – she hardly knew it. Her childhood had been spent on the private estate or in and around the chantry building, but the memories of even those places were hazy with the passage of sixteen years. She was as intimately familiar with the alienage as a shem was allowed to become; but the rest of the city she knew nothing of. All she knew was the name of her contact, the public house she was meeting them in, and the street it was located on.

As the rain turned to sleet and threatened to chill her, even through the warming runespell she had activated, she decided against her better judgement to ask the next people she saw for help.

Unfortunately, the next people she saw were two men skulking in a dingy doorway. She paused as she saw them, well out of reach, but the cessation of movement was sudden enough to attract their attention. Though she could scarcely see their faces, something in their posture shifted and Amrita felt her stomach lurch. Slowly, oh so slowly, her hand drifted to the pommel of the sword.

“Something you need, love?” one of the men called.

Amrita coughed into her other hand to draw their attention away from her waist. “Yes, serah,” she said, lifting her chin and setting her jaw. “I was wondering if you might be able to point me in the direction of the Bloody Daisy pub?”

“O’ course, love,” the man replied. “You ain’t far. We could show you, couldn’t we, Lev?”

“Sure could,” the other replied, rolling his shoulders. “Wouldn’t be right to leave a poor lass wandering the streets on her own.”

Amrita narrowed her eyes; she had met that tone of voice in the alienage, unveiling the threat of intimate violence that the words stepped around. She had even heard it from templars: though she had never been raped herself, Rilana’s fate had not been an isolated case.

However, these men were not templars: they had no power over her. She took a deep breath and put on her best authoritative voice – the same one that chastised apprentices and demanded cooperation during surgery. “I appreciate the offer, but directions will suffice. I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

One of them sniggered. It was not the reaction she had hoped for. “Fancy, ain’t she? Reckon she’s a nob who got lost looking for a good time, Tarik? You know, one of those who try to be edgy by sneaking into the slums?”

“Might be, Lev, might be. Follow us, your highness, and we’ll show you the way.”

The men emerged from the doorway, and Amrita took a step back. Instinct told her to flee, but common sense told her that she would never outrun them. She could fight, but she was reluctant to advertise the fact that she was a mage, or to use her magic to harm anyone. All the combat training in the world did her no good if she could not bring herself to use it even in self-defence. After all, the men had not yet hurt her, and the Chant forbade violence except in retaliation. Thoughts rushing through her mind, she was rapidly debating exactly what constituted enough of a threat to retaliate against when―

“Oi!” a voice hollered from behind her. Amrita jumped. The men flinched. “Leave the lady alone!”

A moment later there was a dwarf at her side, hands on hips and exuding more aggression than Amrita would have thought possible for anyone, let alone anyone so small. The darkness hid most of their features, but Amrita was willing to guess that they were female.

The men rallied again after half a second and sneered. “Or what, sand-sucker?”

The dwarf reached over her back and hefted a warhammer almost as big as herself. “Or I’ll smite you in the name of Andraste,” she responded smugly.

“Oh,” one said. “Well. We’ll be off then, won’t we, Lev?”

“Might as well be. Seeing the nob up close just put me off anyway!”

“Shut it you dickhead!” the first hissed before touching his forelock. “Have a nice evening, ladies.”

And off they trotted into the dark, the second man continuing to mutter about ‘ugly bitches’. Amrita found herself tensing her jaw as tears sprang to her eyes. One hand reached up to where Ema’an’s necklace rested over her heart.

“I don’t suppose you’re Ema’an’s friend, are you?”

“What?” she choked as she span to look at her saviour, whose hammer was back in its place and her arms crossed. Amrita’s heart rose up into her throat, and her breaths came short and shallow.

“Ema’an’s friend? I’m supposed to be meeting someone, and I was told they’d understand. Look, lady, it’s fine, you’re the fifth person I’ve asked this evening if you don’t count the corpse in the gutter over on Havard’s Lane―”

“No, no,” Amrita interrupted, calming slightly. Filal had not warned her of the code, but it was a good one for not revealing any link to the Circle as nobody would know of Ema’an outside of it. “I am Ema’an's friend. And you are Cadash?”

“Serun Cadash, yes.”

Amrita extended a hand. “Amrita, of the Ostwick Circle. A pleasure to meet you, Serah Cadash. Thank you for your assistance.”

The dwarf ignored the hand and set off back up the street. “Let’s get out of this sodding sleet before we exchange pleasantries.” Amrita offered no objections and followed.

Serun lead the way quickly and quietly, and soon the pair of them were at the public house. Above the entrance swung a sign with a picture of a single daisy flower liberally splattered with blood. The dwarf held the door for Amrita, and suddenly they were in a chatter-filled, stuffy room that stank of ale and stale sweat. Amrita scrunched up her nose at the odour, but made herself relax: it was hardly the worst she had ever smelled.

The dwarf lead her over to a corner table where two other dwarves sat, looking surly over their drinks. She dropped her warhammer by her chair, and it dented the floorboards slightly; Amrita took a little more care as she divested herself of her pack. Serun gestured for the barmaid to come over and then pulled back her hood. “Right. Now we do introductions. I’m Serun Cadash, and these are my relatives and business associates Nathan and Seth.” Each of the dwarves nodded as their name was said. “They are not chatty people, so don’t expect them to talk to you. This is Amrita, our patron. We’re not allowed to mention her family or where she comes from until we’re clear of the city.”

Amrita lowered her head. “A pleasure,” she said.

“That means you’ll be grilled as soon as we’re in a place I can demand answers. Clear?”

“Yes, Serah Cadash.”

“Lay off the serah, it’s just Serun.”

Amrita nodded again, and the conversation fell silent. She took the opportunity to study the dwarves. They all had brown skin, perhaps a shade or two darker than Amrita’s, and wonderful golden hair; Serun was smooth-faced while the others had full beards. Each had a blocky yellow tattoo under their right eye, and Serun had chosen to offset her green eyes with pale blue eyeshadow. With that and gloss on her thick, wide lips she looked lovely. Amrita did not know how dwarves aged, but this one looked pretty good.

She was disturbed by the arrival of the drinks. Serun quickly downed a mouthful, but Amrita was a little more hesitant to taste it. Her powers meant she could boil water and make it safe, and although she had drunk alcohol before, the fear of losing control and unleashing awful magic on the world kept her away from imbibing substantial quantities. The night she had received Filal’s order to return following Wynny’s death had been the sole exception, and quite enough to convince her she was better off without the stuff.

As Amrita sipped tentatively at the drink, Serun gruffly said, “You didn’t show when expected, so I went out to look for you. Andraste didn’t burn at the stake so that pigs could prey on vulnerable people. Really, we did them a favour before they could sin by hurting His children.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Serun drained the last of her drink and slammed it down on the table before standing. “You’re sharing with me tonight. Room Four. Come up whenever.” And with that, all the dwarves rose and left.

Amrtia stared after them forlornly for a moment, until she noticed a man approach her with a hopeful look on his face. She stared at him, lips pursed and eyebrows raised disapprovingly until he backed down. Then she sighed and, catching the barmaid’s eye, settled down to eat alone.

~~~

It was an hour after the late winter dawn, and the party had covered about three miles from the city gates before breaking. As per usual, it was raining, and if they looked to the south they could see the grey expanse of water that separated the Free Marches from Ferelden. Amrita gritted her teeth and ignored the aches her body was already accumulating from the brisk march.

“Look,” Serun said. “I’ll be straight with you, Trevelyan.”

Amrita winced at the use of her surname. “I am a Trevelyan in blood only. ‘Amrita’ is fine.”

The other dwarves turned to look at her, almost as though surprised. Amrita recognised the expression: it was the one that said, ‘Oh, you’re the child of that devoutly Andrastian family that shamed them by turning out to be a mage!’ It was usually followed by disappointment or mirth at the scandal.

Serun continued, “I don’t like magic. At all. We deal in lyrium, providing it to templars so they can keep you robes in check.” Amrita bit her lip but did not otherwise respond to the slur. “I only agreed to escort you because the templars in your circle swore that you’re a mage who fears the Maker and uses your powers to heal and defend, and because I want to go to the Conclave myself. Otherwise I would be at the Revered Mother’s feet right now begging for her to let me join the Trevelyan party that’s also headed to the Conclave in the next day or so. Magic seems to be what’s tearing this world apart right now, and it seems like the Chantry’s got it right about its evil influence.”

“Indeed,” Amrita agreed. Usually she had to censor herself, but Serun had quickly made her viewpoint obvious. “I wish I had not been afflicted with such a curse.”

Serun canted her head to one side. “Alright; colour me intrigued. A mage who hates magic?”

“A dwarf who follows the Chant?” Amrita asked back.

Laughing, Serun slapped her arm in a friendly way. “Oh! And I was expecting this journey to be miserable, mage.”

Amrita smiled weakly. “I would be delighted to discuss matters of Andrastianism with a fellow devotee, Serun.”

The dwarf snorted and pointed a finger in Amrita’s face. “Look: I don’t like mages. I don’t like templars much either, but they buy lyrium, and that makes them a source of money, and they stop mages going wild, so they’re useful by my books. But it’s fucked up for them to attack any mage they see on principle. You’re going to attract attention with your staff once you get it out. I won’t―”

“I do not have a staff.”

That stopped Serun. “You don’t?”

“Not with me. The other enchanters thought it would attract attention from the templars, as you just said. And I could not have entered the city with one.”

Serun stared at her incredulously. “You are a mage, travelling without a proper entourage, and you don’t have your only weapon? I hate magic, but I’m not stupid enough to think you can defend yourself properly without a staff.”

Amrita laced her fingers together in the hope of hiding her jitters. “They gave me a sword, but I hardly know how to hold it, let alone use it. I am quite dangerous enough without a staff,” she said despondently.

“Trust me,” Serun said, “you’re even more of a liability without one. Much more likely to hit your allies.” She pressed a hand to her forehead and exhaled dramatically. “Right. Well. I won’t abandon you to the templars, but you have to fight for yourself. You understand? I won’t babysit a namby-pamby mage. Chant says we can defend ourselves when provoked, so you fucking do that. Otherwise I’m out of there and claiming you held me prisoner. We clear?”

Amrita swallowed. “Crystal,” she answered.

Chapter Text

Serun proved to be a fascinating travelling companion. She practically skipped with excitement as she spoke of the Maker and Andraste’s work, and she stared so intently at Amrita when querying parts of the Chant she was unfamiliar with that Amrita felt unworthy in the face of the dwarf’s fervency. Serun had converted nine years ago, when a short-lived Chantry sect had set up in Orzammar and spread its reach as far as the surface dwarves in the Free Marches. As such, there were gaps in her knowledge of the Chant, and so she appreciated Amrita’s input.

During their discussions, she did not look at Amrita as though she were a ‘sodding spellbind’.

~~~

It was the middle of the afternoon the day after they left Ostwick. Amrita was correcting some details on Andraste’s sermons as they passed through a rocky passage when the sound of stones skittering down its sides caught her attention. The voices in her head whisper-shouted in alarm and she reached for them and their aid.

A smoke grenade crashed onto the path in front of them. Her barrier rose just before they were surrounded in a choking smog. Projectiles whizzed through the air.

A vicious stream of swearwords came from Serun as she barrelled into Amrita and pushed her into the relative safety of the side of the passage. “You hit?” she asked, hand over mouth, both to Amrita and the others. Amrita and Seth shook their heads, while Nathan stared in awe at Amrita.

“It missed!” he said, tapping his head. “Crossbow bolt should have split my skull and it just altered its course!”

“You are welcome,” Amrita said, offering her own thanks to the spirits. She could already feel her energy draining from the strain of keeping the spell up. “What can I do to help?”

Serun frowned. “Depends what you can do. They’re above, both sides. Definitely armed with crossbows, maybe more grenades. Probably bandits, not templars. Seth has his bow and me and Nathan can use our slings until they get into stabbing or smacking range.” Nathan pulled a pair of wicked daggers from his belt and twirled them expertly before sheathing them again. “We’ll have to be fast though – we’ll be sitting ducks down here.” As Serun said that, she gasped as a stone hit her in the back, slowed only enough to not break bones. Amrita felt the drop in her mana. “And,” Serun added breathlessly, “I’m guessing your barriers are limited in their effectiveness.”

Amrita swallowed and nodded. “Um,” she started, thoughts racing ahead of her tongue. “First priority has to be those who will snipe us. I can cast a frost spell to slow everyone down and give us bit more time. Might manage long-distance spells. The others will have to come down to fight us, and then you can take them on. Seth can take on any stragglers at a distance, and I will drop back to support with barriers; they are better when I am not distracted.”

Serun grunted. “Sounds as good a plan as any. Better get started; this cloud’s moving.” She and Nathan knelt and started fumbling on the ground for stones.

Not for the first time, Amrita had to shake her head to dispel distracting thoughts about how Ema’an would have done better. Instead, she pulled a lyrium potion from her belt. Without her staff, she would need all the help she could get to draw magic through the Veil fast enough for battle.

Oh! It was just as potent as at her Harrowing, and she felt the energy course through her body like molten metal in a mold. She could almost feel the touch of the spirit guarding her, and her fingernails started to grow icicles.

She took a final breath in, and then dispelled the magic as she exhaled. The air around them froze, and the group heard several muffled shouts. “Ready?” she called to Serun.

“Go for it, kid.”

With a sweep of her hand, Amrita forced the smoke away and started making the required hand-gestures to cast and gather mana at the same time while the others retaliated. The intricacies kept her occupied – more occupied than she should have been on a battlefield.

The first she knew of the second grenade was when she was blown out into the middle of the passage, the party tossed into the open like ragdolls. Her mana levels dipped drastically as the barriers saved them from the worst of the damage. Unharmed but disoriented and deafened, the only sound was an awful ringing. She forced herself upright and looked around.

Her companions were stirring painfully on the ground. At one end of the passage there were twenty bandits. Above them were a dozen enemies on each side.

“Shit,” she felt herself mutter, though she did not hear it. She staggered to her feet, and, hardly staying upright, she pulled storm magic through the Veil. As her hands started sparking and glowing purple, she felt all the hairs on her body stand on end.

It tickled.

It frightened her.

Serun rolled onto her side and tried to get up. Amrita mouthed, “Stay down,” at her.

Then she cast the chain lightning spell upwards.

Both she and Serun recoiled. They did not have to be able to hear to know that the men were screaming in agony. Many of them collapsed, convulsing. Some caught fire. Some simply fell off their perches and were dashed against the rocks as they fell. One landed in a broken tangle of limbs mere metres from Seth. The air filled with the smell of ozone, burnt hair and bacon.

Amrita stared at her hands in horror, and when she glanced up, Serun’s face likely mirrored her own.

But there were still twenty men on their level, advancing quickly. Head aching, hands aching, everything aching, she reached deep into her energy reserves and blocked the path with a wall of ice.

Then she let the barriers fall and collapsed to her hands and knees. Her limbs trembled and she fought her stomach to keep her food down. Breathe, she told herself. In, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four, in, two, three―

A hand pulled her up by her shoulder. Serun. The dwarf pointed at her ears, and Amrita knew she groaned in response. Kept upright by the hand gripping her like a vice, she patted her belt until she found another lyrium potion. So much lyrium in such a short time was inadvisable, but they would not get far if they fled and waited for their hearing to return naturally. The ice wall would only last so long, and Amrita was down to the last dregs of her power. If she used any more she would almost certainly collapse.

She swigged the blue liquid down and thanked the Maker as it revived her. She straightened up under her own power, and Serun let go to help pull up Seth, who looked worst off. Amrita held her hands over her ears and called on her spirit friends to provide her with the magic to heal her burst eardrums. They complied, warming her hands with their touch, and all of a sudden she could hear again.

“Come on, Seth, get up you stupid prat, get up―”

“Why can’t I hear anything?”

“Ugh, it stinks―”

Amrita approached the dwarves and gestured to her ears again. Serun nodded, and Amrita healed their ears as quickly as she could.

Once done, Amrita asked, “Shall we flee? The ice should hold another minute or so―”

Seth shook his head and grimaced as he sat awkwardly, leg at a worrying angle. “Leg ― broken ― can’t―”

Serun grabbed Amrita by the lapels of her leather coat and dragged her down. Amrita squeaked – she could feel the dwarf’s hot breath fanning over her face, and her expression was one to put the fear of the Maker in her. “Can. You. Heal. Him?”

“Yes, but―” she croaked.

“But what!?”

“Not that fast!”

Serun thrust her away and Amrita staggered backwards. “Then we stay and fight.” She fetched her warhammer and hefted it before standing facing the rapidly shrinking wall of ice. Nathan nodded and drew his daggers before slipping silently into the shadows of the passage.

Amrita stood back, waiting as long as she could to let her mana levels recover before she had to cast barriers or spells again.

There was a brief buzz. She jolted and gasped, falling backwards as though battered with a ram. She hardly got her hands beneath her before she hit the ground, and she yelped as one of her wrists twisted. The voices in her head were almost screaming. When she had the strength to look, she found a crossbow bolt sticking out of her abdomen. Blood was already oozing out, and she could feel the sting spreading through her like a thorny rose. Oh fuck. That’s, that’s maybe just missed my stomach, I think― fuck― I think it’s ― shit ― gone through the liver and clipped a kid― oh Maker, oh Andraste―

“Could do with some help, mage!” Serun bellowed.

Pain-addled, Amrita looked back up to the battle. The bandits had broken through the ice wall, and while Serun and Nathan seemed to be wreaking havoc on the ground, there were men back up on the ledges. Clearly, her lightning spell had only been enough to stun some of them. Seth was in no fit state to shoot them down, and so it was up to Amrita. She tried to breathe deeply, to summon the calm she needed to cast a barrier, but it only made the bolt shift. She screamed. She could have sworn she felt bile leaking into her blood.

Amrita stared, eyes blurred with tears, up at a man on the ledge who was aiming his crossbow right at her. That’s right, she thought. Take out the mage first. Tactically sound. Good man. No, wait: bad man.

Then, before her eyes, an arrow grew out of his forehead. He fell backwards, out of view. The other men did the same. Amrita frowned, and then started coughing violently, each jerk increasing the agony but impossible to stop, even when she felt fire go over her head and towards the bandits. Her world shrank down to the pain lancing through her, and through some desperate burst of energy she summoned spirits to help her contain the internal bleeding and contamination of her body.

Tears down her cheeks. Cold wind. Pain. Time passing. Footsteps. Clank of warhammer on rock.

“Fucking mages.” Serun’s voice. “Knew we should have gone with the proper Trevelyans instead of signing up with a solo battle virgin.”

Strangled whine. Serun kneeling beside her.

“Andraste’s arse― Nathan, get me a knife!” Quick steps on gravel. “Good. Mage, I’m going to cut the bolt. If we ease it out, can you heal it as it goes?”

Sharp nod. Bolt jogged by sawing. Gasp for air. Dying, dying, so close to dying, no no no say the spirits no stay livekeepbreathingstayyou’llbealright―

Bolt snaps. Jolt of pain. Flesh twisting and shifting as Serun pulls pullspulls―

She breathed and pulled on the Veil which was so so close now. She sucked in soothing magic and forced it to the wound. It itched and made her want to writhe as the organs knitted together but she somehow stayed still. Finally it was out, or at least part of it was, and―

“Now the back, mage.”

Fuck.

A few minutes later it really was done. She was bloody and trembling, and still had to fix her wrist, but the bolt was gone and the bleeding stopped. Amrita could finally look up and see the state her dwarven companions were in.

Them first; then the wrist.

Now thinking straight, albeit with the occasional wobble, her long-trained medical instincts kicked in. “What happened?” she asked as she checked for bleeding first, internal and external. Fortunately, there was none of the former.

“Not sure,” Nathan said weakly as she closed a gash on his forehead that had been blinding him with his own blood. “You were knocked down before you got the barriers up so we had to fight without.”

Seth’s eyes widened. “Uh―”

“Which, as you can see, we were fine without,” Serun said.

“Serun―”

“But if you had done your job properly and taken out the people on the ridge―”

A quiet scornful cough made Amrita, Serun and Nathan jump and scrabble for their weapons.

Above them stood seven hooded figures, their faces obscured. The leader held a staff and was flanked by a swordsman and two archers on each side. “I would not criticise the mage if I were you, durgen’len,” the leader said. Amrita guessed from their shape and voice that they were a man, though she would have taken a correction willingly. “She killed about twenty, and she is the one now healing your wounds. You would most likely have died earlier without her.”

Serun’s face scrunched up. She was so much uglier when being unkind. “Of course you’ll stick up for your own kind won’t you, mage?”

“My own kind?” He seemed amused. “She is a shemlen. I do not speak to defend her kind; only to correct your unpleasantness.”

“Why, you―”

“Are you the ones who saved us?” Amrita interrupted before Serun could provoke another battle.

“Indeed we are.” He inclined his head, and Amrita spied long ears under the hood.

Amrita bowed deeply. “Then we are indebted to you. Thank you for your assistance.”

A ripple went through the group, as though surprised, or perhaps amused. The leader smiled graciously. “Ma serannas. We are of Clan Lavellan who are camped nearby, and were hunting those men ourselves for killing one of our halla. Since you were inadvertently helping us, we thought it would be fair to help you in return. Consider your debt paid.” His voice had a pleasant, lilting tone to it. “Might I ask why you are travelling this road?”

“Don’t answer that,” Serun snapped.

Amrita ignored her. “We are travelling to Divine Justinia’s Conclave in Ferelden,” she answered weakly.

This startled the elves, and they turned inwards to hold a conversation in their strange tongue. Serun turned to Amrita, who was now focused back on healing Seth’s injuries. “Do you really think that telling these… heathens what we’re doing is a good idea?”

“I do not know,” Amrita replied through gritted teeth. She was fighting back tears from both pain and shock, and if another gust of wind brought the smell of seared flesh she was going to throw up. “I see no point in lying, though. It would merely serve to antagonise them, and even if they do not speak the truth about their clan being near, they outnumber us.”

“So did the last idiots who attacked us, and look where they are now.”

Amrita did so, and felt her stomach lurch. “They are dead,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes and breaths coming quick and painful. “Oh Maker, I have sinned, I’ve killed Your children, oh Maker, oh―” She doubled over and vomited, scarcely missing Seth’s broken leg. He inched it away cautiously.

“Andraste preserve me,” Serun sighed as she started rubbing Amrita’s back. “I’m sorry, kid. Shouldn't have yelled at you. You did good. Definitely held up your end of the bargain to fight for yourself, and even helped us a bit. Those barriers of yours are… tolerable, as magic goes. And I suppose I have to be glad I wasn’t on the receiving end of those attacks.”

“Thanks,” Amrita gasped between dry heaves. “Sorry, I’ve― I have never killed anyone before, I―” She retched again, only acid coming up and burning her throat.

“Shh. It was provoked, wasn’t it? Maker’ll forgive you, kid.”

The elves turned back to them at this point, and two of the archers pulled down their hoods.

One was a short, older woman, her round face weather-worn and adorned with a blood-red twisting tattoo over one eye. Her eyes were dark green – unusual for typically pale-eyed elves – and her light brown hair was pulled up in a bun that could only be described as dishevelled: there were even scraps of leaf in it.

The other elf was younger and more androgynous, and, having known mages like Alex and Manda, Amrita held her assumptions back. They looked to be of a similar height to herself, perhaps just taller. Their hair was darker and redder, long and swept over their head except for a shorn patch above their left ear and a braid that lay along the skull to mark the division. Their tattoos were simple pine-green lines that evoked imagery of plants as they ran up their throat and angular face. It even lined their eyes, which were hard to see in the grey winter light but seemed to be pale blue. On one side, a scar crossed from their cheekbone up through their eyebrow, looking almost like an errant stem drawn in dead tissue.

“This is Ffion and this is Faolán,” the mage said, gesturing first to the woman and then to the other elf. “They are our clan’s delegates to the Conclave.” Ffion nodded sharply, while Faolán stared unblinkingly at Amrita. “We travelled this far south in order to protect our own until we could find companions for them. We made contact with a mercenary group who are guarding mages from ― Markham? I believe that is your name for the city. They are at a village about a day’s travel from here. If you are willing to take them with you, we would be grateful: Dalish are not welcome in these parts, and we wish to avoid the templars stalking the coastline for mage delegations.”

“Are they willing to fight to defend the group?” Serun asked.

“We are,” Fionn replied. Faolán rolled their eyes.

Amrita looked to Serun, who shrugged and sighed. The dwarf grudgingly said, “Extra eyes won’t go amiss, and I like the sound of joining a larger group further along the road – though I’m less keen on travelling with even more bloody mages. I say we take them, even if they do have too many gods.”

All the elves stiffened at that, but none spoke up. Amrita winced. “I for one would be interested in learning of another culture,” she said carefully, aiming to diffuse the sudden tension. “I have no objections to them joining us.”

“Then we are agreed,” the leader said. “They already have all they need. I advise you go as quickly as you can.”

“Yes, Da’Revas,” Faolán acknowledged. Ffion nodded her assent.

“Creators guide you, and may Fen’Harel never catch your scent.”

“Dareth shiral,” they both replied.

And with that, the other elves turned and headed eastwards.

Amrita finished healing the dwarves and then stood up, ready to heal her wrist as they walked, and she tried to dust herself off. She only succeeded in smearing blood further over her clothes.

“Well,” Serun said in a faux-cheerful voice. “Three dwarves, two Dalish and a mage. This is going to be wonderful.”

It started raining again.

~~~

They had only travelled a mile or so further when Seth’s leg gave way beneath him. Because his arm was slung around Nathan's shoulders, he dragged Nathan down with him. Amrita dropped to her knees to inspect the archer, making her hands glow faintly to aid her vision.

Seth was pale and damp, though whether it was from sweat or drizzle it was hard to say. His breathing was shaky and uneven, and he was visibly quaking.

“I thought you said you could fix him,” Serun said, her voice heavy with disapproval.

“I did,” Amrita replied, business-like, running one hand above his leg in an attempt to ease his pain; he sighed in relief. “I set the bone and knit it together. But magic does not simply return one to perfect health; it allows me to put things back the way they should be. Those tears and breaks in the tissue still existed, and the body must be given time to strengthen or they will fail again.” She looked up at Serun, and saw that the elves had returned from their forward position. Everyone was frowning at her. “We need to stop for the night,” Amrita announced. It was not only for Seth’s benefit; she could feel the weakness in her organs, and knew she needed to rest before she could march much further.

“Fenedhis,” Faolán muttered. “Seth his name; seth he is.” Ffion nodded.

Amrita did not understand all the words, but she suspected from the curl of their lips that Faolán had said something derogatory. Regardless, she had a patient to care for. “Please could one of you scout ahead and find shelter?”

Faolán stared at her as though she had asked them to perform some obscene act. “Is that how you speak to elves in your family, shemlen?”

She pulled her head back, caught off guard by the aggression. “No,” she replied, narrowing her eyes. “My family would not have said ‘please’.”

This did not seem to mollify the elf, but they simply rolled their eyes and strode out into the twilight. Ffion remained, alert and watchful while the others focused on Seth and Amrita.

A short while later Faolán returned. Looking at Serun, they said, “There is a cave along the vir. Come.”

Serun and Nathan hoisted up Seth between them, and the group followed the elf.

The cave was fairly shallow, but its entrance was protected from view and the worst of the wind by a boulder that must have fallen off the clifftop above them. There was enough space for the six of them and a fire, and that was all that mattered. After checking with everyone, Amrita evaporated the excess water on the floor and walls to make the space a little less slimy and unpleasant, and while Ffion went to find wood to burn, Amrita warmed the air with the runespelled pebble until everyone was gently steaming and drying off. When Ffion returned, Amrita offered to do the same for her, but the elf woman refused to let the magic be directed at her, and so Amrita simply dried out the wood and set it alight.

Things were calm for an hour or so as they ate, checked their weapons, and allowed Amrita to attend to their injuries from the earlier battle. Occasionally Faolán would whisper something in elvish to Ffion while staring at Amrita and then laugh. Amrita ignored it; she had suffered worse harassment in the alienage. So long as she personally was not causing offence, then it was the elves who had a problem, not her.

It was not until she looked up from putting Seth under a sleeping spell that she saw Serun’s calculating gaze. Amrita forced herself to smile despite her stomach dropping. “He should be fine to march tomorrow – as should I.”

“Good,” Serun replied in a tone far too vague and disconnected from her expression to be sincere. “I was just wondering whether you could remind me of the wording of Transfigurations One.”

Amrita put her hands in her lap and sat back, rolling her stiff shoulders. It was one she could recite without even thinking about it, the canticle forming the basis of her distrust of mages. “Of course. These truths the Maker has revealed to me: As there is but one world, One life, one death there is; But one―” She stopped short. She stared at Serun, who raised her eyebrows mockingly.

“Go on,” the dwarf said.

Amrita pursed her lips and remained silent.

“Serun,” Nathan reproached her softly, eyes darting towards the elves. Amrita followed his gaze, and saw them watching and listening attentively. Suspiciously.

“No,” Amrita said slowly. “If this were an honest discussion of scripture, then I would. But that is not your purpose.” She met Faolán’s gaze for a few seconds, saw the distrust and scorn, and then looked at Ffion, whose eyes were a little softer with curiosity. “It is the verse which prompted humans to offer elves ‘salvation’ in the alienages as Andrastians, and which supposedly justifies so much violence against the Dalish. I learned that much from the hahren in Ostwick.” Ffion’s ear’s twitched at the familiar word and she cocked her head to one side. “To use that verse as a human in the presence of Dalish in anything other than a purely academic context could be considered an act of aggression. I may believe in one deity myself, but I will not deny another their own beliefs.”

Serun made a disgusted noise. “Fucking awful Andrastian you are, mage. Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect any better.”

Amrita ignored the jibe and stood up. “If you want to debate the existence of the Maker against the pantheon of Creators, Serun, you can do so. After all, you are Andrastian yourself. I am going to take first watch.” And with that, she walked calmly out into the dark and the drizzle. She silently made a little shelter of ice to keep off the rain, and then sat down, cross-legged, side of her fist pressed to her teeth to stifle any noise, to stare into the night.

If she did cry, begging for forgiveness for using her powers to hurt and praying for the souls of those who had died that day, nobody heard her over the argument inside the cave.

~~~

The tension in the group was almost palpable when Amrita was roused by Nathan the next morning: it was almost as though she could have taken a knife from his belt and split the air in two with a single swipe. The elves refused to look at Serun and remained leery of Amrita; Serun refused to talk to them or Amrita; Nathan kept his head down; and Seth seemed very confused, having slept through the drama. Amrita’s heart was as leaden as the black rainclouds above and her mind was filled with grey mist through which emerged images and sensations of the previous day’s battle, so aside from watching the path enough to stay upright, she lacked the energy to do anything but walk and recite the Chant in her head. She could justify the deaths under Transfigurations One Verse Three, but all the reasoning in the world could not ease her horror. Not yet. Only a word or two was spoken throughout the entire day between the different races. Amrita did overhear Ffion mutter, “Len’alas lath’din,” as she passed Serun.

They reached the coastal village of Oldham as the last light faded from the sky that evening. Amrita paused at the top of the path to stare at the sea while the dwarves trudged onwards. As a child, she had happily spent hours watching the waters and sky, endlessly fascinated by their infinitely changing textures and colours. A view of the sea had been one of the many privileges denied her in the Circle, as the tower was built into the wrong side of a small mountain. On her journey westwards she had only caught glimpses of the sea, and seeing it now, grey and cold as it was, took her breath away almost as much as the frigid winds did.

“Oi!” Serun called from further down the path, knocking Amrita out of her reverie. “You lot coming? Ale and warm beds are calling, and I’m not waiting any longer!”

Amrita glanced to her side, and saw Ffion standing there almost as transfixed as she had been a moment ago. Faolán was nowhere to be seen. “Ffion?” she asked cautiously.

“I…” the elf said before shaking her head. “Never seen the sea. So much water.”

That elicited a weak chuckle from Amrita. “And I have never seen so many trees. If you will tell me about the forest, I will tell you about the sea.”

Ffion shot her a look that seemed almost shocked for half a second, before it hardened again and she trotted off after the dwarves. Amrita sighed, and spoke to no one in particular as she said, “I suppose if I had had my culture torn apart by another race I would be reluctant to share it too. At least she just seems grumpy about everything, rather than particularly hating humans. Faolán on the other hand – well, they seem―”

Someone tutted behind her and she yelped in fright, pulling up a barrier as she span. Faolán stood there, the carcass of a young deer in their arms and their eyes rolled so far back she almost couldn’t see them.

“Faolán!” she exclaimed, pressing a hand to her breast and sagging as she let the barrier go. “You startled me!”

They pushed past her, muttering, “Shemlen. You would think they would have sight by adulthood.”

“Pardon?”

They paused and turned back for a moment. “It is ‘he’,” they said. He said.

Amrita ducked her head, suddenly understanding exactly what misdeed she had committed. She clasped her hands tightly together. “I apologise. I meant no offence; the hahren advised me that when I could not immediately tell it was politer to use gender-neutral words and await correction than to guess wrongly.” She looked up again, and she could almost feel the rain steaming off her hot face. One of his eyebrows was raised, and his lips were pressed together as he stared intently at her. “Thank you for correcting me,” she finished off.

There was a long, awkward silence as the pair looked at each other.

Then Faolán rolled his eyes again and turned back towards the village, muttering incoherently under his breath as he strode after their now-distant companions. Feeling thoroughly wretched, Amrita plodded behind him.

She was caught off guard when he did her the kindness of waiting at the door to the inn – a shabby building, charmingly named The Admiral’s Arse – and they walked in together. The dwarves were already at the bar, and Serun did little more than glare in their direction before wiggling her eyebrows at – Maker’s breath, she wasn't imagining things – a towering female qunari. Kossith, she remembered from a dusty tome of Genitivi: Qunari referred to followers of the religion, not the race.

She was not the only one of her kind: on glancing around the rest of the room, Amrita counted a further three cosied up in one dark corner, along with a few humans. She felt her heart start to race. All the books could not have prepared her for the sight of the grey-skinned, horned creatures – People, she corrected herself – and try as she might to be kind to all races, her stomach was twisting in knots as her brain helpfully supplied all the horror stories of the ox-men told to her as a child, and more recently the stories from Kirkwall.

She whimpered quietly when Ffion appeared from the shadows with a bag for the deer and then lead her and Faolán towards the group with kossith. The two elves glanced at each other, and then Ffion fell half a step back so she was at Faolán’s shoulder and probably glaring at everyone.

“William Tully?” Faolán asked as they came to a stop at the table.

“Who’s asking?” one of the men replied, a sneer twisting his scar-scattered face.

“Client,” he answered, shoulders stiffening. “One who will keep coin from fenlen like you if he must.”

“Hey now,” one of the other men said, opening his arms wide and putting on a hurt expression. “You’re Dalish, rabbit: you know―”

“Call me ‘rabbit’ again and I will cut your da’assan from your da’unsfa while you sleep, shemlen,” Faolán snapped. Amrita drew in a quick breath, suddenly fearful that she would be involved in a fight in which they were greatly outnumbered and overpowered. Her eyes drifted to the staves resting against the tables, and felt her heart leap into her mouth. Apostates – hedge mages?

“Apologies,” a third voice said. “My men shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” Amrita turned her focus to the man at the head of the table, and saw that his eyebrow had quirked upwards, although he did not seem offended. “You know what it’s like trying to avoid the Chantry dogs, I imagine.”

Faolán nodded sharply in response.

“Look around. This company has all kinds of outcasts, mostly Tal-Vashoth. We’ve got two Tal-Vashoth mages right here,” he expanded, nodding at a pair of males who were so far apart in age that Amrita could imagine one was the other’s father. Maker preserve me. Kossith mages. The older one nodded politely at her and the elves, while the other kept his eyes on his lap. “You have to be careful who you give your identity to these days,” the man continued. “I’m William Tully. Who are you?”

Ffion snorted, but Faolán argued no further. “Faolán and Ffion of Clan Lavellan. Our Keeper sent word that we join you and mages from the north.”

Tully nodded. “Of course. And the other one?” he asked, eyes shifting to Amrita. “She ain’t no elf.”

Amrita inclined her head respectfully. “Amrita of Ostwick, Serah Tully. I am headed for the Conclave on behalf of the Circle there, and when my dwarven companions and I encountered these two it was agreed that we would travel here together.” She swallowed. “If you will take me, I have coin to pay you. I will pay extra if you and your men do not tell any other delegates my status as a mage.”

The man swallowed the last dregs of his drink and put out his hand. “If you have the coin, we have the space and silence.” Amrita clasped his hand, and he said, “Welcome, missy. And what about yon dwarves?”

She cast her eyes back to the bar. Serun and the kossith seemed to be getting quite close to each other, and the others were hunched miserably over their drinks. “I... suspect that they will not join us. She is very anti-mage, and while she has tolerated me thus far I imagine that the prospect of travelling with a large group would be… unappealing,” she concluded as tactfully as she could.

“Ahh,” Tully said, tapping a finger to his nose. He nearly missed. “I can see that would be a problem. Well – they've got until the ‘morrow to decide: we’ll be out of here before the Chantry lot that are due to arrive.” He pointed at the barman. “Norrin’ll fix you up with a room. We’ll be leaving sharpish, so if you sleep late you’ll be running to catch up.”

“Understood.”

Chapter Text

They rented two rooms for the night; one for the dwarves, and one for Amrita and the elves. Faolán did not come upstairs for an hour or two, but when he did he brought up the cleaned cuts of deer-meat. Amrita and Ffion had already purchased cheese and bread from the barman and set the fire going, and after a long hard look at Amrita, Faolán finally grumbled and let her have a piece of the meat – provided she dried out the rest of it for them to eat over the next few days. She readily agreed, feeling some tension she had not realised had been gripping her body dissipate as his aggression lessened, although he clearly remained cautious. That was not important. Knowing she would wake up the next morning was.

When they descended the next day, there was no sign of the dwarves. The Markham mages were being chivvied along, blinking in the rare dawn sunlight that turned the sea into a undulating, pale gold, glittering mass. The lady kossith Serun had been flirting with was waiting with the other mercenaries outside the inn – it seemed that the four men they had met last night were the only humans in the group, while the rest were Tal-Vashoth kossith. She lifted her chin in recognition as she saw Amrita, and approached with a note in hand. Amrita nodded her thanks and skimmed it quickly, heart sinking a little despite her lack of surprise at its contents. She was about to put it away when Ffion tapped it and asked, “What it dirth?” When Amrita stared blankly at her, she slowly rephrased. “What do it… say?”

“Oh, sorry,” Amrita replied, mentally chastising herself. She still occasionally forgot that most Thedosians were barely literate, if that, and that her own education made her something of a rarity. “Serun says she is not coming out of Katoh’s room― Is that you, serah?” she asked, looking up at the kossith. The horned woman smiled and nodded. Amrita swallowed back her fear, determined to stick to her creed and not antagonise anyone. “Pleased to meet you, Serah Katoh. Um― Serun says she is not coming out until all the ‘blasted mages’ are gone. She says there is word my family’s entourage will be here in the next day or so, and that she would rather try her luck with the templars and uncorrupted devout.” Amrita took a slow, deep breath after saying the words. She understood Serun’s fears, and the dwarf had made her views plain from the start, but understanding brought no relief from the pain of rejection.

Ffion scowled and muttered something that sounded very rude in Elvish.

Somehow, that made Amrita feel a little better.

The party set off shortly, the six Markham mages in a nervy huddle surrounded by a loose ring of mercenaries. Ffion and Faolán showed no desire to stay anywhere near Amrita and went to join the scouts up front. Amrita had no wish to join the mages yet: she still maintained that mages, including herself, could not be trusted, and she suspected that admitting she was a mage from war-abstaining Ostwick would not go down well. She would talk to them once she had had time to gauge their temperaments and opinions. As the morning wore on and the sun made everyone in their winter-weight clothes uncomfortably warm, she found herself drifting towards the back of the retinue.

It was not until Tully called for a quick break for rations to be distributed for eating on the road that she turned and saw that she had been scarcely ten paces ahead of the two kossith mages. She failed to suppress a flinch as she saw them, and silently berated herself as the older one looked at her with something akin to pity in his eyes. She averted her gaze, focusing on her pack.

When a shadow fell over her she looked up and jumped in fright. The older mage was standing in front of her, his hand extended. Maker, he must have been seven feet tall. “Ishek Adaar, Lady Trevelyan,” he said.

“P-pardon?” she stuttered, eyes focused on how huge his hand was. And had he just called her ‘Lady Trevelyan’? “I’m― I am sorry,” she said, forcing her gaze up to his face. His head was free of any cover, as his long, ram-like horns would have fitted under no hood. His face was lined with care and his short black beard was peppered with streaks of grey. Unusually for a mage, he had two staves strapped to his back. Despite all this he looked… fatherly. “I do not know… Qunlat, is that the right word?”

“It is indeed the name of the Qunari tongue. But I was telling you my name. Ishek Adaar,” he repeated, enunciating clearly and emphasising the break between the names.

Amrita’s cheeks flushed hot, stinging in the harsh wind and sunlight. “Oh Maker; you must think me such a boor,” she said ashamedly, looking away again and lungs tightening. “I am so, so sorry.”

She felt the shrug as much as she saw it. “It’s not the first time, though perhaps I could stand to start with ‘My name is’ in future.” There was a hint of laughter in his voice, and Amrita risked a glance back up: there was a wry curve to his lips. “You’re certainly the first person to ever apologise for it, though.”

“Oh,” Amrita said. “That is… sad,” she finished lamely. She bit a knuckle as she searched for something else to say. Genitivi had been illuminating in his writings, but had not provided her with how to speak to people whom many humans considered beneath them. Her years knowing elves had only given her an insight into one group’s grievances against her race. She changed the topic. “Did you call me ‘Lady Trevelyan’?”

Ishek frowned. “Katoh told me that your dwarf companion said your name was Trevelyan. Are you not one of the bann’s family? Are you not the disgraced mage child?”

“I-I― Well―” Amrita coughed and sighed, feeling the old, familiar ache wash over her. She was infamous, in a small, painful way. “Yes. But I was stripped of all my birth-rights, including my surname.” The words were like acid on her tongue, but she resisted the urge to spit; she had been brought up better than that. “I was talk of the teyrnir for years, it seems.”

His gaze softened. “It got further than that,” he said, grimacing. “We were in Antiva when I heard. Apparently your family told everyone that you died, but word got out and one of the Tantervale nobles chose to bring it up at a diplomatic ball. It ended as a very un-diplomatic ball, and the subject of conversation along the coast for weeks.”

Amrita held back the anger and despair that threatened to spill out in the form of tears and hurtful words. “I never knew,” she said instead. Then after a moment’s thought, she added, “Please do not tell anyone I am a Trevelyan.”

“You have my word,” Ishek replied, and she nodded. “Still,” Ishek said, glancing over her head, prompting her to look over her shoulder; anxiously scanning the horizon was the younger, far shorter kossith mage. He seemed jumpy, and kept rubbing the skin around his lips with the edge of a finger. “Being taken from your family and sent somewhere you can live safely, though not freely, is a better fate than I would have faced had my parents remained under the Qun.”

Amrita tore her eyes away from the younger mage. “Genitivi wrote a little of it in The Travels of a Chantry Scholar, based on what he learned in Rivain. I gather that we are regarded as dangerous, and prevented from using our powers without strict supervision.”

There was a moment of surprised silence. “Correct,” he finally replied. “The Qunari fear the saarebas, yet respect them for striving against the threat from within.” Ishek sighed. “It is a very unhappy existence.”

“I imagine it is,” Amrita murmured as the call went up for the group to start moving. Something in her heart twisted in pain and sympathy with both the saarebas and the Qunari. Maybe they have it right, treating mages with such fear.

She hefted her pack and said no more as they continued westwards.

~~~

That night Amrita sat a little way away from the elves and watched, having given up on asking about Dalish culture and now more immediately concerned with gauging the temperaments of the other travellers. She had found that observing and listening to others before she opened her mouth helped her to identify who to approach, what topics to broach and avoid, and what questions to poise to demonstrate her interest. When she heard the leader of the mages, a middle-aged man called Mikael, talk about how he hoped Ostwick would not send a delegation as they would be voting for mages to be put back in their prisons, Amrita knew she had made the best choice in refraining from mentioning her position.

Over the course of an hour or so, she started spotting a pattern in the elves’ behaviour. Much as they had done to her, they would glare at the mercenaries and mages, mutter to each other and then Faolán would laugh. It left the current object of their attention glancing over their shoulder at the pair with eyebrows furrowed and their weapons pulled a little closer.

They never did it to the kossith or the lone elf mage.

The little―!

When the human who had called Faolán a ‘rabbit’ walked past for the third time and got the same treatment, Amrita got up, stretched her cold and weary limbs, and approached the pair. They stiffened and stared with neutral expressions as they saw her, but did not otherwise react. She took this as permission to approach, and crouched down next to them, facing the fire. They regarded her in silence.

She sneaked a look out of the corner of her eye, and with a curl to her lips, she murmured, “You are talking and laughing at the humans on purpose to discomfit them, are you not?”

Faolán’s eyes widened and his eyebrows drew together as though he were deeply wounded by the question, and he lay one hand comically slowly over his heart. Not a word was said.

Amrita raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips in an attempt to stifle a giggle, though she knew her eyes probably betrayed her, and left the pair to it for the evening.

~~~

For the next few days, the retinue encountered no real troubles. The group was large enough to deter bandits from attacking, and while the locals could hardly be described as welcoming, they were usually civil and willing to sell food; on a couple of nights, farmers even rented out their barns to them. Amrita walked with a different group each day and joined them each evening, learning names and asking questions while minimising her own contribution to the conversation. She even spent an evening with Ishek when he approached the Dalish elves, and was rewarded for her bravery by Faolán opening up and answering the kossith’s questions when he had spurned her own. Soon most of her companions would acknowledge her when she was close, and did not hold back their opinions in her presence.

While the mages made her anxious, she had learned in the Circle that there were advantages to being accepted and knowing those around her. Sometimes it led to heartbreak; more often than not, it kept her safe from those who might react to her beliefs dangerously.

They were passing along the Wounded Coast, about a day’s travel from Kirkwall when Amrita had her fear of magic reaffirmed, and the need to help in the aftermath of its misuse outweighed her desire to stay hidden.

It was dusk, with maybe half an hour left before they would need to make camp, when the forward scouts fell back to the main group. They whispered with Tully, who then brought the entourage to a halt. The mages surged forward to demand an explanation, and Amrita was about to follow the elf mage she had been walking with – Guin, by far the youngest of the Markham party – when a hand touched her arm. Her head whipped around but she successfully stopped herself from squeaking. “Ffion!” she exclaimed quietly at the elf who had appeared at her side. “You frightened me!”

“Ir abelas,” the elf said. “Group of mages come from west. Wounded. Wait ‘til we know falon or harillen. Too dark to guess.”

Amrita shuddered. Relatively innocent travellers to the Conclave were not the only mages abroad – especially this close to the city where even the First Enchanter had resorted to forbidden magic. “Understood.”

A few minutes later the other group emerged from the gloom. From the staves they carried, all six figures were mages. Most of them seemed to be limping or nursing some injury. The sight stirred Amrita’s instinct to run forward and tend to them, but she reigned herself in. Instead, she turned and trotted to where Ishek and the other kossith mage – Katari, she had learned a few nights ago – stood. “Excuse me, Serah Adaar” she piped up, forcing herself to breathe as he shifted to look down at her. “You only use one staff at a time, correct?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Correct, Serah Trevelyan.”

She flinched at the name, but held her ground. “Might I borrow your less-favoured staff? I am a spirit healer, and while I can work without a staff, having one in my hand makes it much easier.”

Ishek pulled out one of his staves – lazurite tip, Amrita noticed, and with a blade at the other end – and passed it to her with no objection. She almost dropped it, arms sagging under the unexpected weight. She recovered and hefted it a few times, trying to get a feel for its mass: it had clearly been made for a kossith, not a human. As she did so, Ishek rumbled, “Why don’t you carry your own staff? These roads and times are too troubled to risk combat without a weapon. You look uncomfortable with that sword at your hip.”

Amrita pursed her lips grimly. “The enchanters wanted me to pass as a non-mage. Hence, my request for you not to spread that I am one, though I am clearly about to spoil that deception.”

“Still too risky.”

She nodded in agreement, abdomen twinging in recollection of her last fight. “Thank you for the staff,” she said before jogging back to Ffion. Faolán had reappeared in her absence. She looked towards the front of the group, and saw four figures talking. “What did I miss?” she murmured.

It was Faolán who replied, eyes fixed on the conversing mages like a predatory cat. “Leader and second of each group of mages are talking. Not letting anyone else near.”

“Mage mouths covered,” Ffion added. “Do not like.”

Amrita peered at the mages, but in the fading light and the constant mist and drizzle she could make out nothing under the strangers’ hoods. Still, she did not doubt the elf: all of the elves she knew had excellent night vision. She simply tugged at her own scarf, now tied around her midriff to protect her from the wind that nipped around the holes in her armour from the crossbow bolt. “It is cold,” she reasoned.

“Stops you seeing spells cast,” Ffion responded darkly.

Amrita had no answer for that.

A moment later, the white-haired leader of the Markham mages, Mikael, sagged a little, and whatever he said next caught his partner, Julia, off guard, if the jerk of her shoulders and head were anything to go by. But a moment later she too slumped. The leader of the strangers turned back and gestured for her companions to come forward. They hobbled painfully towards the retinue, following the groups’ leaders.

The hairs on the back of Amrita’s neck rose. Something felt wrong in the air, and the voices in her head were agitated.

“Faolán, Ffion,” she whispered, “do not turn, but listen.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Faolán’s ears twitch and his shoulders stiffen. “I hope I am mistaken, but something seems amiss. Please can you slip away and be ready in case something goes wrong?”

Faolán opened his mouth to protest but Ffion interrupted. “She dirth true,” she said. “Look at gait.”

It took a moment to process the homophone, but once Amrita worked it out, she studied the way Mikael and Julia were walking. Whereas before they, along with their companions, had carried themselves with tension in their limbs, expecting a templar attack at any moment, all signs of concern seemed to have drained from their bodies and they seemed calm. Sedate.

Sedated.

“Maker preserve us,” Amrita whimpered. “Maleficar.”

They were already being approached by the other Markham mages and a few of the mercenaries, Tully, Katoh and Pharquad – the man who had called Faolán a ‘rabbit’ – included. If the blood mages were not stopped immediately, it was conceivable the entire group would be turned.

Thank the Maker that Filal had drilled everyone from the youngest apprentice to the oldest enchanter on the Litany of Adralla.

Faolán and Ffion had already vanished, so Amrita took a steadying breath and strode forward, muttering Trials One Verse One for reassurance. As she spoke the final word, she came to a standstill behind Katoh, partially hidden by her bulk. Her knees shook. Her hands trembled. But much as she feared those standing the other side of the Tal-Vashoth, they were enemies the Maker would not punish her for dealing with. She inhaled deeply and, clearly but not so loudly she drew attention, she spoke the Litany.

The mercenaries either side of Katoh jumped and turned. As she enunciated the last word a ripple rolled out from her, as though the final consonant had been a pebble dropped in a pond.

There was a protracted, pregnant pause. The oversized staff wavered in Amrita’s grip.

“What the fuck,” someone finally said. “Why did―” The voice cut off with a gurgle.

“Maleficar!” Amrita yelled with all the force she could muster. “Anyone in control of themselves, retreat and regroup!”

There was no retreat.

There was chaos.

Katoh rounded on her, drawing her mace as she did so. Amrita took one look at the blank grey face, threw up a barrier and fled.

Regrettably, her legs were too short to have had a chance at escaping even if she had been a champion runner. Even though the kossith was in heavy armour, Amrita could hear her catching up.

Even more regrettably, she lacked the experience to know when to duck and dodge.

Next thing she knew, pain exploded in her side and she was tumbling and rolling over the sodden ground in a direction she thought might have been perpendicular to her original path. When she finally came to rest, she groaned and picked herself up, already feeling the bruise blooming under her armour. Thank you, she thought to the spirit who had saved her from the worst of it, before letting it go and calling forth a new one to replenish her barrier. She had scarcely done so when Katoh caught up to her.

“Maker forgive me,” Amrita pleaded before ducking under Katoh’s arm and striking her with the tip of the staff and a weak lightning spell to stun her.

Katoh froze in position. Then she wobbled and crashed to the ground.

Amrita stared at the body as she panted heavily, not quite processing what had just happened. Did I do that? Fuck, did I kill instead of―

Her thoughts were interrupted by an unearthly shriek. She span to look back at the main battle – blasts of magic flaring, metal on metal ringing, men and women crying out in anger or pain – and watched in horror as a burning red figure erupted above the fighters’ heads, two, no, three metres tall and made of something like molten metal with eyes. A rage demon.

It roared. The ground shook. Men, elves and kossith alike quailed. Its very presence scratched at Amrita’s soul, and the voices in her head clamoured in alarm, unable to help her as they did in the Fade.

An answering bellow came from Amrita’s right. She twisted her head around to see the young Tal-Vashoth mage challenging the demon while executing perfect staff-twirling technique, flames shooting from his weapon with each jab. That won’t make much difference, Amrita thought dimly, it needs― Idiot! And with the self-directed insult, she span back and started casting Winter spells at the demon while moving towards the battle and calling out the Litany. If you’d only stayed and kept it up, she berated herself, there would have been no demons summoned!

Amrita halted on the outskirts of the fight and, seeing the rage demon flinch from her spells, she daringly swung her borrowed staff. Up, up it went, blasting the demon, and down, down it came―

Straight through her boot, nailing her foot to the ground.

She screamed, a keening wail that cut through the air, but she wrenched the staff out of the ground and kept firing. When Faolán ducked past her and out of the fray, daggers dripping red, she broke off just long enough to send a spirit to guard him. Then she resumed her attack.

There was a sudden great clap and whoosh of noise. Her barrier was gone. So was the barrier of every mage still standing. Dispelled?

A howl ripped through the battle, and the air was filled with blinding electricity. Amrita cried out as she felt a blow to the head. Her muscles seized up and she fell forward, tears in her eyes and ozone choking her lungs. For just a few seconds, the chaos had subsided to coughs, groans and gasps as everyone struggled in the mud. As she lay on the ground, limbs twitching, trying to regain control, a cold gust of wind brought the smell of charred meat and burnt hair to Amrita’s nostrils. The heat of the demon had faded, and she prayed that it had been destroyed.

“The girl,” a woman’s voice moaned from a few metres away. “Get that mage girl!”

Trembling, Amrita managed to lift herself onto her forearms.

Approaching was Pharquad. Eyes glazed, he came to a stop above her and poised his greatsword above her neck.

Amrita reached for magic to protect her but it eluded her grasp. No one else seemed to be standing. No one else could come to her aid.

She shut her eyes and dropped her head. “Creator,” she whispered, “judge me whole: find me well within Your grace; Touch me with fire that I be cleansed; Tell me―”

There was a fleshy ripping sound and a rain of hot liquid. The weight of the man’s shadow and sword staggered away and he fell to the ground with an almighty thud. Amrita looked up, blinking through the blood dribbling down her face.

Faolán stood over Pharquad, daggers out and grinning at the corpse. Then he spat on the body, turned to Amrita and said, “Keep saying! Or they use all this blood!”

Amrita flinched and though she could hardly breathe she whispered the words, something in her lungs wheezing with every inhalation. She just about kept her head upright as Faolán stalked through the stirring, recovering bodies and, quickly and efficiently, as though putting injured animals out of their misery, he cut the heads off one, two, three, four, five maleficar. He left one – Amrita could not see which – flinging powder in their face instead.

A huge hand patted Amrita’s shoulder. She did not even have the energy to be frightened, and she looked up to see Ishek peering at her in concern. His hair stood up on end.

“Hello,” she said woozily. “Thanks f’ the staff. I stabbed m’self in the foo’ with it.”

“Look at you,” he muttered. “Right. Up you get,” he said, ignoring her whines of complaint as he pulled her into a sitting position. He then reached for her belt, and she recoiled as his fingers brushed her side; even through her armour, it was tender from Katoh’s mace. A moment later he was dangling a lyrium potion in front of her nose. “Drink it and fix yourself up. You’re going to have a lot of patients, Serah Trevelyan. Katari!” he suddenly yelled over her head. “Check the dead and make sure they really are dead. Then tie up the prisoner.”

Amrita groaned.

~~~

It was cold outside of Amrita’s runespelled bubble of warmth, and raining, and late. Amrita did not know how late, but she had not felt so drained and exhausted and nauseous since… well, since the battle with the bandits a week earlier. Was this what freedom was for her kind? Fear and running on fumes? She had been healing since the battle ended, and was on her third lyrium potion. She had lost two patients while performing surgery on the burns and injuries they suffered from the demon. Her head pounded, her limbs ached and trembled, and she was fairly sure that if she had anything to eat, as her body was telling her she needed to, she would simply vomit it straight back out. Her belief that blood magic was diabolical had been firmly cemented.

Fortunately, she was working on her final patient suffering from a wound that needed attention before there were complications.

Unfortunately, her patient was lucid enough to be complaining at her.

“You didn’t tell us you were a mage,” Julia said reproachfully as Amrita healed her bloody, fractured arm. Someone had hit it to disarm her early in the fight while she was still under the control of blood magic. As her other hand rose to scratch the itching skin, Amrita slapped it down and frowned as the last stretch of skin knitted together.

“I did not deceive you to hurt you,” she said slowly, checking the wound with butterfly-light touches of her fingertips to check it really had closed. “I did it to protect myself. I was originally travelling in a much smaller, exposed group and so the enchanters did not permit me to take my staff. Now― Well, I heard the derision and scorn with which you referred to the Ostwick Circle.”

Julia scowled but did not protest her point, instead changing tack. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you’re hiding from us?” she groused. “You’re not the sister of a templar, and therefore inclined to sympathise with those sons of bitches?”

Amrita blanched. Though she had not decided her standpoint yet, she could not deny that she was the sister of a templar – indeed, she was related to many templars. She opted to stay silent and stood, swaying slightly and leaning heavily on her borrowed staff.

“Maker’s breath,” Julia swore, “you actually are, aren’t―”

“Excuse me,” came a peaceable voice from behind Amrita. She carefully turned, and saw Ishek standing there, idly inspecting his preferred staff in such a way as to draw attention to its blade. “If you’re done complaining at the woman who just healed you and saved you from becoming a maleficar’s puppet, Tully and Mikael want to talk to you both.” He jerked his horned head in the direction of one of the gleaming lights – presumably Mikael’s glowing staff.

Amrita nodded lethargically but then froze as something twitched in her guts and throat. Oh, please no, she thought, tensing every muscle in her body in anticipation. She doubled over, heaving, and up came acid and lyrium, burning her throat as it went. Despite the dark and the tears in her eyes, she could see the stinking mess: it glowed blue.

“That’s disgusting,” came Julia’s voice.

“Never you mind that,” Ishek said sternly. “Go. I’ll take care of her.” A moment later, a waterskin was being pressed to Amrita’s lips. She resisted the urge to greedily gulp down the water, and instead sipped at it, swilled it around her mouth and then spat it out. After repeating a few times, she hesitantly swallowed some of the liquid. Thankfully, her stomach showed no immediate signs of ejecting it. Yet.

“What is wrong with her?”

She looked up, and made out Faolán in the dim light of the staff. He seemed even more covered in dark stains than he had been when she checked him over a few hours earlier, if that was possible. If she did not know any better, she would have said his expression was softer than usual, and showing signs of concern.

Ishek made a thoughtful rumble before speaking. “Exhaustion and a touch of lyrium poisoning, I suspect.”

“Agreed,” Amrita groaned. “If I start hallucinating we will know for sure. Pure lyrium is bad for anyone and deadly for mages. Refined lyrium is, in theory, safe, but too much too quickly – or small amounts over long periods of time,” she added weakly, thinking of the templars who had gone mad with lyrium addiction, “is also dangerous. Vomiting is―” She broke off as she felt another surge rise, and she let it come this time, splashing blue on the ground. She gratefully accepted the waterskin again and freshened her mouth before continuing. “Vomiting is probably a good thing to get any excess out of the system.”

Faolán nodded. “Mamae does the same for da’len when they eat bad plants.”

Nodding despite not fully comprehending what he had told her, Amrita said, “I will be alright in a day or so, I hope.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, and then padded off into the darkness without another word.

Amrita painfully pushed herself upright and tried to take a step forward with her bad foot. Her legs immediately gave way beneath her. She squeaked as Ishek caught her.

“Okay,” he said, one arm around her waist. “You are not walking anywhere in this condition. Hold tight now!” And he lifted her right off the ground.

She yelped in surprise as she rose, and then suddenly he was rearranging her legs so she could sit on his shoulders. She clutched at his head, his horns, anything to keep her from falling. The heavy staff still in her hand made it harder. Her head span with the sudden change of altitude.

“You alright?” he asked, patting one of her calves to get her attention.

Amrita swallowed. “Serah Adaar,” she said, breaths coming quick and shallow, “you are entirely to blame if I empty the contents of my stomach over your head.”

“Gotcha,” he said, sounding amused – Maker, his voice rumbled through her thighs as he spoke – and raising one hand. “May I have my staff back now?” Amrita passed it to him without a word, and felt herself relax just a little as the strain of keeping the staff lit was lifted. “Thanks. And yes, you may hold the horns if you need a purchase.”

“Thanks,” she mumbled, tentatively touching the appendages. They were covered in chilled metal. After a moment, though, the runespelled pebble in her pocket started to take effect.

“That’s a nice warming spell you've got going there.”

“It's not... my spell,” Amrita muttered. “It’s a runespell, enchanted by the Formari. Helped me keep patients warm, in my clinic.”

“Then it’s a nice runespell you’ve got there,” he amended cheerfully. “Now, I’m going to start walking. Say if you need me to stop – or tap my head if you can’t speak.” And with that, he set off. It was a slightly bumpy, rolling motion, but it was not intolerable. A minute later they stopped, and Amrita had the unusual pleasure of looking down on a group of adults, many of whom were taller than her five feet and four inches. Ishek made no sign of wanting Amrita off, and so she crossed her arms and rested them on his head, and her chin on her arms.

Something tugged at her foot, and she shifted her head to look down. Ffion stood there, holding a steaming cup. “Tea for you,” she said. “Faolán said you should have tea to calm stomach. You work very hard.”

Amrita looked around for Faolán, and found him skulking in the light of Mikael’s staff, watching her carefully. When she caught his eye he turned his head away sharply and crossed his arms.

Tears welled up in Amrita’s eyes and a real smile spread over her face as Ishek passed the cup up to her. “Bless you,” she croaked. “Creators bless both of you. Ma-se-rah-nas,” she slowly attempted, and Ffion shook her head with a smile. Amrita sipped at the hot beverage, and revelled in the warmth as it slid down her throat and into her belly, soothing the rawness the acid had left behind.

“Right!” There was a clap and the sound of leather gloves rubbing against each other, and Amrita flicked her gaze over to Tully. The leader of the Valo-kas had suffered a broken ulna in the fight, and would have been unable to tolerate the pain of the motions without her earlier assistance. “First, I want to say thank you to Amrita, Faolán and Ffion for their actions; I still don’t know what it was you did, Amrita, but whatever it was it helped.”

Amrita blew on the surface of the tea. “Litany of Adralla,” she said softly. “It interrupts the casting of blood magic. The Hero of Ferelden, Mira Surana, found it in Kinloch Hold during the Blight and used it to save some of the mages from the revolt lead by Uldred the Abomination. Once she became Warden Commander she had it distributed among both mages and templars across Thedas as a precaution. Perhaps not the Imperium,” she added, almost to herself. “But everyone in the Ostwick Circle was required to know it. I was under the impression that other Circles had been asked to instate similar protocols.”

Julia spluttered. “Are you saying Markham failed in their duties to fight blood magic?”

Faolán snorted. “I did not hear you shemlen say it during fight.”

Ishek hummed in agreement, and the surface of Amrita’s tea rippled.

“Stop,” Mikael said wearily, before Julia could respond. “This bickering is pointless. Honestly, I have no recollection of this litany ever coming to Markham. Perhaps it did, and was kept secret by the templars, or the First Enchanter. But neither my subordinates nor myself know of it.”

There was a moment of silence before Tully went on, ignoring the spat. “Ffion and Faolán also played a significant role in the battle, and, ahem, ‘softened up’ the lone survivor for questioning.” Amrita shot Faolán a look, suddenly understanding the acquired blood, and he returned it levelly. “We now know that the six blood mages wanted to go to the Conclave where they would hopefully make an impact on the outcome. Since they didn’t have invites, they needed to attach themselves to another party, so they tried to join ours. Talking to Mikael and Julia and telling them a sob-story of templars attacking gave them the chance to turn the leaders.” Both mages had the decency to look sheepish at this. “They were quite ready to kill any spare mages or mercenaries, but infiltration would have been better.

“As for the battle… As I understand it, Katoh, Pharquad and one of the mages – Nina, you said? – were also turned, and the last blood mage had his spell interrupted by Amrita before Faolán stabbed him. I broke Julia’s arm to stop her attacking. Taking down the blood mages resulted in their victims falling unconscious, which is what happened to release Katoh and Mikael before they could do much damage.” Amrita winced, side aching in sympathy with the memory. “The blood mage Faolán stabbed held on long enough to use his blood to summon the demon. Nina killed one of my men while controlled. Pharquad killed one, and three suffered injuries from the demon that lead to their deaths, despite Amrita’s best efforts.”

Amrita swallowed down the remorse that threatened to swamp her. She had lost enough patients over the years to know that she could not dwell on them, only offer prayers to the Maker for their souls.

“The leader of the blood mages used some magic to dispel any barriers people were using, and that made your elf mage – Guin, did you say? – panic and overload some lightning attack, which killed her immediately and knocked most of us out.”

Amrita slapped a hand over her mouth. She had seen the body, but not realised that Guin had been responsible for the lightning and her own death. For all the good it can do, magic really is a curse.

“Pharquad’s controller forced him up to attack Amrita, but Faolán, who was out of range when the barriers were dispelled, killed him.”

Faolán was staring at Amrita again, and she shook her head slowly at him. Grateful though she was for the actions which had saved her life, he had savoured taking the man’s life too much. But, she had to suppose, that was between him and his gods.

“All in all,” Tully concluded, “we killed six blood mages and lost one delegate and five of the company.” He shook his head sadly. “Shokrakar is going to bloody murder me when we join up with her again.” There was a long silence before he looked up again. “Ashaad and Ashaad Two are watching the bodies. First thing in the morning we need to pay respects as appropriate, strip the bodies and burn them. For now, get some sleep – the men have set up camp as best we could. Dismissed.”

Amrita lurched as Ishek lumbered in the direction of the elves, and grabbed onto a horn while trying not to drop her cup.

“We’ll get you a staff in the morning from one of the dead mages,” Ishek was saying, though she was struggling to make out the words through the descending lethargy. “And hopefully a pair of boots, too.”

“Thanks,” she yawned. “I can see a pair of green dwarves dancing the remigold, Serah Adaar.”

“I think that might be the lyrium poisoning, Amrita.”

“Oh. Can you teach me how to use a staff properly?”

“I’ll do what I can in the time we have.”

Amrita nodded.

She was asleep before he had put her down.

Chapter Text

That night, Amrita’s time in the Fade was haunted by fear demons and fearlings: shades that mimicked her own physical form as well as those of people she knew – Ema’an, Filal, Ffion, Faolán, Serun, Ishek, the apprentices, elves from the alienage, her family – before appearing to rip themselves apart by spells gone awry. Then they whispered, voices insidiously slipping into her head, that all she had to do was accept a ‘spirit’ to ‘mentor’ her and never let her lose control.

She lacked the strength to fight them, and so she curled up, shut her eyes, and focused on the words of the compassion spirits who, ever kind, tried to soothe her terror.

~~~

She rose sluggishly from the depths of the Fade the next day, and as she slowly became aware of her surroundings, the first thing she noticed was that she was moving. It was a rocking, repetitive motion, going forwards as well as side-to-side, she thought, but exactly what was going on she wasn’t sure of, and her eyelids were too heavy to lift just yet. Parts of her rested against something damp and leathery, while her feet dangled and bounced.

The next thing she became aware of was that people around her were talking.

“You adopted another mage there, Ishek?”

“So what if I have, Kaariss?” came Ishek’s laughing voice, accompanied by vibrations through Amrita’s right side. Her eyes snapped open – or they would have, had they not been gummed with sleepdust. As it was, she could just make out a leather coat, and her legs hooked up and over a huge arm. “This little one’s been dead to her family for a long time. Katari could have a little sister! What do you say, Katari?” There was a grunt which somehow conveyed a great deal of disdain for the idea. “Actually, I think she might be older than you. So a little big sister? Or a big little sister? Oh! Someone’s waking up,” he said as Amrita lifted her heavy arms to scrub at her eyes, and someone sighed heavily nearby.

“You can’t adopt every lost person under the age of forty, Ishek.”

“Don’t lie – I know you kids call me ‘Dad-aar’ behind my back. Ow!” There was a jolt through Amrita’s head and back and she groaned. “Katari, don’t hit me when I’m carrying an invalid!”

“‘Invalid’?” Amrita asked through a yawn, heart starting to race. “I’m not― I thought― Why are you carrying me?”

Ishek adjusted her in his arms and she stared up at his bearded chin. “You were out like a dead Vint this morning,” he said, a little more seriously, “and Tully wanted us to move out as soon as possible. We couldn’t exactly leave you behind, so we found you a new pair of boots and I volunteered to carry you. How are you feeling?”

Amrita thought hard for a minute, running through the gamut of sensations that were returning to her and diagnosing as best she could. “Fewer dancing dwarves but everything aches,” she finally said, voice rough and sore. “And I’m― I am hungry,” she added.

Laughing, Ishek replied, “We can do something about that. Kaariss, could you go find the elves, and Katoh? Thanks. Now― Are you okay to walk? Or do you want to go back up on my shoulders?”

Her face heated up at the prospect. “I-I really could not impose any longer,” she stuttered out, already shifting. “I am sorry for inconveniencing―”

“Stop that right now,” he warned, suddenly glaring down at her. Amrita recoiled. “You put your health at risk to save lives last night. Aside from that, you’re a client paying us to get you safely to the Conclave. It’s not an imposition at all. Are you or aren’t you well enough to walk yet?”

Amrita stared back, eyes wide in fright, but eventually pulled herself together and forced herself to reply. “I… would at least like to try walking.”

“Sure,” he answered, stopping and stooping so he could put her down with all the gentleness of a mother cat with a kitten. His hand supported her back as she wobbled and wavered, not letting her fall, and then migrated to her waist as she took tiny, tentative steps forwards.

Her muscles screamed at her like demons. Standing upright was a challenge; moving was torture. She inhaled deeply but started coughing violently, jerking and jolting and bringing tears to her eyes. She vaguely felt Ishek massaging her back. The realisation that she would have to ask someone else for help hurt almost as much as her body did. “I-I― I think,” she whimpered between fits, “I might ― need to take you up on ― that offer of a ride.”

The elves took this moment to arrive. “What is wrong?” Faolán immediately demanded, sounding angry. Ffion started searching through the various pouches on her belt.

Recoiling, Amrita replied, “I think―” Her breath caught in her throat and started her coughing again.

“She’s still suffering from the lyrium poisoning,” Ishek said firmly. “She said herself last night that it might take a day or so to recover. I’ll keep carrying her for now.”

Amrita nodded in agreement, wiping her eyes.

“You are okay with this?” Faolán queried, unconvinced.

His Common is improving, Amrita hazily observed. “Yes,” she said out loud. “Are― are you two alright?”

“Fine,” he answered, subdued. “Markham mages will not talk with us or you now,” he went on, scowling, “but they are dull shemlen. Not worth numin.”

“Here,” Ffion interrupted, offering Amrita a handful of leaves. “Chew. For healing.”

Surprised, but always wary of plants she had not inspected herself, Amrita looked at the leaves and then sniffed them. “Royal elfroot?” she exclaimed, already feeling her headache ease from the scent. “I hardly saw this in all my time healing. Oh, Ffion, you are wonderful and kind!”

The elf flushed a little, and Faolán rolled his eyes. “Garas, lethallan,” he said to his companion. “She will be cared for. Dareth shiral, Amrita, Ishek.” And with that, the pair turned and loped away.

Amrita exhaled slowly, and then looked up at Ishek, who was still holding her upright. “Thank you,” she solemnly said.

“No worries,” he replied with a grin. “Now, let’s get you up, and then you can eat when Katoh brings your pack.”

~~~

Amrita was the first to sight Kirkwall, from her perch upon Ishek’s shoulders. Sundermount loomed to the north, and the weeping colossi marking the harbour entrance were visible even from this distance. Having been delayed by the fight and the subsequent clear-up, they ended up pitching camp about three miles from the city’s outskirts, which Tully and Mikael agreed was probably for the best anyway: neither mages nor kossith were favoured by the inhabitants.

Ishek refused to do any staff-work with her that evening, as Amrita was still frail despite having dozed between conversations. He did, however, let her choose a staff from those they had looted from the blood mages. Some likely-irrational part of her feared that the former owners might have tainted the weapons; but Amrita could not feel any inherent malevolence from any of the staves, and so she settled on a wooden ice staff with a wicked obsidian sickle-like appendage at the top, and a simple iron blade at the bottom. After that, she fell asleep under the many watchful eyes of appreciative Tal-Vashoth and her elven companions.

~~~

When she woke the next morning she was stiff and cold, but essentially recovered. As such, Tully asked her, Julia and Faolán to accompany him into Kirkwall to meet the captain of the ship they would be travelling on. Amrita and Julia left their staves behind. They followed the coastal trade road through the last of the Wounded Coast, passing caravans and travellers going in the other direction. Guardsmen stood at the entrance to the city, and they peered at Faolán’s tattoos suspiciously, but they did not stop Amrita from dragging him through before he could pick a fight. They travelled unchallenged through the estates at the top of the cliffs, crossed the bridge over the channel, stared in horror at the slave statues and then passed through the trade district of High Town.

Nothing could have prepared them for Low Town.

“Fenedhis,” Faolán spat as they descended into the district, several paces behind the other two. “When did it happen?” he asked incredulously, brows furrowed and staring at a building missing an entire corner of its top two floors.

“A little over three years ago,” Amrita replied, equally shocked. The building Faolán glared at was not the only one of its kind: everywhere she looked, the tall, angular buildings had chunks out of them, or scorch marks, or unnatural cracks running up the sides, or even slabs of stone and roofing leaning precariously against whatever was left of the original building. Here and there, entire buildings had been destroyed, with only sad broken walls marking where people had once lived, loved, longed for better fortunes. “I thought – hoped – the physical damage would have been repaired by now.”

“Chantry― The Chantry was destroyed, yes?” He mimicked an explosion with his hands.

“Yes. By the abomination, Anders.” Her heart raced as it had done years ago, fear filling her stomach with the chill of knowing what evils magic could be put to.

“Where was the Chantry?”

Amrita blinked. “I… do not know, precisely. I think it is – was – back up on the cliff, in High Town, but I did not notice it,” she said, tilting her head back to look at the black expanse weighing heavily on the slums. She could just about make out the forms of the buildings nearest the edge. “More than that, I do not know. It is my first time here, too. Maybe they have not finished constructing a new Chantry, or they are leaving the ruins as a reminder.”

Scowling, Faolán crossed his arms. “I notice in – High Town, you say? – the buildings are fine. It probably is as it before was.”

“Was before,” Amrita absently corrected him, considering what he had said. It was a gut-wrenching, cynical prediction, and what was even worse was that it was probably true. One of the many things she had learned in the alienage was that the wealthy usually put their own wants above the poorest’s needs.

“Don’t dally, you two!” Tully shouted back at them. The pair glanced at each other, one distinctly unimpressed and the other visibly concerned, before hurrying after Tully.

Thankfully, the debris had been cleared from the main streets, and apart from having to push through the throng of poor, unwashed and miserable people – in all honesty, the four of them looked more suspect than most of the citizens, with all the dirt and blood on them – they were unimpeded in their journey to the docks. With every junction they passed they came closer to the statue as tall as the cliff that marked the naval exit back out to sea, and the dreaded Gallows.

By the time they found the ship they would be travelling on, they were in the shadow of the statue, and Amrita’s blood was as chilled as the sea breeze whipping her plaited hair around. She hardly paid attention to Tully’s discussion with the captain, her attention focused on the island keep across the water. Even if she had cared to listen, it would have been hard to hear over the voices in her head crying out in anguished empathy for all the pains suffered by those who had crossed through the Veil there. She pressed her fingertips over her mouth to stifle any strangled whines of sympathy.

It was with great effort that she damped down the voices when Faolán touched her other wrist. She turned her head, and he lifted his eyebrows and cocked his head slightly. Are you alright? he seemed to be asking.

Amrita dropped her hand, faked a smile and nodded, somewhat comforted by the familiar presence of the fractious elf. Although she had only known them a week, she was becoming quite fond of the Lavellans, especially with the kindnesses they had shown her in the last few days.

Her attention was caught by a group disembarking from a boat that had come from the Gallows: a man pulling a handcart, a young child, and two templars. The man stopped to talk with the templars, and the child mooched around the cart until they happened to look up and spot Amrita. Then the child froze.

Out of habit, Amrita waved at the child, and then she turned away as Tully called her name.

“Right,” Tully announced, “we’re done here for now. We’re going to come back in the wee hours of tomorrow morning to avoid upsetting people with our mages and Tal-Vashoth. So: Julia and I are going to acquire provisions and head back to camp. What are the pair of you going to do?”

Faolán shrugged when Amrita looked to him so she made a decision. “It is probably best if we just go back to camp and rest. I do not wish to remain here any longer than necessary,” she added with a shudder.

“Yeah, this place – this city – gives me the willies. See you back at camp, then.” Tully then turned to Julia to discuss details of provisions they would need, and Amrita took this as a dismissal.

“Come on, then,” she said wearily to Faolán, and she started walking back towards firm ground, the boards beneath her boots creaking ominously with every step. Factually, she knew the elf was only half a pace behind her, but she could not hear his footsteps.

They reached the dockside, and then set off the way they had come with Tully, weaving between traders and porters and stalls and livestock. The route took them past the walkway to the dock servicing the Gallows, and even as Amrita ducked her head and quickened her pace, a shrill voice screamed, “Mama!”

Years with the apprentices had trained her to react to distressed children’s voices, and she could no more ignore the cry than she could rid herself of magic. She stopped and turned just in time to have a small mass of rags and curly hair barrel into her, throw its arms around her waist and bury its head in her chest. “Mama, Mama, you came back!” it sobbed.

The bottom of Amrita’s stomach dropped out at the words, but she instinctively attended to the child. She prised them away – with difficulty, as they fought to cling to her – and took a step back so she could crouch down and look at them properly. They were in floods of tears now, words incomprehensible and tiny fists scrubbing at their eyes. “Hush,” she said gently, “hush. You need to breathe. Breathe with me: in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four, in, two, three, four, and out, two, three, four...” She modelled it for the child, and though it took a few shaky cycles for them to get into it, they slowly subsided into sniffles as Amrita spoke a steady stream of praise and encouragement.

Finally calm enough to actually look at her properly, the child hiccoughed and squinted at her.

Amrita smiled back kindly. “Now― I am very sorry, but I think you may have―”

“Larch!”

Amrita’s head shot up, and the child span around. Approaching was the man who had had the handcart, and he looked furious. The two templars were following at a more sedate pace. Amrita hastily stood up and took an extra step back from the child. Where have I heard the name Larch before?

The man hardly noticed her as he reached them. “Dammit, Larch,” he swore, shaking the child’s shoulders, “don’t run off like that! And don’t go bothering strangers, either; in this hellhole of a city you’d like as not find yourself talking to a mage, or worse.”

Amrita bit her lip, but he did not elaborate on what would be worse than a mage.

“But, Papa―”

“No!” the man cut the child off, and looked up at Amrita. “I’m sorry, serah, he―” He stopped. His eyes grew round. He turned white. “Maker, no,” he whispered. Then without a word of warning he bellowed, “Demon!”

Amrita looked around wildly, searching for an enemy and preparing to cast barriers over them all, but there was no sense of wrongness, no evil presence other than the Gallows. It took her a moment to realise that the man was dragging his child away from her. The templars were running, weapons drawn, towards her.

“Think you can fool me?” the man yelled. “Dawn’s been dead for three years, and I know my wife's face! Get away from me, demon!”

Dawn. Larch. Mama.

Oh no, Amrita realised, lifting a hand to her mouth in horror.

Faolán stepped up beside her, daggers drawn. “Do you―” he began to ask.

“No,” she cut him off, not looking at him and raising her arms in surrender. “We do not need to fight. Go if you want.”

He made no move to attack, but he made no move to abandon her, either.

Words could not express how grateful Amrita was for that.

As the templars stopped in front of her, swords drawn, she spoke clearly and loudly despite memories of her Harrowing flashing through her mind. “Templars, this is a misunderstanding. These two mistook me for a relative, Dawn Lotus Trevelyan.”

The templars let their weapons droop. The man pulled his child behind him. “You fools! Of course a demon would deny it!”

One templar turned back to the man. “I’ve seen my share of demons and abominations, Hanson; I know by now what one does to the air.”

Amrita breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, serah.”

“Then who the hell is she?” the man – Hanson – demanded.

“Listen, cousin-in-law,” the other templar said curtly, Ostwick accent coming through as he sheathed his sword. “She implied she was a Trevelyan. And to have the same colour and looks as Dawn, she must be one of Lady Aria’s girls. She is far too young to be Lady Grace, and so she must be the mage exile. Your sister-in-law, were she not disowned.”

The words ripped open the old wound and Amrita flinched. The desire demon she had faced at her Harrowing had aimed true, tempting her with reconciliation and acceptance by her kin.

The templar removed his helmet, revealing a face that was familiar in its features but not immediately known; the man was clearly a relative, and probably of a similar age to her, but Amrita was unable to name him, and so she lowered her head and meekly greeted him as, “Cousin.”

“Mage,” he replied tersely. “You are no cousin of mine.”

She kept her head down and remained silent. She could now reliably state that the rejection hurt almost as much as a crossbow bolt to the stomach, though it was less likely to end in her death.

“Mage?” a small voice piped up fearfully. Amrita lifted her eyes, and saw the boy – her nephew – peeking from behind his father, tears in his eyes. “One of the ones who killed Mama?”

The poison in Hanson’s glare rivalled that in Blightcap as he responded, “Might as well be, Larch. Fucking spellbinds are either accidents waiting to happen or out to kill us all. Or both.”

That hurt more. So much more.

The fact that it was true only salted the wound.

The other templar made as if to speak but was cut off by the Trevelyan. “You don’t get to criticise how the Trevelyans deal with their cursed relatives, Carver; everyone knows your mage brother was involved with Anders and the rebels.”

“Fuck you, Bross,” came the reply as the templar took off his own helmet. Amrita's eyes widened as she recognised the man before her: Carver Hawke. He looked little better than he had done when he staggered into the Ostwick Circle three years ago; the intervening years had clearly not been kind. “I was going to suggest that you stopped your prattling and helped me find out what this apostate and her companion are doing and take them to the knight-captain. You know, as is our sacred templar duty,” he added, voice laced with sarcasm. Bross – Perhaps one of Aunt Agatha’s sons? – spluttered and protested, but Carver just turned to Hanson and said, “If you’re so leery of mages, go, and keep your son safe. You’re a fine smith, but remember that templars are sworn to protect the mages as well as the people.”

There was a long silence as the two men stared each other down. Hanson broke first, turning away and grabbing his son’s arm. Then he pulled him away, muttering as he passed, “The knight-captain will hear of this, Carver.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck, Hanson,” came the cheery reply.

Hanson made an obscene gesture, but stopped momentarily at Amrita’s side. “I swear by the Maker, mage, that if you ever come near my family again I will kill you.” Then, before Amrita had any chance to acknowledge him, he stormed off in the direction of the city.

Amrita’s heart had sunk so low that it had gone through the dock’s flagstones. It took Faolán’s elbow to her side to jog her and bring her back to the present. “I― Sorry,” she murmured.

Carver rolled his eyes. “What are you doing in Kirkwall?”

She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin in an effort to look confident. “We are travelling to Ferelden, to Divine Justinia’s Conclave, via Jader in Orlais. I am a representative of the Ostwick Circle; my companion travels on behalf of his clan. We also travel with delegates from Markham, and the mercenary band hired to protect us. We bear invitations.”

Faolán shifted awkwardly beside her, but she paid him no heed.

“Are you going to resist, or will you come quietly?”

Amrita nodded slowly. “I cannot force Faolán to accompany me,” she cautioned. “I…” She sighed. “I understand that in checking apostates you are fulfilling your duty to the Order and the people of the city. But surely there is no reason to suspect the elves, let alone the Dalish, of any particular wrongdoing?”

Carver shrugged. “He’s travelling with an apostate. That’s reason enough. But,” he went on, “with the elven trouble in Orlais, we’ve been keeping an extra eye out in case the Marcher elves get ideas.”

Faolán snorted, the first sound he had made since the templars approached. Amrita glanced between the templars, afraid they would take it as a sign of aggression, and was surprised to notice Bross eyeing the elf… appreciatively?

“It is best if we do as they ask, Faolán,” she said dutifully. He spat on the floor in response, but still made no move to fight or flee. She took this as a sign of acquiescence. “Lead on, serah,” she sighed.

The pair of them were marched onto the boat, and made to sit in silence as they were rowed into the Gallows. Faolán alternated between eyeballing Amrita and glaring darkly at Bross. She kept her head down and the side of her fist against her teeth; she had lived under the templars long enough to know that resistance was futile. The voices in her head had started up again, and became more distressed with every stroke of the oars. Similarly, her head began to spin and her stomach churned like the Waking Sea in a winter storm as they docked and were marched back onto solid ground. A new noise – almost like music – threatened to overwhelm the voices.

They soon emerged into the courtyard, and the source of Amrita’s nausea became evident. In the centre was a mass of red crystals. The sight made her skin crawl, but even when she shut her eyes she could feel the poison in the air, hear the discordant song. She reluctantly opened her eyes when Faolán whispered, all traces of aggression gone and replaced by the calculated calm of someone who, as Ema’an might have said in more colourful language, was pretending that they had not soiled themselves: “Is that a person?”

Amrita looked more closely, eyes watering, and gasped as she made out the twisted, humanoid features. It stirred a memory of Carver’s recount. “Messere Hawke?” she said to the templar’s back as they skirted the edge of the courtyard, “is that―”

“Knight-Commander Meredith, yes,” he replied without turning.

Faolán crossed his arms and regarded the statue coolly. “What happened? We heard something, but not this.”

When Carver did not immediately reply, Amrita said, “If I recall my notes from Messere Hawke’s report correctly, the knight-commander came into ownership of an unusual red lyrium object. It― It―” She shook her head, trying to expel its song. “It may have driven her to― to insanity. It ― certainly gave her unnatural ― powers when she turned ― on the Champion of Kirkwall ― and the templars. And… this― This is what she became, I assume.”

Carver looked back over his shoulder at her. “I thought I recognised you from somewhere.”

“Fenedhis,” Faolán muttered. Amrita glanced his way, and saw that his hands were shaking even as he gripped his greaves. Then she had to turn her focus back to making sure she was not sick all over Carver’s shiny boots. How can anyone bear to live in that thing’s vicinity? she wondered.

Carver led them up some stairs into another courtyard, and immediately the feeling lessened, though it did not go away. They then proceeded through stark, angular corridors until the sensation had all but faded. They passed nobody as they went.

“Who remains here?” Amrita asked as they turned into yet another empty hall.

“Mostly apprentices too young to run off,” Carver answered. “A few enchanters: Loyalists, Lucrosians and Isolationists, mainly.”

“And templars?”

He looked back over his shoulder again. “Those of us who know that a templar’s duty is to protect mages as well as the people.”

Bross scoffed quietly at that. “And those of us who know that even docile mages can be a danger, to themselves and others.”

Amrita bowed her head. She would expect nothing less from a Trevelyan who knew of the innate evil in mages, even well-meaning ones. “It is a relief to know that some of you remain, at least, even after the rebellion.”

Before Carver could respond, another templar emerged from the room ahead of them, looked around and spotted them. “Ah, Carver! Bross!” he called. Then he paused. “And… who are these people?”

They approached the man, and Amrita swallowed a gasp as she recognised the face: much like her father’s, but marked by sadness rather than bitterness, and a little younger in its looks than the broken man who had forced her out of her own city. She also recognised his ranking regalia.

“Knight-Captain Hans,” Carver and Bross said simultaneously as they halted and saluted.

“An apostate and a Dalish elf,” Bross announced. “Envoys to the Conclave, or so they claim. Say they have invitations, and companions outside the city, but after those maleficar last week…” He trailed off, and the knight-captain nodded.

“Sensible. Where are we on the maleficar, by the way?”

“Dannell’s squad are still out; no word since last night.”

“Damn. With all the mages coming through to the Conclave, we could do with all the manpower we can get.”

Amrita cleared her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, and the men turned to look at her. Despite their disapproving looks, she ploughed on, “My companions and I fought and defeated a group of maleficar the day before last. All six are dead.”

“How in the Void did you manage that?” Carver swore. The knight-captain was studying her face.

“The Ostwick Circle insisted we learned the Litany of Adralla,” she replied, face heating up under the scrutiny.

“Ostwick?” the knight-captain asked. “You… You are Amrita, aren’t you?”

Amrita dropped her head and looked up through her eyelashes, anxiety pulling at her guts. After Bross, she was scared to address the man as ‘uncle’. “Hello, Knight-Captain Hans,” she responded. She clasped her hands in front of her. “I… I heard about Dawn.”

Hans’s face crumpled and he sighed.

“It was Hanson Selwyn who brought these two to our attention,” Carver explained. “Larch mistook her for his mother, and then Hanson assumed she was a demon taking Dawn’s form. Bross deduced that she was Dawn’s mage sister, and so we brought her and her companion up.”

“Well then – you’d better come into my office.” Hans pushed open the door he had emerged from, and they trudged in.

There was only one chair in front of the neatly-ordered desk, and Hans gestured for Amrita to sit. She took half a step forward and then stopped herself, first staring at it and then looking to Faolán, who was rolling his eyes at the rudeness. “Thank you,” she said, hiding the mental chastisement she was giving herself for her misstep, “but I will stand.” Faolán’s gaze flickered to her for just a second, before he settled his attention on the knight-captain.

“Suit yourself,” Hans said, wearily lowering himself into his own chair; age and templar armour seemed to make it difficult. “Amrita, may I see your papers?”

“Of course,” she replied, unclasping the book from her belt and thumbing through the pages until she found the invitation. Carver took it from her and passed it to Hans, who inspected it for several agonisingly long minutes before passing it back.

“This appears legitimate – it is all but identical to the ones we received asking for our own templar and mage delegates.” Amrita inclined her head in thanks, and to hide her relief. “And what about you,” Hans asked, directing his attention to Faolán, and Amrita pre-emptively winced before he concluded with, “elf?”

It could have been worse, she consoled herself as Faolán glared venomously at her uncle. He took a moment before he spoke, and she politely turned her head so she was looking at him.

“My name is Faolán Lavellan. I travel with my lethallan Ffion to Ferelden,” he said, and the ear she could see twitched upwards, “but not to the Conclave.”

Amrita’s mouth parted in surprise, but he was already continuing.

“The clan is… thinking about going to the Brecilian Forest.”

There was the twitch again. Miniscule, but like a punch to the stomach for Amrita. Ema’an’s ears had moved the same way whenever he lied, whether to wind her up or tell an adult that no, of course he hadn’t taught the apprentices the rude words to ‘I Love my Lass in Lomerynn’, how could Enchanter Prins possibly think that―

Fuck, she thought. She could feel her hands trembling at her sides, but resisted the urge to reach for the necklace.

She snapped back to the conversation as she heard her name.

“―needed to join group so we agreed to travel to meeting with guards and Markham mages.”

Hans coughed. “So you travel with Circle Mages? Or apostates?”

Faolán turned to look at Amrita, and it took her a moment to realise he was redirecting the question to her. “Oh. Well― They abandoned their Circle to fight, Knight-Captain,” she said quietly, heart heavy as she anticipated the templars’ rightful concern and less-rightful violent response. “But they were invited to the Conclave, and as far as I know their leader carries the proper documentation.”

Hans groaned and dragged his hands down his face. “How many?”

“Five since we―” Amrita’s voice cracked as she recalled the charred body of Guin. “Since the fight with the maleficar. There are two mages in the mercenary party,” she added.

“And what is the party like?”

Amrita swallowed and stared out of the window behind Hans. “Mostly Tal-Vashoth, messere.”

Carver swore.

~~~

In the end, they managed to negotiate that a group of templars would meet them at the gates to the city the next morning, inspect the paperwork, and then they would accompany them to their ship in a gesture meant to protect them as much as reassure the Kirkwallers that mages and Qunari were not permitted to roam the town freely. Carver escorted the pair out of Low Town, and the only difficulty they faced was when Faolán spied the alienage and tried to slip off. Fortunately for Amrita, he was better suited for vanishing in a forest than disappearing in an urban environment, and so she quickly caught him by his collar and pulled him away. She suspected that he had been making a point more than anything, as he had not resisted much and she was sure that he could have overpowered her had he chosen to do so.

Unsurprisingly, Mikael and Julia were outraged by the arrangement with the templars. Their outrage did not much impact on Tully, who was cross about deals being done without him but relieved not to have to sneak the Tal-Vashoth around under cover of darkness. Arguments were silenced and rations were distributed.

As everyone slunk back to their positions or cliques, Ishek approached Amrita; Faolán had retreated to Ffion’s side earlier, leaving her to deal with the others.

“Did you know that when she’s left on her own, Ffion finds a vantage point and then watches the world while muttering under her breath?” Ishek asked, tone casual. “It’s quite unnerving.”

Amrita turned to look at the elves: the pair were conversing in hushed tones, and Faolán was making small, angry gestures in the direction of the city. “I did not know,” she replied, raising her hand to her neck and clasping the lapis pendant tightly through her shirt; despite Ffion being the subject of conversation, her eyes were on Faolán. There was a mild pain in her gut, but also an eerie lightness suffusing her body. She gripped harder, and prayed that it was an after-effect of the lyrium, and not what she feared it was. A crush would be awfully inconvenient and inappropriate right now. “The two of them are usually together, and seem to either whisper or glare most of the time.” She tilted her head, and felt a smile twitch her lips. “I am almost certain by now that they are deliberately speaking in a mix of Dalish – Elven – and nonsense in order to upset us humans.”

Ishek laughed at that. “You may be right. Would you like to train with the staff tonight?”

Turning sharply, Amrita looked up at him. “You were serious about training me?”

“Of course,” he said with a frown. “Mages need to be able to defend themselves, and while I don’t want to say your teaching was bad, the way you use a staff is ... inefficient. I can show you the basics at least of using a staff at range, and Katari agreed to teach you a little of close-combat fighting with a bladed staff – or at least, he did after he finished pissing himself at the fact you managed to stab yourself in the foot.”

Amrita blushed and winced at the memory. “You are too kind,” she answered. “Thank you. But first, I need to speak to the elves privately. Shall we convene in an hour?”

“Fine by me.”

“Then I will see you later, serah.” She nodded in farewell, and strolled over to the elves, who stopped talking and looked up as she approached. Their expressions were neutral, but less guarded than they had been even a few days ago. How quickly that was about to change, Amrita did not know. “So,” she said, stopping in front of them. “About what happened in the Gallows.”

And there was the look of glassy, serene ignorance on Faolán’s face, spoilt by an ear twitching. “I know not what you mean.”

Amrita pursed her lips. “I thought you were going to Conclave.”

“We are.”

“But you told the knight-captain that you were not.”

“I did.” Oh, the look on his face was infuriatingly calm.

She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Why?”

Faolán shrugged carelessly. “He would have asked for paper.”

Amrita narrowed her eyes as she considered this. “Is Ffion carrying the invitation? Was that the problem?”

“No,” Ffion replied this time. “I have not invitation.”

Realisation slowly dawned on Amrita. “You do not have invitations. At all.”

Faolán rolled his eyes. “We do not.”

“But you said you were invited!”

“We never said we were invited. We said we were going,” he replied, scorn on his features.

Amrita scowled back. “In fact, your friend – Da’Revas, was it? – said you were delegates. A delegate is someone chosen to vote or act for others. If you or your people are not expected at the Conclave, how can you do that?”

“What does it matter, shemlen?” Faolán snapped, anger suddenly twisting his face and tattoos. Amrita flinched, stepping backwards. “Fenedhis, ar’a banal i’ne!” And with that, he turned on his heel and stalked off. Ffion shot her a disapproving glare before following her companion, leaving Amrita stunned and mortified.

Luckily, she had plenty of time to wipe away any errant tears before she had to go to Ishek.

~~~

The next morning they had a respite from the rain, though not the easterly wind. Everything went smoothly, snide comments between mages and templars and cold indifference from the elves aside, and almost before Amrita knew it she was off on her first real voyage.

Having grown up in Ostwick, she had been in boats before, sailing along the coastline, but never had the sailors strayed more than a mile from shore. She stood at the hand-rail, gripping tightly and grinning widely even as the ship rolled and the wind tugged at her fingertips. After the troubles of the past weeks, the joy and delight warming her made a pleasant change.

Her companions varied in their reactions to the sea. Ishek stood beside her at the rail and seemed relaxed as he shaded his eyes from the sun’s glare; Katari stood on his other side, and Amrita thought from his glum expression and the slight green tint to his grey skin that he was stoically bearing his discomfort; Faolán was still making his displeasure with Amrita known and had pulled Ffion to the opposite side of the ship, where he was now rubbing her back as she leaned over and emptied her stomach into the grey waves. Most of the mages were in a similar position to poor Ffion, and the mercenaries had spread themselves around the deck and made themselves comfortable. The sailors were doing a bad job of hiding how unnerved they were by their passengers.

Amrita heard a door open behind her, but did not turn until she heard a word that, although unfamiliar, was said with all the vehemence of a profanity.

“Kaffas!”

She, along with her new mentors, turned and saw an unfamiliar elf standing in the doorway that lead to the more respectable passenger quarters. He was brown-skinned with smartly close-cropped hair and a crooked nose, and his clothes looked exotic and expensive, though not flashy. Perhaps a high-ranking servant to a noble from a northern country? His – Maker, purple – eyes were wide as he surveyed the deck. His lips were moving as his eyes darted about, one word for each person he focused on, and Amrita frowned as she realised he was counting kossith.

“Fasta vass!” he exclaimed.

“Something wrong?” Ishek asked him, crossing his arms.

The elf jerked and looked at him, biting his lip for a moment. “No, ser,” he finally replied, his accent thick but understandable. “Not for me. But for my master―”

A stern voice rang out from the room behind him. “Servus?”

As the elf turned back and started trying to explain something in his foreign tongue, Amrita noticed the collar around his neck. Then she realised she recognised the shapes of the words he spoke from texts in the library, though she had never heard them uttered before: they were Tevene.

She had to grab onto the hand-rail again as she realised that the elf was a slave.

Ishek rumbled angrily, and had presumably come to a similar realisation. He shouted to his fellow kossith, though Amrita did not understand the words; she guessed he spoke to them in Qunlat. Each of them tensed, suddenly alert, and their hands strayed close to their weapons.

“What did you say?” Amrita asked, raising her voice over the wind.

“I told them to be ready in case we were attacked by the ‘Vints in that room,” he said, unclasping the lightning-element staff from his back. “But not to attack unless provoked. A ship is never a good place for a battle, especially not a battle with magic. One hole in the hull and we’re sunk.”

A moment later, the elf scurried out of the way of the door and a dark-skinned, bearded man robed in finery and jewels stepped out onto the deck. His gaze swept the scene in front of him, and there was no sound except for the wind, waves and creaking of the ship and its rigging as everyone stared back. Then, very loudly and indignantly, he addressed them. “Why on earth are there bloody Qunari on my ship?”

Chapter Text

“Why on earth are there bloody Qunari on my ship?”

Nobody responded to the man’s question; everyone simply stared at him in anticipation.

Motion from the other side of the deck caught Amrita’s eye: Ffion and Faolán had turned to see the fuss. Faolán’s face shifted from puzzled to delighted to suspicious in quick succession as he saw and studied the elf.

Oh shit, Amrita thought. She nudged Ishek as surreptitiously as she could. He cocked his head towards her, though his eyes remained on the man. “Faolán,” she said in a low voice, stomach already churning as she imagined his response to the elven slave. Ishek paused, and then nodded.

The movement drew the man’s attention. “You there!” he barked, making eye contact with Amrita. She froze. “Are you in charge of this rabble?”

Words stuck in her throat as she stared, caught by his gaze. Somewhere in her periphery, she was aware of Ishek turning to Katari and speaking in a soothing tone.

“Does she really look like she is?” another voice called from up on the stern. All eyes turned upwards and found Tully, who somehow looked both relaxed and poised to attack as he leaned idly on the railing. “I am in charge of the Tal-Vashoth you see in front of you, and we accompany delegates to the Conclave.”

Amrita’s gaze flickered back to Faolán, but he was still squinting at the elf.

“Believe me, my lord,” Tully was going on, “in saying that we would have avoided you too had we known – you have only your captain to blame.” He straightened up, still gripping the rail. “Let’s talk things over, shall we?”

Suddenly there came a shout from the other side of the deck; everyone jerked around to see Ffion physically restraining Faolán, her arms pinning his hands to his sides as he wriggled and writhed in her grasp, hurling what sounded like abuse in Elven at the man.

“Ishek!” Tully shouted, but Ishek was already halfway to the elves. Seconds later Faolán was dangling two foot above the ground, strung up by his collar and kicking and hissing. When he drew his knives, Ishek struck him with his staff and the elf stilled, presumably stunned by a spell.

Amrita breathed a sigh of relief.

“My apologies, messere,” Tully called down, “though I can’t be entirely responsible for my clients’ actions. Shall we talk?”

The man sneered in the direction of the elves but nodded. “Dirty elven savages, the lot of them,” he said. “Can’t help themselves. Join me in my cabin, and we shall talk.” And with that, he swept back inside, followed by the slave – although the elf kept looking over his shoulder as he went.

The door shut.

Tully’s face dropped into a fierce scowl. He jabbed a finger at everyone, pointed at the cabin below him, shook his head and concluded the pantomime by drawing a finger across his throat. The message was clear: Don’t kill him. Then he turned and stomped off below decks.

Faolán was starting to struggle again, and Amrita followed Katari – big, young, anxious Katari who seemed almost as wound up as Faolán – over to Ishek, though she stayed a pace behind the kossith.

Ishek was reprimanding the elf as they came within earshot. “I get it, Faolán, I get it. Don’t you roll your eyes at me like that, young man!” Faolán had stilled and folded his arms as he gently swung, glaring defiantly at the horizon. Ishek stood tall and taut, clearly frustrated. “No, we don’t share the same history of oppression, elf, but don’t you think for an instant that I haven’t seen my kin trapped, leashed and broken, either by humans or the Qun.” His voice was low, angry, vehement.

Katari reached up to rub the skin around his lips.

Faolán was now listening to Ishek seriously as the kossith went on. “You cannot kill that man. Not here, not now. That was a Tevinter magister. My father fought ‘Vints, and what he learned was that you do not fuck with the magisters. Even when they’re sleeping they’re dangerous. If you did kill him, you’d still have to deal with his guards, and who’s to say that the sailors would take us to shore, Faolán? Do you even know that the kid wants to be freed?” Faolán glared at him but gave no reply. “That’s what I thought. Are you ready to be put down and not murder anyone?”

The elf slowly nodded. There was no ear twitch.

“Good.” Ishek lowered him gently, giving him time to get his bare feet beneath him. Faolán then slunk off to the bow of the ship, darkly muttering something about shemlen.

Ffion made as though to follow him, but Amrita darted forward and tapped her shoulder. Ffion span and stared suspiciously but Amrita managed to swallow and stand her ground. “Do you have any crystal grace leaves?” she asked. When Ffion shook her head, Amrita fumbled with the pouches on her belt until she found some. “For the seasickness,” she explained as she shyly offered it to the elf.

Ffion, took it, sniffed it and smiled weakly; she was still slightly green. “Ma serannas,” she said.

“You are welcome,” Amrita replied. “I… I am sorry about yesterday. I should not have pushed.”

Ffion blinked slowly, and then shrugged. Then she was gone.

Amrita turned back to find Ishek had an arm around Katari’s shoulders and had pulled his head close. Katari’s eyes were on the floor and full of tears, and his hands moved jerkily as he made unintelligible noises, though Ishek seemed to be following. Amrita took a moment to really look at the young Tal-Vashoth: though taller than her, he was by far the shortest of the kossith, with even some of the human men overtaking him. His horns were little more than nubs, and around his lips the skin was hairless, punctuated only by small dark scars. He usually seemed to have some understanding of what was going on around him, but he never spoke to anyone but Ishek. Perhaps he would open up when she moved on to melee combat with him.

She caught Ishek’s eye, and he shook his head. Leave this one to me.

And so she did. Effectively alone now, she went in search of a sheltered spot where she could sit and update the notes in her journal.

She had a lot to write about.

~~~

Midday found Amrita perched on a barrel in the corner between a cabin and the stairs up to the bow. She glanced up as the cabin door opposite her opened and Tully, the magister, and the captain emerged. The latter looked thoroughly chastised.

While the working men hurried off, the magister approached Amrita wearing a smile that would have made her want to run a million miles away even if she had not known about him owning slaves. She lowered her gaze as he approached, but it did nothing to deter him.

“Though the state of your clothing says otherwise,” he began, “you have the look of a woman of noble birth, one used to overseeing such ruffians.” He tilted his head towards the kossith – Faolán seemed to be letting off steam, sparring with Katoh on the deck with all too much force – and Amrita bit her lip in an effort to conceal the anger flaring up in her. He went on, oblivious to her dismay, “Might I ask the name of such a beautiful young lady?”

Amrita did not consider herself beautiful, and in that moment she would have gladly given up any remaining semblance of attractiveness if it had meant never hearing such a man flatter her again. She did not know how she suppressed a shudder, but she did. Years of faking and deferring to her peers in the Circle, she supposed. “Amrita Trevelyan of Ostwick, messere.” Really, she shouldn't use the family name, but she was being sent to the Conclave on the strength of it, so she had to adjust. “And your name?”

“Magister Tiberius Cornix of Perivantium, my lady,” he said graciously, lifting her hand without seeking permission and pressing his dry lips to its back.

Horrified, Amrita glanced up – and met Faolán’s disgusted gaze. She tried to convey her panic through her face, but as Tiberius lifted his head she had to quickly school her expression. She was about to explain that she was no longer a noble, but Tiberius spoke first.

“Trevelyan, eh? Good Marcher family, that. I’m sure there’s a Magister Trevelyan somewhere in your ancestry. You certainly look as though you have something of the Imperium in you, a talent for magic aside.”

Amrita flushed. “My mother’s mother was the daughter of Tevinter refugees, and I believe her father, though he raised her in Hasmal, was Nevarran.”

“Ahh,” he sighed, as though she had succinctly explained the mysteries of the universe to him. “That would account for your charming face.”

Suddenly she felt sick, and it had nothing to do with the waves or the bland food she had eaten for lunch. “Thank you,” she said nonetheless, ducking her head. “A pleasure to meet you, Magister Tiberius.”

“And you, Lady Amrita. Perhaps we shall talk again later?”

“Perhaps.”

She held her breath and counted to ten before she looked up. When she judged he was suitably involved in talking to the Markham mages, she rose from her place, trotted to the side of the ship and pulled up some seawater before proceeding to rinse her hands as thoroughly as she could to wash his taint away.

~~~

Amrita spent the rest of the day curled up in her cranny, kept warm by a spell, and split her attention between her journal and watching Faolán fight various members of the Valo-Kas. At some point, and she could not have said when, the margins started filling up with little pointy-eared stick figures and attempts to draw the patterns that marked the elves’ faces – one more than the other. She was very good at drawing diagrams and pictures of plants, but the moving humanoid form evaded her.

As the sun was setting just to the starboard side of the bow, a voice said above her, “You look at him much.”

She snapped the book shut and looked up, blushing. There, peering over the staircase, was Ffion. “H-How… How long have you been there?” Amrita asked. Ffion just grinned, and Amrita’s heart sank into the dark depths beneath the hull.

The elf pointed to her companion, who had just broken away from his fight and― Was he nursing an injury? “You upset still yesterday about?”

“A little,” Amrita admitted. “I did not understand the words but I understood his point.”

Ffion nodded. “You want dirth sorry?”

“Of course!” Amrita exclaimed. “I do not want any bad feeling between us. Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she muttered as the elf gave her a knowing look that brought the blush back. With all the heat she was generating she hardly needed her runespell. “Yes,” she went on sulkily, watching the sailors in the rigging above instead of looking at any elves. “I want to say sorry. But not while he might stab me for approaching.”

Ffion snickered. “Good time now. He done for today. Tell him, ‘Ir abelas’.”

“‘Ir abelas’?”

“Yes. It is sorry. He will listen.”

An unpleasant thought occurred to Amrita. “How do I know this is not a trick to get me to say something embarrassing? I’m― I am not in―”

“It is not,” Ffion cut her off, expression suddenly soft. “Sa vhenan is delicate. Not a joke.”

Amrita swallowed and tested the words again. “‘Ir abelas’.”

“Good. Now go.”

Amrita sighed heavily and strapped her journal back onto her belt. “Very well,” she grumbled, though she was fighting to conceal the butterflies in her stomach and the lightness of limb that threatened to send her sprawling. Maker, I have it bad.

However, as she approached the seated elf, it quickly became clear that there were more urgent matters to deal with than an apology or her burgeoning crush.

“Are you bleeding?” she squeaked as she saw the fresh red smears on Faolán’s armour.

The elf scowled. “It is not bad.”

Amrita dropped to her knees in front of him and reached for his hand. “Let me see to it.”

He recoiled. “It distracts me.” His eyes wandered in the direction of the magister’s cabin.

“It will do more than distract you,” she scolded, taking his hand and permitting no argument. “If you need something to distract you, think about how much you loathe me.” The words hurt her to say, and though they had passed her lips they lay heavy on her stomach. She could feel his gaze on her like a lead weight, but she ignored it in favour of attending to his hand. It was not a terribly serious wound, but while she had the energy to spare she would rather not risk complications. Her spirit friends came gladly to her aid.

Several minutes passed before she was done, and she took a few extra moments to properly inspect her work – and his slender, calloused hands – before she rested it back in his lap. In the silence that followed, she kept her head down and swallowed. “Ir abelas,” she finally said. She saw his entire body stiffen but kept going. “I should not have pushed you yesterday. Your business at the Conclave is none of mine, and it was wrong to presume that you would be open with me. I can hardly fault you for hiding things when I did not tell the mages who I was,” she added with a soft snort. “Ir abelas,” she repeated. Then, eyes on her knees, she waited. She could already feel the spirits reaching out to soothe her fretting, and she knew she would have explanations of her new feelings to explain to them in the Fade that night.

After a long pause, Faolán nudged her with his toe – firm, but not aggressive – and Amrita looked up. His head was tilted and he was not smiling as such, but something in his expression was gentle and accepting. He nodded at her, and she let go of a breath she did not realise she had been holding. The spirits’ voices lifted in delight. “Ma serannas,” she whispered as she stood, and he stiffened again, although she could have sworn a smile twitched his mouth. She let it be. “I was going to join Ishek and Katari this evening. Would you and Ffion like to eat with us?” she asked, feeling her hopes rise and cursing them in the same thought.

Faolán sighed dramatically. “I suppose I might as well,” he said, pushing himself up.

Amrita stared at the floor to hide her grin as they walked to the galley.

~~~

The five of them – Amrita, Faolán, Ffion, Ishek and Katari – ended up sitting by the prow of the ship, kept warm and dry courtesy of the warming runespell etched on a pebble provided by Ostwick's Formari, and with light from Ishek and Amrita’s staves and the half moon: enough to see by but dim enough that they could look upwards and see the stars in all their frosty winter glory. They ate the goop from the ship’s kitchens and then passed the time by Ishek asking about Dalish culture, Faolán eagerly explaining and Amrita making notes – and perhaps the odd sketch or two, now that she was up close. Once Faolán realised she was genuinely taking an interest, he slowed down so that she could keep up.

Ffion was content to perch up on the prow itself and simply listen, and so it was she who noticed the intruders’ approach first. She leapt lightly into the middle of the group, finger pressed to her lips. They all fell silent and turned to see who it was.

“Ah, Lady Amrita! I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Amrita thanked the Maker that her face had been in shadow, hiding her expression of disgust. “Magister Tiberius,” she replied, voice steady with a practised calm from the Circle as she rose stiffly from the floor. “To what do we owe this honour?” Maker, she could not lie, but she could just about manage demure and agreeable. Faolán – or maybe one of the others – hissed quietly behind her.

“Well, my dear,” he started, and Amrita felt her jaw lock into a forced smile. “My elf here rather wanted to meet you and your…” He trailed off, and it was clear from his slipping façade that he was genuinely struggling to find an inoffensive word.

Amrita clasped her staff tighter to save her from folding her arms disapprovingly as she would with a naughty apprentice. There was a very soft growl from Katari.

The magister finally concluded, “…Fellow travellers,” pasting his smile back on. “But, as I’m sure you understand, I can’t leave him unattended, or he might hurt someone; probably himself. And so I hoped you might indulge the both of us and take him under your wing for the night.”

Amrita stared. Then she laughed, high and shrill and nervous, one hand over her mouth in an instinctive gesture to hide her discomfort. “Magister Tiberius,” she said breathily, “I think I must have misheard you. Surely…” she paused, swallowed and stilled her diaphragm as he frowned. “Surely you are not asking me to be a mistress to this elf tonight?”

Someone behind her sniggered. Someone else smacked them.

“That is precisely what I am asking,” Tiberius replied, face stern. “The creature needs supervision in an environment like this.” He paused a moment. “If it would be easier with a leash to―”

“No!” Amrita interrupted, almost too quickly, searching for the elf’s eyes but finding them on the floor. Her heart was in her throat, fearful of seeming complicit in slavery, but desperate to get the poor thing away from his master. “Of course I can keep an eye on him, my lord. No leash required.”

“As you wish,” Tiberius sniffed. “Don’t be afraid to punish him if his service is subpar or he misbehaves.”

“I will… bear that in mind,” she replied. She could feel four pairs of eyes boring into her back. She could sense the ever-present compassion spirits’ distress at the elf’s predicament. “I am sure he will be superb.” Her knees were shaking.

“Probably,” the man – No, monster – said. “Oh – and between you and me,” he added, stepping right up to her and whispering in her ear, breath hot and repulsive, “feel free to take advantage of him. His venereal services are excellent.”

His venereal services? What are― Mortified heat consumed her as she processed it.

Sex.

He was offering up a slave for her to have sex with. What did the poor elf do to deserve such abuse?

Her breath came out shakily, and to make matters worse, the monster misinterpreted it as a sign of arousal. “Sounds good, yes? I don’t suppose you’d like to do a swap? Your elves are very―”

“They are not mine,” Amrita cut in as firmly as she could. “I cannot make such decisions for them.”

Tiberius stepped back. “Shame. Well, enjoy him,” he said by way of farewell to her. To his slave he said, “Volo farnam pleno mane parum kaffas.”

“Certe, magistrum,” the elf replied meekly.

With a none-too-gentle slap to the back of his slave’s head, Tiberius finally left. Amrita watched in silence as he and his glowing staff descended to the main deck and crossed to his cabin. Only once he had gone inside did she let herself relax.

“Maker’s breath,” she swore, tears filling her eyes. “What a― What a―”

“Piece of shit?” Ishek helpfully supplied.

“That,” Amrita responded, pawing at her eyes. She looked up at the elf. “I-I― I am so sorry. You are safe here, we― We will not hurt you just― Please, sit down, make yourself comfortable―”

“Amrita,” Ishek said calmly. “Breathe.”

She burst into tears.

“Holy shit,” she half gasped, half sobbed raggedly, “how do monsters like that exist in this world?” She let Ffion steer her back down to her spot, and half noticed that Faolán was already guiding the elf to the floor. Katari was gesticulating wildly and Ishek attended to him.

“Breathe,” Ishek repeated, and with some effort she brought herself under control.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in between sniffs, and she wiped her eyes with the backs of her gloves.

“I’m used to it,” the elf said dully, sitting cross-legged and hugging himself. The dim light made him look very tired and old.

Katari had stopped making noises and Ishek asked jokingly, “What – to ladies bursting into tears after meeting that fuckstick?”

The elf shrugged, but something in his expression eased. “To being lent out. But that too.”

“Fenedhis,” Faolán swore.

Amrita shuddered. “We will not ask you to say or do anything you do not wish to.” She swallowed, eyes flicking between her companions. “The monster told you to follow instructions, yes?” The elf nodded and Faolán shot her a look. “Then I have two instructions for y― Faolán, wait!” she yelped as he started forward. He scowled darkly at her, but slid his blades away. “Ma serannas,” she thanked him. “Now: my instructions. One: put your own needs and desires above ours. And two: try to treat us as equals, because I am not your mistress. Is that acceptable?” she asked, wanting the others’ approval as much as the elf’s. Her companions nodded in agreement, and the elf finally followed suit. “Thank you. Um,” she said, “I suppose we should do introductions. I am Amrita, a mage from Ostwick. Faolán and Ffion,” pointing as she went on, “are Dalish elves from Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches. And Ishek and Katari are Tal-Vashoth – Qunari who do not follow the Qun – and they are the mages for the mercenaries we hired to guard us. So – those are our names,” she concluded, looking back at the elf. “And what should we call you? And not ‘slave’ or ‘elf’,” she quickly clarified.

The elf hesitated. “Virrevas,” he finally said.

Ffion gasped, clasping a hand to her mouth as she stared at him. Faolán shut his eyes and started mouthing something inaudibly.

“What?” Amrita asked, insides going cold.

Unusually, it was Ffion who spoke first. “You… know meaning your name?” she asked Virrevas.

“No,” he replied.

Faolán gave a short laugh: a dry, bitter bark. “It means ‘road to freedom’,” he said bluntly, turning to look at the other elf. “Amrita; you have a word for this, something to do with metal.”

“Irony,” she softly supplied, heart going out to Virrevas.

“Cruel irony,” Faolán agreed. “Creators, I am too sober to deal with this,” he muttered, turning in the direction of Tiberius’s cabin and touching the handles of his daggers longingly.

“Are you originally Dalish?” Ishek asked, arm still around Katari’s shoulders.

Virrevas nodded slowly. “I… don’t remember much of it. I was twelve summers old, and the clan was in Nevarra when we were taken. I was taken to a human city with the other children who were with me, but the Master only bought me. I…” He trailed off, a scowl passing over his features. “I never heard anything from my clan. The Master has many other elf slaves – he thinks us too dull to do more than follow orders – but none of my kin. One or two other Dalish. Mostly city elves.”

Faolán and Ffion shared a look, before the former spoke. “Do you remember your clan name?”

“Filtiarn,” Virrevas replied, this time without hesitation.

“Filtiarn,” Faolán repeated, testing the name. “They… I think we met them at the last Arlathvhen. They mourned the loss of many da’len, many children, and were fleeing Nevarra. Ir abelas – I am sorry if that is not your wish to hear.”

Virrevas simply closed his eyes and did not reply.

Katari whispered something into Ishek’s ear, and the older kossith frowned. “Katari wants to know whether you usually have to wear a collar and leash.” The younger kossith nodded, staring intently at Virrevas and rubbing his lips.

“The collar, yes,” the elf replied. “It is part of how they prevent me from using magic. The leash―”

He was cut off by a strangled shout from Katari: “Saarebas?”

The elves stared at him, startled, and Amrita frowned and tried to remember where she had heard that word before.

Ishek’s grey skin had gone a few shades lighter by the time he finally said, “He wants to know if you are a saarebas – a mage who is stopped from using their powers, guarded by keepers and often collared, leashed or― Katari,” he said quietly, “do you really want me to tell them?” Katari nodded emphatically, and Ishek exhaled heavily. “‘Saarebas’ means ‘dangerous thing’, and commonly refers to a mage. Under the Qun they are guarded and restrained so they do not use magic. Some even have their mouths sewn shut.”

Amrita moaned weakly as she realised where this was going – and what those scars around Katari’s mouth were. The voices in her head were practically screaming in sympathy.

“Katari was a saarebas, until Shokrakar and Tully found him, lost and alone on the Rivaini coast two years ago. His arvaarad were nowhere to be seen. We think he was sixteen but we don’t know. I’ve trained and cared for him since as a son.” Ishek smiled bleakly and Katari inched closer to him. “So as you can imagine, he has an aversion to keeping mages from using magic.”

Amrita took back any thoughts she had had about the way the Qun treated the mages as being better than the way the Chantry did. No wonder poor Katari was so… stunted, with what probably amounted to a history of neglect and under-stimulation of his growing mind.

Virrevas and the young kossith shared a long, emotional stare before the elf spoke again. “No, I was not saarebas – not in the same way. We have a word, ’incaensor’ which is used to mean a magic-using slave when it usually means ‘dangerous substance’, but the Master is not strong enough to risk slaves using magic. So he makes me drink magebane potion every day to drain me of mana. The collar has a charm that paralyzes me after twenty-five hours, so I have to return to drink the potion and have the charm reset or replaced every morning. All the slaves wear collars, so people know we are his. But those with magic have to wear these special ones.”

Amrita found herself considering the method as a way to neutralise mages and reduce the need for the Rite of Tranquillity; but she quickly dismissed it, as the daily dosage would make it nigh-on impossible to maintain on a large scale.

The elf was going on, “The leashes are rare, but…” He shrugged again. “I am not unaccustomed to wearing one. The Master likes to parade us at dinner parties, with our faces painted like Dalish to show how clever he is to own ‘wild’ elves.”

Faolán closed his eyes again and repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists.

“I don’t even think he knows which of us were Dalish anyway. He parades me less since Magister Cassius broke my nose.”

“Fenedhis lasa,” Ffion spat.

Katari pushed himself up. Ishek made a query in Qunlat, and seemed satisfied by the answer, wishing the young kossith goodnight.

“Sleep well,” Amrita automatically added.

Katari nodded and stalked off in the direction of the hold.

Once out of sight, Amrita anxiously asked, “Is he alright?”

“No,” Ishek replied, face haggard and weary in the dim light of the staves. “I’m not sure he ever will be. But this was distressing– no fault of yours, don’t blame yourself Virrevas – so he chose to go and take care of himself.” He sighed and changed the topic. “What is it that you do? Do you have particular duties?”

Virrevas nodded. “I… have a good memory for words. I learned to speak Tevene and Common, and the Master sends me on important errands because he can trust me to repeat messages word for word.”

“He’s asked you to spy on us, yes?” Ishek asked.

The elf looked a little sheepish. “Yes,” he admitted. “If… you could later say things I can tell him, it would make my life easier.”

“Of course, anything,” Amrita said, a little hurt by the elf’s admission but also not very surprised.

Nodding his thanks, Virrevas went on, “After I saw someone poison his food I was elevated to the role of personal attendant: I help the housekeeper to organise events and communicate with the other elves, so I have some responsibilities despite being unable to read and write. Sometimes I play with his children, who do not yet understand what I am. I have to help the Master cleanse and dress each morning and night.”

“Virrevas,” Amrita interrupted, compelled to ask though she was unsure she wished to hear the answer, “your ma― the magister… told me that I could, ahem, take advantage of you if I wished.” There was a sudden collective stillness among the group and she blurted out, “I’m not going to―!” She took a deep breath and went on, “Does he… force you to have sex with him? And others?”

The elf did not even seem fazed by the question. “Oh yes,” he said. “He rarely beds his wife now that they have children. The servants are simply expected to entertain him in bed if he sends for them. Tonight he is probably already with little Lerahel. She is new – Dalish, too, I think but she hardly speaks – and his current favourite.”

There was a long, leaden pause before Amrita timidly asked, “And… how little is ‘little’?”

Virrevas frowned. “She hardly talks and slaves are not given birthdays, but perhaps fourteen summers?”

A hysterical, manic laugh cut through the air. Everyone jumped and turned to Faolán, whose head was thrown back as his shoulders shook. Just as suddenly he snapped his head down and stopped. “I am not drunk enough to with deal this,” he said, springing up from his spot, “and I do not think I will be ever, but I will try. Ir abelas, Virrevas.” Then he turned on his heel and stalked off.

“Faolán―” Amrita started, pushing herself up, but Ffion shook her head.

“Leave him,” she said.

Amrita sank back down.

After that, nobody felt much like talking about the horrors of Virrevas’s life, and so for a while they gave him information that he could feed back to Tiberius. Then, confident that he could satisfy the magister come the morning and that nobody was going to demand his services before then, Virrevas curled up and dozed off. Amrita stayed with him to keep him warm, while Ishek and Ffion moved away to talk in hushed whispers. Eventually Ffion slipped away, and Ishek went over some staff techniques with Amrita; Virrevas, awake again, watched, curious to learn what he had never had the opportunity to do.

When Ffion finally returned, it seemed about right for them to go to sleep, and so they headed for the hold. As they descended the stairs from the bow, Amrita noted Faolán, head in his hands, sitting by the spot she had claimed earlier, in a gap on the floor where a pile of ropes had been removed; and although she wanted to go to him, Ffion shook her head again. So Amrita went downstairs, made sure that Virrevas was safe and comfortable in a hammock, and then ignored the warning, slipping back up as soon as the older elf looked the other way.

Halfway across the deck she stopped and actually thought through what she was doing. Faolán had not asked her to come and check on him, and he had in fact left the group in order to deal with his anger. Why would he want to speak to a shem, especially one who had played along with the monster even if it was to a better end for his slave? He might choose to take his rage out on her. She could see from where she stood that he had raised his head to stare at the moon; he had not noticed her yet, and she could easily return below decks.

She could also see the glistening tear tracks down his cheeks, and that he was shivering.

Concern won over caution. “Faolán!” she called quietly as she approached. He jerked slightly, disturbed from his reverie, and looked up at her without saying anything. She stopped just out of his reach, and lightly chided him as she reactivated the warming runespell. “You will freeze out here!”

The elf’s gaze dropped and then returned to her a few seconds later. Amrita watched silently as he visibly relaxed, warmed by her magic. Then he shrugged. “It is not so bad.” He returned to staring at the moon hanging above her shoulder.

Amrita scowled. “You are drunk, Faolán.”

He snorted and laughed quietly.

“Well of course you know that, but― Alcohol makes you feel warmer than you are, and―” She cut off, realising he did not need a lecture. She sighed, deflating, and timidly said, “Never mind. Do you… mind if I sit next to you?”

He was quiet for a long time as he pondered the question, and she was almost ready to go back when he finally exhaled. “No,” he said, with the disinterested tone of someone who just could not be bothered to argue with anyone or anything.

“Thanks,” she murmured, squeezing into the gap between Faolán and one of the remaining piles of ropes. There was less space than she had realised, and she felt her face heat up as she became incredibly conscious of the fact that her arm and thigh were pressed against the elf’s; but she made no effort to move away, either, as the contact was… not unpleasant. Still, she pressed the side of her fist against her mouth to quiet herself. Through all of this, Faolán simply kept looking up at the sky.

There was a long silence, which Amrita felt was awkward but also realised was probably only being perceived as such by her as she tried to work out what to say. Eventually, with the encounter with Tiberius still on her mind, she erred on the side of apologetic. “I am… sorry if I made a mistake earlier. With Virrevas and the magister.”

He inclined his head towards her as she spoke, but then his brow furrowed and he turned to look at her as though puzzled and awaiting clarification.

She bit her lip, cursing herself for starting an apology she had not fully formed in her mind. “I… know I have some experience with some elves – the elves in the Ostwick alienage – but I also do not know much about any other group. I…” She made a disgusted noise and shuddered. “I feel dirty for even talking to that monster, let alone playing along.” Her tone turned pleading, practically begging Faolán to understand and forgive her, but his face remained static and gave her no indication of a reaction. “But I thought it better to do that than let Virrevas stay with him any longer! I was not trying to be one of the bossy shemlen you have accused me of being. I was just… trying to take advantage of my privilege to help.” She buried her head in her hands and muttered, “Maker’s breath; I am rambling to a drunk elf. Why.”

A few seconds later she felt Faolán reach out past her, and she splayed her fingers so she could see between them. He had taken hold of the end of one of the ropes, and was idly twisting the frayed strands with his slender digits.

“I know,” he suddenly said.

Amrita exhaled sharply. “Oh good.” She had feared that a drunk Faolán would be an even more aggressive one, but it seemed that the alcohol had mellowed him substantially. She curled her hands up so they rested against her chin, looked up and frowned. “I… I know you are not okay now, but… will you be okay?”

“I will,” he replied simply, staring at nothing in particular but smiling. “Magisters do not live forever.” As he spoke the final word he ripped a strand of rope out, and then flicked it away onto the moonlit wood floor.

She caught her lip between her teeth again as she stared at the minor act of destruction. “No, they do not,” she agreed, growing suspicious. “Did… Ffion say anything to you earlier?”

There was a giggle; an honest-to-Maker giggle. Amrita felt the movement through her side and her heart sank, already terrified of what the elf beside her might get himself into. However, all he said as the giggle subsided and he returned to playing with the rope was, “Yes.”

She waited a moment to see if he was going to expand on the answer, but when he did not speak again her thoughts turned back to the fact that it was late, and that the Waking Sea at night was unkind to those poor souls unfortunate enough to be exposed to the weather. She elbowed him gently. He laughed quietly and elbowed back, surprisingly playful. “Are you going to come down? They have hammocks.” Her voice had a hint of wistfulness to it and her gaze unfocused as she thought back to happy childhood memories. “Hammocks are so much fun to sleep in, if you haven’t tried it before. And, as I said, you’ll freeze up here without anything to keep you warm.” Some small part of her observed that she had started using contractions, but in the company she was keeping at the moment it did not seem wrong to her.

He smiled, and there was no venom in his voice as he replied, “Hammocks. More of your endless shemlen wisdom. How did the unwashed elven masses survive without humans and their hammocks.”

“I didn’t―” she began to protest, before fully registering his tone and quietly harrumphing.

Faolán laughed quietly again. “I like it out here. I will be fine.”

Amrita pulled a face; she strongly suspected that he was unaware that he only felt okay because of her magic. However, it seemed unlikely that she could get him below decks without his cooperation, and that was not forthcoming. She considered her options: she could just leave him, but she was unsure that the runespell would run in her absence; her other option was to stay with him and make sure he was alright. And he was correct: it was nice out, when the cold was taken away.

Tentatively, oh so tentatively, she leaned a little closer into his side. “Well then; why don’t you tell me what it’s like sleeping in an ― you called it an aravel? Is that the right word?”

Still looking at the stars, he adjusted his position to accommodate her but did not shuffle away. “It can depend,” he said. “It is what you make of it. It is best when you fill it with― with― cloth you wrap around you when cold or go to nera, what―”

“Blankets?” Amrita suggested.

“Blankets!” Faolán agreed. “Fill with blankets, like bird nest.”

Amrita laughed at that. “That sounds lovely. Do elven children make blanket forts, or is that uniquely a rich human noble past-time?”

Faolán’s face was delightfully peaceful and fond-looking as he talked. “There is little space in an aravel for a fort. But we make them with the adahlen. We use the adahl – the trees – and the branches…” He turned his head to look at her, and there was a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sometimes the aravel sails.” He chuckled at that, and looked up at the sky again. “We made castles and keeps, and pretended we were in Arlathan and Elvhenan…” With a little sigh, he settled his weight a little more against Amrita, and when she glanced up at him she could see that his eyelids were heavy with drowsiness. “I liked to sleep in mine, sometimes. I like the stars, when the― the clouds did not hide them. I like to look at them. On the coast, too many clouds, but this night they are bright as home.”

There was a companionable silence which Amrita was loath to break; she was comfortable, and she was talking properly with Faolán. The air caught in her throat as he suddenly leaned closer, temple against her hair and his breath ghosting over her cheek as he pointed upwards. The volume of the susurrus in her head rose sharply and she could feel their glee at her blossoming feelings. “Shut up,” she muttered.

Pulling away sharply, the elf stared at her, eyebrows raised so high his tattoos crinkled. Amrita turned to him, confused, and then slapped her hands back over her mouth. “Oh no, did I say that― I― Fuck,” she swore, too fatigued to control her tongue any more. “That was ― not directed at you, Faolán. Just at myself, having silly thoughts. Please ― do go on.”

He gave her a deeply perplexed look, but after huffing in a way that somehow conveyed more than words ever could about how weird humans were, he pressed his head back to hers. “You see there? The shape?” Amrita squinted as his finger traced an image in the sky, and she realised that he was simply trying to match his eye-line to hers. She prayed he could not feel the warmth radiating off her, and her prayers seemed to be answered when he continued, seemingly oblivious: “That is Falon’Din. The owl. He―”

Faolán cut off suddenly and pulled away, sitting up straight. Amrita’s heart leaped into her throat and she shivered at the sudden lack of contact and warmth, but he simply gave her a level stare. “…Do you care?”

Amrita pursed her lips. She was hardly surprised at his inclination to believe she was just another shem, but it still stung a little. Still, she probably did have to justify herself to him, to convince him of her sincerity. “I do,” she said. “I am a better person for learning about the alienage and the struggles the people there faced, both from when I was there and before then…” She trailed off and coughed, hesitant to mention Ema’an in the light of her new feelings, but at the same time it did not seem wrong to admit she had loved an elf once. She took a deep breath. “…From an elf I loved before he died in the Circle.” She paused, reaching up to stroke the pendant under her tunic. “Well. It was― It was important for me to learn about other people. Otherwise I would be a terrible privileged shem whose only concerns were the templars and my noble, religious family abandoning me once I had magic.” She pulled her knees up and hugged them, suddenly feeling terribly exposed and vulnerable. “Those― Those are problems, but they are not the only ones.”

She could feel the weight of his gaze on her and she shut her eyes, ready for some scathing comment. But instead, he leaned back against her, and she opened her eyes to see him drawing lines between the stars again.

“Falon’Din is the god of din’an – death – and fortune. He guides the dead to the Beyond, where he and his twin brother, Dirthamen, would walk those who entered uthenera. The long sleep. He commands great respect.” He lowered his arm, gently knocking Amrita’s knee as it fell, and he rested his head more heavily against Amrita. After a moment she heard him singing, almost under his breath, “Lethanavir, master-scryer, be our guide, Through shapeless worlds and airless skies.”

Amrita smiled, almost startled at how much simple pleasure hearing a few notes of music brought her. She had not sung out loud herself since leaving the Circle. “You have a good voice, Faolán.”

His breathing was evening out, and she had almost given up on a response when he murmured, “Ma serannas.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispered back, finally daring to lean her own head against his. While she was sure she would regret the sleeping position in the morning… Well, there were worse places to be than next to Faolán.

As he adjusted, she absently started to hum one of the lullabies she would sing the apprentices in the Circle. Butterflies danced in her stomach as he curled up tighter against her, but his solid weight against her side was strangely reassuring.

He finally stilled once he was completely and comfortably snuggled against her. “You could be worse,” he mumbled, sleep obviously close, “for a human.”

Amrita bit back a grin at that, heart soaring. “High praise indeed,” she replied, and though she meant it teasingly there was a strain to it that spoke of the truth behind it. However, she forced any elation down: he was drunk, half asleep, and would probably be back to ambivalent, if not antagonistic, in the morning. She held back a sigh and shuffled slightly, before shutting her eyes and letting the steady sound of Faolán’s breathing and the breaking of waves on the hull lull her to sleep.

~~~

“Shift yourselves, lovebirds!”

Amrita jolted awake and automatically reached for her staff before she actually took in the situation. Standing over them was one of the sailors, arms crossed and a face like a thundercloud. She scrambled to get up, feeling like an apprentice caught by a templar outside of the curfew, but she was somewhat impeded by the body leaning against her. Faolán was stirring, and it took a moment to extricate herself from him. He groaned.

“I’m― I am terribly sorry, serah,” she gabbled, grabbing Faolán’s wrist and trying to pull him upright; he was like a sack of potatoes though, and entirely uncooperative in the endeavour. It did not help that the voices in her head were already poking at her embarrassment. “He got himself intoxicated last night and I could hardly―”

“I know,” the sailor cut her off. “’e came in pissed off and wanted to get pissed. All the lads wanted to see a drunk elf, so we showed ‘im the rum, but ‘e just went quiet after downing a bottle and wandered off. No entertainment value at all.”

Faolán groaned again. “Mana. Mana dirthen mor ushel,” he moaned, the hand not being tugged by Amrita reaching up to cradle his head.

“I do not know what that means, Faolán,” Amrita panted, “but you need to move. Come on, work with me.”

“It mean ‘Stop talk so loud’,” came a voice from above. Amrita and the sailor both glanced up to see Ffion leaning on the stair railing, only faintly lit by the pre-dawn light. Amrita could have sworn she was grinning. “He is drink-sick.”

Amrita turned back to the male elf and scowled as she pulled him upright with one last heave. “I am not surprised he has a hangover, if he drank a whole bottle of rum.”

Faolán leaned against one of the barrels to keep himself steady, shading his eyes. “What are ‘lovebirds’? I do not understand. We are not birds. Are there birds?”

Blushing, Amrita cleared her throat and rubbed out the rune from the previous night. “I… had better go and return Virrevas. So he is not hurt.” And with that, she turned tail and fled.

~~~

The rest of the voyage was fairly uneventful. Amrita trained with Ishek in the morning, and she thought that she had got away with any embarrassing faux pas during her conversation with Faolán until he approached her in the afternoon, recovered from his hangover, and offered to teach her the song he had sung the previous evening. It seemed that he had not been so drunk as to forget anything, and she was mortified on principle, but he made no mention of her behaviour or anything personal she had revealed. If anything, he seemed far more willing to be in her company, and the way he spoke to her was less harsh than it had been even a day earlier. So she kept her head down and took advantage of his new openness to learn about him and his culture.

In the evening Tiberius approached the group again, bringing Virrevas with him. After Amrita had assured the magister that the elf had done everything asked of him, the slave was permitted to spend another night with them. This time Faolán stayed, eager to get to know the younger elf and share the culture he was so proud of. Even when Ishek took her to do more practice she kept a fond eye on the enthusiastic elves.

Faolán did come down and try a hammock. He refused to comment on them, and Amrita was sure he was doing it to wind her up.

When they made port at Jader the next morning, Amrita was staring, slack-jawed, at the northernmost of the Frostback Mountains when Tiberius called her to his lavishly-furnished cabin.

This came as a shock, since frankly she had not expected him to live long enough to see the Orlesian shore, let alone enter Ferelden via its western border; not with the people she was travelling with on board.

Still, she listened politely with her best demure face on as he explained that he might not be able to get up to the Conclave, and that in such an event he would greatly appreciate it if he could send Virrevas – or rather, ‘the slave’ as he referred to him – up in his stead and have him cared for by Amrita. Though he danced around the words, tongue quicker than hers ever would be, he was not so good with his words that she would have been unable to see his intentions to spy on the proceedings had she not already known from the elf. She agreed to his request, and was shown the mechanism on Virrevas’s collar so that she could keep his powers sedated. Then they made their pretty farewells, and Amrita left wishing she could slough off her skin.

She re-joined her companions and in response to their curious looks indicated that she would tell them once they were on the road. And so, along with the Valo-Kas and Markham mages, they gathered their things, disembarked, and started to make their way south.

Chapter Text

“It is beautiful,” Amrita said, voice tinged with awe as she gazed up at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The early morning sunlight had not yet burned away the chilly mountain mists, and so the structure had an ethereal, otherworldly quality to it. Where the path was visible, she could see figures toiling their way upwards, like tiny ants.

“Those statues are not,” came Faolán’s voice close to her ear.

Amrita jumped, but instead of scolding him she simply jabbed her elbow backwards. The elf avoided it, laughing, but he stayed close, one hand clasping her left spaulder and the other arm resting on the other side of her neck, pointing upwards to draw attention to the great stone sculptures standing either side of the path. Amrita damped down the thrill that ran up her spine, and leaned back a little into the contact as she regarded the colossi.

They appeared to be mages, going by the staves they gripped heroically, but their robes were of an unfamiliar style and she could not even begin to fathom the strange headgear obscuring their faces. “That one looks like he would cause more damage head-butting a templar than using his staff,” she observed, indicating towards the one on the right with a motion of her head.

Faolán snickered and withdrew his limbs, although he remained in her personal space. She knew, after a week of him being stubborn and refusing to admit to any discomfort, that he was searching for the bubble of temperate air that her warming runespell cloaked her in when the frigid Ferelden winter became too much to bear. The only way he could have come across more like a cat looking for attention or food would have been if he had rubbed up against her and purred. The image had Amrita pursing her lips in an effort to stifle her laughter.

Unfortunately for him, she had ceased maintaining the runespell shortly after they had decamped that morning, as hiking through the Frostbacks was sufficiently hard enough work to keep her warm. However, she welcomed the excuse to reactivate the rune: she had started to feel twinges in her abdomen, and though she could not alleviate what she recognised as pre-bleeding pains in good conscience, it was entirely reasonable to assist a friend.

She offered up an apology to the Maker anyway, just to be on the safe side.

Faolán did not respond directly, but it was still gratifying to see him relax as he felt the warmth.

The approach to the Temple was long, winding around and switch-backing its way up the outcrop of rock. About halfway up there was a plaza for travellers to rest at, and the stepped path was lined by soldiers wearing the Chantry insignia rather than the templar’s flaming sword. It seemed as though most visitors were being waved onwards, totally unchallenged. Perhaps there are too many people coming to check invitations, Amrita pondered. If that were the case, it would make things much easier for the elves.

However, as the mercenary group moved forward, the guards fell into line across the way so it was blocked off. The Valo-Kas and mages halted and closed ranks, wary of an attack, while Tully went forward to speak with the soldiers. The kossith complained about racism; the Markham mages moaned about anti-mage prejudice; and the elves stood in silence, arms crossed, eyes narrowed and effectively conveying their displeasure.

After several minutes of what seemed like hard arguing, Tully turned and gestured for his clients to come forward. Amrita moved, gloved hands fumbling at the book on her hip as she spoke to the elves as discreetly as she could. “What do the two of you want to do? I am sure we could pass you off as my bodyguards and I am certain that there is a clause in the invitation that allows for entourages, otherwise it would have been pointless for Serun to agree to accompany me.” She paused to pull a glove off with her teeth so she could actually flip through the book and find her invitation. “I know a mage with Dalish guards is unusual but we could make it work. What do you―” She cut off as she lifted her head and realised that the elves were nowhere to be seen. She pouted. “Or, that works too.” With a slightly more dramatic sigh than the situation warranted, she followed the Markham delegation over to the soldiers.

Tully caught her eye and raised his eyebrows in a question while she waited for Mikael’s invitation to be examined. Amrita shook her head at him, eyes wide in a warning not to mention the elves.

“Something the matter, mage?”

Amrita turned her gaze back to the soldiers, and flushed as she met the eyes of the captain who stood with his hand extended, awaiting her invitation. “No, serah,” she mumbled, passing it over. She bit her knuckle as he studied it, fearing the worst despite its authenticity. When she could no longer stand watching him, her eyes roved the area, simultaneously looking for the elves and hoping they would remain unseen.

Her attention was drawn back as the captain folded the invitation and returned it to her. “Everything seems to be in order,” he said grudgingly, looking back at the leader of the Valo-Kas. “You said most of your… men, would be leaving shortly?” He was clearly uncomfortable about the kossith.

Tully folded his arms. “Correct. I’ll be leaving a couple here to ensure my clients’ safety and to contact the company after the Conclave concludes in case they wish to be accompanied back to the Free Marches. In the meantime, the rest of us will seek short-term work in Ferelden.”

The look of relief on the captain’s face made Amrita squirm. Considering how anxious the kossith had made her at first, she could not claim she was any better than the man.

“Fine,” he said, gesturing for his men to part and return to their posts. “You can go on; I’ll send a runner up to warn the guards up top.” One of the soldiers broke off and started trotting up the steps, armour clanking with every movement. “The Chantry does ask that you bathe at the first opportunity you have, as a sign of respect for this holy place.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that anyone who’s made their way up here likely stinks so much that the Maker can smell it, then,” Mikael muttered. Julia shot him a scowl.

Tully ignored the comment. “Of course, serah,” he said, making a mocking bow. “As soon as we have divested ourselves of our baggage we will gladly clean up.”

With a final nod, the captain stepped aside. Tully whistled, and the Valo-Kas immediately tramped over, eyeing up the soldiers warily. The soldiers very deliberately avoided eye contact as the group ascended the steps.

It took a while longer for them to reach the Temple, but when they did the great doors were already open. Amrita had approximately three seconds to admire the sleek glamour of the refurbished building before the shrieks began.

~~~

An hour later and the kerfuffle had finally died down; swords were sheathed, fainting Orlesian nobles fanned by their servants and Chantry soldiers – not templars – had warned the other delegates off. The Valo-Kas had managed to find an area away from most of the people who had arrived thus far: a first floor gallery that ran along one side of the main hall where various delegations had been forced to camp, and with a good view between the arches of the comings and goings. Amrita had set her sleeping mat down by the balustrade so she could peep in on the proceedings without showing her head, and then settled down to wait for the elves to make a reappearance, shutting her eyes and trying to ignore the aches in her limbs and her belly.

“Amrita?”

“Mmm?” she replied dozily, opening her eyes. Standing over her were Faolán and Ffion, freshly clothed, carrying damp bundles of armour, and shivering.

“Have you not washed yet?” Faolán asked, wrinkling his nose slightly.

Amrita scrubbed at her eyes. “Not yet,” she replied. “I was waiting for you to find us. I did not know whether you might want a spell put in place so you can warm up and dry off, as this room is hardly comfortable, especially with those huge doors open. I would not wish for you to become sick.”

Faolán scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I think we can handle a little cold, Amrita. You worry too much.”

“Excuse me?” Amrita replied incredulously, pushing herself up. Something in his words hit a nerve. While she was hardly unused to caring more than people wanted her to or would thank her for, right now she was too tired to choke it down and play the part of the good, demure healer. “Well― Well― I’m sorry for― for― for caring about you and your wellbeing!” she snapped, feeling hot tears come to her eyes. “I-if you d-don’t want me helping, then you c-c-can ask someone else when you freeze, Serah I-Can-Handle-A-Little-Cold-But-I’m-Shaking!” And with that, she snatched up her pack and stormed off to find the baths.

~~~

Amrita did not return for several hours, taking her time cleaning off all her clothing, armour and bags in the hot springs below the Temple. Whoever maintained the place had provided large quantities of soapwort purely for the purpose of helping pilgrims and delegates make sure they were ready to be at Andraste’s final resting place. The chore of scrubbing all the accumulated grime and blood out of the fabrics, leathers and metals was simple and mindless, and kept her hands occupied while she tried to sort through her feelings of being unappreciated, having a crush and feeling guilty about losing control of her tongue. She did not have much luck, and by the time everything was washed, herself included, she still was unsure how to proceed with Faolán.

She trudged back upstairs and found that the elves had set themselves up right next to her. Sensing them look up at her approach, she kept her eyes down, dropped her pack onto her bedroll, and then turned back around to find a vantage point to watch the hall from.

~~~

Amrita was watching the guards strain and stress to get the doors to the Temple shut that evening, hand absently rubbing under her lip, when someone cleared their throat deliberately behind her. She did not turn, even though she felt bad for being sulky. “What is it,” she asked dully, eyes remaining on those working the mechanism; it had become jammed and was causing significant trouble. Some sick part of her found mild amusement in that. Some slightly better part of her was berating her for it.

She sensed someone come up to her side, and then a toe gently prodded her. Looking up, she saw Faolán standing over her, face twisted in a strange mix of concern and exasperation. Quietly, he asked, “Are you going to come and sit with us?”

She looked away again. The men finally fixed the mechanism, and the doors shut with a great thoom. “...Maybe later,” she eventually murmured.

There was a huffing sound above her. “Fenedhis,” Faolán swore before muttering, “ir abelas, Amrita.”

Amrita’s head snapped up in shock. The elf had his arms folded and his eyes were elsewhere, but his tone had been sincere, if weary.

She sighed and buried her head in her hands. “No, Faolán, I’m― I’m sorry,” she choked out through the sudden constriction in her throat. Now that he had apologised, all the guilt at her own behaviour was swamping her, making it hard to breathe. “I― I shouldn’t have made assumptions, a-and I c-c-certainly sh-should not have b-b-b-been so rude t-to you, a-and―”

“Amrita.”

“―I-I know that I a-am very t-tired and feeling unw-well b-but that is, is no e-excuse―”

“Amrita!” he snapped. She stopped. “Why…?” he started. “Why are you sorry? I was rude. I should not have taken your kindness for granted. You are not at wrong here.” He shut his eyes, shook his head and made a short sound of frustration. “Not everything bad is to do with you.”

That stopped Amrita’s train of thoughts in its tracks. Not everything bad? But― But of course, she reasoned, he does not understand how mages are cursed. Of course bad things are my fault. Either I did them or I earned them. I am innately sinful―

Her attention was drawn back out by Faolán crouching down, gently pulling her hands away from her face and looking her hard in the eye.

Maker, he has beautiful eyes, she found herself thinking despite everything.

“Not everything is your fault, Amrita, though you seem to think it is. It is not.”

And for a moment, staring into his pale blue, gold-and-green-flecked eyes, she could believe it.

She burst into tears. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, dropping her head so her nose was between her knees; she could not cover her face with her hands, as Faolán still held them. “I’m s-s-s-so, s-so sorry!”

Her hands fell as the elf released them, and she forced her head up only to see him walking away. “Fuck,” she swore under her breath between shaky gasps for air. I just made everything worse. Weird. Awkward. See – this is what happens when you think for even a moment that things are not your fault, Amrita. And now he’s going to go back to the others and tell them how awful you are.

Time passed – it felt like a long time, but it could not have been long – and suddenly someone was settling down next to her. Her eyes opened wide in panic and her vision was obscured by a piece of fabric being waved in her face. Then an arm went around her shoulder and pulled her against the person’s warm, solid side. She squeaked in surprise, but then relaxed as she felt the bristly texture of Faolán’s shorn patch against the crown of her head.

“Cloth,” he grunted. “For wiping tears and nose. I do not know your word for it.”

That set her off again, and Faolán, Maker and Creators bless him, just stayed with her and cuddled her in silence. When the sobs had subsided a little she reached out and took the cloth from him, marvelling briefly at the silken texture before blowing her nose. “Handkerchief,” she said softly. “Or ‘hankie’ for short. Do― Do I want to know where you found one?”

“No.”

“I thought not.” Probably stolen. Or ripped from an Orlesian lady's fine dress. Finding a clean corner, she started wiping her face, now embarrassed he had seen her in such a state. Still, she was grateful for his kind action. “Ma serannas,” she said weakly.

She felt him nod, and they just stayed like that for a little while.

~~~

The next morning the Valo-Kas left the Temple, leaving only Ishek and Katari behind. As soon as the mercenaries were gone, the Markham mages shifted themselves to the opposite side of the hall. Ostensibly it was to join like-minded delegates for discussions prior to the Conclave, but everyone knew that they just wanted to get away from Amrita and her rag-tag group of companions.

No tears were shed over their departure. Ffion and Faolán vanished after breakfast to spy on other groups; Katari finally started teaching Amrita how to fight hand-to-hand with her staff, and she did her best to ignore the increasing pains in her abdomen, as she had done for the last eleven years.

Two notable things happened that day.

The first was the arrival of Enchanter Regalyan D’Marcall, leader of the remnants of the Loyalist Fraternity. If Amrita was honest, it would probably have gone unnoticed by her and the kossith had it not been for the boos that started up mid-afternoon and disrupted her sparring session with Katari. The two of them broke apart and looked over to where Ishek was leaning on the balustrade, watching the scene below unfold. He crooked a finger at them. “Come see,” he called.

The pair of them looked at each other and shrugged; inclined their heads as a sign of respect; and then went over – or limped over, in Amrita’s case. Katari took her staff and Ishek helped her up to sit on the stone, then hooked an arm around her waist so she could not fall down. She leaned gratefully into the fatherly kossith and whispered, “What is happening, Ishek?”

“Damned if I know,” he replied. “That group there – you see the ones all in those weird brown robes with wide collars that can only be standing upright with half the starch in Orlais or magic?” Katari sniggered at that. Amrita simply nodded, seeing the group; they stood too close to each other to convey confidence in their position. “Well, they walked in and people started muttering and booing. I think something’s going to― Ah yes, look there: the woman approaching is from one of the rebel factions. I think I heard that she’s a deputy for the former Grand Enchanter Fiona.” Amrita nodded again, and the hall fell quiet.

“Enchanter Lorna,” the man said, making obeisance to the woman.

“Enchanter Regalyan,” the woman replied, making a curtsey that somehow seemed mocking of his civility.

“Regalyan?” Ishek murmured. “I’m sure I’ve heard that name before.”

“I believe that was the name of the mage who assisted Seeker Pentaghast in averting the crisis at the Ten Year Gathering in 9:22 Dragon,” Amrita said, frowning. “I am not certain, though; Mama and Papa tried to keep mages out of the stories they told me. And since that story focused on corruption within the Templar Order they tended to just tell me about how Seeker Pentaghast saved Orlais from blood mages.” It was one tale she had learned more of the truth of after joining the Circle, and one that had taught her that her family were not entirely unbiased in their choice of bedtime reading.

The pair on the floor were continuing. “I trust you are looking forward to working towards a resolution to this conflict?” Regalyan asked. “I am certainly hoping we will take this opportunity to find a way for the Circle, Chantry and Templar Order to coexist in mutual respect.”

“Yeah, right,” someone yelled. Though everyone turned to look for who it was, their voice bounced around the hall too much for Amrita to get a fix on the direction. “We all know you’re shagging the Right Hand of the Divine, Galyan!”

A chorus of oohs and whistles and jeers rang through the building. Regalyan turned pink.

Ishek asked, “Isn’t Seeker Pentaghast the Right Hand of the Divine?”

Amrita responded with an affirmative noise.

The voice rose again over the hubbub. “What’s it like, Galyan? Getting a handjob from Justinia? Good, is it? Must be, for you to roll over like the Orlesian dog you are and beg to be locked up in the Circles again!”

All further words were lost in the clamour and chaos that followed. A very flushed Regalyan had to shepherd his entourage up the steps and into the reserved guest rooms, making unsuccessful efforts to keep them from getting into a fight with the opposing mages. The Chantry guards had to get involved to break it up.

Amrita and the kossith looked at each other and shrugged.

Katari held up Amrita’s staff, a questioning expression on his face.

Amrita groaned.

~~~

The second notable thing was Virrevas’s arrival.

Amrita was performing what she had sworn would be the last round of the day and was two swings of her staff away from executing a perfect combo when a voice piped up behind her, “Lady Trevelyan?”

She flinched, mis-timed the swipe and gave Katari an opening to bop her on the head. She groaned and raised her spare hand to her crown to heal it before it could bruise. She rounded on the poor person who had interrupted her. “I am not a― Virrevas!” she exclaimed on seeing the collared slave. “You got here safely!”

Virrevas had stopped a little way out of reach and was nervously eyeing her up and down. “I am sorry for getting you injured, my lady,” he said, eyes not meeting hers.

Amrita sighed. “Apology accepted. And I told you, Virrevas, just call me Amrita. I am not a lady, nor your mistress.”

“You’re… not a lady?” the elf queried, looking skeptical as he very definitely looked at her torso.

Dragging a hand down her face to cover the faint blush, Amrita scolded him gently. “Anatomy doth not the woman make, Virrevas. I meant that I am not nobility, as I would have told the magister had he given me the opportunity to explain.”

“Oh.” He seemed slightly at a loss, but then he shrugged. “The Master sent me up to you and your care, as agreed.”

“Of course,” Amrita said, gesturing for him to come closer. “We are camping out up here, so feel free to set up your sleeping mat―”

“The Master did not give me one. Just a blanket and the things to keep my powers sedated.”

Ishek clapped a hand to his forehead. “What an ass,” he grumbled.

“Maker’s breath,” Amrita cursed. “Well – between us we can squeeze up and keep you off the floor. Faolán and Ffion are currently off, uh, doing reconnaissance―”

“She means spying,” Faolán said in her ear.

Amrita shrieked and rounded on him, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Stop― doing― that!” she demanded, voice cracking and ruining any semblance of authority she might have mustered. He was grinning widely, and even Ffion wore a smirk. “It’s not funny, Faolán!”

Sniggers came from behind her, and she turned to see the kossith laughing at her. “Even you two?!” she cried despairingly, and they only laughed harder. Even she could see the funny side now the fright had worn off, and she let herself dramatically sag. Katari was cracking up so much he had to sit down.

A hand came to rest on Amrita’s shoulder, and she looked mock-miserably up into Faolán’s face.

“Consider it practice for avoiding assassins,” he told her.

“By that logic, I would have died back at Oldham.”

“Which is why you need practice.”

She elbowed him. This time she did not miss.

~~~

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Amrita.”

“Are you absolutely certain?”

“Yes, Amrita.”

“Because you know―”

“Amrita,” Faolán interrupted, “Virrevas knows. We all know. You have told us what could happen three times now.”

She scowled at Faolán. “I am a healer, Faolán. It is my job to keep people healthy. Cutting out a drug that one has imbibed for thirteen years is no small matter.”

“Actually,” Ishek observed idly, sharpening the blade at the end of his favoured staff, “your job right now is to represent the Ostwick Circle, not heal people.”

“Yes,” Faolán agreed. “He knows, Amrita. Just leave him alone in the morning.”

Amrita slumped and sighed, fidgeting with the collar she had, with some difficulty, removed. “Very well,” she finally acquiesced. “I suppose if you do go into withdrawal, we have the magebane here anyway.”

“Indeed.” Ishek pushed himself up, and Amrita noticed him sharing a meaningful nod with the others. “You’ve eaten, right?”

Frowning, Amrita replied, “You know we did. We had food when Virrevas arrived, since he had not eaten since breakfast.”

“Just checking,” the older kossith said as he walked over to her, staff in hand.

Her eyes widened as he raised the weapon. “What are you―!”

There was a spark. She blacked out.

~~~

When Amrita came to, it was dark and quiet in the hall. The doors had been shut, and only the sound of a great many people breathing and snoring filled the room. She groggily fumbled around and found that she had been put to bed on her sleeping mat. Virrevas had been tucked in close to her, and a blanket thrown over the both of them. He was still asleep it seemed, his breathing slow and even, and so she was very cautious as she pushed herself upright and surveyed the immediate area.

No kossith. No other elves.

They were alone.

The thought sent panic spiking through her like that stupid statue’s hat, and it was all she could do not to hyperventilate. Be sensible, Amrita. They would not leave, not without Virrevas. They want to make sure he does not go back to Tiberius if they can help it, so―

Oh.

It took a while for Amrita to fall asleep again after that.

~~~

The next time she awoke it was to the sound of humming and tapping. She rubbed at her eyes and peered out of her blankets and saw Virrevas sitting, cross-legged, watching her with bright eyes and drumming an accompaniment to his tune on his thighs. “Good morning!” he chirped when he saw that she was awake.

Amrita considered herself a morning person, but this was too much even for her. “Virr’,” she said dozily, “are you normally this excitable in the mornings?”

He ignored her question, instead choosing to test the name she had only called him through sleepiness. “Virr. Virrrrrr. Virr! I like it! Call me Virr! Please,” he added, momentarily slightly subdued before he perked up again. “I feel great, Amrita!”

“You don’t say,” she responded, stifling a yawn and sitting up. As she did so, she felt her centre of gravity shift and swore internally. Bleeding.

“Where are the others?”

She froze. “I… do not know for certain,” she said cautiously. “I think Ishek put a sleeping spell on me.”

“Oh. Me too,” he added, suddenly despondent. “They’ll be back though, yes?”

“I’m sure they will be.”

“Good. I’m hungry. What’s for breakfast?”

~~~

The magic started after they ate.

There was a delighted laugh when Virr tapped his fingers on the stone floor and sparks came flying out, dying before they set anything alight but giving Amrita a fright nonetheless.

Then he burned a hole in the blanket he had been covered in overnight.

Then he sneezed and set the end of Amrita’s plait on fire.

By the time the others arrived back, weary and bloodstained, Virr’s excitement had morphed into terror and Amrita was at her wits’ end trying to think back to her own lessons from Filal on containing her powers, finding what she recalled to be inadequate, and having to put out the flames the elf kept conjuring. She scarcely noticed the state of the others as she cried, “Thank the Maker you’re back! Virr’s powers are manifesting and he can’t control them!”

To his credit, Ishek did not blanch or complain, but simply dropped himself down in front of the panicking elf and took his hands, massaging them gently with his own and rumbling soft words of calm and encouragement.

Amrita sighed in relief, and looked up as Faolán nudged her with a foot. He jerked his head away from Ishek and Virr, and she got up to follow him and Ffion.

When they were well clear of their spot Faolán leaned up against a pillar and folded his arms. Ffion sat down wearily next to him. “Well,” the male elf said, “Virrevas will not be going back to the shemlen scum when this is over.”

Letting out a slow breath, Amrita nodded. “I thought as much. I presume I was put to sleep so I could not raise objections?”

Both elves nodded.

Her stomach churned in turmoil as she fought the various rising emotions. On the one hand, she was against killing in general, even for awful people. On the other, she was very pleased that the monster was no longer roaming Thedas and abusing people. If she had been able to borrow – hold – Faolán’s hand, she could have laid out her guilt at being pleased he was dead. “That was… probably wise,” she admitted, rubbing her mouth. She felt ill. “Did you leave anyone alive?”

Faolán snorted. “Of course. We only dealt with him and the guards. We let Katari deal with the magister. The slaves we left alone.”

“Nobody saw you?” She was taking a moment to digest the fact that Katari had killed the monster. She supposed there was some kind of poetic justice there, if you liked that sort of thing.

Ffion spoke up. “The da’len, Lerahel, saw. But she say in Elven that she was glad. If no one takes slaves away, we will take her back to Clan Lavellan. Maybe other, if want.”

“I see.” Amrita shook her head. “Well – what is done is done. You need to clean up – I don’t even want to know how you got back up here with Ishek and Katari to manage – and ― and so do I,” she added in a mumble, acutely aware of the cramps she felt and the hot, sticky dampness in her smalls. “Will Ishek be alright if―”

“He will be fine, I am sure,” Faolán reassured her. “We will see you later, as non-humans have a separate bathing area.”

“A small, not-provided-for area,” Ffion grumbled. “Shemlen.”

“Shemlen,” Amrita agreed. They went back to their spot, informed Ishek of where they were going, and then left the kossith to it.

~~~

Amrita prolonged her stay in the springs as much as she could since the warmth soothed the aches that throbbed through her. Women came and went, both visitors washing away the marks of their journey and sisters cleansing themselves for their ritual duties, and since none of them paid her any attention, it was easy enough for her to ignore them, shut her eyes and let herself drift, legs loosely curled so she barely touched the rocky bottom.

Her ears did, however, prick up when she heard someone mention Ostwick.

“―Circle sent the outcast to represent them, did you know?”

“You don’t say? Who told you that?”

“That weird little stone-sucker who joined us at Oldham. The one who begged Agatha to let her come with us. Said she had travelled with the outcast that far and then been dumped in favour of rabbits and ox-men.”

Amrita lethargically opened her eyes and looked in the direction of the voices, apprehension and anger fighting hard against her self-control for dominance. Sure enough, a group of four women with Trevelyan features and ranging in age from early twenties to fifties were bathing a short distance away. Their chins were lifted as they spoke so archly that Amrita could not help but overhear. Most of them were avoiding looking in her direction with carefully feigned indifference, but the most youthful of them – Amrita could not think of her name – kept glancing her way nervously. When they made eye contact Amrita stared at her disapprovingly, and the lass averted her gaze and blushed. The others kept going regardless.

“Why would they send the outcast? Surely they have better candidates than that.” Was that Cousin Astrid? She and Dawn had been very close growing up, Amrita remembered that much.

“Perhaps they thought that her name might wield some influence.” That was the first voice – Aunt Cecilia?

That prompted an outburst of laughter. “Well,” the last woman, Aunt Agatha, said, “we’ll make sure it does her no good. She should not even call herself Trevelyan anymore.”

Amrita took a slow, deep breath and submerged herself under the water so she could hear no more. They were by no means the first cruel comments she had heard from her kin, and she suspected they would not be the last.

She stayed under as long as she could, taking a strange satisfaction in the growing tightness in her lungs that mimicked her emotional state, before surfacing and gasping for air. It hurt, but being able to breathe was a good feeling. She waded back to the side of the springs to where she had left her clothes, humming Andraste Fourteen to distract herself from any further naysaying. She dried herself with magic, unwilling to stand naked any longer than necessary, and dressed quickly.

“Ugh,” someone scoffed. “I can’t believe they let mages in with the rest of us. Don’t people know they’re dangerous, and likely to blow up places of worship?”

Amrita stalked off, still doing up her undershirt. Not everything is my fault, she reminded herself, thinking of Faolán’s words. My existence played no part in Anders’s decision. It was… both reassuring and unsettling, with the wounds from her parents’ blame and rejection three years earlier still not fully healed.

When she arrived back at their spot, Ffion was braiding Faolán’s damp hair; Katari had taken over with Virr, which on reflection made sense as he had only recently had his own powers properly unleashed; and Ishek was nowhere to be seen. Ffion’s hair had already been done, with little feathers and hints of gold twisted in among the plaits.

Faolán’s eyes flicked up to look at her, and though he frowned at what he saw he kept his head still for his clanswoman as her fingers worked over his scalp. “Andaran atish’an, Amrita. What is wrong?” he asked as she plonked herself down huffily on her mat.

Amrita took a moment to think of what she wanted to say, delaying by grabbing a hairbrush, smoothing out the tangles and examining the ends that Virr had burned off earlier. Eventually she grumbled, “My family are here, and they are horrible bigots who are both ignoring me and trying to upset me.” She scowled at her singed curls. “If going to the Circle did anything good for me, it was providing me with the opportunity to not be as awful as the Trevelyans are towards other races, even if I still make mistakes. Bother,” she added. “I think I may have to cut my hair.”

Gaze turning thoughtful, Faolán gestured for her to come closer. Amrita scooted over, and let herself be pushed and pulled gently so she was kneeling and facing away from him. She gasped lightly when she felt fingers brush through her damp locks, tugging slightly as they caught on a knot. “Ir abelas,” he apologised softly, working the tangle out. “You still have much of your hair. I can cut the ends for you and try braiding, if you would like me to.”

She stiffened slightly, surprised by the offer: until now, the pair had only helped each other with grooming. Though she had watched their routines wistfully, memories of her and Ema’an doing much the same resurfacing, she had left them be, having some understanding of the intimacy and kinship that preceded such actions. “That… would be nice,” she finally said.

With only a word to Ffion, Faolán started teasing apart her hair, and Amrita let herself be soothed by the sensations of combing and cutting. She did not need her family; not when she was fortunate enough to have found friendship in this odd little group she had met purely through chance.

Then she opened her eyes wide, suddenly fearful that she was reading too much into the relationships she had built. After all – would Faolán or Ffion really want to call a shem a friend? And she was a client as far as the kossith were concerned, for all Ishek’s joking about adoption. The thought that the friendship was one-sided gripped her heart with ice.

Only one way to find out, though.

“Faolán, I have a question.”

He hummed in acknowledgement. Amrita could feel him starting to weave something into her hair.

“Are we friends?”

There was a cessation in the braiding as Faolán considered the question. Amrita held her breath.

“Ma falon,” he finally answered, almost with a grudging tone, before returning to her hair.

“‘Ma vhenan’ tel?” Ffion piped up, moving to sit on the balustrade next to Amrita. She was smirking at her clansman.

“Ffion,” Faolán growled dangerously. “Mana.”

Amrita resisted the urge to look around. “Translation?”

“‘My friend’,” Ffion said. “It mean ‘my friend’ or ‘your friend’. Great honour for shem. Var falon,” she amended. “‘Our friend’. Hair look good, Faolán. Silver thread good.”

He grunted in response.

A huge grin split Amrita’s face as a childish giddiness almost overwhelmed her. She had never dared consider anyone in the Circle or alienage a friend, apart from Ema’an; fear of her fellow mages and heartbreak had seen to that. Things had been simpler, though empty, when everyone she knew was a superior, a mentor, a colleague, a student, a patient – even the ones she liked. Now, hearing the words from people she had only known a few weeks filled her with joy, and she had to cover her mouth to disguise it and hold back the delighted laughter that threatened to burst free.

Ffion reached down and tugged her hands away. “You allowed to smile,” she said very seriously. “Stop holding in feelings. Very good smile.”

Amrita felt her cheeks flush in pleased embarrassment. “Falon,” she said, testing the word in her mouth. “So – Falon’din is ― is ‘friend to the dead’?”

The chuckle that came from behind her warmed Amrita’s heart. “Very good, Amrita.”

She did not stop smiling for a long time.

~~~

The following day the Divine arrived.

There was a huge deal of pomp and circumstance as her seemingly endless entourage of guards, clerics and Grey Wardens paraded through the hall and up to the reserved private spaces higher in the Temple. Amrita watched the proceedings, deeply aware of the importance of the spiritual leaders in her presence, but even from her vantage point she could hardly see for ceremonial headgear or hear for the mix of chants and jeers. The others joined her at the balcony – even Virr, who still occasionally set things alight – out of cultural curiosity.

“Well, well,” a familiar voice said from behind them as Amrita was trying to remember which colour was associated with each grand cleric. “Fancy meeting you here.”

The group turned. Standing there was Serun.

Ishek looked to Amrita, whose face was settling into an expression of distaste. “Someone you know?” he asked.

“Andaran atish- fuck off, durgen’len,” Faolán spat.

“Now, now,” Serun said mockingly, “that’s no way to speak to an old friend.”

“Ma ur tel var falon!” snarled Ffion.

“Heathen tongues, dear – I do not understand you.”

Amrita snapped out her arms to hold the elves back. Frankly, it was a wonder neither of them had murdered anyone in their wanderings around the Temple: they could not have failed to notice the number of elven servants and the way they were treated, and of course they had encountered the race-divided springs on their first day. “Serun,” Amrita cautioned, swallowing back her nerves, “I would leave if I were you. Four of us are mages, one of whom has not gained full control of his powers―” Just on cue, Virr sneezed sparks. Serun backed away hastily. “And these two elves would have no qualms about ensuring your early departure from this life.”

Serun folded her arms. “Are you threatening me? That’s not terribly Andrastian of you, Outcast.”

Flinching, Amrita nonetheless replied, “I am not threatening you. I am just informing you, for your own sake, that it might be in your best interests to cease your provocations.”

The dwarf snorted. “Just came up here for the view. Can’t a dwarf admire the Divine in peace?”

“I think you may have forfeited that right when you spoke to us, dwarf,” Ishek rumbled. “Besides; you would need to be a good few feet higher to see her.”

Serun made a disgusted noise and stormed off.

The group looked at each other, shook their heads, and turned back to the scene below them.

~~~

Once it was clear that nothing terribly interesting was going to happen despite the Divine’s entourage still streaming in, Amrita and Katari returned to combat training; Ishek and Virr went back to working on the elf’s magic; and Faolán and Ffion slipped away to continue with their spying. They regrouped in the evening to eat and discuss what the elves had overheard, and after dinner Amrita found herself leaning on Ishek as she read through her notes on the people she would be encountering during the talks, and sneaking glances at Faolán as he chatted animatedly to Virr about the Dalish. Ishek had, when asked about friendship, offered very sincerely to adopt her into his makeshift family. She had fought back tears, but declined politely as she had promised the apprentices in Ostwick that she would return. He had simply told her that family did not have to stay together to be family.

They ended up turning in for the night fairly early, as Virr wore out quickly; now off the sedative magebane he had more energy, but working on controlling one’s magic was exhausting, as Amrita remembered. The elves set their space up as they had done the previous night before choosing murder over rest: Ffion and Faolán’s mats pushed together, so the former slave could lie between the two protective Dalish, with blankets piled on top of the trio.

Amrita sat on her own mat, hugging her knees and watching the elves fondly as they arranged themselves. She was only inches from Faolán’s back, but had no expectations to be included; it was only right and proper that Virr was being cared for by his own kind. However, she caught Ffion gazing at her from the far side of the trio, and smiled at her.

Ffion’s eyes widened and she smiled back, before saying something in Elven that had the cadence of a suggestion. Faolán replied, tone exasperated, and Amrita was unable to follow the conversation, but it ended with a groan from the male Dalish and him lifting the edge of the blanket at his back. Amrita stared, unsure of what was happening, until he flapped the cloth and grumbled, “Come on, then.”

“Oh!” Amrita exclaimed, suddenly understanding the invitation. She hastily shifted her mat over to the others and lay down, pulling the proffered blanket over her prone form and adding her own to the nest. She quivered, body half an inch from touching Faolán’s and reluctant to be so intimate as to press against his back – and, she had to be honest, his very fine backside – but he made another noise of frustration, reached towards her and fumbled until he found her arm and then drew it to rest over his waist. Then he shuffled back into her and made himself comfortable.

She hardly dared to breathe.

She felt the change of breathing through her arm as he started crooning softly.

“Elgara vallas, da’len
Melava somniar
Mala tara aravas
Ara ma’desen melar.

Iras ma ghilas, da’len
Ara ma’nedan ashir
Dirthara lothlenan’as
Bal emma mala dir.

Tel’enfenim, da’len
Irassal ma ghilas
Ma garas mir renan
Ara ma’athlan vhenas
Ara ma’athlan vhenas."

Soon afterwards his breathing evened out, and she was lulled to sleep once more by his steady pulse.

~~~

Suddenly she was awake.

She had no idea what time it was; only that it was dim in the hall, and that almost everyone else was on their own adventures in the Fade.

Hers had been cut short by the compassion spirits forcing her awake, panicked that something awful was happening in her world. Or theirs. Or between. They had not been clear. But something awful was happening.

And she was the only one who knew.

So she had to do something.

Maker preserve me, she prayed.

Amrita assessed her current situation: Faolán had rolled onto his back at some point, and she had ended up curled in the space between his side and his arm. Ignoring her embarrassment, she slowly – oh, so very slowly – picked up his arm.

He mumbled something in his sleep. She froze.

He settled again. She breathed out again, and continued.

Once extricated from his limbs, she pushed herself up with as much delicacy as she could, trying not to disturb the others.

No good. Faolán stirred, and his eyes fluttered open. “‘mrita?” he queried drowsily.

“Hush,” she whispered. “There’s― There is something―” Her voice cracked and she gave a dry little sob.

The elf was immediately awake, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of a hand. “What is wrong?”

“I― I don’t know,” she said shakily. “B-but ― something is upsetting the spirits in the Fade. Something bad. Nearby. Here, in the Temple. I think. They woke me up. I have― I have to go and do something to help.”

Virr and Ffion were shifting now.

“Mmm,” the former slave moaned softly.

“Wha―” the female Dalish started before she cut herself off with a yawn. “What you say?”

Amrita bit a knuckle. “It― It is probably nothing, you should all just go back to sleep―”

But Faolán was already pushing himself upright. “We will go and see. If it is nothing, no harm done. If not, then we help.”

Amrita was so profoundly grateful right then that she could have cried. But she did not, and instead she started putting on what little armour she had. Faolán did likewise, and soon it became clear that Ffion was not letting them go anywhere without her.

“What’s going on?” a low, quiet voice asked from nearby. Amrita jumped, and turned to see Ishek propping himself up on one arm. She briefly explained, and he nodded and got up, preparing his things. When Katari was disturbed, the older kossith told him what was going on, but pressed him back down to his bedroll and gave firm but gentle instructions, which were received with a reluctant nod.

“Wha’ ‘bou’ me?” Virr slurred sleepily.

“Stay here,” Amrita said, glancing over at Ishek, who nodded. “Katari will look after you, and I’ll leave the runespell in case you get cold.”

Virr yawned, and within seconds was asleep again.

A few minutes later everyone who was going was ready, and the others looked to Amrita. She swallowed, and then summoned a wisp from across the Veil. “Please,” she said, “find a way for us solid mortals to get safely to whatever is distressing my spirit friends.” She knew it was a complicated request for such a simple spirit, but she was confident that it was possible.

The little cloud of pale light hovered over her hands for a few seconds, and then started drifting further into the Temple.

Amrita looked at her companions, tightened the grip on her staff, and then set off after it.

It was slow going, as the four of them did not have the luxury of gliding over sleeping delegates and had to take the stairs rather than leaping straight up the side of a mezzanine. At least the wisp had not passed through a wall yet.

It took them up to the back of the main hall, and then up a grand set of stairs to the floor where the most important delegates were staying.

At the entrance to the accommodation they found the first dead guards.

“Shit,” Ishek swore. “Something really is going on.”

Amrita made a strangled affirmative noise, and forced the bile in her throat to settle. They could not hang about, as the wisp had drifted through the door the men had previously guarded. She stepped forward and tugged at the handle, but the door was locked. Presumably so none of the commoners can get in, she observed. “Anyone good with locks?”

Ffion wordlessly slunk forward and within seconds the door swung open.

“Thanks,” Amrita said.

They set off again, taking the left path after the wisp.

Every guard in the corridor was dead. Some isolated ones had slit throats. Many had blue lips, suggesting poison. No sounds apart from snoring came from the rooms they passed.

“Should we go back and tell someone?” Amrita asked. The voices in her head screeched at her, and so she hurriedly said, “No, I suppose we don’t have time.”

They reached the stairwell up to the next floor with no further incident. It was only a few more moments’ work for Ffion, and then they were trekking up a tall flight of stairs.

About halfway up they heard a faint scream.

They started moving faster.

When they finally reached the next level, they found bodies liberally littering the floor. This was presumably the floor where the Divine and the Grand Clerics had been staying. It was hard to tell where ceremonial red ended and blood began in the clothes of the corpses, and the air stank of metal and viscera. Guts and limbs were strewn all about, and many heads were separated from their torsos. The four of them stopped, breathing hard and listening for any noise as the wisp wavered back and forth. Then it drifted to the right, towards yet another set of steps. They followed it wearily. Amrita struggled not to be sick.

Shrieks echoed down the curving passageway. Amrita’s teeth were set on edge, feeling the tang of powerful magic. A glance at Ishek told her that he felt it too, and even the elves seemed to sense the wrongness in the air.

At the top of the stairs there was a great wooden door. On the other side of it was whatever had been panicking the spirits. They paused, and Amrita turned to the others. “We don’t know what’s in that room,” she whispered, “but we probably have a fight on our hands. Ishek – can you take on offense? Ffion, Faolán, if you… go into the shadows or whatever it is you do, you can spread out and flank. Maybe chuck in a smoke bomb to help cover. I’ll go first so I can throw up barriers. Happy?”

It was clear from their faces that they were not, but everyone nodded.

“Shout to keep attention on you,” Faolán advised her as he pulled out a grenade. “Keep eyes off us.”

“Someone help me!” came a desperate plea from the other side of the wood.

Amrita’s mouth went dry and her mind went blank.

Ishek and Ffion went to the doors. Ishek held up three fingers.

Three.

Two.

One.

Zero.

They pushed.

Amrita cast a barrier.

Faolán threw the grenade.

Amrita strode forward. “What is going on!?” she demanded in her most authoritative voice.

As she saw the scene before her, further words fled her.

The Divine was suspended mid-air. A black, fleshy, monstrous thing stood in front of her, holding a glowing orb that gave off a sickly green light – Fade green. Grey Wardens were scattered around the room, some maintaining whatever spell held the Divine. Everyone stared at her.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine cried.

The monster gained its wits at that. “We have intruders,” it announced, turning to the Grey Wardens. “Kill them. Now!”

And in his moment of distraction, the Divine swung herself round and knocked the orb from the monster’s hand.

It clanked as it hit the stone floor, and suddenly Amrita knew it was of utmost importance that the monster not get hold of it. She sidestepped so she could grab it, able to see its glow even through the smokescreen. She felt one of the elves slip past her, and heard the crackle of Ishek’s chain lightning blast through the room.

Amrita picked up the orb.

She screamed as pain consumed her, worse than the Bleedings, worse than the bolt, worse than rejection. The voices in her head joined in her howl of agony.

“Amrita!” she thought she heard Faolán cry.

There was a noise like the fabric of the universe tearing, and the orb flashed green.

Then everything went white, and she knew no more.

Chapter Text

^Amrita.

^{Amrita, wake up.}

^{Wake up, Amrita! Wake!}

She stirred.

^{Amrita! Amrita! Wake! Amrita!}

^{Amrita! Amrita! Amrita-Amrita-Amritamritamriamtiamritamritam―}

“Stop,” she mumbled, shakily forcing herself up.

The voices stopped. The wisp-lights that the compassion spirits formed themselves into bobbed around her anxiously.

Squinting in the green light – Green light? – Amrita looked around. Where am I? The sickly fog obscured her sight. The Fade? It must be. I must be dreaming. The last thing she recalled was pressing herself into Faolán’s back and inhaling the scent of his clean, braided hair. No, maybe― Did I wake up? Perhaps. And perhaps some of the others woke too, but―but― It hurt, trying to recall. It would come back to her, she was sure.

She turned as she sensed light behind her, then raised her arm to shield her eyes from the glare. A glimpse of a woman’s form, standing on a raised area of monstrous, almost organic-looking rocks, was all Amrita saw.

^Go, the spirits whispered.

As Amrita knew by now that the compassion spirits would never do anything they knew would hurt her, she stumbled forward into the mists, calling out. “Faolán! Ffion! Ishek! Katari! Virr!”

There was no answer.

“Could I have a staff, please?” she requested quietly. The one she had taken from the blood mages was nowhere to be seen. A deep sense of impending doom lay heavily on her, and the absence of the others did nothing to reassure her. A weapon to lean on and defend herself with against demons would ease her nerves a little.

There was a flurry of discussion between the voices, but eventually one spoke up. ^{We cannot. You are real. Not your spirit, but ― you.}

That was the moment Amrita knew something was truly, terribly wrong.

When she heard the shrieking hiss and the clicking of segmented legs on stone, she did not even stop to look back. She had heard that noise the first time she entered the Fade and her powers manifested.

She ran.

She ran up the slope, and when slope became too steep she climbed, scrambled, pulled herself up.

The glowing figure reached out its hand towards her.

Amrita stretched out her own arm, struggling to find the next foothold.

Her hand flashed.

Everything went white again.

Briefly, she felt herself on hands and knees, pressing against unnaturally warm rock.

Then her arms gave way and she passed out.

~~~

Amrita was roused by a zapping noise and pain shooting up her left arm as though she had been shocked. Upright. Kneeling. Head lolling. Hands― Shackled? Her eyes fluttered open and she frowned in groggy confusion at the board and restraints resting on her thighs. The room was dim, lit only by flickering flames somewhere behind her and faint daylight from a window. She twisted the throbbing hand so she could inspect her palm, ready to pull a compassion spirit through the Veil to heal whatever harm had been done.

Green light and pain crackled across her hand, and she flinched, gasping. The voices in her head were anxious but their words were inaudible.

A door slammed open and her head snapped up. Silhouetted in the doorway in front of her were two women. Surrounding her, she finally noticed, were armed guards with swords all drawn and pointed at her. Memories of her Harrowing flashed through her mind.

The first woman hurried down the steps and into the light, prompting the guards to sheathe their swords. Though short, everything about her proclaimed that she was not someone to mess with. Her leather armour was decorated with the all-seeing eye of the Seekers of Truth, and the sword hanging at her hip looked like it belonged there, unlike the one Amrita had carried for the first part of her travels. Her hair was short, crowned by a braid. The woman’s face was scarred, angled, and angry, and fear filled Amrita’s belly as the Seeker circled her slowly like a predator who had trapped its prey.

The second woman followed, approaching Amrita directly but standing sideways on, as though ready to leap away. Noticeably taller, she wore a light mail tunic and her head was covered by a scarf, letting only a few wisps of red hair escape the lilac fabric. The brooches she wore were unfamiliar in their design, combining the eye of the Seekers and the templars’ Burning Sword of Andraste. The face under the hood was paler and more delicate in shape than her companion’s, but no less threatening in its expression. Both women were older than Amrita, although she could not tell if they were youthful-looking in their middle-age or world-weary in their late twenties.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” the first woman demanded by Amrita’s ear.

She leaned away from the hot breath. Nevarran accent, like Amrita’s mother when emotional, but far stronger.

The woman went on, straightening up and resuming her circling. “The Conclave is destroyed.”

What? Amrita lifted her head to watch the woman.

“Everyone who attended is dead.”

Amrita’s brain froze.

The woman stopped and wagged a finger at her. “Except for you.”

But―! Faolán! Ffion! Ishek! Katari! Virr! Serun, my family, the delegates, the Divine, they― She looked up at the woman. “Wh-what― What do you mean, everyone’s dead?” Her voice shook. Her hands shook.

The woman bent down and grabbed the board her shackles were attached to, yanking it up to Amrita’s face. “Explain this,” she spat.

Her hand crackled with light and pain again, the green of the Fade almost flame-like as it lit the woman’s features.

The woman shoved the board back down and stepped away.

Amrita stared at the light until it died down, frantically dredging up any knowledge that might have been useful. There was clearly a connection to the Fade – she could feel the magic pulsing from it, in time with the pain that throbbed in her arm – but beyond that, she knew nothing: not what it was, nor where it came from or even when it had appeared. “I-I-I― I cannot!” she finally said, voice cracking. She could feel tears welling in her eyes, and right now she needed to remain calm. Like in surgery, she told herself, breathing deeply.

The women moved to flank her, and so Amrita could hardly see them from her peripheral vision as the first woman raised her voice and asked, “What do you mean, you cannot?”

“I do not know what that is, or how it got there,” Amrita replied, desperately trying to keep herself under control as the women started circling again.

She gasped as the first woman grabbed her by the lapels of her jacket, shouting, “You’re lying!” Spittle landed on Amrita’s face.

The second woman moved forward and drove the other back with a firm hand to the bicep. “We need her, Cassandra,” she reasoned. Faintly Orlesian accent. The first woman – Cassandra – said nothing, a scowl still darkening her handsome features. The name stirred a memory from her notes on the Conclave and its likely attendees: that of Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, Hero of Orlais and Right Hand of the Divine. The second woman turned back to Amrita, and they both waited.

Amrita took in a slow, shuddery breath. My friends― “I-I… I can’t believe it,” she whimpered. “All those people… My friends… dead?”

Ignoring her misery, the second woman asked, “Who are you? What were you doing at the Conclave?”

“I-I—” Amrita stuttered, still reeling, brain sluggishly processing the question. “I am Amrita, of Ostw— Ostwick,” she confirmed, reluctant to share her family name. “Representative of the Circle of Magi there.”

The women gave each other significant looks. Damned mages. Then the second woman looked back, her face in shadow. “Do you remember what happened? How this began?” Her tone was hard as steel.

Amrita lowered her head as Cassandra moved behind her again, but looked up as she spoke, pleading the pair to believe her with her eyes. “I-I remember… running. Things were chasing me, and then… a woman?”

“A woman?” The Orlesian crossed her arms.

“No,” Amrita said to herself as she clutched at the few images in her mind that even now threatened to slip away. “The woman, she was there before the fearlings. She… reached out to me, b-but then…” She trailed off, frowning as she tried to remember. It hurt, and there was nothing but whiteness to recall. She scrunched her eyes shut and gave one, short, quiet sob as hot tears squeezed their way out between her lashes.

“…Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift,” she heard Cassandra say in a low voice. A moment later, the woman was releasing her from her restraints.

Barely composed, Amrita asked, “What did happen?” She vaguely remembered waking in the night, and her friends waking too. Had she done something? Was she responsible for this catastrophe? She had no recollection, and so it was just as possible that she was guilty as innocent.

Cassandra tied a length of rope around her wrists, and then looked her in the eye. It was the gaze of a weary woman who had lost much but still had disaster to wade through before she could mourn.

Amrita suddenly recalled the confrontation between the Loyalists and the Libertarians, and the comments thrown around. Regalyan D’Marcall. And the Divine. Something caught in her throat, understanding suddenly the rage the woman must feel dealing with the one person who survived. I think I would be angry too, she realised.

Then Cassandra’s eyes dropped and she pulled Amrita up. “It… will be easier to show you.” She turned and walked away, turning up a set of steps at the end of the dungeons. Amrita followed her unsteadily through a chapel-like space, still trying to process what was happening.

It was daylight outside, and snowing in the Frostbacks. The buildings Amrita could see were intact: Haven, she realised. Then she turned to her left and instinctively tried to cover her eyes against the harsh green light coming from the sky. Once her eyes adjusted, she stared.

Rising up from the mountain was a great pillar of sickly-coloured light, flickering as it entered a vortex in the sky. Rocks so big she could see them from her standpoint, maybe a mile away, floated amongst the circling clouds.

It was entirely beyond her comprehension.

“We call it ‘The Breach’,” Cassandra said, a few paces ahead of Amrita, catching her attention. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour.”

A portal through the Veil, into the Fade? Amrita wondered.

“It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest,” Cassandra continued, turning back. “All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Amrita frowned in consternation, thinking back to her lessons in Ostwick. “A simple explosion, however big, should not be able to tear the Veil. There would have to be magic inv―” She stopped. “Oh. Of course.” Her curse marked her out as someone who could have done something so drastic.

Cassandra did not comment further on that line of conversation. Amrita could tell from the look in her eye that she knew she knew. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Amrita saw the pulse travel from the vortex to the ground like lightning in slow motion. The boom came a couple of seconds after it struck the mountain, and Amrita’s hand jerked upwards at the same time she screamed. She dropped to her knees, the jolt in her limbs nothing to the agony in her hand, and curled over in an attempt to damp down the energy fizzling from her fingers.

She sensed Cassandra crouch down in front of her; the moment the crackling stopped, Amrita snapped her head up.

“Every time the Breach expands, your mark spreads… and it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.” The Seeker’s gaze was honest and direct, and although there was anger and sorrow behind it, Amrita could see that she had her priorities sorted. Save the world, then point fingers.

Amrita took a deep breath. “I understand.”

“Then…?”

“I will do what I can. Whatever it takes.” If this was her fault, then she would do everything in her power to fix it. If it was not – well, the Maker could hardly fault her for trying to save His children. She swallowed down her grief as she had over so many lost patients, and put aside her mourning for later. If she survived that long. ‘Let mine be the last sacrifice,’ she silently prayed. This wound is beyond my skills. If I must die, then I will die doing the Maker’s work.

Cassandra nodded and pulled her up, grabbing her roughly by the scarf still tied around her waist and steering her through the camp. Men and women stared at her darkly, shouted, shook their fists, and their reactions prodded at memories of servants whispering behind their hands about the spellbind, and the jeering crowds that had lined the way for the mages out of Ostwick following their expulsion. “They have decided your guilt,” Cassandra told her. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, Head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers.”

Amrita let Cassandra keep talking despite knowing all this; she had no desire to make herself seem anything other than meek and innocent, and so she listened politely as the Seeker explained the purpose of the Conclave. It felt as though Cassandra needed to say these things for her own sake, explaining how much worse the catastrophe was for its political implications.

As the gates opened, Cassandra said, “We lash out, like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves. As she did. Until the Breach is sealed.”

Amrita glanced at her and saw a wistful expression cross her face. Wise women, both, it occurred to her.

The Seeker moved ahead of her and stopped her with the back of her hand. Amrita’s stomach froze as a knife appeared in the other hand, but she relaxed as neither she nor the compassion spirits, who were in their way screaming in empathy, detected any aggression in the woman’s stance.

“There will a trial. I can promise no more.”

She nodded as Cassandra slashed through the rope binding her wrists. It nicked the skin on her wrist, but it was hardly noticeable compared to the pain in her left hand; a moment’s thought and she had healed it over.

“Come,” Cassandra commanded, turning away. “It is not far.”

“Where―” Amrita asked, calmly as she could but fighting the urge to vomit while she rubbed her wrists. The lesser sting there was better to focus on. “Where are you taking me?”

“Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.” When Amrita looked at her, waiting for further explanation, the woman simply gestured for Amrita to take the lead.

So she can execute me if I stray from the path, Amrita realised. She sighed quietly and broke into a jog, grateful the weeks of travel had strengthened her limbs and built her stamina up. She could hear Cassandra behind her, and the people they passed muttered extracts from the Chant of Light. Amrita did not blame them for seeking solace in the face of this catastrophe. They crossed the bridge, and then travelled up the path, past soldiers and barricades and burning carts.

The Breach flared again and Amrita staggered, falling to the ground and cradling her hand. The pain was easily comparable to that of the crossbow bolt in her organs, and her vision flickered black as she focused all her attention on remaining conscious and lucid. A moment later Cassandra was pulling her up, and Amrita muttered an apology.

“The pulses are coming faster now,” Cassandra said gently, steadying hands on Amrita’s shoulders even as her armour reflected the green light from the mark. As Amrita reluctantly trotted off again, the woman comfortably kept up beside her, saying, “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.”

Amrita moaned. “How did I survive the blast,” she asked, almost to herself. “Why not Faolán and―” She cut herself short and forced the feelings down.

When Cassandra answered, her voice was tinged with both awe and disbelief. “They say you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious.” There was a pause as they went under the archway guarding another bridge. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the― Look out!”

Amrita barely saw the green ball of flame in time to throw a barrier up around her and Cassandra before it hit the bridge and they went tumbling down, down, down onto an iced-over stretch of water. She landed awkwardly but unhurt, although she felt the dip in her mana. Forcing herself up, she saw another fireball fall, crashing through an outcrop of rock and into the ice – it was a sheer miracle the ice did not break. Energy burst from the ice, and a shade demon materialised with a roar.

Amrita’s heart rose into her throat. Demons appearing without being summoned. Fuck.

“Stay behind me!” Cassandra ordered as she charged forward, sword and shield at the ready.

Edging back, Amrita saw tendrils of red… something curl from where the Seeker had trod mere seconds earlier. Then green light, and sharp green crystals slicing through the frigid air. She cast around, desperate for a weapon but ready to fight without one, and the relief she felt as she spied an intact staff mere feet from her was enough to soothe the pain for a few moments even as a shade appeared. She grabbed it, and then eased herself into the battle-ready stance Ishek had taught her, fighting back the hot tears that came at the thought.

Her first swing sent out ice magic and froze the creature.

The rest of the battle went without complication, and once both demons had been dealt with Amrita approached Cassandra, glancing about in nervous anticipation of further attacks. “It’s over,” she murmured, heart still racing and breathing heavily.

Cassandra strode over, sword raised and face dark. “Drop your weapon. Now.”

On later reflection, Amrita could only say that she must have been high on adrenaline, because she would have never under any other circumstances have laughed, slightly hysterically, “Do you really think I need a weapon to be dangerous?” Even as she said it, she realised it was not the right response.

“Is that supposed to reassure me?”

Amrita flinched, and then placed the staff slowly on the ground. “No, I― I am sorry, I only meant― Maker’s breath,” she swore quietly, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve.

There was a long moment of tense silence before Cassandra sighed and sheathed her sword. “No,” she said. “Take it. You don’t need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you,” she admitted, turning away.

“I am sure you would try, Seeker Pentaghast,” Amrita managed to say through the lump in her throat, a weak smile on her lips as she crouched to retrieve her weapon.

Cassandra snorted softly and turned back, a gentler expression on her face. “I should remember you agreed to come willingly.”

Amrita nodded, and the pair set off at a walk, until Amrita had her wind back and could jog.

They fought a few more groups of demons, Cassandra calling out tactical orders half a second after Amrita anticipated them; they worked well, the Seeker tackling the melee demons and drawing attention from Amrita with her voice, while Amrita attacked from a distance using her full, albeit small, arsenal of burning, stunning and freezing spells. They were demons. She felt no compunctions over killing demons, and she had faced them in the Fade since childhood. She let all her anger and grief out on them, letting those emotions drown her fear while she fought.

Soon they approached another wrecked building; this one looked as though its walls had been knocked out by falling debris from above. There were people fighting demons here, but also hovering in the air was a writhing, crystalline mass of magic and wrongness: she could feel energy pouring out from it as it shifted and twisted, and she knew that she could easily draw upon the Fade cast spells – or to bring through a demon. Was this a rift?

“Help them!” Cassandra yelled at her, breaking her reverie. Amrita shook her head and cast a shield over the fighters before freezing the demons as best she could.

She had scarcely drawn breath after the last shade screamed and dissipated before her left arm was caught in a vice-like grip. She gasped, staring at the person who had grabbed her even as he steered her over to the rift: a pale, bald elf, unusually tall and broad for his kind, dressed in green and grey wool and leather and with a staff strapped to his back. “Quickly, before more come through!” he ordered harshly, lifting her hand to the rift.

Light lanced between her hand and the crystal-like structure at the centre of it, sending pain jolting through Amrita’s body. The rift flared, fought whatever the mark was doing, and then collapsed with a great crack. Amrita snatched her hand back, shaking it out and healing away the hand-shaped bruises she could feel developing. “Wh-What did you do?” she asked, fearful of this elven mage who knew how to close the holes between their world and the Fade.

“I did nothing,” he said gallantly. “The credit is yours.”

“Mine?” she squeaked. She stared at her aching hand, and saw that there was something akin to a green, glowing gash on her palm. It hissed softly. “I closed that thing? How?”

The elf smiled. “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorised the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct.” He seemed rather pleased with himself, and Amrita managed to twitch her lips into something resembling a smile.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” said Cassandra, approaching from Amrita’s other side.

“Possibly,” the elf replied. This time he sounded less certain, and he clasped his hands together. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

Amrita lowered her head but kept her eyes on him. While a large part of her was relieved at the prospect of being able to help, there remained the nagging voice of her family reminding her that she was cursed and that she was predisposed to cause more harm than good.

“Good to know!” a faux-cheerful voice piped up behind them. Amrita spun, and found herself looking at a strawberry-blond, beardless dwarf wearing a grey leather coat, a red silk shirt that displayed his chest hair to the world, and some lethal-looking mechanised weapon on his back. He was tugging at his gloves as he said, “And here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” Approaching, he introduced himself: “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasional unwelcome tagalong.” He winked at the Seeker at the last part.

Amrita half-smiled – genuinely, this time – as she recognised the Kirkwaller accent, and at the playfulness in his tone. She knew the name – Who didn’t? – despite having never read his works. She had to admit that, after having heard Carver Hawke’s recount of the Champion and his friends, she was a little surprised to find the infamous author at the Conclave; or what was left of it. She introduced herself, again omitting the family name. “I am Amrita, a spirit healer from the Ostwick Circle. Surely… you are not with the Chantry, serah?” she asked.

The elf chuckled. “Was that a serious question?”

“Ah!” the dwarf exclaimed. “A fellow Marcher! But lay off the ‘serah’ – it’s just Varric.” Grinning cheekily before dropping his head and fidgeting with his hands, Varric admitted, “Technically I’m a prisoner, just like you.”

Cassandra spoke up. “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine. Clearly that is no longer necessary.”

“Yet, here I am,” he replied, spreading his arms wide. “Lucky for you, considering current events.”

Amrita nodded; she had heard that the dwarf had frequently accompanied the Champion in his excursions, and so knew he must be a valuable ally on the battlefield. “It is good to meet you, Se― Varric.”

“You may reconsider that stance, in time,” the elf said, clearly amused by the whole thing.

“Aww,” Varric replied, putting a hand to his head dramatically and prompting a stifled giggle from Amrita. “I’m sure we’ll become great friends in the valley, Chuckles.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra cut in, stepping forward until she was truly looking down her nose at the dwarf. She sighed, and said, “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but―”

“Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.” There was a stare-down between the pair, Varric looking smug in the face of Cassandra’s glare, and in the end she backed down with a disgusted noise.

The elf gestured to himself. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live, Amrita.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept’,” Varric explained.

Amrita bit her lip, intrigued despite everything. “Thank you. You seem to know a great deal about it,” she said, leaving the implied question hanging in the air.

From behind her, she heard Cassandra say disapprovingly, “Unlike you, Solas is an apostate.”

Somehow, Amrita kept the fear that turned her insides as cold as the snow from showing on her face.

Solas did not seem offended though, replying, “Technically all mages are apostates now, Cassandra.” He turned his gaze back to Amrita and went on, “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage.”

Though his tone was light, something in the words stung Amrita.

“I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

Amrita nodded, acknowledging his point. “And what will you do once this is over? This is hardly the best place for mages to be right now.”

Solas seemed pleased by the question. “One hopes those in power will remember who helped – and who did not.” He looked to the Seeker. “Cassandra: you should know that the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it hard to imagine any mage having such power.” He sent a kind smile Amrita’s way, and she pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes in relief.

“Understood,” Cassandra answered. She took a breath, and then started moving. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.” Solas followed, and Amrita was about to do so when Varric spoke up.

“Well,” he drawled before pausing, waiting for Amrita’s full attention. “Bianca’s excited!” And then he walked on.

Amrita stared after him. Who the fuck is Bianca?

~~~

The way forward was obstructed by boulders and partially-demolished buildings, and so they had to clamber over walls and edge along thin paths clearly not intended for general passage. They worked well as a team against the demons, thankfully, and so they were rarely impeded for long – by those, at least.

When they passed the pedestals where the silly mage statues had once stood, Amrita pressed her sleeve to her eyes to wipe away the tears.

Amrita did not know how long it had been since she had first set off with Cassandra – the Breach and clouds obscured the sun – but their progress seemed too slow. The way that had been such a pleasant hike with her friends now wound onwards and upwards for ever. She had to be helped up several times by her companions, and Solas occasionally did something which eased the pain a little.

As he was picking her up after a particularly bad shock from the mark, Varric asked, “So… are you innocent?”

Amrita hesitated. “I… I do not remember.” The possibility that she was guilty still squirmed away in her guts.

He chuckled. “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.”

“That’s what you would have done,” scoffed Cassandra.

“It’s more believable,” Varric protested, “and less likely to result in premature execution.”

Amrita shook her head sadly. “I am an appalling liar, although I can make up fantasies good enough to entertain children. I would never intentionally do anything I knew would lead to hurting anyone,” she said meekly. “If I am responsible, whatever I did was without malicious intent.”

The conversation stopped there.

As they reached what looked like the final bridge before the approach to the temple, another rift stood between them and the gates. They dealt with the demons, and Solas gave Amrita verbal directions this time; it really was as simple as forcefully jabbing her hand towards the spent rift and playing Chicken with her pain tolerance.

Waiting for the soldiers to open the gates, Solas walked up and patted her shoulder. “We are clear for the moment,” he murmured approvingly. “Well done.”

Amrita felt heat rising in her cheeks, and glanced down at the snow in pleased embarrassment, not looking up even when Varric chimed in, saying, “Whatever that thing on your hand is, it’s useful.”

Things seemed relatively under control on the bridge; tired or wounded soldiers lined the sides, and those hale enough ran around, checking supplies and tending to the injured. Amrita itched to join them, but for now she had a more pressing mission.

As they crossed, she spied the second woman – Leliana? – standing with a man in the garb of a Chantry chancellor at a table in front of a hastily-erected tent. The pair were arguing, and Amrita slowed to a walk as she approached, waiting for Cassandra to come to her side.

“We will do no such thing!” the man declared.

Leliana folded her arms. “The prisoner must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It is our only chance!”

The chancellor lifted his head and spotted the party. “Ah, here they come.”

“You made it,” Leliana said, relief in her voice as she stepped around the table. “Chancellor Roderick, this is―”

“I know who she is,” Roderick interrupted disdainfully. Amrita bowed to him, but he ignored her courtesy. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

Amrita’s head snapped up and she looked between the sneering man and the two women. Mage or not, I should at least be tried first! But then memories of mages being accused of blood magic and being found guilty within hours surfaced from the depths of her mind, and she swallowed the protestations forming on her lips, biting a knuckle to help keep her silence.

“‘Order me’?” Cassandra was asking scornfully, posture shifting so her anger was directed at the chancellor. “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” Roderick retorted.

Stepping between the two, Leliana breathed in and said, “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor ― as you well know,” she added, turning to look at Cassandra with great sorrow in her eyes. There was camaraderie and respect in the way the women looked at and spoke to each other, and Amrita wondered for a moment what the history there was.

Roderick raised his hands and screwed up his face in frustration. “Justinia is dead!” he snapped. Then, more controlled, he relaxed and leaned forward. “We must elect a replacement, and obey her orders on the matter!”

Amrita pulled the knuckle from her mouth. “I agree that appointing a new Divine is important, but… is closing the Breach not a more immediate issue, Chancellor?” she asked timidly. As he turned on her, finger pointing, she stepped back in fright. A hand caught her in the small of her back, but she did not turn to see whose it was with Roderick lashing out in front of her.

“You brought this on us in the first place!” he shouted.

Cassandra stepped in front of Amrita, and as soon as eye contact was broken Amrita glanced down to see Varric at her side, a small, sympathetic smile on his lips. She shuddered and nodded at him in thanks.

When Roderick spoke again, his voice was weary and old. “Call a retreat, Seeker. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it is too late.” Cassandra’s voice was certain.

The chancellor threw up his hands again, exasperated and defeated. “How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the temple, even with all your soldiers.”

“We must get to the temple. It’s the quickest route,” the Seeker said, refusing to back down.

“But not the safest,” Leliana interposed. Her voice was bright with possibility as she gestured and said, “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

The whole party followed the line of her hand, looking up to the summit of the mountain. Amrita felt herself trembling as she peered through the misty air.

“We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky,” argued Cassandra.

“Listen to me,” Roderick begged, clasping his hands. “Abandon this now before more lives are lost!”

Everyone’s attention was caught by another flare from the Breach, and the fizz and boom that came with it. Amrita’s whole arm shook, entirely out of her control, and she grasped her forearm with her right hand in an effort to still it. Pain flared all the way up her arm now, into her chest, and she feared the mark would soon be damaging her organs beyond repair. Varric’s hand rubbed her back in an effort to comfort her.

The pangs left her gasping for air as the mark finally died down, and she lifted her head to see the women facing her. Cassandra was the one who spoke. “How do you think we should proceed?”

Amrita blinked, caught off guard. Her voice broke as she asked, bewildered, “Now you are asking for my opinion?”

“You have the mark,” Solas pointed out from somewhere behind her. She glanced back and saw his brows had furrowed in his seriousness.

“And you are the one we must keep alive,” Cassandra continued. She cast out an arm in chagrin. “Since we cannot decide on our own…” The implication was clear: Amrita should make the decision.

She paused, considering her options. The mountain path would likely be safest for her and her companions, but it could easily add hours to the time it took to reach the temple, especially if they encountered blockages or whatever had stopped the squad Cassandra had mentioned. Hundreds of men could die in the time it took them. Charging would be more dangerous, but she specialised in supportive magic and could defend herself and the party.

Plus, she had a nagging feeling that it would not be long before whatever foul magic was in her hand killed her.

She took a steadying breath and put on her surgery-voice. “I say we charge.” She looked away from the others, up to the Breach. “I will not survive long enough ― for your trial. Whatever happens… happens now.”

Decision made, the others leapt into action. “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley,” Cassandra commanded. “Everyone.” The women nodded at each other and went their separate ways.

As Cassandra passed the chancellor, trailed by Amrita, Solas and Varric, they heard him spit, “On your head be the consequences, Seeker.”

They set off up the mountain without another word.

The path was littered with debris, unnatural fires and corpses. Amrita only turned aside and vomited once, worn down by the pain and the desolation. Varric held back the strands of hair that were escaping from Faolán’s braid-work, and Solas offered her water once she had finished expelling what little was in her stomach: she had not eaten anything in almost a day, and she was starting to feel faint with fatigue and hunger. Apart from grateful murmurs she remained silent, and they hiked on.

At the plaza where the temple-front had been they found another battle raging on – and another rift. Holding back as her companions went on the offensive, she tried closing the rift before the field was clear. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt― And then the rift spluttered, but did not shut. Shit, she thought, hurrying forward to join the fray.

A shout went up, and Amrita looked properly at her foes: they were all stunned, letting the soldiers lay into them without retaliation. Then the rift cracked again, and the demons sprang back to life. Did I stun them by doing that? But there was no further time for speculation, as a wraith’s wisp-like attacks struck her shield.

She tried closing the rift again when the area was clear of demons, but again it failed to vanish, becoming more fluid than crystalline, almost like muslin blowing in the breeze on a washing line.

“How many rifts are there?!” she heard Varric cry.

“We must seal it if we are to get past!” Solas shouted at her, before the rift returned to its original form and spewed demons again. This time, terror demons came out, shrieking, and it was all Amrita could do not to turn tail and flee in panic.

“I am trying!” Amrita protested as she inelegantly skewered a shade who had come too close. It shrieked and dissipated, and she exhaled heavily. Katari would have been proud.

It took several more minutes to cut down the terror demons, and Amrita offered up prayers to the Maker and Andraste when the rift finally shut. Recoiling from the blast, she shook out her hand, and quaked as she felt the mark bite into her hips.

“Sealed, as before.” She turned to see Solas next to her. “You are becoming quite proficient at this,” he praised her, bobbing his head approvingly.

“Let’s hope it works on the big one,” Varric added.

“Lady Cassandra, you managed to close the rift?” an unfamiliar voice called, and the three of them turned to see a towering warrior approaching the Seeker. He did not wear the same Ferelden armour most soldiers they had passed wore: instead he wore plate metal; red, black and brown leathers and fabrics; and a thick fur mantle. Blond hair was slicked back with demon gore, and his scar-scattered face was worn and stubbled. “Well done,” he commended the woman, who must have been a foot shorter than him.

Cassandra sighed. “Do not congratulate me, Commander,” she said grudgingly, stepping aside to reveal Amrita. “This is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Is it?” he asked, eyebrows quirking up. He did not sound impressed, and his voice was surly as he went on. “I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.” The accent was hard to pin down, a touch of Kirkwall to it, but Amrita suspected he was Ferelden-born.

Amrita cast her eyes downwards for a second, fighting the lump in her throat. Then she looked up and met his appraising gaze. “I― I cannot promise anything more than my best efforts, Commander.”

“That’s all we can ask,” he almost growled. His attention shifted to Cassandra. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly. Give us time, Commander.”

The man nodded. “Maker watch over you ― for all our sakes.” He cast a final glance at Amrita, and she saw no hope in his eyes. She offered up her own prayers as he joined the soldiers headed back down the mountain, helping one wounded man up as he went. Then she turned and stumbled forward to where the great doors to the temple had been.

The floor where so many delegates had camped had been entirely blown out, revealing the lower levels of the temple; looking to one side, Amrita could see the tunnel leading to the springs. To the other side – nothing even remained of the gallery where she had been with her friends. There's simply no way that Katari and Virr could have survived― ! She gasped sharply at the memory. Yes, she had left the two former captives together and gone with the others, but ― why? She still could not recall.

“Everything alright, Doc?” Varric asked, coming up from behind her.

“I―” She stopped, hesitating. “I― I thought I remembered something. But not enough.” She gestured to where the gallery had been. “My friends and I, we―” But no more words would come. She sucked in a shaky breath, focusing on the burn of cold air in her lungs as opposed to the ache of poisonous magic in her muscles and bones. Varric nodded in understanding, and did not press her further.

Dropping down carefully, they found the ground was covered in rubble and debris from the building. And bones. And ashes. A few miraculously-preserved bodies burned with unnatural fire, but the wind blew dust up into their noses and faces, choking the group.

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Solas said solemnly.

“What’s left of it,” said Varric, staring around at the destruction.

Cassandra gestured forward. “That is where you walked out of the Fade and our soldiers found you.” She looked over at Amrita. “They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

“You said earlier,” Amrita replied, nodding weakly.

They slowly made their way through the temple, scrabbling over slabs of rock, detouring up the craggy mountainside where stairs had collapsed. Amrita had a sense that she had gone towards where the Breach was before, though she had no clear recollection of having done so.

They eventually emerged from a surprisingly intact corridor; before them stood the huge pillar of light, writhing and flaring, rising from below the floor they stood on up to the Breach. A rift flickered and undulated ahead of them, and they cautiously approached. The sight instilled fear into Amrita, but she was too tired to do anything but stare blearily at it.

“The Breach is a long way up,” Varric commented.

If one of those floating boulders fell, it could do a lot of damage, she observed absently. A vaguely familiar, discordant song was starting to scratch at her ears, and something felt wrong. Like the Gallows.

“You’re here! Thank the Maker,” a voice called from behind them, and Amrita turned to see Leliana trot up, a bow and quiver strapped to her back, and men behind her. Then Amrita turned back, compelled to face the disaster that threatened to destroy the world. Cassandra said something to Leliana, and then appeared in front of Amrita.

“This is your chance to end this,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Amrita’s gaze wandered back up as she inhaled deeply. “I’ll― I will try. But I do not know if I can reach it, let alone close it.”

“No,” Solas said from beside her. “This rift was the first, and it is the key.” He met her gaze calmly. “Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Cassandra looked to the rift. “Then let’s find a way down. And be careful.”

Nodding slowly, Amrita turned right and started walking. It was painful, the aches reaching into her thighs, and halfway down her right arm. She could still move, thank the Maker, but it was torturous.

“You’re not okay,” Varric murmured, making her jump. “Hey, Solas, can y―”

“Now is the hour of our victory,” a voice boomed across the area. Amrita squeaked. “Bring forth the sacrifice.”

When she spoke, Cassandra’s voice wavered. “What are we hearing?”

“At a guess: the person who created the Breach,” Solas speculated, approaching Amrita and taking her left hand.

She winced at the touch, her marred skin delicate and sore, and she whimpered as he poured some unfamiliar magic into her; it was like her healing magic, but she sensed no spirits at work. It did nothing for a few moments, but then she gasped and arched her back as she felt the mark retreat to her arm, burning and crawling as it went before leaving sweet relief. Tears came to her eyes and she squeezed them shut. “Ma serannas,” she whispered, hardly thinking whether or not the elf knew the language the Dalish tried to preserve.

His fingers twitched on her skin, and she opened her eyes to see his blue ones staring at her in puzzled amusement. “Dalish friends?”

Amrita felt her cheeks start to burn. “I― Yes. We met on the way here, and they educated me.” She held back what else they had done for her, though her vision blurred with hot tears. She reached up with her right hand and patted her hair, fingertips finding the contrasting texture of the silver threads in her braids.

“Unusual, for Dalish. I never thought to hear Elven from the tongue of a human,” Solas admitted with a chuckle, releasing her hand. “You are welcome, by the way.” He swung his backpack off, dug in it, and retrieved a bottle which he then proffered to Amrita. “This should help you recover some energy, for whatever we are about to face.”

She took it, sniffed it out of habit, and then chugged it down. “Thank you,” she said, feeling a little warmth and life return to her limbs, and appreciating the feel of something in her belly. Once Solas was ready again, they set off after the Seeker, Leliana and the dwarf, past shards of rock riddled with luminous green cracks.

They found the trio at the next corner, staring in horror at glowing red crystals springing from the cliffside and floor. As Amrita approached, the awful song in her head grew louder, and even Solas seemed uncomfortable. She did not need to hear the conversation to know what it was.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” Varric said as they reached him.

“I see it, Varric.”

“But what’s it doing here?”

Solas stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Magic could have drawn on the lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it…”

Putting her hands over her ears in an attempt to block out the song proved to be futile.

Varric cast his gaze back around and made a noise of disgust. “It’s evil,” he said, gesturing to the crystals. “Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

“Mages know to steer clear of all lyrium, Varric,” Solas said. “Whatever its colour, it is lethal to us in its raw form.”

Varric grunted, and they moved on, picking their way warily.

They reached the next corner, and the mysterious voice echoed again. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Someone, help me!”

Cassandra gasped as they descended to the level below. “That is Divine Justinia’s voice!”

Amrita looked back, and the two women were staring at each other in consternation.

There was no easy way down to the bottom level, so they lowered themselves down from a broken ledge and approached the rift. It crackled and fizzled and grew crystals in time to the mark on Amrita’s hand, and lazier lights drifted sinuously about it. Amrita lifted her hand, squinting as it flared.

“Someone, help me!”

“What is going on!?”

Amrita’s head snapped up. What―

“That was your voice,” Cassandra said, sounding amazed. “Most Holy called out to you. But…”

There was a sound like shattering glass, and a flash of white light. Then, hovering in the air for all to see, was a flickering scene. A hideous, misshapen black apparition with glowing coals for eyes reached out to the Divine, who floated, arms bound by some form of magic.

From the side, more figures emerged, obscured by mist or smoke. At the forefront was Amrita, staff in hand and shining with a barrier. Behind her, a horned mage loomed, staff glowing purple. Two slender figures slipped off, one either side.

“What is going on!?”

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine cried.

The monster gained its wits at that. “We have intruders,” it announced, turning. “Kill them. Now!”

“Amrita!”

Then the rift flared white again, blinding everyone, and the vision vanished. That… That was Faolán. Amrita fell to her knees, and felt something give way underneath them.

“You were there!” exclaimed Cassandra. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing? Answer me!” she barked, grabbing Amrita’s left hand.

Amrita flinched at the pain, but was too focused on the long, broken, ashy piece of wood she had found under her legs. Ironbark. Engraved.

It was Ffion’s bow.

She turned her head, ignoring Cassandra’s grip, in search for any other sign of the elven woman. A little further away she could see more metal glinting in the sickly green and red lighting. Amrita started to push herself up, but Cassandra jolted her back to the present.

“Answer me!”

“I don’t know!” Amrita screeched back at her, the sobs she had held in almost since she woke up starting to wrack her body. “I don’t remember, now let me go!” She snatched her arm away from the Seeker, and scrabbled her way over to the metal. No, no, that was a sword, and that was a mace, and another sword, and an axe, and―

There.

She had seen Faolán play and spar enough to know those green storm-heart blades anywhere.

She knelt down, carefully this time even though her body shuddered with grief. Fearful they might break at her touch, Amrita slowly picked them up by the pommel; the leather grips on the hilt had burned away. Then she laid them neatly down, along with the broken halves of Ffion’s bow, before rising and looking for any sign of Ishek.

“Amrita.”

She spun around, eyes wide and raw, and saw the dwarf standing there, sympathy written on his face like one of his infamous novels. Solas stood behind him, and Cassandra stood further away, glaring, while Leliana knelt in the rubble nearby, studying a battered, griffon-adorned breastplate.

“We’re going to need you to open that rift in a sec, Doc,” Varric said as calmly as he could. “Chuckles says it’s closed but not sealed, so we gotta open it before we can seal the Breach. And since that’ll probably attract demons, we might be in need of a healer.”

Nodding slowly, Amrita took a step towards them. Something crunched under her boot.

She looked down.

Under her heel was a horned skull, with metal casings around the horns.

There was only one person it could have been.

“Qunari?” Varric asked, alarmed.

“Tal-Vashoth,” she replied softly. “A good person. A― A second father. To me and many others.” She very deliberately raised her foot, wincing when part of the skull cracked and caved in, and then picked up the remains.

The elf and dwarf watched her solemnly as she placed the skull with the weapons. She hung her head, closed her eyes and whispered, “Ir abelas, Faolán and Ffion of Clan Lavellan; Falon’Din guide you to your rest in the Beyond, and may the Dread Wolf never catch your scent. Dareth shiral, ma falon.” She paused as a sob escaped her lungs, and she wiped her eyes. “Ishek Adaar: I know not what you believe, but I pray to my own god, and any other that may be listening, that you find peace in death.”

After a minute of silence, ignoring the ache in her arm, she looked up, dry-eyed. “Solas― May I ask a favour of you?”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “You may ask.”

“You know Elven; do you know of Dalish customs for treating their dead?”

“They vary greatly from clan to clan, but yes, I know of some, despite not being Dalish myself.”

“Will you― Would you help me to put my friends to rest, if we survive this? And if I do not survive, but you do, will you do it for me? And ― see to it that something happens for Virrevas of Clan Filtiarn, and Katari Adaar?”

He studied her for a long moment with those pale blue eyes of his, and for a moment she thought he might say ‘no’. Then he smiled and nodded. “Such regard for elves and Qunari is rare in a human, though admirable. I will do my best.”

“Ma serannas,” she replied. Then she looked to Cassandra, and asked, “What do you need me to do?”

It was but the work of moments to get everyone into position. The Seeker nodded, and Amrita raised her hand to the rift.

Light arced between the mark and the rift, and Amrita cried out as the pain spread rapidly throughout her body again. Then with a flash and a crack the rift burst open, and a colossal creature materialised, purple, scaly, jagged and roaring: a pride demon. She had only seen them in textbooks before, but knew they were at the top of the hierarchy of common demons. Electric-speciality. Surprisingly long-range with whips. Immune to many incapacitating spells. Heavy armour.

One of these bastards took Ema’an, Amrita thought to herself. And with that, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the battle.

It was a blur. Dodging elephantine feet, bombarding it with fire and ice attacks, swigging lyrium potions like there was no tomorrow – There probably won’t be one for me – casting barriers over her companions and the soldiers, pushing healing magic into the wounded warriors, tackling shade demons while her more battle-hardened party members dealt with the armoured pride demon, disrupting the rift to stun the demons whenever she had the time and strength―

Before she knew it, the pride demon had collapsed and Cassandra was bellowing, “Now! Seal the rift! Do it!”

Amrita thrust her hand up towards the pulsating rift, focusing all her energy on it. I am ready to die, if my death will save this world from this evil and any evil I could possibly unleash upon it.

She howled as the mark spread across the rest of her body, doubling, tripling the pain, but she kept on pushing, pushing, pushing, biting her lip so hard she could taste blood in her mouth.

Then her world exploded in green, and she fell.

Chapter Text

Amrita woke slowly and reluctantly, so warm and cosy under the heavy weight of a quilt that she could almost believe she and the elves had had their nest of blankets moved to a soft mattress.

Almost.

Instead of tangled limbs and torsos there were stiff pillows; the soft sounds of a thousand people sleeping and Faolán’s steady pulse were replaced by the dull, muted roar of a distant crowd and the crackle of a nearby fire; and instead of the elated nerves that had suffused her as she first crawled under the blankets, her whole body was stiff and sore. Her left hand ached dully, only an echo of recent pain but quite sufficient to bring the knowledge of her friends’ deaths to the front of her mind.

Her breath hitched as she stifled a sob. No. Not here. Not now. You don’t even know where you are, or who is here. Get yourself under control, you stupid woman; for all you know, you’re in danger. She dragged her right hand up from under the covers and rubbed the sleepdust from her eyes, and once they were free of their crustiness, she opened them wearily and looked around. Her hand went to her throat, thumbing Ema`an’s necklace through her shirt.

She was in some kind of sturdy house or cabin, built from stone and wood. There were barrels and occupied birdcages stacked on the floor, and animal skins decorated the walls. From where she lay, she could see the hearth but not the fire, and a set of shelves stood by an opening into another room.

At that moment, an elf walked in carrying a small crate. When she saw Amrita, she dropped the box with a gasp; something inside tinkled with the sure sound of a breakage. “Oh!”

Amrita pushed herself upright as fast as her screaming muscles and the tightly-tucked quilt would allow. A small part of her realised that her curls were hanging over and down her shoulders, rather than being tied tightly out of the way.

The elf was already babbling in an unfamiliar accent. “I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” The poor girl looked terrified.

“It is fine,” Amrita said, voice as low and calm as she could manage. “Please, do not―”

Without warning, the girl dropped to her knees and almost pressed her head to the ground, as though… worshipping Amrita?

Despite the warmth in the room, Amrita was suddenly cold.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” the elf panted. “I am but a humble servant.” As Amrita swung herself around to sit on the edge of the bed, the girl went on, “You are back in Haven, my lady.”

Amrita flinched at the title. “I―”

“They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand.”

For the first time since waking, Amrita looked at her hand. Turning her palm to face her, she found green light emanating from it, enough to cast a tint over her clothes and face even in the firelight. It still hissed dangerously, and there was a miniscule but still palpable feeling of it being tugged in a particular direction, like a magnet almost snapping to metal.

Suddenly, it was very hard to breathe.

“It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days,” the elf added.

Three days. We are still alive, so... “So the danger is over.”

“The Breach is still in the sky, but that’s what they say.” At that, the elf finally rose and stood, hands twisting nervously in front of her and legs shifting as though it took great effort not to bolt. “I’m certain Lady Cassandra would want to know you’ve wakened. She said, ‘At once.’”

Amrita forced a lungful of air out and shuddered. “And where is she?” she asked, pushing herself off the bed and trying not to sway.

“In the chantry, with the lord chancellor,” the elf replied, backing away and then turning to go. “‘At once,’ she said!” And with that, she fled and slammed the door.

It took Amrita a few moments to process what had just happened. Then she dropped back onto the bed. ‘At once,’ she thought muzzily. Well. I am clearly still not well. So.

She paused on that thought for a good minute or so, brain fogging up and refusing to function.

“So,” she said out loud. “So. I... I will go. I’ll go when... I am ready. And. That may be some time. Nobody else is here to― to― to chivvy me along.”

Stiffly, she reached for a brush resting on a barrel, and started working it through her hair. It went smoothly, and her hair seemed relatively soft and clean, so it seemed that she had been well cared for in her sleep. She could not even feel any discomfort in her smalls, and although she was mortified by the idea of someone else having to deal with her bloody mess, she was grateful to whatever kind soul had taken pity on her.

In a loose coil next to where the brush had lain were the silver threads that Faolán had twisted into her hair. She ignored them until her hair was entirely tangle-free, and then she stared at them for a long, fraught moment, struggling to pull air into her lungs. Each breath was shallow and shuddering, and tears burned her eyes.

‘At once.’

There was no time to mourn now, but she would not lose the last gift her friend had bestowed upon her. She could not do half as beautiful and complex a job as he had – she had seen something of the complexity of his braidwork in a mirror in the springs – but she could use the thread. Slowly and carefully she plaited along the edge of her hairline, a thread in each chunk of hair, until she reached her ears and turned it into a half-and-half. Then she pulled all her hair up, tied it and then plaited it so it hung long and thick behind her head, with glints of silver visible when she pulled the cord of hair over one shoulder.

Then she dressed herself. For the first time she noticed the strange jacket, trousers and boots that she had been clothed in while asleep, beige and buckled where no buckles were needed. Still, the only things that remained of her own travelling clothes were the leather overcoat, belt pouches and the scarf – her journal was nowhere to be seen, which caused Amrita’s insides to tighten in fear – and so she tied the gift from the apprentices around her midriff as she had done so over the past few weeks, shrugged on the overcoat, and with only a slight unsteadiness, explored the room as she tested her legs. It would not do to collapse halfway to finding the Seeker.

On the table in the corner of the room she found scrawled observations about a ‘patient’ – presumably herself. She read through the notes thoroughly, both fearful and curious about what had happened to her. There was reference to a mage who had helped – Perhaps Solas? – and when she saw the doctor’s wish for templars, she could not blame them. Foul magic had caused the disaster, and a templar on hand to control a cursed mage would have been entirely rational.

By the time she had looked around, staying well out of the way of the menacing black and red crow in the cage, she felt well enough to try going to find Seeker Pentaghast. She walked slowly to the door, and steadied herself against it while she worked up the courage to leave her sanctuary and face the consequences of what had happened. Then, before she had time to dissuade herself, she pulled open the door.

She froze.

At the top of the steps in front of her, two men clad in metal and leather armour saluted her, hands across their chests. Behind them were people. More soldiers lined the path, uniformly spread along each side; behind them, villagers had congregated, staring at her and whispering behind their hands. They were the same people who had made their blame known as she was pushed along by Seeker Pentaghast, but their demeanour had changed: now they seemed curious, wary, and perhaps… awed?

Amrita nearly shut the door and hid, but instead she took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and strode forward. Show no weakness; show nothing of yourself, to keep yourself safe.

Mama would be proud, she thought dimly as she moved, noble-like, between the crowds. If she could ever be proud of a blemish on the family.

“That’s her. The Herald of Andraste.”

Me? Sent by the Maker’s wife? Absurd.

“They said, when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her.”

I am a cursed child of the Maker. Andraste is good and kind to all of His followers, but even she would not deign to guard a spot like me.

“Hush! We shouldn’t disturb her.”

You shouldn’t be looking at me as though I am a prophet! she screamed inside her head, fighting the urge to run and shake the woman, or perhaps just flee into the Frostbacks until her inevitable demise.

Her eyes flicked upwards to the grey sky: to the southwest, clouds still swirled in a flickering green vortex and rocks floated in space. This was the direction her hand was being tugged in. Her heart sank; perhaps the Breach had ceased expanding, but clearly she had failed to seal it permanently. Her stomach lurched at the thought of demons springing up around Thedas and attacking its inhabitants.

Turning left, she returned her attention to the village. Bathed in the evening sunlight of a late winter afternoon, it was full of wooden houses and tents, and covered in a light dusting of snow. Sharpened stakes made formidable fences, and as she ascended the stone steps she could see what looked like a chantry building at the top of the rise. It had bright flags flying from its roof, but its attempted bravado was made insignificant against the majestic mountains towering behind it.

She hesitated, looking for the way up, and then moved in the direction of another set of steps. More people huddled outside the tents and by the fire.

“That’s her,” an adolescent voice said. “She stopped the Breach from getting any bigger.”

“I heard she was supposed to close it entirely. Still, it’s more than anyone else has done. Demons would have had us otherwise.”

At least I did some good, she thought, damping down the hopes that would surely be dashed to pieces. And I appear to still be alive, so maybe I can do some more.

Outside the chantry building stood a gaggle of men and women who had devoted their lives to Andraste: sisters and mothers, brothers and chanters. Amrita did not make eye contact, but felt the weight of their disapproving stares on her as she approached.

“Chancellor Roderick says the Chantry wants nothing to do with us,” a woman said, voiced tinged with worry and fear.

A stricter voice replied, “That isn’t Chancellor Roderick’s decision, sister.”

The group parted before her, and the great double doors opened up. Amrita walked to the threshold and, before entering, genuflected, bowed her head and ran through the familiar words of Transfigurations Twelve: “O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me, Stand only in places You have blessed; Sing only the words You place in my throat.” She sensed the shift and confusion in those around her but made no response as she pushed her weary body up and into the sacred place.

Compared to the only other chantry she had been in, it was very small: more the size of the chapel in the Ostwick Circle than the City’s. It was dim, lit only by candles and braziers on the walls, and although the walls were made of simple stone, the space was decorated with beautiful wooden carvings inlaid with metals. Mabari seem to be a recurring motif, she absently noted as she moved through the space. It lacked the pews she had come to expect. Was it used more as communal space than one dedicated to worship? Or was this a change from the usual, with the circumstances of the Breach changing everything? Moving forward, she spotted some benches that had been shoved to the side, and an awful lot of barrels and supplies.

“Most of the clerics died at the Conclave. Who will lead us now?” a soft voice asked in the shadows of the aisles.

Who indeed? Amrita asked, heading towards a door under the sunburst banner of the Chantry from which she could hear raised voices.

“Have you gone completely mad?” Roderick was shouting. “She should be taken to Val Royeaux immediately, to be tried by whomever becomes Divine!”

Amrita paused outside the door, listening. Her mouth was dry, and now she had ceased moving she realised that she was trembling. With some great force of will, she made her muscles still themselves, waiting for an opportune moment to enter.

“I do not believe she is guilty,” came Seeker Pentaghast’s curt voice. Amrita let out a silent breath of relief.

“The prisoner failed, Seeker,” Roderick reasoned, and Amrita’s intestines squirmed in recognition of this truth. “The Breach is still in the sky. For all you know, she intended it this way.”

She flinched at the words. The whispers in her head scurried and scuttled in a flurry of feelings. She had no conscious intention of causing anyone harm, although she knew it was possible that she had done so in ignorance.

“I do not believe that,” came the assertive reply.

“That is not for you to decide.” Amrita recognised the tone of an adult who had realised that a child could not be reasoned with, and was pulling the those-are-the-rules-so-follow-them card. “Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

The Seeker rejoined, “My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor. As is yours.”

Then there was a long silence behind the door. Amrita took a deep breath, schooled her expression, and knocked.

“Come in!” the Seeker barked. Amrita pulled the winter-stiffened door open, and, putting on her best impression of a confident, unfazed young woman and doctor, she stepped into the room.

Seeker Pentaghast rested her hands on the great table in the centre of the room, and Amrita thought she looked as though she was exercising great restraint to stop herself from injuring the chancellor, who stood off to one side. Leliana stood beside the Seeker, arms folded and appraising Amrita as she entered.

She was scarcely through the threshold when Roderick snapped, “Chain her! I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” An accusatory finger pointed to Amrita’s chest, and she looked around to see whom he was speaking to. Her heart jumped into her throat when she noticed the templars standing either side of her.

The Seeker straightened up. “Disregard that, and leave us,” she ordered.

With unusually sloppy salutes – perhaps a conflict of loyalties between Chantry and the Seekers? – the templars turned and left, shutting the door behind them.

Amrita clasped her hands in front of her. Her eyes went to the chancellor as he turned to the Seeker: although the women were clearly more imminent threats to Amrita’s physical wellbeing, she suspected they were more inclined towards protecting her – for now – and the chancellor’s political clout could prove fatal in the long run.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” he sneered.

The dark-haired woman approached, undaunted by his greater stature or his expression. “The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it,” she asserted.

There was a tense silence, and as it stretched on Amrita let her eyes flicker to Leliana, who tilted her head in the direction of the pair, as if to say, Say something, then.

“I―” Amrita started, cutting herself off as steely gazes snapped around to look at her. “I did― I did everything I could to close the Breach,” she choked out. “It― It almost killed me.” She refrained from admitting her willingness to die. She caught the Seeker’s eye, and saw the approving dip of her chin. “Without―”

“Yet you live,” interrupted Roderick. Amrita managed to stifle a shudder at the hateful twisting of his face and voice. “A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

“I―” she started before being interrupted by the Seeker’s growl of a warning.

“Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face.”

Leliana approached the pair, chainmail clinking gently, saying, “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others ― or have allies who yet live.” The changes in her expression and tone were quite captivating as she spoke, shifting from solemnity to innocence to barely-veiled accusation as she recounted the situation.

“I am a suspect?” the chancellor asked, aghast and hands raised.

“You ― and many others,” Leliana ground out, barely civil.

Roderick stepped forward, and Amrita took half a step back as he said, “But not the prisoner?”

“I heard the voices in the temple,” Seeker Pentaghast said, shifting a little as though uncomfortable before letting her eyes settle on Amrita. She could almost feel the weight of the gaze upon her, tightening her chest and making it hard to breathe. “The Divine called to her for help.”

Roderick’s incredulity was clear as he crossed his arms. “So her survival, that thing on her hand ― all a coincidence?”

Amrita bit her lip. An unfortunate one, at that.

“Providence,” supplied the warrior.

Amrita blanched. What?

“The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.” As she spoke, the Seeker turned to look earnestly at Amrita.

She felt her insides go cold. I― This is ridiculous! I’m― I’m cursed, the Maker― Out loud, she cautiously said, “Surely you have not forgotten that I am a mage, Seeker Pentaghast.”

The older woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I have not forgotten.” Then, tone becoming more affirming, she went on, “No matter what you are, or what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.” With those words, she turned and walked away to rummage through a heavy chest at the back of the room, well-worn leathers hardly making a sound as she moved.

Leliana took up the conversation. “The Breach remains, and your mark is still our only hope of closing it.” The gentle Orlesian accent did nothing to disguise the distrust the woman clearly still held for Amrita.

Ah: pragmatism, Amrita thought. She could work with that, but the belief that a wretched creature like her had been sent by the Maker to save people beyond what her Void-taken magic could do―

“This is not for you to decide,” the chancellor asserted, but all eyes were on the Seeker as she approached the table with a heavy tome in hand.

She slammed it down on the table. “You know what this is, Chancellor,” she said. “A writ from the Divine, granting us the authority to act.” Settling back into a wide, heroic stance, she declared, “As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She met Amrita’s confused gaze momentarily before advancing on Roderick, hand on level with his chest. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order. With or without your approval.”

Amrita felt the vague discomfort of knowing something very important was going on that she did not understand. Inquisition? Looking to Leliana, the woman seemed entirely unfazed by the announcement – indeed, her easy posture suggested she had expected the declaration. In the works for a while, then?

Roderick glanced between the three women, scowled, and turned away, making an attempt at a dignified exit and rather failing. Once his back was turned, the Seeker ran a hand through short hair as dark as her expression.

Leliana looked over the table at Amrita and said, “This is the Divine’s direction: rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos.” There was a slight pause. “We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now, no Chantry support.” The frustration in her voice was clear, and Amrita cringed a little; she could not help but feel that some of the blame fell on her.

Seeker Pentaghast looked up at that. “But we have no choice: we must act now.” Her gaze shifted from Leliana to Amrita. “With you at our side.”

Amrita stared blankly at the woman for several long, tense moments as she tried to process what had happened – what was happening. “I―” she started, before cutting herself off. She let her eyes drop to the floor for a few seconds while she gathered her thoughts, before looking back up again, somewhat more composed. “If you will pardon my ignorance, but I thought the Inquisition was the organisation that protected people from magic before and during the Divine Age, and then became the Templar Order and Seekers when it allied with the Chantry. I am not sure I fully understand why it is being reestablished.”

“Few people have even that much knowledge,” Leliana said, a finely-shaped eyebrow rising elegantly. Amrita had to lower her eyes again, cheeks heating up under the assessing stare; she had no desire to disclose her family situation to this stranger.

“The Templars have lost their way,” the Seeker continued, oblivious to Amrita’s discomfort. “We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.”

Something clicked. “It sounds like,” she whispered slowly and cautiously, barely making a sound as she processed it all. “It sounds like an Inquisition was the Divine’s goal from the Conclave, to deal with the Mage-Templar feud. But then, surely the Inquisition is tied to the Chantry, except for the fact that it looks as though the Chantry does not wish to be tied to it.” She punctuated her point with a glance in the direction of the door that Roderick had exited through. Then she looked back, and the women were frowning at her. Her stomach went cold as she finally realised she had been audible. “I apologise, I should not have―”

The Seeker snorted. “What would have happened if Most Holy was still alive is no longer relevant,” she said bitterly.

“It is true that we had anticipated Chantry support in this endeavour,” the redhead admitted. “But now, the Chantry will take time to find a new Divine. And then it will wait for her direction.”

Flexing her gloved hands, the other woman responded, “But we cannot wait. So many Grand Clerics died at the Conclave…” The woman’s voice almost broke, and Amrita soberly recalled that she had once saved many Grand Clerics at the ten-year gathering – and also, that she had lost more than religious leaders in the explosion. “No,” she was continuing with a slight shake of her head, “we are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

Amrita nodded lethargically, letting the next most urgent question rise to the forefront of her mind. “This… is not going to be a holy war, is it?”

“We are already at war. You are already involved. Its mark is upon you,” Seeker Pentaghast noted. Amrita resisted the urge to scratch at her tingling palm. “As to whether the war is holy… that depends on what we discover.”

There was a long silence as the implications sank in, causing unpleasant butterflies in Amrita’s stomach. She brought her hands up to her neck and nervously tugged Ema`an’s necklace. Eyes on her gauntlets as they pressed tightly against her breasts, she asked in a low, almost inaudible voice, “And… what is my position here?”

“You can go back to Ostwick, if you wish.” Something in Leliana’s tone made Amrita suspect it was not so simple as that.

The Seeker expanded on exactly why. “You should know that while some believe you chosen, many still think you guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us.”

Ah. And there we go. She glanced up at the older women. It did not take much work to imagine the kind of reception she would have if she returned to the Free Marches; she suspected that neither Circle nor city would accept her.

Leliana added, rather kindly, “We can also help you.” Her gaze flicked down to Amrita’s hand to make her meaning clear.

Seeker Pentaghast sighed. “It will not be easy if you stay, but you cannot pretend this has not changed you.”

Dropping her head again, Amrita exhaled quietly. “I know I am hardly the kind of person you would hope for under these circumstances,” she murmured, “but I wish to help. However I can.” She made a slight bow. “I am at your disposal, for as long as you need me.”

A gloved hand entered her view, and she looked up to see the Seeker, arm extended. Amrita met the woman’s gaze, and then clasped the hand firmly, hoping the tremor in her limbs was not noticeable.

Then, almost before she knew it, she was being ushered out of the room, back into the main body of the Chantry. Thrown off guard, she hardly registered the hushed conversation between the two women as she stumbled back into the cold bright open. The Chantry devotees had dispersed, and so the Seeker was able to steer her through the village unhindered by any except gawking passersby.

“We have a lot of work to do, and you need time to recuperate before you are involved,” Leliana told Amrita while the warrior glared at anyone who showed signs of approaching. “It is best if you return to where you have been staying for the night to rest more. We will send someone to check up on you and bring food, and in the morning someone will come to show you around and keep an eye on you.” The redhead glanced at Amrita out of the corner of her eye. “We would not wish for your state to deteriorate, or for anyone to try attacking you for what happened at the Conclave.”

Amrita was not the fastest thinker in the world, but even she could read between the lines. You’re a liability. A flight risk. You need a minder. She said nothing though, and a couple of minutes later she was back at the house she had woken in. The armoured men who had first saluted her had moved to stand either side of the doorway, and they saluted again as the trio approached. Seeker Pentaghast signalled for them to stand at ease, and then gently pushed Amrita inside.

Once the door was shut, the Seeker put a steadying hand on Amrita’s shoulder, making her recoil. “This will be hard,” she said, the gentle expression almost out of place on her scarred, angular face, “but I know you will do what you can to help us seal the Breach. We, in turn, will do what we can to help you. If there is anything Sister Leliana or I can do―” She left the sentence hanging.

Nodding sluggishly, Amrita looked around the room with dull, hot, itchy eyes that threatened tears in the near future. “Thank you, Seeker Pentaghast,” she replied. “You have been very kind to me; and you too, Sister Leliana,” she added, meeting the taller woman’s calculating gaze, and suspecting the formality was seen straight through. “I think you are correct though: I must rest and recover my strength, and give myself time to think.”

From the next room came a raucous squawk, and Amrita jumped. “Oh!” she squeaked. “Could… Could the bird go?”

“Of course,” Leliana assured her, striding into the room and emerging a few moments later with the raven on her arm. It cocked its head from side to side as it stared beadily at Amrita, and she had to restrain the urge to ready her arms in case it flew at her. Looking at its talons, she suddenly understood why the woman wore such impressive, weighty gloves. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Amrita said without hesitation. It was entirely possible that there would be things she needed, but she was reluctant to be any greater imposition upon the women than she had already been. “Thank you both.”

The Seeker nodded solemnly. “Maker watch over you,” she said by way of farewell as she opened the door.

“And you,” Amrita replied softly.

Then the door was shut, and Amrita was alone.

Truly alone and aware of it, for the first time since meeting Serun in Ostwick.

It felt more like the first time since Ema`an had died.

The room suddenly wheeled around her, and her stomach lurched. She staggered back to the bed and let herself collapse upon it, sucking in deep breaths as best she could into her constricted chest. Her head pounded in time with her racing heart. But no matter how close she came to suffocating under the weight of her grief, for the first time in her life the tears would not come. They stung her eyes, but nothing more than weak, dry, shuddering sobs came from her lungs. The susurrus in her head grew, bothering her rather than comforting.

She bit her hand and made a muffled shrieking noise. My friends are dead. There is a hole in the sky. The Divine and half the Chantry are gone. My hand has been marked by evil magic, and I am the only one able to help, and people are assuming I was sent for some reason. And I cannot even cry. For fuck’s sake―

She heard the door open, and her head shot up as she gasped. Rolling over and upright, she looked to the entrance.

It was the elven servant who had been in earlier, this time carrying a platter of food and drink. And with her, graciously holding the door, was Solas.

The elven servant moved quickly and avoided looking at Amrita. “There you go, my lady,” she said as she put the tray down on a barrel by the bed. Before Amrita could respond, she had beaten a hasty retreat.

Amrita shifted her gaze to Solas, who smiled faintly as he studied her from the doorway. “You seem to have made quite an impression, Herald,” he drily observed. She made no reply to that, unsure of how to answer and still struggling to breathe properly, and he went on, “Word has spread that a woman was behind you as you exited the Fade, and many have taken it to be your prophet, Andraste.”

Amrita dropped her head. “I am no Herald of Andraste,” she managed to squeeze out of her tight vocal cords. “Please, Solas; just call me Amrita.”

“Amrita, then,” he agreed amiably. “Leliana asked me to enquire after the mark; I could only do so much when you were neither awake nor wandering the Fade. Does it still hurt?” he asked, approaching her.

She raised her hand, relieved it was not the one with a bitemark, and tried to direct her hardly-coherent thoughts to the green fizzling in her palm. “It aches a little,” she admitted, “like an old bruise. And it― it― tingles,” she added, struggling to find words. “And it’s― it is― almost as though it is pulled by the Breach, if that makes sense.”

Solas nodded thoughtfully, and extended his own hand. “May I?” he asked, and Amrita hesitantly let him take hers. After a long moment of scrutiny, he released it. “It seems stable for now,” he said. “And though I shall not bother you now with my questions, I would very much like to know more about what you experience with the Mark now on you, and what you remember of the Fade. And I would be fascinated to know more about those compassion spirits that have attached themselves to you. But not now,” he emphasised, cutting her off as her mouth dropped open. “I shall leave you to your rest and your grief, Amrita.” He turned and headed for the door.

Just before he left, he paused and turned back. “I have not forgotten your request, Amrita,” he said soberly. “When you are recovered, I shall help you put your friends to rest.”

Her throat closed up, and it was all Amrita could do to nod vigorously to show her thanks.

And then he was gone, and she was alone again in the ocean of her grief.

She buried her head in her hands and prayed.

Chapter Text

Demons came in the night.

They came like never before, drawn by the light of the mark on her hand, which shone brighter in the Fade than it did in the waking world. Harmless spirits came too, but they were not the ones whom Amrita had to fight from the moment of her sleeping until she was woken in the morning.

By the time Varric walked into the house around noon the next day, Amrita had been poked and prodded in a medical examination by a traditional physician until she was surprised he had not left with a diagnosis of ‘badly bruised’, and then poked and prodded further as she was measured for new clothes and armour: “The Herald of Andraste can’t go traipsing around Thedas unprotected and dressed in those rags,” the Orlesian woman had ranted. Amrita had hidden Faolán’s threads until after the ordeal. When the sharp rap at the door came she was expecting the worst – perhaps Leliana come to fully interrogate her on her past – and so the unaccompanied dwarf bearing food was quite the relief.

“Serah Tethras,” she greeted him demurely from where she sat, trying not to slump, on the bed.

“Amrita,” he replied, “I already told you to lay off the formalities; or did the Breach make you forget? It’s just Varric.” Amrita made no protest or excuses, so he went on, “Mind if I sit down? I brought lunch.”

“Of course not,” she answered, scooting back so there was enough space for him and the tray. “Thank you; I was not expecting to see you still here,” she admitted.

The dwarf raised his eyebrows and dramatically glanced away, tilting his head. “Seeker did say I could go, and what with demons and Maker-knows-what falling out of the sky, I can’t say it wasn’t tempting. I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this…” He paused for effect. “Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out. Plus, Leliana’s asked me to keep an eye on you.” He looked at Amrita from the corner of his eye. “I’d advise you to consider running at the first opportunity, but you and I both know exactly what she meant.”

“I had no intention of leaving,” Amrita replied, eyes on the quilt. “I do not believe I am Andraste’s herald – it was pure luck that I escaped – but now I am here I must do my best to help, however I can.”

He turned back to Amrita, and his expression softened a little. “Now that Cassandra’s out of earshot― Are you holding up alright?” He chuckled weakly. “I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Amrita smiled wryly: something in Varric’s manner reminded her of Ishek and his sense of humour, and so she allowed herself to drily answer, “In all honesty, I have no idea what is happening anymore.”

“That makes two of us.” His quick, easy grin slipped into a grimace as he shook his head. “I’ve written enough tragedies to recognise where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to a need a miracle.”

Indeed we shall, thought Amrita, and I very much doubt that a cursed creature like me is going to make one manifest.

“But anyway!” Varric exclaimed jovially. “We’ll have plenty of time to dwell on our situation later. Let’s eat, and then I am here to help, be it entertainment, showing you around or making sure you get things.”

Amrita felt her face heat up in shame. “Please, Varric, you really do not have to wait upon me as though I were some noble and you my servant.”

A glint came to the dwarf’s eye, and Amrita swallowed in nervous anticipation. “Ah yes― About the nobility thing―”

Amrita covered her face with her hands.

“A little birdy told me that your First Enchanter says you‘re a Trevelyan.”

“I was a Trevelyan,” Amrita replied, voice muffled by her palms.

“You‘re from the family, though. I almost wish I could be there when your dear old dad hears his disowned daughter’s the so-called Herald of Andraste. Soup?” he asked.

Amrita groaned.

~~~

After lunch, Amrita and Varric went for a slow walk around Haven so Amrita could stretch her legs, get some fresh air, and familiarise herself with the village. She spoke little, letting Varric fill the silence with chatter and stories of his time in Kirkwall. It distracted her somewhat from the grief that she knew she could not let get the better of her.

They did try exiting the village gates, but the guards said they had orders not to let the Herald leave, ‘So she was never too far away from assistance should her condition deteriorate.’

Bullshit, the looks Amrita and Varric gave each other said.

The people in the village varied in their reactions to her: some blanched when they recognised her, and then moved away hurriedly; some just stared; some inclined their heads respectfully or smiled gratefully; and a few even bowed or curtsied, which greatly unsettled Amrita. For her own part, she tried to make eye contact with people and smile politely. Coming across as a well-mannered Nice Young Woman was something Amrita had become very good at in the Circle, and although she had to fight against the pangs of sorrow that the first people she had become close to had been ripped away from her, there was something familiar and comfortingly numbing about distancing herself from others.

A few people approached her to talk, and she softly and civilly deflected their questions, giving only half-answers and turning the queries back towards them. Much as people in Ostwick had been, they seemed surprised at first, but then pleased at the attention. A few times she noticed Varric observing the conversations with interest, but mostly her attention was on memorising names, facts and opinions. She met the herbalist who had tended to her; a nobleman whose uncle had died in the blast, and was considering joining the Inquisition scouts; a woman who had fought the darkspawn at Ostagar…

After the fourteenth conversation, or maybe the sixteenth, Amrita could feel her legs beginning to tremble, and more people were approaching. Fortunately, Varric stepped in to excuse her, saying she needed to go to the chantry for a meeting with the Seeker. Everyone nodded understandingly, and many of them gave her some form of smile when she bade them goodbye by name. She let Varric steer her, an arm around her waist, and once they were in the warm, dark hall, quiet save for the whisper of devotees at prayer, she stumbled over to one of the shifted pews and sat herself down with as much dignity as she could preserve.

“Thank you,” she murmured as the dwarf sat down next to her.

“No problem,” he answered, the bench creaking quietly as he settled.

There was a comfortable silence between them as Amrita closed her eyes and collected herself. However, when she felt the weight of Varric’s gaze on her, without opening her eyes she asked, “What is it?”

“Ah, it’s nothing much,” he said dismissively. “Just wondering if you still thought of yourself as Andrastian after everything that happened with your family.”

Amrita exhaled slowly, and half to herself said, “Ishek really meant it when he said that the news the Trevelyans had brought a mage into the world got around.” She turned to look at him. “Why does everyone remember that? It was sixteen years ago; surely more interesting things happened. In Ostwick, I can imagine it remained widely-known, but elsewhere?”

Varric shrugged. “Mages being taken away from their families is pretty standard, and though the Trevelyans have a reputation for devotion it wouldn’t have stuck with me; I was just getting into my stride as an author then. I think it was more the way the news came out; I remember the ensuing political shitstorm from that ball in Tantervale pissing my father off because it wrecked business plans he’d been laying down in the other Marcher states for months. I probably wouldn’t have made the connection if Leliana hadn’t asked. And,” he added, “you still haven’t answered my indirect question.”

If it was indirect, then it was not a question and therefore I was under no obligation to answer, she thought. What she said out loud was: “I believe in the Maker, and try to live my life in the way taught by the Chant.”

“And yet you can’t believe you’re the Herald of Andraste? Even with the woman seen behind you in the rift?”

This time, it was Amrita’s turn to shrug. “I am a mage,” she said simply. Thankfully he did not pry any further, and so she was able to change the topic. “Varric ― you said you ran a spy network?”

“Oh, so you were listening!”

She frowned. “Of course I was. It would have been rude not to, and your stories were…” She trailed off, searching for the right word and not finding it. They kept my mind from wandering to unpleasant places.

“Fantastic? Epic? Diverting?”

“All of the above,” she answered with a weak smile, and was rewarded with a grin from Varric.

“Now you, are a woman with sense on her shoulders, I can just tell. I think we’re going to get along just fine. Now ― what about spies?”

Amrita threaded her fingers together anxiously in her lap and stared down at them. “I would not wish to presume that this was within your network’s scope, nor even to take advantage of y―”

“Spit it out.”

“I―” She paused as she formulated her request in her head. “There are people I wish to contact, to inform them of the deaths of their family or friends at the Conclave.”

“Who?”

“Well ― for starters, my own family and the Circle, although I suppose Sister Leliana has already sent word to them. Then, the mercenary group of Tal-Vashoth that Ishek and Katari were from – I think they will still be in Ferelden – and Faolán and Ffion’s clan in the Free Marches―” She stopped as sorrow constricted her throat, and she forced herself to breathe in and out slowly. Varric waited calmly for her to continue. “Then – much as I disliked her, Serun Cadash’s fam―”

“Cadash?” Varric interrupted. “The Carta family? What were they doing at the Conclave?”

“Seeing the Divine and spying, I suppose,” Amrita answered. “And― Well, I suppose a message has already been sent about Magister Tiberius’s murder, and now I think about it the family is probably entirely uninterested in the death of a slave, so never mind that. What?” she asked, noticing that the dwarf’s face had gone stony.

“You… mentioned the magister. And slaves.”

“Yes.”

“I… think you had better come with me. Once you’re ready to move, of course.”

~~~

“Dungeons?” Amrita asked. “In a chantry?”

“Clearly, you’ve never been to Kirkwall,” Varric replied drily.

“I have, actually,” she responded, peering around at the dark, dank space. “But only Low Town, the docks and Gallows.”

The dwarf whistled. “You, a mage, went into the Gallows and made it out alive?”

“I had the invitation to the Conclave. My uncle was the knight-captain who saw me and Faolán. They had to let us go.” She did not go any further into explaining the circumstances of the visit; the words of her family still twisted her heart painfully. In part, she was not ready to open herself up that much; also, her attention had also been caught by the sight of a group of dark-skinned elves, maybe six or seven of them, huddled and shivering under a pile of blankets in the largest cell she could see. Something in their colouring and features made her think of poor, dead Virrevas, and it took her a moment to find the breath to ask, “What is the reason for those elves being here?”

Varric tsked. “Well, you know that magister you mentioned? Those elves? His slaves. It’s blatantly obvious to anyone with an ounce of brain left that they couldn’t have done it, but, you know the drill: no other suspects, slaves have motive and opportunity, and there you go: elves in the gibbet.”

Amrita sighed, having worked it out at the word ‘magister’. She approached the cell cautiously and stopped at what she hoped was a non-threatening distance. The elves eyed her with suspicion, and pulled themselves protectively around an adolescent in the middle of the group. She did not fault them for it; not when she was fairly sure she knew what had happened to the girl, and not when she considered that she was a human with a staff strapped to her back who had been seen speaking to their former master.

“Leliana has some agents who speak Tevene, but these guys aren’t making it any easier on themselves by refusing to say who did do it.”

Acknowledging him with a nod, Amrita crouched down and fixed her gaze on the girl in the elves’ midst. Maybe fourteen summers. Fenedhis. “Lerahel?”

The girl flinched back as though struck.

Amrita raised her hands in a peaceful gesture. “Dirth… elven?” she tried. When Lerahel only continued to stare with wide, panicked eyes, Amrita broke eye contact and looked around at the other slaves. “Virrevas? Ma falon?”

The name provoked a reaction. The elves shifted, ears twitching, ready for something – athough she knew not what.

Finally, the girl spoke, lips barely moving. “Ma falon. Var falon?” The other elves twisted and stared at her, perhaps shocked that she had spoken.

“Var falon,” Amrita replied, throat constricted. She cursed herself for not having had the courage to ask Faolán to teach her more Elven before the Void-taken figure she had seen in the Temple had killed him. She was guessing at words as she choked them out. “Din. Din’an. Virrevas, Faolán, Ffion… They walk with Falon’din. Ir abelas.”

Lerahel buried her head in her blanket and began sobbing. Some of the slaves tried to comfort her, while others glared at Amrita as she stood up, weary and trembling.

She turned to Varric, who was regarding her thoughtfully. “I know who killed Magister Tiberius,” she said. “Who do I need to talk to?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know if it’s under Haven’s jurisdiction or not, but we can try talking to Leliana about it. And about finding those people you mentioned, too; she’s the better spymaster of the two of us.”

That took Amrita aback for a moment, but then she nodded. “We’ll do that, and then―” She pressed a hand to her forehead as the room suddenly span.

“You alright, Doc?” Varric asked.

She hummed an unconvincing affirmative, and then started back up to the hall.

They were unable to find either the Seeker or the spymaster, so Varric took her back to the house she had been staying in and then left with the promise of having both food and Leliana sent to her.

Amrita must have ended up dozing, for the next thing she knew was that she was being roused by a servant bearing dinner. She had just started to eat when a voice from the doorway said, “Varric told me you know something about the magister’s murder.”

Or at least, that was what Amrita assumed the voice said, as she had choked on her bread roll at the first word and started coughing violently. She felt someone move over and pat her back, and when she finally looked up, eyes watering, she found the hooded sister standing over her.

“That was an inopportune time to speak; I apologise,” Leliana said.

Amrita nodded, swallowed and coughed weakly again. “Apology accepted,” she wheezed. “And yes. I know who killed him.”

And so, in between bites of her dinner, Amrita told Leliana how she had met the magister on the ship from Kirkwall; their agreement for her to mind Virrevas; and her fellow companions’ determination to ensure the elf never had to go back to him, as well as their strategy to ensure Amrita did not spoil their plan with her conscience. Through all this, Leliana listened without any change of expression.

When Amrita finally ran out of things to say, Leliana finally spoke. “I will look into this,” she promised. “I have no more wish for innocents to be targeted than you do. Varric also mentioned contacting people; if you prepare your messages and descriptions of where and to whom they need to go, I will do my best.”

“Thank you, Sister Leliana,” Amrita said, inclining her head.

“You are welcome, Lady Trevelyan.”

Amrita flinched.

“You said you were from the Ostwick Circle, yes?” the spymaster said, the question rhetorical. “I sent a raven there to make enquiries, in part in an effort to identify you, and in part gathering information when you still seemed to be a likely-guilty party in the explosion. You understand, I am sure.” Amrita nodded dumbly. “First Enchanter Filal was very cooperative in providing your background and a character reference, as well as confirming that you were in attendance as a delegate,” Leliana went on, pulling out an envelope from her pocket, “and she also wrote a letter addressed directly to you.” Passing the envelope to Amrita, she paused to give her time to read it.

The wax seal on the envelope was already broken – Of course the spymaster has read it – and so Amrita slid the parchment out carefully. A half-smile came to her lips as she recognised the spidery handwriting she had read for so many years as Filal’s assistant, and, aware of Leliana’s appraising gaze on her, she read on.

Amrita, my dear child, it started.

We saw the green light appear in the sky on Wintersend’s morn and feared the worst. Now Sister Nightingale has told us of the Breach and the destruction of the Conclave, we are preparing ourselves for any backlash from the templars or the city. Knowledge of your survival has lifted many hearts a little, and you should have heard the outcry when I told the others you were a suspect in the matter.

Abatha and the other apprentices, of course, insist that their scarf protected you. I have done nothing to dissuade them.

That provoked a real smile from Amrita, and she caught the end of the grey fabric between her fingers.

I have told Sister Nightingale all I can about you in my efforts to assuage her concerns. I did, of course, explain my reasons for sending you to the Conclave, including your family ties, strong Andrastian beliefs, and all the good things I see in you. I am sure she will similarly see the potential political links these things will make that could help in whatever role you take in assisting. She did not explain everything that happened, but I gather that there is some way in which you may be able to help. I know that you will do everything in your power to be of use.

I am arranging for your staff to be sent to Haven; I do not know the state of your weaponry, but no enchanter should be without her staff in a situation like this.

I hope to hear from you soon. We are all proud of you, and praying for your success.

With love,
Filal Althaus, First Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle, on the 3rd day of Guardian, 9:41 Dragon.

Underneath were other assorted signatures: Abatha, Den, Prins, Silas, Manda, Brionne... When Amrita looked back up, a weight in her stomach like homesickness and the fear of failure, Leliana’s head was tilted to one side. Amrita asked slowly, “Sister Leliana… When I was found, was― Was there a journal attached to my belt? I could not find it when I woke, and…” She trailed off.

The older woman shook her head. “There was nothing more than your potion and herb pouches. Regarding your title,” she said, changing topic, “I understand that you dislike being referred to as nobility, but I shall warn you now that you will likely have to get used to it; it may be an important part of how the people of Thedas perceive you. And of course, regardless of whether you believe you are the Herald, you will have to become accustomed to that as well. Those who do not call you Herald will have to call you by some respectful name due to your position within the Inquisition.”

“Fenedhis,” Amrita swore, feeling herself shaking. “Sister Leliana, please – can I at least be granted the kindness of being referred to by my first name, if I must be called noble? My name is Amrita, and that is all I should be called in private. Lady Amrita as a title… I could grow to tolerate, but I am no longer a Trevelyan. By blood I may be, but I have been disavowed by all of the family.” She hung her head. “You know my situation, if what Filal wrote was comprehensive, and I do not doubt it was. I do not wish to cause you trouble, and I am grateful for all you have done for me, but if you could even just do this when we are out of the public eye―” Her throat closed up again and she hugged herself tightly. Her eyes burned, she was babbling and making no sense, she was being ridiculous, she should just get her act together and deal with it―

“I think I could manage that, Lady Amrita,” Leliana answered softly. Amrita’s head snapped up, and she saw the older woman was looking at her with just the faintest hint of a smile curling her lips. “In public I must maintain your visage, but in private it is no trouble to call you Lady Amrita. I can pass that on to Cassandra and the others, if you would like.”

It took a few moments for the muscles in Amrita’s neck to unlock, but when they did she nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

Leliana nodded. “Then I shall bid you farewell, and leave you to your rest. Should you need me again, speak to one of my agents; they can be identified by their green hoods and scarves.” And before Amrita could utter another word, the spymaster swept out of the room in perfect silence.

Amrita sat still for a few minutes, processing and trying to stop herself from hyperventilating.

Then she bit her hand again and screamed into it.

~~~

After a further five days of being cooped up in the village, Amrita felt wretched. Her thoughts were scattered and disjointed; she seemed to be permanently shaking; and she was sick of the scrutiny she came under every time she left the house. She was even fed up of Varric’s presence, and bless him, he was trying.

Cassandra and Leliana were understandably busy. Solas was nowhere to be found, having left the village the morning after he spoke to her, and so she had not yet been able to put her friends to rest. A steady trickle of new people either stared at her in fear or awe when she went out with Varric, and even those brave enough to talk with her spoke with such deference that she came away from each conversation feeling nauseous.

She had asked if she could at least make herself useful, helping to heal those injured in the efforts to get her to the Breach, but she was told that Solas had left strict instructions for her to avoid using magic for a few days, in case it made a difference to the mark on her hand (if it did, Amrita couldn’t tell). Every night was spent battling demons who wished to use her as a gateway through the Veil. And to top it off, she still seemed unable to cry, though her eyes itched with unshed tears.

Her only consolation was that she had been able to write to Clan Lavellan, Tully, Nathan and Seth, although of course now she had to wait for responses. She had briefly considered writing to Laurel, and then dismissed the notion; he had made his position clear three years ago.

She had taken to wearing gloves, even at night, both to cover the mark’s light and to stop anyone seeing where she had repeatedly bitten her hand. She could have healed the latter, but some unfamiliar, masochistic part of her told her not to. Plus, it would have gone against Solas’s instructions.

Amrita had sent Varric away that day and stayed in the house, telling him that he should not have to put up with her bad temper. It was now the middle of the night before the Inquisition would be declared officially and she would be allowed back into the proceedings. She lay awake, fighting the tiredness in an effort to avoid fighting demons, and hating the tension that gripped her body. Staring into the darkness above her bed, she had nothing but her thoughts and the unintelligible whispers of the compassion spirits to fill her weary, foggy mind.

No matter the people’s beliefs, you are not the Herald of Andraste.

You are a mage.

You are cursed.

You survived through sheer luck.

You cannot fight.

You cannot handle politics.

You are going to fuck up so badly.

You are one of the worst possible candidates to assume a position of power and responsibility.

You would probably be better off if you had just stayed asleep and died.

You could still ―

“No!” she snapped into the stillness. I promised myself I would not give up, or give in to the demons. Then, with little more in her head but that thought, she pushed her aching body up, pulled off the gloves so her cold fingers could fumble with the awful clothes and boots she had been given and then, once dressed, put the gloves back on, grabbed the staff she had found in the Valley and stumbled out into the frigid Ferelden night.

There was nobody around at this hour that she could see, and so she headed straight for the gates to the village. Fresh snow crunched beneath her boots and starlight twinkled off the powdery white. The chill burned her lungs and bit her nose, and rather than bury her face in her scarf she relished the pain, feeling alive for the first time in days.

She stepped into the shadow of the wall and was just studying the mechanisms keeping the gate shut when a voice called out, “Ho there! Who goes?”

Amrita stayed very still for a few moments, watching the torchlight play on the surface in front of her as the guards came closer. Fuck. Shit. Fenedhis. This could hardly be interpreted as anything other than an escape attempt. It will get back to Leliana, and Seeker Pentaghast. Then she exhaled slowly, so slowly, and turned around, pulling the glove off her left hand.

The guardswoman gasped. “Herald!” she exclaimed. “You know you’re not s’pposed to be out by y’self!”

“I know, Bertha, I know,” Amrita said as she recognised the guard. “And Timaeus,” she said to her patrol partner. “I just ― I needed fresh air, and it was hardly as though there was someone I could ask to accompany me.”

Timaeus grunted, tapping his forelock. “I’m surprised you got as far as you did, Your Worship; Sam and Jean should have been outside the house.”

‘Your Worship.’ Where did she even start with that one?

He gestured with the torch. “I’m afraid we’ll have to escort you back.”

Amrita shut her eyes and counted to ten. “I understand,” she finally said. “But – if I swear upon Andraste that I will stay there until morning, or at least not leave unaccompanied – can I go to the chantry? I― I―” she fumbled for the words that might get what she wanted. “I must ― spend some time in prayer before Andraste,” she blurted out, “asking for her guidance in the work she has placed upon my shoulders.” It is not untrue, she consoled herself.

The guards looked at each other.

“Understandable, innit?” Bertha said. “Tough job ahead. Needs all the help she can get, does our Herald.”

Timaeus sighed. “On your head be it, Bertha, if we get into trouble. Your Worship?”

“Thank you both,” Amrita said sincerely, though she was thinking, You manipulative little shit, Amrita.

The three of them were silent as they trudged up to the chantry. Another pair of guards stood outside the chantry, and although they were startled by Amrita’s unexpected appearance, they opened up the door while Timaeus instructed them to keep her there unless she was accompanied by someone else. Then he and Bertha bade her goodnight, and she was shut inside the dim hall.

The place was devoid of waking life. The only thing that moved was the fire in the torches; the only sound was her laboured, panicky breathing.

A sister could come in at any moment, she thought. Where’s― There was a private chapel, she remembered, having briefly seen it on a second visit to the building with Varric to check that the elven slaves were being properly treated. She headed straight for it, shoving the door open and sighing in relief as she saw a statue of the maternal Andraste, face thrown into sharp relief by the Eternal Flame and the flickering candles. She almost tripped the last few steps, past the pews, and then knelt in front of Andraste’s feet. Placing her staff in front of her, Amrita let herself sag, and spent some time staring at her knees, feeling her breathing even out.

As her diaphragm came back under control, she found the words of the first song Laurel had taught her after Dawn had left coming to mind. She let them out, ignoring the rasp in her voice that came with exhaustion and a lack of practice.

“Shadows fall, and hope has fled;
Steel your heart: the dawn will come.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky, for one day soon
The dawn will come.”

As the last note faded, she gasped air back into her lungs. “Will it, though?” she asked the statue in front of her. “Will it? Maker, every time it seems as though you will let me have some happiness in my life, you take it from me: my family, Ema’an, my work in the alienage, my students, my friends―” She broke off, gulping as she recovered from her tirade. “Maker, am I here because you will it to be so? Has my life been leading to this point? Or is this just some sick punish―”

There was a cough behind her.

Amrita shrieked. Snatching up her staff she staggered upright and span, throwing up a barrier automatically.

Sitting on the back bench, almost in the shadows of the corner where he would have been hidden by the door as she entered, was a vaguely familiar man looking rather embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “I was in here and then you came in and started singing and― Well, that was rather nice, actually, but― Well, I didn’t want to disturb you, and then you started talking and I realised far too late that I was intruding and― Maker’s breath, don’t start crying, please―”

Amrita dropped her staff and clapped a hand to her face just in time to stifle the first sob. Her legs gave way beneath her, and she had to catch herself on the edge of a pew.

“Lady Amrita!”

Fuck. Of course he knows who I am, she cursed in her head, unable to get out words between the sobs even if she had been inclined to swear audibly.

“Come on; let’s get you sat down.” A moment later an arm caught her around her waist and tugged her up; then she was gently maneuvered around and down onto a seat. She let herself rest her elbows on her knees so she could properly bury her head in her hands and cry. The deluge of tears, building up for days, crashed over her like a flash flood. Her diaphragm fluttered, her breaths came too short and shallow, and the force of the tears made her muscles ache as they shook.

At some point, something warm and heavy was draped over her; she could feel fur tickling at the skin exposed between her hairline and her scarf. She sensed the man crouch down beside her, and she pulled herself in tighter, afraid to be seen as weak despite it already being far too late.

“Lady Amrita,” he said in a low, patient voice, “I am sorry for distressing you. You are in a safe place. You are in the Haven chantry, in Ferelden. You will come to no harm here. Would you like me to try to help you?”

It took Amrita several seconds to process his question. She almost shook her head, ashamed, but since she could feel no respite coming in her grief, and she was starting to feel dizzy from a lack of air, she jerkily nodded.

“Good. We’ll get you through this. I am here. I will do my best to help you. If you need something, tell me. For now, concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present. I’m going to count slowly to ten a few times. Join in when you can. One… Two… Three…”

It reminded Amrita so much of her own techniques for calming others that she gave a short, wet laugh and then ended up choking on her spittle, making her cough violently. He thumped her on the back until the coughing subsided, and he was on his fourth cycle of the numbers by the time Amrita managed to start joining in. Slowly, the sobbing became exhausted gasps and sniffles between numbers.

“You’re doing very well,” he praised her. “When you’re ready, tell me what you need now.”

“I―” Her voice cracked, and she pulled a face as she wiped at her eyes and nose. Her vision was still blurred by tears, and she flinched back as a hand holding a square of white appeared in front of her.

“I have a handkerchief, if you need one.”

Her vision was obscured by a piece of fabric being waved in her face. “Cloth. For wiping tears and nose,” Faolán grunted. “I do not know your word for it.”

With a half-swallowed wail, Amrita began crying again with renewed vigour. She could hear the man making confused apologies, and even as she sat and sobbed she felt appalling for causing this kind person trouble.

A few minutes later, she was able to reach out and take the handkerchief and start to mop herself up. “I ap-p-pologise, serah,” she mumbled in between blowing her nose. “I j-just ―”

“You don’t need to explain,” he interrupted her. She glanced up, and found him gazing sternly, though not harshly, at her. “I caught you off guard when you were emotionally vulnerable. I am sorry for that,” he repeated, eyes darting away from her face. “Forgive me.”

She took a moment to study his face; it was handsome in a rugged way, she supposed, with a scar over his lip, short unruly blonde curls and a serious case of stubble, but it also showed the man’s weariness in the mauve under his golden eyes and the lines creasing the skin. She breathed out slowly. “Of course, serah,” she murmured. “Forgive me for intruding upon your own time with our lady.”

He snorted softly. “I could not sleep,” he confessed.

“Nor I,” Amrita replied. “Or at least―” She cut herself off, wary of exposing herself to this man.

“You did not wish to,” he finished for her, eyes sad and understanding as he looked back up at her. “Nightmares?” When she did not answer him, he continued, “I would not blame you. Maker only knows what happened to you that night at the Conclave.” He shut his eyes, expression pained. “This past decade, so many tragedies have struck Thedas it’s a wonder anyone sleeps peacefully at night.”

Amrita did not know how to respond; instead, she quietly said, “Thank you. That― You really helped.” She could feel her face heating up as she admitted it.

He smiled ruefully at that. “Well― You don’t reach a commanding position without helping your fair share of recruits through panic or anxiety. And I― Um.” He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

Realisation dawned on Amrita. “Oh,” she whispered. “You are the commander. I’m― I am sorry, I did not―”

“No need to apologise,” he cut her off again. “We only met for a moment on the field. I have to say, I’m pleased you survived. But,” he added, changing topic, “what were you doing out of the house?” He stood up, wincing as he straightened. Amrita felt her eyes widen as she realised just how high he towered over her, and she felt a familiar twinge of fear that she would face some kind of punishment for her behaviour. She managed to resist the urge to reach for Ema’an’s necklace, or touch the scars that broke her eyebrow in three. “Between Leliana’s men and mine, you shouldn’t have been able to escape. Were the guards slacking off?”

“I― I do not know,” Amrita answered. “I just― I needed to get out, and―” She stopped herself as she felt her chest constrict with claustrophobia, closing her mouth as she focused on bringing her breath back under control. Eventually, she said, “Bertha and Timaeus stopped me by the gates, and agreed to bring me here if I swore I would not leave.”

The commander grunted. “I'll follow that up in the morning.” There was a brief pause. “If you wish to stay, you would be welcome to join me in my vigil.”

A tiny smile twitched Amrita’s lips. “Thank you, Commander. I think I would rather be here than in the house.”

He nodded, and stepped over her feet to sit his giant form on the bench next to her. She closed her eyes and leaned back, still engulfed in his cloak. Drained and empty, Amrita felt calmer than she had in days, although she still ached from her tears and the grief that still lay heavy on her heart.

Absently, she started humming a tune. She did not know the words, and it took her until the second verse to realise it was the same song Faolán had sung the night before― Before― She swallowed, interrupting the melody briefly, before continuing. When she had finished, she fought briefly against the feelings of exhaustion, warmth and security, before finally drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Cullen listened to the Herald’s breathing even out until each inhalation was coloured with just the suggestion of a snore. The steady sound of another living creature – one under his protection, no less – helped to ground him as his body and mind fought over his lyrium withdrawal. The list of ailments that afflicted him seemed near-endless, as did the deep, dark ache for the drug he had imbibed over the course of almost twelve years. He was getting to grips with faking through the pain during the daylight hours, but it was when he retired for the night that his hard-won self control collapsed.

Massaging the skin around his eyes, he wearily looked at the girl – no, young woman – beside him. Tonight was the first time he had seen her since Leliana’s men had carried her deathly-still form down from the temple. In all honestly, the poor thing hardly looked any better now, the lines and marks of grief and exhaustion clear on her pale, sleeping face.

Leliana had, of course, dug up frightening amounts of information on Amrita Trevelyan, but only shared the bare minimum of it: the fifth and youngest child of the bann of Ostwick; sent to the Circle aged eight, the unusually young age indicating great magical potential that she had chosen to invest in the rare art of spirit healing; obliging, quiet, devout; amiable, but without close friends; granted the title of ‘enchanter’ after volunteering as a doctor in the local alienage and furthering studies of how mundane treatments could supplement magical ones.

She was twenty-four. It was only a five year gap between them, but the woman looked very young and fragile. Her freckled face was framed by dark, loose curls, and although her colouring was clearly northern – perhaps Antivan blood, or even Tevinter – Cullen couldn’t help but think of his own sisters, whose wretched, tangled, glorious gold manes of hair had been their pride and joy. Harassing Cullen to liven them up even further with braids and ribbons and flowers had been a favourite pastime of the girls.

Rosalie would be the same age as Amrita now. What did she look like? What did any of them look like? Seventeen years since he left, and his memories were becoming fuzzy, selective. Some days, it was hard to remember more than impressions of their rosy cheeks, how their small hands had sought their eldest brother’s protection, and the way they had laughed. It was nigh on impossible to imagine his siblings as adults, Mia aside – at fourteen, she had already been quite grown up, and it was she who had taken it upon herself to keep in touch. Were Branson’s wife and newborn son really as beautiful as Mia reported in her letters? Somehow he didn’t doubt it, but he couldn’t picture it.

He shook his head to clear the thoughts and refocused on the Herald as she whimpered softly in her sleep.

I’m hardly surprised, Cullen thought. With whatever happened at the Conclave, it’s no wonder Varric’s reports about you were worrying. Being cooped up seems to have made things worse, so maybe you’ll improve soon. I’m just glad you’ve had something of a chance to let it out. Maker knows – I know – it’s unhealthy to bottle that up. Not that I’m good at doing what’s healthy, he admitted to himself with a snort, pushing himself up. Out loud, he said, “We’ve got a big day in the morning, and if you are going to sleep I see no reason for you to suffer through it with a crick in your neck.”

After a moment’s deliberation on how best to move her, Cullen scooped up the Herald, still engulfed in his cloak. She stirred and mumbled something incoherent – Daddar? – into his shirt, but settled down again.

Cullen felt a protective urge rise through his chest as he carried the petite, fragile mage through the chantry and out through the heavy doors. The guards stationed outside the building were startled when he emerged, although they quickly snapped to attention. He nodded sharply at them and then continued, aware of their gazes on him and the Herald.

The guards outside the house saw them coming and were the picture of perfection as he trudged up the steps.

At least, until one of them realised who he was carrying, and quietly whimpered, “Oh fuck.”

Cullen ignored them – for now – and entered the house. There was enough moonlight from the windows for him to be able to see in the gloom, but after he had put Lady Amrita down on her bed he used one of the smouldering logs in the fireplace to light a torch. Once it was held firm in a bracket, he returned to her and, as gently as he could, started to work off her boots and coat.

He needn’t have worried, as she was asleep like a log.

He had removed her gloves and was just easing her right hand under the quilt when he felt disruptions marring the dry, chapped skin under his fingertips. Forehead tightening in consternation, he delicately lifted it back into the torchlight.

In an imperfect ring around the thumb knuckle of her right hand, there were bite marks. Not just imprints of teeth, though there were some of those, but places where the skin had broken, bled and scabbed over. The skin around them was pink and raw and bruised.

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen swore. “How hard did she have to bite to puncture―” He cut himself off. He could understand that some people felt compelled to self-harm, but actually seeing it – and he had seen it before – made him feel sick. There was one time when any such marks on a mage would have had him on alert for blood magic, but now―

He sighed heavily, trying to ignore the tightness in his gut. “You’re going to need some looking after, aren’t you? But that’s what we’re here for. You fix the world, and maybe we can help you.”

Moving his gaze from her hand to her face, he scowled at the ragged scars trisecting her eyebrow. They were roughly aligned, like claw marks, but too jagged to be the clean downward swipe of an animal. Almost on a whim, he reached out his own hand to hover above her cheekbone, trying to work it out.

It wasn’t until he turned his hand over that he realised they matched up perfectly with a back-handed slap.

With metal gauntlets.

Much like the ones most templars wore.

His stomach went cold.

Please don’t let it have been one of her keepers, he found himself praying. Maker watch over us both.

With that thought, he finished tucking her in, put his cloak back on, and exited the house as quietly as he could.

Without looking at the guards either side of him, he snapped, “I want to see everyone on the night watch outside the village at dawn. Am I clear?”

“Yes ser!” they barked.

“Good.” And without another word, he stomped off back to the chantry.

~~~

Not taking lyrium certainly provided Cullen with more ill-temper than ever before, and although he was getting good at reigning it in, it meant he had plenty of vitriol to spit when his soldiers were deliberately disobeying orders. What had those idiots been thinking, slipping off for a shag while on guard duty? The pair were now on latrine-digging duties for the rest of the month, and Cullen was fairly sure nobody would be messing around like that in the near future.

Chewing out done, he strode back into the village and stopped by the mess tents to break his fast. Once he had spoken with some of the recruits and eased one of the pains gnawing at his insides that he could control, he returned to the chantry, where he was sharing quarters with the Herald’s other advisers-to-be: Sister Leliana, the spymaster, and Lady Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador. He passed through the fussing in the main hall without incident, ignored by sisters and servants alike save for avoiding his tall bulk, and was about to enter the side room when he noticed the door was ajar and heard a recently familiar, pleading voice.

“Please,” the Herald was saying. “I understand you have been given a task, I understand. But please. Just― Just back off.”

“But Lady Trevelyan―”

Cullen chose this moment to push the door fully open. “Good morning, Lady Amrita,” he greeted the Herald, who sat in the centre of the room, hugging herself while surrounded by servants. “I just came to get my things. Is everything alright?”

She stared at him for a moment, eyes wide in surprise and face still wan with exhaustion. He could see the muscles working in her neck as she tried to answer, but one of the servants got there first.

“Lady Josephine and Sister Nightingale asked us ensure the ‘erald is ready for ‘er debut as a figure’ead of the Inquisition,” she said with a thick Orlesian accent. The Herald dropped her eyes back down to her lap. “She ‘as acquiesced to the outfit after we found a way to integrate the scarf, but when we try to make ‘er ‘air presentable she insists on wearing silver threads.”

The other servants shook their heads despairingly, and Cullen crossed his arms. “I fail to see the problem.”

“Commander,” another one said, “it is not the current fashion. In Orlais―”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, we are not in Orlais; nor is Lady Amrita Orlesian,” Cullen cut in, barely keeping his tone civil. An argument over clothes and hair was not what he needed – nor did it seem like what the Herald needed. “I don’t see why she can’t choose how to do her own hair.”

“But Commander,” the first servant said, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Braided ‘air with threads is… well, it is the Dalish fashion.”

The Herald buried her head in her hands and muttered something Cullen suspected was both Elven and obscene. That’s… unusual.

He took pity on her. “Out,” he ordered, holding the door open for them in a very deliberate manner. “If Sister Nightingale or the ambassador complains, you can blame me.” When the servants still hesitated, he repeated himself, letting the long-suffering growl into his voice. “Out.”

They scurried out, and a moment later he and the Herald were alone in the room. Cullen shut the door. She did not raise her head, but after a few moments of silence she pulled her gloved hands from her face and murmured, “Thank you, Commander.”

“Those threads seem important to you,” he said carefully, looking away as he dug through the chest at the end of his bed for his ceremonial sword.

She hummed softly in acknowledgement. “I― I travelled with Dalish to the Conclave,” she admitted. “And Tal-Vashoth.” Cullen felt his back stiffen at the words, but if she noticed she carried on regardless. “They were good people. Friends.” Even without looking, he could hear the tears in her voice. She sniffed. “The threads were ― were a gift from one. A― A sign that I was a shemlen he could trust.”

When she did not continue, Cullen looked back up. Her eyes were on him as she wove the threads into a single thin plait at the side of her head. She had removed her gloves, and he could see the light from the mark, though not the bite wounds from his angle.

Eyes on the green glow in the palm of her left hand, he asked, “Does it bother you?”

“The casual disgust towards anything elvish?” she queried. “Of course it does.”

“No, I meant― Well, obviously that should bother you,” he backtracked a little, not wanting to seem callous though he was sure he would be out of his depth in a discussion on the topic. “I meant the mark.”

She picked up a hairbrush and smoothed her curly, auburn hair back into a ponytail that cascaded down the back of her head. The change of hand position brought the bites back into view, and it was all Cullen could do not to stare. “Not really,” she mumbled, securing her locks with a tie. “It tickles, and the Breach tugs it. And it glows, so I keep gloves on at night.” With those words, she pulled her gloves back on. “Did you take me back to the house last night?”

“I did,” he answered, straightening up. “I know you said you would rather be in the chantry, but you fell asleep and all things considered, I thought it best if your body at least was comfortable even if your mind was occupied in… less pleasant situations.”

She grimaced. “You were probably right.” Her eyes darted away. “I am truly sorry for any inconvenience I caused you last night. You were… very kind to me, and I greatly appreciate it.”

Cullen laughed drily. “I am glad my own lack of sleep allowed me to assist you, Lady Amrita. The only inconvenience caused was by your inadvertent flagging up of men slacking off; and I can assure you, those guards will not make the same mistake again.” She closed her eyes, wincing at that, and did not reply. “Is something the matter?”

“Did you tell anyone?” she blurted out suddenly, before clapping her hands over her mouth.

“About your escape attempt? Not that you were intending to leave permanently, I’m sure,” he hurried to reassure her as he saw her face crumple. “I suspect Leliana knows, but Leliana seems to know everything.”

“Even― Even about―” Her voice caught in her throat, and her eyes flicked up to him, and then in the direction of the chapel.

Expression softening, Cullen replied gently, “I would not tell anyone what transpired in a private conversation unless I was truly concerned that my silence would lead to someone being hurt. So no; unless Leliana had spies in the room, she does not know what happened, other than that you entered the chantry, and later left, carried by myself.”

The Herald’s shoulders shook as she exhaled. “Thank you. That is… a huge relief.”

He nodded. “I do hope you sleep better in future, Lady Amrita,” he told her, “though I understand that it may be difficult. I often have sleepless nights,” Cullen admitted cautiously, trying to make an offer without sounding pushy, “and I usually come before our lady when I do.”

She tilted her head to one side, and then closed her eyes slowly, nodding. “Similarly, Commander, I hope you sleep better in future.”

There came a sharp rap at the door. The Herald made an undignified squeak and jumped half an inch off the chair. As she caught Cullen's eyes from under his raised brows she went bright red.

“Amrita! Curly!” came Varric’s voice. “They’re waiting for you!”

~~~

The ceremony was, thankfully, short. The Herald was chivvied along, no time even given to introduce her advisers – Cullen was sure that she and Lady Montilyet had not yet met, from the way she eyed up the Antivan – and just before she was nudged outside she pushed her shoulders back, clasped her hands behind her, and scrunched up her face before leaving a calm, neutral expression on it.

Then they were out on the steps, Cassandra inspecting and presenting the troops before joining the quartet. There was a heavy whap from behind them from the Inquisition banner as it was released from the top of the chantry; the Herald flinched at the noise.

Cullen took half a step forward. “My lady,” he murmured, concerned.

She turned her head very slightly, just enough to look at him from the corner of her eye, and nodded.

After a mercifully short speech from Lady Montilyet and a brief rallying of the troops by Cassandra, the five of them retreated back into the warmth of the chantry. As they headed for the recently-designated war room, Cullen could hear Cassandra informing the Herald that Solas believed that a second attempt at sealing the Breach, this time with more power, might succeed.

“Couldn’t that kind of power just make things worse?” the Herald asked timidly.

Cassandra laughed. “And people call me a pessimist.”

The advisers arrayed themselves on the opposite side of the table from the Herald: Cullen in the centre, Lady Montilyet to his left and Leliana to his right. The Herald’s gaze flickered from one to the other, although it seemed to linger on the Antivan and her blue and gold finery.

The Seeker finally took the time to do the introductions. “You’ve met Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

Cullen smiled faintly and nodded. He was rewarded with a faint pinching of her eyebrows, as though she were trying to recall something. Then she collected herself and returned the smile.

“This is Lady Josephine Montilyet, our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“I’ve heard much,” the woman said by way of greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

The Herald bit her lip at that, but inclined her head politely, eyes dropping to the floor.

“And of course you know Sister Leliana.”

The hooded woman shifted gracefully. “My position here involves a degree of…”

“She is our spymaster,” the Seeker filled in.

“Yes. Tactfully put, Cassandra.” The words were sarcastic, but there was no venom behind them; Cullen knew the pair had worked together for many years now, and so was unconcerned by their trading of sharp words. They even provoked a twitch in the Herald’s lips.

Bending at the waist in a shallow but definite bow, the Herald demurely said, “A pleasure to meet you all.”

Cassandra wasted no time in moving onto business. “I mentioned that your mark needs more power to close the Breach for good.”

“Which means,” Leliana immediately continued, “we must approach the rebel mages for help.”

Cullen held in a sigh; he had known exactly what she would say. He understood that she was Mira Surana’s lover – it had surprised him, almost, how little it bothered him, considering the obsession he had once had with the elven mage – but Leliana had also seen the worst that magic could do. She had been there in Kinloch Hold when Alistair and Mira had stormed it, when they had found Cullen trapped and weakened from days of torment―

“And I still disagree,” he said out loud, swallowing back the memories. “The templars could serve just as well.” They had spoken of it over the previous days and made no headway in the argument; he suspected it would end in stalemate again, but at least today he was making his position known to the Herald. She had templars in her family – ranging from dubiously-motivated zealots to exemplary members of the Order – so perhaps she would see sense.

The Seeker did not hold in her sigh. “We need power, Commander. Enough magic poured into that mark―”

“Might destroy us all,” he interrupted. She, too, knew what magic could be turned to; she, too, had a― had had a mage lover. He hoped it wasn’t clouding her judgement, and that she could be swayed by reason. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so―”

“Pure speculation.” Leliana’s dismissal was firm and almost patronising.

“I was a templar,” he asserted. Although he was frowning at Leliana, he dimly registered the Seeker’s head snapping around to look at the Herald. “I know what they’re capable of.”

“Unfortunately, neither group will even speak to us yet.” Ever the voice of reason, Lady Montilyet spoke up to divert the pair from the familiar dance. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition ― and you, specifically,” the Antivan added, gesturing with her pen tip to the Herald.

Cullen let his gaze return to the Herald, and was surprised to note that she had gone even paler, if that were possible. Her eyes were on the floor, and she rubbed at the scars through her right eyebrow. When she did look up, it was at Lady Montilyet. “They still think I am guilty,” she said, tone resigned.

“That is not the entirety of it any longer.”

The Herald shut her eyes as eloquently as any groan of despair.

“Some are calling you – a mage – the ‘Herald of Andraste’. That frightens the Chantry.” When the Herald nodded, Lady Montilyet continued, “The remaining clerics have declared it blasphemy, and we heretics for harbouring you.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra commented bitterly.

The ambassador went on. “It limits our options. Approaching the mages or templars for help is currently out of the question.”

The Herald opened her eyes slowly. “I’m― I am still struggling with this ‘Herald of Andraste’ thing,” she admitted softly. Her voice almost broke as she said, “Just how am I – a mage – a prophet of our lady?”

Cassandra made a sweeping gesture with her hands, but something in her manner was almost apologetic. “People saw what you did at the temple, how you stopped the Breach from growing. They have also heard about the woman seen in the rift when we first found you. They believe that was Andraste.”

The spymaster spoke up. “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading―”

“Which we have not.”

Leliana stared levelly at the Seeker for a moment, but eventually continued. “The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

Cullen looked back to the Herald, a smile tugging his lips. “It’s quite the title, isn’t it? How do you feel about that?”

It took the young woman some time to find her words; and not once as she considered did she make eye contact with him.

Eventually, in a calm, considered voice, the Herald replied, “I am uncertain how I should feel.” Still she did not look up, choosing instead to stare at his hands― No, not his hands. The vambraces.

The vambraces with the flaming sword of Andraste embossed upon them.

Andraste’s arse, he cursed as he realised what had changed and any good-natured retort died on his tongue. She didn’t know I was a templar?

Leliana, thankfully, stepped in to fill the silence. “People are desperate for a sign of hope. For some, you’re that sign.”

“And to others, a symbol of everything that’s gone wrong.”

Thank you, Lady Montilyet, for adding that, Cullen mentally chided as the Herald’s chin touched her sternum.

“So,” she said dully, “if I was not with the Inquisition, there would not be a problem.”

Cullen made an attempt at reassurance. “Let’s be honest: they would have censured us no matter what.”

The Herald’s eyes darted up for just a fraction of a second before shifting to Cassandra, who was saying, “And you not being here isn’t an option.”

In response, her shoulders sagged. “Is there anything I can do to help? If for now it is simply tending to the injured―”

Smiling faintly, Leliana interrupted her. “A Chantry cleric by the name of Mother Giselle has asked to speak to you. She is not far, and knows those involved far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

The Herald wearily nodded. “I will see what she has to say.”

The meeting concluded with discussions of where to find Mother Giselle, scouting, travel, and what to do to bolster the Inquisition’s position. The Herald looked quite ill at the mention of fighting the warring mages and templars in the area, as well as any bandits preying on the refugees, but she did not complain. Once it was agreed that there was nothing else to consider, she fled the room before Cullen had the chance to catch her. The four of them dithered around the war table.

It was Lady Montilyet who broke the silence. “Will she be alright?” she asked gently, looking to the others.

“We will make sure she is,” Cullen replied.

“We don’t have any choice,” Cassandra added drily. She sighed. “I will do my best to look after her when we are away. As for you, I suspect she will need all the advice and guidance she can get to deal with the demands upon us – and upon her. But,” she added, a tight smile on her face, “none of you would be here if you were not capable of handling the situation.”

She briefly made eye contact with Cullen, and he nodded. He had come thus far without lyrium, and with the Seeker’s support he would continue. “I suppose we’d best get to work then.”

“Let’s.”

~~~

It was after midday, and the Marquis DuRellion was making a concerted effort to get on Josephine’s nerves when the door to her office eased open to reveal the Herald, pink from the warmth in the chantry building and suddenly looking like she regretted the decisions she had made in the last ten seconds of her life.

“Oh!” she softly exclaimed. “I am terribly sorry, I did not realise―”

“No, no!” Josephine replied, beckoning her in even as she looked at the nobleman; she knew an opening when she spotted one. “Marquis, allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked her life to slow the magic of the Breach.” Then she turned to the Herald, who had by this point managed to school her face into something resembling calm. “Lady Trevelyan,” she started, noting the twitch in the Herald’s face at the title, “may I present the Marquis DuRellion, one of Divine Justinia’s greatest supporters.”

“And the rightful owner of Haven,” he hastily added. “House DuRellion lent Justinia these lands for a pilgrimage. This ‘Inquisition’,” he groused with a flourish, “is not a beneficiary of this arrangement.”

The Herald tilted her head, giving the air of a confused puppy as she thought for a moment. Josephine would have to work on that. “Forgive me, Your Grace,” the other woman said, “for I have been recuperating these past few days, and I have been acquainting myself with our situation. This is the first I have heard of Haven having an owner outside the Chantry.”

Quite tactfully put, and she knew how to address a marquis, Josephine observed as the man went onto the defensive.

“My wife, Lady Machen of Denerim, has claim to Haven by ancient treaty with the monarchs of Ferelden.” He was hamming it up with his tone and gestures, and the Herald seemed quite startled when he took a step towards her. “We were honoured to lend its use to Divine Justinia. She is…” He paused a beat before self-correcting mournfully. “She was a woman of supreme merit.” Then his hand came up in the Herald’s face and his tone turned snappish. “I will not let an upstart order remain on her holy grounds.”

To her credit, the Herald did not back away. If anything, she looked up at him with subdued anger. “Your Grace, people have been injured.” She spoke slowly and deliberately, more strongly than she had in the war room, and pointed in the direction of the village. “I have just spent the past few hours healing those who would only have had their suffering prolonged until the cold or hunger or infection took them because the Inquisition does not have the space and resources it needs to tend to them. You cannot turn these ― pilgrims, people who travelled to join the Divine in her Conclave, out onto the snow.”

Josephine stifled a smile. Needs polishing, but… there is potential.

“And who benefits if they stay?” the marquis demanded.

“Divine Justinia, Marquis,” Josephine interrupted, a hard frown on her face. “The Inquisition – not the Chantry – is sheltering the pilgrims who mourn her.”

He seemed perplexed. “Why is the Chantry ignoring the faithful?”

“Because it remains in shock.”

The marquis sighed, flapped his arms in a dispirited manner and turned away.

Josephine let her tone soften, the voice of persuasion after delivering harsh news. “We face a dark time, Your Grace. Divine Justinia would not want her passing to divide us. She would, in fact, trust us to forge new alliances to the benefit of all, no matter how strange they might seem.”

Finally he turned back and regarded Josephine and the Herald for a long moment. Then he nodded. “I’ll think on it, Lady Montilyet. The Inquisition... might stay in the meanwhile.” He strode out of the room, giving the Herald a look that made her lean back, although she stared after him as he left.

Once he had turned out of sight, the Herald quietly asked, “Do the DuRellions actually have a claim on this place?”

“His Grace’s position is not so strong as he presents it. Despite their Ferelden relations, the DuRellions are Orlesian.” Josephine paused to make a note on her papers. “If the marquis wishes to claim Haven, Empress Celene must negotiate with Ferelden on his behalf. Her current concerns are a bit larger than minor property disputes.”

The Herald dipped her chin in acknowledgement, and turned back to Josephine, all fervour dissipated. “I apologise for the intrusion. I did not realise you were meeting with the marquis.”

Josephine smiled encouragingly at the young woman. “You did little harm. In truth, the debate was most beneficial as practice for those to come.”

Lady Amrita blanched. “You expect more people in Haven?”

“Undoubtedly. And each visitor will spread the story of the Inquisition after they depart.” Returning to her desk, she went on, “An ambassador should ensure the tale is as complimentary as possible.”

The Herald’s eyes flicked down, and a pretty pink blush dusted her tawny, freckled cheeks. “I shall do my best not to make your job more difficult than necessary, Lady Montilyet. I―” She broke off, casting about for words. “I hope caused no offence in my earlier refusal to let your servants attend to my hair.”

Laughing, Josephine replied, “Is that what this is about? My lady―” There was the twitch again. “I apologise― Lady Amrita, the only offence caused was to Lucienne, who can be rather overbearing. In all honesty, I think I like what you have done: simple and practical, yet the single, decorated braid adds a touch of character. I prefer it to anything she would have done.”

This did not seem to reassure the Herald, who kept her chin down. “And what would she have done?” she asked, a tremor to her voice.

“I fear she would have lopped off your locks – perhaps shaved the sides, too – in an effort to imitate the current Orlesian fashion, if I let her have free reign. It would have been quite a waste of such lovely hair.” That elicited a faint smile from the Herald, but she still did not raise her head. “I’m sorry for any distress they caused you,” Josephine apologised sincerely. “And the commander informed me of the slight against the Dalish. I have spoken to Lucienne; hopefully it shall not happen again. Should I ever have need to force you out of your clothes, I shall consult with you first, I promise.”

The Herald nodded jerkily. “Thank you, Lady Montilyet.” She finally raised her head and smiled weakly. “Clearly I came at a bad time, so I shall not bother you―”

“It is no bother!” Josephine motioned for her to sit down. “I had hoped to have time to speak with you before you departed. It is well past lunch, so let me arrange for food to be brought and we can talk over that. And, should anyone come to speak with me? I am in a meeting with you. No, I insist,” she said before the Herald could object, and rose from her place. “Minaeve will not be back for at least an hour,” she added as she passed the other woman on her way to find one of her servants.

The pair ended up conversing for a good part of that hour – well, it was mostly Josephine who answered questions and told stories, but the exchange of information was not entirely balanced in the Herald’s favour. Josephine knew how to read people – their appearance, their body language, the things they said and the things they omitted – and so she suspected she gained as much information as the other woman.

When the Herald had asked to be referred to as Amrita in private, Josephine had bargained, saying she would only if the first-name basis was mutual. It was with hesitation that Amrita agreed, but she relaxed further as the conversation went on. The expectation that others would treat her casually, while she herself treated them formally, said a great deal about her sense of self-worth.

The Herald was reluctant to speak of her family, or of her faith beyond efforts to live as the Chant instructed. Leliana’s reports confirmed that Amrita had been disowned, but Josephine had already had an inkling of the bad blood: she and her mother had attended Lady Lucille Trevelyan’s summer balls on a couple of occasions, for the sake of being seen, and even met Amrita’s older sister, Grace, in passing. The woman – twenty years Amrita’s senior, unscarred and healthy, but otherwise a spitting image of the mage – had long taken up the mantle of the bann’s duties, much as Josephine had assumed her mother’s role in running the Montilyet household. The family as a whole had made no secret of their religious zealotry or distaste of ‘spellbinds’.

Instead, Amrita’s eyes lit up brightest when describing her time healing in the alienage, and apprenticing two students. There were also distant smiles when she began to talk of the friends she had made on the way to the Conclave, but those were short-lived as her voice began to wobble and she changed topic.

Her gaze was also keen and attentive when listening to Josephine speak; one could almost believe the Herald believed that every word spoken to her was of value. Perhaps it was, although whether for selfless or selfish reasons it was hard to say. Josephine caught herself expanding upon a topic more than once at the prompt of a thoughtful nod, encouraging hum, or a question that deflected the need for a direct answer of her own.

Even if it took her time to find the words needed to express herself, gently drawing a conversational partner into speaking more freely than intended was a useful skill for someone who might soon move in powerful circles.

In summary, Amrita was a quiet, kind, reserved soul whom the Maker had called to help the world with her healing magic.

“Tell me,” Amrita said, fingers laced on her lap. “Do you believe I was saved by Andraste at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“I… should much like to believe so, Amrita,” she admitted. “The miracles Andraste performed were so long ago, they’re difficult to picture. If it were truly her in the Fade who saved you…” She drifted off, noticing the other woman’s face drop. “Well. In any case, many already believe you walk in the Maker’s light.”

The Herald looked as though she was going to say something, but was interrupted by the door opening and Minaeve walking in. She snapped her mouth shut and stood up sharply. “My lady,” she said formally, “I have taken enough of your precious time. I shall not distract you any longer from your duties.”

Smiling, Josephine leaned back in her chair. “It has been a pleasure, Lady Amrita.”

“That is has. The Inquisition is lucky to have you as an advocate, Lady Josephine,” Amrita said, bowing in a way that was entirely polite, but with a curve to her lips that spoke of an inside joke; of an understanding between the two that the titles were a pretense; of a degree of safety.

Josephine found herself thinking about that smile for quite a long time after the Herald had left.

~~~

If Leliana was honest with herself, she was still reeling from the explosion at the Conclave. She had lost a friend, a mentor, a mother in the blast – and that was only Justinia. She had lost colleagues and companions, agents and acquaintances, good men and women.

And if not for a storm on the Waking Sea delaying her ship from Val Royeaux to Jader, she would be dead too.

But there was no time to mourn, no time to grieve. First, they had had to deal with the woman who had stumbled out of the Fade, and stop the Breach from growing; then, a brief respite granted, the investigation had turned to finding out more about the woman and trying to determine what had happened and who was responsible. That investigation was ongoing, and had been subsumed into the Inquisition’s mandate.

There was too much work, and Sister Nightingale had a reputation to maintain: charismatic, expert, ruthless.

Anything apart from the fragility Leliana felt under her exterior.

Not for the first time that week, she wished her elven lover was by her side, not roaming the Deep Roads in search of a cure for the Calling. Mira would have let her escape into her arms, grounded her, comforted her with her touch and promised that they would find those responsible together.

But no. Mira was far away, and the fate of the world once again rested in the hands of a mage in her early twenties. This one seemed far less stable, politically-capable and combat-ready than the Hero of Ferelden had been.

And this time, Leliana did not have her ‘vision’, or blind faith that the Maker would see them through.

Yet, something about the Herald did remind her of Mira – perhaps her Circle background, her sympathies for elves, or her choice to become a spirit healer because she wanted to help – and so Leliana did not hold her tongue as she should.

She sensed the Herald approach her in the tent she was using as her headquarters, but did not rise from her prayer, only continuing. “‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.’” She paused, the once-comforting words of the Chant now like ashes on her tongue. “Is that what You want from us? Blood? To die so that Your will is done?” She straightened up, almost frightened by the bleakness of her thoughts. “Is death Your only blessing?” Turning to where the Herald stood, silhouetted against the snowy village, Leliana snapped, “You speak for Andraste, no? What does the Maker’s prophet have to say about all of this? What’s His game?”

“Game?” Lady Amrita asked, eyebrows twisting in her confusion.

“Do you see the sky?” Leliana returned, making no real effort to contain her anguish. “What about the temple ruins? The bones lying in the dust? Even if you didn’t support the Divine’s peace, you wouldn’t call this right. Who could?” she spat. “So many innocent lives – the faithful murdered where the holiest of holies once stood. If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or a cruel joke?”

The Herald slumped, grief tensing the muscles in her jaw. “I am sorry, Sister Leliana. I wish I knew.”

Ignoring the apology, Leliana scowled. “Then we can only guess at what He wants.” She stood, and advanced on the shorter woman. “You know the Chantry teaches that the Maker abandoned us. He demands repentance for our sins.” Lady Amrita nodded, and Leliana let a sneer curl her lips. “He demands it all. Our lives. Our deaths. Justinia gave Him everything she had, and He let her die!”

Lady Amrita’s eyes dropped to the stony, straw-scattered floor, but it did not stop Leliana from seeing the tears in them. “I am sorry. If―” She stopped herself, before changing tack and looking back up. “Her death has clearly hit you hard.”

Something caught in Leliana’s throat as she realised she had exposed herself too much; but also, that the Herald was not judging her for it. The younger woman was dealing with her own sorrow, and understood. “Not just me,” she clarified, forcing her tone to soften. “All of us. She was the Divine. She led the faithful, she was their heart!” The empathy in Lady Amrita’s eyes was too much to bear, so Leliana looked to the chantry building in front of them. “If the Maker doesn’t intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is He?”

Ever the storyteller, Leliana let her voice drop, becoming wistful as her thoughts wandered back over the decade. “I used to believe I was chosen, just as some say you are. I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people.” She even let a bitter, petulant tone into her voice to mock herself before turning to the Herald who listened sympathetically. “But now she’s dead. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.” She looked away again, biting the inside of her cheek before she lost control of her tongue entirely.

Lady Amrita’s gaze remained upon her as she softly enquired, “Why are you telling me this, Sister? As a warning? I can assure you,” she went on with a self-deprecating snort, “I am under no pretense that I am chosen by the Maker to do His divine will. But… I have lived most of my life knowing I must do what I can to repent. Sometimes it seems―” Her voice caught in her throat, and Leliana twisted back to look at her. Her eyes had fallen again. “Sometimes it seems it is never enough. Maker only knows how He will judge me when I pass from this life, but at least I know I did some good when I could have done harm.” She exhaled slowly. “Sister, if there is anything I can―”

“No,” Leliana interrupted, not wanting her pity. “This is my burden. I regret that I even let you see me like this. It was a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”

The Herald glanced up again, a flicker of hurt dancing over her northern features, and she looked as though she might speak. Then she closed her mouth and nodded.

Leliana quashed the glimmer of guilt as she moved to the back of the tent. “Come. To work then. Did you need me for something?”

“I― I only wished to know whether you had received word from those I contacted.”

“No. I shall inform you as soon as I do.”

“And no developments regarding the elves in the dungeons?”

“I wrote to Magister Tiberius’s wife and told her that the whole entourage had been killed, and that his murderers had perished in the Conclave.” Leliana and Mira both despised slavery, and so lying had been as natural as breathing. “We will put the case before a jury when time allows, and should they be found innocent they will be free elves.”

“Thank you, Sister. I shall not trouble you further.”

“You know where I am.”

There was a brief pause, perhaps as the Herald bowed, and then her footsteps fading as she exited the tent.

Leliana allowed herself the luxury of a curse under her breath. She suspected she had scared the girl. Good. She should be afraid. Although whether it was of Leliana, the Maker or the world at large, she could not say.

Then she picked up the most recent report from Harding and started reading.

~~~

The sun was just dipping behind the Frostbacks when Cassandra felt a pair of curious eyes on her as she poured her frustration out onto a practice dummy. She finished the series of cuts before rolling her shoulders, grunting and turning to see who it was.

The Herald stood a few steps away – well out of striking distance – hands clasped behind her back and lower lip caught by her teeth. When Cassandra snorted and looked away, the Herald asked lightly, “Is something bothering you, Seeker Pentaghast?”

“Is it that obvious?” Cassandra groused in reply.

“It is rather. I hope I am not the cause for your concern.”

Cassandra returned to assaulting the dummy. “It is not you. I worry: did I do the right thing?” She sensed the girl pass behind her, and waited before continuing. “What I have set in motion here could destroy everything I have revered my whole life,” she said, quietly resigned to the consequences. “One day, they may write about me as a traitor, a madwoman, a fool. And they may be right.”

The Herald took a moment to consider this. “You are a devout woman,” she slowly said. “What does your faith tell you?”

Exhaling deeply and shaking out her sword-arm, Cassandra declared, “I believe you are innocent. I believe more is going on here than we can see. And I believe no one else cares to do anything about it. They will stand in the fire and complain that it is hot.” There was an undignified snort from the mage, and Cassandra smiled tightly. “But is this the Maker’s will? I can only guess.”

“You do not think I am the Herald of Andraste?”

When Cassandra looked over, the Herald’s expression was guarded, watchful; waiting for a response. The girl seemed very unhappy about her new title. “I think you were sent to help us. I hope you were,” she replied, sidestepping a straight answer. “But the Maker’s help takes many forms. Sometimes it is difficult to discern who it truly benefits, or how.”

“And what happens now?”

“Now,” she said, aware that her response would be lacking in key details, “we deal with the Chantry’s panic over you before they do even more harm.” The girl flinched at that, and Cassandra coughed and turned away again. “Then we close the Breach. We are the only ones who can. After that, we find out who is responsible for this chaos. And we end them. And if there are consequences for what I have done, I pay them.” Saying the words out loud to this frightened, lost mage somehow brought a sense of peace to Cassandra’s heart, as though she had fully accepted their truth. “I only pray the price is not too high.”

“It does seem as though your hand was forced,” the girl tried to console her.

“Was it?” she queried, eyebrow arched, before taking a final swipe at the dummy and then discarding the blade. “My trainers always said, ‘Cassandra, you are too brash. You must think before you act.’ I see what must be done, and I do it!” she announced, approaching the Herald. “I see no point in running around in circles like a dog chasing its tail.” The girl nodded sympathetically, and Cassandra felt something inside her ease. “But I misjudged you in the beginning, did I not? I thought the answer was before me, clear as day. I cannot afford to be so careless again.”

The Herald’s eyes darted away. “It is not as though you had no reason to suspect me,” she responded, bringing her hands in front of her and rubbing at her left palm distractedly. “If I had lost my partner and my mentor, and had the person seemingly responsible in my custody, I cannot say I would not jump to conclusions myself.”

“I was deter―” Cassandra stopped. Doubt, suspicion and embarrassment all leapt into life inside her gut. “Partner?”

Blushing, the girl stammered, “W-well, I-I am relying on hears-s-say from the C-C-Conclave, s-so I may b-b-be―”

Cassandra stepped forward, feeling her own cheeks go warm. “Spit it out.”

The Herald took a deep, calming breath, and then laced her fingers together before cautiously saying, “While waiting at the temple, there was a confrontation between Enchanter Lorna and Enchanter Regalyan.”

Words could not express how grateful Cassandra was that the girl was not looking up to see the murderous, ashamed, grief-stricken expression that passed over her face. She and Galyan had been discreet, but―

“It was… civil, I suppose,” the girl said carefully, going steadily redder. “But then someone. Um. Made. Assertions. As to the nature of. Of his relationship with the Right Hand of the Divine.” She started to pick at the seams of her gloves. “Also. Euphemisms comparing said relations to. To. Acts of a sexual nature with. With the Divine herself.” Burying her head in her hands, she groaned, “I am so sorry, I should not have even―”

Fury and shame burned in equal amount in Cassandra’s heart. But the poor thing in front of her, who seemed so distraught even reporting lewd things, did not deserve her anger. Those who did were alreadydead. “I lost many people whom I considered very dear to me,” she eventually admitted, reluctant to confirm the relationship even though her lover was dead and gone, but not wishing to outright lie to the girl. “And I was determined to have someone answer for what happened. Anyone.” She narrowed her eyes and turned away, hoping that her unspoken apology had been understood. She picked up her sword and sheathed it before starting to walk back to the village.

Then she slowed and stopped as a worry occurred to her. Turning back, she found the Herald looking at her in sudden anxiety; the girl’s hands snapped behind her back again. Cassandra ploughed ahead with her question regardless. “You’ve said you don’t believe you’re chosen. Does that mean… you also don’t believe in the Maker?”

“I… have remained a practising Andrastian since being taken to the Circle,” she said cautiously.

Cassandra blinked, uncertain what to make of the girl’s suddenly defensive attitude. “That’s… comforting,” she finally settled on. It was; the idea of someone who did not believe having been the one to be called ‘Herald’ was… Well, it was irrelevant now. “Surely the Maker put us both on this path for a reason.”

“I hope so,” the Herald murmured, barely loud enough to be heard over the sparring soldiers around them.

“Now it simply remains to see where it leads us,” Cassandra concluded, striding away.

~~~

“Commander,” the lieutenant said quietly behind Cullen. Once he had turned from coaching a recruit into a proper stance, the officer meaningfully directed his eyes towards the stables. When Cullen followed his gaze, his eyes found the Herald standing at the junction in the snow-cleared path in front of the gates, watching the soldiers as she chewed her lip and hugged herself, although the latter could have been the cold: the outfit hardly looked appropriate for Ferelden's winters. “She’s been there some time, ser,” the lieutenant added. “Looks like she can’t decide to approach or not.”

Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Concern for the girl, imagining the panic she must be feeling at having let a templar see her at her most vulnerable, had added itself to the maelstrom of emotions and pains afflicting him that day, and focusing on his men had been even more challenging than ever. He had not wanted to approach her and put her on the defensive – indeed, he had hoped that she would come to him and he could at least try to put any concerns to rest – but now she was dithering, and he was tired, and he could not be certain he would have time to speak to her before her departure in the morning. “Finish drilling the recruits and then dismiss them, lieutenant. We’ve all earned our rations today.”

“Of course, ser.”

Cullen waited just long enough for the salute before heading for the Herald.

She caught his eye, and even from twenty paces away he could see the whites of them as she realised he was coming. She glanced from side to side, and then forced herself to stand up straight when it became clear there was no escape. “C-Commander,” she greeted him stiffly as he stopped a few paces away: far enough that he could not have struck her even if he had been so inclined.

“Lady Amrita,” he returned, trying to keep it professional rather than tackling the issue head on. “Was there something you needed?”

Again, the hand went to the scars in her eyebrow as her eyes went down. “I― Yes, Commander,” she replied deferentially. “If… you had a few minutes to spare, I would appreciate some advice for the trip. I know you are busy,” she said quickly, before he could answer. “I would not wish to impinge upon what little time to rest you have.”

“Of course,” Cullen answered, taking the chance to hopefully put her in a more relaxed situation. “Could we discuss the matter while eating?”

“If… that suits you best, then of course,” she said. “But if you would rather leave it until later…”

The deference was because she knew now that he had been a templar, Cullen was sure. The thought of her being mistreated – of his own mistreatment of mages – filled him with anguish. “Now is as good a time as any. Shall we go?”

She fell in next to him wordlessly, and they walked back into the village where communal mess tents had been set up. It was an easy silence, and Cullen did not feel compelled to break it: after all, it was the Herald who wanted to speak with him, and he did not wish to press her when she was clearly anxious.

Once he had his food, he dropped himself onto the first bench with space, returned the greetings of those seated there and dug in. However, he looked up when he sensed the Herald pause behind him. Staring at her over his head were several recruits. Templar recruits.

Andraste’s tits.

Before he could say anything though, the Herald stepped over the bench and sat herself down next to him, smiling at the group; none of the emotional display she had in front of him. “Good evening. You are from Serah Lyle’s squad, correct? I do not think we have met properly yet.”

Much to Cullen’s relief, most of them just made agreeable noises and returned to their dinner, but one was definitely keeping his eye on the Herald. Yannis, if he recalled the name rightly.

“So,” Cullen said after washing down a mouthful of bread and cheese with the pitifully thin liquid they called beer in these parts. “What help can I give you, Lady Amrita?”

She kept her head down, eyes on the meat she was cutting with knife and fork, as she softly replied, “Considering the conflict I am about to find myself facing, I was hoping to get some advice on how to tackle templars on the battlefield.”

The immediate vicinity went quite quiet.

“Tch,” Yannis muttered. “Look at that. An apostate asking a templar how to kill templars. I knew signing up with an abomination-in-waiting was ―”

Cullen was up on his feet before the man had finished speaking. “How dare you speak in such a way!”

A timid hand touched his arm. “Commander, it is―”

He ignored her. “Regardless of your personal belief on the matter of whether it was Andraste who saved her from the Fade, the Herald has been appointed a senior position within the Inquisition and you know better than to speak to your superiors like that.” He slammed his hands down on the table. “The Inquisition is about more than templars and mages. It’s about fixing this damn hole in the sky, and about trying to make Thedas better, just as the Divine was trying to at the Conclave.”

Yannis looked quite pale now, and almost the whole room had fallen silent. A flash of gold caught his eye, and on glancing over he spotted Josephine with a hand over her mouth, half a step ahead of Leliana and Cassandra.

He ploughed on regardless. “When you joined the Inquisition you left the Templar Order. If you cannot put aside your enmity for mages and accept that some of them are allied with us – lead us – then leave.”

Yannis remained still for a moment, and then mumbled, “My apologies, milady.”

The Herald looked around the hall, eyes wide with panic, and nodded jerkily. “Apology accepted.”

“Alright, alright,” came Varric’s placating voice. “Show’s over, get back to your food.” Varric appeared on the Herald’s other side and nudged her shoulder with an elbow while Cullen flapped everyone back to their meals and sat down. “You alright?”

Taking a steadying breath, she nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Varric. And you, Commander.”

The dwarf dropped himself next to her, and the rest of the meal was taken over by his easy banter. She relaxed a little, and the recruits settled down as well, both things for which Cullen was grateful. Although she listened to everyone with care and intensity, she seemed easily spooked or distressed when criticised.

The three of them finished eating about the same time, and after leaving their dishes to be cleaned they exited the tents as a little trio. The incident seemed forgotten until they reached Varric’s tent and he said, “Curly wasn’t always so tolerant, you know, so thank the Maker he’s improved since Kirkwall.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Cullen responded through gritted teeth. “That will be quite enough.”

“Varric,” Lady Amrita said softly, “You forget that I am from the Free Marches. I know at least some of what happened in Kirkwall: I took notes when Carver Hawke came to the Ostwick Circle on the commander’s orders.” Cullen was taken aback by that. Even more surprisingly, so was Varric, who seemed impossible to shock at times. Then― Maker’s breath, if she heard what happened in the Gallows, even without Varric’s sensationalism – if she knows my failings – then I cannot blame her fear.

She was going on, oblivious and diplomatic. “I am grateful that even with that tragedy in our pasts some of us are able to look beyond our grievances. As knight-captain I know he worked to repair the damage.”

Cullen looked away. Had he truly followed the Maker’s path when he resigned and joined Cassandra? He had done what he could, but Kirkwall was too far gone for him to do more.

“I don’t expect the commander to like me, but I appreciate his advice and the faith he has agreed to place in me.”

“Good for you.” Varric patted her arm and ducked into his tent.

Cullen felt his shoulders sag a little. Varric was right. “I’m sorry, Lady Amrita. Had I realised you did not know I was a templar―”

She gave a short little gasp, almost a sob, and it was all Cullen could do not to reach out as he would have to Rosalie or Branson when they were upset. “Forgive me, Commander,” she begged. “You have been nothing but kind to me, but―”

“You don’t need to explain,” Cullen interrupted. “I would be doing a poor job of trying to improve myself if I was ignorant of the way some – many – in the Order have treated mages. I have seen the worst of both groups, and I am not innocent of wrongdoing myself,” he admitted more gently, “but know this, Lady Amrita: I left the templars when Cassandra recruited me to the Inquisition, and I would die before I knowingly betrayed anyone in the organisation. That includes you.”

She hugged herself, sniffed, and glanced up at him through her eyelashes. The moon shone on the tear-tracks down her high, freckled cheekbones.

“I do not expect you to trust me. Not yet,” he clarified. “But I do hope that I can earn your trust, at least on a professional basis. If there is anything I can do, you have only to ask. I wish to atone for my failings, and the best people to steer me are those I wronged. Am I clear?”

“Yes, serah,” she half-chuckled, half-sobbed.

“Good. Now: you wanted advice on fighting templars?”

~~~

Cullen was there to see off the Herald with her companions and the contingent of soldiers who would help them secure territory in the Hinterlands. Her face had a little more colour to it, as though she had slept better after Cullen’s attempt at talking through combat and weak points. “Honestly, Lady Amrita,” he had told her, “there is only so much I can explain without demonstration – I suspect you will come back with far more knowledge I could ever impart and than you could ever want.” After her departure, Cullen had faced another night of torment from his past, but at least he had slept the night through.

He had, fortunately, had time to catch Varric before the entourage finished assembling itself.

“Am I in trouble?” the dwarf had asked as Cullen beckoned him to where they stood out of sight of Cassandra and the Herald.

“Did you do anything?”

“No!”

“I doubt that, but no, you’re not.” Cullen sighed. “I… want to ask you a favour.”

“No, I won’t get you copies of The Champion of Kirkwall signed by Hawke. I don’t even know where he is.”

“Varric,” he growled, pinching his nose.

The dwarf grinned. “Let me guess: you want me to keep an eye out for Amrita.”

“I― Yes.”

The grin spread wider, and Cullen rolled his eyes. “That’s real sweet, Curly. Considering I have a vested interest in her survival – you know, what with her being the only person who might be able to fix the hole in the sky – I would have done that anyway. The fact that you felt the need to come and ask―”

“Is absolutely not what you are trying to imply,” Cullen snapped, feeling his ears redden. “Of course you’ll try to keep her safe, I’m not questioning that.” He heaved a great sigh, glancing around guiltily before lowering his voice; the Herald might not have spoken of the subject of his concern, but he still felt he was breaching her privacy. “I’m concerned about her, and while I’d ask Cassandra, she’s…”

“Not exactly subtle?”

“That’s one way of putting it. Look: Lady Amrita’s clearly still grieving, and is uncomfortable with her position and duties. I gather she’s had difficulty resting. And… Well, there are bite wounds on her hands. Self-inflicted, I’m sure.”

Varric blanched at that, and the remaining trace of a smile vanished. “How’d― Shit, that’s why she started wearing gloves, not to hide the mark,” he exclaimed. Gaze serious, he looked up Cullen. “I’ll see to it, Commander.”

“Thank you, Varric.”

That had been an hour ago, and now the advisers all stood out in the cold to see off the entourage. Lady Montilyet had, rather sensibly, worn a thick fur coat over her usual finery.

“Please take care, Lady Amrita,” the Antivan was telling the Herald.

“You too, Lady Josephine.” A tiny smile was exchanged between the pair before the mage turned to Leliana. “Sister Leliana.” Only a nod came back her way, and she finally turned to Cullen. “Commander.”

“Lady Amrita,” he replied with a smile, taking his cue from their ambassador.

Then, with a final glance between the three of them, she turned and trotted back to the retinue.

Cullen made eye contact with all three of her companions, and each of them nodded to him in turn.

We will protect her.

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, the descent through the Frostbacks was considerably easier than the ascent to the Conclave. However, it was still treacherous enough to travel through, and although Amrita would never say a word against her companions or the soldiers accompanying them – as if she would ever say a word against anyone – she sorely missed the company she had had travelling the other way. She was almost angry at herself for being unable to swallow the grief like she had whenever she lost a patient, almost angry for letting herself get close enough to anyone that she had to fight through the same pain she had felt six years ago when Ema’an died.

But the anger would have been a waste of what precious little energy she had left. Now, she had a job to focus on, and focus she would. When provided with a way to make her existence useful and worthwhile, she could do a lot.

She was going to try to remain at a professional distance from the others. Just in case.

Nobody bothered her during the morning save Varric, who occasionally looked or even dropped back just to check that she was alright. Each time she nodded and smiled, and he gave her a look that was just the polite side of disbelieving before going back to irritate the Seeker at the head of the retinue.

After lunch, however, Solas approached her purposefully as they readied themselves for the afternoon’s trek. She tried not to let her anxiety show on her face, but something must have given her away; the hedge witch cocked an eyebrow at her knowingly.

“Might I join you?” he asked politely.

“Of course,” she replied, hefting her pack as she stepped to one side to make space for him on the precarious path. They were close to the back of the entourage, with only the rearguard behind them.

A moment later, the scout on point whistled and they set off. They were hoping to reach a village by nightfall, which was noticeably later than it had been even a few weeks ago with her friends; spring, while still weeks off, was on its way.

Amrita and Solas walked in silence; Amrita was loath to speak when she was hardly sure what to say, and since it seemed likely he had things he wished to discuss himself. She allowed herself to focus on navigating the rough terrain, and thanked the Maker that she had had the opportunity to strengthen her body by journeying before this burden had been place upon her.

They had travelled perhaps a mile when Solas spoke up. “So: the Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.”

She glanced at him and saw that he was regarding her with a faint smile that did not quite reach his eyes. Returning her attention to the path, she replied, “I have no interest in being a hero. All I want is to find a way to seal this Breach.”

“Pragmatic, but ultimately irrelevant,” he returned. A few steps further along he spoke again. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilisations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” Another few steps. “Every war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

Amrita deflected the implied question by asking her own. “Ruins and battlefields?”

When he replied, Solas’s tone was approving: that of a teacher pleased to be asked for more information on their subject of expertise. “Any building strong enough to withstand the rigours of time has a history. Every battlefield is steeped in death.” Amrita shuddered. “Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“Is it not dangerous, sleeping in ancient ruins?” Amrita could not keep the note of concern from her voice.

“I do set wards,” he replied, “and if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they are usually content to live and let live.”

At the words ‘giant spiders’, Amrita whipped her head around to see if he was being serious. His lip curled in wry amusement, and she sighed and shuddered again: she did not know if fearlings appeared as spiders for her because she was scared of arachnids or if they appeared that way for everyone, but the wretched things had tormented her for years.

She pondered her words before speaking: she knew that mages could consciously wonder the Fade if they took lyrium, but she had never been quite sure if her nightly conversations and occasional encounters with demons counted as lucid. Her personal theory was that each night the compassion spirits kept her in their own little realm, rather than her having been endowed with the ability of the Dreamers. Was Solas a Dreamer? She would never willingly go searching through the Fade. She rarely, if ever, spoke to other spirits who chanced upon her, for fear she would be ensnared by a malevolent one. Eventually, she murmured, “I suppose the rewards are great, for those willing to brave the demons.”

“Exactly,” he responded enthusiastically, seemingly ignoring the hint that Amrita was not one of the brave ones – he had probably assumed as much, anyway. “It is occasionally dangerous, yes, but more often it’s just sad to see what has been lost. The thrill of finding remnants of a thousand-year-old dream? I would not trade it for anything.”

“You seem to know a great deal about the Fade.”

“I do. There are few hard facts, but I can share what I have learned if you have questions. I cannot imagine your Circle taught you much of its true nature.”

Amrita ignored the criticism. “Considering the nature of this disaster, it might behoove me to understand it – and the Breach – better.”

“That it might. What do you wish to know?”

For the next mile or so she questioned him on what might have caused the Breach to open and the efforts to find it; the Veil, and what he believed the world would be like without it; and the nature of demons. Much of it went directly against what she had been taught, and she tried, where possible, to give neutral, noncommittal responses so as not to prompt the elf’s disapproval.

When the questions turned to him and his past, however, his previous verbosity switched off. “Why do you want to know more about me?”

Because, The more I know about someone the better I can defend myself against incurring their ill will, was not an acceptable answer, Amrita replied, “You are an apostate, yet you risked your freedom to aid the Inquisition.”

“Not the wisest course of action when framed that way,” he admitted. “And what’s to say I will not leave?”

Amrita raised her right hand to her lips as she thought. “Nothing,” she conceded, “but you do not strike me as someone who would do so – at least, not under these circumstances.” His silence invited her to continue, and so she went on, “The way you speak of the situation and the Fade… Clearly, you are intrigued, perhaps even invested in finding out more. You would not even have stayed this long if you were not: you are an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion, and you have not been made indispensable by some act of fate as I have. Even with Seeker Pentaghast’s accommodations, common sense would suggest that fleeing would be wise. And yet you remain.” She gripped the straps of her pack again and sighed quietly. “I appreciate the work you have done for us – saving my life, using your abilities to support Sister Nightingale’s investigations, accompanying us on this excursion – and I just wanted to know more about you. However, I fully understand if you would rather keep to yourself.” If she was not willing to disclose information about herself, she could not make demands on anyone to share more than they wished to.

There was a brief pause before Solas replied, “I am sorry. With so much fear in the air…”

“I understand.” She really did.

“What would you know of me?”

Circumstances and motivations. “What made you start studying the Fade?”

“I grew up in a village to the north. There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic.”

She looked up sharply. “I am surprised you were allowed to remain; did no one send for the templars?”

There was an edge to his voice and a hardness in his eyes when he looked down at her. “Nobody notices an elf, do they Lady Trevelyan? Especially not one who knows how to be discreet.”

Amrita flinched and looked away. “I am not―” She sighed. “I apologise. Please, continue.”

He did so. “As I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined. I treasured my dreams. Being awake, out of the Fade, became troublesome.”

“Did spirits try to tempt you?”

“No more than a brightly coloured fruit is deliberately tempting you to eat it. I learned how to defend myself from more aggressive spirits and how to interact safely with the rest. I learned how to control my dreams with full consciousness. There was so much I wanted to explore.”

Now that was worth following up on. “Could you… teach someone else?”

“Perhaps. Do you wish to learn?”

She glanced up, and his head was tilted as he appraised her. She lowered her eyes back to the path. “I―” She hesitated. She had never actually told anyone about the compassion spirits, not even Ema’an. Could she really trust this mage?

In barely more than a whisper, Solas asked, “Is this to do with the compassion spirits who have attached themselves to you?”

Slapping a hand over her mouth, Amrita squeaked, “How―?”

“While you slept I found an echo of you in the Fade, though you were not in any state to notice my presence, let alone answer my questions. I gleaned what little I could from the distressed spirits surrounding you.” He paused a moment, frowning. “Surely you knew that mages can traverse the Fade, and even meet each other?”

Amrita flushed. “I was taught that only somniari, only Dreamers, could do it without imbibing lyrium first, as one does at one’s Harrowing,” she confessed. “I have entered the Fade nightly for sixteen years, and never have I encountered anything sentient other than spirits.”

That prompted a raised eyebrow. “But you acknowledge that spirits are sentient?”

“They are aware of my presence, yes?” she returned. She bit her lip, dimly acknowledging the voices at the back of her mind; they had been trying to help her through her sorrow, but fighting demons was not the most conducive situation to emotional recovery, and she could not understand them when she woke. Then she quietly said, “The compassion spirits who stay with me are even aware of my thoughts, feelings and observations when I wake – and I am aware of them, although I cannot hear their words – so it would be an insult to not think of them as sentient.” She sucked in a deep breath of cold air. “And now… Now I face spirits nightly who are drawn to the mark. Many of them are openly malevolent and I spend my time repelling them as best I can. The rest I cannot tell their intentions, and so I remain on guard and unwilling to speak to them for fear of being caught by a clever demon.” She smiled weakly. “As you can imagine, I do not feel rested when I wake from my adventures in the Fade.”

Solas was silent. They walked for another few hundred metres, and Amrita was sorely regretting her admission when he spoke, his tone warm. “I have never heard of such a thing, but clearly, you are something special. I will gladly share my expertise if you will share your own experiences.” He proffered a hand to her. “Do we have an agreement?”

Amrita stared at the hand for a moment. “Only if you promise this will stay between the two of us; I do not wish to find out what would happen to me if Seeker Pentaghast found I had a connection to spirits even while awake. I doubt even the mark and my ability to close rifts would save me if she thought me possessed.”

“Of course.”

“Then we have an agreement.” She shook his hand, and then the pair walked in companionable silence until nightfall.

~~~

That night, Solas found Amrita in the Fade and began to educate her. He assisted in driving off demons; showed her how to manipulate the world around her with the compassion spirits’ help; and taught her to discern which beings could – and should – be communicated with. Though she was reluctant to use the word ‘trust’ with Solas, she was able to reason with herself that if the middle-aged mage had survived so long without possession then it was entirely probable she was in safe hands with him – at least when it came to dealing with spirits – and so she was able to manage her emotions to stop herself from tainting anything she encountered.

They also determined that it was possible to at least dim the light from the mark so that fewer spirits were attracted to her. The result of that discovery was that she was more rested when she woke; enough so that Varric remarked that she was looking perkier by the morning they approached the camp where Inquisition scouts were monitoring the situation in the Hinterlands.

“I feel better,” she admitted to the dwarf, eyes flickering in the direction of Solas, who for once walked with Cassandra. “I think… being out of the village, and having more restful sleep, is helping.” She was sure it was: the occasions on which she felt smothered by sorrow were decreasing in frequency, subsiding instead into the dull, quiet ache of acceptance. Her mind was more alert, and while her muscles throbbed from the gruelling pace they marched at, her limbs felt less as though they had millstones tied to them. She had only bitten her hand at night to stifle sobs before she slept, not wishing to disturb her companions, and even then it had been through her glove.

“Good to hear,” Varric replied, patting her arm. “You need all the better you can get.”

A whistle rose from the front of the retinue, and they came to a halt. Cassandra turned back and beckoned the pair forward, and suddenly the reality of the situation she was about to enter dropped onto Amrita like a lead brick. With discussions of the Fade and the banter of her companions to distract her, she had put it to one side, but now she really had to take up the mantle of her position.

She raised her right hand to her lips and was about to nibble nervously at the leather when Varric caught her forearm and pulled it away. Perplexed, she frowned down at him; he returned the frown, although his eyes creased in concern rather than confusion. “Don’t want you getting into bad habits,” he said by way of explanation, before releasing her.

Amrita stared at him a moment longer – Does he know? – before moving forward into the camp, looking around hesitantly at all the tables and tents.

“The Herald of Andraste!” a voice exclaimed from one side. Amrita spun, and found herself looking down at another dwarf, this one in Inquisition armour. “I’ve heard the stories,” she was continuing, oblivious to Amrita’s train of thought and speaking a little too fast. “Everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach. Everyone’s a little nervous around mages right now, but you’ll get no back talk here. That’s a promise.” Amrita didn’t blame them for being nervous, and appreciated the dwarf’s honesty. “Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I ― all of us here ― we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“Harding, huh?” Varric interjected, prompting everyone to turn to him. His voice was full of the promise of a bad joke, and Amrita pursed her lips in anticipation. “Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

“I can’t say I have. Why?”

“You’d be Harding in… Oh, heh, never mind,” he trailed off, sensing the pun would not be appreciated.

Seeker Pentaghast made a disgusted noise. Amrita snorted softly, and Varric grinned at her.

She turned back to the dwarf, half-mumbling, “I’m starting to worry about these ‘stories’ that everyone’s heard.”

“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about,” Harding responded in the bright, breezy tone of someone being overly light about a serious situation. “They only say you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

Amrita’s mouth went dry. “Oh. Wonderful.”

Harding smiled sympathetically at her before launching into a debrief. Gone was the levity, replaced by real concern and tremors in her voice that spoke of held-back tears. Then the quartet were handed a map, pointed in the right direction, and told to get going.

It did not take long to find the path down from the hill.

It did not take much longer to stumble across the first corpses. Mages, templars, bandits, civilians; dismembered, burnt, stabbed, skewered… Blood slicked the way, and body parts and guts were strewn about. Though no stranger to the viscera of the body, Amrita felt sick seeing such deliberate, needless injuries.

“We will have to deal with the bodies,” she said solemnly as they stepped over lopped-off limbs. “We cannot take the risk of them becoming possessed and reanimated.”

“A sentiment my people would disagree with,” Cassandra remarked drily, “but a wise one. We must press on for now, though: we are nearly upon the crossroads, and I hear fighting.”

Amrita paused to listen, trying to ignore the metallic tang of blood in the air. Yes; she could hear the shouts and clashes too, now. “Very well. Are we in agreement that we should play similar roles in combat as we did in the Valley?”

The others nodded. “Just bear in mind, Doc,” cautioned Varric, “that we’re fighting real people here, not demons. You still can’t hold back, because if you do, they will kill you and all the people you are trying to protect.” He took hold of her left hand and squeezed. “If you die, then in all honesty, it’s pretty likely that Thedas will soon follow. No pressure,” he added with a cheeky smile that did not reach his eyes.

She swallowed. She had good reason to live, for now at least, and Varric was right: the men and women fighting were putting the Maker’s children in danger, and so she would not suffer punishment for killing in defense of others.

That did not stop her feeling as though she should flee her responsibilities.

Solas spoke up. “Also remember that our opponents have a greater ability to adapt and respond to attacks than demons do; while demons usually demonstrate their full tactical range within the first thirty seconds of battle, you must be prepared to respond to the variations in strategies, weaknesses, armour…”

Amrita took in a deep, shuddery breath. “I understand. Let us go.” And without another word, she set off back down the path.

As they emerged from the passage, they had a few moments’ grace to take in the field before anyone noticed them. The crossroads was the lowest point in the valley, channelling combatants into a relatively enclosed space. There were apostates and mercenaries, foot soldiers and archers; here and there, they ganged up on men and women wearing the uniform of the Inquisition. To the north, icicles taller than a kossith speared upwards; to the west, fires burned even in the damp winter scrub, making the battlefield even more dangerous.

Amrita cast a barrier spell over herself and her companions and headed for high ground.

The battle was gruelling and bloody. The apostates they encountered seemed to shrug off her favoured ice magic, so instead she focused on dispelling their barriers and allowing the others to attack while she chilled and blasted the snipers whose arrows threatened to punch through her companions’ armour. I’m not letting them suffer the same pain I did, she promised herself. Then, apostates dealt with, Solas called out that more enemies were approaching, and then they found themselves fighting heavily-armoured templars. Varric and Solas skirted the battlefield, defending the Seeker from external threats while she went head-to-head with the knight.

The field was nearly empty when the templar defender, carrying a shield almost as big as he was, arrived. The others were preoccupied, focusing on the knight, but Amrita saw the threat from her vantage point. Immediately she started casting spells, but the magic ricocheted off the shield harmlessly. He – or she – stopped and looked up at her, and then continued on his path to assist his fellow templar. Amrita threw another barrier up over Varric, the only one in the templar’s path, alerting him to the danger as well as protecting him.

She muttered a prayer to the Maker.

Then she immolated them.

When attacked from behind, the shield did nothing to stop the templar from being cooked in his own armour. She could hear the screams from where she stood, see the flames, imagine the blistering and burning of his skin.

Seeker Pentaghast put him out of his misery by slicing off his head as he ran past her in panic. He stumbled and pitched forward as his head rolled away through the bloodstained grass.

Then, aside from the crackling of the fires, the moaning of the wind and the cries of the injured, there was stillness and silence at the crossroads.

Amrita slowly fell to her knees, laid down her staff, bit her gloved hand and stared at nothing.

She did not move, not even when Varric knelt down beside her. She did not resist when he pulled her hand from her mouth, nor when he pulled her into a one-armed hug.

“They’re gonna be a while getting set up,” he murmured into her hair. “You wanna get away for half an hour before we go find Mother Giselle?”

She nodded, and wearily forced herself up with Varric’s assistance. Together, they slowly walked back up the hill, past the bodies, and then onto a slope overlooking the crossroads. They settled down in the shade of a tree, affording them some privacy while still allowing them to see the comings and goings down below. They sat in silence for a while, Amrita with her head bowed and the Chant in her mind.

She choked when she reached Transfigurations One Verse Two. Varric patted her back, but she rose, faster than the bile rising in her throat, and so she managed to empty the contents of her stomach into a shrub rather than all over herself or the dwarf. He followed, smoothing her hair back so it was not dirtied and whispering gentle encouragements.

“I cooked that man alive with my magic, Varric.”

“That you did.”

When she was finished and had cleaned herself up, she let Varric guide her back to under the tree, and leaned quietly against his side. He wasn’t Faolán and he wasn’t Ishek, but he was warm both physically and emotionally, and she needed that right then. She silently cursed herself for already becoming attached to someone.

Her hand was halfway to her mouth before Varric caught it in his and pulled it back down, squeezing and rubbing his thumb over where she had bitten it. She watched as the digit in its darker leather moved for a moment, before asking in a rasping, vomit-roughened voice, “How did you know?”

“Curly told me before we left,” he replied.

“…‘Curly’?”

“Cullen,” he clarified. “You ― actually, I guess you haven’t seen him when he hasn’t tidied his hair; it’s quite impressive.”

“I have, actually.” She smiled for half a second before frowning. “How does he know?”

Varric’s shoulder shifted against her in a shrug. “I don’t know, Doc. He took me aside before we left and asked me to keep an eye on you since he was fairly sure you were self-harming, deliberately or otherwise. It made sense of why you started wearing the gloves, even indoors.” He looked up at her, forehead wrinkled in worry. “I don’t like it when my friends are hurt, Doc. I like it even less when they do it to themselves, so if there’s anything I can do, even if it’s literally holding your hand so you can squeeze mine instead of biting yours―”

Amrita scarcely heard the second sentence. ‘Friends’? “Varric,” she said slowly, “I think I must have misunderstood you. Or perhaps misheard you.”

He grunted. “I said, Doc, that I don’t like it when my friends hurt themselves.”

“...‘Friends’?”

“Yeah, you know, someone you’re fond of, enjoy spending time with and generally wish well for?”

“I know what a friend is, Varric,” she replied breathily. “I just― I didn’t― I don’t―”

“You don’t consider me one?”

Amrita glanced up at the mild hurt in his tone, feeling her breath catch in her throat. “That’s―” She coughed and sighed. “That is not it, Varric. I am just… wary of making such attachments, as every ‘friend’ I have had since I left for the Circle has ended up dead at the hands of magic or demons. I would not wish that fate upon anyone else.”

Varric laughed. “And you think that’s your fault? Amrita,” he said, using her real name for perhaps the first time, “I have been friends with some of the most dangerous people in Thedas and dragged into terrible idea after terrible idea. A sweet kid like you who’s been handed a shitty situation but is doing her best to make sure that people survive? I’ll take my chances. And you need friends, or you’re not going to get through this.”

“Perhaps,” she mumbled. “I managed the past six years at the Circle. I have had a sum total of six friends since I was disowned, and five of them I met on my way to the Conclave. And I only found out they considered me a friend two days before the explosion.”

Wincing in sympathy, the dwarf grimaced. “Well, make that seven friends now. And chances are, Amrita,” he added, “that you had more friends than you realised; you just wouldn’t acknowledge them. They may not have said it, but with the way you treat people, they probably assumed you were one of their friends – perhaps reticent and introverted, but still a person they liked.”

Amrita sat in silence for a moment, digesting that revelation.

Then she started crying.

So much for staying at a professional distance.

~~~

They went back down to the crossroads maybe an hour later. Solas and Cassandra were waiting for them at the bottom of the path, offering understanding smiles as they stepped out of her way. She smiled weakly back, and whispered, “Where are we going?”

“First, to the Inquisition banner to make it official, as such,” Cassandra replied, “and then when you are finished inspecting our forces, to Mother Giselle.”

Amrita’s eyes widened in panic. “What do I do at the banner to make it official?

“Just, you know, acknowledge it, let people salute you, wave, that kind of thing,” Varric helpfully supplied.

“Seeker Pentaghast, is he having me on?”

The older woman scowled at Varric, then sighed. “He makes light of it, but he is not wrong. The people want to see the Herald of Andraste at the forefront of the Inquisition. There have already been queries as to your absence,” she added, and Amrita ducked her head in shame, “but I informed them that you had fallen back to our camp in order to arrange contacting Haven.”

“Thank you, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“And― You need not call me that.” At Amrita’s confused expression, the warrior clarified, “Seeker Pentaghast. Yes, it is my title, but I do not expect such formality except in formal situations.” She raised her eyebrows. “You wish to be called Amrita, yes? Then you may call me Cassandra.”

Amrita dipped her head graciously. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

“You are welcome, Amrita. The same goes for you, Solas.”

Varric nudged her forward, and so she schooled her face as best she could and approached the soldiers by the banner. The man and woman turned at her approach and smartly saluted; she returned the gesture and nodded at the pair before looking to Cassandra, who gestured in the direction of a man-made plaza.

They found a middle-aged, dark-skinned lady in Chantry robes tending to an Inquisition soldier. Amrita held herself back, although she was sorely tempted to go to his aid, as she heard him say, “Don’t… let them touch me, Mother. Their magic… is―”

“Turned to noble purpose, their magic is surely no more evil than your blade.” The Orlesian accent was quite strong.

“But…”

“Hush, dear boy. Allow them to ease your suffering.”

As the man lay back and finally let himself be tended to, Amrita approached. “Mother Giselle?” she asked calmly. Why was it so much easier to put on her act for strangers? It seemed that once she had been seen as vulnerable by someone, it was hard for her to put up the walls again.

The woman rose. “I am. And you must be the one they’re calling the Herald of Andraste.”

Amrita hesitated, and then chose the most neutral answer she could. “I am told you asked for me.”

The revered mother gestured for Amrita to walk with her, and so she fell into step beside the woman. “I know of the Chantry’s denouncement, and I’m familiar with those behind it,” she said. “I won’t lie to you: some of them are grandstanding, hoping to increase their chances of becoming the new Divine.”

Amrita sighed quietly: she had suspected as much. She had avoided politics because of this kind of bullshit.

Mother Giselle came to a stop at the top of the steps. “Some are simply terrified. So many good people, senselessly taken from us…”

Nodding, Amrita said, “What happened was horrible.” She shut her eyes as another pang of hurt from her own lost friends ran through her.

“Fear makes us desperate,” Mother Giselle went on, “but hopefully not beyond reason. Go to them. Convince the remaining clerics you are no demon to be feared. They have heard only frightful tales of you. Give them something else to believe.”

“I am… not certain that is the wisest course of action, Revered Mother,” Amrita demurred. “They rather seem to want to execute me.”

“You are no longer alone,” the other woman pointed out. “They cannot imprison or attack you.”

“They could try,” Amrita muttered, more bitterly than she meant to.

The revered mother’s tone softened even further. “Let me put it this way: you needn’t convince them all. You just need some of them to… doubt. Their power is… their unified voice. Take that from them, and you receive the time you need.”

Amrita was not convinced, but it was kind of the woman to offer her help. Amrita could not remember the last time a Chantry sister had bothered to speak to her with any kindness. “It is good of you to do this,” she finally replied.

“I honestly don’t know if you’ve been touched by fate or sent to help us but… I hope. Hope is what we need now. The people will listen to your rallying call, as they will listen to no other. You could build the Inquisition into a force that will deliver us… or destroy us.”

Amrita shuddered. “I intend to do my best to avoid the latter, Mother Giselle.”

After appraising her for a moment, the other woman said, “I will go to Haven and provide Sister Leliana with the names of those in the Chantry who would be amenable to a gathering. It is not much, but I will do whatever I can.” And with that, she set off down the steps, leaving Amrita looking over the quiet chaos with fear in her belly and the weight of the world on her shoulders.

She forced herself to stand up straight as she noticed the elven mage approaching her. “Solas,” she greeted him with a weary smile.

He returned the smile, though his was less exhausted. “While you were away with Varric I made some enquiries as to the local area, and I believe there may be something of use to us nearby.”

“Oh?”

“Yes – elven ruins that may contain an artefact that could help us monitor, even strengthen, the Veil.”

“That… sounds potentially useful.”

“We have a few hours before sunset; we could investigate now, though it would be understandable if you wanted to rest.”

“I―” Amrita broke off. She was tired, but anything that might help in their long-term plans was worth investigating. “If Varric and Cassandra are up for it, then yes.”

He smiled at her. “They have already agreed, so long as you were willing.”

She exhaled quietly, and gestured for Solas to lead the way.

~~~

He was right: it was not far, maybe half a mile east of the crossroads. As they arrived, they found an elf beleaguered by demons, and of course stepped in to assist. As the last demon dissipated, the elf turned to them.

Dalish tattoos! Her armour was quite different in style – and much warmer-looking – than the Lavellans’, but there was no mistaking the vallaslin. Amrita’s shock must have shown on her face, as the elf spoke soothingly. “Peace. I am no danger to you. My name is Mihris. I see you come ready for battle,” she observed. “Perhaps we face a common enemy in these demons.”

Amrita looked to her companions, but they gave no indication of what she should do. “Perhaps,” she replied. “Do you fight the demons alone?”

“Fighting the demons is pointless; there will always be more,” Mihris dismissed. “And I have no means of closing the rifts. But I have heard of elven artifacts that measure the Veil. They may tell us where new rifts appear.”

This time, Solas nodded.

“I was not expecting so many demons, however,” the elf was going on. “I believe one of the artefacts is nearby. Can you help me reach it?”

“It sounds worth investigating.” No point in letting her know we were already searching for it.

“Thank you. It shouldn’t be too much further ahead.”

They set off towards the elven ruins set into the cliff, and Mihris spoke again. “I do not think I could have done this alone.”

“How did you come to be here?” Amrita asked, curious as to the whereabouts of her clan.

“I was – am – First of Clan Virnehn. I left in service of my clan, and saw that great tear in the sky on my journey. I know more of any magic and the Veil than any shemlen, so I hoped to help.”

Amrita ignored the insult. It was probably true.

What surprised her was Solas speaking up in a flat, warning tone. “Ma harel, da’len.”

I know those words, she thought, puzzling over the contexts she had heard them in.

Mihris was equally shocked. “I… We should keep moving,” she blurted out, stepping up the pace and pulling ahead.

Crossing to Solas’s side, Amrita murmured, “Did… you just accuse her of being a… trickster? An enemy? Should we be concerned?”

He glanced down at her, his own surprise wrinkling his forehead. “I forget you know a few words,” he admitted as his expression smoothed over again. “Harellan means ‘trickster’; harillen means ‘opponent’. No, I simply accused her of lying.”

“About what?”

Solas just smiled at her. “Let us trust her for now; we can discover the reasons behind her duplicity later.”

Amrita sighed but offered no protest.

The entrance to the ruins was blocked by debris. “We’ll need focused magical energy to get by,” Mihris told them, before pointing at Solas. “You. Flat-ear. Can you manage it?” she asked in a patronising tone.

“Ma nuvenin, da’len,” he replied good-naturedly, waving a hand and lighting the rocks in magic as he shifted them out of the way.

Out sprang demons. The fight was short-lived, thankfully, and once the coast was clear Mihris stepped into the entrance. “Let’s go.”

Amrita, however, was not having any of it. “Ir abelas, Mihris,” she said, and the elf whipped around as though struck by the elven words. “But I will not tolerate you insulting my companions in the same way I would not tolerate them insulting you. Apologise to Solas, or you can investigate the ruins by yourself.”

There was a long, tense silence.

Then: “Ir abelas,” the elf ground out.

“Ma serannas,” Amrita replied evenly. “We can go now.”

They entered the ruins, discovered the phenomenon of Veilfire and cleared the place of demons in short order. Solas confirmed that the artefact did strengthen the Veil – quite how he knew, Amrita did not know – and Mihris set her hands on something interesting. From her tone, it was fairly evident that this was what she had been looking for; perhaps it was her motivation for entering the ruins that had been her lie.

Amrita looked to Solas, and he spoke up. “Ma halani. Ma glandival. Vir enasalin.”

Mihris now seemed distinctly unnerved by the apostate. “I… perhaps you’re right. Here. Take it. Go with Mythal’s blessing.” Shoving something into his hands, she hastily fled.

Nodding politely to her retreating back, Amrita responded, “Dareth shiral, Mihris.” Then she led the others out, back into the dusk and towards the crossroads.

Solas came up beside her. “You did not have to defend me against her, Amrita.”

“I know. But it is the principle of the thing. Elves have been oppressed long enough by my kind without them tearing each other down; no one type of elf is superior to another; nor is one race better than another.”

“How very gracious of you.”

Amrita looked up, puzzled, but he was staring into the distance.

No more was said.

~~~

Amrita had not intended to stay in the Hinterlands as long as she did, but wherever she went she seemed to find more people in need of help. During the next two days she and her companions cleared out the area to the south east, closing rifts, collecting resources, recruiting agents and convincing a cult that their time would be better spent aiding the refugees. She marked the location of red lyrium deposits that needed to be dealt with – Varric wanted them destroyed, and while Amrita was in theory up for that, she was unsure of exactly how to do so, and she and Solas were unwilling to risk going close enough to find out for themselves.

Then they returned to the crossroads before heading north to deal with bandits. They found a good place to establish another Inquisition camp, and then circled westwards, almost accidentally stumbling over the mage hideout in Witchwood and thankfully avoiding fighting through the worst of things on the West Road.

They tried to go to Redcliffe village to rest that night, but the guards refused to let them in. Exactly why, they were rather vague on: something about needing proof that they were Inquisition and not templar spies, or that Amrita was the Herald, or that the templar threat was dealt with. They spent the night in the shelter of an abandoned windmill.

The next day they continued southwards and tackled the templar encampment, which seemed to bring a halt to the worst of the conflict, although they still found pockets of fighting here and there. Neither of the factions were pleasant to fight, but Amrita could not help but come away in horror of what destruction and pain could be caused by magic: both her own and others’.

She became thoroughly sick of the smell of burning corpses. She knew it was necessary to prevent possession of the bodies, as well as Andrastian custom, but that did not stop the scent from lingering in her clothes and hair, prompting nausea at the most inopportune times. Varric fell into a routine of coming to hold her hand after battles; thankfully neither Solas nor Cassandra commented on this. Occasionally, when she recognised the urge to bite, she went by herself to his side.

They found Dennet alive and well, although the Redcliffe farms were threatened by wolves. A final day’s work found the demon controlling the animals dead, markers for watchtowers set up, and Amrita in possession of a steed which she did not know how to ride.

Cassandra promised to teach her on the journey back to Haven.

Chapter Text

“I do not like riding,” Amrita grumbled as she slid painfully off the mare that Dennet had bestowed upon her, onto the ground outside the Haven stables. She winced as she landed. “And frankly, nice as you are, Rowan, I would be quite content if I never saw another horse again in my life.”

The mare swung her head around to look at Amrita, and she sighed. The creature was not as aggressive as its namesake (the late Queen Rowan Guerrin, wife of King Maric, older sister of the arl of nearby Redcliffe) but it was still big and dangerous. Amrita had ridden on a cousin’s pony a couple of times as a child, and it could have in no way prepared her for three days of mild torture in her legs and back. She could have healed away the sores and bruises, but then she would only have had to keep it doing again and again as it would stop her adapting.

Amrita reached out to scratch Rowan behind the ears. “I’m sure Cassandra, or maybe one of my advisers, would be better for you.”

“Dennet gifted her to you, Amrita.”

She jumped as Cassandra appeared from the horse’s other side, holding its tack.

“You must learn sometime, Amrita ― as must anyone expecting to travel at your side.”

There was an audible groan from Varric.

Further discussion was cut off by a cry of, “Herald!” from the direction of the gates. The four of them turned to see one of the guards approaching, looking relieved.

“Timaeus,” Amrita greeted him.

“Herald,” he said again as he drew to a stop and saluted. “I was looking for the commander, but you would be equally good – we’ve got an angry mob of mages arguing with templar recruits outside the chantry, and I was hoping someone could calm them down. That, or knock some heads together.”

Amrita felt her heart sink. “And… I should go and do something about that, I suppose.”

“Probably,” Varric answered, coming up next to her and giving her hand a quick squeeze. “If only to find out if it’s the mages or the templars kicking off. You might be able to soothe a few nerves, too.”

Dropping her head in acknowledgement, she turned back to Cassandra. “Please could you ―”

“Go. I will see to Rowan.”

“Thank you.” She trotted off into Haven.

She heard the hubbub before she saw it, and arrived at the back of the crowd in time to hear accusations being flung about. Unfortunately, she was not tall enough to see over the throng, and so she stepped up onto a nearby drystone wall to elevate herself. Her legs strongly protested the action.

“Enough!” Cullen’s voice cut through the fight, as did his impressively tall figure as he strode out of the chantry and stepped between what Amrita had to assume were the ringleaders.

“Knight-Captain!” the templar protested.

“That is not my title,” Cullen snarled, face pinched. “We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition!” He span between the factions, finger waving warningly in their faces.

Amrita held in the groan as a familiar, Chantry-garbed man with a squarish brown leather hat walked past her, hands behind his back, and loudly inquired, “And what does that mean, exactly?”

The people parted to let the chancellor through, and as Cullen’s attention was drawn in that direction he happened to glance up and make eye contact with Amrita. He raised his eyebrows – she smiled weakly – but then he had to respond. “Back already, Chancellor?” he asked, shaking his head and raising a dismissive hand in frustration. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Roderick stepped forward into the space, gesturing expansively. “I’m curious, Commander, as to how your Inquisition and its ‘Herald’ will restore order as you’ve promised.”

Amrita could not hear Cullen’s next words, but he locked eyes with her and his expression said quite enough. Of course you are. “Back to your duties, all of you!” he ordered as he looked back, shooing the people away.

As the crowd dispersed, Amrita gingerly descended from the wall and approached Cullen and Roderick, who remained in front of the chantry. The smile the commander gave her was hardly there, more a shift in the worry lines around his eyes, but it was genuine enough. “Lady Amrita,” he greeted her.

“Commander Cullen,” she returned, inclining her head. “Chancellor Roderick. What was that about?” She suspected she knew.

Cullen cleared his throat and crossed his arms. “Mages and templars were already at war. Now they’re blaming each other for the Divine’s death.”

“Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order,” Roderick cut in.

“Who, you?” One of Cullen’s eyebrows rose, and Amrita winced a little as he made no pretence of being polite. “Random clerics who weren’t important enough to be at the Conclave?”

Roderick’s tone was equally disparaging. “The rebel Inquisition and its so-called ‘Herald of Andraste’? I think not,” he scoffed.

Amrita refrained from criticising the Chantry’s inaction for a moment, instead addressing the more personal, theological issue. “I may be Andrastian,” she said quietly, “but I do not believe I am Andraste’s Herald any more than you do, Chancellor.”

He sneered, twisting unpleasant features further. “That… laudable humility won’t stop the Inquisition from using the misconception when it suits them.”

Amrita cast her eyes down, as she could not refute that statement.

“This Inquisition claims only that we must close the Breach or perish,” Cullen reminded them.

Roderick shook his head. “You say that now, Commander. We shall see if the sentiment remains true.”

Her hand was halfway to her mouth before she caught herself, literally grabbing her own wrist before folding her arms. She did not miss the commander’s intrigued tilt to the head. “While I cannot report on the state of the war before the Conclave, the mages and templars were certainly at it in the Hinterlands, despite nobody knowing the truth behind what happened at the temple.”

It seemed the chancellor was thoroughly incapable of treating anything as anything other than an opportunity to press his agenda. “Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine. If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so.”

“Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat,” Cullen practically spat.

As the two continued bickering, Amrita felt a rare, yet not wholly unfamiliar, sensation of protective anger uncurling in her stomach. She had felt it when her cousin had refused to let the Ostwick mages aid the humans; when Wynny had been killed collecting herbs; when her father forced the mages from the city; and when the Marquis DuRellion had threatened to turn out the Inquisition. These people are stopping others from helping those in need.

“With all due respect, Chancellor―” she suddenly found herself saying, not entirely certain of where she was going and reasonably sure she was about to shove her foot in her mouth, but hang it, she was sore and exhausted and the chancellor needed a reality check. “―but we cannot afford to wait for a new Divine to take action.” She pointed east. “Out there, people are dying: killed by demons, bandits, mages, templars, exposure, disease, starvation… I-I― I will readily submit to a trial when the new Divine is chosen, but in the meantime the Chantry is doing nothing to help the people who need it the most.

“Are the tenets of the Chant only actionable by senior clerics?” Her hand swept around to the chantry building, and her voice rose. “The Chanters could recite the Canticle of Benedictions to you, if you cannot remember it. Or Transfigurations; or would you prefer a reminder of Eileen’s words?” She folded her arms and stared stonily at Roderick. “Your concerns have been noted, and repetition of them will not alter the fact that it is the Inquisition that acts, not the Chantry. Your time and energy would be better spent following in Mother Giselle’s footsteps, setting an example for your fellow clerics and caring for the Maker’s children in this time of need. It would be better spent stood praying in the chantry than sowing dissent.” She took in a deep breath to steady herself in the face of Roderick’s furious expression. “Commander; I believe we have work to be doing.” And, leaving Roderick spluttering indignantly, she turned and marched into the chantry.

Cullen caught up with her in short order, his long legs quickly compensating for her head start. “Lady Amrita―” he began, but she cut him off with the shake of her head.

They strode into the war room. “Shut the door,” Amrita ordered hoarsely as she rested her hands on the table, breathing heavily. A moment later the door groaned shut, and she felt the commander’s looming presence come to her side. “Maker’s breath,” she gasped, “did I just―”

“Tell the chancellor to stuff it? Yes, you did,” Cullen replied, warmth in his voice, “and it was well-deserved.”

She kept her eyes on the table, eyes darting between cities and landmarks on the map. “I did not mean to be offensive.” She curled her fingers and clenched her stomach muscles.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him settle his backside against the edge of the table, not quite sitting, and his sheathed sword clanked against the underside. “Lady Amrita,” he said, voice lower, softer, deliberately soothing, “you were not offensive. You were a great deal more tactful than I would have been, and you spoke the truth. If he took offense, then he’s the fool.”

All the righteous anger warming Amrita’s belly had cooled into the cold certainty of backlash. She was shaking. “But, what if―”

“Void take the ‘what ifs’ and politics,” Cullen snapped.

Amrita sprang upright, away, out of reach, almost before she realised what she was doing. A hand went to her brow.

Cullen blinked at her, equally surprised, then sagged, his fur mantle sloping down his shoulders. “Forgive me,” he said. “My frustration was not directed at you, although it likely sounded as though it was.” He exhaled slowly, glancing down at his arm guards before his gaze returned to her; his hands were trembling slightly. “If we feared criticism we would paralyse ourselves, and be guilty of allowing wickedness to hurt others through our inaction. You need to find whatever part of you fuelled – that,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of the village, “and keep hold of it when you can. You will inevitably meet more people who put their own agendas above common sense.”

Amrita stared at him a few seconds longer, and then nodded jerkily.

“Good. Would you like a few minutes to collect yourself before the meeting?”

Another nod. “I’ll― I will be fine in ten minutes.”

“I’ll send runners to fetch the others,” he said, pushing himself up again.

“Commander―” She stopped, uncertain of what she wanted to say.

“Yes?”

“...Thank you.”

~~~

After Amrita had briefed the advisers on the situation in the Hinterlands, aided by Cassandra, the conversation moved swiftly onto following through on Mother Giselle’s suggestion of going directly to the dissident clerics in Val Royeaux. Josephine was all for it; Leliana feared it would put Amrita in danger; and Cullen was resistant to the idea of showing any kind of capitulation to the Chantry. Amrita simply worried that it would not do any good – if Roderick would not see reason, why would anyone else? – but deferred to Cassandra’s arguments that the Inquisition had to act before they could approach the mages or templars for aid with the Breach.

Plans were made for Amrita to go to Orlais the day after next, and then they broke for lunch, agreeing to reconvene in the morning to address issues and petitions that had been sent the Inquisition’s way. Amrita needed some time to recuperate, and was too dead on her feet to handle more politics.

However, before she could escape, Leliana said, “Lady Amrita: a moment, please.”

“Of course, Sister Leliana,” she replied, gripping at her right wrist. Cassandra and Cullen exited, the Seeker patting her shoulder comfortingly. “How can I help?”

“I shall not keep you long as I know Josephine is hoping you will join her for lunch―”

Both of them looked over to the Antivan, who smiled broadly. “I did so enjoy our last conversation,” she said by way of explanation.

Amrita felt her face grow hot. The notion of anyone wanting to spend time with her outside of duty and necessity was still woefully unfamiliar. “It would be my pleasure, Lady Montilyet.” She was rewarded with an almost blindingly bright smile.

Leliana resumed her conversation. “I thought you would wish to know that we heard back from Magister Tiberius's widow.”

It took a moment for Amrita to process the change of topic, but when she did she straightened up. “And?”

“I suspect from the tone of the letter that she is less than distraught by the news of her husband’s death. Spouses and slaves are replaceable in the Imperium.” Leliana’s lips curled, and Josephine shook her head. Amrita forced down the bile that threatened to rise. “If anything, she seemed more annoyed by the loss of one of them – Virrevas? – as he had been an excellent personal attendant, and that the children would miss him.” Her expression turned soft and sympathetic, perhaps seeing the grief on Amrita’s face. “The end result is that no one expects them to return to Tevinter. Haven’s makeshift jury were satisfied by your testimony, and now they are free.” Leliana clasped her hands behind her back. “I have taken the liberty of assuming them into the Inquisition, either with a view to turning them into agents, or simply using their skills in a paid capacity as servants. I thought it would be kinder than turning them out and trusting that they would not be abused – or worse.”

Amrita dropped her head and wiped her eyes. “Thank you,” she mumbled. Perhaps she had misjudged the spymaster, or caught her at her worst.

“You are welcome,” Leliana replied with a smile. Then, picking up some envelopes from the table, she said, “We have also received word from Clan Lavellan and your family.”

“My family?” Amrita squeaked. “What―”

“Read it yourself. Both those letters are addressed to you,” she added as she passed them over.

Josephine coughed gently. “Well― Amrita, I shall make arrangements for lunch; please, join me when you are ready.”

“Of course,” Amrita replied absently, staring at one of the envelopes.

She was about eighty percent sure that the handwriting was Laurel’s.

~~~

Amrita remained in the war room by herself to read the letters, not trusting herself not to cry. She ended up reading the letter from the Lavellans first, as she at least knew something of what to expect. Still, she had to take off her gloves, smooth it out and rest it on the table, as her hands shook too much to read it.

Amrita,

Thank you for your letter informing us of the fate of Faolán and Ffion. Clan Lavellan appreciates your condolences, and your desire to put our clansmen to rest. While some Dalish clans hate humans and wish nothing to do with them, Clan Lavellan has always dealt fairly with all and wished only for peace, though we defend ourselves when we must. However, we still wish to keep some parts of our culture to ourselves, and respectfully request that you return Faolán and Ffion’s weapons so that we can send them on their journey with Falon’din according to our own customs. If you befriended the pair as you say you did, then you will understand our caution. However, we do not believe that your own memorial for them will interfere, should you wish to do something in addition to our rituals.

Clan Lavellan wishes the Inquisition well in sealing the Breach that has opened in the sky, and in finding those responsible for killing our clansmen.

We await your reply.

Keeper Istimaethorial Lavellan
First Da’Revas Lavellan

Amrita let out a long, shaky sigh. Disappointment sat in her gut like a sharp rock, but she did understand. She would see to it that the clan’s wishes were respected.

The metaphorical rock twisted painfully as she picked up the letter from her family. She had not seen Laurel’s writing in recent years, but she had had his annotated copy of the Chant of Light since she was eight. She unfolded the paper, heart rising into her throat, and set it down next to the other letter. Her eyes flicked down to the bottom.

Your ever-loving brother,
Laurel
12th day of Guardian, 9:41 Dragon

“Fenedhis,” Amrita swore, shutting her eyes and feeling hot tears squeeze out between them. “Almost two weeks ago.” It took her a few moments to find the resolve to read from the top, but find it she did.

Amrita,

Maker be praised – you are alive! After Grace and Father forced the mages from the city and I could no longer ask of almost any elf I passed on the street whether you were alive and well, I feared you caught up in the violence between mages and templars. You never were one for fighting, but I could imagine… Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter. What Sister Nightingale said you have survived surpasses anything I could imagine.

Grace has all but taken over Father’s responsibilities as Bann – in all honesty, she did so ten years ago – and it is she who has written back to Sister Nightingale. I imagine you will see the letter, but in case not, the family’s official stance is that you are still not a Trevelyan; that you should face trial to determine whether you were complicit in or responsible for the murder of the thousands who perished in the Conclave; and that we do not recognise you as the Herald of Andraste, as the Maker would never bestow such a position on a cursed child.

Tasting tangy blood in her mouth, Amrita recoiled and snatched away the hand she had not even realised had been between her teeth. “Fuck. Fuck.” She healed the cuts shut, and hoped that they would not scar. Slipping her hands between her thighs so they could not come back up, she read on.

Some Trevelyans are expressing some sympathy – or a desire to be on the good side of someone in your position – but you will find rejection from most. Whether that will change as you go on to hopefully save Thedas from the Breach, we will have to wait and see.

I am nearing forty years, Amrita, and every month I seem to be holding my tongue for fear, not of my own life, but of breaking our parents’ hearts. The Chantry is not doing what it must for the people. The Inquisition is the only body taking action to help people, and you have my wholehearted support. If there is anything that I can do, send word to the Ostwick Chantry. Rest assured, you are in my thoughts and prayers. Stay strong, and show everyone how magic was a blessing before humans tainted the Golden City.

Your ever-loving brother,
Laurel
12th day of Guardian, 9:41 Dragon

Amrita sat very still and very quiet for a very long time.

At least, it felt like a long time before her stomach growled and reminded her that she was supposed to be seeing Josephine for lunch. She wiped her eyes, folded up the letters and left for the ambassador’s office.

~~~

Josephine was starting to wonder whether her invitation had been spurned when a timid knock came at the door. “Come in!” she called, and a moment later in slipped the Herald, posture hunched and eyes reddened, as though she had been crying.

“I’m sorry,” Amrita mumbled as she approached the chair opposite Josephine.

“Not at all,” Josephine dismissed, rising to collect the kettle from the fireplace. “I am just pleased you came. Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

There were a few moments of comfortable silence as Josephine poured the boiling water into the teapot and left it to stew. She pushed the plate of food for Amrita in her direction, and she nodded in thanks as she took it. When Josephine judged the tea had steeped for long enough, she poured some into the two fine Orlesian cups she had found – small luxuries in the remote, cold village – and passed one to Amrita. The Herald accepted it after putting her plate down, and wrapped her fingers around it, watching the brown liquid steam serenely.

Abruptly Amrita looked up and smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I’m― I am hardly being good company, am I? And after you went to the trouble of arranging food and drink.”

Josephine returned the smile over her own cup, sighing gently. “And I am sorry the fare is so simple. This place is no bastion of civilisation, not like the Circle. I hope you don’t find the living conditions in Haven too rustic for someone of your station.”

“Most of my life has been spent inside a cold, dingy tower,” the Herald gently reminded her. “Besides; this cannot be what you are accustomed to, Josephine.”

She closed her eyes and took another sip, schooling her expression. “One adjusts. I stay busy. It helps take my mind from our surroundings. ...And the cold. And the wildlife. And the lack of civilisation for miles around.” She huffed. “Why anyone lived here before we found Andraste’s ashes, I cannot imagine.” Opening her eyes, she found the Herald regarding her with tacit amusement. “Your silence is understandable,” she replied, returning to Amrita’s original apology. “I’m sure the past few weeks have given you much to think about. And if the letter says what I think it says, then I am unsurprised you are feeling a little low.”

Amrita flinched a little, then exhaled, sending steam spilling over the lip of her cup. “One letter was from my Dalish friends’ clan, asking me to return their weapons so that they can put them to rest themselves.”

“That can be arranged, now that Leliana knows their location and they recognise the Inquisition symbol.”

The Herald nodded slowly. “The other letter… was from my brother.” Her eyes went back to the tea. “I… Well. You know that my family disowned me when my magic manifested.”

The dead resignation in Amrita’s voice was a little heart-breaking. For some noble families, having a mage in the family was an inconvenience in that they had to be removed to a Circle, but money usually bought perks such as visitations and lenience from certain strictures. For the Trevelyans, it had been treated as a Blight upon the whole family. “I… Yes. The whole situation is rather awkward; we might have approached the banns of House Trevelyan for their formal support of the Inquisition, but… they made it clear even when we simply informed them of the situation – before we asked anything of them – that they would denounce you and the Inquisition.” She hesitated as Amrita’s eyebrows drew together in a painful expression, and the silence invited the Herald to speak.

“House Trevelyan is very devout, and has never been fond of magic. Then my father lost two of his children to mages: my oldest brother, Felandaris, was killed in Antiva City with his husband while trying to broker some kind of trade deal, and mages were involved. That was when I was seven, so… seventeen years ago?”

Josephine froze for a moment, something in Amrita’s words resonating with her past. She had heard of the incident, she was sure, but was it…? She would have to investigate.

“And then, my sister, Dawn – a templar in Kirkwall – was killed when… when Anders…” She trailed off.

That particular tragedy had been repeated almost endlessly at the Trevelyan summer balls in recent years.

But goodness, Josephine wanted to give the younger woman a hug. “I will not press the matter of your family, but... others will.” Amrita’s eyebrows quirked upwards in confusion. “Val Royeaux has noted your lineage. It gives the Inquisition some legitimacy, although not so much as we’d hoped – certainly, that is not helped by your estrangement.”

Amrita nodded slowly. “I cannot imagine my being a mage helps there, either.”

“It probably does less harm than you might think. You’re not an unfamiliar sight. Mages from noble families are given more leeway. Besides,” she added, hoping to pull a little more from the reticent woman, “Ostwick’s Circle had a reputation for being rather... sedate.”

“Mm.”

“You did stay out of the rebellion.”

“We did.”

“You didn’t encounter any difficulty with the templars?”

The Herald scratched at her right eyebrow with one hand – the one with scars trisecting it. “For the most part. The templars knew I was a Trevelyan by blood, though no longer by right, so they left me alone. Not everyone was so lucky.” The ugly implication was left hanging in the air.

“I… see.”

Amrita sighed softly, and put her cup down so she could finish her food.

No more was said until she stood up to leave. “Thank you, Josephine.”

“It is no trouble,” she replied, worry and guilt about upsetting the woman before her swirling in her stomach. “I am sorry this was not such a cheerful conversation as last time.”

“I am sure we have not exhausted all the good things in the world to discuss. I suspect that immediately after returning from an expedition may not be when I am at my best. Perhaps another time.”

“I hope so. And― I know I am not always free, but if you should ever need an excuse to come and sit in the warm and talk, or even sit in silence, you are always welcome in my office, and I will tell anyone that you are in a very important meeting.”

Snorting, Amrita smiled. “Thank you. I― I appreciate the offer. But for now, I think I need to get some rest.”

“Of course. You know where to find me; otherwise, I will see you in the morning.”

“Good day, Josephine.”

Once Amrita had exited, Josephine took a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped her quill in its ink pot.

Dear Mama,

I hope you and Papa are well. Last she wrote, Yvette was enjoying herself in Val Chevin, touring private art collections in her search for inspiration well away from the civil war; and my work with the Inquisition keeps me constantly occupied. I hoped I might trouble you to look at our records from 9:23-24 to see if our family has ever had any business dealings with the Trevelyans of Ostwick City…

~~~

Amrita was in the middle of asking Cullen to send some men to defend refugees unfortunate enough to have settled on an extremely unpleasant bann’s territory, when the doors to the war room slammed open and one of Leliana’s men stumbled in, winded. Amrita immediately stepped forward to check that he was alright. He waved her away as he doubled over to catch his breath.

“You can’t just barge in here while we’re having a war council!” Cullen snapped.

“I’m sorry,” the man gasped, “but there are Qunari at the gates demanding to see Lady Trevelyan!”

“Qunari!?” Josephine exclaimed, but Amrita was already running. She ignored the startled shouts of the sisters in the chantry and villagers as she almost tripped down the steps. She had to slow as she approached the gates, as it seemed anyone who could hold a weapon was congregating to defend themselves and the Inquisition. Blurting out apologies, she squeezed through the crowd and eventually staggered out into the open.

A group of templars stood in a line between the village and the visitors, though precisely who they were protecting from whom was not entirely clear. Beyond them stood the Valo-kas mercenary group, with Tully at the front.

“My lady!”

Amrita looked in the direction of the voice, and found Knight-Captain Rylen – or was he a knight-captain now? – beckoning her from one end of the line. She trotted over, and as soon she was close enough, she said, “I know these people, they are―”

“Amrita!”

Her head whipped around, and she saw Katoh waving her mace in the air in greeting. Amrita felt a twinge in her side at the sight.

The murmuring of the armed Inquisition members increased behind her. They did not seem to see it as a greeting.

“I will deal with this,” she told Rylen, ignoring the approaching footsteps, “just let me go and talk to them―”

“You are not going to talk to them by yourself,” Cassandra snapped from behind her. “I won’t allow it!”

“Nor will I,” added Cullen as Amrita turned to the warriors. Varric and Solas were close behind. “I’ve seen what Qunari can do to a man―”

“You’ve also seen what a man can do to a Qunari, Curly,” Varric reminded him drily. “Listen to the Herald; she’s no Champion of Kirkwall, but she doesn’t need to be. Or did you not get the memo about ‘she travelled to the Conclave with Tal-Vashoth and made friends with some of them’?”

That stunned the warriors into silence, and after flashing Varric a quick smile Amrita took advantage to break clear of the templars.

Everything behind her went quiet, as though holding its breath.

“Serah Tully,” she greeted the leader as she stepped in front of the group.

“Serah Trevelyan,” he returned stiffly. “Can’t say I’m impressed by the Inquisition’s response to a non-hostile group of kossith.”

“Neither can I,” she admitted. “Though nor am I surprised. We will have to work on that.”

“Do. Where are Katari and Ishek?”

“You did not receive my letter?”

“We have heard nothing except the word that has spread throughout Ferelden that the Conclave was destroyed by a hole in the sky. We were delayed in our return by demons and assaults by templars and mages – they killed Meraad and Sataa – so our progress was slowed.”

Amrita sagged, and she felt her throat clench in the anticipation of tears. “They― They are dead. They died in the explosion at the Conclave. So did Faolán and Ffion.” She rubbed a hand across her eyes. “I am sorry.”

Tully swore viciously, and was mimicked in content though not language by many of the kossith. One of them started crying – Kaariss? – and was comforted by what looked like the two Ashaads. “How?” Tully demanded, stepping forward so he towered over Amrita. “How did the temple explode? How did you survive?”

“I ― I don’t know,” she stammered. “None of us do. We – the Inquisition – are trying to find out. As well as fix the Breach.” She dropped her gaze. “We were― I was going to have a little memorial ceremony this afternoon if. If you wanted to join. Or contribute.”

He stared down at her, visibly trembling, before sharply turning back to the mercenaries and shouting something in Qunlat. The company nodded their assent and began to retreat into the valley Haven sat in. Tully remained where he was, along with Taarlok, who seemed to be Tully’s second.

“What are they doing?” Amrita asked quietly.

“Setting up camp away from your forces,” he replied, teeth gritted. “We are going to talk.”

~~~

Amrita picked Leliana to be her second in the meeting; the spymaster said she had worked with both Qunari and Tal-Vashoth before, probably had the most up-to-date information on what had happened at the Conclave, and she also had slightly more capacity for tact and diplomacy than Cassandra or Cullen. Plus, in the enclosed space of Josephine’s office, Leliana’s daggers would be of more use than a longsword and shield.

In the end, though, the discussion did not turn foul, and it was agreed that the company would return to the Free Marches. After their most recent encounter with demons and blood mages – and trekking back to Haven across a rift-filled Ferelden – they were reluctant to stick around, but promised that if they encountered any rifts on the other side of the Waking Sea they would send word.

However, they were not going to leave until they put Ishek and Katari to rest as best they could.

After Amrita had concluded all the business she could at the war table, she fetched Solas before retrieving Ishek’s skull from her quarters. That had been a nasty shock to find in a box, along with Faolán’s daggers and the remnants of Ffion’s bow. The pair of them left the village in solemn silence, only to find Varric, Cullen and Josephine waiting outside. Josephine had wrapped herself up again, and Amrita did not blame her.

“Thought you might like some moral support from your new friends while you say goodbye to the old ones,” Varric said, moving to her side and patting her arm.

Amrita looked sharply between her advisers, caught off guard by the F-word, and they smiled sympathetically at her and nodded. That brought tears to her eyes, and they hadn’t even started on the memorial. She sniffed, smiled weakly back at them, and tried to put aside the possibility that she might have more friends to one side for now.

The ceremony ended up being quite simple and somewhat improvised, but Amrita found herself moved to tears throughout most of it. At the edge of the frozen lake, they found a sheltered rocky ledge, and every person who had lost a friend placed a stone on the ledge for each friend, forming a little cairn. Amrita, who had lost the most friends, went last, topping the pile off with five stones: one each for Faolán, Ffion, Virrevas, Ishek and Katari. Taarlok then asked her to melt a hole in the ice through which to drop Ishek’s skull so that it had some kind of resting place. She did so, and Tully slid it in reverentially. The white bone and silver metal vanished into the dark waters in an instant, and Amrita felt something almost like a weight lift off her shoulders as she sealed the hole over again with a wave of her hand.

Then, as she was the one who knew all the dead, she was asked to start off the speeches. As she spoke, Varric came to hold her hand, and Josephine hesitantly took her left arm in a gesture of comfort and solidarity.

Amrita kept it short as she could, for fear she would start sobbing before she was finished.

“Faolán Lavellan, you― you were a good man. You loved your clan and your culture, even sharing it with a― a shem who had earned your trust.

“Ffion Lavellan, you were a good woman. You knew too much,” she said, almost choking on a sad laugh, “but you were kind and looked after your kin.

“Virrevas Filtiarn, I only knew you briefly, but you were gentle and joyful ― even after slavery at the hands of a monster. May all three of you find peace in death: Falon’Din guide you, and may Fen’Harel never catch your scent.”

She paused to regain control of her breathing. She half-noticed Solas shift a little in his place, but attributed it to the cold.

“Ishek Adaar – Dadaar – you were like a father to me by the end.

“Katari Adaar, you had a hard life as a Saarebas, but you seemed to find some happiness in your freedom. Both of you taught and helped me, and I can safely say you have saved my life many times since your deaths.”

She gasped, and pulled her hand from Varric’s to wipe at her eyes. “It was a privilege to know all five of you, for however little time it was. You were my friends, another family, and I shall not forget you.” Then she fell silent, the quiet sounds of the sobs she stifled in her glove aside. Varric’s arm found its way around her waist.

Kaariss went next, speaking in Qunlat something that had the feel of a poem to it. She heard Ishek and Katari’s names in there, and while she did not understand the words she understood the intent behind them.

Afterwards, Solas spoke in Elven. Amrita had never heard such fluency in the language, not even from the Lavellans, and it sounded as though he spoke a true, traditional eulogy.

When he was finished, they stood in respectful silence for a few minutes longer. Then without a word, they trudged back to Haven to eat and prepare for their journeys the next day.

~~~

Midnight found Amrita in the side chapel, alone this time. She had been unimpeded by guards since she was no longer considered a flight-risk. Tonight, it was less a fear of nightmares and demons, and more nausea-inducing anxiety over going to Val Royeaux and meeting clerics that kept her from her bed. So, mindful of Cullen’s not-quite-an-invitation, she had come to pray and sing and ease her nerves.

She stopped mid-verse as she heard the door ease open behind her. She turned her head to see the commander standing sheepishly in the doorway, devoid of his usual mantle and drapery. His hair was tussled and curly, ringlets escaping from the grip of whatever substance he used to tame it during the day.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Lady Amrita, I didn’t―”

“Amrita.”

“What?”

“Just… Amrita, Commander.”

He folded his arms. “Then I’ll have to insist on Cullen.”

Amrita turned back to the statue of Andraste and rested back against the seat. “As you wish.” She was too tired to argue.

He padded up the aisle, and paused next to her. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Of course not,” she replied, tucking her legs in to allow him to pass. “It would hardly be Andrastian of me to deny you time in front of our lady.”

He stepped over her feet and sat down next to her with a weary sigh. “Can’t sleep?”

“No. I fear what will come about during the trip.”

“As do I.” He settled back. “But Cassandra’s right. We need more influence and more support behind us before we can approach the templars.”

Amrita’s stomach tightened a little. “You are very set on our going to them.”

“And you would rather we allied ourselves with mages, who are clearly more at risk of possession with the weakened Veil than normal, when we hardly have enough trained templars to deal with those mages we already have should there be problems?”

She pulled her feet up onto the bench and hugged her legs to herself. She was fearful of templars, but she feared magic and mages more. With the mark on her hand, and the increased demon-activity in both the waking world and the Fade, she was very conscious of the fact that she was more of a risk than ever. “I… have not decided yet.”

“You will need to do so soon.”

“I know.” She was quiet for a little while, watching the flicker of the Eternal Light as it danced in its brazier. “Thank you for coming today.”

“To the memorial?” When she hummed in acknowledgement, he went on, “It was… It felt like the right thing to do. I know what it’s like to lose friends, and I know what a difference it makes to know you are not alone while you grieve. It makes it easier not to take it out on yourself.”

The silence that followed was heavy with implication, and when Amrita realised what it was, she felt her face start to burn. “Ah. The, uh. Hands. Varric said.” She buried her nose between her knees. “I don’t mean to, it just…” She trailed off. “I’m working on it. Varric’s holding my hand – literally – to help me through. We’re trying to think of less conspicuous alternatives.”

Cullen paused to think for a few moments. “Perhaps, if the circumstances permit it, removing the gloves and squeezing them in one hand?”

“I’ll… keep that in mind as a possibility.”

“Good. If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“I appreciate the offer.” She turned to look at him, and studied the lines and tired blotches on his face. Her instincts as a healer were bothering her; it was almost as though there was something in the air warning her of ill health. “Are you alright, Cullen?” she asked softly, the question hanging in the still, holy air.

He snorted. “Who is?”

She pursued her point. “Are you well, Cullen? Because you do not seem it.” She kept talking, hypothesising and reasoning as she went. “Is it something I can help with? I can imagine you are not entirely comfortable with magical healing, but while I worked in the alienage I built up quite the repertoire of non-magical potions to save my mana.”

That prompted only silence, a silence so long that Amrita felt the urge to nibble at her hand rise again, Maker, I fucked up, I fucked up again―

“No,” he replied, voice so low she almost missed it. “It’s not something you can help with.” The muscles in his jaw tensed, and he rubbed at the skin around his eyes.

She tilted her head, doctor’s brain whirring and diagnosing as best it could. She had seen similar symptoms before, she knew she had, while she had been in the Circle, not the alienage, and―

It wasn’t something in the air. It was the absence of something. The absence of the smell of burnt ozone that permeated any space that templars frequented.

“Cullen,” she asked quietly, “how does the Inquisition fare in terms of its lyrium supply?”

He flinched, finally turning to look at her. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung slightly open. “I―” He looked away. “It’s adequate, for now, though we’ll need to get more, whichever faction we approach. No,” he murmured, “for better or worse… I chose to stop taking the lyrium.”

Amrita was stunned into silence. It explained the lack of Templar Odour. Athough she had been kept away from her relatives suffering from lyrium madness, she knew quite enough and had seen enough in the Circle. “Maker’s breath,” she swore, “Cullen―”

“You have templars in your family,” he interrupted her, “so I’m sure you know that lyrium not only gives us our powers, but binds us to the Order as it feeds our addiction.” She nodded, and he continued. “When I left the Order, I no longer wished to be bound, to the Order or that life. Cassandra knows to watch me, and to remove me from duty should my ability to lead be compromised.”

She had no idea what to say, and so they sat in awkward silence for several minutes. She had known he had been determined to leave behind that life, to be better than the templars had become, but to go so far as to remove himself... Eventually, she spoke up. “I think that what you are doing is very brave,” she admitted quietly. “And I imagine it is very painful, as well.”

“I can endure it.”

“But chronic pain makes performing at one’s best nigh on impossible — and it is even worse if you cannot sleep.” She stood up, and Cullen’s head followed her. “When I return, I will see if there is anything I can do.” He started to protest, but she held up a hand. “Healing and helping others is how I make my peace with the Maker. You have already done a lot for me, Cullen; let me use what skills I have to help you.”

He stared at her for a few long moments, and then muttered, “As you wish.”

“Good night, Cullen.”

“Good night, Amrita.”

As she stole out of the chantry, her mind was already at work.

Cullen Rutherford was not a templar any more.

Chapter Text

Over the course of the journey to Val Royeaux, Amrita was bled dry of both blood from her womb and any enthusiasm that she had built up for her duties. While she had not been lacking for reminders of how awful magic could be, and being called Andraste’s herald made her deeply uncomfortable, she had been able to put her own magic to good use, and the gratitude expressed by the refugees and peasants had been… moving. Encouraging. Uplifting, even.

But no. The Maker’s scheduled monthly reality-check was there to remind her of her innate evilness, and of how misguided anyone praising her was. The cramps started mere hours after setting off for Val Royeaux, starting off as tell-tale twinges as she bounced along on Rowan’s back, and by sunset transforming into lancing pangs through her abdomen that had her struggling not to hunch over the reins or throw up – worse than she could recall bleeding pains to be.

She withdrew from the others while on the move, reflecting on what had happened since the Conclave was destroyed. She had sinned by killing and allowing people to make blasphemous assertions about her, but she could hardly tell them to desist without drawing attention to her unwelcome beliefs: she realised that she would have to discard her openness and vulnerability if she was to survive in the limelight she had been thrust into. It would mean a return to her persona in the Circle, one she had not worn for over a month, but it was a familiar mask and one that would protect her.

She remained polite and interested in her companions, but trod carefully in conversations to avoid revealing her emotions or further details of her opinions.

On the third night of their journey, while she sat close to the fire, wrapped in a thick blanket and listening to the others debate/share stories/bicker, Varric patted her shoulder on his way to bed and whispered, “If there’s anything I can do, or you wanna talk, you know where I am. Sleep well, Doc.”

“And you, Varric,” she replied with as much warmth as she could muster. Her first friend in the Inquisition did not deserve her distance, but it was better to separate the professional and personal while they were out in world, and she was unsure she had the words to explain her actions to him.

Solas followed the dwarf to their shared tent, leaving Amrita alone with the Seeker, who stared suspiciously at Amrita’s face as though trying to work something out. Feeling her cheeks heat up under the inscrutable gaze, Amrita stood, pulling the blanket even tighter around her. “I… just need to…” she mumbled limply before turning and shuffling out of the camp to find a place to relieve herself and change the cloth in her smalls.

When she returned, Cassandra was holding a small flask, not dissimilar to the ones that held the potions Amrita used to support her healing magic. “Here,” the Seeker said, offering the bottle. “For the pain.”

There was a protracted silence.

Fuck. She knows. She knows about my bleeding, of course she knows about mages bleeding, she’s a Seeker and had a mage lover and she knows I am cursed and—

Amrita finally choked out, “I don’t—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cassandra cut in. “Your discomfort is clear. Take it, get warm, and rest.”

Cheeks blazing in shame, Amrita replied, “Thank you, but I will be fine.”

“I insist.”

But… surely she should know that I must not discuss it, or do anything to relieve the pain. Of all people, she should know that.

There was another long silence before Amrita wilted under Cassandra’s steady stare, and reached out for the flask. “Thank you,” she repeated softly. The kindness was… unexpected, to say the least. Underneath the abrasive exterior, Cassandra Pentaghast had a heart big enough to be sympathetic to a mage’s suffering, something few had.

“You are welcome,” the Seeker responded, sitting back down by the fire. “Go — get some rest. I will take the first watch.”

Amrita nodded and bade the Seeker goodnight before ducking into the tent and stashing the flask away. The gesture was welcomed, if puzzling, as it indicated that Cassandra and Regalyan had been less strict on the issue of relieving Maker-sent suffering, which rather defeated the purpose. Still, the decision to take the potion remained with Amrita, and she would not allow herself to be give in to temptation.

As she wriggled herself into a semi-comfortable position she pondered – not for the first time – exactly which orifice mages without vaginas bled from.

She resolved not to ask Solas.

~~~

In all of his four decades of his life, trading, spying and adventuring around Thedas, Varric had never actually been to Val Royeaux. He’d had dealings in Jader, only a few days’ travel from Kirkwall, and there had been that time he and Hawke had accidentally (read: drunkenly) boarded a ship to Val Chevin instead of Hercinia, but apart from those instances he had hardly even touched Orlesian soil.

As such, it was with great interest and an eye to gathering inspiration that Varric watched the coast as soon as the lookout called out that their destination was in sight. Two pale smudges rose above coastline: presumably the Grand Cathedral and White Spire. Ships of all shapes and sizes and flags cluttered the waters – actually, he took that back, he couldn’t see any flying the flag of the Qun – and the closer they got, the more hints of Orlesian opulence came into view. Whether it was as fine as Antiva City, he would have to wait until he landed to see; most of the coastal buildings seemed to be slums or quays, and he guessed the finery would be further inland.

As the ship eased its way into the lane of boats making their way upriver to where the docks would be better protected from the tides and coastal winds, a quiet voice interrupted his observations over the starboard side. “Good morning, Varric.”

He twisted his head around and found Amrita standing by his side, face a little paler than it had been for a few days. She stared over his head, one hand fiddling with the necklace that usually hid under her shirt, and the strong breeze tugged at the strands of hair that were too short to be caught in her braiding. “Good morning yourself, Doc,” he replied cheerily.

Her face scrunched up for a moment, and then she raised her eyebrows quizzically at him. “…Doc?”“You heard me. Sleep well?” He suspected he knew the answer already.

Her gaze returned to the coastline. “I’m fine,” she answered.

“Meaning, ‘No I didn’t, Varric’.”

Her cheeks went pink and her gaze returned to the city before she gave a little resigned shrug and released the pendant. “I will be fine.”

Varric pulled a face but said nothing. He had not pushed Amrita to talk about whatever troubled her on their journey. It wasn’t entirely hormonal, as he deduced when her colour and posture normalised but her reticence remained. He was familiar enough with trauma, in both his and his friends’ lives, to know that its effects came and went, ebbed and flowed, and that everyone dealt with it differently. All he could do was offer help, and perhaps interrupt the most destructive coping mechanisms. Putting on a mask of blandness and distancing oneself? Hardly the worst by any means, though he would keep an eye out to see if it became detrimental.

In all honesty, he wasn’t entirely sure what the withdrawal was. It could have been a delayed reaction to the events of the past month; a calculated decision in preparation for the tricky social and political dealings she would soon be dealing with; or simply a return to normalcy and recovery after a period of stress. Amrita had rather implied that she had been reserved even as she gave herself to the service of others in the Circle and alienage, so any of the options was possible.

She had largely remastered her façade, generally wearing an expression of attentive curiosity or seriousness and saving soft, sad smiles for her companions when she thought they weren’t looking. Conversations with her had died down, though she was always courteous when someone spoke to her, and frequently asked carefully considered questions. But she always held something back; she had a knack for of redirecting questions back at the questioner, and now her companions found their queries being dodged and turned around.

There was one tell she had not yet mastered, however.

He tugged at her elbow gently, dislodging the knuckle from between her teeth as the ship started turning into a dock. “None of that,” he gently chided her as she started guiltily. “You’re doing a great job on the calm, collected lady, but if they see you chewing at your hand like a child they’ll dismiss you out of hand. You’re young enough as it is, and the moment we step off this boat there will be people looking for any sign of weakness. Don’t give them one.”

He was rewarded by her first genuine smile in several days – small, but sincere. “Sorry,” she replied in a low voice, almost drowned out by the slap of the water against the hull, the shouted instructions of the sailors, the calls of merchants and vendors on the docks and the screech of seagulls. “I’ll— I will do my best.”

“And you’ll do us proud,” he returned, squeezing her hand briefly before turning to scan the quayside. “Now, to prove my point, let’s play a game of ‘How Many People are Watching Us?’ I’ll bet you a sovereign that you can’t find more than… let’s say half what I do.”

“Varric,” she responded reproachfully, “considering you are a veteran businessman and spymaster and I am but a lowly healer, I hardly think that is fair.”

“Stow it on the ‘lowly’, Doc. This — consider it motivation to try out your skills. You’re observant and think about people’s behaviour; you might surprise yourself.”

“Five sovereigns.”

“Two.”

Amrita rested her chin in her hands as she leaned on the railing. “Challenge accepted. Rules?”

“Just say if you make one.” Varric had already made four.

“Well… There’s one up on that roof over the fish market, and what looks like a Chanter staring rather more intently at the ship than such a role might usually warrant.”

“Good calls— ah, there they go,” Varric observed as the Chanter ducked back into the crowd. While Chanters by the docks were not unheard of – weary souls who’d known the emptiness of a world with nothing but the flat planes of sea and sky, or had faced the almighty power of a storm, or lost cargo or crew to the elements tended to be easy targets for some religious reassurance – Chanters who abandoned their posts before dusk were virtually non-existent.

By the time the ship bumped against the dock and the sailors started to make her fast, Amrita had in fact earned her sovereigns, finding five of the nine observers Varric spotted, with a little coaching. As he had said, she was observant, presumably having navigated her way through social niceties by watching people carefully and responding in the way that made them happiest, and she could pick out people who were behaving abnormally in their context. The blush and smile as he praised her and passed her the coins were absolutely worth the money.

One of Leliana’s agents stood at the quayside, saluting smartly as she spotted them. Amrita respectfully returned the gesture, and as she and the dwarf moved towards the gangway she asked, “Why are they here, though?” she asked, forehead creasing in a minute frown. “Of course, I understand that they would want to see us, but knowing to the day and the dock when and where we would arrive? Surely Leliana’s agents would not have spread the word.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he responded cautiously. “Nightingale’s a smart, tricky lady. If she thought there was value in letting people know when and where we’d appear, she’d do it in a heartbeat. Of course, it’s always possible that someone on the ship recognised us and sent word ahead.”

“I suppose.” They moved to one side as they stepped onto solid ground again, testing their legs against its solidity after days of walking confidently on decks. At least, he and Amrita had been comfortable enough: the pair of Marchers had been born and raised in coastal cities, and Varric had spent more than his fair share of time on Isabela’s ship, gallivanting about the high seas with Hawke or King Alistair. Cassandra had stoically borne her uneasiness, but Solas had not adjusted well to sea life. The two of them waited patiently for Seeker and Chuckles to disembark.

Once regrouped, the four of them approached the agent, who greeted Amrita: “My Lady Herald!” before dropping to one knee.

To her credit, Amrita did nothing more than blink slowly in response to a title combining two of her pet hates. Then she nodded respectfully. “Your report, please.”

“The Chantry mothers await you, but… so do a great many templars.”

Amrita’s face went a few shades paler.

Cassandra stepped forward, brow deeply furrowed. “There are templars here?”

The agent bobbed her head anxiously. “People seem to think the templars will protect them from…” She paused and swallowed. “From the Inquisition, Seeker Pentaghast.” Her gaze returned to Amrita, who wore the mild frown of someone listening attentively to bad news. “They’re gathering on the other side of the market, in the Summer Bazaar. I think that’s where the templars intend to meet you,” she added before rising.

Cassandra’s face contorted with indignant confusion – an expression Varric had become well-acquainted with in his time in her custody – and spluttered, “They wish to protect the people? From us?”

Shrugging, Varric suggested, “You think the Order’s returned to the fold, maybe? To deal with us upstarts?” It didn’t really make any sense.

His eyes shifted to Amrita, whose eyes were on the large berth the people were giving them, almost as though someone had conjured a barrier around them. Mind, with two mages, a Seeker of Truth and a dwarf with a thing of beauty like Bianca strapped to his back, it was hardly surprising that nobody wanted to collide, even accidentally.

With an incredulous shake of her head, Cassandra echoed his own misgivings. “I know Lord Seeker Lucius. I can’t imagine him coming to the Chantry’s defence, not after all that’s occurred.” She sighed and turned back to the agent. “Send word to Haven. Someone will need to inform them if we are… delayed.” The word sounded ominous after that pause, though her tone was delicate.

“As you say, my lady.” Off trotted the agent, quickly vanishing into the throng.

Amrita adjusted the straps on her pack and staff before looking to Cassandra. “I think it would be best if you lead the way, since you know the city.”

The Seeker acknowledged this with a nod, and after checking everyone was ready, she strode off.

It turned out that, while the markets backed onto the docks, the Summer Bazaar was located on an island in an artificial reflecting pool, inventively titled La Miroir de la Mère (even Varric could figure that one out). It was several miles inland, past the Grand Cathedral and White Spire, both of which the Seeker steered them well clear of as they travelled northward, parallel to the river.

It took them a couple of hours to reach the fake lake, and all the way the crowd split around them. Varric supposed having a short, righteously angry lady Seeker at the head of the quartet might have that effect. He himself walked at Amrita’s right, while Solas flanked her left. The further they walked, the more fancy frocks and gilded masks they saw, and the more gasping or even screaming ladies they encountered.

After the first noble dramatically swooned, Varric drily commented, “Just a guess, Seeker, but I think they all know who we are.”

Cassandra’s tone was as bitingly sarcastic as Broody on a bad day. Which, to be fair, was most days. “Your skills of observation never fail to impress me, Varric.”

“But how?” Amrita asked as she delicately stepped around a pile of horseshit, unfazed by the muck. “The mark on my hand is covered. Has my portrait been distributed across Thedas? Are Trevelyans better known than I thought? Is the makeup of our group a fact that has been widely disseminated across the city, allowing people to deduce my identity? Or are people seeing the Eye emblazoned on your armour and making their own conclusions?”

Solas spoke up, perhaps for the first time since reaching land. “The latter, I suspect. Seeker Pentaghast is known in the city. If you wished to make a more definite impact, you could remove your gloves.”

They walked past another extravagant estate before Amrita answered. “We came here to hold peace talks. I think that brazenly advertising that I am the woman who survived the Conclave and who is being linked to Andraste might be interpreted as… aggressive, or cocky. Neither would be conducive to persuading the Chantry to back the Inquisition.”

“There is wisdom in your words,” Solas replied. “You may be right.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if some kind of a description of you had spread, though,” Varric added, grinning cheerily as he saw the opportunity to fluster the Herald. “A portrait’s unlikely, but it’s probable that some tales of the lean, beautiful mage with braided hair the colour of chestnuts, brown skin the colour of the tawny, golden sand in Rialto Bay—”

“Varric,” Amrita said in a low, warning voice.

“—studded with freckles like the constellations that guide sailors from port to port; eyes as verdant as the pastures of the Orlesian heartlands—”

“Varric.” She was going red.

“—a strong, hooked nose, a noble jawline and three, no, four, no, five scars through her brow that she got from a pride demon—”

“Varric!” she hissed.

“They probably made her sound taller,” Solas contributed, prompting Amrita to spin in his direction.

“Solas!”

“They usually do,” agreed Varric, winking at the elf behind Amrita’s back.

“Maker’s breath, you two—”

“Hush!” Cassandra commanded as they stepped onto a grand gated bridge. “The bazaar is ahead.”

Amrita, still pink-cheeked, turned back to glower at Varric but ceased talking. He offered her a beatific smile, a warm sense of satisfaction easing his own nerves even as he briefly distracted the girl from hers.

It did not last long, though, as by the time they reached the passageway full of statues of Maferath (Maker bless whichever enterprising little shit had scribbled additional comments onto the plaques) her face had returned to its state of passive blankness. They shortly emerged into a moderately crowded plaza, decadently decorated with pennants, bunting, gilded statues, flowers in full bloom… In short, if it was gaudy and colourful, it was there. In the centre of the plaza stood a huge ornamental structure surrounded by a shallow moat (it could hardly be called a moat, but pool sounded wrong). Merchants and boutiques were dotted around the edges. There seemed to be quite the commotion on the other side of the structure, and for just a moment nobody seemed to be paying attention to them.

“Doc,” Varric said, and she cocked her head to listen to him while taking stock of the situation. “I think this is something you and Seeker should handle. Chuckles and I aren’t going to contribute much, so I figure it’s best if we stand back and watch for trouble.”

The flash of panic that dashed across Amrita’s face and the instinctive jerk of her hand almost made Varric take it back, but then her features smoothed over and she nodded, swallowing. “You are right. Besides, I must learn to face people without figurative or literal hand-holding.” She hesitated, looking almost bleakly at the back of the crowd, before shaking herself and asking, “Cassandra?”

“I am with you, Herald.”

The pair set off towards the sound of pontification.

“Let’s find somewhere we can see then, yeah?” Varric said to Solas, exhaling slowly to ease the tension in his shoulders as he watched the girl go. “Preferably near the front, or you’ll have to give me a running commentary.”

“Perhaps we can find you a box.”

“Gee, thanks, Chuckles.”

There was a shriek of recognition – “It’s the Herald of Andraste!” – and the crowd parted before the women.

“Well— Don’t want to miss the show.”

They sidled around the edge of throng, passing under the colonnade and along until they were close to the side of the makeshift stage which practically swarmed with templars and Chantry people. They nodded politely to the Orlesian merchant lady, and Solas very casually placed his staff in the cart they stood behind: within easy reach, but not prominent enough to attract further attention. Eyeing up the templars, Varric briefly considered readying Bianca, but decided against it just as the revered mother accused Amrita of murdering the Divine.

“Shit,” Varric grunted as Amrita stared unblinkingly at the woman in the ridiculous wimple.

“Patience, Varric.” Solas crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest pillar while staring at the scene. “She has been working on her composure – she may surprise us.”

The revered mother spat out, “The Maker would send no mage in our hour of need!”

Affirmative murmurings ran through the crowd. Amrita clasped her hands behind her back and waited patiently for the noise to die down. When she spoke, her chin was raised and her voice was pitched low and even, though loud enough to carry. Varric suddenly found himself remembering the rather imposing woman who had been hired to teach him and Bartrand their letters and numbers.

“With all due respect, Mother Hevara,” Amrita began, a classic opening for someone about to upset the other party, “I have made no such claims, although I am aware that many others make them.” She stepped forward, hands separating and gesturing to those gathered. “What is this, Revered Mother? We came in peace and good faith to talk about how to tackle the Breach. Yet you confront us here, to publicly lambaste our cause? I implore you,” she appealed, “let us sit down together, to deal with the real threat!”

“Not bad,” Varric said with an approving nod as Cassandra backed up the Herald, his own words belying the swell of pride in his chest. (Maybe Rivaini had had a point when she told him that he was cute when he was paternal.) Perhaps not the quickest of wordsmiths, Amrita still had the vocabulary to play the Game. However, even before Seeker had finished speaking, the crowd’s attention was shifting to the side opposite Varric and Solas. “What—?”

The revered mother flung her hand out to that side. “It is already too late!” she cried as another group of templars marched up onto the platform. Solas eased his way back to the cart and leaned carefully on it, so his staff was within grabbing distance. “The templars have returned to the Chantry! They will face this ‘Inquisition’, and the people will be safe once more!”

However, the man at the head of the group walked straight past the histrionic mother. In a low, sing-song voice, Varric said, “I wouldn’t count on it,” as she turned to follow, obviously perplexed, entirely missing the man following behind, fist raised and—

The cries of the crowd drowned Hevara’s exclamation as she collapsed. One of the templars made as if to move; Cassandra froze in shock; but it was Amrita, ashen with alarm, who darted forward, hands already outstretched to diagnose. Nobody, not even the Chantry lackeys, tried to stop her. Gone was the mask of blandness, replaced by focused, angry concern as she gently pulled the woman onto her side, checked for breathing and examined the back of her head. Meanwhile, the lead templar ignored them both and reassured the one who had almost moved, patting him on the shoulder and instructing him, “Still yourself. She is beneath us.”

“Lord Seeker Lucius!” Cassandra called out as he descended the other side of the stage. “It is imperative that we speak with—”

“You will not address me,” the man replied.

Varric ducked behind the cart as soon as the man had turned; Solas chose to remain upright, close to his weapon. “That’s the Lord Seeker?!” Varric hissed. “Why isn’t he wearing Seeker armour?”

There was a pause, and suddenly Cassandra’s voice was closer, and raised in confusion. “Lord Seeker?”

“Creating a heretical movement, raising up a puppet as Andraste’s prophet. You should be ashamed,” the man scolded. Then, raising his voice, he declared, “You should all be ashamed! The templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! You are the ones who have failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! If you came to appeal to the Chantry, you are too late. The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“Templars,” Amrita’s voice rang out, tight with carefully controlled emotion, “one of your own commands the Inquisition’s forces. Join us, as he did!”

“You’re a mage!” Lucius retorted. “Your ties – familial or not – are worthless. They’re all made traitors just by being in your company!”

A fresh, youthful voice interrupted, prompting Varric to peer over the top of the cart: it was the young templar who had almost gone to the mother’s aid. “What if she really was sent by the Maker? What if—?”

“You are called to a higher purpose!” the man who had knocked out Hevara reprimanded him. “Do not question.”

Varric frowned. That was the language of a cult, alright. On reflection, the man looked rather familiar – perhaps one of the Kirkwall garrison?

The Lord Seeker was speaking again. “I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition. Independence!” he told Amrita, whose face had settled into a mask of stony disapproval. Better than naked fear, Varric supposed. The templars saluted at their leader, gauntlets clanking against their armour. “You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition… less than nothing. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

Varric and Solas did not emerge until the ringing sound of armoured footsteps had disappeared. Cassandra was trying to shoo the onlookers away, while Amrita stared coolly after the retreating templars, tension in her jaw and hands trembling very slightly.

“Charming fellow, isn’t he?” Varric asked rhetorically as he sauntered over, aiming to settle the girl back down.

Amrita made a non-committal noise in her throat. “I am almost certain that his lieutenant – the one who punched Mother Havera – was one of my cousins.”

“Ah.”

“Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?” Cassandra asked as she strode up, having missed the detail regarding the Herald’s family.

Amrita’s voice was as taut as her jaw when she spoke. “Do you know him very well?”

Cassandra considered the question. “He took over the Seekers of Truth just months ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to ambition and grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Do you think he can be reasoned with?”

“I hope so. If not him, there are surely others in the Order who don’t feel as he does. Either way, we should return to Haven and inform the others."

Amrita nodded. “We should take some time here before we go: see if there are any people we might recruit to the cause, or any clerics who might be sympathetic. Speaking of which,” she added, turning back to Hevara, “perhaps we can actually talk to the revered mother now.” She paced over and the others followed, finding the woman conscious and clutching her side while her lackeys fussed uselessly.

“This victory must please you greatly, Seeker Cassandra,” Hevara gasped.

Cassandra crossed her arms. “We came here seeking only to speak with the mothers. This is not our doing, but yours.”

“And you had no part in forcing our hand?” she spat back. “Do not delude yourself. Now we have been shown up by our own templars, in front of everyone. And my fellow clerics have scattered to the wind, along with their convictions.”

“That part, at least, was down to you.” Amrita spoke softly, but there were undertones of exasperated-parent. Nothing showy, but still very satisfying for Varric to observe, and it was clear from Solas’s faint smile and raised eyebrows that he felt similarly. “You chose to confront us publicly; nothing stopped us from meeting privately, behind closed doors.”

The lengthy silence that followed showed that Hevara had no comeback to that. Instead, she said, “Just tell me one thing: if you do not believe you are the Maker’s chosen, then what are you?”

Amrita paused to ponder. “I… am someone who can help close the Breach and end this madness. And someone who has dedicated their life to studying how magic can be used to heal and help; let me see you, you clearly hurt yourself as you fell.” She knelt down next to the revered mother, and, when no argument was offered, tenderly pressed fingers to the woman’s side.

“That is… more comforting than you might imagine,” Hevara finally responded.

Varric and Solas glanced at each other, eyebrows raised at the change in tune. Amrita looked up at them and then, after a moment’s hesitation, flapped them away with her spare hand. “Go,” she mouthed.

Varric tipped his head, unsure that leaving Amrita alone with people from the Chantry was the best idea, but Cassandra very, very firmly grabbed his shoulder and yanked him away.

“Come,” she ordered, steering him into the bazaar. “We may find something useful while we are here.”

As they left the plaza, Varric asked, “Are you sure it’s wise to leave her by herself?”

“I am. Without the rest of us, she is fairly non-descript, scars aside, and now the templars have left there are few people who would pose a great threat to her. She has… a way of getting people to talk to her — surely, you have noticed.”

Varric conceded her point. “So what are we doing now? Shopping? Recon? Food?”

“Let’s start with the latter, and see how far we get.”

~~~

When they returned an hour later, bearing food and the address of an inn back by the docks that would suffice for accommodation, Amrita was staring thoughtfully at the back of a retreating woman – elven, perhaps – in Circle robes.

“Who was that?” Varric asked through a mouthful of brioche, peering after the figure.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Amrita replied quietly.

Solas inclined his head and asked, “Is it not dangerous for her to be here?”

Amrita shrugged. “Yes, but she wanted to see us. She has invited us to Redcliffe, to meet with the mages.”

“And are you going to take her up on that?” Varric queried after swallowing his mouthful. He had seen the way Amrita responded to the mages they had met thus far; she was about as skittish and distrustful of them as she was of templars, though she never crossed the boundaries of politeness. Even the way she spoke to Solas was coloured by some deep-seated anxiety.

“I… will think on it,” she replied diplomatically.

Cassandra changed the topic. “How did your conversation with the revered mother go?”

The Herald shrugged again. “I think I convinced her of my religious devotion and good intentions. Perhaps it will help; perhaps not. In the meantime,” she said, waving an envelope in front of them, “we have received an invitation to a salon this evening, and to stay with the hostess for the duration of our time in Val Royeaux.”

“And who would that be from?” Cassandra cautiously inquired.

Removing a slip from the envelope, Amrita read (a little more dramatically than strictly necessary), “Vivienne de Fer, First Enchanter of Montsimmard, Enchanter to the Imperial Court.”

There was a stunned silence.

“Well,” Varric finally said. “We’d better get going, then.”

Chapter Text

Amrita stared dumbly at her surroundings as the servant – an elf, of course – lead her and her companions through the Ghislain estate. No, estate was the wrong word: this was just where Duke Bastien de Ghislain resided when his work with the Council of Heralds brought him to the capital. A maison? A mansion? Regardless, it quite frankly put the full estate of the Trevelyans, and probably any Marcher family, to shame. Marble here, gilt there, silk and velvet furnishings… Everything was meticulously designed to intimidate and say: I am rich and powerful; respect me.

It was somewhat effective. But it also made Amrita a little homesick for the decorated utility of her childhood home; or maybe the way that even the near-destitute elves in the alienage had customised their hovels with plants crawling up the rotting walls and carvings in the very wood they were constructed from, which could only be done in the summer when the timber dried out long enough to cut properly.

Suddenly, Amrita became aware that the servant was waiting for a response from her. “I am sorry,” she hastily apologised. “I was distracted by the décor, but that is no excuse for such rudeness. Please could you repeat your question?”

Surprise flitted across the elf’s face, though it was impossible to tell whether it was at her bad manners or her apology. “Madame Vivienne offers suitable attire for the salon should you want it, but if you do we must start immediately to ensure it is of a proper fit. Is this your wish?”

Amrita glanced at her companions to gauge their thoughts on the matter. Solas had already said he had no intention of attending – “An elf and self-taught apostate at a party surrounded by Orlesian nobles? It would be worse than being surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion,” he had said with a wry smile that did not quite reach his eyes – and was gazing around with an expression of thinly-veiled distaste. Varric shrugged. Cassandra looked more than slightly murderous at the prospect, which likely involved dresses.

“Thank you,” Amrita replied, “but we will suffice with what we wear now.”

The Seeker mouthed, “Thank you,” at her.

The servant inclined their head. “Then please, allow us to clean and repair your clothes while you bathe and refresh yourselves.”

“That is most kind,” Amrita answered. “I am sure we could all do with the opportunity to clean off the evidence of our journey.”

Varric gasped theatrically. “You mean you don’t live day-to-day in the stink of your sweat and your enemies’ blood?”

“Varric,” Cassandra growled.

“Clearly, Ostwick has higher standards than Kirkwall.”

Ignoring the banter, the servant lead them up another staircase and then ushered each of them into a small room – relatively speaking, that was, as each was the size of a Haven house. Amrita was presented with the last room in the set and entered, gut twisting in anxiety.

Even Mama and Papa’s room – the room of the bann of Ostwick – had been nothing compared to this guest suite. The space was light and airy, with a blossom-sweet breeze blowing the gauze curtains away from the window. A plush, periwinkle carpet lay at her feet, warning her against spoiling it with her boots. Intricately carved wood – perhaps mahogany – made the bedstead, and the satiny sheets were cobalt blue. There was a ceiling-high bookcase packed with pristine volumes – new, cared-for, or untouched, she could not tell – and an equally tall mirror for guests to admire themselves in. Steam rose from behind a portable, painted paper screen.

Maker, she wanted to go back to her chilly little room with the desk under the bed in the Ostwick Circle.

Another elven servant emerged from behind the screen, a silky bathrobe over their arm, and curtseyed. “My lady,” they greeted her demurely. Amrita stiffened at the address.

Her guide spoke again. “If you would undress, the bath is here and we shall see to your attire. Madame Vivienne said we should spare no luxury for you, so if you wish for anything – food, clothes, une personne de joie―”

“Pardon?” The Orlesian inflection was almost accidental.

“Une personne de joie,” they repeated. When she continued to stare blankly at them, they shook their head and dismissed the notion. “No matter. Is there anything I can get you?”

A few minutes later, Amrita was sliding into a magically-heated, floral-scented, neck-deep bathtub for the first time in her life, and it was glorious.

Not everything about the noble life was abhorrent.

Shortly after, a knock came at the door, and in came two servants: one bearing refreshments, and the other bearing scrolls that looked suspiciously like―

“Messages from ‘aven, my lady.”

Amrita held back a sigh. No rest for the wicked.

~~~

“Let― him― go.” Amrita forced the words out slowly, calmly, unable to think of cleverer words and keep herself from shaking at the same time while the marquis stood frozen before her. All around, Orlesian nobles watched, spectators to this abuse of magic, perhaps rightfully fearful but none of them offering condemnation: the room was silent except for the bubbling of the fountain, the crackle of ice and the pounding of Amrita’s heart. Where were Varric and Cassandra when they were needed?

The masked mage – presumably Madame Vivienne – acquiesced, thankfully. “By the grace of Andraste you have your life, my dear,” she said patronisingly as she snapped her fingers. “Do be more careful with it.” The marquis stumbled away, coughing, and the mage turned back to look down at Amrita. In heels, the woman was easily six inches taller, and the horned hat made it even harder to tell. “I’m delighted you could attend this little gathering. I’ve so wanted to meet you.” The condescension in her voice had shifted into a tone of camaraderie, as though she and Amrita were equals, in on a joke of superiority. Gesturing for Amrita to walk with her, she glided away from the vestibule.

Amrita focused on her breathing, and on not revealing her terror to the woman.

They came to a halt in a quiet hallway, windows thrown open to let the sweet scent of flowers carry in on the breeze. The mage turned and smiled as Amrita stepped into a pool of moonlight. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the Imperial Court.”

Dipping her head, Amrita responded, “Charmed, Lady Vivienne. My companions and I appreciate your invitation and hospitality.”

Vivienne seemed amused. “Ah, but I didn’t invite you to the chateau for pleasantries.” The smile faded.

Amrita clasped her hands behind her back to make herself stand taller, and to hide the trembling. She inhaled slowly and resettled her expression, waiting for the enchanter to go on.

“With Divine Justinia dead, the Chantry is in shambles. Only the Inquisition might restore sanity and order to our frightened people. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas – Ostwick’s own dear Filal is among those, I am glad to say – I feel it is only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

Amrita hesitated. Clearly the mage could be a valuable ally… if she could be trusted.

She stalled, asking as many questions as she could about Vivienne’s beliefs, motivations and the assistance she would bring. There were points on which they agreed – that magic was dangerous, and required a safe place to tutor – but still…

“My dear,” Vivienne finally said, no hint of exasperation in her voice but nonetheless making Amrita tense in anticipation. “It seems to me that something is holding you back from what would clearly be a beneficial arrangement.” Amrita held herself still as the mage considered her. “Is it the marquis?”

The voices in her head raised their voices, in the same way they did whenever her companions approached. ^{Friends. Safety. Protection.} Taking comfort in the surety that she was no longer alone with the mage, she took a deep breath and boldly asked, “Will he be alright?”

“Ah. The concern of a healer. Dear Filal did speak ever so highly of your devotion to others’ welfare when I wrote to her.”

“With all due respect, Madame Vivienne, you have not answered my question.” Amrita bit her tongue as an edge came through in her tone.

“Do I detect a note of distrust in your voice, Enchanter Amrita?”

“I―” Her voice caught in her throat. How long had it been someone addressed her by her real title? The only title she had now that was truly hers, earned through skill and graft and not thrust upon her by delusional devotees or resurrected by those studying her ancestry. It was probably little Abatha, that morning so long ago that Amrita had departed on the disastrous diplomatic mission to the Conclave. “I cannot, in good faith, invite people to the Inquisition who might deliberately harm my people.”

“Your people?” The mage’s eyebrow arched expressively. “I didn’t think you were in charge.”

Amrita flushed and stammered, “I-I’m― I am not. N-not officially, although outside Haven, my decision is final, and I often cast the deciding vote in the war council. You― You know full well what I meant.”

“I do.” The mage’s glossed lips curled slightly. “My dear, if you are to win respect within the nobility, as a mage who lost her inheritance and might be a heretic, you will have to develop a stronger stomach for displays of your talents that inspire that respect.”

“You mean fear.”

“In these circles, the two words are rather interchangeable.”

“Deliberate misuse of the powers the Maker bestowed upon me does not constitute a proper way to earn respect.”

There was a moment of Vivienne staring glassily at her before the mage replied. “Alphonse will be fine. I would have killed him, had you asked me, and the other guests know that. But until the decision was made, I merely made the threat.”

“He was a drunk fool,” Amrita protested, raising her chin. “I could smell the wine on his breath from where I stood. Did he deserve to die for his words?”

“This is Orlais, my dear,” Vivienne exclaimed dramatically. “Nobles kill each other over less every day. And perhaps he did not deserve death; but far more importantly, there were consequences. Had you been inclined to refute his claims – even accept his challenge – then perhaps I needn’t have acted. But take my word: by the end of the week, every noble in Orlais and a few beyond will know that slandering the Inquisition and its cause could prove fatal.”

Amrita let her chin and gaze drop. Though it went against her nature, she could see the reasoning behind Vivienne’s actions; and, perhaps worse, expected that the prediction would be correct. “Enchanter Vivienne,” she said quietly, “do you swear that, if you join the Inquisition, you will never intentionally put an ally, guest or prisoner in danger without consent from myself or a member of the war council?”

“Of course.” Vivienne laughed. “I’m not a monster, you know.”

We are both monsters. But at least I know it, and do not wear horns. Amrita lifted her head. “Then the Inquisition will be happy to have you, Lady Vivienne.”

The mage smiled like a satisfied cat. “Great things are beginning, my dear. I can promise you that.” She turned and called out, scaring Amrita, “You needn’t stay hiding around the corner; I had no intention of harming the Herald.”

Although she had known of their presence thanks to the spirits, Amrita was caught off guard by the fact that her companions were fully armed, and the fact that Solas, who had stayed in his rooms, was with the Seeker and the dwarf.

Varric spoke first. “Well, after that stunt in the party, you’ll forgive us for being concerned for our friend.”

The public declaration of their friendship stunned Amrita for a moment, and she almost missed Vivienne’s appeal to the other woman. “Lady Cassandra, surely you know me better than this.”

“It is why I assumed that the Herald would not need us at her side when facing you. However, I cannot risk losing her, as she is the only person capable of closing the Breach.”

“If you think me foolish enough to jeopardise that over petty words or disagreement, then I must have some work to do.” She did not sound insulted, although the lightness of tone was likely calculated. “Let us return to the soirée, Enchanter Amrita; there are a great many potential allies here tonight, drawn by curiosity to see Andraste’s Herald.”

“I am not Andraste’s Herald; that is just what the people say.”

“Ah, but my dear,” said Vivienne with a knowing, dangerous smile. “What people say has consequences.”

~~~

The woman Amrita encountered the next evening was possibly the diametric opposite of the enchanter. Apart from, perhaps, her readiness to kill those who had upset her ‘friends’.

“I… have heard of Red Jenny and her friends,” Amrita admitted, glad to be away from the bodies of the guards she had just helped to kill, “although I have never met her… or, any of the Jennies.”

“Well, Red Jenny’s heard of you, yeah?” said Sera, folding her arms. “Not just for glowing. Or supposedly being six foot tall with five scars through your eyebrow.”

“I told you, Doc.”

Sera shot Varric a puzzled glance as Amrita sent him her best withering look. “People know you, from Ostwick.”

“People people?” asked Amrita, managing a little smile as she referenced the earlier line of conversation.

“Elf people,” the girl replied with a cheeky, pleased grin. “Everyone knew you were a disgraced nob, but they also knew you stuck it to the Chantry and went to help little people.”

Amrita blushed. “That… is not how I would have phrased it.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s still what you did.”

“Perhaps.”

“So: you want us or not?”

Considering the question, Amrita pressed a gloved finger to her lips. Despite the difference in accent and dialect, something about Sera’s manner of speech and ideals reminded her of Ema’an. Certainly, Amrita’s long-standing sympathy for people trodden on by society was in line with the Red Jenny’s.

But such readiness to kill, and taking such a delight in it…

“I suppose I had best ask you the same question I asked the last person I recruited,” she said slowly. “The Inquisition deals with everyone, from the ‘big’ people to the ‘little’ people. Some of them – a lot of them – you may not like.”

“Pffft. Nothing new about that.”

“Sera: do you swear that, if you join the Inquisition, you will never intentionally put an ally, guest or prisoner in danger without consent from myself or a member of the war council?”

The girl pulled a face. “Ughh. Protective bullshit always ends up protecting bullies and shitting on the littlies.”

“I aim not to let that happen,” Amrita tried to reassure her. “But you are free to continue as you were, unrestricted, if you do not join.”

She spat. “Alright, I swear. Now will you take me?”

“Gladly,” said Amrita, offering her hand. “It will do me good to have someone to keep me focused on the Thedosians who suffer most in the turmoil.”

“Good, innit? I’ll see you back at Haven, Herald.”

“Safe journey, Sera.”

~~~

Vivienne paid for the group to have the best cabins on the voyage back to Jader, with real beds and everything.

Amrita missed the hammocks. And snuggling up close to Faolán under the stars. The melancholic memories, paired with the fact that being in a cabin meant being in closed quarters with a woman who terrified her, pushed Amrita to stay out on the deck for most of the journey.

The night before they were due to make port in Jader, Varric found her curled up between a pile of ropes and a barrel, gazing skywards. “Mind if I join you?” he greeted her as he approached.

She shook her head. “By all means.”

The dwarf lifted himself up onto the barrel, steadying himself as it rocked slightly, and then finding his balance. His thick, booted legs kicked gently against the container as he joined her in looking upwards. “Copper for your thoughts, Doc?”

Amrita smiled tightly, a reflex rather than an expression of mirth. “Thinking is a dangerous pastime, Varric.”

“And yet you do a lot of it. So I guess you’re a dangerous woman.”

“You have seen what a mage is capable of in battle, yes? What I am capable of?”

That silenced Varric for a moment. Amrita let the silence hang; he was clearly the one with a conversation to pursue.

“Y’know,” the dwarf said after a few minutes, “I never thought I’d meet a mage who would even have to think about choosing between mages and templars if they were in trouble.”

Snorting quietly, Amrita replied, “I do not believe Madame Vivienne would need to give any thought to the matter before choosing the templars over the rebels.” The enchanter had made her views quite clear during discussions on the voyage. Solas and Vivienne now avoided each other like the plague.

She felt Varric look at her. “Never thought I’d meet a mage like her, either. But that’s not who I was thinking of.” When she did not grace this with a response, he went on, “I have friends who risked their lives to smuggle mages out of the Kirkwall Circle because of the way Meredith and the other templars treated them. Friends who lost loved ones to the Rite of Tranquillity. Templars did some nasty shit.”

Keeping her voice even, Amrita replied, “I am aware of atrocities on both sides, and have been personally hurt by both sides. The scars on my face are from no pride demon: merely a templar abusing his power. If you have a point, Varric, I would rather you were direct about it.”

“Don’t know that I had one, honestly,” he admitted. “Mostly I guess I’m curious about your thoughts. Also, Carver’s version of events in Kirkwall.”

“You will forgive me for not carrying around a set of three-year-old notes for casual perusal, surely?”

Varric chuckled. “I suppose I can forgive you this once.”

“You are too kind.”

“And you are too kind,” he returned. Amrita’s mouth parted, but before she could question the statement he was continuing. “Tell you what,” he said, shifting on the barrel. “You tell me what you were thinking about when I interrupted, and I’ll let you borrow – no, have a copy of The Tale of the Champion so you can tell me how it compares with Carver’s story.”

Amrita tilted her head back so she was looking up at him. “That is two favours you are asking for a book I might have already read.”

“You haven’t, though. I’ll throw in a copy of Hard in Hightown, if you want it.”

“Varric.”

“Signed copies.”

A short laugh escaped Amrita’s lungs, expelled by the dwarf’s persistence. “What about that copper?”

“I’ll throw in a damn sovereign, I’m that intrigued.”

“Deal.”

“So?”

Amrita was silent for a few moments as she considered her words. “I… was not thinking of anything so grand as to whom I would rather we approached for aid with the Breach,” she confessed. “I was thinking of my last voyage to Jader, when… when…” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and tried again. “I was trying to find Falon’Din, the Owl – we call it ‘Shadow’ – in the stars. My friend told me about him – how he is the Friend of the Dead – and showed me how to find him. We are at a similar latitude, so I thought I could find it. But it was low on the horizon even then; it may have left the skies for the oncoming spring.” Her breath caught in her throat. “I know what I believe comes after death, but no one knows for sure. Faolán’s passion for his culture was…” She drifted off, and snorted softly again. “Not what you wanted to hear, I am sure, but it was on my mind.”

“This guy was important to you, huh.”

“Of course; I told you they were my first friends in years.”

“But this guy was a little bit more?”

Her cheeks warmed a little, though not as much as they might have a month ago. “I― It would not have worked out, even if he had lived.” Shaking her head, she huffed quietly and tried to joke, though a touch of sincerity strained her voice. “Considering that the only two men I have felt particular attraction to were elves, and both died, perhaps I should steer clear of romantic entanglements to save anyone else a similar fate.”

“Or you could just avoid elves. Or men.”

“Perhaps.” She had avoided thinking about matters of attraction whenever possible. “I am probably safest eschewing it altogether.”

“Does save you some heartbreak,” Varric agreed, sliding off his barrel and offering her his hand. “Come on – Seeker told me to get you inside. Can’t have the Herald of Andraste catching a cold.”

“You will freeze out here!” she chided Faolán as she reactivated the warming runespell.

Half-laughing, half-choking on the memory, she accepted his hand and let him tug her upwards with one easy movement. “From personal experience, I can tell you that the right company and a warmth spell can make a night on deck quite pleasant, if you do not mind cricks in your neck in the morning.”

“Well I’m not offering to expand on my personal experiences. Frankly, I’m less concerned about your ability to look after yourself and more concerned about what Seeker or the Iron Lady will do to me if I don’t hurry up.”

A smile curled Amrita’s lips. “Ah – and there comes the reason for the interrogation: self-preservation, masquerading behind concern.”

“What can I say? I like my head on my shoulders and my blood at its current temperature.”

A spark of mischief and camaraderie spurred Amrita on, and she stood in a mock-protective stance over the dwarf. “They would have to get through me, first!”

Varric’s inflection was incredulous. “You would stand between me and those two on the rampage?”

Amrita blinked, taken aback by her own words. Spurred on by banter, perhaps, but what she had said was… not untrue. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I would.”

There was an awkward silence. Then Varric clapped her on the arm, and jovially said, “You’re excused from that if I royally fuck up. Come on; let’s get you inside.”

The epiphany kept Amrita awake for long time as they drifted onwards towards the coast.

Chapter Text

A few days later, interrupted by only the most minor of skirmishes – quite enough to give everyone a taste of what a fully-fledged knight enchanter was capable of in battle – Amrita’s party arrived back at Haven. Amrita stared at the tents erected in the valley outside the walls as Rowan trotted peaceably on, guided by Cassandra; while she could not quite justify the metaphor of a sea, the camp was certainly making efforts towards a lake. Soldiers and civilians, elves, humans and dwarves milled around fires, cooking, cleaning, chatting, training. Who were they?

“Word of your deeds is spreading,” Cassandra said, as though reading her mind, “and they come to you.”

“To me?”

“You are the so-called Herald of Andraste.”

“But I am a mage.”

“You are the only one who might seal the Breach, and desperate times force people to make concessions. You helped the refugees; you quelled the worst of the Mage-Templar War in the hinterlands; you speak out against the Chantry’s inaction. I imagine that the Inquisition stands as a beacon of refuge, action and hope.”

Amrita pondered this as they headed for the gates.

Thankfully there were no tantrums being thrown today, so Amrita allowed herself the time to properly see to Rowan under a stable-girl’s guidance before heading to her quarters and divesting herself of her weapons and baggage. She was just freshening up with a bowl of melted snow – spring had not yet arrived in the Frostbacks – when a knock came at the door.

“Just a moment!” she called. She dried herself off with a spell, buckled up her jacket, and tugged her gloves on before answering.

She stared at the figure on the doorstep. She would not have been very surprised to see Cassandra, Varric, Cullen, even Josephine. But in front of her, grinning like he had just pulled the world’s best prank, was her lanky, freckled, ginger-bearded surviving student from Ostwick, holding her nevarrite-tipped enchanter’s staff. “Den?” she asked incredulously. Surely she was dreaming? But the compassion spirits were still in her head, not around her.

“Amrita!” the young man cried, opening his arms in delight. Then he affected a cough, and pulled a mock-serious, mock-apologetic expression. “I mean. Enchanter Amrita.”

Amrita raised her eyebrows. “None of that,” she chided. “Come in, come in. What— Why are you here?” she questioned, chivvying him into the warmth. “You can sit on the bed, but I hope you do not mind if I continue to clean myself; I have scarcely been back an hour.”

“No problem,” he murmured as he crouched down by the fire and stared into the hearth, offering her some privacy as she turned away and stripped back down again. The alienage house Amrita had rented for herself, her students and her surgery had been small to start with, and so the three of them had become accustomed to the occasional sight of another nude. In their line of work, one naked body was much like another, and held no threat or invitation. “The first enchanter wrote to you, aye?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, you know she was making arrangements to reunite you and your staff. That’s me.”

The pair caught up with each other’s news as Amrita washed, dressed, and sat cross-legged on the bed while she attended to her hair. The Trevelyans still refused to deal with the mages – Den said they were lucky the family had not declared outright war on them – but the Circle had managed to procure supplies from Markham, which was only fifty miles or so away through the Vimmark Mountains. It had taken a week or so of organisation, but they had managed to smuggle Den into the Ostwick harbour and onto a ship bound for Highever. Then he had attached himself to a group of mages fleeing to the Inquisition for protection from the templars. They had arrived a few days ago, and he had already ingratiated himself through his relationship with Amrita – “The ambassador keeps inviting me for tea, Amrita, and she keeps asking questions about you,” – and by quickly bolstering the ranks of healers. It had been quite a sharp learning curve, going from tending illness, barfight injuries and newborns to trying patch up injuries from demons, templars and magic.

Amrita was just turning the conversation to the topic of lyrium-withdrawal when another knock came at the door. “Herald?” came Cassandra’s voice. “The others are ready to meet us.”

She swallowed a groan and any sign of rudeness, simply swinging her legs off the bed so she could put on her boots. “I will be there directly!” she called back, shoving her feet into the boots and then cursing softly as she fumbled with the fastenings. She pulled her gloves back off so she could work them properly.

Beside her, Den inhaled sharply. “Amrita!”

“Mm?”

“Your hand!”

She looked at her left hand. It lit the leather from inside her palm. Was the Mark starting to curl around the skin between her index finger and thumb? It certainly seemed larger. No, she must be imagining things. There was no reason for it to grow, not now that the Breach had been stabilised.

Or was there?

“I… suppose the Mark is quite startling to look at,” she admitted, opening up the palm to inspect it. “It… stings, a little.” Had it always stung? She had tried to ignore it whenever she was not closing or hunting rifts, hiding it behind soft leather. “And it is a pain at night time—”

“Andraste’s lacy smallclothes,” Den swore, and Amrita flinched, looking up at him. The fine hairs of his beard shook as his jaw trembled. “I meant your other hand. Have you been biting yourself? Have you—” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Have you been using blood magic?”

“Den!” she exclaimed, fear, panic, shame rising in her at the accusation. The voices started buzzing. “You know— You know that if there is one thing in the world I would not do—”

“Then what were you doing, Amrita?”

“Amrita!” Cassandra called again.

She returned to her boots, as it gave her an excuse not to look at her former student. Perhaps if she did not look at him, the bile that threatened to spill onto the floor would stay in her stomach.

Den did not speak until she was almost at the door. “I can’t believe the girl who stepped in front of a templar for me – who told First Enchanter Filal to go fuck herself instead of returning to the Circle after Wynny was killed – grew up to scar herself when there are more than enough arseholes in the world who’d happily do it for her.”

Amrita held her breath and counted to ten. Then she pushed open the door and smiled brightly at the Seeker. “Shall we be going, then?”

~~~

She could not sleep. Her head was abuzz with arguments for and against allying with mages or templars; thoughts of the growing army camped outside the village because of her; plans to go to the Storm Coast to meet a mercenary company; recipes for alleviating Cullen’s symptoms; her clash with Den; and the voices in her head hoping to soothe her fretting. She lay in bed, staring at the shadowy ceiling, gloved fingers laced over her ribs. Her left hand fizzed in its leather casing, and she was having a job of persuading herself that the tingles were not going further up her arm, or growing stronger.

In the end, the compulsion to move and do something won out, and she soon found herself treading the now-familiar path from her accommodation to the chantry. The guards saluted smartly as she approached them, and she returned the gesture out of respect for their service. No matter how uncomfortable she was with the situation, they did not deserve her rudeness. On her belt were two small flasks containing the potion she and Adan had concocted for the commander – officially, for any templars suffering from the difficulty of acquiring lyrium – in the hopes that they would induce peaceful sleep. Just in case he was there.

Her prediction was right. His eyes were already on her as she slipped through the door, his shoulders relaxing and eyebrows rising as he recognised her. She spared him a tired smile as she moved up the aisle, and gently chided him, “Do you ever sleep, Commander?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied, his own crows’ feet wrinkling into a wry smile in his eyes.

“I do believe you have seen me slumber on at least one occasion.”

“True enough,” he admitted. “Sleep has rather eluded me since…” He trailed off, looking back to the statue of Andraste.

“Since you stopped taking lyrium?” she asked softly, kneeling in the aisle beside him and putting down her staff.

Cullen paused to consider this. “It varies. Sometimes I am left exhausted, and would sleep for days were I not accustomed to rising early; sometimes the pain keeps me awake, or worry.”

“What is it tonight?”

He was silent as he thought. Amrita let him think, aware of her own preference not to be rushed, and stroked the familiar wood of her old staff.

“You truly wish to know?” he finally asked.

“I do. How can I help if I do not?”

“Tonight, it is a bit of both.”

“Tell me about it.”

“…What?”

Amrita plucked up her courage and repeated herself. “Tell me about it. The pain first,” she clarified, “so I can see if I can do anything to relieve it. Then the worries. You might feel better for talking, and I promise not to share; doctor-patient confidentiality, of course.” Cullen gaped at her, and Amrita felt a blush creep into her cheeks, but she held onto her demeanour. “I still fully intend to research into ways to alleviate your suffering; I asked Cassandra, as you said she knew, but she said that if she knew more she would have offered help sooner. She explained that a Seeker’s power stems from a different source to a templar’s.”

“Indeed,” he murmured weakly. “Lady Am—”

“Just Amrita.”

“—Amrita, I can endure this.”

“That does not mean you should,” she scolded him. “You do yourself, your men and the Inquisition a disservice if you martyr yourself unnecessarily.”

She watched his face as he thought, broadcasting everything in the clench of his jaw, the twitches in his brow and the thinning of his pressed lips. Then he shut his eyes, and started talking.

It took a little while to decide on an approach to the headaches and tension suffusing the ex-templar’s body, Amrita explaining her suggestions and asking for explicit consent at every stage, but in the end they settled on Cullen sitting on the floor while Amrita sat on the bench and alternated between ghosting magic-chilled fingers over his scalp and massaging his neck and shoulders with heated hands. The little sighs and groans of relief were music to Amrita’s professional ears, and she hoped that, in conjunction with the draughts she had brought, he would be able to get a restful night of sleep.

She continued in silence until Cullen said, “I fear you will go to Redcliffe, Amrita.”

She did not cease her ministrations, but quietly asked, “Do you want to tell me why?” When he did not reply, she went on, “I will not pry if you prefer to keep it to yourself. I know I am a mage, and that likely does not endear me to you. But your vehemence on the matter in the war council speaks of more than simple loyalty to your old order. After all: you did leave it.”

“Well— You are a mage. You know what life in the Circle… can be like. It would be fair for you to sympathise with the rebels’ cause, even if Ostwick as a whole did not join them.”

Amrita controlled her sigh, lest Cullen feel it through her limbs. “You are jumping to conclusions.”

His head jerked under her hands. “You mean you intend to side with the Order?”

“…I did not say that,” she corrected him slowly. “But unless you see a particular disadvantage to going with the mages, you are worrying yourself needlessly over something that may not even come to pass. Of course,” she added, teasing her fingers through his curls, “if you do have explicit concerns regarding the options, it would be in your personal and professional interests to alert me to the dangers.”

Maker, she could be manipulative.

“No,” he sighed heavily. “Nothing more than personal experience of what mages can become – I know you know of Kirkwall – and the lingering vestiges of more than a decade in a culture encouraged not to think of mages as human. Vestiges I am trying to tackle, in part by developing bonds with the mages under my care.”

“Is… that what this is?” Amrita asked, a little breathlessly. She was suddenly very aware of their proximity: what had moments ago been professional now felt very intimate.

“What? No,” he said, startled. “I-I mean— Yes, I— Maybe,” he stammered, hand rising to rub the back of his neck. Amrita pulled her own hands away and into her lap. “Obviously it’s good if we have a good working relationship, and… well, you’re trying very hard to make me comfortable. Since our positions put us in… opposition, to bystanders.”

“As are you, Cullen.”

He swore under his breath. “I would… I would like it very much if we could be friends, Amrita. For personal and professional reasons.” His ears were going red. “It will be good for me, and… perhaps I can reciprocate the benefits, somehow.”

Amrita was floored. Nobody had told her that they wanted to be her friend since before her magic had emerged. Everyone since had just come to the conclusion that they were friends, either announcing it out of the blue – like Varric – or confirming it when asked – like Faolán and the others. She had to admit that, after the traumas of finding out that the templars were not as golden and holy as her family had always told her, the chance to get to befriend a good man who had seen the best and the worst of the Order was… appealing. “I think I would like that too,” she admitted. “Although I am unsure I am skilled in the niceties of how you go about building friendships.”

Cullen chuckled, and the sound made Amrita smile. “Then how about we go back to basics, and get to know each other?”

All trace of a smile dropped from Amrita’s face and her stomach went cold. “I thought Sister Leliana would have told you everything about me.”

“Sister Leliana has shared the bare minimum of information about your circumstances, and certainly hasn’t gone into the trivialities and experiences that shape a personality,” he informed her.

Thank the Maker. “There are things I am not ready or willing to share,” she warned him.

“It is the same for me. But I will not push if you will not.”

Amrita swallowed past the knot of anxiety in her throat and returned her hands to his shoulders. “What do you wish to know?”

She lost track of time as they spoke that evening. He was unperturbed by her reluctance to speak of her family or her time in the Circle, speaking himself of growing up in Honnleath in Ferelden with his siblings, and of some of the lighter moments of his time training. Amrita was drawn into speaking of Ema’an and her time looking after apprentices with him, and admitted that she had once been a moderately competent chess player. Cullen had promised that when she returned from her next trip they would play a game or two, and they had just settled into an easy silence when Amrita’s brain connected the dots.

“Oh,” she softly breathed. When he hummed in enquiry, she hesitantly said, “You… were in the Ferelden Circle during the Fifth Blight, weren’t you.” It was not a question.

And with one sentence, all the tension she had drained from him came flooding back into his body. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said stiffly, but even as he said that he went on. “Maker’s breath, I know that the Order has done awful, unforgivable things, and however much we argue we simply don’t know enough about the Breach to make an informed choice as to which group would serve our purpose better, but—” He broke off, his breath catching in his throat. “The prospect of working with dozens, if not hundreds, of angry mages without the proper measures in place to protect people were anything to happen causes me no small amount of anxiety.” He let out a slow, shuddery breath. “However, that does not mean that my experiences should take precedence over your own suffering at the hands of templars.”

“Who said I suffered?” Amrita asked, frowning as her stomach churned at bringing back this turmoil.

Cullen twisted his head around so he could see her face. “Frankly, it’s obvious – especially with the way your demeanor changed after you realised I was a templar. And you didn’t get those scars from a pride demon, did you?”

Amrita had no reply to that. Instead, she pulled her hands back into her lap, and murmured, “I will think on it. You had best try to get some sleep – hopefully the potion will work, and you feel a little better.”

He continued to regard her from the corner of his eye, before nodding and wearily rising from his position. “I do. Thank you,” he added, wobbling as he turned to face her properly.

“I am glad to be of service,” she replied, smiling up at him.

There was a pregnant pause, as though Cullen was about to say something. Then he shook his head, smiled back, and bade her goodnight.

Once he was gone, Amrita pulled her knees up to her chin and thought.

~~~

“You wish to approach the Lord Seeker?” Josephine parroted disbelievingly. Cassandra and Leliana were giving Amrita similarly surprised looks, but Cullen had closed his eyes as though offering thanks to the Maker.

“I do,” Amrita confirmed, meeting the ambassador’s… almost hurt gaze. “While I would like to contact the mages afterwards, closing the Breach must be our priority and I believe that the templars will be of most use to us.”

“But—”

“Ambassador,” interrupted Amrita, trying not to wince, “you asked me to cast the deciding vote, and I have. What do we need to do?”

With some reluctance, Josephine allowed herself to start talking through the plan of action she had clearly hoped would not be needed. They would petition Orlesian houses to support the Inquisition in demanding the Order’s assistance in closing the Breach. In the meantime, Amrita and her assorted companions would travel to meet Scout Harding at the Storm Coast, as well as the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. They would then sweep through Ferelden, trying to meet Blackwall on the journey and checking on the availability of horses from Dennet.

~~~

Before she mounted Rowan the next day, Cullen caught her by the shoulder and whispered, “Thank you,” into the shell of her ear.

Startled by the warm breath so close, Amrita just about managed to stutter out, “D-do not mention it. And take care of yourself; I have left Den with instructions on how to make the sleeping draught— It is helping, isn’t it?” she interrupted herself, and she sighed in relief when he nodded. “I trust him; he is young, but he will be a fine doctor one day. If you need any help, you can go to him; I have explained that I am entrusting you to his care.”

“Thank you,” he repeated before helping her up into the saddle. Amrita was just checking the reins when he called out, “Ah, Ambassador!”

Amrita twisted in her seat to see Josephine approaching, this time braving the brisk weather in her usual finery, which glinted an even more ethereal gold than usual when she stepped into a patch of pale dawn sunlight. Her expression was a little sheepish.

“I came to wish you luck,” she explained, halting by the horse. “I will attend to my duties as best I can in your absence so that we can move on directly when you return.”

Inclining her head, Amrita replied, “Thank you, Lady Montilyet. I am sure I could not leave the matter in better hands.”

“You are too kind,” Josephine answered, her dark cheeks already going pink from the raw wind. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will do my best – you take care, too.”

Cullen stepped back out of Josephine’s field of vision and mimed biting his hand and then shaking his head. Amrita’s mouth went dry, but she nodded.

Cassandra appeared at that moment. “Are you ready?”

Amrita nodded, and, with a shout from the Seeker, the entourage set off along the eastern road.

~~~

Ferelden’s northern coast was just as wet as Ostwick during the stormy season, and despite being soaked to her smalls and verging on freezing, Amrita felt more alive and at home than she had since leaving the Free Marches. Her home was only a few days’ sail from their position, and the wild weather was so much more familiar than the calmer waters between Orlais and Nevarra. The air was fresh with salt and greenery, and the wind chased through her clothes as though delighting in her presence. All that was missing was a manor house and a fire to dry off by.

Her companions were less than thrilled, however. Sera and Varric were bitching companionably; Solas walked alone in the middle of the group, his woollen clothes sodden and his bare feet muddy; and Cassandra and Vivienne brought up the rear, one suffering rather badly from smudged makeup and the other looking as pristine as ever. Amrita lead the retinue with Rowan, referring to her map and sending wisps ahead to warn them of encounters with hostiles or wildlife; she had no desire to meet any more bears: yes, she had seen illustrations in books before, but holy shit she had thought they had been exaggerating the size.

The arrangement was probably for the best: it turned out that Solas and Sera had rather… contrasting opinions on elves and their past; that Sera and Vivienne came from such different worlds and argued in such different ways that Amrita struggled to imagine them ever having a civil conversation; and that the two mature mages similarly had irreconcilable views about magic, but that, unlike Sera, Solas was able to hold his own in cool, snippy conversation. Amrita was hoping to be able to split her companions into groups so as to cover more ground on the Inquisition’s behalf, but currently she was unsure of how to do that while ensuring a good balance of fighters who would work together and not sabotage each other. Vivienne and Solas could probably manage it, and if Varric went to play peacekeeper Vivienne could probably take on Cassandra’s role in a group with her spirit blade…

Amrita shook her head, half-smiling as water flicked off the end of her nose only to be rapidly replaced, and put those thoughts aside as she recognised the call-whistle of the Inquisition scouts. They shortly found themselves being debriefed by Scout Harding; the situation was about as gloomy as the weather, with bandits interfering with operations, Tevinter mercenaries roaming the coast, rumours of darkspawn, and no progress searching for the Wardens. Amrita was quite proud of herself for not reacting to ‘Your Worship’. Harding was able to confirm that the Bull’s Chargers were nearby, and managed a rueful smile as she said that she had heard that sea air was good for the soul.

Fortunately, the first battle they happened across involved the mercenary company they had come hunting for. At the centre of the melee was a kossith, a veritable maelstrom of death and destruction as he hacked and slashed with an axe. The lieutenant – Krem – greeted them with a cheery shout as he swung a spiked hammer almost his size at an armoured swordsman.

At a signal from Amrita – she had to admit, she remained perplexed that experienced warriors followed her directions on the battlefield – Cassandra charged forward, closely followed by Vivienne. Amrita and Solas closed ranks, alternating smoothly between shielding their allies and putting their magic to violent purpose, while the two archers split, flanking from a distance to cover the warrior women’s backs.

The skirmish turned into a rout, and almost before Amrita had registered that all combat had ceased, a voice called out, “Chargers, stand down!” On the pebbly beach before her, mercenaries started sheathing weapons and pulling off helmets. The kossith strode through the aftermath like a walking mountain of wet, scarred muscle, and although he nodded respectfully to Cassandra and Vivienne, he seemed focused on his own people. As a pair broke off and started slitting the throats of the fallen enemies – Faolán stalking through maleficar, beheading them with no more qualm or trouble than if he was decollating daisies – she turned away and gestured for her companions to regroup back where the grass still grew. Nobody was so much as scratched, she was relieved to see, and so when the kossith turned and looked at them expectantly, Amrita had no reason to delay.

She had to tilt her head back a little to look up at him once she was close, and she privately thanked the Maker that she had had at least some time to grow accustomed to the looming horned masses and grey skin of the race – as well as time to at least begin working though the internalised fear of Qunari. Unlike the Valo-Kas mercenaries, this one was half-dressed despite the weather: leather cross-brace and belt, rather unpleasantly-coloured baggy trousers, a leg brace and an eyepatch made him quite the sight. His horns had the cracked texture of bark.

Amrita wondered if Ishek’s horns had been the same under their metal casing.

“So, you’re with the Inquisition, huh?” he greeted her, casual in tone but eyeing her up and down. “Glad you could make it.” He jerked his head – the horns emphasised the movement – at a large smooth rock that had somehow ended up on the beach. “Come on, have a seat. Drinks are coming.”

“Thank you; I am sure some of my companions will take you up on the offer, although I myself do not drink alcohol.” She smiled as best she could. “Iron Bull, I presume?”

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.” There was no bitterness in his deep voice, and he gestured for her to follow him.

He sat himself down on the rock, and suddenly his one good eye was below even Amrita’s nose. A deliberate gesture to make him less threatening? If so, it was considerate of him, although she hoped she was not broadcasting her discomfort. She glanced back at her companions, who, despite accepting drinks, were watching her and Iron Bull.

The man who had come to Haven approached and nodded politely to Amrita. Waving to the man, Iron Bull said, “I assume you remember Cremisius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

Cremisius – Krem – nodded sharply at her. “Good to see you again, Herald. Throatcutters are done, chief.”

“Already?” Iron Bull queried, expressing the same surprise that Amrita felt. “Have ‘em check again. I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

Krem shrugged. “None taken. Least a bastard knows who his mother is. Puts him one up on you Qunari, right?” he quipped as he turned and sauntered away.

Iron Bull’s grin was fond, but he swiftly returned his focus to Amrita. “So… You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it.” He chuckled. “And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford us.”

Amrita swallowed. The wealth of the Inquisition was Josephine’s business, and while Amrita could micro-manage the expenses of a city clinic, the amounts involved in the larger operation were astounding to her. Josephine had assured her that the Inquisition could afford the prices quoted by Krem… but only if they really were worth it. Cautiously, she asked, “Precisely how much will this cost me?”

He made a little dismissive gesture with one hand. “It wouldn’t cost you anything personally, unless you wanna buy drinks later.” He raised his eyebrows and smirked, a… suggestive lilt in his voice? “Your ambassador, er, uh, what’s her name – Josephine? We’d go through her and get the payments set up. The gold will take care of itself, don’t worry about that. All that matters is we’re worth it.” He chuckled again.

Amrita cast her eyes around the group. She could see a few wounded, and would offer her skills later, but there was no sign that any of the Chargers were dead. From what she had seen, they seemed efficient, effective and professional when tackling the Tevinter soldiers, although she had to admit that her experience of seeing others fight was rather limited to panicked dwarves fighting bandits; panicked Valo-Kas fighting blood mages; and panicked soon-to-be-Inquisition soldiers fighting demons. “The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” she finally said politely.

“They are,” Iron Bull replied, voice warm with pride. “But you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me.”

“Oh?” The query came out higher than she meant it to.

“You need a frontline bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is,” he expanded, standing up again and displaying his bulk as he walked towards her, “demons, dragons? The bigger the better.”

“We have not seen any dragons thus far,” she cautioned, joining him, “but plenty of demons.”

“Whatever it is,” he repeated, though marginally less enthusiastically. “And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.”

“I am listening.” She was also clenching her stomach muscles.

“Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

Amrita frowned. Had she heard the Tal-Vashoth speak that word before? “I do not believe I have,” she replied, erring on the side of caution.

“It’s a Qunari order. They handle information, loyalty, security, all of it. Spies, basically. Or, well… we’re spies.”

The pit of Amrita’s stomach went as cold as her nevarrite-tipped staff. But in a very controlled manner, she managed to say, “I… was lead to understand by your lieutenant that you were Tal-Vashoth.” Working on racial tolerance was one thing, but actual Qunari were not known for their moderation when it came to religion. Or invasions.

“That’s the official story. Krem knows, but the other boys don’t, so I’d appreciate it if things stay that way. I’m not gonna go around trying to convert people; I’m not into that shit, and I wouldn’t want to blow my cover, you know?”

Nodding slowly, Amrita forced her abdomen to unclench. “So why is a Ben-Hassrath spy contacting an organisation with fundamentally Andrastian beliefs as its selling point?”

“They’re concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere.” He lowered his chin a little. “I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But,” he added, “I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath all over Orlais. You sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

“Is informing me of your operation sanctioned?” Amrita asked, shocked at the admission. All the stories of spying she had read or been told revolved around deceit, subterfuge and secret identities.

“Whatever happened at that Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. You’re the only one who can do that, and the Inquisition are the only people doing shit. So whatever I am – I’m on your side.”

“But you could have hidden your purpose.”

“From something called the Inquisition?” He laughed. “I’d have been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

Amrita conceded the point with a nod, and began questioning him about the exchange of information. Iron Bull seemed to feel that keeping a Qunari invasion force at home was for the best, and made it clear that he was already well-connected and well-informed; he had actually encountered the Valo-Kas on their way to the Free Marches, and heard details of Amrita, Haven and Leliana from Tully. The other mercenary captain had apparently spoken highly of Amrita, which made her insides squirm in an odd mix of mortification and pleasure.

A few minutes later, the two of them shook hands, and Iron Bull started calling for the Chargers to pack up, followed by resounding complaints about having just opened the casks. With axes.

Amrita’s companions drifted over, some with tankards in hands. Varric was the first to speak. “You sure about this, Doc?”

“About as sure as I can be, all things considered,” she replied calmly enough. She could see the others’ expectant expressions, awaiting her justification. “You are all excellent fighters, and I am glad to have you at my side in battle; but none of you can deny that, despite the commander’s best efforts, many of the recruits are untested or untrained: I gather we lost many veterans in the aftermath of the explosion.” She paused, nostrils flaring as she held tight to her self-control. “A small, reliable company that we can send out in the interim may prove invaluable – and they can prove themselves worthy of the investment.”

“And the Qunari?” Vivienne enquired archly. “I heard talk of the Chargers falling to the lieutenant to lead so that the Qunari can join us. Can this ‘Iron Bull’ be trusted?”

Amrita looked up at the woman, feeling like a half-drowned rat in the sights of a well-groomed mouser. “I believe he is fully committed to the cause of closing the Breach, and has no intention of destabilising what is already a fraught situation.”

Vivienne sniffed. “If you are sure, my dear.”

~~~

“Okay, that’s badass.”

“Bull, I know you said, ‘the bigger the better’, but no.”

“But Boss—”

“Bull,” Amrita interrupted in her best teacher-voice, “it is a fight between a giant and a dragon. We can watch from a distance and hope that they kill each other or leave. If they do neither, we are making a detour. Am I clear?”

“...Yes, Boss.”

Vivienne smiled indulgently at her. “You know, my dear, you have so much potential just waiting to be unleashed on society.”

“Thank you,” Amrita replied demurely, trying to sound sincere – and not to giggle at the expression Sera was pulling behind the enchanter’s back.

~~~

Amrita and her companions were camped out in an abandoned structure at the top of a peninsula after closing the rift down on its beach. She stood by the window, ignoring the ribald conversation behind her, and waited for the daily messages from Haven. Birds usually flew in a little before sunset, bearing the most important of updates that could not wait until Amrita returned to one of the main Inquisition camps. Her absences from the war table were too protracted for her advisers to be able to await her physical presence, and so most evenings she had at least one political issue and her advisers’ suggestions to mull over and resolve before dawn.

This time, however, she spied the tiny gold glow of a storm-lamp making its way up the path towards the shack. She pulled back from the window and tapped Cassandra’s shoulder to get her attention; the woman seemed all too pleased to have an excuse to remove herself from the lewdness spewing from Sera and Bull’s mouths. Without a word, Amrita pointed to the light, and the pair of them slipped back out into the rain to meet whatever friend – or foe – approached.

It was Scout Harding. “Your Worship!” she cried as she spotted the two women, and they ushered her into the relative shelter of the building. She was greeted warmly by the others, who invited her to join them around the fire once she had passed the hefty-looking wax-paper envelope to Amrita.

Amrita brought her staff around so its soft glow illuminated the pages, and started reading. The longest letter was from Josephine, confirming that the Inquisition had managed to ally itself with ten Orlesian households that would join them to petition the Lord Seeker at Therinfal Redoubt, where the templars had retreated. The nobles would rendezvous with Amrita’s party at Gherlen’s Pass, and then travel on to the fortress in the Southron Hills. King Alistair had also granted permission for the Orlesians to come wandering through his lands for the occasion; and more generally, for Inquisition forces to move freely, so long as they were held accountable if they committed any crimes against his people. He wished them luck with the templars.

Josephine had attached details of the delegates to aid her navigation of the Game.

Lord Esmeral Abernache leads them. Sign nothing he offers, but his gossip’s reliable.

She signed off with assurances that there would be Inquisition soldiers to join them at the pass with supplies, and her fervent hopes for Amrita’s success and safety.

There was also a note from Leliana expressing a similar sentiment, though it was addressed more broadly to the whole group, and a letter from Cullen:

Lady Amrita,

Our contact is Knight-Templar Delrin Barris; from what I can tell, he is a good man. Said he was impressed by you in Val Royeaux, so he must have good judgement.

The chess set will be waiting on your return. Maker watch over you.

—Cullen.

That made her smile: it seemed very much in keeping for him to avoid writing that he was looking forward to seeing her, and she had to admit that she was looking forward to seeing him, too. She found his tired, snarky presence far more amicable than that of certain people she had to spend far more time with.

Folding up the letters and slipping them back into the envelope, she approached her companions. “Bull?” she asked hesitantly just as he burst out laughing at something Sera said – something crude that would have had Amrita blushing to the roots of her dark damp hair had she been paying attention, she was sure. Then he swung his head around, horns narrowly missing her bicep.

“Whoops! Yeah, Boss?”

“I have just received orders for us to move out on our way to meet the templars. I cannot sense any more rifts in the area, but could the Chargers continue to sweep the coast – with the Blades of Hessarian – just to make sure we have not missed anything? Then they can head to Haven for further deployment or recuperation.”

“Boss,” he said patiently, “you’re the one paying them. The boys will do whatever you need them to do.”

Amrita exhaled quietly. “I know, Bull. But as you know, I am still quite inexperienced, and I would not want to squander their talents or their lives through bad deployment.”

Bull and Sera both nodded approvingly. “Boys’ll appreciate that, Boss. Sounds fine to me. When do we move out?”

“First thing. Get some rest.”

~~~

If any of her companions had been asked to describe Amrita, ‘aggressive’ would probably not have been one of the first adjectives to come to their minds.

But by the time they reached the hinterlands near Redcliffe, Amrita’s fingers itched to slap one of the nobles. Lord Abernache, for preference, who had likened their mission to the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales, but any of them would do. Solas had been ordered to heat someone’s bathwater before Amrita stepped in, and Cassandra had confiscated Sera’s weapons before charging (hah!) Bull with the task of not letting her knock off a noble. In the end, Amrita had sent Cassandra, Bull, Solas and Sera ahead as the advance guard for the entourage, leaving herself, Vivienne and Varric to put up with the rest. But even Amrita’s nerves were put to the test tolerating such decadence, disregard for the common folk and rudeness towards the non-humans, including their elven servants. Vivienne even advised her not to talk to the servants in front of their masters because of the impact it would have on her image.

That did not, however, stop her from speaking to them in their masters’ absence.

She was starting to see where Sera was coming from.

So when they reached the juncture turning north towards Redcliffe, it was with a great deal of relief that she made her apologies to the nobles and made the detour to seek out the rumoured Warden, check on the progress of the watchtowers, and acquire mounts for the rest of her companions. Sera had sniggered about what kind of a creature Bull would have to ‘mount’, until he had reminded her that she would also need to ride. That had shut her up.

Half a day’s travel brought them back to the Crossroads, where they were enthusiastically greeted by clerics, refugees and Inquisition agents alike. Brief enquiries pointed them in the direction of Lake Luthias, where the Warden was apparently training recruits to take back their homes. They had a couple of hours before sunset and the lake was close to an Inquisition camp, so they trekked off south west.

After reaching the camp – fantastic, they had requisitioned enough materials to make more tents – they skirted the western side of the lake, where Amrita recalled seeing an old shack the last time they passed by.

As it came into view she spied movement and held up her hand; the hairs on the back of her neck rose, and she recognised the warning signs of hostiles in the area from her spirit friends. Nobody questioned her instructions: her instincts, guided by wisps, had saved them from stumbling into conflicts many times now. She crooked a finger at Sera and Varric, and they followed her around until they had a better view of the men.

“Yeah?” the elf asked as she crouched by Amrita.

“That looks like the Warden who was described to us, yes?” she said, pointing at the man in armour overseeing the poorly-dressed peasants.

Sera squinted. “Sure does. Looks like a bear turned into a man. A werebear. A bearwere?” she asked.

Varric snorted before protesting. “You’re not asking me? I’ve got good eyes, too.”

“Probably not as good as Sera’s; typical elven physiology aside, she probably has a couple of decades on you,” Amrita returned. “I’ve seen you using glasses when you’re reading.”

Sera snickered. “Yeah, us girls are the only under-thirties here; the rest of you are old farts compared to us.”

“Buttercup, Doc, you wound me: I’m long-sighted, and trying to protect my eyes.”

Ignoring him, Amrita murmured, “I want the two of you to sneak around and watch for anyone who might attack while I talk to him. Is that alright?”

Rolling her eyes, Sera muttered, “Y’know, you don’t have to ask to give orders. Defeats the point.”

“Besides,” Varric added, “Buttercup here would let you know the second it wasn’t okay.”

“You bet your arse I would.”

Amrita grimaced. “Thank you; I will see you in a moment.” The two rogues slipped off, and Amrita returned to the others. “Cassandra and Bull, with me, please. Solas and Vivienne, if you would hold back ready to support with barriers and long-range magic, that would be helpful.”

“You think something’s gonna go down, Boss?” whispered Bull.

Amrita hesitated. “I… There’s something malevolent here. Whether it is those men or something else, I don’t know. Better safe than sorry though.”

They approached the men, Cassandra beside Amrita and Bull towering behind them, as there was a lull in the sparring for a lecture. “Blackwall?” she called. “Warden Blackwall?”

The bearded man span and advanced, brandishing his sword at her. “You’re not— How do you—”

There was the tell-tale whistle of an arrow passing Amrita, and a shout from beyond the Warden. “Boss!” Bull yelled, even as she looked up to see bandits tripping over a comrade who had an arrow through his skull. Barriers sprang up around them, and she almost missed the Warden’s cry.

“Conscripts! Here they come!”

The battle hardly lasted more than a few seconds. Stunned or frozen by magic, the bandits were left wide open to sword or hatchet or axe. Bull actually let one of the conscripts take the final blow.

Once the last of them lay dead, still oozing blood and staining the mud – What a waste of life, Amrita lamented, pulling off her gloves and squeezing them – Blackwall stuck his sword into the earth and crouched down by the bodies. “Sorry bastards,” he muttered after a moment. Then he rose and approached his men, who hastily stood to attention. “Good work, conscripts, even if this shouldn’t have happened. They could’ve— Well, thieves are made, not born.” He cast an arm out, pointed north. “Take back what they stole. Go back to your families. You saved yourselves.”

The men filed past, murmuring thanks as they went. He clapped the last one on the shoulder, and then turned to Amrita. There was a tense silence as he sized her up. Finally, he spoke. “You’re no farmer,” he accused. “Why do you know my name? Who are you?”

Amrita raised her left hand, displaying the green mark that shone clearly in the twilight that had fallen over the valley. “I am Amrita of Ostwick, an agent of the Inquisition and seemingly the only person able to close the rifts. Some call me the ‘Herald of Andraste’.”

His bushy eyebrows rose. “I’ve heard of you, from the refugees. Thought you’d be taller.”

Behind Blackwall, Solas covered a smile with his slender fingers; Varric, however, made no attempt to hide his snigger. Glaring levelly at them, she went on, “I am investigating whether the disappearance of Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine.”

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall swore, “the Wardens and the Divine? That can’t— No,” he cut himself off. “You’re asking, so you don’t really know.” He stopped pacing. “First off, I didn’t know they disappeared. But we do that, right? No more Blight, job done, Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But one thing I’ll tell you: no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.”

“I am not here to accuse,” Amrita reassured him. “Not yet. I just need information; all I know is that a Grey Warden honour guard was with the Divine at the Conclave; and that all the Wardens in Ferelden and Orlais have vanished, apart from you and King Alistair. If you would be willing to tell us what you know, might I suggest that we burn these bodies and return to our camp to talk in relative comfort?”

“I would welcome the warmth and the news, my lady. I do not know how much use I will be though, as I have travelled alone for months now.”

“The offer still stands.”

“Then I accept.”

By the time the last of the light faded from the sky, Blackwall had been interrogated, civilly but thoroughly, and after some reflection he had offered his services to the Inquisition. He had also begun to make friends, and Amrita quickly learned that if she wanted to avoid sexual humour, he was another one to steer clear of after a pint.

The following morning, they all trekked up to the Redcliffe farms, where Dennet waited with three horses. He had not readied more as he had not known what would be needed.

After a brief consultation with her companions, it was agreed that Cassandra, Vivienne and Varric would travel on to Therinfal Redoubt with Amrita while the others continued to sweep the hinterlands for rifts, resources and refugees. As the most experienced company leader, Bull would be left in charge.

Less than an hour later, they had restocked their supplies, given Varric a crash-course on riding and set off to re-join the Orlesian nobles and meet the templars.

Maker preserve us all.

Chapter Text

“Varric?”

“Yeah, Doc?” He looked up at the Herald from his perch on the pony walking alongside her mare. They were ahead of the main group, since even Amrita had grown sick of Abernache, although she had not been so rude as to express it with words. She stared straight ahead, face wan and expressionless as drizzle dripped off her nose.

“What date is it?”

“Date? Uh,” he grunted, trying to think. They’d left the Crossroads on the 6th, so… “8th of Cloudreach?”

“Oh.” Her expression did not shift, but it did not seem to be the answer she had been hoping for. “Thank you,” she added in a small voice.

“You don’t seem happy.”

She glanced down at him out of the corner of her eye in a way that said, No, really? He chuckled; it really was delightful how she communicated so subtly with those she dared to let in. She said more in a moment than those Orlesians did in an afternoon. But then again, what she said in that moment might be all that she said in an afternoon: most times, she remained mute when it came to herself and her opinions.

Then she returned her gaze to the road, and a gloved hand rose to where her pendant lay under her coat. “It is… the first time I have missed Ema’an’s anniversary.”

“Ema’an?” He’d not heard that name before.

“My friend in the Circle. The first elf I loved. He— He died in his Harrowing. Six years ago. Left me a letter and my necklace. Said he’d loved me back.” Her voice was impassive, detached, resigned.

Varric reached out to pat her thigh, almost missing as his pony responded to the shift in weight. Then they rode on in silence.

~~~

“Varric?”

“Yeah, Seeker?”

“Has the Herald—”

“You mean Amrita.”

“I— yes. I apologise. Has Amrita expressed any concerns about going to the templars?”

Varric shrugged. “Hasn’t said anything specific. I mean, she clearly wasn’t keen on either option – I think she has issues with both sides – but I assumed something tipped in the templars’ favour. Why?”

Cassandra tutted, but not disapprovingly. Varric was rather pleased that he was learning to differentiate her scowls and noises. “Because since we left the Arling of Redcliffe she has steadily wilted like a― like a flower in drought. I am sure she barely slept last night, if at all – her bedroll looked unslept in. I wondered if she was having second thoughts.” She frowned at Amrita’s back as the Herald rode alone at the front of the retinue. “She… talks to you. So I thought…”

Sighing, Varric returned his own gaze to the road. He wasn’t surprised; while Amrita was following her normal routine, as far as he could tell, there was something… calculated in her manner. As though she was making a conscious decision to behave normally instead of running away screaming. “Some stuff, yeah, but… Like I said: issues with both sides. Something’s up, but she’s not talking to me about it.”

“Do you think it’s worth enquiring?”

Varric cast a glance up to Cassandra. “And bring attention to it? She’d probably burst into flames of mortification, or clam up. No,” he said with a shake of his head. “She’s coping with this all as best as she can, and we should probably just let her. Maybe when we don’t have a major political shitstorm to deal with.”

A quiet snort came from above him. “And when precisely will that be?”

“You got me there.”

~~~

“It screams, ‘I hate fun and kick puppies,’ doesn’t it?”

Amrita ignored Varric’s quip, although privately she could see his point. She tried to stifle a shiver, and to convince herself that it was entirely down to being soaked through and freezing. Of course she didn’t dare use magic for such frivolous purposes as to maintain her core body temperature when walking into a templar stronghold. It had nothing to do with the way that the fortress reminded her of the Gallows, or the agitation of the voices in her head. She was rather proud of herself for having not given in to the urge to scream, cry or flee, and for not having vomited. The closer they had travelled, the more her thoughts had been full of the injustices she had seen – suffered – at the hands of templars; the more she had realised that, should things go astray, the templars had only to cast a Silencing and she would be rendered close to useless. Even Cassandra and Varric could only do so much against a whole keep of warriors, and their entourage only had few extra Inquisition guards, mostly for the Orlesians’ benefit, although they had their own mercenary escorts. “The Lord Seeker changed his mind about us rather quickly. Is he known for that?”

“Attack of conscience?” Varric queried. “I hear they happen once or twice an age.”

Squaring her shoulders, holding her back straight and lifting her chin, Amrita strode across the walkway. Passing the templars being harassed by the nobles she had endured for the past days, Amrita almost felt sorry for them. Almost.

Actually, yes, she did feel sorry for them. These poor sods were not the officers; they should not be held responsible for their leaders’ questionable decisions. It was not as though threatening foot soldiers with Empress Celene’s wrath would make any difference.

As she made her way through to the inner gates, politely greeting templars and nobles alike where appropriate, she spied Abernache speaking to a familiar-looking, dark-skinned knight. Rivaini? Or perhaps Chasind – she had heard that the tribes deep in Ferelden’s south shared some similarities in appearance. Regardless: his armour did not mark him out as someone particularly senior, but that did not seem to be stopping Abernache from being a pompous arse to him.

As soon as the knight saw her he pushed forward, forcing Abernache to step aside, clearly affronted. “I’m the one who sent word to Cullen: Delrin Barris, my lady.”

Amrita dipped her head in greeting, remembering Cullen’s note and recalling where he had seen him: Val Royeaux’s bazaar, flinching when Amrita’s cousin knocked out the revered mother.

The knight went on, “He said the Inquisition works to close this Breach in the Veil.” He hesitated, eyes darting from one decadently dressed, masked noble to another. “I didn’t think you’d bring such… lofty company.”

Abernache sneered, arms folded. “Barris… Moderate holdings, your family. And the second son?” The git scoffed.

Ser Barris, to his credit, did not rise to the insult, his green eyes returning to Amrita’s own. “This… promise of status has garnered interest from the Lord Seeker.” Amrita allowed her brow to quirk up in surprise, a wordless invitation for him to elaborate. “The sky burns with magic, but he ignored all calls to action until your message came through.”

Amrita looked to Cassandra. “Should a Seeker lead the templars this way?”

“In an emergency,” she conceded, angular features sharpening her frown, “if there’s no other recourse, but his goal should be to restore them to order. When Lord Seeker Lambert relieved Knight-Commander Eron at the White Spire, it was only supposed to be a temporary measure, until the conspiracy against the Divine was dealt with.”

Vivienne sniffed. “And look where that debacle led us.”

Ser Barris looked back at Amrita. “He has taken command. Permanently.” The utter lack of expression in his tone or face conveyed quite enough implicit criticism.

“Explains the lack of Seeker armour,” Varric noted.

Cassandra murmured, “If he feels there is a holy mandate…”

“That is what the Lord Seeker claims, and our commanders parrot him.” The knight sighed heavily, enough for his spaulders to droop, and he stepped forward, looking down at Amrita. “The Lord Seeker’s actions make no sense. He promised to restore the Order’s honour, then marched us here to wait? Templars should know their duty, even when held from it.”

Vivienne spoke up, cattily commenting, “A templar who remembers his responsibilities? I am reassured.”

For all the enchanter’s mocking, Amrita was reassured. It was good to know that there were some templars still in the Order who stood for all the virtues her family had extolled. Cullen, too, was good – or at least trying – but he was no longer a templar.

Ser Barris earnestly assured her, “Win over the Lord Seeker, and every able-bodied knight will help the Inquisition seal the Breach.”

“That is why the Inquisition came, Ser Barris,” Amrita replied.

The knight nodded, then broke eye contact, looking to the straw-strewn cobbles. “I’d tell you your chances, but the officers are a mystery lately.” Glancing back up, he went on, “We’ve been asked to accept much, after that shameful display in Val Royeaux. Our truth changes on the hour.”

Abernache had been standing back, sulking like a shunned child, and chose this moment to reassert himself. “Don’t keep your betters waiting, Barris. There’s important work for those born to it… or chosen by divine providence,” he added, glancing in Amrita’s direction.

Well I am certainly not the former, Amrita reflected. Fifth daughter, and a mage… I wonder what things would be like if Grace was in my place.

Probably better. Though for whom, I don’t know.

Barris gave the lord a calm, steady look, before turning to lead them into the keep. Amrita fell in behind him, and heard the hesitancy in his voice as he informed her, “The Lord Seeker has a… request before you meet him.”

“Oh?”

They emerged into a courtyard in a state of disrepair: uneven paving, weeds sprouting between the cobbles, sacks and cartwheels scattered around as though the templars were squatters waiting for the landlord to notice and evict them. Templars loitered all around, feigning disinterest but clearly curious to see the so-called Herald of Andraste – and whatever she was about to do. Washed-out and haggard, their faces told of the hardships of the last few months. How many were suffering for lack of lyrium, she wondered?

Ser Barris turned her around. Hung against the grey, damp wall were three banners: the familiar Chantry sunburst and flaming sword of the Order, and the recently-introduced rampant… Lion? Cat? Dog? Probably dog, of the Fereldan crown. The fabric was darkened and weighed down by water, and the likely once-resplendent gold and red were sullied by mud-stains and frayed edges.

“These are the standards,” Ser Barris was saying, a little exasperation coming through. “An honoured rite, centred on the people, the Maker, and the Order. The Lord Seeker asks that you perform the rite so that he may see the order in which you honour them.”

Amrita’s stomach went as cold as the wind whistling through the keep; her breath froze in her lungs. Would acquiescing be seen as polite, or show that she was naïve and malleable? Would refusing be churlish or show that she took no nonsense? Might her choices offend and worsen the situation? “W-what,” she stammered before grasping back her self-control, “what if I fail?” She was aware, as she spoke, of Abernache swaggering up, and of the templar eyes on her. Just like back in the Circle. Only these ones don’t know that I’m one of the meeker mages. They just know that I’m a threat.

“There’s no ‘correct’ answer,” Ser Barris assured her. “The ritual simply shows watchers who you are and what you value.”

Both things I have actively worked to conceal. She tried to deflect, ignoring Abernache’s impatient arm-folding and foot-tapping. “Fancy title aside, I do not actually command the Inquisition.”

“That… doesn’t seem to matter.” The knight’s voice dropped conspiratorially, as though afraid to be overheard by his fellows. “The Lord Seeker changed everything to meet you. Not the Inquisition – you. By name.”

“Why?” She was uncertain whether even half the people in the Inquisition knew her real name.

“I don’t know. He’s been fixated on you since your message about you and your horde of nobles arrived.”

Abernache snorted and flapped a hand dismissively. “The Lord Seeker makes us shuffle flags around? Refuse!” he demanded. “Let’s meet the man already.”

Amrita was not a spiteful woman. She was not. But she was weak and fallible, and she was going to delay and do the ritual, just to annoy the racist, arrogant swine. “We will complete the ritual as the Lord Seeker requests.”

Disregarding the protesting Orlesian behind her, Ser Barris nodded and said, “When you’ve completed the rite, I’ll take you to him.” Amrita returned the nod, and approached the cogs and considered her options, half-listening to the conversation.

“What does the Lord Seeker want to see, templar?”

“The Herald’s choice, Abernache. Not yours.”

“Oh, I like him,” came Varric’s murmur right behind Amrita. She jumped. “And he’s not an elf.”

“What— Varric,” she chastised the dwarf, face warming. “Time and place?”

“Sorry, Doc.”

She put her hand to her mouth in thought, and then slipped her finger under her lip so she would not chew on it. I am sure the templars and my family would be delighted if I prioritised the Order, but knowing even some of what it has done… No. So. Maker or the people? She believed in the Maker, had prayed to him night and day, asking for strength and guidance, and yet… The Spirit of Faith she had faced her Harrowing with had fled her dreams after Ema’an’s death. If that was not an indication of the state of her belief…

“...they also knew you stuck it to the Chantry and went to help little people.”

Sera’s words, so facetious at the time, and yet so observant.

Amrita stepped up to the cog in the centre and turned it.

“The people,” Ser Barris said behind her. “Mages and common folk alike. It’s for their safety the Order was formed.”

Varric sounded approving as he said, “People first? I’ll get behind that.”

Vivienne, of course, either doubted her sincerity or her political acumens. “Well, playing to the common folk? An interesting strategy.”

“It is an opinion that would appeal to populists,” Cassandra acknowledged.

Amrita scowled at the wall as she moved left, to the Chantry standard. Is putting people first – the way in which I make peace with the Maker – such a bad thing? Must everything be calculated? she asked herself, twisting the stiff wheel around.

Once satisfied, she turned back and glanced at her companions. Varric and Cassandra nodded at her, but Vivienne had somehow managed to increase the glacial quality of her stare. Amrita stared back defiantly, until Ser Barris spoke.

“Traditionally, a participant in the rite now explains their choices to those assembled.”

Fenedhis. She shut her eyes and exhaled slowly. Having acquiesced to the request, surely it would now be impolite not to do it properly. Still, she needn’t give specifics; she could let them draw their own conclusions. “This was a question of what I believe. I let faith guide my answers.” It was true, strictly speaking.

“On a whim?” Abernache spluttered. “If it wasn’t to impress the Lord Seeker, why bother at all?”

Ser Barris responded for her, snidely saying, “I suppose those are your intentions.”

“My intent is to deal with people who matter. You helmed louts are wasting the Inquisition’s time – and my time. Unacceptable!”

Amrita resisted the urge to roll her eyes, something perfected when listening to one senior enchanter disparage a rival’s research. She idly wondered how long Abernache would have lasted had Faolán, Ffion or Ishek survived the Conclave instead of her.

Probably not long. The thought nearly pulled her lips into a smile.

Ser Barris sighed. “The Lord Seeker awaits you both. Follow me,” he instructed, turning away. They followed, passing some Orlesian templars grumbling about the Fereldan weather, and let the knight usher them inside.

There were no senior officers in here either, and Ser Barris and Abernache swiftly fell into dispute about… something. Amrita was struggling to focus, something unpleasantly scratching at the back of her conscious mind; and it was not the spirits, although they were distressed, too. It was almost as though she was ringed, at a distance, by a choir singing a sustained note, but with one or two voices fractionally out of tune. She looked to her companions, unsure of whether she hoped it was just her or not; they stood to one side, leaving Amrita’s back exposed to the templars, and none of them looked happy. Vivienne, though, looked unusually unfocused, eyes darting around the dingy room as though a fly bothered her.

Or something else. Vivienne would never be distracted by something as worthless as a fly.

Amrita was just debating whether she could consult with the enchanter when the door opposite her opened. In sauntered three templars, and Barris broke off mid-sentence. “Knight-Captain?”

The discord got louder.

The knight-captain halted on the other side of the desk and scanned Amrita through the slits in his red-feathered helmet. She fought not to quail, as life in the Circle had taught her to. Hands clasped behind his back, he said, “You were expecting the Lord Seeker. He sent me to die for you.”

Amrita glanced to Ser Barris, trying not to show her bewilderment. ‘Die for me’? Is this some Ferelden idiom? But the knight seemed as perplexed as she was.

Taking advantage of their hesitation, Abernache strutted over and started to ingratiate himself. “Knight-Captain! Lord Esmeral Abernache. Honoured.” He bowed elegantly. “It is not unlike the second dispersal of the reclaimed Dales.” There he went again, and Amrita would have been angry but the choir was drawing closer, sharp and flat and ever more dissonant— “No doubt rank puts you above such things. A pity more people don’t understand that.”

The knight-captain seemed to smirk behind his helmet, and he gave a sinister chuckle. “This is the grand alliance the Inquisition offers?”

Amrita did not need the squeals of the spirits to detect the malevolence now in the room. Adjusting her stance and resisting the urge to reach for her staff – They’re templars, they can cast Silence the moment my finger twitches towards an attack, you know, you’ve seen – she cautioned, “Lord Abernache, it might be wise to give the knight-captain some distance.” She did not break eye-contact with the officer.

“You’ve got a silver tongue,” the Orlesian objected. “I won’t let you claim the knight and his captain.” Then in an oily, reasonable voice he said, “Knight-Captain Denam?”

Still staring unblinkingly at Amrita, the knight-captain went on darkly, as though oblivious. “The Lord Seeker had a plan, but the Herald ruined it by arriving with purpose. It sowed too much dissent.”

A roaring sound had started, as though a great battle was taking place outside, but Amrita tried to ignore it and focus on Ser Barris demanding an explanation. It was probably in her head, anyway.

“You were all supposed to be changed!” the knight-captain replied, almost petulantly. “Now we must purge the questioning knights!”

Changed? For the first time, she turned and looked, really looked at the templars around her. Some stood, stunned, mouths slack in unspoken protest or staring up to where the noise seemed to be coming from – maybe that, at least, was not imagined – but others, poised on the edge of an order, had streaks, no, veins of red crawling up pallid faces, and luminous, demonic eyes. Some of them advanced, weapons drawn.

Fuck.

“For once, I agree with the—”

Abernache cut off at the same moment Vivienne cast a barrier over Amrita, and she span around just fast enough to see him tumble to the ground, an arrow shaft through his skull.

“The Elder One is coming. No one will leave Therinfal who is not stained red!”

All around her, templars were being shot or run through by their comrades.

Amrita froze. No, no, no— The templars were supposed to help us, were supposed to be better than the mages, my cousins are here, now I’ll end up like Rilana and Wynny and—

“Herald!” Cassandra yelled as she barrelled into her, saving them both from a templar’s sword. Even as she was slammed into the ground, Amrita flung out a hand and froze a man solid in his armour. Cassandra was already rolling off and up, and Amrita followed suit, gasping and grasping her staff and stunning the men surrounding Ser Barris with a volley of electricity.

One templar cast a pitifully weak Silencing, and it seemed to drain them: in the few seconds they sagged, dizzy, Amrita rammed the blade of her staff into the gap between their helmet and breastplate. Blood gushed from their neck, spraying her with their hot gore as she yanked the blade out and tried not to be violently sick. She was still distracted by the discord in her head.

Soon, though, Ser Barris and her party were the only ones left standing, panting, covered in blood. In that moment of silence, she doubled over and expelled the contents of her stomach. Varric came and rubbed her back, though he likely just smeared the muck into her coat. She managed to take a sip of water from her hip-flask, spit, and straighten up. “Sorry,” she gasped. “Is anyone alive?”

Ser Barris was crouched over the knight-captain. “Barely,” he muttered. “If you use a healing elixir, the knight-captain may survive. If he even deserves it,” he spat.

“Heal him,” Amrita commanded. “He must be judged for his crimes… after we find his master.”

Vivienne sneered. “He hardly deserves our charity.”

“What the fuck happened?” came a voice from the door. The five of them snapped their heads around to find the templars from the courtyard warily stepping into the room, weapons drawn. “Delrin, what happened?”

“The officers have gone mad,” he answered, shaking his head in disbelief as he stood, jingling keys in his hand, “and some of our own. They turned on us – Inquisition and templar alike.”

Amrita tried not to look too hard at the twisted templar corpses, terrified she would find a Trevelyan. She steeled herself. Like surgery. You can order anyone about if it leads to saving lives: nobody argues with a doctor with a knife when a limb needs amputating; nobody will argue with the Herald of Andraste when there is a lesion in the templars. “You,” she snapped, pointing a finger at the latest arrivals. “Take the knight-captain out to our retinue, get the nobles out, and tell the Inquisition scouts to send word to Sister Nightingale and King Alistair. Then seal the gates and hold the courtyard; no one else leaves Therinfal until one of the five of us gives the order, or we are all dead.”

“But ser—”

“Now!”

“Yes ser!” One fled to spread the word, while three marched in to carry the limp form of the knight-captain.

“What about Abernache?” Cassandra asked.

Gazing coolly at the cooling body, Amrita shook her head. “He is dead. He is not going anywhere. We need not waste time that could be spent saving the living.”

Varric sidled up to her and squeezed her hand, unusually solemn. “What next?”

Amrita looked up to where the sounds of conflict went on. She had finally worked out what the awful music reminded her of, and why she had thought of the Gallows – Denam had dropped a clue, too. “Ser Barris; those are the knight-captain’s keys, yes?”

“Yes, Herald.”

She set her jaw. “Then we are going to stop these traitors to the ideals of the Order, and ask the Lord Seeker about this ‘Elder One’. And you,” she added firmly, “are going to tell us everything you know about red lyrium.”

Varric swore. “Didn’t anyone fucking read my book?”

~~~

The fight up to the main keep was brutal. Rain lashed down, blinding them, and thunder crashed in the heavens above. They had thought the templars with red veins like scars had been bad, and then they found the templars with red lyrium crystals growing from their bodies: abominations of the Order. Few of those ones retained any semblance of consciousness beyond Fight! Kill! and so they showed little-to-no tactical awareness. Amrita thanked the Maker for that, as between the song of the red lyrium, the growling voice in her head that was like yet unlike the spirits, and the templars’ near-refusal to die, she was struggling. There were so many injured, dying, dead untainted templars she could not help! She was readying her second lyrium potion – she had already had to heal a gash where she had barely blocked a sword from lopping off her arm, Varric had taken an arrow to the thigh – when they cleared the plaza outside the knight-captain’s office.

They found the grisly remains of the knight-vigilant, decayed and rotting as though they had been there weeks, if not months. How had no one noticed the stench?

Amrita grilled Ser Barris as they pressed onwards.

They reached the approach, and found themselves alone. The battle raged on elsewhere, but the way forwards was clear.

The Herald of Andraste! It’s time we became better acquainted!

She shook her head – she was not possessed, she was not – and pushed herself up the stairs, past the copies of the monoliths from the Temple of Sacred Ashes with the stupid pointy helmets.

What do you think to accomplish? What will you become?

She halted them at the bottom of the final flight of steps. Although she could only see the arching doorway, flanked by statues of Andraste making offerings to the Maker, an enemy stood at the top. One look at the others told her that they did not need her spirits to sense it.

She tapped her thigh in the same place Varric had been wounded. Okay? she signed. He nodded, and she scanned the others for injury. Ser Barris was half-blinded by blood from a shallow head wound, and she pressed two fingers to it, sealing it. Everyone else was unimpaired, so she adjusted the straps of her armour, swallowed the lyrium potion, grasped her staff, and jogged up the stairs.

The Lord Seeker stood there. Back turned. No visible weapons. Still.

Amrita glanced back. Varric and Vivienne nodded. She trod carefully towards him, ignoring all the alarm bells in her head—

With a roar he span and lunged at her, grabbing her by the collar. She flailed, half-choking as he dragged her forward, forward, forward, into Fade-green flame.

“At last!”

Chapter Text

When Amrita regained awareness, she was on her feet, still armed, and in a dim, misty space. It was as though a sea fog had rolled in, obscuring everything more than a few feet away, if sea fog had a verdigris tint to it. If she looked very carefully, she could just about make out the silhouettes of arches and columns, and flickering points of light – torches, perhaps. A chantry? But the floor beneath her feet was muddy, covered in straw and densely-packed, overgrown weeds. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that colossal crystals of red lyrium blocked any exit that way. Some patches of earth glowed green, or bubbled worryingly.

The whole place was eerily quiet, like the calm before a storm when the streets emptied and even the screeching seagulls fell silent.

This is not the waking world.

She tested the ground, grinding in her toe to check that it was solid. It seemed firm enough, so she chanced a few tentative steps forward.

Then she realised that some of the lights did not come from torches.

A few miraculously-preserved bodies burning with unnatural fire— She slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sob. Definitely the Fade – or at least, somewhere that can reflect memories.

After looking in every direction she could conceive of, she concluded that she could not see any of the compassion spirits who usually greeted her in the Fade; nor could she even sense them, which was more unusual, as she was aware of them even while awake. The light warped and wavered before her, ripples of air that suggested an echo of a person’s presence, but none of the apparitions had even the sense of a wisp. Could she perhaps be somewhere between the Fade and the waking world, cut off by a Silencing? Who knew what abilities the Lord Seeker possessed.

Regardless, she was somewhere against her will, and knew it, which was the first step to escaping – you heard stories about people ensnared so deeply by a demon that they never realised they had been caught. There was only one viable option, with red lyrium behind her: move forward.

She moved slowly, testing each step for fear of it giving way. Easing around burning bodies, she covered her mouth and nose. She glanced up after each step, and stopped sharply when she realised that there were two very solid-looking figures standing upright ahead of her. Familiar figures. Friends.

Cullen and Josephine faced her, staring blankly. While they did not droop like unattended marionettes, there was something puppet-like about them: an emptiness, or a sense of expectation. Were they imitations? Similarly caught in whatever wickedness trapped Amrita? Behind them, a wall bubbled and bulged, cutting off the path.

As she came closer and they showed no sign of moving, she could see that they were imperfect copies, faces faintly mottled and marred. The sickly light did them no favours, and their usually pristine garments looked as though they had suffered through a downpour; their gleaming metals were tarnished.

A sharp gasp, like the first breath after suffocation. Amrita flinched. From the broiling blackness stepped Leliana, sashaying forward as the other two drifted – literally drifted – aside. She too was sodden, rivulets of water shining on her leathers and scarf. She, too, was imperfect.

“Is this shape useful?” the Leliana before her asked, voice distorted into a poor mimicry of the spymaster’s voice. “Will it let me know you? Everything tells me about you,” it explained, moving over to Cullen. The copy of Cullen. He had slumped, and failed to respond to the soft schlick of Leliana drawing a dagger. “So will this: watch,” she ordered. It ordered. It reached around his neck. Cullen stared calmly at Amrita, unperturbed.

Her hand stretched out to him before she snapped it back; the figures before her were not real, and letting this thing, this demon manipulate her was unwise. Mouth dry, she commanded, “Stop those disgusting lies, demon!”

It did not respond, blinking serenely over Cullen’s mantle, before lowering its eyes and slitting his throat. But no blood gushed out: instead, skin peeled back to reveal grey ash beneath as he collapsed bonelessly. Despite herself, Amrita bit her gloved hand. It wasn’t Cullen, it wasn’t Cullen, I didn’t just watch my friend die—

“‘Stop those disgusting lies, demon!’” the demon mocked her, Leliana’s form retreating back into the wall, only to be replaced by Josephine laughing, the sweet Antivan’s chuckle echoing with the sound of a thousand voices. She, too, carried a knife.

Amrita stepped back, more disturbed by such a display from the kindly diplomat than from the ruthless former-bard. The gleam of murderous intent where there was usually little worse than a determined frown made her stomach churn.

The demon in Josephine’s form idly played with the blade as it strolled past her. “Being you will be so much more interesting than being the Lord Seeker.”

Reluctant to expose her back, Amrita turned to track it. But it in the moment it took her to blink away the vapour beading on her eyelashes, the demon had vanished into the mists. She peered through, trying to catch a glimpse of it and—

“Do you know what the Inquisition can become?” not-Josephine asked behind her.

Amrita yelped and lashed out as she spun, but there was no one there.

“You’ll see.”

Her breaths came shallow. Her knees shook.

“When I’m done, the Elder One will kill you and ascend.” There was a breathy, satisfied quality to the voice, as though it was announcing the most delightful thing in all of Thedas. Then it bit, growling. “Then I will be you.”

Talking to demons was dangerous. She had known that for years. But sometimes it was the only way to progress. She chose to try fishing for information. The knight-captain had mentioned an ‘Elder One’ too. “Who or what is this Elder One?”

At the dark laugh that followed, she looked up to the murky vaults. “He is… between things. Mortal once, but no longer.”

An immortal foe? Maker, no—

The demon brushed past Amrita’s shoulder and she twisted to watch it carefully. This time however, it was not trying to hide. It came right up to her, head tilted in that rather endearing manner of Josephine’s, eyes tender with curiosity and passion. Amrita’s heart fluttered as she stared back. “Glory is coming,” it promised her before stepping back, expression hardening. “And the Elder One wants you to serve him like everyone else: by dying in the right way.”

“Keep talking,” Amrita almost dared it.

It looked at her, head cocked like a crow eyeing up carrion, but then turned and sauntered back into the fog.

The next time it spoke, it was with masculine, Fereldan overtones. “I am not your toy!” Amrita rotated to find Cullen, unscathed but inhuman, sneering at her. “I am Envy, and I will know you!” He, too, carried a knife.

Amrita froze, eyes fixed on the knife. Instinct told her to flee; experience told her to cower and hope for the best.

“Tell me, ‘Herald’, in your mind,” the demon spat.

She blinked ― suddenly she faced herself: oily black, burnished in the fires of the burning bodies, and eyes aflame. She wore her garb from her time in the alienage, the same clothes she had worn to the Conclave.

Cullen stabbed her double in the back; it cried out and fell. “Tell me what you think!”

She staggered back, nostrils flaring and a shriek strangled in her throat. She shut her eyes and shook her head. Part of her screamed, You knew he was dangerous, you knew he was a templar, you knew he would hurt you at the first opportunity! Templars lie, templars trick mages into letting their guard down and templars kill mages! Rilana, Wynny, a hundred others, thousands more in Thedas! Templars are no better than mages – at least it isn't a mage's fault that they are cursed with a predisposition to evil! You knew, and yet you trusted him! And now you are going to die, you foolish, foolish witch!

The part of her that objected, This isn't Cullen, was pitiably feeble in comparison.

“Tell me what you feel!” he snarled. It snarled. Her eyes snapped open, and Cullen stood over the war table, setting Orlais and Nevarra to the torch.

Sensing something behind her, she swiftly turned: there was her double, staggering, wounded, gushing blood, groaning, doubling over bleeding fallingcryingstaringattheknifeinAmrita’s hand—

Knife?

She lifted her hand slowly. There was the very blade Cullen had used to stab her.

Not her. Her double.

“Tell me what you see,” the double hissed.

Amrita flung the knife away and screamed into her hand.

Then the demon was gone. Gone, and all she could hear was the crackle of flames and her own sobs.

Once the tears had dried and her laboured breathing had subsided, she wiped her eyes, took her staff in hand, and strode through the door that had appeared where the wall had once bubbled.

Then she stopped short at the sudden change in scenery.

It was her childhood bedroom. Or at least, it fitted the fuzzy images that she could recall: a wooden bed; heavy drapes over the windows; a lit hearth; playthings tucked neatly into the basket; storybooks scattered on the rug; and a statue of Andraste on the mantelpiece to watch over her. On the bed sat her mother, face aglow with love and tenderness for the yellow-eyed, oily-black child sitting on her knee. Amrita bit her lip and tried to swallow down the bitter jealousy of a past self, four years old and ignorant of her curse.

As she approached, she heard her mother crooning an old nursery rhyme Amrita had forgotten she ever knew.

“Listen carefully to me my child,
You are so sweet, you are so mild,
But there are those in the world who are wild:
Beware the ones they call mages.

Mages are evil, mages are vile,
They use their magic to snare and beguile,
And even if they seem sane for a while,
Beware the ones they call mages.

No man should change what the Maker has made,
But that's what they do, and to their aid
They call spirits and demons they meet in the Fade.
Beware the ones they call mages.

The worst are the ones named ‘maleficar’,
They use blood magic to maim and to scar.
Steer clear to be sure, for they hide what they are.
Beware the ones they call mages.”

Amrita fled onwards.

She took one look at the funeral scene and pressed on, trying to ignore Laurel’s sobs over the pyre and her own tiny voice singing. Felandaris and Yulias’s funeral. Envy was digging through her past, dragging up formative memories and testing her adult reaction; she would deny it that pleasure as best she could.

Next room. Weeping into Laurel’s shoulder as templars tried to drag her yellow-eyed double away, and disembodied voices whispered slurs. I went quietly! It is twisting my memories!

Next room. Crying, covered in conjured crystals, berated by Filal for her lack of control. Filal was always kind and patient with me.

Next room. Enchanter Prins introduced her double to Ema’an. Delighted smiles and laughter as they ran off to the dormitory beds to tell stories to the little ones. The joyful sounds wrenched at Amrita's heart.

Next room. Her first bedroom. Her thirteen-year-old double on the floor in a pool of her own blood and vomit, curled up in agony. A templar stood over her, lecturing her on the rightful suffering of mages.

Next room. A gaggle of mages in a corridor, faced by templars. The mages were drunk, revelling in the news that the archdemon was dead without the Blight even touching the Free Marches, but harmless enough. Of course, the templars did not see it that way, and were trying to impose the curfew. That made the mages less than merry.

A few apprentices were caught up in the crowd, and Amrita watched uselessly, sick, as her fiery-eyed double and Ema’an squeezed in in an attempt to pull them back to bed and safety.

“All o’ you shits are jes’ scared of us!” a young voice piped up. A Starkhavener. Den. At the words the templars surged forward, scattering the group. Amrita’s double darted forward, begging, pleading for mercy – he was new, young, barely out of Isolation – but to no avail. The knight-lieutenant raised his hand to the boy, and her double took the blow. Blood flowed freely from her – its – forehead as it stumbled back blindly. Ema’an and the other apprentices caught her – it – and shielded it from further harm as the lieutenant bellowed orders for them to go to their rooms. The corridor cleared, and Amrita rubbed at the suddenly-itchy scars as she left too.

Next room. Her double, now a young woman in a nightgown, was barely visible between the twelve templars ringing her, swords at the ready. Hooded enchanters stood nervously around the room. This scene was still, silent, laden with fear at what the apprentice in the centre might become.

Next room. Her second room, granted after passing her Harrowing. She heard her own sobbing, and did not look at the black figure hunched over her desk. She knew it would be clutching a lapis pendant.

Next room. Carver Hawke sitting on a bed; Filal and Brent listening intently; her double taking notes. “Ser Otto Alrik had proposed something he called the ‘Tranquil Solution’ – I’m sure you can guess what it entailed – to Meredith and the Divine, but they both rejected it. He went ahead anyway, and we later found – after Anders and my brother got involved – that he and other templars had been sexually abusing the Tranquil…”

Next room. The Ostwick Chantry. “You may address me as Revered Mother Anna, mage. I am not your cousin. And as for your request to ‘tend’ to my flock with your magic – I shall not put them at risk. If you are so desperate to ‘help’, go to the alienage. I am sure those dirty knife-ears can do with all the help they can get.”

The Envy demon cackled suddenly, the sound booming all around. “You are so good, Amrita, aren’t you? It’s sickening. But this makes you angry, makes you burn with rage! Turning that fire on the world will be so much fun!” it exclaimed gleefully.

“Anger does not guide me, demon,” Amrita replied, clenching her fists. “Andraste and the Maker do. The only fire in me is that of Andraste's fire purging me of sin.”

“We’ll see about that... Unexpected Blessing.”

With a crack and a burst of flame the scene vanished. Amrita’s cheeks heated, but on she went.

Next. Her first successfully delivered baby, child screaming and everyone involved covered in blood, but everyone alive and relieved.

Next. Den and Wynny presenting her with her enchanter’s staff and beginning their tuition.

Next. Wynny’s bloodied corpse, run through a dozen times by templar blades. Her blue eyes stared blankly into the Void, her ash-blonde hair was stained red, and her pointed ears were missing – an extra act of brutality against an elf. Amrita choked back a cry at the sight – she had never seen Wynny’s body, as the elf had been killed outside the city before being checked for papers. The body had been burned and word sent to the Circle. Amrita had been notified by missive. Her double now ranted and raved over a letter, inebriated, while Den cowered and cried.

“Are you sure anger doesn’t guide you? Perhaps you should let it.”

“I shall not. ‘Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.’”

“You still cling to that nonsense? Hah! It can be twisted to my purpose, I’m sure.”

Above, below, around, her own voice started intoning, “My name is Amrita Trevelyan and these are my beliefs. I believe in one god, the almighty Maker…” The words of her creed followed her as she left the tragic scene behind her, only to step into a massacre.

Her first battle. Only, instead of sitting wounded with Serun pulling out the bolt, her double stood over the bodies of the bandits, brandishing a staff victoriously while dwarves and elves looked on in fear.

“You see what you could have done, were you not a coward? You see what I will do when I am you?”

Amrita let off a volley of Winter magic which glanced harmlessly off the laughing double. “I will not let you! You will not master me!”

Next. The deck of the ship. The magister whispered into her ear while the non-humans looked on.

“I believe that all men, from kings to slaves, are his children, and must be treated with kindness…”

“You could have hit him. Hurt him for his arrogance. I will declare righteous war on the Imperium for its abuses.”

“You shall not!”

“But isn’t that what you want?”

Crack. Now Faolán was braiding her hair in the temple. Silver threads glistened green in the unnatural light of the demon’s world.

“Everyone knows you are an elf-sympathiser.”

“Stop this!” Amrita screeched, bile burning her throat as she watched the elves and Tal-Vashoth she had called friends. Tears leaked down her cheeks. What if it showed her the moment they all died? “Stop this,” she begged, voice, breaking.

“Not until I know you,” it hissed. “Now you are starting to show me who you really are.”

She sobbed, and staggered on.

“I believe that mages have the free will to choose whether they put their powers to good use or not…”

Next. Her double on the floor, soldiers pointing swords at her, Cassandra pacing. Red lyrium grew from the ceiling, lighting the whole room red and making the air fizzle. In the light, Amrita noticed that waves of black energy, almost like smoke, radiated from her double.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” ordered the Seeker.

No response.

“I believe that any mage…”

“Do you deny it? Do you dare deny your crime?”

No response.

“...can fall victim to a demon…”

But Cassandra must have heard something, for she spat, “You think me a fool? Explain this!”

No response.

“...they are dangerous and not to be trusted…”

“You’re lying!” the Nevarran snarled.

Amrita flinched as though the words were turned on her. None of the figures in the rooms had noticed her thus far, but Amrita slipped through the fog as quietly as she could, in case she incurred Cassandra’s wrath. If anyone would see her, it was a Seeker.

Next. Her double stood, arms folded, as soldiers reported to it. Behind them, the mists were full of dragon silhouettes.

“I believe that mages bleed once a month to remind them of the pain they would inflict upon the world were they to use blood magic…”

“Our enemies have surrendered unconditionally.”

“The Inquisition’s strength rivals any kingdom in Thedas.”

“Our reach begins to match my ambition – but we will strive for more.”

Amrita’s throat worked, struggling to get words out. This was no memory, this was— “That’s my body. What are you doing?” She fought to breathe.

“Is that a hint of fear? Interesting…” Then it burst into maniacal laughter, and the figures vanished in flame.

Amrita took a moment to steady herself on her staff. She was dizzied by what the demon proposed to use her for. When she found the strength the move, the dragons started spewing green fire, forcing her to meander and dodge both flames and lyrium.

“Were you in earnest when you chose the people’s flag for the standards? For when I am you, the people will never forget what you do to them.”

The men and women in the room were clearly fanatical, worshipping what her double had lead the Inquisition to. She pushed through them, half-blinded by tears, cursing as her arm caught in the flames. She jumped at every crack, every suggestion of a figure in the air.

She was losing.

“Do you see how glorious my Inquisition will be after you die at the hands of the Elder One?”

“You’re hurting, helpless, hasty,” a new voice interrupted, calm, innocent, soothing. “What happens to the hammer when there are no more nails?”

Amrita turned, round and round, searching for the speaker, searching for the kindly voice.

“What are you? Get out!” the demon commanded. “This is my place!”

The way forward was blocked. To the left, a magical barrier blocked the way, leaving only the open door to her right. Still, something other than a lack of options drew her to the door.

When the door slammed behind her, she prayed that it had not been Envy.

There was no one there.

Amrita stared suspiciously at the room, and was bewildered to find objects from happier memories scattered across every surface, ignoring the laws of gravity. Her parents’ bed; a portrait of Divine Faustine II, upside down; Laurel’s lute on a wall; study notes with Amrita and Ema’an’s writing on them, strewn across the ceiling; the armchairs she and Josephine chatted in; the steaming tin bath she and her students had shared; trees twisted like the vhenadahl in the alienage, that the city elves had revered and Wynny had pulled her to dance around on Summerday last year; the fireplace from her room in Haven; a respite from her creed; a sense of peace.

But no way forward. Reluctantly she turned to leave, wondering if she could destroy the magical barrier.

“Wait.”

She span back. No one.

She trod further into the room, staff in hand, watching warily for attack.

“Envy is hurting you.” Still no one. “Mirrors on mirrors on memories. A face it can feel but not fake. I want to help. You, not Envy.” The voice sounded young, masculine, earnest, almost familiar. But who was to say this wasn’t Envy toying with her at her most vulnerable?

“Why continue this, Envy?” she asked, weary like after battle, after mourning. “Who’s this meant to be now?”

The voice paused, puzzled. “Me. I’m Cole. I-I’m still Cole. We’re inside you. O-or, I am, you’re always inside you,” it hastily corrected itself. “It’s easy to hear,” it went on, and Amrita stumbled back as she finally saw it, standing on the ceiling. A blond young man, pallid, bony, dressed in leather and the widest brimmed hat she had ever seen that did not support a whole bouquet of flowers. His blue eyes were wide with sincerity. “Harder to be a part of what you’re hearing. But I’m here, hearing, helping. I hope.” Despite herself she came closer. “Envy hurt you, is hurting you. I tried to help. Then I was here, in the hearing. It’s— It’s not normally like this.” He seemed apologetic. Distressed.

The familiarity of dealing with distressed youths soothed Amrita’s fretting, just a little. In her best, calm, maternal voice, she said, “If you can explain this, I am listening.”

They both cringed at the monstrous, shrieking hiss from outside the room. Amrita took her eyes off the man – Cole – and backed away from the door. Her heart was racing again.

“I was watching. I watch. Every templar knew when you arrived.” Now Cole was on the headboard, brim shadowing his face. “They were impressed, but not like the Lord Seeker.”

Amrita inhaled slowly. “The ‘Lord Seeker’ is an envy demon. It wants to be me.”

“Yes. It twisted the commanders, forced their fury, their fight. They’re red inside. Anyway,” Cole said, straightening up. “You’re frozen, Envy is trying to take your face, I heard it and reached out, and then in, and then I was here.”

She pressed a finger to her lips and considered the evidence. “So… you are a spying phantom who accidentally enters minds? That says ‘spirit’ to me.”

Cole withdrew slightly, wilting a little. “If it bothers you, I can make you forget.”

“It doesn’t,” Amrita replied softly, the last pieces dropping into place. “You are Compassion.”

“I’m Cole.” He seemed confused.

“You—” Amrita stopped and shook her head. There was no time to explain that she had known compassion spirits for years, and that despite his form he resonated with the same qualities. “How is my body ‘frozen’ back in the waking world?”

“Thoughts are fast. We’re here. Outside, a blade is falling, hanging in the air like a sunset.”

She half smiled at the poetry. “If no time is passing, does that mean I’m safe?”

“No. It would be good if you got out.”

Shaking her head, Amrita sighed. It seemed she had little choice. “Alright, ‘Cole’. If you really want to help, how do I get out?”

He gazed blankly at her. “It’s your head,” he stated. “I hoped you’d know how to stop it.”

“Sadly not. I am sorry.”

He considered this, then rose, pacing towards her on the bed. “All this is Envy: people, places, power. If you keep going, Envy stretches. Envy has stretched. It takes strength to make more,” he explained as he clambered down. He was a few inches taller than her, although the hat made it hard to tell by how much, and lean in an unhealthy way. “Being one person is hard. Being many — too many, more and more, and Envy breaks down, you break out.”

“So if we keep moving in my ‘head’, we tire Envy into submission?”

He looked back and forth, distracted, uncertain. “Maybe. I hope it helps. It’s more than sitting here waiting to lose your face.”

“Agreed.”

~~~

Even bolstered by Cole’s kind, wise words, the journey through Envy’s Inquisition was harrowing – perhaps even worse than her Harrowing. She doubted she would ever forget the crack in the baron’s voice – had she met him at Vivienne’s soirée? – as he protested his children’s execution; or how a bruised and beaten Cullen blamed himself for letting her ‘turn the Inquisition into a butcher’s pit’; or how a pale, noticeably-thinner Josephine begged to be told what crime it was that she had committed. Then came the news that the Inquisition had flooded Orlais with demons, felled Tevinter and now lay siege to Antiva as she ran through an echo of Therinfal, shadowed by wraiths, fleeing burning magic on the ground. She threw up twice but forced herself on, upwards through fire and foes and aching muscles.

And then she was back where she started: before the great door. This time, she was alone—

Cold hands touched her waist. She lashed out but her oily double ducked and pushed her back, back, back against the door and lifted her clean off the ground with one hand. Amrita struggled against the grip even as her flesh burned cold and the fiery gaze almost blinded her.

“Unfair, unfair!” the demon screamed. “That thing kept you whole, kept you from giving me your shape!”

“Good,” Amrita choked. “A-anything to stop your vision being u-unleashed on the world.”

The demon spat. “We’ll start again.” Its hand lit up green and cradled her head. Amrita shut her eyes and twisted away as best she could, whimpering at the freezing touch. “More pain this time. The Elder One still comes.”

Agony shot through her like a toothache afflicting her whole body. She cried out.

“It’s frightened of you,” came Cole’s voice.

The double’s grip loosened as it turned to look at the spirit. “Get out of—”

Dizzy and weak but angry, Amrita twisted its arm and slammed her head into its nose.

It staggered back and everything went white.

~~~

They had done it. Envy was gone. The plot against Empress Celene was uncovered. And now, everyone was looking to Amrita to decide on the Order’s fate. The number of sane templars before her seemed frightfully small, and she prayed to the Maker that there were more of their ilk further back in the fortress, and scattered around Thedas.

There was one small upshot to having lost so many templars to the red lyrium: it had likely cleared the ranks of those most likely to cause trouble for the Inquisition; those fanatics most likely to hurt mages maliciously.

Amrita looked to the floor as she considered, her head foggy with exhaustion and the returned voices of the compassion spirits trying to soothe her hurts. The decisions she made in the next few minutes would likely shape the political face of Thedas for years, if not Ages, to come. Was she really the right person to make them?

I believe that the templars were once an honourable organisation that protected mages from themselves and others, as well as the world from mages. I believe that is no longer the case, and that while templars do not share the same innate sinfulness as mages, they are in some ways worse as they choose to abuse their charges.

She was from templar stock. She knew both the good and the evil that they could do. But regardless, the Breach needed to be closed, and the Inquisition needed the templars. She looked to the swirling, viridescent light in the sky, still visible from halfway across Ferelden. Pain pulsed up her arm in time to her heartbeat. Maybe she should mention that to Solas.

Amrita turned back wearily, reassuming the mask of the Herald of Andraste. “There was corruption here,” she said, slow and stern. “But I also see valour and honour in each of you who stood fast. You can rise tall again. Help the Inquisition seal the Breach before it swallows us all.”

Barris strode up to her, armour covered with the gore of demons and corrupted brethren. “You speak truths we should never have ignored. But the Order is leaderless, gutted by betrayal. We must rebuild it.”

When she moved forward, it was more of a stumble than a purposeful step, saved only by her slamming down her staff’s blade onto the ground to steady herself. Some of the templars jumped. “Your Order is a symbol that holds the people’s respect. That cannot die today.” She inhaled deeply, certain she was going to regret what she was about to say, images of Cullen stabbing her in the back flashing before her eyes. “We offer you an alliance! Supplies, weapons, grounds to shelter you. All we ask is that you help us close the Breach – and that we work together after to ensure that mages and templars need never come to war again.”

The knight looked to his comrades. “Do we take the Inquisition’s terms, brothers and sisters?” There was a resounding roar of approval from those weary warriors present. Barris turned back, saying, “The templars will come. I hope your stronghold is ready.”

Glancing behind him, Amrita spied Cole slipping back into the building. She smiled. “We will be ready for anyone willing to throw their hat in with us.” Hah. Hat. He has a big hat. Maker, I’m tired.

With that, the templars started heading inside to tend to wounds and the dead, and to begin preparations to move. When only her companions and Barris remained, she wobbled and crooked a finger at them. They came closer, and she clutched at her staff to hold her upright; Varric swiftly slipped an arm around her waist to support her.

“Ser Barris: if I may be so bold, I am putting you in charge of this contingent of templars. In fact, if Cassandra has the authority as a Seeker, I want you promoted to Knight-Captain with immediate effect.”

“You honour me, Your Worship.”

She held back a sigh. “You have demonstrated both an understanding of your duties and a rare amount of common sense, Ser Barris; things that the Order is in dire need of at the moment. Cassandra, please use your position as a Seeker to support him where necessary – both in practicalities and establishing his authority. I have no intention of staying in this death-filled place a moment longer than necessary, for fear of more malicious spirits coming through the weakened Veil; even the best of mages are at risk at the moment.”

“At once,” Cassandra answered, nodding sharply to the knight. Vivienne nodded sagely.

“Madame de Fer, please let the templars know that they may open the gates; find and tell our Orlesian friends what has happened – or whatever story they should hear. I will trust your judgement on the matter. We shall have to retrieve Lord Abernache’s body, too,” she added, grimacing. “I would also be greatly obliged if you would send a short missive to Leliana and the king to let them know that the situation has been contained, and that I shall write a full report at the soonest opportunity.”

“Of course, my dear.”

The arm around Amrita’s waist squeezed gently. “What about me, Doc?”

“With me, Varric. The rest of you: I shall not keep you from our work any longer.”

She and the dwarf waited until the others gone before Amrita led him back to the field of battle and out of sight of the great hall. Then she sat herself down, buried her head in her hands, and cried.

She felt Varric settle next to her, arm tight around her shoulders and thumb rubbing soothing circles over her bicep.

They stayed there in the drizzle for a long time.

Chapter Text

____________________

Thursday 11th Cloudreach

(In Leliana’s hand)

Lady Amrita,

Congratulations on securing Therinfal and the templars’ aid. Josephine and I will prepare for the templars’ arrival on the rather generous terms you agreed. We will need to draw up a proper treaty so that the Order is committed by paper and not just words.

Leliana
4:11

(Below, in Josephine’s hand)

It sounds quite the ordeal. Please take care of yourself, and stay safe on the journey back, Amrita. Cullen has dug out a chessboard and set from somewhere, and the armchairs in my room will be ready when you have a moment to breathe.

Josephine

(Below, in Cullen’s hand)

Well done. Stay safe.

Cullen

(The reply is written on the back of the letter, dated Friday 12th Cloudreach)

Dear all,

Thank you. I will keep you updated.

Amrita, on the 12th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon.

____________________

Thursday 11th Cloudreach

G,

The Herald has successfully allied with the templars despite their leaders supplying them with red lyrium, turning many into monsters. We don’t know how widespread these ‘Red Templars’ are, but spread the warning.

If everything goes according to plan, the Breach will be sealed within weeks. Looks like we can sit this disaster out.

H
9:41, 4:11

(The reply is a single line, added to the bottom of the note.)

Good. We’ll spread the word. Keep us updated. 4:12

____________________

Thursday 11th Cloudreach

Ser Amrita (Leliana tells me you hate being called “Lady Trevelyan” or “Herald”)

I suppose this is my first time contacting you directly. I’ve written – I say written, I mean I’ve had messages scribed – to your ambassador, and appreciate that she thought, “You know, maybe it would be a good idea to check with the king whether it’s alright to bring Orlesians into the heart of Ferelden.” That’s a fine woman to have in charge of your politics. Now you get the rare treat of a handwritten message from the king himself – lucky you! Or not so lucky – I’ve got another lot of bad news for you, so bear with me. And the bad handwriting. Finest templar schooling isn’t much good when all you’ve got to lean on is a shield. Especially when the shield has the Theirin coat of arms embossed on it.

I’m writing this because I was half a day’s ride from Denerim when I received your first message. Not that I can tell the future, worse luck – there’s trouble coming to the boil in Redcliffe. Arl Teagan has been kicked out by the very mages we opened the gates to out of respect for the ones who helped during the Fifth Blight. Or more specifically, he’s been kicked out by their new master, a Tevinter magister going by the name of Gereon Alexius, and his cronies: a group calling themselves “The Venatori”. (I’ve already asked Leliana for information but she’s come up with surprisingly little – they’re some kind of cult, probably working on “restoring Tevinter” or some such idiocy, but apart from that we don’t know much. I’ve dealt with that kind of fanatic before, and it wasn’t pretty. If you or any of your allies know more, Anora should be able to arrange some recompense – money, supplies, perhaps favours – since last time Tevinter was here they got as far as Ostagar, and we’d rather not risk a repeat performance.)

So, we were off to deal with the mages at Redcliffe when we got your message. “Great!” I thought. “Another imminent disaster. As though my life hasn’t been exciting enough.” Thank the Maker you handled it; Maker knows that the templars aren’t perfect, but there were some good people in the Order. (Do say, “Hello!” to Cullen from me.) If we’re lucky, not too many of them have been ruined by this “red lyrium”. If past experience is anything to go by, we won’t be lucky and we’re going to find that most of the Order is lost.

Since you’ve allied with what remains of the Order, I suppose my permission to travel extends to them, with the same caveats of course. If you don’t mind, I’d like to make a detour to Therinfal to check in on the templars, and take some of them with me to Redcliffe. As I understand it, the templars in Tevinter don’t have the same powers as those in the Southern Chantry, and it might give us an edge fighting this magister, although it might inflame the rebel mages.

I pray that you and the templars succeed in closing the Breach. Know that the Crown recognises your effort and sacrifice.

Maker watch over you.
King Alistair Theirin
4:11, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is overleaf, dated Friday 12th Cloudreach)

Your Majesty,

Thank you for your swift response and the update on the situation in Redcliffe. I cannot help but think that, perhaps if I had chosen differently, you and the arl would not be in such trouble, but had I approached the mages first I am sure that the templars would have similarly caused difficulties.

I have asked my companions to reach out to their allies for information on the Venatori. I shall pass on anything I receive.

I am sure that the templars would provide their assistance if you approached them. You will find Knight-Captain Delrin Barris in charge of the cohort. He is a sensible, honest man with some initiative, and will understand your plight. An excuse to leave Therinfal sooner rather than later is unlikely to go amiss.

I am honoured by your words. Thank you for your prayers and support.

Yours sincerely,
Amrita of Ostwick, on the 12th day of Cloudreach, 9:41

____________________

Thursday 11th Cloudreach

Boss,

Good to hear you got the templars on board; sounds like you handled it despite everything going to shit.

We headed up to South Reach to see if we could find any more refugees or Rifts – of course we found plenty of both. We’ve been marking Rifts on maps and asking for local assistance in finding them too, so that once you’ve shut the Breach we can make a clean sweep of Ferelden. We’re heading back to the Hinterlands now. Not looking forward to going through Lothering – it’s still dead from the Blight.

Something that might interest you: some intel on a man and a woman who’ve been using limited resources pretty ingeniously to save people from demons and evacuate areas near Rifts. Word is that they’re called Marius and Tessa, and they’re from the North – perhaps Nevarra, or Tevinter. I’ve asked my contacts to see if they can dig up any info on them, but if they’re willing the Inquisition could probably make use of talent like that. I’ve already told Red about them.

Keep kicking ass, Boss.

The Iron Bull
Thursday 11th Cloudreach

P.S. We met Cullen’s family in South Reach. They’re all fine, but his sister, Mia? Wow. I’ve got a very sternly-worded letter from her to give to him when we get back.

(The reply is overleaf, dated Friday 12th Cloudreach, but having been written before the Herald’s response to King Alistair)

Dear The Iron Bull,

Thank you. Those two sound as though they could be an asset to our work.

When you reach the Hinterlands, please could you attempt to make contact with Redcliffe? I have been in contact with King Alistair, and he tells me that Arl Teagan Guerrin was forcefully ejected from the Arling by a Tevinter magister called Gereon Alexis, who has somehow gained the servitude of the mages who sheltered there. The King is on his way, but would appreciate any support that the Inquisition can provide; he is, after all, letting us move freely about his lands. The arl believes that the group of Tevinters called themselves ‘The Venatori’. If your contacts have any information on this group, and are willing to share it, both the Crown and the Inquisition would be grateful.

We expect to be in the Hinterlands on the 14th. Thank you again for your continued hard work. Stay safe.

Amrita, on the 12th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

P.S. I am glad to hear his family are alright.

(A response is on another sheaf of paper, dated Saturday 13th Cloudreach)

Boss,

We tried to get up to Redcliffe, but no luck. They wouldn’t open the gates for us, denying any knowledge of inviting the Inquisition and refusing to let anyone in without the Herald. We did confirm that the village and castle are now under Tevinter control, and neither mages nor villagers seem too happy about it. Something about this stinks, and it’s not the fishing trade in the village – it stinks even worse than ‘Vints normally do, and that’s saying something.

Inquisition scouts say they’ve heard that there’s another Tevinter magister skulking around the Redcliffe area, trying to keep an eye on the village, but they haven’t managed to catch and interrogate him yet. If they do, he might be able to shed some light on what’s going on.

We’ll be waiting at the crossroads tomorrow.

The Iron Bull
Saturday 13th Cloudreach

____________________

Friday 11th Cloudreach

Chuckles,

I think we might want you to take a look at Amrita – I think the mark is hurting her again. She’s favouring her left arm like she did at the Conclave. Don’t know if this is new or if she’s been hiding it til now, but I wouldn’t bet against the latter.

Varric
4:11, 9:41

(The reply is on the reverse)

Cloudreach 12
Varric,

I am unsurprised by your observations. We know that shutting rifts exacerbated her pain. Though the Breach no longer grows, Amrita has closed the number of rifts in the Valley of Sacred Ashes many times over since then. I suspected that it was getting worse, but I was hesitant to act without confirmation.

I will see to it when our parties meet.

Solas

____________________

Friday 12th Cloudreach

Nightingale,

You made Doc cry. Was that really necessary? Give the kid a break.

Varric
4:12, 9:41

(The reply is below, dated Saturday 13th Cloudreach)

Varric,

I will not coddle her. She must have the resolve to take every advantage given to us.

Leliana
4:13

(The reply is on the reverse, dated Sunday 14th Cloudreach)

Nightingale,

She’s not Mira Surana, Hero of Ferelden. Don’t forget that.

Varric
4:14, 9:41

____________________

Friday 12th Cloudreach

Cullen,

Be patient with her when we return. I do not know what Envy showed her, but she wakes screaming in the night, and begs your mercy in her sleep. Varric insists on holding her hand much of the time, even more than usual, and I am grateful we left the Orlesians to make their own way back with the scouts, as even after what she has done they would mock the gesture. I fear she regrets her decision to ally with the templars.

Cassandra
4:12, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is overleaf, dated Saturday 13th Cloudreach)

Cassandra,

The fact that you put pen to paper is enough to convince me of the severity of the matter. Consider me forewarned.

Cullen
4:13, 9:41 Dragon

____________________

Friday 12th Cloudreach

Solas,

I know we don’t see eye to eye on many matters, but surely we can agree that the Herald must be protected in the Fade. She has suffered a grievous wound to the soul, I fear, and as such faces a plethora of demons and nightmares. She wakes screaming or sobbing, and has asked me once if I am able to meet her in the Fade to help. Much as it pains me to admit, I do not possess this ability unless aided by lyrium, and thus your experience in this matter suits you better to this task than I.

Vivienne de Fer
12th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is overleaf)

Cloudreach 12
Vivienne,

I will do what I can to help.

Solas.

____________________

Friday 12th Cloudreach

Lady Herald,

The veterans left for Haven at first light. They should arrive only a day behind you.

You asked us to identify as many of the dead as possible, including those turned red. I am sorry to report that we have found three Trevelyans among them thus far: Alyssa, who died fighting the red templars; and Piran and Daveth Trevelyan, who were turning red but not so far gone that they were unrecognisable. Knight-Captain Fletcher told me before he left that he was almost certain there was a fourth Trevelyan at Therinfal – Knight-Lieutenant Jacob Trevelyan, who you probably remember struck Mother Hevara – but we have not found him yet.

Maker guide your footsteps as you close the Breach, and lead our brothers and sisters to the redemption of our Order by your example.

Knight-Captain Delrin Barris
4:12, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is written overleaf, dated the same day)

Dear Knight-Captain Barris,

Thank you for your message, and word on the Trevelyans.

King Alistair plans to visit Therinfal to see for himself what has happened, as well as to recruit templars to aid him in efforts to remove Tevinter mages from Redcliffe. Hopefully you will largely be ready to move by the time he arrives.

Yours sincerely,
Amrita of Ostwick, on the 12th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

____________________

Saturday 13th Cloudreach

G,

The Herald and the King want to know about the Venatori. The cult’s taken over the mages at Redcliffe, and there’s a magister there: Gereon Alexius. What can we give them?

H
9:41, 4:13

(The reply comes separately, with another sheet on the Venatori)

H,

Pass on the attached note with intel to whoever needs it, but don’t say it’s from us. We’d lost track of Alexius, so it’s good to know where he is. If we learn anything else we’ll pass it on; the Venatori are a threat to all of Thedas, not just the Qun.

Be warned, H, that the Ben-Hassrath aren’t happy about your arrangement with the Inquisition. Watch yourself.

G
9:41, 4:14

____________________

Monday 15th Cloudreach

Your Majesty,

I have enclosed the information received on the Venatori and Magister Alexius from our allies. Our source wishes to remain anonymous.

I pray for your own success. If we are successful closing the Breach, we will assist you as best we can in your mission.

Yours sincerely,
Amrita of Ostwick, on the 15th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is overleaf, dated the same day)

Ser Amrita,

Thank you for the information, and thank your contacts. We left Therinfal today with more than half of the remaining templars.

You made a good choice in Barris. He asked me to tell you that there is still no sign of Jacob Trevelyan.

King Alistair Theirin
4:15, 9:41 Dragon

____________________

Monday 15th Cloudreach

My dear Unexpected Blessing,

I hardly know what to say. I wish you had sent word directly to me to let me know what you were up to, rather than letting me find out third-hand from the Ostwick Chantry templars, and then again fourth-hand from Mama and Papa, who heard it from Uncle Hans at Kirkwall. Despite the family’s rejection of you they have been keeping a close eye on your exploits, and your decision to go to the templars certainly got people talking. Some admired you for your ‘good sense’ and for ‘upholding the family values’; others suspected duplicity, of course.

And now this? Templars corrupted by some new lyrium? Demons infiltrating the Order? Uproar. Some accuse you of framing the templars in order to gain their cooperation. Some praise you for saving the good templars from such an injustice. Most are adamant that no Trevelyan would have been foolish enough to take the red lyrium and turn their backs on the people they protect.

I am unsure what Mama and Papa make of all this. Papa has been unusually quiet, drinking himself drunk but not into a rage; and Mama frets and sews blankets for orphans, as has been her wont since the hole opened in the sky. Grace has also remained fairly mute on the issue, but has renewed her efforts in ensuring that the templars in Ostwick have safe lyrium. I think something is going to change soon, but I cannot say how.

Regardless, we all pray for your success in closing the Breach, whether we call you kin or not.

Your ever-loving brother,
Laurel
15th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is in a separate letter dated Tuesday 16th Cloudreach)

Dear Laurel,

If I told you of all the dangerous things I did, you would not sleep at night. I would not wish that upon you.

You can tell the family that Cousin Jacob was in the Lord Seeker’s pocket, and that he is missing; that Cousin Piran and Cousin Daveth had succumbed to the red lyrium; and that Cousin Alyssa died bravely fighting her poisoned comrades.

So long as the Trevelyans do not interfere with the Inquisition’s mission, they can think what they like of me. After all, I am no longer a Trevelyan except in blood.

With love,
Amrita, on the 16th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

____________________

Tuesday 16th Cloudreach

Cullen,

She seems to be doing better, now Solas is with the group and helping her to manage her experiences in the Fade. I still urge caution in handling her, as she remains fragile.

Cassandra
4:16, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is at the bottom)

Duly noted. Cullen.

____________________

Tuesday 16th Cloudreach

Dear Sister Leliana,

We expect to return on the 19th, and the templar veterans are only a day behind us. Please work with the others to prepare our expedition up to the Temple of Sacred Ashes for the 21st of Cloudreach.

Amrita, on the 16th day of Cloudreach, 9:41 Dragon

(The reply is a single line)

We shall be ready. — L

____________________

Chapter Text

Amrita and her companions were treated to a hero’s welcome as they arrived back in Haven. Civilians and recruits, elves, humans and dwarves alike lined the road to the village, clapping and cheering and greatly unnerving her. However, she sat up nicely on Rowan’s back, smiled, and thanked the Maker when Cassandra started shooing people away once they reached the stables.

“We haven’t sealed the Breach yet,” Amrita murmured to no one in particular as she dismounted and started pulling the packs and gear off Rowan. Cassandra was occupied a couple of stalls over with her own horse and Varric’s as she helped him.

Then Vivienne smoothly descended from her own, grey, mare next to Amrita. “It is only a matter of time, my dear,” she said, dark manicured fingers swiftly and expertly dealing with the buckles of the saddle. “The templar veterans will arrive shortly, and then you will ascend to what remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, seal the Breach, and our plight will be over. At least,” she added archly, “that is how most people perceive it.”

“It is certainly the story I would like to be telling myself – I would be delighted if I could leave and go back to my work in Ostwick.” She started brushing Rowan down. “Of course, it is not that simple: Cassandra and Leliana have a vision for the Inquisition beyond our immediate troubles; and we have not yet found those responsible for the destruction of the Conclave. Even if those were things that did not require my aid, I will be needed to close the remaining Rifts. And that is even if we manage to seal the Breach at all.” She spoke brusquely, trying not to convey any weakness or fear.

Vivienne reached out and placed a hand on Amrita’s left, stilling her. She spoke softly as she said, “Have courage, my dear. You have already achieved so much, and come so far, even in the few weeks I have known you. You have proven yourself as capable, and wise beyond your years. I have faith that you will be able to close the Breach. If we fail this time, we shall persevere, and the templars you have salvaged shall help to ensure the safety of the mages and those around them while the Veil is torn.” The enchanter squeezed Amrita’s hand before letting go and returning to her mount. “Tell me,” she said, taking her own brush in hand, “as you will no doubt have a hand in shaping it: what future do you see for mages?”

Amrita hesitated, taking the time to seriously consider the question – and also to consider how to answer it so as not to incur Vivienne’s displeasure. In the meantime, she moved to Rowan’s opposite side.

Eventually, she murmured, “I am not sure. A balance must be struck between safety and sanity, and I make no claims to know the solution. But perhaps a step towards that might to be to allow mages to serve the Chantry themselves, putting their magic to good use, even joining the ranks of the sisters and brothers. After all: who knows the dangers of magic better than a mage?”

“A curious idea,” came the reply, warm approval audible in Vivienne’s voice. “Such twists and turns your mind takes.” Amrita glanced up, and found the enchanter appraising her over her mount’s back. “It’s something to consider, my dear.”

Nothing more was said until Vivienne had finished looking after her mount and was about to leave. “Oh, Amrita dear?”

“Yes, Madame de Fer?”

“I think we’ve moved beyond that, haven’t we? You may address me as Vivienne.”

“Very well, Vivienne.”

“But what I wanted to say: this affectation of yours, avoiding contractions in your speech.” Amrita opened her mouth to protest, but the enchanter cut her off. “Don’t argue with me on this, Amrita; I have heard you correct your contractions on many occasions. I am not criticising you, but I am bringing it to your attention. It is a Marcher affectation, intended to make oneself sound more refined and aloof. The coastal towns are guiltiest, and as a fellow from Ostwick, I have no doubt that you picked it up from your family or someone in the Circle there. In truth, taking one’s speech to that degree is unnecessary: contractions do not make one sound ill-educated, and even in the most educated and noble social circles they are not frowned upon.” Vivienne smiled icily. “It’s up to you, of course, how you wish to speak and to present yourself; but do bear in mind that the effect is rather spoilt by your tendency to drop consonants; something picked up in the alienage I suspect. I suggest that either you work on your elocution, or you allow yourself the luxury of contractions and informal speech.” And with that, she whisked away out into the brisk outdoors.

Mortified, Amrita pondered this as she waited for Cassandra to finish, and then followed her to the war room, where her advisers already waited.

~~~

Cullen greeted Amrita and Cassandra warmly as they entered the chantry, keenly aware of the Seeker’s warnings that the Herald might have gone back a few steps in their friendship.

Sure enough, her gaze was lowered and she held herself taut with the air of someone preparing to fight or flee. Her eyes darted from one adviser’s hands to the next as she acknowledged them. In fact, he was unsure that she made eye contact with any of them; he had at least expected her to try to smile at Josephine.

The ambassador started to usher them all into the war room, where she had arranged for chairs and food to be readied: it was already late, but with the templars arriving in the morning and the expedition to the temple the day after, there was precious little time. Cullen hung back, allowing the ladies to go first as Ma had always instructed.

To his surprise, Amrita held herself back too. “How…?” she asked tentatively as she fell in next to him, fingers lacing and unlacing under the slight swell of her bosom. She immediately bit her lip.

“Better.” They both knew what she was referring to, and there was no need to say more, especially with others around. He could speak further of the improvements the potions and Den’s reluctant ministrations had made at a later time – perhaps over chess, if Amrita was willing to risk time alone with a templar.

After Den had made it clear that he disliked templars, and told Cullen about how Amrita got her scars and how Amrita had lost her other student, Cullen had been amazed that the woman had been as trusting as she had been.

Amrita swallowed and nodded, her eyes lifting briefly to glance at him through her eyelashes. “Good. I’m— I’m glad.”

It was a start.

Once they were all seated, Leliana requested a full report on Therinfal; there was, after all, only so much space on a page, and a limit to the number of pages a bird could carry. The recount came slowly, as Amrita considered her words carefully before she spoke and occasionally checked some detail against her notes, but come it did.

When she reached her encounter with Envy – they had already long finished their meal – she clammed up, jaw clenched, shoulders braced for an attack.

It came from Leliana. “Come now,” she said, leaning forward in her seat. “You cannot expect us to be content with the abysmally short summation in your report?”

“Leliana,” Cullen cautioned softly. The spymaster had been irked by the decision to go with the templars, and since Amrita had struck up an alliance with them Leliana had been even unhappier with the Herald.

Amrita lifted her chin. “I don’t see how revealing how Envy went through some of my blackest moments will be of benefit to the Inquisition.”

“I am not asking for your blackest secrets,” Leliana countered – She probably knows them already, Cullen thought – “but a summation of events so that we can understand your trauma, and any details of our enemy or his plans that Envy may have revealed – that would help.”

The Herald’s head dipped again, but even Cullen – who knew what it was to be tormented by demons – had to agree with Leliana. “This ‘Elder One’ Denam referred to – we know nothing of him, and that’s worrying. If there’s anything at all that you can share…” He trailed off and smiled at her encouragingly, simultaneously berating himself for his hypocrisy: he had yet to tell anyone the full extent of his torture in Kinloch Hold.

She looked up at him then, eyes glassy with tears and lip trembling. You know, she seemed to be saying. You know what it is to be unmade by a demon. He shuddered.

Then she closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and in a calm voice betrayed only by the pauses she took to compose herself in, she told them what had happened.

“I… am still uncertain as to exactly what transpired, but I believe that Envy trapped me inside my own head. It… constructed a world based on Therinfal Redoubt and my own memories, and made me walk through… pivotal moments in my past to elicit my responses. It wanted… to… take my place, as it had the Lord Seeker’s.”

“We still have no word on Lucius’s whereabouts,” Leliana interjected, speaking to Cassandra more than anyone else. The Seeker nodded, brow lined by consternation.

Amrita hesitated, thrown off by the interruption. “When… When I first became aware, Envy introduced itself by… by taking your forms,” she said, looking at each adviser in turn. Cullen swore under his breath; Josephine squeaked; Leliana remained impassive. Then Amrita’s gaze unfocused and she spoke simply, as though she had detached herself. “As Sister Leliana, it slit Commander Cullen’s throat.” That made Leliana recoil, and Cullen couldn’t help but bring a hand to his neck. “As Lady Josephine, it told me of its plans and its master’s intentions. It said… It said that the ‘Elder One’ was between things – no longer mortal – and mentioned ascending, possibly to godhood. And it did all this while twirling a knife and talking about the fun it would have once it had killed and replaced me.”

“Oh,” gasped Josephine weakly.

“And as the commander, it introduced itself as Envy, stabbed a foul likeness of myself, and set the world map on fire.”

Cullen closed his eyes and swore again. Seeing herself betrayed by a templar who had sworn he would die before knowingly doing so? It was a wonder she had willingly entered the same room as him. Maker, please help us both through this.

After that, Amrita went on to explain the visions of a future with Envy at the helm of the Inquisition: advisers, clerics and good folk imprisoned, armies of demons, invasions of the north… It was horrifying. Josephine discreetly wiped away tears on at least one occasion.

The Herald concluded with the confrontation with Envy – her double – on the steps. There was a protracted silence in the room, until Amrita pressed her ungloved hand to her lips and Cullen rumbled, “Lady Amrita,” in gentle reminder. She flinched, but slipped her hands between her thighs.

Cassandra was the first to really speak. “I must confess, I am surprised that you escaped Envy by yourself. I know that the Hero of Ferelden led Leliana and her companions out when trapped in the Fade by Sloth, but to escape entirely by yourself…”

Fwoof! A flash of light and a cloud of choking dust that had Cullen masking his mouth in an elbow even as he drew his sword, and suddenly there was a man crouching on the table.

“Maker!” Cullen swore as the dust dispersed. He pushed Josephine behind him and circled the table to guard Amrita, as did Cassandra. He never took his eyes off the man, who seemed entirely unconcerned by the weaponry now pointing at him. He – it – was not of this world.

“She wasn’t alone,” he said, playing with something in his hands.

“Wait!” cried Amrita, hands out to stop the warriors from striking. Against his better judgement, Cullen stilled his blade, although he did not lower it. He prayed that his abstinence was not about to get them all killed.

The man twisted his head to look at the Herald, raising the brim of his hat and revealing a youthful, unhealthy face, eyes wide behind a ragged fringe. “I came with you to help,” he said, gazing at Amrita. “I would have told you before, but… you were busy.”

“That’s — fine, Cole,” Amrita replied, voice belying that all was not fine. Cullen glanced to her – she knew this thing? “You just — startled us, appearing out of thin air.”

The man seemed perplexed. “I wasn’t air, I was here. You didn’t see me.” A pause, and the brim of his hat fell over his face again. “Most people don’t until I let them.”

It – he – levered himself off the table and Cassandra shifted so that she and her sword were between him and the Herald. “Call the guards. This creature is not what you—”

“A moment please, Cassandra,” Leliana interrupted. Cullen glanced over: her stance was easy and relaxed, hands clasped behind her back – though with Leliana, one never knew whether that was an accurate indicator of her readiness to attack. There was a faint smile on her face as she went on, “I would like to hear why he came.”

Short as Amrita was, the man’s shoulders were so bowed that he still had to lift his head to look at her. “You help people. You made them safe, when they would have died.” His voice turned soft, pleading, and Cullen felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “I want to do that. I can help.”

Amrita considered the man carefully. “Cole,” she quietly said, “while we are doing our best, the Inquisition is not innocent of causing suffering. Why and how would you help us?”

He – Cole – raised a shaking, bandaged hand. “The hole in the sky is too loud for spirits to think. It’s pulling, pushing out pain. I want to stop it. So do you.”

“How altruistic of you,” Cassandra sneered.

“I want to help,” he repeated plaintively. “I can be hard to see, I can kill things that would hurt people — I-I won’t get in the way!”

Looking to Cassandra, Amrita said, “Cole is right: I was not alone when I faced Envy. Cole reached out when I was at breaking point, and guided me through. I could not have defeated Envy without him. He even aided our battle in the waking world, although you may not have noticed him.”

“But what does he want now?” growled Cassandra. Cullen shared her concern.

“I think he really is trying to help,” replied Amrita.

Cole dipped his head, but there was a flash of a smile. “I won’t be in the way. Tiny, no trouble, no notice taken unless you want them to.”

Cullen could no longer hold his tongue. Demons roaming Haven? He had personal experience with unbound spirits. “You’re not honestly suggesting we give him run of the camp?”

“Not freely, perhaps,” Josephine piped up, drawing everyone’s attention, “but it seems a waste to— Hold on!” she interrupted herself as Cole vanished.

“Where did he go?” snapped Cassandra, stepping back to view the room better.

Amrita sank back into her chair and pressed her fingers into her eyes. “I’m— I’m sure we will find him somewhere.”

“Yes. We must make sure of that,” Leliana agreed. “I’ll have people watch the boy, but let’s not be distracted from the Breach. Or our debriefing,” she added, looking meaningfully at Cassandra and Cullen. Hesitantly, they sheathed their swords and picked up the turned-over chairs. Amrita ground at her eyes with the heels of her palms.

Josephine spoke up, voice soft with concern. “Leliana, it is late, and Lady Amrita is clearly exhausted. Could this not continue in the morning?

The Herald pulled her hands away at that, and blinked owlishly at the ambassador. “You make me sound like an infant, Lady Josephine, awake past my bedtime.”

A note of petulance had crept into her voice, and Cullen could not help but tease. “How old are you again, Lady Amrita?”

Her brow creased into a scowl. “Twenty-four years and seven months, Commander.”

“Ah yes – those ever-crucial months to note when trying to prove that one is old.”

Josephine tittered; Cassandra scoffed.

“Come now, Commander,” Leliana returned, “it is hardly that long since you would have done the same to prove yourself old enough to be a knight-captain.”

Cullen’s cheeks burned and he cast his eyes downwards. Perhaps she had not meant it as a jab, but reminders of his time under Meredith – and the fact that he’d likely been promoted because of his naïveté and fear of mages – still stung. If it had not been on purpose, Leliana should have known better.

“The Hero of Ferelden was scarcely twenty-two at the start of the Blight,” Josephine added, before pointing to herself and Cullen. “The two of us are hardly that much older than Lady Amrita. I have only three years on her, and Commander, you turn thirty next month, yes?”

How did— Never mind, of course they know my birth date. “On the fourth, yes.”

“Well then,” said Leliana, smile serene, “perhaps after the Breach is sealed, we will have time to celebrate the occasion properly.”

“Don’t you dare,” warned Cullen. “Your idea of celebrating properly probably involves Orlesian-style parties, uncomfortable clothes and a few political assassinations over complaints about the vintage of the wine.” There was a quiet snigger from Amrita, and he spared her a conspiratorial smile. “No, I think I’ll be quite fine with it passing by like any other day, thank you.”

The Herald smiled back for a moment before suddenly wincing and draining of colour again. Her gaze swiftly returned to the map, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “I know it is late, but if you are all willing, I would rather finish my report now and not spend the night worrying.”

“Very well, Lady Amrita,” Josephine sighed. “Shall I order some tea? I imagine that reviewing the evidence of the plot on Empress Celene’s life will take some time.”

“Yes, please,” Amrita replied. Then she picked up where she left off. “I can hardly imagine how it looked to anyone else, but when I realised I was back in the waking world, Envy was falling away from me, a horrid mess of pink and white limbs…”

It took perhaps another hour, maybe more, for Amrita to finish her recount – and that was with a summation of all the papers found in the Lord Seeker’s office, surrounding the bust of the empress with a dagger in her eye. Amrita had braved the fortress for an extra hour with Varric, collecting scattered, bloodstained sheets before the candles could burn down and set all the evidence alight – although frankly, setting the gruesome scene alight sounded like one of the best possible ways to deal with it. She handed the stack of parchment to Leliana for proper perusal as she finished detailing what she had seen of the clean-up operation, and then sat back, eyes bright with tears despite her obvious fatigue. Her jaw worked, and they all waited for her to get the words out.

“Knight-Captain Barris… has confirmed three of my cousins among the dead. Two infected with red lyrium. One sane, fighting the red templars. A fourth is missing.” She took a shuddery breath, chewed her lip, and said no more.

The advisers glanced at each other. Eventually, Josephine said, “I’m… sorry, Lady Amrita. I know you are estranged from the Trevelyans, but deaths in one’s family are rarely welcomed.”

Amrita made no response to that, only wiping her eyes with the back of a hand.

Cullen leaned back on his chair, elbows resting on the arms and his face twisted by disbelief and his own exhaustion; the familiar ache of a withdrawal migraine was seeping into his skull. “I still can’t believe that the officers willingly blighted half their knights with red lyrium.”

“Even before some of them realised the Lord Seeker was replaced by a demon,” Cassandra added, disgust clear.

Leliana’s voice was harsh when she spoke. “Which put us in a better position to demand more from our alliance.” Cullen closed his eyes, unsurprised but annoyed by the spymaster’s bitterness. “You should have consulted us first,” she reprimanded the Herald.

No reply came. No retort, no excuse, no, It was chaos, there was no time to find a bird! Nothing. Cullen opened his eyes.

No. Not quite nothing. Silent tears dripped from her bowed head into her lap. “You are right,” she finally whispered. “I’m sorry. I’ll—” She paused and swallowed. “If I am put in such a position before I am released from the Inquisition’s services, I shall do better.”

Cullen glared at Leliana, who seemed a little taken aback, but pulled herself together enough to return a cool gaze.

Ever the peacemaker, Josephine reasoned, “An alliance with the templars was our desired outcome.” She punctuated the ‘was’ with what Cullen suspected was a reproachful look at Leliana. “We have prepared for the two dozen veterans arriving tomorrow; I also have a meeting scheduled with a potential lyrium supplier for when the others join us.” She rose from her chair. “I do not believe there is anything else so urgent that it cannot wait for the morning, so I suggest we adjourn for the night.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said, rising and stretching. “Shall we meet at ten to discuss our venture to the temple?”

“That fits my schedule,” the ambassador replied, voice almost lost in the scraping of chair legs on stone. “I see Lady Korpin at eleven, and then I am hoping Lady Amrita will join me for lunch. In fact no, I insist,” she corrected herself as Amrita’s mouth dropped open.

“I— Well— Of course, Lady Josephine,” the Herald eventually mumbled, a smile just lifting the corners of her lips and face flushing a little at the attention.

“That’s settled, then,” Cullen said, stifling a yawn. He gestured for the ladies to lead the way out; but yet again, Amrita hung back to speak with him. Once the others were out of sight, he queried, “Lady Amrita?”

She laced her fingers together and stared at the floor. “About that chess game…”

He exhaled. “I fully understand if you wish to postpone it until… things have settled a little.”

She swallowed and nodded. “Perhaps after I return from our attempt on the Breach? I am too tired to put up a challenge tonight, and I suspect that I will be fretting tomorrow.”

Chuckling weakly, Cullen replied, “I suspect I will be in much the same boat.” He held the door for her. “Perhaps I will see you then.”

“I hope not, if only for the fact it would mean that the potion is becoming less effective. Good night, Commander.”

“Good night, Lady Amrita.”

Chapter Text

In the chaos as scores upon scores of groggy, angry mages were herded off the boats by armoured fanatics, a young, sick Tevinter altus took advantage of the pre-dawn gloom and the mist off the river estuary to send a warning to a friend.

D, Calpernia arrived in the night with more Venatori and a fleet of fishing boats from the north. They marched us and the southern mages onto them and any other ships they could steal from the villagers. Now we march on Haven, incensed by rumours that the Inquisition have chosen to support the templars and crush the rebellion. This ‘Elder One’ wants the Herald. I wish I knew why.

Warn them. Turn yourself in to their scouts, steal a horse – whatever you must do. The Venatori must be stopped, at all costs. Even Father is starting to realise his foolishness, though far too late to help.

I pray we both see this through, my friend. F.

~~~

Following their thankfully brief meeting the next morning, Amrita paused to speak with Mother Giselle and was rather unnerved to hear her criticise the Chantry’s handling of magic. It made her insides twist and skitter, although she could not put her finger on the exact emotions. Eager to take her mind off it, she then wandered out into the village to occupy herself until midday. Normally she would have headed straight for the healers’ tents, but with the task of closing the Breach imminent, her advisers had instructed her to rest and conserve her mana.

She hesitantly approached Leliana’s tent to ask whether there had been word from the Lavellans, or Valo-Kas, or Laurel. However, as she ducked under the flap – not difficult at her height – it became clear that she had walked into an incident, with Leliana scowling at one of her agents. Amrita held back, hovering by the tent pole.

“There were so many questions surrounding Farrier’s death. Did he think we wouldn’t notice?” The spymaster glanced over to Amrita, and then back at the agent. “He’s killed Farrier. One of my best agents. And knows where the others are.” After a long pause, her lip curled. “You know what must be done. Make it clean. Painless, if you can. We were friends, once.”

“Wait!” interrupted Amrita, stepping in further. It was one thing to kill a person in front of you who threatened your life, but to plan death like this— “What are you doing?”

“He betrayed us,” Leliana replied curtly, turning to her. “He murdered my agent.”

“And you would kill him? Just like that?”

“You find fault in my decision?”

There it was again: the face and tone that screamed, Maker, why would you saddle us with such a pathetic, naïve, useless witch? But this morning, Amrita was rested and ready to stand up for her beliefs. “We cannot solve our problems with murder, Sister,” she quietly rebuked.

“And what would you suggest?” came the cutting reply, Leliana’s voice rising in mockery and frustration. “Leave him be?” She strode forward until she was mere inches from Amrita, glaring down with stormy grey eyes and brows pinched together. Amrita held her ground. “Butler’s betrayal put our agents in danger. I condemn one man to save dozens!” Leliana took half a step back, and lowered her voice, admitting, “I may not like what I do, but it must be done. I cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this,” she spat.

Amrita took a deep breath, and prayed that her racing heart wasn’t as audible as it sounded to her. “Now is precisely the time for ideals.”

Leliana considered her for a moment, then turned and went back to her table. “You feel very strongly about this.” Her voice was subdued.

“I feel very strongly about minimising the amount of blood shed by an organisation established to restore order, and presumably peace and justice, to Thedas, yes.” Privately, Amrita marvelled at how steady her voice was; perhaps she was finally settling back into her calm façade from the Circle.

Leliana sighed heavily. “Very well. I will think of another way to deal with this man.” Though her words compromised, her tone remained bitter. She looked to the waiting agent. “Apprehend Butler, but see that he lives.”

The agent bowed to Leliana, saluted Amrita, and departed without a word.

“Now, if you’re happy, I have more work to do.”

Amrita chose not to pursue her original line of enquiry. Instead, she just murmured her thanks and took her leave before she could annoy the spymaster any further.

~~~

A different young Tevinter altus was hiding in a cave halfway up a cliff a couple of miles north of the Redcliffe farms, avoiding the Inquisition scouts who seemed to come closer to apprehending him every day, when the bird came. He swore colourfully in Tevene as he read the message, scooped up his meagre belongings into his pack, and dashed off a reply.

I’m on my way. Try not to get yourself killed. D.

~~~

Amrita spent the rest of the morning meandering around, speaking both to her companions and the people of the Inquisition. Vivienne wanted to start hunting down books stolen from the broken Circles. Blackwall found that their proximity to the Breach made it seem more alarming. Bull had some interesting observations about the Inquisition: he had picked up that Cullen was a templar from the angle of his shield, and was impressed by the men; but he was also concerned by the lack of a single leader, and was not optimistic about the chances of the Inquisition disbanding any time soon. Sera and Solas had nothing to add to what they had already said about templars and betrayal on the journey back to Haven, but Solas politely enquired after her sleep now that he had again withdrawn from her presence in the Fade.

She was saved from his questions by a sudden distant cheers of a crowd. Both she and the elf twisted to look in the direction of the camp, and when she glanced back at him apologetically he smiled in sympathy. “You had best see to that.” With a grateful nod, she jogged off towards the gates.

The templar veterans had arrived. She found Varric watching them from the steps, and joined him, tentatively touching his shoulder in greeting. He glanced up and gave her a brief but distracted smile before returning his gaze to the show in front of them. The polished armour gleaming in the sunlight, and the coordination of the marching had some of the recruits standing slack-jawed on the sparring field; but Amrita could see the resigned disapproval on the dwarf’s face, and even as Cullen called her forward to formally greet them she herself could not help but feel a twinge of fear that they would turn on her, like the commander had.

No. Like Envy had played her.

Once the templars had tramped off to the tents prepared for them, Amrita trudged back through the village towards the chantry, where she would have lunch with Josephine. Varric had vanished.

She was just passing Leliana’s tent again when she heard the spymaster’s harsh voice complaining. “The Herald is not suitable, Cassandra.”

“How so?” came the reply.

“She is too soft. An idealist. She can’t – or won’t – make the decisions that need to be made. She admits herself that she has no head for politics, and what you are suggesting…”

Amrita did not hear the rest: she was swiftly entering the chantry. Almost immediately the heavy hush enveloped her, and she took a few moments to clear her head with a prayer. Once calm enough to face Josephine without letting the ambassador see her inner turmoil, she strolled over to her office.

Josephine stood just outside with a hooded dwarf who was just saying, “…my miners appreciate your business. You’ll have your lyrium by the end of the week.” The dwarf chuckled just as Amrita stopped and hovered anxiously. “I should tell you, Ambassador, the Chantry raised some fuss when they learned about our… arrangement.”

I don’t doubt that, Amrita thought gloomily.

“The Inquisition must certainly seem an audacious idea to the grand clerics,” Josephine conceded diplomatically. “We hope to convince them that it is a necessary one as well.”

The dwarf glanced at Amrita. “I’ll take my leave. Good day.”

When Amrita judged that the dwarf was out of earshot, Amrita softly asked, “Was that Lady Korpin?”

“Indeed – well-remembered,” Josephine praised her, beaming. Amrita’s cheeks warmed. “We need a secure supply of lyrium for our new allies. As you can imagine, that access makes us rather more formidable than anticipated, and it has raised the Chantry’s ire. We are becoming a challenge.” She let slip a little sigh. “Sadly, the remaining grand clerics appear to be consolidating the Chantry’s power instead of comforting the masses.”

Amrita shook her head in despair. “The Chantry should be a place of hope,” she asserted, “not another group scrambling for answers.”

“That must be its strength again,” Josephine replied as she gestured to her office and led the way in. “The Chant did much to bridge nations.” They sat down in the armchairs, the table with food between them. Amrita’s stomach gave an appreciative gurgle at the ravishing smell of fresh hot bread and soup. She blushed and mumbled an apology, but Josephine only laughed and waved it away before continuing the conversation. “Little but the Chantry ties Orlais, Nevarra, Ferelden, Antiva, and even Rivain to a common cause.”

“Has… the Chantry truly promoted such peace?” Amrita asked quietly, lacing her fingers in her lap. Tevinter’s magocracy, the alienages, the persecution of elves… “It seems to me that bad interpretations of the text have been used to justify a great deal of conflict and cruelty.”

Josephine looked at her sharply and Amrita’s breath caught in her throat. Had she been too openly critical? “Andraste’s Chant is familiar across kingdoms, a source of many shared customs. That is the crucial point. Common ground is the start of all negotiations.”

Amrita smiled weakly. “Sadly, it’s— It’s rarely so easy.” She silently cursed herself for the stumble over the contraction.

“I did say commonality is merely a beginning,” Josephine shot back as she passed Amrita a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread, “but it is an important one. We must learn to think beyond our own wants to secure peace in Thedas.”

Tilting her head, Amrita gazed at the ambassador in admiration. She had never thought she would meet a genuinely delightful, unselfish politician. Politics had always seemed dreadfully petty and corrupt to her, despite its importance and influence on people's lives. Dropping her gaze down to her food, Amrita said, “I am glad the Grand Game has not stripped you of your compassion and ideals, Josephine.”

The ambassador pressed her fingers to her lips to hide a smile, but her eyes were bright. “Well, that is— Really, you give me too much credit.”

“I don’t think so,” Amrita demurred. “You have been nothing but kind and patient while I struggled, and I can imagine that many go into the Game with hopes of changing the world for the better, before losing themselves in bureaucracy, cynicism and greed.”

A pleased blush coloured Josephine’s cheeks, but she was very definite when she replied, “There are some like that, but not everyone is changed by the Game. Some people start off cynical and greedy.”

Amrita laughed, caught off guard by the joke. She quickly raised a hand to muffle her mirth though. “Well, I stand corrected. Shall we eat?”

Amrita managed to hold the conversation much better than she had last time. Josephine had taken quite a shine to Den it seemed, and asked a lot about the work they had done in the alienage. Talking about her work and her students was something she could do, even if thoughts of Wynny remained painful. They probably talked for an hour before a scout came to ask Amrita to talk to Cole – “Don’t even know who Cole is, serah, Seeker Pentaghast just told me to fetch you immediately.”

She got up, and Josephine rose too. “Just one last question.”

“Of course.”

“The remaining grand clerics sent a missive enquiring about events at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

Amrita shut her eyes.

“They demand to know whether the Inquisition officially claims that Andraste saved you from the Breach. If it were up to you… how would you reply?”

Opening one eye, Amrita cautiously asked back, “Will my answer change your reply?”

Somehow, Josephine managed to convey a snort without actually doing anything so undignified. “If Leliana, Cassandra, Cullen, and I could agree on our official stance, I could answer that. We should decide soon. The revered mothers don’t seem to know what to make of you.” Then she stared, waiting for Amrita’s answer.

She shrugged helplessly. Andraste had not saved her: in terms of the mages’ curse, even Faolán or Ffion would have been better candidates, believing in the Creators as they did. “I would tell the Chantry that I was saved by circumstance — not divine intervention.”

One of the ambassador’s dark eyebrows quirked upwards. “Yet, as rumours you’re Andraste’s Herald grow, the grand clerics may not believe such a humble reply.” She exhaled and smiled. “A difficult situation, and I thank you for your answer. A good day to you,” she concluded with a slight bow.

“And to you,” Amrita replied, before hurrying to find Cole.

She eventually found him opposite Seggrit, after patiently listening to Cassandra re-voice her concerns about the spirit. She almost missed him, pressed up by a wall, and had the feeling that she could have walked past him all day if he had wanted to hide. “Hello, Cole,” she greeted him quietly.

“Hello,” he replied, blue eyes doleful behind his fringe.

“Cassandra asked me to come and check on you.”

“Yes. She worries, wondering whether you know what you are doing, doubting the demon’s word. She will cut me down if I turn. I hope you will, too.”

He stared at her with wide-eyed sincerity, and Amrita’s mouth went dry. After a few seconds of unblinking eye contact, she ducked her head and gestured towards the gate. “Would you walk with me, Cole?”

“Yes.” The gangly man – hardly more than a boy, really – fell into step beside her, hands fidgeting, feet silent. “You took in the templars. You let them stay in strength, even after what they did. Their own people.” His voice strained with disbelief, then darkened as he warned, “It’s dangerous when too many men in the same armour think they’re right.”

“Then I fear for the Inquisition,” Amrita responded, stomach cold and clenched. There were more men in Inquisition regalia than she liked, and more arrived each day.

“You should prepare. It’s already getting louder.”

Amrita glanced at him, puzzled. “What is going to be loud?”

He looked skyward as they emerged onto the path, head tilting far back to lift the brim of his hat. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but there are echoes, rushing back across us, ripples in a pond from a stone, but — backward.” Then he looked at her sharply. “But first, you seal it. I hope it hurts less. I’ll help if I can, but I don’t always say it right.”

“You helped me at the Seeker fortress,” she reminded him as she nodded and smiled at Cassandra and Cullen, who were watching her and the spirit with obvious distrust. “Say it however you like.”

“I helped!” There was a note of relief in his voice. “It’s good to hear. I will try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

They walked further, past the sparring soldiers, before Amrita turned and lead them into the encampment. It seemed that at every other step there was a smiling face, or congratulations, or words of encouragement for tomorrow’s mission. Evidently, word had got around. She flushed at the attention, but tried to smile back and thank them. Their praise was misguided, but sincere.

“You think you do not deserve their thanks.”

She jumped, startled. Cole stared at her with sorrowful eyes; she had almost forgotten him as they passed the gate into the valley. “I-I— I didn’t realise you could see into my head,” she said, shaken. Someone who could read her thoughts could put her in danger, if they were spoken around particular people. “Normally compassion spirits stay in my head, and do not reveal my mind to the world. I… would appreciate it if you refrained from announcing my state of being to others.”

“You said before that I was Compassion. You know compassion, live with it, loving, longing for reciprocation but refusing to receive it when offered. Only others. I don’t deserve kindness or respite, no rest for the wicked.”

Amrita flinched. “Stop that,” she murmured, folding her arms and looking away. “It is how it is. I... wanted to talk to you about templars.”

Cole looked back to the camp. “They’re heavy with forgotten songs, like Varric.” His voice wavered. “Some of them are too loud. It’s hard to be near them. Cullen, is, softer, but demons asked questions that hurt him.”

She winced. I feared as much, but that was not Cole’s secret to tell.

“Evangeline was kinder.”

Who?

“I want to explain, but I— Rhys’s mother spoke to spirits but not to him. Th-then she died for a templar he loved. Words just… bounce off the edges.”

“Rhys?” She knew that name: Filal had returned to Ostwick bemoaning his decision to lead the Aequitarians to revolution. “Enchanter Rhys, and Evangeline de Brassard?”

“Yes.”

“Were… you at the White Spire during the uprising?”

“Yes. And before. I hurt people, thought I was helping them, but I was wrong. Rhys showed me that. Then I helped him, hurt the hunters.”

Amrita shuddered. “I cannot imagine you have a high opinion of templars, then.”

Cole folded his arms. “Some like hurting mages. It — makes them happy, or, less afraid, or…” His eyes unfocused. “Dreams again, woke up shaking. Stalking the grounds for one who looks like her, always some rule being broken. But,” he said, slowing, “not all templars listen when whispers crawl around inside them. They try to protect people. Like, Cullen.” Amrita’s breath caught. “The good ones remember that mages are people.”

“Cullen… really is trying, isn’t he.”

“Yes. He used to think otherwise. ‘Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me!’ But he was wrong. About the hawk, and others. You’re showing him that, helping, healing, sad and scared but still soft, smiling, saving people. Warmth welling up when he sees her, hope he hadn’t expected to find here. Maybe there is a way.”

Cole suddenly went quiet, and Amrita was left with nothing but the frigid wind, the crunch of snow beneath her boots, and the unasked-for opinion on her. She knew the commander basically liked her – You could be worse for a human; you could be worse for a mage – but… why did this unsettle her? His misguided admiration? Or something… more?

She buried that thought before it could grow any further.

They walked until they reached the cairn. Amrita was unsure why she had brought Cole out here, but she had not yet visited her friends since her last time in Haven more than a month ago.

“No bodies,” Cole said, crouching down, “but the dead are at peace here.”

Amrita pressed her hand to her mouth. “How do you know?”

He ignored the question, voice growing distant. “‘Not awful for a shem,’ shy, sad, hiding hurt behind help. Ma falon. Var falon.” He looked up at her, blinking. “They all loved you, a little. Gone, but not forgotten. They would be proud of you. They would not want you to inflict gnashing, gnawing pain on yourself.”

She pulled her bleeding thumb from between her teeth and stared out over the lake as she fought to hold back the tears. “Thank you,” she mumbled thickly.

“Ma serannas, Amrita,” he replied.

~~~

The first young Tevinter altus should not have counted on the gloom and the mist to save his actions from sight that morning.

When the messenger bird finally found him late that afternoon, his corpse and his father’s were bobbing, face down, in Lake Calenhad, their blood clouding its waters. The bird landed on his back, jumped when it felt liquid lap at its clawed feet, and dropped the paper before flying off.

Eventually, the bodies sank, and nobody ever saw the Alexius family ever again.

~~~

Cullen would not have admitted it to anyone, but the reason he lagged behind at the training grounds, sparring with Krem long after the recruits had finished for the day, was because he would not breathe easily until he had seen Amrita return, unscathed, to the village. The sun was already touching the tops of the mountains, and Cullen was about to get together a search party. One last dip and rise, shoving Krem back with his shield – the mercenary’s low centre of gravity had caught him off guard at first, but he had adjusted – and Krem went sprawling. Panting – Harder than before, but better now – Cullen returned his practice sword to its sheath and the shield to his back, and offered the groaning man a hand up. “A good match,” he said as Krem clasped his vambraces. “Bull and the Tevinter army trained you well.”

“Thanks, Commander,” came the breathless but cheery reply once Krem was upright. “You’re not bad yourself.”

“Pretty sure most of it was me,” Bull corrected Cullen as he sauntered over. “I’ve seen Orlesian nobles put up a better fight than Vints. At least Krem isn’t tripping over his heels, or trying to fight with a damn mask cutting his vision.”

“You were in the Tevinter army?” piped up a now familiar, curious voice.

“Lady Amrita!” Cullen exclaimed as he finally spotted her in Bull’s shadow. Maker, she hardly came up to the Qunari’s armpits. “I didn’t—”

She waved it off. “I did not want to interrupt. I haven’t seen you spar before.”

“Where’s Cole?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t—” Cullen’s voice rose but he cut himself short as Amrita flinched. He pinched his nose. “Forgive me. It’s not your job to track him.”

Bull saved Amrita from having to respond by clapping Krem heartily on the back. “Yep – Krem used to serve the Imperium. Join us in the tavern, and maybe you’ll get the story out of him.”

“If you don’t get side-tracked by the Chief telling you about the time we went giant-hunting,” chuckled Krem, “but you’d be welcome to join us for a drink.”

Cullen shook his head. “Another time, perhaps. I’m afraid that I need to borrow the Herald briefly,” he said, not missing her flinch, “and then I wish to review the plan of action once more this evening. But perhaps the Herald would like to join you afterwards?”

Glancing away, Amrita replied, “I shall have to decline: I really must rest and ready myself for tomorrow.”

“I guess that settles that, then,” Bull answered with a shrug.

Amrita looked profoundly guilty. “I really am sorry, Bull, Krem, please—”

“Boss,” Bull interrupted gently, silencing her immediately. “You do what you want to do. No apologies needed.”

She bit her lip. “Are you—”

“Yes. Now go. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Shoulders relaxing just a fraction, Amrita looked away and nodded, almost as though reassuring herself. Once ready, her eyes lifted to Cullen’s; her jaw was set and her eyes were bright. “Commander?”

He gestured to the village. “Den had a proposal regarding the…”

“Formula?” Amrita supplied, but Cullen’s eyes were on Bull, watching, listening, assessing. Did the Qunari already know about his struggle? Krem and the Chargers seemed a decent lot, but if he was honest he was not entirely comfortable with Bull’s kind – not after Kirkwall. Bull had been in Haven for one day and already seemed on par with Leliana for knowing too much.

Cullen swallowed, mouth dry. “Yes. He asked that I brought you to Adan’s when you returned.”

“I see.” Amrita turned to the mercenaries and made a shallow but respectful bow. “I will bid you a good evening, gentlemen.”

Bull burst into a deep, chesty laugh, and Krem smirked. “Don’t think anyone’s ever called us ‘gentlemen’ before, Chief.”

Amrita stared, perplexed, lips twitching as she tried to work out her response. In the end, she murmured, “I’m— I’m sorry, I was only trying to be polite—”

She was cut off by a weighty knock against her bicep from the Bull that sent her staggering back, almost into Cullen. “Boss,” he said, guffaws finally subsiding, “off you go. You’ll find us ‘gentlemen’ in that reputable establishment known as a public house.”

Krem cracked, doubling over and slapping his knee as he laughed. Cullen bristled slightly at the mocking Ferelden accent Bull had adopted, and coughed. “Lady Amrita…?”

Still frowning, Amrita nodded and walked into the village at his side.

The tension was palpable as they passed Seggrit’s stall; Cullen felt as though he could have cut through the air with his sword, if the action wouldn’t have spooked Amrita. He almost missed her speaking, it was in such a quiet voice. “Pardon?”

“What is Den proposing?”

“I… confess I’m a little hazy on the details, but he’s adamant it will help.” He looked down at her, and found her already studying him, professional frown in place. “I wanted your opinion first, since it was your recipe to start with.”

“Does Adan still believe this is for the general benefit of templars when lyrium is in short supply?”

Cullen shrugged. “He’s a shrewd man; he probably suspects something, but he hasn’t said anything if he does.”

She nodded thoughtfully, all trace of frightened mage gone and replaced by a confident spirit healer pondering her speciality. It was oddly charming, and a much better look on her, even if he was less than thrilled that he needed inspection. The thought made him smile fondly.

She blinked. Then her eyes widened, as though in horror, and suddenly she had turned her head down to the path. Cullen’s brow twitched in consternation, but before he could get any further she asked, “Do you know what… part of the situation Den is hoping to address?”

“I—” Cullen looked around as he strode up the steps three at a time, reluctant to let anyone overhear, and waited for Amrita to daintily trot up after him. “You— You remember our conversation about not wanting to sleep?”

“Ah.”

When Cullen knocked on the door of Adan’s house, the surly apothecary answered a moment later. “Oh. It’s you.” He glowered. “I suppose you’d best come in. Den’s just about finished with his new concoction.” Stepping aside, he let Amrita and Cullen in.

Cullen wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of chemicals and burned-on plant-matter: the odour always reminded him of the Formari and their labs in the Circle, experimenting with enchantment and alchemy through dead eyes. And there could have been so many more— He cut that line of thinking short, returning to the conversation as Adan thanked Amrita for finding some notes.

“It is no trouble,” she murmured before perching herself on a stack of crates from which she could see all three men: Den in the corner at the desk, staring sullenly at Cullen; Adan hovering, arms folded, by the shelves; and Cullen, who remained near the door, steadily returning the boy’s gaze. She clasped her hands and looked to Den. “An update, please.”

Den’s eyes did not move. “Initial results are promis—”

“Den,” she firmly interrupted, surprising Cullen. “I’m here, thank you.”

His gaze reluctantly shifted to her. “Sorry, Enchanter Amrita.”

“Apology accepted. And no need for ‘Enchanter’. Try again.”

As Den recapped the results of the potion – increased focus and energy, better mood, no particular relief from withdrawal symptoms – Cullen wondered at her gentle but effective reprimand. He had not yet seen Amrita exert any kind of authority over others; although Cassandra had assured him that they followed the Herald’s directions in battle, it had been hard to picture. Still, Den was four years her junior, as well as a former student of hers, and he could certainly imagine her fostering good manners and respect from her charges.

He wondered whether Den would have been quite so bitter towards him and the templars if the Order had not killed his fellow student. He wondered what life had been like for the three of them in the Ostwick alienage, close to being free from templar scrutiny.

“So,” Amrita was saying as Cullen focused back, “what you are saying is that you think that adding the active ingredients in magebane to the potion will suppress the connection to the Fade, resulting in decreased nightmares for those suffering from lyrium withdrawal. A bit like a Silencing for non-mages. Yes?”

Cullen winced at the mention of the technique used to subdue dangerous mages, and terrorise subdued ones.

“Aye. We’re getting results on the sleep, but so much so that the… patients aren’t waking up until the potion wears off.” Den’s eyes had drifted back up to Cullen, who decided that this would be an ideal time to study how the firelight caught the silver threads in Amrita’s braids.

She was showing no such lack of professionalism, chin in hand as she thought. “My immediate impression? Possibly useful for mages and non-templars, if you could make it safe – magebane is, after all, a poison, and is only ‘safe’ after being suitably mixed with quantities of its own antidote. We don’t know that the other ingredients in the potion won’t react and cause damage. Fenedhis,” she swore quietly. “I never thought I would have cause to ask the ma— Never mind,” she sighed, anguish clear in the twist of her profile. What she had thought of to provoke such pain? “I do not think it would work for templars: they already dampen magic and have a reduced connection to the Fade. I do not believe that further disconnection would help. If anything, I’d worry it would be a negative thing. I am sorry, Den.”

Den’s mouth thinned. “But, Amrita—”

“Adan,” she interrupted again. “Your opinion?”

The apothecary shrugged. “I don’t know anything about the Fade, or dreams – I don’t even know as much about herbalism as this job needs – but I do know that I didn’t like the look of the things going into that flask, and I’m certainly reluctant to hand out potions not made to a tried and tested recipe.”

Amrita nodded. “I agree. If the commander and his templars voluntarily want to try it, fine, but I am not willing to endorse it when I think there will likely be no benefit. Commander?”

Cullen swallowed. “I’ll defer to your experience on this one, Lady Amrita.”

She deflated and shrugged. “I am not all that experienced, really, especially in matters of the Fade and dreams. I know there has been some research done on the topic – mostly forbidden texts in Tevinter, as the south lacks the tradition of somniari and bans Circle mages from risking possession – but I am given to understand that we know almost nothing about how non-mages dream. I could ask Solas, but he may not know much more either.”

An idea came to Cullen’s mind. “You said that the potion might be useful to mages, Lady Amrita.”

Eyes narrowing, she replied, “I said it was possible.”

He held her gaze, saddened by the exhaustion her saw in her face. “Might it still be worth investigating, then? It could be beneficial to you.” Maker knew better than anyone what the poor girl had been through.

“To… me?” Her brow tightened. Her face whitened.

“Well, yes, to help with—”

“To help with what?” interrupted Den, voice hard, though his eyes were on Amrita. Her eyes were wide and flicked between ex-student and ex-templar. Her nostrils flared.

Cullen realised with a lurch that he had screwed up. They didn’t know about the nightmares. Fuck. He closed his eyes and held in the groan that threatened. And he could feel a migraine coming on. The room had gone chilly. And not just metaphorically.

“Den,” Amrita whispered. “Control it.”

The Starkhavener exhaled slowly, and the temperature rose again. “Sorry,” he muttered. “But I still want to know what he’s talking about.” The boy’s cold anger was now fixed firmly on Cullen. “What would a potion to suppress Amrita’s connection to the Fade help with?”

Cullen fished for an excuse but found himself drowning in guilt. “Uh. It. Might help with— uh— your — unusual—”

“—Den—”

“—No, let him finish.”

Cullen shot a glare at Den, who smirked back. The boy was enjoying this too much. “— unusual dreams about…” He gave up and hung his head.

And bless her, Amrita stepped up to his blunder. “What the commander means is that, immediately after my first efforts to seal the Breach, I suffered from very disturbing dreams. But those have abated,” she said sharply, too sharply, “and I have no need of a solution. I believe this conversation is over, gentlemen,” she said by way of curt dismissal as she hopped off the crates and scurried out.

“Lady Amrita!” said Cullen, reaching out to her but snatching his hand back as he remembered her face when she told the advisers that ‘he’ had stabbed ‘her’ in the back.

And then she was gone. Adan raised his eyebrows and returned to his work. Den stalked over and waved a finger in Cullen’s face. Cullen could believe the boy had once taunted a templar and earned Amrita’s scars; although they were of a similar height and Cullen was weak from his abstinence, he would have had no difficulty overpowering the mage. The boy’s fury clearly overwhelmed any sense he had.

“Templars,” Den hissed, “don’t touch mages unless they’re going to hurt them. So you had better think very carefully before touching her, Commander.”

If Cullen hadn’t already felt like an ass, he did now, and he bit back a mulish retort. “She has nothing to fear from me, Den.”

“Is that so? Because it looks to me like you just told us something she entrusted you with, so bear with me if I don’t believe you on that one.” He spat on the floor, narrowly missing Cullen’s boots. “She likes you, Commander, but that ain’t gonna stop me fiddling the recipe if you hurt her again. You’d better get after her and apologise.”

Cullen held the boy’s gaze. Under any other circumstance he would never have tolerated the insubordination. But the boy was right. Cullen swept out of the house.

Once outside, Cullen looked around, desperate to find her. The chantry? But she knows my quarters are there, so— He let his gaze shift to the path along the barricade. There, just winking around the corner, was the telltale staff glow.

He set off at a run.

He rounded the corner as she opened the door to the house. “Lady Amrita!” he called. She spun and stared as he jogged up. He dimly registered the strange looks the sentries were giving him, and ordered, “Give us five minutes, men.”

“Yes ser!” came the response, and they marched off smartly.

Amrita regarded him warily, tense like a cornered animal: a look he had seen all too often on his charges’ faces. “I thought you had plans to review, Commander.”

“There are more urgent matters to attend to.”

“Like telling the Inquisition that I’m unstable to the point of medication? As though that’s going to inspire confidence!”

“Amrita—”

Her hand rose to her mouth and her face crumpled. “You had— had— had no right to say anything. You promised me that conversation would not spread!” She hugged herself and paced in front of the door, tears welling in her eyes. Cullen’s heart wrenched in his chest. “Who even said I still suffered nightmares? Not me! I’m fine, I don’t—”

“Cassandra.”

“What?” She halted.

“Cassandra told me. She wrote to me after Therinfal. Warned me that you woke screaming, begging for my mercy, though she didn’t know why.” The words were leaden on his heart, bitter in his mouth. As her lip trembled visibly, he cast his hands up. “Why— Why won’t you use it?” His voice cracked a little.

“I don’t trust the recipe. I told you that.”

“Then get Den to research it until you do!” he snapped, frustrated by her refusal to tend to her own needs. “Take something to help, even if it’s just the same stuff you gave me!”

Her face went blank. “Is that an order, Commander?” she asked mildly.

Cullen flinched. Fuck. And to think I’m trying not to act like a templar. He counted to ten, breathing deeply, and, once the words unstuck from his throat, roughly said, “Amrita, forgive me. That was unworthy of me; as was my conduct earlier. It shan’t happen again, I promise.”

Her jaw worked for a few seconds, and then her chin dropped and her shoulders drooped: the picture of a victim capitulating. “It is fine,” she mumbled.

“No, it’s not,” Cullen asserted. “I… did not mean to be so… authoritative in my tone.” He sighed wearily. “I just meant to express my concern for you.” He stooped a little, trying to catch her eye so she could see his sincerity. She eventually glanced up through her eyelashes. “I’m worried about you, Amrita.”

She immediately shifted her gaze back to the ground. Cullen saw the twitch of her throat as she swallowed, and her cheeks seemed pinker, although it was hard to tell in the dusky twilight. “I appreciate your concern, Commander, but I will be alright.” Her voice was detached and professional and Cullen straightened, taken aback. “As I said earlier, I intend to get some rest before tomorrow, so I shall bid you goodnight.”

He retreated a step and pulled himself together. He resisted the urge to look around for observers, as though to confirm his guilt in being overly familiar. “I apologise,” he said stiffly. “I’ve clearly overstepped. Good night, Lady Amrita.”

Her head snapped up as he turned. “No, no,” she insisted, voice almost strangled. “I’m— I’m the one who should be sorry—”

“—Amrita—”

“—I’m the one who, who is, is being standoffish, and awkward—”

“—Amrita—”

“—and I know, I know that Envy was taunting me, I know you’re a good man, not a templar, and—”

“Amrita!” She cut off midstream and looked up at him, eyes wide with shock and bright with tears. He tried not to let the ‘good man’ comment affect him, although he could feel his ears burning. “I know. Do you want to talk about it now?”

A pause. Then a tiny shake of her head.

“Then go to bed and rest. I may not be in the chapel, thanks to your concoction, but should you need me, you have only to ask when I am awake.”

Another pause. Then a sniff, and a nod.

“Then I’ll leave you be. I hope you sleep well.”

He hardly caught the quiet, “And you, Cullen,” as he strode off.

Maker preserve us both.

Chapter Text

Amrita did not sleep that night. She risked a few hours’ vigil in the chapel, secure in the knowledge that Cullen would be asleep, but fled back to her quarters well before dawn, fearful he would wake early. After their confrontation, she could not allow him more reason to press her to medicate.

Not when she was convinced that she deserved the suffering that the Maker put her through.

She had lost count of how many she had killed. If the only price she paid was that of nightmares and lost sleep, she considered herself lucky.

She managed to doze fitfully for an hour or so before dawn. Then, as pinkish rays of sunlight began to slant through the gaps in the shutters, she rolled out of bed and worked her way through the motions of readying herself. Pray. Melt snow. Wash. Dress. Brush hair. Braid hair. Eat. Pray again.

Her mind was not in it. It was thinking of her first efforts to close the Breach, conjuring phantom pains up her arm even though Solas had pulled the mark’s progress back when they rendezvoused at Redcliffe. It was wallowing in memories of her friends before the Conclave, waves of nausea rolling over her as her brain helpfully supplied her with the scent of Faolán’s sweat and hair. It was inspecting the end of her plait, hairs dry and splitting months after the elf had neatened Virr’s accidental damage. If she survived the next few days, she would trim it back.

“I’m worried about you, Amrita.”

Snorting, she picked up the polished mirror Josephine had loaned her, and studied her face. “I bet you are,” she muttered bitterly as she rubbed at the purple under her eyes and poked at the hollowness in her cheeks. “I’m probably worrying everyone, although I’m sure most people are more concerned about whether I’ll be of use, rather than whether I am well.” Amrita had been self-conscious in Cullen’s presence before Cole had told her how the commander felt about her, and now she could not decide which was worse: everyone seeing her fall apart, or Cullen’s extra attention.

Before she could become any more miserable, she picked up her staff and pack, and strode out.

She made an effort to focus on the hustle and bustle as they made final preparations, she really did, but her mind kept wandering, torn this way and that. Bull, Krem, Sera, Vivienne and Blackwall all came out to wish her luck – in varying degrees of wakefulness, with Sera hardly conscious as Bull piggybacked her out – and she appreciated their words and gestures in all their variety. Den came and hugged her, and reminded her that she had promised the Ostwick apprentices that she would come back.

It was with some concern that she noticed Cullen and Varric emerging from behind the forge, whispering. Cullen caught her eye and flinched, going red as he hurried back into the village.

Her heart beat a little faster.

The advisers came out together for the formal send-off. It would be Amrita, Cassandra, Solas and Varric going up with the twenty-four templars: it had seemed a kindness to leave the others, and right for the quartet to finish what they had started.

Sister Leliana spoke more softly than usual as she wished Amrita good luck. For all their disagreements, they both wanted the Breach closed.

Cullen shook her hand formally, squeezing it and smiling with his eyes. Her cheeks warmed, and she averted her gaze as she squeezed back.

Josephine came forward last, quivering, and stopped in front of Amrita. Then she threw her arms around her neck with no word of warning or care for decorum. “Promise me you’ll come back,” the ambassador ordered, pulling back but not letting go. There were tears in her eyes as she repeated, “Promise me.”

Amrita stared back, touched by Josephine’s concern. “I cannot promise that which I have no control over, Lady Montilyet; but I promise I will try.”

“Good.” The ambassador drew a deep breath, swiftly pressed a kiss to Amrita’s cheek, and stepped back. “For good luck,” she explained brusquely as Amrita pressed a hand to where there had been lips a moment earlier. Josephine’s eyes and cheeks were red. “An Antivan tradition. You’ll come back too, won’t you Cassandra?” she asked the Seeker. “And bring Amrita and everyone back?”

“I will try,” Cassandra replied curtly. Josephine kissed her cheek too, and the scowl eased a little.

“Solas; Master Tethras,” Josephine addressed the others. “You come back safely too.”

Varric chuckled. “What — no Antivan good-luck kisses for us?”

Laughing, the ambassador bent down to kiss Varric’s forehead; and when Solas rolled his eyes and smiled, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek as well. “Take care, all of you,” she said fondly, eyes returning to Amrita, smile as bright as her golden clothes.

Despite her fatigue, Amrita’s spirits lifted. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lady Montilyet. I promise.”

~~~

The trek up to the temple took them a little over an hour. It was oddly bleak and silent without the banter of her non-human companions, or demon fights. Tramp tramp tramp. Everyone on guard, and nothing to guard against. Amrita hardly spoke, eyes on the path and mind on her last occasions to tread the way. They did not make for cheerful thoughts.

At least there were fewer bodies this time.

The sun was approaching its zenith when they reached the remains of the temple, and everyone was jittery. They agreed to break for lunch and tackle the Breach once refreshed; Amrita found a corner to sit in where she could not see the remains of the gallery where she and her friends had spent the days before the explosion.

Varric sidled over and dropped himself down next to her. They ate in silence. This close to the Breach, her left hand kept drifting upwards on its own accord; after she had eaten what she could stomach so close to the Breach and the red lyrium, she stuffed both hands under her armpits and waited for him to say something. He did not speak, however, simply watching the templars. Once he had finished his rations, however, he dug through his pack, pulled out a vial – of the same kind that Cullen’s potions went in – and very deliberately studied and fidgeted with it.

Eventually, her curiosity overcame her dread. “Did Cullen give you that?” she timidly enquired.

“Yup.” He twirled the bottle by its stem between his thick fingers. “You know what this is?”

“I suspect I do.” After last night, it could only be one thing. Her heart sank. Touching as the commander’s concern was, she had hoped he would drop the subject.

Varric nodded sagely. “Do you want it?”

“No.”

“Do you need it?”

Amrita hesitated. Yes, sleep frequently eluded her, and yes, it was an appealing idea, but… “No,” she finally answered.

He looked around at her for the first time since he’d sat down, one eyebrow cocked. “You don’t sound too sure about that, Doc.”

“I’m sure,” she replied, but even she registered the lack of conviction in her tone.

Varric gave her a long, hard stare, before shrugging and slipping the vial back into his pack. “Well — I’ll keep it on me, just in case you change your mind. Curly said his men reported back to him this morning that you spent most of the night in the chantry. Again.”

She swallowed thickly, and nodded. I will not succumb to temptation. Nor will I be leaving the house at night again.

Then came the summons.

She had to make her way past the red lyrium, and the green-riddled rocks. She had to pass the spot she had found Ffion’s bow, and where she had found Faolán’s daggers, and Ishek’s skull. She had to fight the urge to vomit that rose with every flux of energy from the rift.

She did not cry. She did not throw up, not even as she turned her back on the armed templar veterans. She just stood there, gripping her own hand while Solas briefed the warriors.

Her hand crackled and fizzled violently as she gazed despondently up at the twisting tendrils of light. Boulders still drifted blissfully above. Sweet Andraste, hear my prayer: give me the strength to close the Breach and protect your people, I beg you. And if it pleases you: do not make me break my promise to Josephine, or the apprentices.

And with that thought in her mind, when Cassandra clapped her shoulder in solidarity she stepped forward, hand raised and burning with freezing fire.

“Templars!” Cassandra’s voice echoed around the ruins.

“Focus past the Herald!” cried Solas. “Let her will draw from you!”

She pushed forward. The air shimmered green, as though she was striking a mage’s barrier.

Once, Junior Enchanter Manda had shown her their work using magic to modify the properties of materials. They had found that electricity could be used to make some metals repel or attract each other, and had called them ‘magnets’. Amrita had felt a similar pull between her hand and the Breach since she had first woken in Haven.

Now, as she pressed on, she felt as though she was being repelled. She wobbled and wavered, weaving as she pushed towards the rift. Blood rushed in her ears, and she felt the mark crawl up her arm, an inch for every foot she gained.

The pressure eased a little as the templars cried out behind her. Negating the rift’s magic? It didn’t matter. She thrust her hand up to the rift. Streaks of golden light arced from the mark to the tear in the Veil. Familiar pain chased up her shoulder and across her torso, but now she knew she could endure it. I must, she thought, gritting her teeth against the agony and the spirits’ screams, for no one else can close the remaining rifts. And I made a promise.

She closed her eyes as the writhing light blinded and surrounded her, but she could still see it through her eyelids and then—

CRASH!

Blown backwards. Skidding, hair catching on debris, skin tearing open, slowing, halting. On her back. Groaning.

“Amrita!” she thought she heard Varric call.

Footsteps. She rolled over painfully and pushed herself up onto her elbows. Lifting her head, she found Cassandra staring at her in shock and relief.

“You did it,” she breathlessly told Amrita.

Amrita twisted her head around. The air was empty, the sky clear of Breach and boulders.

Cassandra tried to help Amrita up.

Amrita fainted.

~~~

^{Wake up, Amrita, wake up! Danger approaches!}

Amrita became aware that she was lying against someone, cradled against their seated body with her chin on their shoulder. There was armour against her chest, short hair tickling her ear, and warm breath ghosting across her neck.

“She shouldn’t be awake yet, Seeker.” Varric’s voice. Nearby. Argumentative. “Shutting the Breach took too much out of her. You saw how close to her heart the mark went before Chuckles fixed it.”

“For once, I agree with you, Varric,” Cassandra returned, her voice close, resonating through the armour and Amrita. She must be the one holding her. “But everyone is expecting a victory parade or a funeral march, and we have no need for the latter, thank the Maker. Leliana, Josephine and Mother Giselle were all insistent that, barring death or dismemberment, the Herald—”

“Amrita.”

“—Yes, Amrita, came back on her own two feet.” A moment later, she spoke in a poor imitation of Leliana’s accent. “‘Even if it is only to walk through Haven and collapse in privacy, the image of her striding triumphantly from the Breach will strengthen the Inquisition’s credibility and position.’” There was a disgusted noise, and Amrita had to hold back a smirk. “I see their point, but that does not mean I like it.”

Amrita opened her eyes. They were on the mountain-path, the templars further back up the stony track, and she could see that Cassandra was perched on a boulder. Her eyes flickered upwards: the sky above was cloudy, heavy with the promise of snow, but clear of the swirling hole in the Veil that had hung over them for months. She blinked slowly. “Did we do it?” she asked weakly.

“Yes,” came Solas’s swift reply. “It would seem your squabbling woke Amrita without further intervention.”

Amrita pulled away from Cassandra’s torso and yawned. “I think I was waking up anyway.” She twisted around, pushing away the spirits’ concern; they were probably just upset by the bickering.

Varric stood in front of her, arms folded and mouth twisted in annoyance, although it eased as he saw her face. To one side Solas waited, serenely leaning on his staff with both hands; she could see her own staff strapped to his back. Cassandra peered at her worriedly, a little too close for comfort, and Amrita shuffled further off her lap.

“Morning, Doc,” said Varric, though his smile didn’t crease his eyes the way they did when he was happy. “You heard all that?”

She nodded lethargically. “At least, that you need me to walk through Haven pretending to be the saviour of Thedas.”

“‘Pretending’?” Cassandra asked, appalled. “Amrita, you— You just closed the Breach! Solas can confirm that the heavens are scarred but calm. Yes, we know there are rifts yet to be closed, and many questions remain… but this was a victory.”

Amrita closed her eyes. It was easier to avoid responding than it was to argue or lie. She had done what was necessary because no one else could. There was no heroism in that. “Could you help me up, please?” she asked instead.

Her companions got her onto her feet, Solas returned her staff, and after a few moments’ wobbling she found her balance. The world wavered nauseatingly around her, but she could see well enough to walk.

At least, she must have been able to, since the next thing she knew she was walking onto the bridge and she had no recollection of falling over. Her more immediate concern, however, was not the gap in her memory but the people lining the walkway, whooping and cheering and clapping and —

Amrita froze.

^Danger! the spirits warned her again. ^{Something bad is going to happen!}

“Come on, Doc,” Varric murmured, his hand touching her back in reassurance. “Only a few hundred metres to go. Smile – you can do this.”

She swallowed, nodded, pasted on a grin and stepped forward. She looked to the people restrained by the guards, managing not to flinch when she made eye contact with the tragically misguided, adoring crowds.

Unfortunately, when she stepped through Haven’s gates, she had only a moment’s glimpse of golden clothes and golden hair at the top of the steps before the ranks of soldiers broke and she was engulfed. Within moments she was surrounded, spinning, whirling, lost in a sea of armour and robes.

“You closed the Breach!”

—Grinning teeth, pawing hands, hot breath, a cacophony of laughter like demons—

“The Herald saved us!”

—No Varric—

“I always believed in you, Herald!”

—No Cassandra, no Solas, no anyone—

“Please, give the Herald some space!”

Cassandra’s voice, but where was she?

“She really is Andraste’s chosen one!”

—Fake a smile, don’t let them see your fear—

“What’s the Chantry going to do now?”

—Tears burning, stomach churning, compassion screaming, Someone help—

“Let me through!”

—Help—

“We can go home!”

—Voices mixing in one great roar, Herald, Herald HeraldHeraldHerald, Close your eyes so they can’t see the tears, hold onto your magic, you mustn’t let go and hurt them or—

“Amrita!”

The world suddenly quietened, or so it seemed. Amrita. Not Lady, not Herald, not Trevelyan. Amrita. She opened her eyes slowly.

Towering in front of her, taller even than most of the crowd, was Cullen. A pillar of calm concern; the eye in a storm of shrieks and strident voices.

He looked at her. Then he tilted his head ever so slightly away from the crowd and flicked his eyes in the same direction before returning them to her. One hand left the pommel of his sword.

Amrita grabbed his wrist.

With only a pause to wrap his fingers around her own wrist, he turned and tugged her through the throng, people parting like waves before a mighty warship.

Amrita’s heart beat so hard it was difficult to hear her own thoughts. I should be scared, she realised, stumbling after him, eyes fixed on his tamed curls, but I’m not. Cullen is a good man. I doubt any templar has ever been the flawless golden knight from the fairytales my family told me, but Cullen is a good man. He won’t hurt me.

^{You are still in danger,} the spirits whispered. ^{Though not from him. He intends to help.}

Cullen muttered something and then they were inside. It was dark. She tripped but he caught her, guided her down. Her legs hit the mattress and she fell back.

For just a moment, Cullen’s silhouette loomed over her, and her heart leapt into her throat in something like fear.

Then he was crouching down, making himself small, and taking both her hands in his. His thumbs worked over her palms in small circles. Now he wasn’t blocking what meagre light filtered through the cracks in the shutters, she could see his face. His lips were moving. She stared at them.

His lips were moving.

He was talking.

“Oh!” she gasped. The hush that had fallen on her with his arrival lifted.

“—three… four— You with me? Come on, count with me, you’re shaking like a leaf and— Come on. One… two… three…”

She hadn’t noticed until he said it that her breath had been coming all wrong. She shut her eyes tight and scalding tears squeezed from between her lashes. Her muscles ached as she trembled. Golden arcs and green tendrils of light danced across the insides of her eyelids. Folding her fingers down over his thumbs, she held on as she fought for air and self-control.

She almost choked on a laugh as she recalled their first real encounter.

Finally, she joined in his counting. “…five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten.”

“Well done,” Cullen murmured. “You’re doing well. You’re back in your room, in Haven. You’re safe. Nobody is going to hurt you.”

Amrita exhaled shakily and opened her eyes. “Thank you. Again. I owe you.”

“Nonsense,” he brusquely dismissed her, fingers ceasing their motion but not releasing her. “After all you’ve done for me…”

They stayed there in comfortable stillness for a minute longer before Cullen abruptly let go and steadied himself on the bed, hands either side of her thighs, as he made a grunt of discomfort. “Ugh — knees.” Amrita made a small, sympathetic noise, and he smiled at her. “Can I do anything else to help?”

“I— I think— Is there any water in the pitcher? It should be in the other room.”

“I’ll check. If not, I’ll send someone for food and drink. Have you eaten yet?” he asked as he pushed himself up.

Her stomach answered for her. “Not yet,” she replied with a rueful smile.

“Then I’ll send someone for food regardless.” He vanished into the other room.

“Thank you. I appreciate it. And you getting me out of that.”

“You were clearly distressed,” he grumbled. “The men were supposed to keep the people back, but they pushed through. Idiots were so keen they couldn’t keep their grubby mitts off you.” Amrita slid off her gloves and pressed her hands to her lips as he recounted the trauma. “Josephine, Leliana and I were at the top of the steps when you were swallowed. Cassandra lost you in seconds.” There was the sound of water pouring. “I could see where you were from the way the crowd moved, so I waded in. None of that!” he chided her as he appeared back in the doorway, brow creased with worry. She snapped her hands away from her face and hugged herself tightly. “I have to admit, though,” he said as he approached with a wooden beaker in hand, “it probably looked rather odd to everyone.”

“What?” She accepted the beaker and held onto it with both hands so they did not stray back to her teeth.

He coughed and looked away. “Me barging in and dragging you away without a word. I— I apologise if I misread your response; I know that after Therinfal—”

“Cullen,” she interrupted him gently, hands curling around her drink. “I reached out to you, did I not? You would not intentionally harm me, I know. Besides,” she added with a nervous laugh, “how bad could it have looked?”

~~~

“Soooo,” Sera said as she dropped herself onto the stool beside Amrita in the tavern, mischief glinting in her eyes. “I saw you got whisked away pretty sharpish by Commander Tightpants earlier.”

Amrita stared blankly at her. It made a change from congratulations, handshakes and sheepish apologies from the members of the Inquisition – Josephine had apparently had very stern words with the crowd, once Amrita had been removed and Cassandra had shouted them into shamed silence – and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. “Yes. The crowd rather overwhelmed me, as I was tired from sealing the Breach. He got me out of there, and made sure that I had everything I needed. Then he left me while I was resting so he could attend to his more pressing duties.”

“Mm-hmmmmm.”

^{Something bad is going to happen very soon!}

Amrita held in the weary sigh that threatened to escape her lungs. “Sera, what is it? I came out to make sure my face was seen at the celebrations, nothing more, and my brain is not capable of deciphering your lovely face and your cryptic teasing this evening. I will find less challenging conversation if I must.”

“Oh, y’know, just… You’re super good at dancing around the truth so you don’t actually lie, but sometimes you’re not good enough, y’know?”

“There are undoubtedly times when I do not communicate as well as I would like to. Can you be more specific?”

“Well… I’m jus’ saying, Cullen seemed preeetty keen to get you alone after you got back. ‘The Herald wins the day!’” she announced in a mock-gruff voice. “Probably earnt a bit of… ‘down time’.” She sniggered, smirked wickedly and waggled her eyebrows at Amrita.

It clicked. Amrita’s stomach dropped out through the stool. First Cole, now Sera— “Oh— Oh, gosh, no,” she mumbled, feeling her face light up like someone had cast Flashfire on her. She should never have braved the village after she woke alone that evening. “N-no, you— I was just— You see, we talk, and—”

Sera’s grin grew with every fumbled word that spilt from Amrita’s mouth.

Amrita stopped and muttered, “…Whatever you are thinking, Sera, I can assure you that it is untrue.”

“Uh-huh. Okay then,” the elf replied in a very reasonable tone. Amrita perked up for all of half a second before Sera went on, “Suuure. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone your… little secret.”

Panic bloomed in Amrita’s chest. “But Sera, there is no secret.”

“You got it.” The answer came with a sly wink.

“No, really, Sera, it’s— It’s not true. Cullen and I—”

“Totally. I fully understand. Reputation to uphold, yeah?” Before Amrita could protest any further, Sera inspected her flagon critically. “Oh look. Mug’s empty. Better do somethin’ ‘bout that. Let me just—” Sera rose and swayed in the direction of the barkeeper.

Amrita had just covered her eyes when she heard the elf call out. “Hey Varric! You’ll never guess what…”

Amrita never heard the rest of the sentence, having fled her seat so fast she overturned the stool in her haste. She darted out, down the path, through dancing revellers, and slipped through the guardless gates. She jogged through the sparring grounds, slid down to the lake and skittered across the ice to the cairn, finally coming to a sobbing standstill in the shelter of the overhanging rock.

“C-C-Cullen Rutherf-ford,” she stammered, “i-is a g-g-good man.” She felt sick.

The compassion spirits cried, ^{Danger, danger, flee!}

“He’s not— He’s not like the templars who rape mages! He would never hurt me like that!” Crouching down, she buried her head in her hands. “How could Sera even— It’s not a fucking joke! W-Why are people s-s-so obsessed with— with— with sex anyway? E-Even if the commander and I did like each other that way – and we don’t,” she added, though less convincingly than she would have liked, “it — it would be nobody’s business!”

There was no reply to her rant other than the wind and the faint creak of ice on the verge of melting. She wiped her eyes and laughed bitterly. “What did I expect? You’re all dead and gone; what do you care about my woes? At least your teasing was founded on something. Though… I think I’m at peace with my infatuation, now, Faolán.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “It would never have worked out, and it certainly can’t happen now. I’m ready to move on. Wherever that may be,” she added, glancing back at the village and trying not to think of Cullen’s hands around hers. “I hope… I hope that, wherever you are, if you can hear me, you’re happy for me. All of you. I’m still going to find your murderers, I promise.”

^Danger! the spirits shrieked at her.

Amrita finally listened to them. It had never quite felt like the warnings they gave her out in the field, and each time they flared up something bad in an abstract way had happened, but nothing outright dangerous.

Now, the sense of foreboding had a direction.

It had intent.

Something was coming.

Someone was near.

Standing up, Amrita brushed her fingers over the top stone – Faolán’s – for good luck, and dimmed her staff. Then she crept along the edge of the rock, up to the pier, and peeped over.

Along the lip of the valley, stars were descending from the sky to the mountain.

No.

Not stars.

Staff-lights.

And only a few metres up the path from her lurked a pair of shadowy, hooded figures.

Fenedhis. It felt different because it was a whole army, not a small group! She had to warn Haven. Preferably without getting herself killed in the process. No light. No sound. She turned and stole onto the ice as carefully and quietly as she could. Fat snowflakes started drifting down around her.

Unfortunately, it was nearly Summerday, and even in the frigid Frostbacks that meant that the thaw was approaching and that the sun took longer to fall from the sky. There was a cry behind her as she was spotted. She felt the magic racing towards her in time to raise a barrier and spin to face her assailants. For her troubles, only her feet were frozen. The figures – clearly mages – stood on the pier.

“No point in hiding now,” she said as she cast a fireball up into the sky. “Maker, please let someone sober be watching.”

Amrita was at a severe disadvantage: stranded in the open on thin ice, unable to move her feet and perform the full staff techniques Ishek had taught her. She couldn’t even slam her staff into the ground or melt the slab around her feet for fear she would fall into the freezing waters and meet her untimely death in the company of the Tal-Vashoth’s skull. She poured her energy into her shield and did her best to fight back.

She sent up another fireball. Any time now would be great—

Whoosh! Hot streaks whizzed overhead and half a second later the rotten wood of the pier was exploded by an immolation spell. The mages hit the rocks burning.

Belatedly, Haven’s bells started to toll.

“You looked like you were in a spot of bother!” a cultured, masculine voice called out.

Amrita twisted to see her saviour, and nearly overbalanced in the process. She could not make out much beside a staff, dark hair, and the last glints of sunlight twinkling off his clothes. “Just a bit!” she called back. “Could you keep them off me while I free myself, please?”

“It would be my pleasure!” There was just a hint of vindication in the man’s voice. “Although I should warn you, there were more following me!” With a crackle, lightning blasted away a few more enemies who had appeared on the rock over the cairn.

“I’ll be quick,” she promised, reinforcing the ice beneath her feet before tactically applying heat to the ice around her feet and ankles.

It was but the work of a minute, and as soon as she was free she skidded back to shore as fast as she could. Of course, she tripped over her feet at the last moment, threw out her hands to catch herself and—

Found herself caught by her saviour. “Careful now!” he warned, pushing her upright and bringing her into an excellent viewpoint to admire his face and the muscles bared by his entirely inappropriate clothing for Ferelden. “I didn’t go to all that effort to have you brain yourself.” He offered his hand. “Dorian Pavus, at your service – assuming you’re not Venatori, that is.”

Amrita clasped the hand, feeling the tremble of exhaustion and cold, and seeing the darkness around his eyes that was not smudged kohl. His mustache was askew. Regardless, his smile was winning, and it took Amrita a moment to reply through the punch to the chest saying, Oh no; not again, not now. “Amrita Trevelyan, so-called Herald of Andraste. Definitely not Venatori.”

“About as not-Venatori as one could get,” Dorian agreed, grip tightening and smile fading. “It’s you they want. Can you get us into the village?”

“I hope so,” she replied, pulling him up the slope towards the gates. She could finally hear the commotion behind its barricades. “You said there were more behind you – which way did you come?”

“From the east road. I came straight from Redcliffe as soon as I knew they were marching; if they hadn’t circled north for the ambush, I’d never have made it. I had a hard enough time evading arrest from your delightfully enthusiastic soldiers.”

“Fenedhis,” Amrita swore. “That’s our escape route gone.”

Dorian sounded charmingly bemused as he commented, “I never expected the Herald to speak Tevene.”

“What— Never mind,” she said as enemies charged down the path towards them. “Offence or defence?”

“Offence, if you don’t mind.”

“Not in the slightest.” She grimaced and threw up barriers over them both. “They are not getting past me.”

Chapter Text

Cassandra looked out over the village, watching the celebrations and scanning the crowds for any sign of the Herald. The girl had been worrying Cassandra for weeks now, and things seemed to have reached a head that afternoon. Certainly, Amrita was a quiet, humble girl, but ‘pretending’ to be their saviour? When she had literally sealed a hole in the Veil and prevented further rifts from opening across Thedas? That spoke of something deeper than modesty.

And then the breakdown in the crowd. Amrita had survived a keep full of templars and faced her darkest fears in a demon’s realm, yet it was ordinary people who broke her. Perhaps it had been inevitable – the last straw on the druffalo’s back – but Cullen had said that it had taken a long time to talk her down from her panic attack – upwards of half an hour – and that the Herald’s perception of time seemed badly off. She had shown no sign of realising how long she had been in a state for.

At least the two of them had been reconciled. Perhaps Cullen had not realised it, but some of the tension had eased from his face and shoulders as he recounted her words: “You would never intentionally hurt me, I know.” Cassandra did not know quite what to make of the pair, but their budding friendship was clearly important to them, and likely a good thing.

Now, she was trying to find the Herald. The house was empty, and although there had been word of her going to the tavern, she had left and not been seen since. The lecture the crowd received from Josephine after the panic attack had probably spoilt some of the impact of their triumphant return, and Cassandra was uncertain whether she hoped or feared that Amrita had gone to rectify that. She certainly should not have been left alone amongst the celebrations.

Cassandra swept the revellers one last time, and was about to turn and check the chantry – ‘Her first point of refuge,’ Cullen said – when from beyond the barricades something gold whizzed up, flared, and fizzled out. Fireworks? But surely―

She lifted her gaze to the valley.

Hundreds of points of light were descending from the north, advancing towards Haven.

“What the…” she murmured, before cold, sick recognition struck her like a blow. She had been a warrior, a Seeker, long enough to know what armies and mage staff-lights looked like at all times of day. Even as she watched, the rocks by the lake flickered with magic.

“Sound the bells; forces approach! Find the Commander and the Herald!” she bellowed. The people below her jumped, but she saw nothing more as she span and ran to the chantry. Wrenching the door open, urgency winning over decorum, she cried, “Haven is under attack! Where are Cullen and the Herald?”

She could have heard a pin drop as Leliana, Vivienne and Josephine turned from their conversation, and all the sisters and mothers stared.

“Where are they?” she demanded again.

Leliana and Vivienne were the first to move, with Josephine trailing in their wake.

“They are not here,” said Leliana, staring over Cassandra’s head to the mountains. She had gone quite pale. Paler. “Cullen went to circulate, show his face. Said he needed air.”

“And refrained from saying that he couldn’t care less about the Orlesian Empire’s fate,” Vivienne smoothly added. “Amrita has not been here tonight. How many approach?”

“I don’t know,” Cassandra admitted, loathe to hope that the mages they could see were unaccompanied by infantry. She turned just in time to see another fireball explode in the sky and hear screams starting in the village. “But it seems the battle is already upon us.”

“Go,” ordered Vivienne. “I will gather our companions – you must go to the gates.”

With nothing more than a grateful nod to the enchanter, Cassandra turned and hurried to Haven’s entrance as fast as she could through the crowd of panicked parties and recruits, Leliana hot on her heels and Josephine somewhere behind.

They found Cullen already at the gates, marshalling the men into order. Solas stood to one side, but none of the other companions had arrived. There was no sign of Amrita. “Cullen?”

His mouth was set in a grim line. “One watchguard reporting. It’s a massive force, the bulk over the mountain, but—” He cut off as the familiar aura of magic-use washed over them both. Everyone heard the shouts and saw the unnaturally-coloured flashes through the gaps in the wood. “As you can tell, some are already here.”

“Under what banner?” asked Josephine, face drawn and voice perplexed.

“None,” came the reply.

“None?”

“None. Have you seen Amrita?”

Cassandra reminded him, “Your men were left to guard her.”

“She’s not a child in need of babysitting—”

“Hush,” interrupted Leliana, stepping forward. “Listen.”

Beyond the bells and chaos, the battle outside had stopped. One of the guards put his ear to the wood.

“Let us in, please!” came a familiar, desperate voice.

“Oh no,” Cullen breathed, almost inaudibly, “she couldn’t have—”

“Identify yourself first!” the guard called.

“It’s me, Amrita!”

“Who?”

Cullen snapped. “Open the gate you idiot, that’s the Herald!”

“But—”

“NOW!” he yelled, descending the steps.

Another guard shoved the gates open. There stood the Herald, shaken and disarrayed but unharmed. She was surrounded by scorched earth, ice walls and corpses wearing vaguely familiar armour.

Cullen pushed through to her. “Amrita—”

“I’m fine,” she panted, waving him off and half-turning. “This is— Dorian!” she cried, voice rising half an octave. Cassandra suddenly spotted the figure struggling to rise from the dirt path: a mage, using his staff to lever himself up. Amrita and Cullen rushed forward; Cassandra held back, sword drawn and ready to defend the entrance to the village.

The man made it to his feet. “Ah!” he almost gasped, wobbling. “I’m here to warn you. Fashionably late, I’m afraid.” He wavered and stumbled but Cullen caught him, one hand firm on the man’s chest as he pushed him upright again, the other holding his arm to steady him. “Mite exhausted,” the man said, patting Cullen and then shaking him off. “Don’t mind me.” He straightened and collected himself, looking between Cullen and the Herald. “My name is Dorian Pavus and I bring grave news from Redcliffe: an army of rebel mages, right behind me.”

“Oh no,” Josephine softly whispered.

“They are under the command of the Venatori, in service to something called the ‘Elder One’.”

“Shit,” came Bull’s gravelly voice from above. Cassandra turned, and saw all of the Herald’s companions gathered, peering through the gate. Even her old student was there. “Sounds like that went south too.”

“Alistair—” began Leliana before shutting her mouth. Cullen and the Herald were having a hurried conversation with much pointing and gesturing to parts of the valley and road.

“Presumably wasn’t quick enough,” said Varric. “He’ll be fine ― it’s us I’m worried about.”

Bull rumbled in agreement. “This place wasn’t built for a fight, and we don’t have many templars.”

There was a mocking laugh from Varric. “Ahh… I never thought I’d see the day when I thought, ‘You know, having a few more templars around might be a good thing.’”

“They’ll come up with something though, right?” asked Sera. “Commander Britches is good at planning, yeah, and Amrita’s alright at managing a fight.”

“Aye, she can handle a skirmish,” agreed Blackwall, “but this will be no skirmish.”

They all fell silent as the pair turned back. Amrita started guiding the man – Dorian – back to the village, while Cullen drew his sword and raised his voice. “Soldiers! Gather the villagers! Fortify and watch for advance forces!” He paused, and despite everything Cassandra felt a swell of pride. “Inquisition! With the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!”

The men roared, and Cullen started barking out orders.

Amrita approached, Dorian’s arm slung around her shoulders. “Den,” she gasped, “take Dorian to the chantry, check him and then be ready to support the wounded. We’ll do our best to salvage as much of the healing supplies as we can.”

Dorian weakly protested as the student took him off Amrita, but he was in no fit state to fight further.

“Leliana, get Josephine to the chantry and your men to contain the villagers and prepare to evacuate. Tents, rations, brontos ― anything we’ll need for a few days on the road. Josephine, as Leliana’s men bring people and supplies, I’ll need you to organise the distribution so we take what we can. Any questions?”

“None,” replied Leliana brusquely, touching Josephine’s arm. “Maker watch over you.”

“Take care,” added Josephine, eyes creased with concern.

“And you,” came the reply as the two advisers retreated.

Bull asked, “What’s the plan, Boss?”

She exhaled slowly, then looked up. “Cullen’s sending men to the gate in the valley, but the main approach is the lake. We do not have the mage power to melt it; not when they have all the rebels they need to freeze it solid. Bull?”

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Chargers to clear the road, see if we can evacuate that way. Our job is to hold off the advancing forces while the siege specialists get the trebuchet ready; we are going to bring down the mountain on the army.” The Herald did not manage to disguise the flicker of revulsion that crossed her face. “Cassandra, Cole, on the left; Bull, Blackwall on the right. Archers, mages, on the level with the trebuchet. Take out who you can while they’re on the ice. Shout if you need potions or healing. Questions?”

None were forthcoming.

“Then let’s go.”

The Herald’s strategy was sound. Her deployment of wisps kept them abreast of ambushes. With two archers, two attacking mages and Amrita casting support spells, most enemies were caught out on the lake; it was no trouble for the hand-to-hand fighters to pick off those lucky enough to survive the crossing.

Cassandra ducked under a foot-soldier’s arm and skewered him through the side with her sword. Their enemies were, for the most part, pitiably under-dressed for Ferelden weather, with fearsome metal helmets and spiked plates of armour, but without full coverage or anything more than a tunic underneath. As the man collapsed, the flimsy cloth fluttered away and she was granted a very-unwanted view of his smallclothes. She turned away in disgust, wondering what kind of a fool sent an army likely to die of hypothermia before it reached the battlefield.

Perhaps one who had hundreds of former Circle-mages who could provide the necessary warmth via magic. There were more than a few figures in robes who now lay still, their blood staining the snow just the same as the Tevinter warriors’. But unlike the masked Venatori, Cassandra had been able to see the anger and fear in their eyes before they fell to Inquisition’s finest.

“Whooh!” shrieked Sera gleefully from above. “Take that, you frigging spike-head!”

“Almost ready! Keep them off us!” came the cry from the woman on the trebuchet.

“Herald!”

Cassandra looked back to the platform and saw Bull’s lieutenant run up to the Herald, pointing towards the east road. Cassandra could not see Amrita’s face, but it was clearly bad news. She pointed him back to the village, then cupped her hands and yelled, “The east road is blocked off and—” She jerked, took hold of her staff again, and pointed in the direction of the bridge. “That way!”

Enemies seemed to descend from every dip in the mountain scenery except from the valley the road followed. How had they come so far into the Frostbacks without roads?

As soon as the first trebuchet was firing they ran west to the second one. It was overrun with Venatori. Briefly.

Then the first trebuchet landed a shot on the east side of the mountain, and like a wave of descending darkness, the lights winked out.

Beside Cassandra, the Herald made a strange strangled sound and pressed her hands to her head. But before any comfort could be offered, she recovered and called out, “Vivienne, Solas, to defence! Everyone else, hold them off while I man the trebuchet!”

Cassandra turned back to the enemy, and said nothing of the tear-tracks shining on the Herald’s face.

Screech. Clank. Screech. Clank. Scr― “Fenedhis!” ―eech. Clank. Screaming, cutting, all too much exposed flesh to hack through between plates of spiked armour, or only shielded by barriers and thick cloth. These are the same as the mercenaries we met at the Storm Coast, Cassandra realised as she parried a blow with her shield and stabbed the Venatori in the gut. He gurgled and fell from her blade.

Screech. Clank. CRACK! There was a squeal and a rush as the trebuchet finally fired onto the mountain. Everyone stopped and watched the missile’s trajectory as it burned through the sky… and exploded as it crashed. A puff of white flew up, then rushed down the mountainside in a terrifying display of destruction. Cassandra could hear the faint screams, but hardened herself to them as most of the lights went out, suffocated by the cloud of snow.

A horn blew from the village. A great cheer went up. Varric patted the Herald’s back and she flinched away from him. Cassandra’s heart went out to her: She’s never seen war before. She has never had to kill so many to defend what is right. But she must learn.

Suddenly, an inhuman shriek rattled across the valley and all heads snapped upwards.

Cassandra was a Pentaghast and Nevarran, and would have known the sound anywhere. “Move!” she bellowed, snatching the Herald’s hand as she saw the fire in the sky.

The Herald was frozen for just a second too long. The explosion sent them sprawling. Cassandra cried out as something hit the back of her head. A moment later though, a cool hand cupped her crown, and the ache faded.

“Cassandra, please, get up,” Amrita was begging, almost sobbing, “please—”

“I’m alright,” she grunted in reply, pushing herself up. “You?”

“Just splinters.”

“Thank the Maker.”

“Holy shit!” exclaimed Bull, more delighted than the situation warranted. “Did you see that dragon?”

“Bull, dear?” That was Vivienne, one leg at the wrong angle, face paled by pain, horned hat askew but regal as ever. The Herald gave a soft gasp and stumbled over to the enchanter to tend to her leg. Around them, their companions were struggling up. Parts of Haven seemed to be on fire.

“Yes, ma’am?” came the reply.

“Not right now.”

“…Yes, ma’am.”

Blackwall strode over and helped Cassandra up. “I hope that’s just a regular dragon come to rain death on us,” he muttered.

She looked at him sharply. “You think—”

“I fucking hope not.”

Everyone was upright now, even Vivienne, although Amrita’s hands still glowed over her shin.

“Healing potions, anyone?” Varric asked from behind her, and Cassandra twisted to see him kneeling by a supply cache. “We need to get back, but that blast gave me a knock and I’d rather not be injured when running from a dragon.”

There was a sober silence as they handed bottles around. Even Sera’s quick tongue had stilled, and she accepted the potion with shaky hands and a nod.

As soon as they were all ready they retreated to Haven, pausing only to have Bull kick in Harritt’s door.

Cullen waited at the gates for them. “Move it, move it!”

The Herald was at the back of the group, making sure that the blacksmith went ahead of her before she stepped inside. Soldiers shut and barred the gate, and Cullen strode off, shouting. “We need everyone back to the chantry. It’s the only building that might hold against… that beast!”

“Cullen—” the Herald started, but she faltered under his bitter frown.

“At this point,” he said more quietly, “just make them work for it.”

Another burst of flame set the houses in front of them alight as Cullen hurried off.

The Herald had turned almost white and was shaking, but her jaw was set in determination as she spoke. “We must sweep the village to make sure no one is left; Leliana’s men may have missed some.” She looked from one companion to another, eyes narrowed as she calculated her strategy. “Blackwall, Solas, Cole, check the north side; Cassandra, Varric, take Vivienne and clear the way up to the chantry; Bull, Sera, we’ll sweep south down to Adan’s. Clear? Let’s go.”

It did not take long for Cassandra’s team to defeat the Venatori and rebel mages who had infiltrated the village – How? Where did they get in? – and recue Threnn.

“Move!” came Roderick’s rasping voice as the doors of the chantry groaned open and the babble of hundreds of panicked people and the bellows of beasts of burden spilled out into the burning village. “Keep going! The chantry is your shelter!”

Cassandra stepped into the doorway and stared at the chancellor: his face was bruised with fatigue ad he clutched his stomach. His red garb glistened with a darker, sticky red. “Roderick!” she exclaimed.

The man from earlier sidled up; just in time to catch the chancellor as he collapsed. There was no sign of the Herald’s student. “A brave man,” the man explained as he supported him. “He stood against a Venatori.”

“Briefly,” Roderick choked out. “I am no templar.” He said no more as the man – had the Herald said Dorian? – helped to set him down.

Cassandra remained by the door, waiting for the Herald. How long had it been since the army had been sighted? An hour? Two?

In came Seggrit, limping.

Then Blackwall, Solas and Cole, the former looking rather singed.

Then Lysette, the templar Cassandra had sparred with.

Then the woman who ran the tavern.

Then the researcher who lingered in Josephine’s office.

Finally, finally, Bull, Sera and the Herald appeared, sprinting towards the chantry, arms full of bottles and flasks. “Lady Amrita!” Cassandra cried as they entered, and the guards shut the doors.

But the Herald just ignored her, face completely blank but taut with held-back emotion – anger, grief, fear, Cassandra could not tell.

Cullen emerged from the throng and approached her. “Herald! Our position is not good. That—” He stopped. Amrita had not responded. Cullen hesitated, then gently place a hand on her forearm. Her gaze finally rose from the floor, and he spoke gently. “I— We need you now more than ever, Amrita. There will be time for grieving later, if we survive this.” There was the tiniest of nods. “Good. Give those to Jim, he’ll—” He paused as she pushed some towards Cullen rather than the soldier. “Are these for…?” She nodded again; presumably his potions. His face broke momentarily into a smile. “I— Thank you. Now — over here; Dorian is the only one who knows anything of what we face, so…”

Cullen’s voice faded as he steered the Herald towards the new ally and the seated chancellor. Cassandra watched, worry twisting her belly in a way she had thought would stop after the Breach was sealed. “What happened?” she asked Bull softly. Cullen was gesturing in frustration.

“Didn’t save the apothecary. He was — trapped under some trebuchet pots, I don’t know how, same as an elf mage. I went for the elf, Sera and the Boss went for the guy. Burned their hands lifting the rack up, dropped it; blew up in their faces. The Boss had to heal the burns before they scarred. Would have been worse if there hadn’t been a spirit still guarding them from the fight. Then she insisted on collecting what potions she could from the house.”

“Maker,” Cassandra breathed. No wonder the Herald was troubled; she and Adan had worked hard together on Cullen’s sleeping drafts.

She turned her attention back to the hushed conversation. She did not like Cullen’s expression as he spoke to Amrita. Clearly, neither did Dorian, who rose, scowled at Amrita and gestured to the exterior. Cullen stepped into the space between the mages, glowering down at the other man. Dorian’s face twisted and he waved a hand at Cullen as he made a likely-disparaging remark.

Definitely disparaging, from the way Cullen suddenly bristled, but then everyone’s eyes turned to the chancellor.

Roderick was dying, and he knew it. Cassandra could see it in his eyes, in the way his hands shook as he gestured. She took no delight in the fact. Bureaucratic and stubborn as he was, the chancellor was not a bad man. He waved Amrita away as her hands started to glow with healing magic, and he rose unsteadily.

“Cassandra?” Leliana’s soft voice spoke into her ear.

She turned her head to hear the spymistress better, but kept one eye on the other conversation. “Leliana. What’s the situation?”

“Bad. We got most survivors in, as well as some brontos and tents, but we lost many to the Venatori and the dragon. Threnn thinks we are down by a third… and that it may be a good thing, even if we win or escape this, considering how little food we have. Neither option looks likely.”

“Maker,” Cassandra swore. “No secret escape routes you know of from when you were here with Mira?”

“If I knew, do you think we would be standing here?”

Cassandra conceded the point with a nod, but perked up as the Herald turned to look at her companions. Amrita gazed thoughtfully at each in turn, brow burrowed and jaw set. She met Cassandra’s eyes and they stared at each other for a long moment before her gaze moved on.

“They must have an idea,” Leliana murmured, “and we won’t like it.”

“Where is Josephine?”

“Organising the distribution of supplies and tents. Pretending we might last long enough to need them.”

“Go. Help her.” Amrita was beckoning people over. First Blackwall. Then Solas. After a moment’s hesitation, the demon. Her eyes returned to Cassandra’s for a few seconds, and then she crooked a finger at Bull. The four of them, plus Cullen and Amrita, huddled together, whispering.

When they nodded and broke apart, their faces were solemn. Amrita, Blackwall and Solas started checking their weapons and armour; Cole turned to look out to the village; and Bull headed straight for Cassandra, Dorian at his heels supporting Roderick. “Come on,” Bull said, clasping her bicep and guiding her away. “Roderick knows a way out.”

“Truly?” Hope bloomed in her chest like a rose.

“Yes,” Roderick gasped. “Andraste must have… shown me—” He started coughing.

Dorian patted him on the back. “Save your strength, don’t talk,” he hushed him.

Cassandra halted and looked over her shoulder, thorns in the rose of hope suddenly scratching. Amrita and Cullen were staring at each other, worry etched into their faces. Cullen offered her a hand. Good luck. She looked at it, and then gripped his arm. It took Cullen a moment to react, but then he returned the gesture.

“Look at them,” someone whispered.

“Saying goodbye?”

“I hope not!”

“Look at their faces!”

“Maybe there is something going on with them…”

“Who cares? I want to know why the Herald’s leaving!”

Cassandra looked to Bull as the pair finally released each other, and Amrita turned and went to the door. “What’s happening?”

“She’s going to distract this ‘Elder One’ while we get the Inquisition out.” The door was being heaved open. “The Boss wants us to lead people to safety.” Cullen was preparing to give orders over the discontented, worried muttering. “Once we’re all out, we’ll send up a flare. Then they’ll know they can flee to meet us. Cullen will go at the back.”

“Inquisition!” the commander shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. “We have an escape plan, but we need everyone to remain quiet and calm and to follow instructions…”

“I don’t like this,” Cassandra said, hope withering and decaying as they eased through the crowd.

Bull said nothing.

The doors closed behind the Herald and her team.

The evacuation began.

~~~

If Cassandra had been asked to explain how they got a couple of hundred people plus all the beasts through the concealed door in the side chapel, down the rocky, unsupported tunnel and out into the snow above the still-burning village, she could not have answered. Even as she turned to look at the valley, half-drowned in a deceptively serene blanket of snow and rock, she heard the dragon’s screech ring out through the night. She and Bull turned their backs on it, and trudged on. Roderick’s legs had long given up, and he and Dorian had fallen back.

It was hard, cold work, walking through calf-deep snow. It did not take long for the chill to seep through Cassandra’s boots, although they kept the worst of the damp at bay. Fat flakes fell steadily, and the wind was picking up. A blizzard on the way? She prayed not.

She did not know how long they walked until suddenly the blue-grey snow reflected the orange of a burning flare. Halting, she turned back to take a look at the village and the people in her wake. Bull followed suit a couple of paces behind her. Maker, Cullen must be out now. And the Herald should have seen it. Right now, she and Solas, Blackwall and Cole should be fleeing to the chantry, barricading the door and following―

There was an almighty crash and explosion halfway up the mountain that cast its shadow over Haven.

“No,” she breathed.

The side of the mountain started to slip down towards the village.

“No!” She started to move – she had to get to the back, had to check if the Herald was there—

Bull stood in her way.

“What are you doing?”

The snow crashed over the village. The dragon screamed as it flew off.

“My job.” Bull’s voice was flat, calm, professional. “We need to get the Inquisition to safety. My orders were to make sure that happened.”

She stared up at him. Her stomach went as cold as her toes. A great clamour was rising from the people of the Inquisition. This was― “Maker, Bull ― tell me she didn’t stay behind to bury Haven herself.”

His gaze remained level. “We need to get the Inquisition to safety. That is our priority.”

It clicked. The secrecy. The careful evaluation of the companions. Pulling Bull over but not taking him. The solemn arm-grip and lingering stares.

It had been a suicide mission all along.

And they had known exactly how she would react, and ordered Bull to make sure she did what she had to.

Cassandra was livid.

Cassandra was going to kill Cullen.

But Bull was right. They had to get to safety. The Inquisition were crying out in fear and alarm as the avalanche settled where the village used to be.

With a heavy heart, Cassandra turned her back on Haven and set off again into the Frostbacks.

~~~

“Seeker!”

Cassandra turned at the cry behind her, annoyed by the interruption but also grateful for the excuse to rest her long-frozen limbs. They had not gone far – only over the ridge they had been headed for when the trebuchet was fired – but the weather was getting worse. Threnn struggled forward, impeded by the snow and slipping down the slope towards Cassandra and Bull. “Yes?” Cassandra asked.

“Seeker, we must set up camp,” the quartermaster said bluntly. “There’s a blizzard on the way, and we need to get set up for the storm or— or Haven will have been lost for naught.” There was a catch in her voice, and Cassandra could tell that Threnn had come to the same conclusion about who had buried the village. “Here’s as good a place as any: some shelter from the wind, fairly flat.”

“Then here we’ll stay,” Cassandra agreed willingly, looking back up towards the trail of weary travellers. “Threnn: you are in charge of establishing the camp. Bull, help with making people follow her instructions. I will send people to you to assist; I should…” She trailed off. Go back. Find the Herald. Kick Cullen between his legs.

Threnn nodded sharply. “Yes ser.”

Bull clapped her on the shoulder. “You go back up to the ridge; it’ll be good for everyone to see we’re stopping.”

“Yes.” A lump in her throat, Cassandra turned and tramped back as Threnn started calling out orders.

The people she passed looked to her, faces little more than ovals of assorted shades of grey, but all bore expressions of fear and anger. What happened? Who attacked us? Where did the dragon come from? Where will we go? Will we be alright? Did the Herald survive?

She reached the top of he ridge. The wind was picking up and the snow becoming heavier. The moon hid behind storm clouds. It was hard to make out the black smudges of figures toiling upwards against the mountainside; it was almost impossible to know how many, and whom, had survived.

Those figures who emerged from the gloom that she knew, she pulled aside.

“Knight-Captain Rylen. Report to The Iron Bull or Threnn.”

“Yes, Seeker Pentaghast.”

“Krem, to Bull, please.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Vivienne, deploy the mages to keep the people warm.”

“Of course, my dear.”

“Dorian!”

The mage lifted his head wearily at her voice – he was hardly holding himself up, even with his staff – but he veered towards her. “Yes?”

“Did you know what the plan was?” she demanded. He had been there, maybe he had even argued it, but he had said nothing.

He fixed her with a sad gaze. “…Yes.” He hesitated. “…I’m sorry, if it helps. She seemed a good woman.”

“She was, and it doesn’t.” Cassandra knew she was snapping, and that it did no good to take it out on the man, but she had seen no sign of Cullen yet and she was furious that such an important decision had been kept from her. Still, she tried to calm herself. “Go,” she choked out. “Rest. You helped us tonight. Thank you.”

The man nodded soberly, and stumbled on down to where the fires were starting to light the night.

Leliana and Josephine arrived together, arms linked and shivering. Cassandra made eye contact with them both, but no one spoke a word. They stood and waited.

Varric pulled along a suspiciously quiet, numb Sera. Perhaps she was in shock, or too cold and tired to scream and swear. She looked as though she might have been crying. The dwarf looked old and weary again. Another friend, dead and gone. He had been the first to win the Herald’s trust and friendship.

Finally, stolidly stamping on after his men, came Cullen. No Herald. No Solas. No Blackwall. Not even the demon, Cole. Just Cullen. When he reached the top of the ridge he stopped in front of the women, wavering slightly, and stared.

There was a long silence as they stared back. Distant shouts drifted up towards them, but not a word was spoken between them. It was hard to make out the nuances of Cullen’s expression, but Cassandra had known the man long enough to read the slant of his shoulders, the tremble of his limbs and the shadows around his eyes. He hurt.

And so did everyone else.

He was the one who had made the decision.

The silence went on.

Eventually, he quietly said, “I should help the men set up.” He started to turn towards the camp.

“Where is the Herald, Commander,” she demanded. Despite the evidence, she did not want to believe that the Herald was dead. She wanted Cullen to tell her that the young woman on whom hundreds of people’s hopes lay, on whom closing the remaining rifts depended, of whom she had become quite fond, was alive. Just… not here yet. On her way. Not dead.

Cullen looked at her. “She wasn’t with me.” A simple statement, but an evasive one.

“She hasn’t caught up?” asked Josephine, pulling her arms tight around herself against the cold. Most of her fine coats and cloaks had gone to frailer members of the Inquisition.

“No.”

Leliana’s tone was flat, but words as sharp as a dagger when she spoke: “You weren’t expecting her to.”

Cullen straightened a little and lifted his chin as his gaze shifted to the spymaster, though considering his height there was little point to it. “Is that a question or an accusation?”

“You tell me,” returned Leliana, glaring.

He held the glare for a long, long moment.

Josephine softly interrupted the stare-down. “Cullen, please―”

“No,” he answered bluntly. “I wasn’t.”

With a gasp – almost a sob – Josephine clapped her free hand to her mouth.

Vaguely aware of Leliana giving Josephine a comforting squeeze, Cassandra went on the attack. “What were you thinking?” Only the camp below kept her from yelling, and she only half-succeeded at controlling her voice.

Cullen’s glare snapped to her. “I was thinking I had scores of civilians and soldiers to protect!” He made a swiping motion with one hand. “We had NO chance, Cassandra! None at all! Don’t pretend you don’t know that!” he growled.

“And what chance do we have now of closing the rifts across Thedas?” she countered, throwing her own hands into the air. “More is at stake than just us! And clearly― Clearly, there was a chance!” Cullen shifted and opened his mouth in protest but she did not give him the opportunity to speak. “One that you foolishly, foolishly threw away our most valuable asset on!”

Even in the gloom she saw the anger in his face. “She has a name, Cassandra!” snarled Cullen, not moving an inch forward yet still sending Josephine back a step with his sudden ferocity. “She’s a person! Treat her like one, instead of a fucking tool!” He shook his head in disgust. “Amrita’s not an ‘asset’; she’s got thoughts and feelings, and she’s capable of making her own decisions!”

‘Making her own decisions.’ Such as the decision to…? No, the girl was not quite so stupid as to throw herself into death to save others… Except, she was. And― And how dare Cullen insinuate that she did not care for the girl as more than a means to an end, how dare―

Cullen was continuing, his voice dropping now and dripping with sarcasm, “But since you’re so convinced there was another way to avoid the loss of everyone in Haven, I’d be delighted if you’d share with me.”

“I― Well―” It took a moment for her to find her words, but find them she did. “You thought of turning the trebuchet to the mountain. Drastic, but sound under the circumstances. But why― Why did it have to be her? Why the― Why Amrita?” She felt the intensity of his glare lance through her at her slip. “The Inquisition members would willingly die for her and our cause, and while any death is a tragedy their deaths would not be in vain – not if it led to her survival and the sealing of the rifts. So ― Why did you sacrifice her? Your friend?”

His fists fell to his side. Cassandra could feel the tension radiating off him as he held his anger in, held himself together, but she felt no sympathy. Not tonight.

Eventually he ground out, “Amrita recognised that this ‘Elder One’ was after her, and that she was the only one who could be an effective distraction to give us the chance to escape. I couldn’t deny her logic. Nor could those who agreed to go with her.”

“Shifting the blame onto her when she’s dead and unable to defend herself,” Leliana bitterly observed. “How gallant of you, Commander.”

“Leliana!” exclaimed Josephine. “That’s too―”

The spymistress cut her off swiftly. “The Commander is culpable, Josie. He has a responsibility to the Inquisition. Even if Lady Amrita did volunteer, and we all know how easy she is to pressure into doing things for others’ sakes – don’t look at me like that, Josie, you know it’s true – alternatives could have been made; she could have stayed by the chantry while my men handled the trebuchet, for example.” All eyes were on Leliana now. “We had no idea what this Elder One would do, whether he would come to the village himself. The Commander is not the only one with guilt, but Lady Amrita’s blood is on his hands as much as on the Elder One’s and the Venatori’s.”

The wind howled up the mountainside to fill the silence that followed.

“I know,” Cullen finally murmured, all aggression drained from his voice. His chin dropped, and he avoided the women’s eyes.

Leliana scoffed, but said nothing.

Cassandra’s own rage subsided a little. It was still there, waiting to be rekindled, but the defeated hunch of Cullen’s shoulders and the resignation in his voice…

“She said to me, ‘You would never intentionally harm me, I know.’”

There was a quiet sniff from Josephine. “Amrita would not want us to waste the chance she has given us with squabbling. Thanks to her, we still have our lives, and much of the Inquisition. She… She would want us to work together and lead them to safety. To rebuild. To face the new threat.” Ever the voice of reason, the ambassador’s tone hardly gave a wobble as she spoke. “We can discuss this later, when we aren’t so near to freezing to death.”

And with that, she slipped her arm out of Leliana’s and set off down the slope to the camp.

Despite being the youngest of the advisers, Josephine still managed to reprimand her elders when they were being destructive and unhelpful. Cassandra raised her head to disguise the discomfort the chastisement had caused, and narrowed her eyes at Cullen. “We will discuss this later, Commander.”

“I’m sure we will,” he darkly replied, gesturing for the women to take the lead. They descended in silence, and were soon separated by their duties.

~~~

A messenger bird wheeled over where Haven had once been. It dropped the roll of paper it had been carrying, sealed with the Theirin crest. If there had been anyone there to open it, they would have found a message written in hurried script.

Leliana,

The mages have gone from Redcliffe, and are marching on Haven. Prepare to fight or flee; I only pray this warning does not reach you too late.

Alistair.

~~~

A great clamour ran through the camp. “The Herald! The Herald!”

Cassandra lifted her weary head from stack of blankets she was carrying and looked to the ridge where she had been arguing not an hour ago.

There, creeping down, were two staff-lights.

It cannot be! She thrust the blankets upon the first person with empty arms and ran, praying with each step that it was Solas and the Herald, returned from the dead.

Varric got to them first, meeting them halfway and then stopping. Cassandra saw the shine off Solas’s head, and the short, dark-haired woman silhouetted by her own staff, head low with exhaustion, supported by Blackwall and Cole, and felt her heart rise with hope. “Herald! Lady Amrita!” she called out as she started up the slope to them. “Thank the Maker―”

“No,” came Solas’s voice, harsh and commanding as he led the others down towards Cassandra.

“‘No’?” she queried, confused, stopping in her tracks. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“He means, Seeker,” came a weakened, not unfamiliar Orlesian voice, “that the Herald of Andraste is not with us.” The woman came close enough to be seen in the light. Dark hair, dark skin, short but not slight, and out of her usual Circle robes, Cassandra finally recognised the mage – as well as why she has assumed she was the Herald.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona,” she breathed.

“Seeker Pentaghast,” came the brusque reply.

“But why―”

Solas interrupted, “She will doubtless tell you herself, but the Venatori forced the rebel mages to march on Haven. We encountered and defeated the Grand Enchanter in combat, but Amrita wished to spare her to bring her to justice – much as she did with Knight-Captain Denam. We had just turned the trebuchet when the dragon came down again.”

“We thought it’d do the same thing as to the other one,” said Blackwall, taking up the story as Cullen reached the group, breathless. “We ran. She was too far behind, and was cut off by the fire. By the time we realised she wasn’t with us, the fucker was between us and her.”

Varric swore.

“And you didn’t fight to get back to her?” Cassandra demanded.

“Go, go, grateful for good friends, afraid of fire and fangs and death but determined to down the mountain, save the people who gave her purpose,” Cole muttered.

All eyes turned to him. Horror filled Cassandra’s chest.

“Friends on the other side of the Veil, Faolán, Ffion, Ishek, Katari, Virr, Ema’an.”

Varric flinched; Cullen pressed a hand to his eyes.

“I will do my part. I am sorry I cannot do more.” Then the demon fell silent.

After a leaden silence, the group started drifting back into the camp. Cassandra stared across the scene, tears stinging her eyes. She had been foolish to get her hopes up. The Herald was dead, buried beneath a mountain.

“Is Lady Amrita―” she heard Josephine’s voice cry out, bright with hope, and then cut off. “Grand Enchanter! What― Why― Where―”

“I’m sorry, Ruffles,” Varric cut her off, voice gruff with grief. “I’m sorry.”

Cassandra wiped her own eyes as she heard the single sharp sob from the Antivan, and turned back to the camp. She is gone. And with her, our hope. Maker preserve us all.

~~~

Cassandra roamed the now-quiet camp like a soul that had been denied its path to the Maker. Her heart was as numb as her feet, all conviction and direction ripped out by the Herald’s death. Yes, the world had been going to shit before the Conclave, but efforts had been in progress to end the war. Then Most Holy had died in the explosion and all had seemed lost… until Amrita stumbled out of the Fade, seemingly marked by Andraste herself. And Cassandra had believed. She had believed that Amrita was sent by the Maker to save them all from the Breach. To seal the rifts. Maybe even to bring about the peace that Most Holy had been working towards. And she had done so well – rifts shut wherever they went, an alliance with the templars that had at least brought a ceasefire, the Breach closed – only to fall in the hour that they found that they faced an even greater threat.

Leliana had not believed. Leliana had had her own hope torn from her by the explosion, and had refused to place her trust in the sweet, terrified girl.

Perhaps of the Hands, the Left had been the wiser one.

She tilted her head back. The storm had passed, and the clouds were clearing. The sky was tinted green with the promise of dawn an hour or two away. No more stray flakes tumbled down onto her face.

No more would she see the flurry of ice and snow as the Herald defended her companions with Winter magic.

She dropped her gaze back to the ground and walked on, ignoring the sentries.

When she was almost at the edge of the camp, she found Cullen staring out towards where the sun would rise. He stood tall and silent, facing away from her, one arm shifted in his familiar stance to rest a hand on his sword. He might have looked like a majestic sentinel, guarding his people from danger, had he not been shivering, or perhaps shaking in sorrow. She could see the way the fur of his mantle trembled, even from ten paces away.

Cassandra finally let the pity creep in. He had lost a friend, one he had only just made peace with. A brave mage who dared to give him a chance to learn, to grow, to begin to make up for his sins against her kind. Someone who had cared enough to treat and support his lyrium-withdrawal. A girl willing to sacrifice herself for those who had shown her even small kindnesses.

But he should have said, ‘No. We need you too much.’ He had blundered. He had left Ferelden and Orlais open to the threat of demons falling out of the remaining rifts. He had jeopardised the future of the Inquisition, and perhaps the whole of Thedas. And that guilt lay on him like the weight of the snow that had crushed Haven and the Herald.

She pitied him. But Cassandra was not ready to forgive. Not yet.

“Seeker Pentaghast?”

Surprised, she turned wearily. The apostate elf stood barefoot in the snow, calm and collected and with a determined frown on his face. “Solas. What―”

“We must go back.”

“…What?” Back to where? Haven is buried. Behind her, heavy boots crunched towards them.

“We must go back. Amrita is not dead, though she may be soon if we do not find her.”

Cassandra scoffed as Cullen came to stand at her side. “Don’t be ridiculous, Solas. You said yourself that she was trapped by the dragon, and that she was the only person who could have set off the trebuchet. It’s a miracle she lasted long enough to fire it.” She did not want to have her hopes buoyed and then dashed again.

“I did. Nonetheless, she is not dead.”

“Solas,” replied Cullen, pinching his nose, “None of us want to believe that she’s dead, but the sooner we accept it—”

“The sooner we condemn her to die from exposure. If we are to stand here bickering any longer, then I shall entreat help from Blackwall and Varric.” The elf turned away and started walking into the camp again.

“Wait!” called Cassandra, jogging to catch up with him. “How do you know she is alive?”

“The spirits told me.”

“‘The spirits told me,’” Cullen repeated flatly as he too followed, earning himself a sharp glance from Solas.

“Yes,” he replied cooly, continuing to walk. “Amrita is highly attuned to spirits in the Fade. She often summons wisps to scout and guide our group, as Cassandra can attest.” She nodded in confirmation, and heard an unhappy grunt from behind her. “While I slept, I sought the compassion spirits she favours calling upon when she heals. They told me that she is both alive and conscious and heading in our direction, though they feared she would not remain so long enough to find us.”

Cullen snorted. “So we’re going on the words of spirits whose sense of time and reality in our world is seriously flawed?”

“You have made it quite clear that you have no intention of doing so, Commander. You are free to go back to your wallowing while we do something about our plight.”

Cassandra swiftly interrupted Cullen’s noise of indignance, saying, “Cullen, we might as well. Solas is right that Amrita uses spirits to navigate, and so far his guidance on matters of the Fade has not steered us wrong. It’s not as though either of us were going to sleep.”

There was a vague grumble, but Cullen did not object.

The three of them crossed the camp and started climbing the slope.

They were halfway up when something green flickered, bobbing at the top of the ridge.

Cassandra gasped. “Is that—”

“One of her wisps? Let us hope so,” replied Solas, increasing his pace.

Cullen rapidly overtook both of them.

An unnatural blue light played over the rocks where they had passed over the ridge, with just a hint of sickly green. Cassandra’s hopes were rising with the altitude, and ―

“There!” cried Cullen, “It’s her!”

The Herald came into view, froze, and collapsed to her knees, crying out in pain. Cullen was already there, fumbling with his mantle, and as Cassandra and Solas reached them he wrapped it around her shivering shoulders.

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra breathed, staring at the Herald in wonder. In the pre-dawn light and the lights of the staff, wisp and Mark, she could see that Amrita was almost white, and that the girl was staring back almost blankly. She had had the sense to remove the few bits of metal armour she had worn over her jacket, and although she was soaked through and covered in ash and bruises and gore, she looked whole. Sluggishly, the Herald looked to Solas, and then to Cullen as he started talking again, his expression impossibly tender, terrified, relieved and apologetic all at once.

“Amrita, you’re going to be alright, you’re going— Maker, I’m so sorry, I— Look, I’m going to pick you up, alright? The quicker we can get you to a healer the better—”

The Herald did not reply.

Solas thrust his staff into the snow; it glowed orange, and immediately the air around them grew warmer. “She has hypothermia; we must get her warm, but gently; too much too fast, and she will go into shock. Cassandra: go and wake the healers.”

Cassandra hesitated for a second as Cullen scooped the Herald up, but the agonised whine the girl let out at the movement and the fear that filled his face spurred her into action. She turned and ran back to the camp as fast as she dared.

They had not been the only ones to see the lights on the ridge, and there was already a gathering as she stumbled through. “Make way!” she shouted at the people. “The Herald is alive!” Exclamations rang out, and she pressed on, “Alive, but injured and— and in critical condition!” she admitted, ignoring the sudden shift from joy and confusion to consternation and worry. “Please, make way for the Commander to bring her to the healers!”

The crowd parted solemnly, any discussions hushed by the potential that any celebration might be short-lived, and she hurried on to the healers’ tents.

Den and the others were quickly roused and briefed, and although she thought that the Herald’s former apprentice might burst into tears he held himself together with professionalism. They held a swift, hushed conversation to assign duties – controlling temperature, diagnosis, removal of clothes if necessary, surgery if warranted – and then waited in tense silence for their patient to arrive.

The flickering torchlight only served to darken the shadows and lines of worry etched into Cullen’s face as he approached the tent with Solas. The Herald lay still in his arms, eyes closed. Either side, the Inquisition looked on, mute.

The healers went to him, ready to guide him to the table set up for her. He jerked back, just a little, but it was enough to elicit a pained moan from her lips. Regret clear on his face, he delicately carried her inside and placed her down with the utmost care.

Then he and Cassandra were ushered out of the tent. The flaps were pulled down, and the healers got to work in private.

Cassandra could see that Cullen’s eyes shone a little brighter than usual as he stared at the canvas. She softly asked, “Are you going anywhere?”

He shook his head. “Not— Not until—”

“Then I’ll find stools for both of us.”

Chapter Text

Cold, numbness in Amrita’s feet and a frigid breeze blowing straight through her, chilling her bones. A crowd of mages stared accusingly at her, only to be washed away by a flood of snow and rock and mud. Thousands of people screamed, and she could do nothing but watch uselessly. Overhead, the cloudless sky was devoid of stars. The compassion spirits were there, but, not there, faint and hazy and in no position to help.

She was dreaming, and she couldn’t wake up.

Then came the roar of the dragon, and with the great beating of wings, the snow was blown away. Now she stood, immobile, staring into the maw of the great beast. She saw the flicker of light in its throat and watched the fire surge up towards her.

She could do nothing as it burned her. Knowing it was nothing more than a dream but unable to negate the pain it caused her, she wailed. Since Solas’s intervention, she had learned to shape the Fade better to defend herself against night-time misery with the spirits’ help, but in their absence she was helpless. She had no more control over the demons tormenting her than a non-mage would have.

Perhaps, before she had known the horrors she would meet, she would have wished for that normality once.

The dragon vanished, leaving only fire in its place. Snow sizzled as it fell. Her hand burned green, the Anchor curling its way up her arm and emitting light from the cracks in her charred flesh.

Approaching was a tall, misshapen figure, thin until it was broad at the shoulders, and spindly arms dropping down until they became needle-sharp, claw-like fingers.

It did not come all the way up to her, instead remaining silhouetted against the flames.

“Pretender.”

She could not move, nor make any reply.

“You pretend to know what you are doing. You pretend to care for the people. You pretend you can save them. You pretend to yourself that you are the same person you were before, but you have changed. Do you even know who you are anymore?”

The figure lifted one hand, which glowed the same green as her own. The other hand turned red as it stretched out to her. With a crack, her body lit up, green and agonising. She shrieked.

“The Maker’s throne in the Golden City was long empty. He will not heed your calls to help, mage. I will ascend. You will fall.”

And then he was gone, and Amrita was left like a cooling log in a campfire until she regained consciousness.

~~~

Warmth. Heavy, scratchy blankets over her nearly-naked form. The not-quite-a-smell of magic used to bring heat and light to the world, like a memory of burning cotton and spice. The murmur of a crowd, and the scratch of quill on parchment. The taste of bitter elfroot and the sweeter tang of embrium in her dry and tacky mouth. Fire in her left hand, and a dull ache up her arm and across her chest.

Amrita opened her eyes. They were so blurry that all she could see was an orange haze. Gingerly, she pulled her right hand up and out from the blankets, wincing as the movement put pressure on her ribs, and proceeded to rub the sleepdust from her eyes. The sudden chill raised goosebumps on her skin.

The scratch of the pen stopped.

“Doc?”

“…Varric?” she replied dozily. She tried to lift her head up so she could see him.

The dwarf appeared in her view, face lined in concern, and he gently pressed her head back to the hard pillow. “Hey,” he said softly, a smile twitching his lips. “Stay still, until the healers clear you to move. Doctors’ orders.”

She frowned. “Which doctor?”

“All the doctors, Doc.” He tenderly brushed some strands of hair from her face. “Except for you. Today you’re the patient.”

“Oh.” Her vision swam, and she squinted as he came back into focus. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I―” Pictures flashed before her eyes, but she couldn’t quite say where the truth ended and the dreams began. Cullen’s hands over hers; being tortured by Corypheus; falling into Dorian’s arms; Adan’s burning corpse, the lights winking out, the flare, the pain, the cold, Cullen’s grasp― She gasped in a sob of grief. Instantly it became a groan of discomfort. “I―”

“Shh,” Varric soothed her, gripping her hand. “You’re safe now.”

“But―” But we aren’t, but Corypheus is going to come after me, but I killed all those people―

“No buts. Tell me what hurts, and I’ll go and get the healers. And when they’ve cleared you, I’ll get the others. Okay?”

Amrita squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed. “Okay,” she managed to whisper, before listing her aches and pains as best she could.

Varric moved away, and she focused on listening rather than on the pain. The pain wasn’t that bad anyway – not compared to what the Breach had put her through, or even the crossbow bolt.

“Den?” the dwarf asked, low and hard to hear over the familiar sounds of sentries tramping through snow, brontos groaning, armour and weapons being maintained and people speaking in worried tones. Where were they? Not Haven, certainly. She swallowed again.

“Varric! Has she―”

“She’s awake. Seems half the bottle was about right, but she’s still in pain. Aches in the arm, chest and head, mostly.”

Bottle?

“I’ll get Nia; she’ll want to see her.”

What bottle?

“Since all the patients apart from Enchanter Amrita have been dealt with, Nia went to rest― Commander!” Den’s voice rose in alarm.

“Den. Varric.”

Cullen?

“Curly, what―”

“I was passing the tent. Heard you talking.” His voice was rasping and weary. “Has she woken up?”

Den replied, “Varric said she had. I was just going to―”

“I want to see her.”

“No,” Varric cut in sharply. “No visitors until she’s cleared. Nia already told you to go and do your job until you were called, rather than moping around the tent all day looking like a lost puppy.”

Amrita snorted quietly at the image. She did not doubt that Varric was quoting the older healer, whose expertise had been honed in the Ferelden army during and after the Fifth Blight: not a setting conducive to developing a bedside manner. Unfortunately, the snort disrupted her breathing enough to send her into a wheezing coughing fit. That hurt.

“That doesn’t sound good. Is she alright?”

“Varric said―”

“Varric said,” the dwarf interrupted warningly, “that you needed to get Nia, Den. Off you go.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of the tent flap and Den’s boots in the snow.

When Cullen spoke, his voice cracked, almost as though in desperation. “Varric―”

“She’s fine; just let the healers do their job. Don’t you trust me, Curly?”

This time, the silence went on longer.

“…I’m wounded,” the dwarf protested.

“So was she.”

“Look ― she’s sore, and probably traumatised, but she’ll pull through. She’s got lots of people to look after her, you and me included. As soon as Nia gives Amrita the all-clear, you’ll be the first to know, I promise. Okay?”

There was a heavy sigh from Cullen. “Alright, Varric. I’ll wait outside.”

“Good man. You could make another rousing speech.”

“Very funny, Varric.”

A moment later the dwarf reappeared, shaking his head. “You heard all that?” When she nodded carefully, he went on, “You should have seen his face when he carried you in, Doc. Didn’t want to let go. Face of a man who fucked up, yet found Andraste smiling on him and giving him another chance.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Actually, that kind of seems to be the story of Curly’s life.”

Amrita blinked at him, confused, but chose not to pursue that thought; she dimly recalled Cullen’s expression as she held his arm, ready to die. “‘Rousing speech’?” she asked instead.

“Ahh – you missed him being all inspirational a few hours ago. ‘Teamwork this, pulling together that, we’ve survived an army and a dragon and we’re not letting some geography stop us now.’ It was rather impressive, actually.”

A vague feeling of warmth and pride rolling over her, Amrita smiled and shut her eyes. “I would have liked to see that.”

“Oh?”

She snapped her eyes open; there was something too innocent, too, Do elaborate, in that simple sound, and sure enough Varric’s eyebrows were raised and his lips curled just so―

“Herald! Glad to see you’re awake. Varric – out you go.”

And then she was being scrutinised and assessed. They told her as best they could what had happened to her – cracked ribs, broken wrist, the mark halfway up her arm again, probably concussion, definitely hypothermia – and how they had treated her. A small dosage of Cullen’s sleeping potion had been used to sedate her, as despite her injuries she had been agitated and restless. They asked her questions, probed and prodded, and after being satisfied that her injuries had been properly treated, they attended to the fresh bruises that had developed, handed Amrita her clean-ish but dry clothes, and left to find the advisers.

Amrita had only just pulled on her lambswool undershirt when the tent flap opened and Cullen stepped inside. She squeaked and pulled her legs and the blanket up, acutely aware of her state of undress, but he just stood there, staring.

“You’re alive,” he said, almost wonderingly.

She smiled. “As are you.”

“Thanks to you,” he replied, finally moving towards her. He sat down on a stool by her cot and regarded her for a moment. “What you did―”

“I’m not quite ready to talk about it,” she said, her stomach lurching, “though I know I must soon. It was necessary. I knew what― what I was doing. You did not force me.”

His eyes dropped, and he shook his head slightly. “Amrita… I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word,” he swore as his golden eyes lifted to her green ones, his brow creased in determination.

Securing the blanket with her left hand, she reached out with the other―

And froze as the tent flap opened again.

“Doc, I couldn’t find Cur―” Varric stopped, before drawling, “Are we interrupting something?”

Amrita snatched her hand away at the same instant that Cullen sat bolt upright and turned bright red. Mercifully for them both, Josephine launched straight into thanking the Maker for Amrita’s survival, and asking how she was. Cassandra and Leliana held themselves back, expressing their relief when given a moment to speak, but something in their manner made Amrita worry that she would get grief from the two Hands.

Then Nia came back and shooed everyone out, telling them that Amrita was to be left alone while she rested and gathered her thoughts. Nia would release her at sundown – if the Herald felt ready.

‘Ready’ was not the word she would have chosen when she picked up her staff an hour later. ‘Agitated’, perhaps. ‘Shaken’, possibly. ‘In desperate need of spilling her memories out so someone could help her make sense of them and process’, definitely.

She was not expecting the resounding cheer as she emerged into the snowy twilight scene, although perhaps she should have. They had cheered her return from the Breach, and now she was―

“Back from the dead!”

“Our saviour!”

“You risked your life for us!”

“Andraste preserved you!”

“If anyone doubted that the Maker chose her―”

No. Even now, even after all this, she refused to believe that the Maker would choose a cursed child. Perhaps, perhaps He might intervene because circumstance had led to her being the only option, but she would never have been first choice. Maybe He had meant for Faolán, or Ffion, or someone else, to survive that night. Not that she could imagine that either of the Dalish would have been happy with the deeply Andrastian, predominantly human Inquisition; at least Amrita believed in the Maker.

Though if Corypheus was to be believed, there was no Maker. At least, not in the Black City.

Perhaps it made more sense of the fact that a wicked mage had ended up in such a position if there was no divine being influencing events.

She let none of this pass across her face. Instead, she pasted a faint smile onto her lips and nodded respectfully to the Inquisition members as she trod through the snow, leaning on her staff for support. There was Lysette. There stood Bull and the Chargers, Sera perched on the Qunari’s shoulders. Blackwall and Harritt were over there, and Vivienne watched the proceedings from the back with an indulgent smile on her face.

And at the end of the way lined with people were the advisers, Varric, Solas, and Mother Giselle, waiting in the entrance to another tent. Amrita approached them slowly, anxiety about what she had to report stirring her insides, but their faces – which less than a day ago she had never expected to see again – were a welcome sight.

While the others entered the tent ahead of her, Varric took her hand and squeezed gently. “Whatever they say in there – you saved all these people,” he reminded her in a low voice.

Amrita swallowed and followed him in.

After the formal congratulations and status reports – Cassandra and Leliana still remained stiff, and Amrita dreaded whatever criticism they were waiting to give – she recounted what she could of the events after she left the chantry on her suicide mission. Solas and Blackwall had already given their accounts of how they had fought their way to the trebuchet and defended it against Venatori and rebel mages while she turned it, so she had little new for them to hear.

“I chose to spare Fiona because it was the right thing to do,” she asserted when asked. “We must know the truth of what happened in Redcliffe, and someone must be held accountable for the actions of the rebels. King Alistair and Arl Guerrin would want no less.” She drew a deep breath. “Much as Denam will be tried, so will Fiona. If her testament is satisfactory, having her aid and voice to calm the mages may help to bring a more stable truce with the templars; I am under no illusion that our intervention at Therinfal has brought about true peace. If Fiona speaks on our behalf…”

“We may have a stronger base upon which to hold talks,” Cullen finished, nodding.

“And the Inquisition holds the stronger position, as the rebels are literally at our mercy,” added Leliana. “No one can argue that we defended ourselves, or that they were wrong to fall in with Tevinter. A shrewd move.”

“Thank you, Sister Nightingale.” Amrita meant it. It was probably the first word of praise she had received from the spy, and it could well be the last.

“Mercy will serve our purposes well,” Josephine clarified sharply, “much as it did at Therinfal. The threat we face comes from the Venatori, red templars, and those who command them. The loyalty of those who made bad choices when they saw no other option will be invaluable. A guilty man who receives mercy is more grateful for the chance than one who has committed no crime.”

Amrita could not help but look to Cullen, whose eyes were downcast. ‘I am not innocent of wrongdoing myself.’ She went on, “The dragon came down only moments after we got the trebuchet locked in place…”

The events after the dragon’s return were harder to recall – perhaps a result of the concussion – but she told the others every detail she could.

She almost yelped when Varric’s hand constricted around hers at the name ‘Corypheus’. He swiftly patted it but avoided her questioning gaze. He had gone pale.

Cassandra, however, was not so easily deterred. “Corypheus?” she repeated, frowning at the dwarf. “Varric, you…”

“Let her finish, Seeker,” he replied, voice strained. “If we’re lucky, we’re just dealing with a power-hungry madman who thought it was an exciting name, or had really cruel parents.”

Amrita looked back and forth between the pair, awaiting some sort of explanation, but when none was forthcoming, she continued with her description of the encounter. In all honesty, she expected them to dismiss her as mad, or affected by the bump on her head. A misshapen, fleshy, ten-foot-tall creature who not only claimed to have created the mark – ‘the Anchor’ – to assault the heavens, but to have already seen the Golden City and found it devoid of any god? If he spoke the truth, the implications were… staggering. Even if it was only true in parts, they were hard enough to believe.

But they listened to her seriously, albeit with some outcry. Once she had finished, the room was heavy with silence as every human in the room processed the idea that the Maker was not real, or that He had long-abandoned Thedas.

Varric coughed. “Well, shit.”

Cassandra shook her head. “You mean to say—”

“That I was telling the truth about our run-in with an ancient magister of old?”

“… That you did not, in fact, kill him.”

“We definitely killed him. Very dead. We checked. I’m as surprised as you, Seeker.”

Cullen interrupted, “Would either of you care to let the rest of us in on this?”

“Well, Curly,” Varric drawled, presumably trying to cover that his hand was shaking around Amrita’s. “The thing is, Hawke and I… kind of met Corypheus a few years back. In a Grey Warden prison up in the Vimmarks. Messy business with Hawke’s family and some Carta dwarves enthralled by Corypheus. Oh, and Grey Wardens he was influencing from his prison. He was definitely a darkspawn, and he told us the same thing about going to the Golden City and finding it corrupt. He’d been sealed away since then, and woke up confused and calling for Dumat. And… we thought we killed him. Well, like I said, we did kill him.”

“And yet, he roams the earth still,” Solas observed mildly.

Varric raised his hands in protest. “Look, I don’t know how that happened any more than you do. But it fits in with what Doc told us Envy said, right? ‘Mortal once, but no longer’?”

Amrita nodded solemnly, and asked Varric to share anything he knew. It was sadly little, as Hawke’s band had been forced to fight before they could interview him, and it inspired no hope. She picked up and finished her recount with what she remembered of her escape: waking up in one of the mineshafts below Haven, with only enough mana to heal the injuries that prevented her from moving; an encounter with demons, and some horrific new thing the Anchor could do; and then sending her spirit guides out before stripping away any metal armour and setting out. After that, it was a blur of snow and pain.

There was a sober silence after she finished. Varric took her hand again. Cullen distractedly twisted his hands around the pommel of his sword. Josephine’s pen came to a halt, ceasing its scritching. Cassandra and Leliana looked to each other, expressions betraying nothing, their stances taut with anger and fear. Solas stood silent, face serene, eyes closed, and grip tight on his staff.

“Do we have a plan?” Amrita finally, timidly asked. “I― I am sure you have all been busy, but…”

“Well,” Cullen started, “that’s the main reason Solas is here. Our first idea was to strike north until we hit the east road, and try to meet with the king at Redcliffe. I’m sure he’d be sympathetic to our plight, though the arl and villagers might be less so after their last guests. But Solas says…” Cullen trailed off, face scrunching up in disbelief, and so Solas himself smoothly stepped in.

“There is a place that waits for a force to hold it. A place where the Inquisition can build, grow. I have seen it in the Fade―” Here Cullen scoffed, earning himself stern looks from the women. Solas mildly responded, “As I reminded you earlier, Commander, I also saw Amrita’s survival in the Fade; and you have just heard her testimony as to her use of spirits to track and locate people and places. Do not mock that which you do not understand because the Chantry taught you that you must.”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably, and Amrita pushed Solas on. “This place – where is it?”

“To the north-west of our current position. A few days’ travel.”

“Is it occupied?”

“No, and it has not been for decades, if not centuries. I believe some old magic – likely elven – may have protected it from discovery.”

“Until now.” The commander’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “How convenient. And I suppose you just happened to find out about it in our hour of need?”

“Actually,” Solas replied, “I found it on my travels down to the Conclave. I have not walked the road eastward, but I believe it follows a river down to Lake Calenhad. Whatever wards once lay upon the path and building are gone now.”

Josephine spoke up. “To clarify: you are saying that there is a mountain fortress, free for taking and accessible by road so that we can move supplies, troops and guests easily?” Her tone was simultaneously dubious and hopeful.

“The structure will need work, and what I saw of the road had not been maintained, but yes.”

Cullen asked, “And you didn’t think to mention this before because…?”

Amrita felt compelled to speak. “Cullen,” she murmured, “you’re not helping.”

He looked at her, slightly stunned by the gentle reprimand, before muttering, “Forgive me.”

“It’s not me you’re being rude to,” she returned, a little more sternly, and Maker’s breath, for all his age and experience Cullen resembled a sulky apprentice as he mumbled an apology. Amrita glanced at Josephine, and saw her hand over her mouth to stifle a titter.

Solas nodded graciously in acceptance and answered Cullen’s question. “Before, we were at Haven. Our intent was not military; simply reactionary. Why would you have wanted to move? Everyone knows where Haven is. It is close to the site of the Breach. The Inquisition was not looking to last forever. If any intention of moving had been raised, I would have mentioned it then. I offer it now. It is up to you whether you choose to take it, or seek aid further into Ferelden. I cannot make that decision for you.”

Amrita sighed. “I think we should go for it. Even if it needs work, we need somewhere defensible against Corypheus and his army. It may be wise to send the templars to Redcliffe anyway, as I doubt we have enough lyrium for them; Lady Korpin may have a tough time making that delivery she promised us,” she added, smiling wryly at Josephine.

“Indeed,” the ambassador agreed, returning the smile. “Once we have found the road we can send messengers to bring them back, and establish the route.”

Cassandra said, “So we’re agreed. Solas and Amrita will lead the Inquisition to its new home.”

“That will be nicely symbolic,” Leliana added, though her voice lacked warmth. “The Herald of Andraste bringing the Inquisition from the ashes. We must leave in the morning if we are to have any chance of our provisions lasting. You must be well enough to travel.”

Amrita nodded. “Then if you’ll excuse me―”

Cassandra cleared her throat. “There is one more thing.”

Amrita’s stomach went cold, but she simply looked levelly at the Seeker. “If it is the matter of my decisions yesterday, then no. I am too tired. Another time. Good night.”

And with that, she pulled her hand from Varric’s and marched out of the tent.

She did not quite make it to the healers’ tent without interruption; she was waylaid by an almost-unfamiliar voice calling, “Amrita!”

She turned, and found the handsome mage from yesterday approaching. “Dorian!” she exclaimed, cursing her stomach for fluttering. “You made it!”

“Yes, thanks to Roderick and your little stunt.” He drew up in front of her and his face twisted in a grimace.

Amrita’s heart fell. “Did Roderick―”

“No. Got us as far as the camp, and then… that was it.”

She bowed her head. “I did not think he would. Perhaps if he had let someone treat the injury…”

“Perhaps. We’ll never know.” Dorian paused, and Amrita glanced up to find him gazing thoughtfully at her. “I helped him walk. He… talked about you quite a bit.”

She chewed her lip. She doubted it was anything good.

“He just needed to be sure you were Andraste’s chosen. He was terrified of what it meant, it if was true.” Dorian canted his head slightly. “But in the end, he believed. He asked me to tell you that he was sorry, if you survived.”

It took a moment for her to swallow down the lump that had suddenly grown in her throat. She blinked away tears. “...Thank you for telling me about that.”

He nodded. “I thought it was important.”

“It was.”

He hummed thoughtfully, then grinned wistfully. “You missed the commander’s speech earlier.”

“I know; Varric said.”

“Bless,” Dorian responded. “It was rather sweet. Like a little boy found his grandfather’s armour in the old family chest.”

Amrita stifled a giggle. “I think that’s a little unfair; Cullen was knight-captain in Kirkwall for several years before he left the Order, and so he does have experience of leading and commanding.”

One handsome eyebrow lifted. “He left the Order? How intriguing.”

She hummed noncommittally, then looked askance, feeling her cheeks heat up. “Dorian… tomorrow we will break camp. Would you walk with me? I want to know everything you do about what we face.”

“Another interrogation?” She looked back to him abruptly, alarmed. Although his tone had been light, his face was dark. “Your advisers have already done one. The whole tone rather shifted the moment I told them I was from Tevinter. Ah, there it is,” he said too jovially, and Amrita realised something of her shock must have shown. “You Southerners all seem to have the same reaction to a Tevinter mage.”

Amrita swallowed and lifted her chin boldly; her feelings on the Tevinters she had met were stronger even than her new crush, and she was hardly going to let petty infatuation stop her from telling him that she wasn’t a woman whose sole source of information was gossip. “Perhaps. I draw on some experience though, rather than simple rumour: the last Tevinter mage I knew was an elven slave who had his powers sedated through forced consumption of magebane potion.” Dorian had the decency to look perturbed by this, and she went on. “His master was a magister who raped and abused his slaves, including youths stolen from their Dalish clans, and offered their venereal services to people he wanted to impress.” Even as she said it, her guts twisted in remembrance of Tiberius’s hot breath ghosting over her ear. Dorian’s expression turned to one of shame. “But,” she added archly, “I acknowledge that two are not representative of a larger group, and that much of the hearsay about Tevinter may be exaggerated or unfair. I am willing to be educated and broaden my views, if provided with the opportunity to do so.”

He held her gaze a moment longer before a sparkle appeared in his eyes, and the corners creased in delight. “Oh, I like you.” Amrita felt her whole face light up, but the darkness must have saved her as when his expression turned serious again, he simply said, “I’m glad you’re alright.”

She blinked at him, still blushing. “I― Uh― Thank you. Me too.”

He laughed at that, a rich, deep sound, and turned away. “I’ll leave you to your rest, and see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

“You too!” she replied to his back.

Once he was out of sight and her heart had stopped pounding, she ducked into the tent and tried very, very hard to stop her brain fizzing with thoughts of Haven and her new crush.

On the stool by her cot was the bottle of sleeping potion. She stared at it. After the nightmares she had been unable to wake from, she had a new level of appreciation for Cullen’s suffering and a new reluctance to medicate her lack of sleep. Even so, with the way her head was spinning just something to make sure she got some rest was tempting.

“Shivering, shaking, sure of sinfulness,” a soft voice said behind her. Amrita whipped around, wide-eyed, and found Cole standing in the corner of the tent, hands fidgeting.

“Cole!” Her mouth went dry.

He almost ignored her. “I killed them, killed them dead! I should be punished! No,” he said, voice changing as he ceased narrating her thoughts and advanced on her. She stepped backwards, suddenly afraid. “No! You helped. He hurt you, hurt them, hurt everyone. They were scared, scared of us, scared of the magisters, scared of him, but he did this. You loved, laid down your life for those who loved you, yet you hurt now, fear for friends’ fury at your decision, your death.”

Amrita’s breath hitched as she tried not to start sobbing. She pressed her hand to her mouth, but gagging herself on her flesh did not stop Cole talking out the whirlwind in her head.

“And you feel guilty now, moving on from Faolán, fancy taking you to Dorian. Faolán wouldn’t mind, you know that, you must know because I can't. Faolán would want you to be happy. Faolán would want you to let him go, let his legacy be in the way you live and protect his people. You have power to put to good use. You know, yet you won’t listen. Why?” Cole’s voice cracked, pained with confusion at her self-inflicted misery.

She shrugged and squeezed her eyes shut. “Cole―”

“Shh. Lie down. You need rest, rest and recovery and resilience so you can fight the fear in your head. Take the potion.”

“But―”

“The demons won’t touch you tonight. I’ll help. Let me. I didn’t know before, but I’ll help now. Sleep.”

Reluctantly, Amrita laid down on the cot and pulled the blankets over her. Cole passed her the bottle, and she downed it, screwing up her nose at the taste. She rested her head back and shut her eyes.

“Warm crackling fires in dry rooms, rain pounding on the roof. Hot steaming soup and fresh bread, food and companionship with the golden woman laughing, brighter than the sun in the dawn sky. Filal’s lips against my forehead. Cullen’s fingers wrapping around my hands, words of safety and peace and comfort and kindness. Faolán’s fingers in my hair, gently tugging out the knots, whispering apologies and making me welcome with silver, making me part of the family…”

Amrita didn’t hear much more than that as she drifted off to sleep.

~~~

Amrita woke slowly, the comforting dream of sleeping tangled with the elves, and the kossith and the compassion spirits watching over them, fading as the potion wore off. Whatever Cole had done the previous night, it had made a difference. Perhaps she should enlist his help more often, or get him to intervene on Cullen’s behalf… if the former templar would agree to be helped by a spirit.

As soon as she was able to rise she readied herself. It did not take long; her only remaining possessions were her staff, the threads in her hair and her clothes. Three periods of change: working in the alienage as an enchanter; travelling to the Conclave; and fighting for the Inquisition. It was a strange mix of liberating and terrifying, having so little to tie her down. What would she acquire in the next stage of her life? Even she could feel that she was a different person now. Something burned inside her, low and hot like a smouldering log. Corypheus has hurt the Inquisition. Hurt the people I love. Hurt me. And I will do everything I can to protect us all from him.

She slipped out of the tent and went to help pack up. She graciously accepted the thanks and praise others offered, finding it easier to slip back into her old façade than she had expected. They will never accept my objections. Why fight and upset them?

By the time the sun no longer touched the horizon, the camp was cleared and everyone was gathering things into packs.

Varric sidled up to Amrita while she was waiting for the Inquisition to assemble. “Morning, Doc,” he greeted her in a low, troubled voice.

“Good morning, Varric,” she replied, frowning in worry. “Is something wrong?”

“I― Well, yes and no.”

“Can I help?”

“You can swear not to tell Nightingale or Seeker, because when they find out they are going to have my head.”

Amrita stared at him, wheels turning slowly in her still-tired brain. Then she flatly asked, “This is that royal fuckup that excuses me from having to stand between you and Cassandra, isn’t it.”

“...Yeeeah.”

“Spit it out, Varric.”

The dwarf scratched the back of his head. “You know this whole Corypheus mess?” The name alone made her stomach go cold, so she only nodded in reply; he went on, “…I think that Hawke might be helpful in handling this. And that as soon as we’re back and installed with some birds, I… might be able to get in touch with him.”

It took Amrita a moment to fully process the enormity of what Varric had just said. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, Varric. You spent all that time with Cassandra questioning you―”

“I was protecting my best friend,” he said fiercely, looking up at her with a steely gaze. “I will stand in front of anyone who puts my friends in danger. That includes violent women who want to find out where they are and drag them places they don’t want to go. I fully stand by the fact that, if Hawke had been at the Conclave, he would be as dead as the Divine is, and that would do us all a fat lot of good.”

“You are probably right,” Amrita conceded. She nodded firmly at him. “I shall not say anything. But Varric?”

“Yes, Doc?”

“I meant what I said when I told you I would stand between you and Cassandra.”

His eyes widened in surprise for a moment, before his face broke into a lopsided grin. But he said nothing, just slipping his arm around her waist in a one-armed hug. She returned it gladly, and let him vanish into the crowd as Cullen, Leliana and Josephine approached.

She was led to the front of the crowd, and stood quietly beside Solas as Cullen made another speech to inform the Inquisition of the plan while avoiding giving specifics to be held to. Varric and Dorian had been right: he was both magnificent and a little endearing. Amrita smiled at his back as he spoke passionately, a deep fondness and pride warming her heart.

When he was done, there was applause which would have filled the chantry-building, yet was almost lost in the expanse of the mountainside. He turned back to her and, on catching her eye, went pink and scratched the back of his neck. She responded by pursing her lips in an effort not to laugh, while her eyes said it all.

Surprisingly, Mother Giselle stepped forward. “Good people,” she called as the clapping died down. “These past few days have not been without tragedy and darkness. There are many to mourn. We lost our home. We saw our defender sacrifice herself for us.”

Amrita froze her face in a mask of neutrality as hundreds of eyes turned to her.

“But now, we have seen her return. We face a new enemy, but we have survived. Difficulties lie ahead of us, no doubt, but hope remains. We must persevere, as Andraste did; as the Herald did. Before we go, let us bow our heads and pray for the Maker’s blessing on our fallen brothers and sisters, and on our own journey.”

As one, the members of the Inquisition inclined their heads, and Mother Giselle recited the first Canticle of Trials. Amrita was not the only one to add her voice to the recitation, and she was sure she was not the only one to choke on some of the verses.

“...Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky.
Rest at the Maker’s right hand,
And be forgiven.”

There was a long silence, disturbed only by bronto grunts, people sniffing and the whistling wind. Then Mother Giselle started singing.

“Shadows fall, and hope has fled;
Steel your heart: the dawn will come.
The night is long, and the path is dark.
Look to the sky, for one day soon
The dawn will come.”

People were lifting their heads and glancing at each other. Should they join in? Amrita could not; her throat was blocked by a lump, summoned by years-old associations.

At the second verse, another, higher voice added itself: Leliana’s. Her sweet voice carried over the crowd, and by the second line others were joining in. Cullen started partway through the chorus, his warm tenor voice startling Amrita.

It wasn’t half as startling as the moment someone at the front genuflected towards her.

That wasn’t half as terrifying as watching half the Inquisition follow their lead, down on one or both knees and staring at her like she was some― some― some good and holy creature, someone worthy of respect, someone to be worshipped―

She swallowed the bile that burned the back of her throat.

When they finally finished singing, and Cullen looked to her with some indescribable, vulnerable emotion in his eyes, she hurriedly turned away and mumbled, “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

By midday, Dorian could see that the journey was taking its toll on the Herald. The conversation, which had started cautiously and quickly evolved into a sincerely interested question-session about Tevinter culture and Circle life, had died down somewhat. Her back was bowed, and her pace was slowing. She had insisted on carrying a pack just like everyone else, but it was weighing her still-fragile body down more than it could manage. Solas and Dorian matched their paces to hers, but it was hardly the inspiring march through the Frostbacks that the handsome commander had promised in his speech.

“If your templars are anything like ours,” Amrita was saying, her expression carefully guarded, “I imagine they object rather strongly to the use of blood magic.” She leaned heavily on her staff for support, and her face was drained of colour.

“I imagine they did, long ago,” Dorian agreed. Footsteps crunched through the snow behind them, catching up. “Once, the templars’ investigations might have been sincere. Then their balls were cut off. Too inconvenient. Nowadays―”

“Call a halt,” the commander ordered from behind them. Amrita jumped and spun around; Dorian shot him a withering glare for his rudeness. He ignored him. “We need to rest and break out rations.”

Amrita opened her mouth to protest.

“You need to rest and have something to eat.”

“Cullen―”

“If you don’t call for a break, I will, but it looks better from you.”

Amrita gazed up at him, almost defiant, before wilting a little and waving to the rest of the Inquisition. Almost immediately they stopped and started pulling packs off backs and digging through for food. Mages could be seen standing at strategic intervals, their staves emanating the faint orange energy of warming spells across the cold people.

“Thank you, Lady Amrita.”

She scoffed quietly. “Amrita is fine, Cullen. Dorian and I are not standing on formality; he is not asking me to call him ‘Lord’ as his position as an altus indicates, and his family is far more noble than mine.”

“‘Altus’?” Cullen asked suspiciously.

“Upper class,” replied Dorian breezily, expecting the commander’s mistrust. “Descended from the Dreamers, the first prophets of the Old Gods.”

“His father is a magister,” Amrita added in a helpful tone, “but Dorian is not one.”

“I see.” Clearly, he did not see. “Amrita – a word?” he requested, jerking his head away from Dorian and Solas.

She acquiesced silently, and Dorian folded his arms as he watched the pair. “I saw his face as he brought her to the healers’ tent,” he said to Solas, who also watched. “Are they…?”

Solas simply smiled and said nothing.

“I see.” Well. Clearly something was going on between them. And why not? She was quite attractive, for a woman, and he… well, Dorian was having entertaining thoughts about how nicely Cullen would clean up. Naked. Dorian sighed, and tried to put the thought aside for now. Even if Cullen was so-inclined and not-involved, it was unlikely the templar would ever drop his suspicions about the ‘evil Tevinter mage’ long enough to drop his trousers and smallclothes. He turned his attention back to the pair, and found that the wind blew most of the conversation right back at the two mages.

“Cullen … fussing over nothing … fine.”

“…clearly not. I could tell … back with the retinue, Amrita … obvious from how … walk.”

She shrugged, and wiped a few melted snowflakes from her cheekbones. Dorian meant to ask her sometime if she had family from Tevinter; he was sure he had a Trevelyan relative somewhere in the genealogy, and her nose and facial structure would have looked right at home on any statue of Eleni Zinovia, mother of Archon Hessarian; or perhaps the original Calpernia, foster-mother to Darinius, founder of Tevinter. “What difference … make? … cannot stop … nurse … full health.”

The templar considered Amrita, looking down like a mountain over a hill. Maker, what would it be like to have him towering over Dorian―

“Give me…”

“…?”

“…said, give me your pack.”

“Cullen, you’ve got enough―”

“― can manage a little more.”

I’m sure you can, agreed Dorian, admiring the bulk that likely hid a rather fine musculature.

“But―”

“Look, Amrita. … already dead … feet and we’re hardly half a day’s march into … journey.” Cullen stepped closer to her, forcing her to tilt her head back, and he dropped his voice, making Dorian strain to overhear them. “… good as returned … dead. … Inquisition cannot afford to see … burdened now.”

They stared at each other for a good minute or so as she considered his words.

Then she took off her pack and started fiddling with the straps.

As Cullen crouched down and started sorting out his own pack, he patted her arm, provoking a weary smile and a faint blush.

Oh yes. Something was up with those two.

Dorian didn’t stand a chance.

~~~

That evening when Vivienne saw the three mages at the head of the retinue turn and signal a halt to the march, their shadows already long over the snow, she pressed onwards until she reached Amrita. Ignoring the flash of trepidation across the girl’s face when the Herald spotted her, Vivienne calmly asked, “If I might have a moment of your time, my darling?”

Vivienne was not ignorant of the girl’s terror. Fear was one of the best weapons in Vivienne’s armoury, but with the Herald it was not such a useful tool: not in this form. A healthy respect for her power and powers, yes; paralysis and avoidance, no. Ever since their first encounter, Vivienne had observed Amrita’s deference and dancing to avoid conflict. The girl was appalling at lying, but fairly skilled in not provoking ire through meekness and blandness. Amrita had grown though, becoming more direct through necessity at Therinfal and Haven. Even now, she stood differently. With some coaching, and a more delicate touch from Vivienne, the Herald could carve out her own niche as a leader.

Although no one had said it, it was obvious that Amrita would be successfully nominated to become the Inquisitor.

Amrita glanced at Solas, who assured her that he would inform the others of her whereabouts, and then gestured for Vivienne to lead the way.

“Maker, you’re a mess,” Vivienne exclaimed once they were out of view behind an outcrop of rock, careful to modulate a maternal tone into her voice so as not to weaken the girl’s spirits further with criticisms of that which was beyond her control. Cullen’s intervention had helped though. “Let me have a look at you.”

Amrita remained where she was. “Why?”

Good. A few weeks ago she would have acquiesced to avoid an argument. “Because I am concerned for you, my dear, and because the Inquisition will take heart from seeing the best of you in these difficult times. I may move best in more elite circles, but I can impart my advice to you nonetheless.”

Amrita lifted a hand to fidget with the necklace under her shirt until she stilled under Vivienne’s steady look.

“You must go to the people this evening, even if it just a few.” Vivienne smiled at her encouragingly. “Your strength lies in people liking what you present to them. The people believe you are chosen. To be close to you is to be close to Andraste, and the Maker, and they need to believe He is with us, now more than ever. But Andraste is divine; and as such, perfect. They need you to be as close to perfect as you can manage.”

The Herald regarded her dubiously. Then she nodded and stepped forward, within reach. “So long as you do not intend to persuade me to remove the threads, you may tidy me up.”

“Splendid.” Vivienne fussed a little at Amrita’s clothes – thank the Maker she had insisted on having them cleaned and repaired while the Herald slept – and then moved to her back to finger-comb the windswept tangles out. “Are you alright, my dear?” she asked gently.

“I will be fine,” came the stiff reply. “Don’t worry.”

Vivienne chose not to pick up on the half-lie. The girl needed building. “You bear it well,” she commended. “Good. The troops will take their cue from your composure. Now…” she said, circling as she inspected. “Let’s keep up appearances. You’ve handled this crisis competently, saving as many lives as you did.” She stopped in front of Amrita and delicately lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to look up. “But the enemy struck a serious blow against you and the Inquisition. We must recognise that. You must.”

Amrita’s gaze dropped to the snowy ground, and she gave no reply.

After a moment’s pondering, Vivienne withdrew her hand and softly said, “You think you failed the Inquisition.”

There came no denial.

“You haven’t failed them, my dear. The men and women who fight for you gave their lives for a great cause, and they fought to the end. The rest still fight, and you will fail them if you give up now. Or if you continue to recklessly endanger your life with no regard to the inevitable result of your death.”

Amrita flinched.

Vivienne pursued her point but kept it short; the past could not be changed, and undermining the Herald would do no good. “I understand your logic, but feel that you omitted the crucial factor that without you, we cannot close the rifts. You are not expendable, Amrita; your survival must be prioritised above all else where possible, though we all know that our work always poses an element of risk.” She hardened her tone. “Do not give the enemy the satisfaction of your death.”

The Herald’s chin dropped to her sternum.

“I say this as advice for the future, my dear,” she soothed, “not as condemnation for the past. You saved many lives, and your death was grieved for more reasons than just the mark. Take courage in that fact.”

“Thank you, Vivienne,” murmured Amrita, finally looking up. “I appreciate your concern. I… do not intend to throw my life away.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

She swallowed and glanced back to the camp, which was already taking shape. “I shall go and offer my aid and presence, as you suggested. Later, though, I must speak to all of you about the threat we face.”

“Of course. Just say the word if there is any way in which I can assist.”

“Ma se―” She cut off, cheeks going red. “Thank you,” she tried again.

“Anything for you, darling,” replied Vivienne, patting the Herald’s arm. She meant it. As long as their alliance was needed, she would do what she must to further their cause.

And if things furthered her own cause? Well, there was no harm in that.

~~~

‘Cassandra, I know you heard my report yesterday, but I wish to brief all those who will be in the field with me. I would appreciate it if you attended too.’

And that was why Cassandra was standing outside the camp, huddling around a magically-lit brazier with Blackwall and Varric. One by one the other companions drifted over, until the Herald herself arrived at last, Dorian at her side. Cassandra straightened at the sight; she had not known that the man had been formally accepted into the Inquisition, let alone made a companion. Cullen was going to be unhappy when he found out.

The circle spread out so that everyone stood in relative warmth and light. Vivienne, Varric and Dorian stood between the Herald and Cassandra.

Amrita coughed, and laced her hands behind her back. “Thank you all for coming out here. We have not decided on how much information about our foe we should release, especially since much of it is conjecture, but since you will all be travelling with me as we face this threat, I thought it best to share what information we have. But before that, I wanted to formally introduce you to the newest member of the Inquisition.”

The man stepped forward and made an elegant bow as he said, “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Cassandra glanced over at Bull, but he remained impassive.

“I was at Redcliffe when the Venatori assumed control of your southern mages. I only wish I could have given you more warning.”

“Nonetheless,” Amrita said warmly, and Cassandra looked back to her in suspicion, “you helped, and you are welcome here.” She was staring at him in wide-eyed admiration, like a character from one of Varric’s trashy novels.

Cullen was going to be very unhappy when he found out.

Then she looked around the group defiantly, her own gaze lingering on Bull. “I trust that all of you will continue to be… professional,” and Sera snickered at that, earning herself a glare, “working together as necessary.”

Nobody outright refused this sentiment, so she launched into her recount. It was detailed but detached, informative but impersonal; quite different from the emotional retelling of the events of Therinfal just― Maker, just under a week ago. Even the previous night, she had held herself together admirably. The attack on Haven had changed her. Hardened her.

As Cassandra had already heard the tale, she was free to watch the others’ reactions. Sera went white and swore colourfully when the Herald explained the implications of Corypheus’s claim to have gone to the Golden City. Dorian had clearly heard the story already, adding in extra details of Redcliffe and the Venatori, and looking sour at the ‘confirmation’ that his people had brought about the Blight. Blackwall fidgeted and said that there had been no sign of a true Blight when she described the dragon, offering some hope that it was not an archdemon; but admitting that with the Grey Wardens of Ferelden and Orlais missing, signs might have been missed or not passed on. Bull shook his head a few times, but otherwise remained silent. Vivienne listened coolly, arms folded and betraying nothing in her expression.

Once she had finished her briefing, Amrita added, “I don’t expect responses now. Go away and think. If you have any ideas, or know people who might have more information, then please let me know.”

There was affirmative nodding around the circle, and the Herald cleared her throat nervously. “There is… one last thing I wish to address. Some of you have already made your opinions known, and since I don’t have the energy to deal with it repeatedly, I want to deal with it now.” She dipped her head for a moment as she composed herself. They waited patiently; they all knew what she would say. When she looked up, her eyes were bright with tears, but she managed to speak.

“I stayed behind because it was the only viable option for saving you, and the rest of the Inquisition. We believed that by remaining in Haven, I could distract the Elder One – Corypheus – while you escaped. I do not regret my decision, though I do not know that I would do it again. I have no intention of throwing my life away. I am sorry for causing any of you any grief, distress or pain.”

There was a silence as heavy as the mountain they stood on.

“Well,” said Sera matter-of-factly, scowling. “It was frigging stupid of you. Like, wow stupid. Not new stupid, because pompous arses have been martyring themselves for donkey’s years. But still an ‘open all the cages in the zoo’ kind of stupid. Worse. I mean,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air, “what are we supposed to do about the rifts and Coryphy-shit without you?”

I am not alone in my disapproval, observed Cassandra as she folded her arms, feeling rather vindicated.

For all her earlier composure, the Herald was wilting under the tirade. Blackwall touched Sera’s shoulder but she brushed him off, clearly incensed.

“It was also seriously brave of you,” the elf said.

What? Just a moment ago―

“I mean, going out knowing there was an archdemon? Just. Fuck. We were so frigging worried about you, y’know? Thought you were―” Here, Sera’s voice caught in her throat, and she paced until she could talk again. Glancing at the Herald, Cassandra saw that she was as thrown by the change in tack as she was. “Point is, you saved our butts. So thanks for that. Really. We wouldn’t be here to bitch about what an idiot you were if you hadn’t, y’know, been an idiot. So thanks. But don’t do it again. Ever. Please?”

The others were nodding, and Vivienne spoke up. “Our primary concern was for you, Amrita darling. We were all shocked by your apparent death, and greatly saddened. We may not agree with your decision, but we are grateful to you for saving our lives. And,” she said, looking deliberately at Cassandra, “since we can’t change the past, I think this would be a good time to leave it and look to how we can prevent it happening in future.”

The murmurs were affirmative. Clearly, they were satisfied.

Cassandra was not. “Is that it?” she demanded. “The Herald knowingly risked Thedas with her irresponsible actions, and we let it go with less than a slap on the wrist and a don’t do it again?” Everyone was watching her warily now, and Amrita had gone quite pale.

Bull folded his arms. “What do you want us to do? We need her, more than anyone. You gonna clap her in chains, or put her on a leash so she can’t run off and make dumb decisions?”

The Herald visibly flinched at the word ‘leash’.

Cassandra spluttered, “Don’t be preposterous! But we can’t just let this go!”

“Why not?” asked Varric, an almost dangerous note in his voice as he stepped between her and the Herald. “You heard her. She’s sorry. She’s not going to do it again. What’s the point?”

“The point? Well―” She flailed for a response. “What about the fact that no one stopped her? You’d have been at fault too if the Herald had died and all of Thedas fell to ruin!” she argued, pointing at Bull, Solas and Blackwall. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Bull shrugged and jerked a thumb at the Herald. “She’s the boss. She pays. My job isn’t to ask questions – it’s to do what I’m told. It’s not my problem what my boss wants to do with her life.”

A callous, commercial response, but what else should she have expected from a Qunari spy playing mercenary? She scoffed. “Blackwall?”

He folded his arms. “The Grey Warden Order is founded on the principle of self-sacrifice to save the people.” Then he fell silent.

Cassandra was starting to feel beleaguered by the lack of good sense in the Herald’s companions. “And Solas, what excuse do you have for not dissuading the Herald―”

“The Herald this, the Herald that,” burst out Sera. “Blah blah blah, that’s all I’m hearing!” Everyone was staring at her. “Herald has feelings, y’know, and a brain. AND a name. So use it!”

“What?” She took half a step back in surprise.

“Don’t you get it?” Sera squawked. “Amrita’s a person. Yeah, it would suck stinky arse if the Herald died and left us to deal with Coryphenus and the rifts, but everyone else here seems to have realised that it would also suck if Amrita died because she’s alright, y’know? We like her. Some people like her a lot,” she teased, waggling her eyebrows at the camp as a few people chuckled in understanding. Amrita went red. Sera swiftly returned to her scowl, though. “So― So― So stop treating her like a tool, and start treating her like a person!”

Cullen’s words. “She has a name, Cassandra! She’s a person! Treat her like one, instead of a fucking tool!”

“Buttercup’s got a point, Seeker,” added Varric in a low voice. “Amrita’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions. She’s not a child to be babysat.”

“Amrita’s not an ‘asset’; she’s got thoughts and feelings, and she’s capable of making her own decisions!”

Cassandra suddenly had to fight the urge to twist her hands together. “I see,” she said stiffly, stalling for time. They watched her now, waiting for an answer. Amrita wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “I… must think on my words and actions. If you will excuse me…” And with their unfriendly eyes on her back, she hurried into the camp.

~~~

Josephine woke in the middle of the night to find an Amrita-sized gap next to her in the tent.

The two of them were sharing the shelter with Leliana, Cassandra, Vivienne and Sera, and the elf had been very deliberate in guiding the wan and bleary Herald away from enchanter and Seeker when placing bedrolls.

Josephine did not move for several minutes. The world was quiet outside, save for the occasional crunch of feet in the snow. Inside the relative warmth of the tent, she could hear Sera’s soft snoring, and the normal shifting and breathing of sleeping bodies. All was peaceful, and in stark contrast to her mind.

Ever the peacemaker, Josephine had been dealing with the other advisers’ squabbling. Cullen and Cassandra were effectively ignoring each other, and Leliana was hardly being any better. It had been Josephine who reminded them that they had work to do, and mediated the arguments, softening the criticisms into critiques.

But nobody had asked how she felt about it all.

Maker knew, if she had been asked whether Amrita should have stayed behind she would have said no. She understood why Amrita had made her choice, but watching the mountain collapse on the burning ruins of Haven and realising that Amrita and the others must have been buried beneath tonnes and tonnes of ice and rock… It had left a hole in Josephine. An emptiness that had, at the time, been preferable to debilitating grief. Seeing the group coming back had restored some of her feeling, and she had been hard-pressed not to start weeping when she found out Amrita had not made it.

The whole experience had been horrific. Easily the most terrifying experience she had lived through; the only event that came close was her murder of a fellow bard. So many people dead. The Inquisition base and all the infrastructure Josephine had worked so hard to build, wiped out in a matter of hours – just hours after a huge victory. Amrita’s ‘death’ had almost tipped Josephine over.

But she had a job to do, and nobody else was holding it together, and so she had to. And she had. And she would continue to do so.

Right now, Amrita was the one struggling.

She sat up.

“Leave her, Josie,” whispered Leliana from the floor next to her. “She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

Josephine snorted softly. “Who said I was going to look for Amrita?”

“I can tell,” came the reply, and Josephine thanked the darkness for hiding the withering look she gave Leliana. “You’ve been fretting since Vivienne told us about the argument earlier. And you’ve been lying there awake for too long for nature’s call.”

Pushing herself up and pulling a blanket around herself and huffed. “I’ll see if she’s alright. If she wants to be left alone, I’ll come back.”

“If you insist. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Sleep well, Leliana.” She slipped out of the tent, and asked the sentry which way the Herald had gone.

Amrita hadn’t gone far. She was within sight of the nearest sentry, and had her staff glowing so she could be seen as she sat on a craggy boulder. As Josephine approached, Amrita twisted herself around to watch carefully. In the dark, it was hard to make out her expression, but Josephine had the impression that Amrita might have been crying.

“Josephine? What are you doing out here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she replied, coming to a stop next to the boulder. “You need rest.”

The Herald looked away. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Josephine patted the steel-cold rock that Amrita was sitting on. “May I join you?”

“Of course,” came the reply, and Josephine tried to clamber up.

It turned out that the boulder was taller, steeper and slipperier than she expected, and she had some difficulty. Of course, the moment that Amrita noticed her struggle she was on her feet, bracing against the stone and offering a hand. Josephine was caught off guard by the ease with which the Herald pulled her up; she had not realised Amrita was so strong, even at her best, and she was not at her best at the moment.

Still, now that Josephine looked at Amrita, silhouetted against the silver moonlight, she could tell that Amrita had put on muscle since the Conclave. When they had first met, Amrita had appeared the kind of lean that suggested too many years without quite enough food: an unhealthy kind of slender. Now, almost three months on, between running around Ferelden and reliable rations, she had bulked up. She was no muscled Cassandra, and certainly no soft and round Josephine, but Amrita would have, under kinder circumstances, looked well-fed, active and happy, like the young noblewoman she would have been had her magic not emerged.

“Did I wake you when I left the tent?” Amrita was asking as she settled back down.

“I’m not sure what woke me,” Josephine admitted, “but I was concerned for you when I found you gone.” She sat down, adjusting her skirts and draping the blanket around both their shoulders. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and you need all the rest you can get. I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Amrita looked away, out over the valley, and smiled weakly. “Thank you, Josephine. I appreciate your concern; you’ve been a very kind friend to me. Cole’s trying to help with the dreams, but…”

“I sympathise. What happened at Haven… shook, me.” She cleared her throat as Amrita turned to look at her. “I wouldn’t presume that it compared to your suffering – nor do I claim any understanding of what you go through in the Fade at night – and so I can only offer my sympathy. What?” she asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious under Amrita’s suddenly soft gaze.

“Are you alright, Josephine? I haven’t really had a chance to check on you since…”

“Since you ‘died’?” she filled in, trying to laugh but feeling it catch in her throat. Amrita flinched. “Don’t worry,” Josephine tried to reassure her, “you shan’t get another lecture from me. I’m just… very glad that you are alive.”

Josephine felt Amrita fumble around under the blanket until she found Josephine’s hand, and squeezed. It was her left one. Through the leather, Josephine could not feel anything. Would it tingle if she touched the bare skin, she wondered idly, looking down at the shape of their hands through the cloth.

“I’m glad I’m alive, too,” murmured Amrita. “And even moreso that you and my other friends survived.”

They sat quietly for a few moments. The Frostbacks were well-illuminated by the moons, setting the snow and rock in stark contrast. It was cold out here, but the frigid wind was alleviated by some spell Amrita must have cast. It all seemed wildly beautiful, and rather unreal. It was easy to imagine that the events of the past few days were just some dreadful dream. She leaned into Amrita’s shoulder, and the woman shifted so they fitted better together.

“Do you know who first leapt to arms?” Josephine whispered. When Amrita made no reply, she went on, “Our workers. They were so proud of our cause. And they were simply cut down… So much screaming after that first blast of fire. So many people turned to ash.” Even as she said it, she could recall the picture perfectly, framed from her place by the chantry as the soldiers tried to get the brontos inside. The village had gone up in moments.

Amrita’s grip tightened, fingers lacing with Josephine’s. “We lost far too many good people to that monster.”

“I’m sure they’ll find rest with the Maker.”

The Herald hummed in agreement, seeming a little distant, but before Josephine could question it she was pushing herself up. “Come on, Lady Montilyet. You should sleep. I should at least try to rest.”

Josephine allowed Amrita to pull her up and then help her down from the boulder, and the pair walked hand in hand back to the tent.

Chapter Text

Bull caught Amrita the next morning before they set off. “Boss?” Standing next to her, facing the same direction, so it didn’t seem confrontational. He nudged her with an elbow to her shoulder, setting a companionable mood.

“Yes, Bull?” She was still pale with pain and exhaustion; she looked as though she hadn’t slept much. He had seen Vivienne fussing over her, coaching her posture up, and it helped, but he could read the slant in her mouth and the creases around her eyes like an open book. Her poker face was pretty good when she had the energy, but even at her best she wasn’t unreadable to him. It was just a matter of gathering the evidence and correlating it to the situation.

“About last night…”

A slow inhale through the nose. Preparing for an attack of some sort, defences rising. “Yes?” Neutral response, letting him set the tone of the conversation.

Bull smiled at her, and spoke in a low voice. “Just wanted to let you know that I didn’t mean I don’t care if you die. And to say that I appreciate what you did for me and the Chargers.”

“Oh.” She rolled her shoulders back, easing a little tension out of them. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Boss. Try not to do it again? You pay me to do the dangerous crap, after all. That’s infringing on my duties.”

She snorted, and the lines in her face softened. That’s better. “I think asking you to stop Cassandra from coming back for me, or murdering Cullen, was quite the dangerous assignment.” He laughed loudly at that, and her mouth twitched in a smile. “But I’ll bear that in mind, Bull.”

“Good. See you later, Boss.”

“See you later, Bull.”

~~~

Today, Dorian was walking with the bulk of the Inquisition. Well, ‘with’ wasn’t quite accurate: that implied belonging and acceptance of his presence. In truth, he was walking on the edge of the bulk of the Inquisition. Word had spread fast about his origins, it seemed, and little else. Nothing about him risking his life to get to Haven before the hoard. Nothing about him fighting his own countrymen in the Inquisition’s defence.

He wasn’t surprised. He was quite accustomed to being a pariah – as he had told Amrita, it added to his charm.

His gaze returned to the Herald’s back. Since the commander’s intervention the day before she had been walking better; she seemed to be standing a little straighter today, from what he could tell at this distance. Much as Dorian enjoyed her company, it was probably best that he kept away from her some of the time. It didn’t take a soothsayer to predict how the Inquisition would interpret their sudden and unexpected companionship.

Dorian hoped it was companionship. He had not failed to notice her starry eyes when spoke he with her, but it was so clear from her reactions to his casual flirting that she had hardly had a compliment paid to her in her life. He didn’t want to stop provoking that stunned smile: it was so endearing. Fingers crossed, the entirely natural response to Dorian’s beauty would ease off, and she would return to whatever tentative, budding thing she had with the commander.

Speaking of whom, he mused as Cullen approached, the man’s resting frown in place, I suspect I’m going to get some grief from him. Such a shame. “Commander,” he greeted him as Cullen fell in step next to him.

“Lord Dorian,” came the curt reply.

“Drop the ‘Lord’,” instructed Dorian breezily. “It hardly means anything here in the South, beyond reminding people that I’m a magister’s son. For some reason, that doesn’t seem to make people pretend to like me as much as it does back in Tevinter.” He was being flippant, he knew, but Dorian had long-perfected the art of pretending that nothing was wrong.

“Dorian, then,” Cullen acknowledged stiffly. “I gather that Lady― that Amrita has invited you to join her expeditions in future.”

“I asked her to,” he clarified. “I have no intention of letting Corypheus win. Not without someone from Tevinter standing against him.”

“And she just said yes?”

Dorian gasped mockingly. “Do I detect a note of suspicion, Commander? Or perhaps, a thinly-veiled accusation that I may have used blood magic to win her attention? I can assure you,” he said, lightness of tone betraying nothing of the bile that churned in his stomach at the thought, “there is nothing more sinister at play than my charm and good looks.” He winked at Cullen.

Cullen’s jaw tightened and his lips thinned as he looked away. He looked as though he was working himself up to say something, and so Dorian held his tongue. “I―” the commander started, then shook his head. “I’ve encountered more blood mages and demons than you can count, and seen them possess and control mages, templars and citizens, some of whom seemed fairly normal for a while, so you’ll pardon me for my caution.”

Templars. So bloody superior and proper. Rolling his eyes, Dorian replied, “Of course you have.” Cullen bristled at that, but Dorian did not give him the chance to speak. “Look, Commander: I detest blood magic. I’m not going to manipulate or hurt Amrita – far from it, as she’s the only person around here making an effort to treat me decently.” The commander opened his mouth, but Dorian ploughed on, feeling rather affronted, “If you have some jealousy issues to deal with, then they’re your issues to deal with. And you may want to reconsider your own position, Knight-Captain, as you’re not her keeper. It’s hardly a progressive friendship if you’re stopping her from making her own decisions.”

Cullen stared at him in cold fury before snapping, “We’re done here,” and stalking off.

Dorian watched him go, mildly disappointed that he had wrecked his chances, but on the whole happier that he had discovered that Cullen was a stuck-up git who probably didn’t even trust his mage ‘friends’ now rather than later. There were plenty of other men to distract Dorian until the physical attraction wore off.

And in the meantime, he was really going to bother him by becoming Amrita’s new best friend.

~~~

Sera had been approached by Amrita after the evening meal on that second day of the journey. She had quietly but sincerely thanked Sera for her words the previous night; listened to her rant; and walked away from the elf, leaving her feeling off-balance and wound-up, yet still slightly better for having splurged her worries over the Herald.

Sera didn’t get Amrita. Like, at all. She liked her well enough – well enough to point out when Cassandra was being a bitch to her – but she didn’t get her. Aside from their shared interest in helping people, a distrust of magic in general (yes, she’d picked that up, she wasn’t stupid, wasn’t it obvious in her face when she fought and in her purely practical use of it outside of battle?) and a distrust of Madame Horny-Hat in particular, they had almost nothing in common.

Amrita avoided conflict. Amrita preferred to forgive and trust in people than to make sure that arseholes weren’t given the chance to shit on others again. Amrita was soft-spoken, a little bit holier-than-thou, rather priggish, very prudy, and entirely incapable of having fun. Until Dorian had shown up, the jury had been out on whether she could even laugh. Amrita was methodical, controlled and hyper-aware of the consequences of her words and actions, and had a dangerous ‘for the greater good’ attitude which usually meant, ‘sacrifices must be made’, which usually meant ‘innocent people die because I’m more important’.

And then she went and pulled this shit. Willingly facing frigging archdemons and magister god monsters and death. For the little people.

How many people were actually willing to martyr themselves for the people underneath them?

And she had come back different. Sera wasn’t sure how different, but she was different. Still Amrita, but… harder? Tougher? More distant? More directed? At least in the daytime. She had seen Amrita leave the tent last night, and heard the other women talking, and felt the tremble in the Herald’s back when she came back and lay between her and Josephine. Broken and glued back together not quite right? Sera didn’t know. Sera hoped it was a good thing, and that the night terrors would ease off. Maybe Amrita would start being a bit more ruthless in dealing with baddies.

It scared Sera, a little. Well, the whole situation scared Sera a lot: as she had told Amrita during their conversation, there suddenly being truth behind the Chant was terrifying. But specifically, Amrita’s willingness to die scared her. Willingness to die for others. She didn’t want Amrita to die. Different as they were, Amrita wasn’t a bad person. She was a Good person, even if her morals got in the way of being a Sensible person. Amrita meant well, and didn’t speak to Sera as though she was mad or a child. Well, maybe she did speak to Sera as though she was a child, but if she did then she spoke to children as though they were people to be respected and listened to. Guess that came from being a teacher. A good teacher. Regardless, she listened when Sera worried about shit, and remained patient when the words wouldn’t come right.

Her willingness to die for others scared Sera because she didn’t think that she could do the same. For all her talk of helping the little people, self-preservation was ingrained in her. She could reason it out – if she was dead, what use was she to other people? – but to see someone lay down their life like that…

It was scary.

And a little bit awesome.

But mostly scary.

If only because the idea that Amrita might pull the same shit on them again, and actually die, and actually leave them in the lurch with Coryphy-shit and the rifts.

Maybe the Maker was real, but His bum certainly wasn’t on the throne if He was, and who knew how long Amrita’s luck would hold out without divine intervention?

~~~

Blackwall had no criticism of Amrita’s choice. Although he had only been with the real Blackwall a short time, and had not undergone his Joining, he understood sacrifice. Gordon had sacrificed himself for Thom despite clearly being the more valuable of the two. And the Grey Warden way of life was that of sacrificing a few for the sake of the people. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice.

It had been because he understood that that he had willingly gone with her on her mission. His training would be put to good use defending Amrita, and the world would hardly miss one not-actually-Grey Warden. He had been fully prepared to stay behind and man the trebuchet himself, if time had allowed and it had meant saving her.

She was, after all, probably Thedas’s last hope of averting a disaster that could spiral into one as bad as or worse than a Blight. And she was a good woman.

When she pulled him aside during the midday ration break on the third day of the march to ask him about darkspawn and fighting archdemons, he gave her what information he could, masking his ignorance behind order-bound secrecy. She did not complain or beg for more, simply accepting what he offered and thanking him for it. There was a quiet certainty in her manner, as though she had finally come to terms with her lot in life, although he would have been lying if he had said she seemed overtly happy about it. Resigned to her fate, more like it, and determined to do her best with it.

As she was turning to leave, he asked her, “Tell me honestly: are you what they say you are? Andraste’s chosen?”

She shrugged and glanced away. “There is so little I remember. I do not believe I am chosen by any force greater than chance, but many people do. What if they’re right?”

“Does it even matter?” She shot him a confused look, and he went on, pointing at the body of the Inquisition. “Don’t you see what you are to them? Without you, they’d be consumed by despair. We all would.” Her expression had shifted from bewilderment to stony blankness. “They need you to be Andraste’s messenger. It gives them hope. The truth doesn’t matter.”

Amrita made no reply for a long moment, instead looking out to the mountains. Chagrined by her silence, which seemed a dismissal of his words, Blackwall tried to recover some of his dignity through self-deprecation. “Ah, listen to me talk. Your time is valuable, and I’ve wasted enough of it.”

“Do not dismiss yourself like that,” she chided him gently, folding her arms and finally looking back to him. “I appreciate your advice and support, Blackwall. Perhaps you’re right,” she admitted quietly. “About it not mattering. So long as it does not interfere with my duties to them, the people can believe what they will. I have little enough time and energy to dwell on the multitude of opinions.”

“Wise words,” he agreed. “Our priorities are higher than that. Though I would not advise you to cease in your efforts to help those you meet and those you befriend, as your reputation is as powerful a tool in this game as a good sword. Not a tool I can wield myself, but you and Josephine make it work.”

Amrita laughed, the joyful sound welcome as it cut through the air. “Josephine is amazing, isn’t she? I don’t know what we’d do without her.” She smiled fondly at him. It looked good on her; made her look her age for once. “Thank you, Blackwall.”

Shaking his head bashfully, he replied, “Thank you for saving us all. You’ve proven yourself to be an honourable woman. Principled. I’ve great admiration for you, and I’ve never been more certain in my decision to join you.”

Then it was her turn to flush. “I… Thank you. Your confidence and faith in me… mean a lot.”

“Good. Don’t let Cassandra’s words bring you down. You did well. You’ll do more, and better.”

Ducking her head, she answered, “Not by myself, thankfully. Good day, Blackwall.”

“Good day, my lady.”

~~~

Varric’s first warning that something was up was when Cullen himself came to hand him the most recent piece of correspondence from Alistair, and the parchment on which he and Leliana had already written their replies. Normally Cullen delegated simple errands, and had done so throughout the previous few days. It was now day four of their march, and Cullen didn’t exactly look like he had the energy to spare passing messages around.

The second warning was when he hung around, waiting for the response. Cullen… didn’t get on badly with Amrita’s travelling companions, per se, but he didn’t exactly make a habit of socialising with them. He didn’t really make a habit of socialising with anyone. He and Varric had a rather stiff relationship from their overlapping time in Kirkwall, and a mutual interest in Amrita’s wellbeing, but Varric didn’t know whether Cullen had actually made any friends in the Inquisition bar the Herald. Mind, he didn’t seem to be in the best of health, and the new job was no doubt exhausting.

Still, Varric didn’t give it much thought, scratching out a reply to the king, until Cullen said, “They are… spending a lot of time with each other, aren’t they.”

Varric didn’t stop his writing. “Who?”

“Dorian and Amrita.”

“What,” Varric teased good-naturedly, eyes still down, “you jealous, Curly?”

“Wh-what?” Cullen spluttered, finally prompting Varric to look up. The commander was going bright red. “I― Don’t― Don’t be ridiculous, Varric!”

“What’s that?” whisper-shouted Sera, swooping in from Maker knew where. “Cully-Wully is jealous? Cully-Wully has a crush?”

“I do not have a crush on anyone,” he hissed down at her as she danced around him. “Stop saying that I do!” A few people were glancing round at them.

Sera cackled gleefully and clapped her hands. “I frigging knew it!” And then she darted away, sending a huge grin in Amrita’s direction.

Amrita glanced up at her briefly, smiled automatically at the elf, and then returned to her conversation, oblivious.

Smirking, Varric held the letter up. Cullen looked between Sera and the Herald in despair. “Don’t you worry, Curly. Buttercup won’t say anything; she likes holding the threat of it over your head. Me, on the other hand… Well, templars and mages fraternising make for great stories of star-crossed lovers.”

Cullen snatched the parchment from him and gave him a warning glare. “Drop it, Varric.” And then without giving Varric a chance to respond with more than a smug grin, the commander stomped off.

Well, then. Let’s see where that goes.

~~~

After his run-in with Varric and Sera, Cullen paced the camp, checking on his soldiers and sentries… so long as they were well away from where Amrita and her companions were hanging out. The accusation of jealousy bothered him more than it should have. He wasn’t jealous. Of anyone. Perhaps surprised that she had opened up so fast to the man. Perhaps a little perturbed by the delight they were taking in each other’s company. Certainly concerned about her life choices.

He had been wrestling with worry for the last few days, having no evidence on which to base his concern except… well, everyone knew what Tevinter mages could do. And the Venatori were from Tevinter. Amrita had welcomed Dorian into the Inquisition without a second thought and was clearly enamoured, and that fact made his insides go cold. What if Dorian had used blood magic on her outside of Haven to catch her in his thrall so as to insidiously work his way into a position where he―

But no. Cullen was being irrational. Well, not irrational, but perhaps unjust. Dorian had done nothing wrong save capture Amrita’s eye. Wasn’t Cullen just projecting his own fear of mages upon the man? Certainly, the man was an ass, but that in itself wasn’t a crime. Cullen was trying to be better, and had promised Amrita and everyone else that he would not make the same judgements he had made in Kirkwall or Kinloch Hold. Cullen had kept his own watchful eye on him nonetheless, out of fear Dorian would hurt her or be seen doing something immoral.

Should he say something to her? No. She would take Dorian’s side. He’s a mage, she clearly fancies him, and I’m the wicked templar. I’m not concerned purely because he’s a mage, that’s not― Well, it is, but it’s the KIND of mage he is that worries me. We all know what kind of mages are in Tevinter. She should know too. She should know better. So should I say something, or will that just make things worse?

Regardless of Dorian’s origins, opening up so fast to a stranger just because he was handsome and charming did not bode well for Amrita’s political dealings in future. The Orlesian courts would eat her alive if they knew that all it took to gain her ear was a flirtatious tongue. Perhaps it was an extension of her inexperience in friendship, becoming attached to people who were kind to her – the compliments Dorian had been paying had not gone unmissed. But at the same time, thus far her attachment had not translated into openness. It had taken weeks for her to even start expressing emotions freely to her inner circle, and Cullen suspected she had only let down her façade around him because he had already seen her at her lowest, that fateful night in the chapel.

He did his best to put the thoughts aside and focus on his job, but the camp settled down for the night and he was still fretting. Eventually, after one final circuit, he decided that he would speak to Amrita. He hadn’t actually spoken to her since he took her aside and took her pack, and he was… worried about her. Generally. He wouldn’t bring up Dorian.

She had handled things remarkably well for someone who had faced down an ancient Tevinter magister, suffered broken ribs and concussion and walked through a blizzard, coming dangerously close to death by hypothermia in the process. Since she had woken, she had tolerated her advisers’ squabbling and her companions’ unhappiness admirably, and led the remnants of the Inquisition through bleak and bitter mountains. In the evenings, Amrita helped to set up tents, just like everyone else, and then circulated the camp, speaking softly with almost all the survivors.

Survivors. Wasn’t that an awful word to use.

But she had done it. She had graciously borne all their adulation; all the assertions that she must truly be Andraste’s chosen prophet as she had as good as returned from the dead; all the hopes that they placed upon her shoulders.

Cullen knew she hated it. The soldiers had reported that she slipped out of the tent each night to be alone, even before Josephine and Leliana mentioned it. Never far enough to worry or be in danger, according to the guards – she never even went out of sight – but enough so that whatever prayers, petitions or tears she offered up would remain private. Josephine said that Amrita was struggling to sleep, and that she shook as she lay between the other women, most likely from a mixture of stress and fatigue.

Cullen sat himself down by the fire outside the women’s tent. The weather was cold, but not unbearable, and for a while he directed his attention to the small details that let him know he was alive – alive, thanks to Amrita’s sacrifice. He was here, wherever ‘here’ was. Flurries of snow. The crunch of snow beneath the sentries’ boots. The snuffling of the beasts. The stretch of the leather over his hands as he cracked his knuckles. The tickle of his mantle against his ever-more-bearded jaw. The smell of unwashed, pungent, living bodies, bodies with hot blood still pumping around inside of them. Not the bodies who were likely frozen under the avalanche, never to be found or put to rest properly. No, the bodies who were alive thanks to Amrita’s sacrifice and whatever force had ensured her survival – the Maker, destiny, luck.

Sure enough, when the moons were high in the sky, the tent flap opened and Amrita ducked out. She saw him. She froze.

“Amrita,” he greeted her gently.

“Cullen,” she replied breathlessly. “Why are you―”

He placed a finger to his lips. “May I walk with you tonight?”

She hesitated. Then, with a sharp nod, she turned her attention to sealing the flap behind her properly. Once done, she looked to him, and then led him out of the camp.

He nodded to the sentries as they passed, and did not miss their looks of relief as they saw that he was with her.

Tonight, she did not stand still, instead circling the camp. Cullen matched her pace, slow as it was, and murmured, “How are you holding up?”

She shrugged. “Solas says we should arrive the day after tomorrow. I imagine we are all looking forward to this march being over. How are you handling things? I know I didn’t manage to save much of the potion.”

“I am saving it for the worst nights. So far it’s been manageable,” he admitted, aware that it was because his body was so drained by the hike that even lyrium-withdrawal and visions of Amrita’s expression as she prepared to die couldn’t stop him from sleeping. “But that’s not an answer to my question.”

She shrugged again.

Maker, getting her to talk about herself and her feelings was like squeezing blood out of a rock. “Amrita, I know you aren’t getting much sleep. I know Cassandra got to you – Maker, she’s been going for me, too – and what you went through, what you saw, nobody expects you to be alright.”

“But I have to be.”

Cullen frowned. “What?”

“I have to be alright. No, I have to be better than alright. These people,” she resignedly said, “need me to be good and composed and perfect. I cannot let them down, or allow myself any weakness.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cullen snapped. She flinched away. He sighed. “Forgive me. I just― Madame de Fer’s been getting to you again, hasn’t she?” There was no reply. “I’ll take that as a yes. Yes, seeing you well and healthy lifts people’s spirits, but you won’t be well and healthy if you don’t take care of yourself. And acknowledging the pain you feel is part of that.”

She halted and wrapped her arms around herself. In a low voice, so low he almost missed it, she said, “Cullen, I don’t want you to think less of me―”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I am your friend, Amrita. I will not judge you for having feelings, or for hurting.”

Turning away from him, she was silent for a few minutes. He let her think.

Eventually, she swallowed and said, “I’m scared, Cullen.”

“Tell me.”

She choked back a laugh. “Everything. Corypheus. The Venatori. My friends dying. The Inquisition falling. Failure. Divine retribution. Cassandra and Leli―”

“Go back,” he interrupted, perplexed. “Divine retribution? Why? Because people keep calling you the Herald of Andraste and you think it's blasphemous?”

“In part,” she admitted, voice wavering, “but more because of what I did at Haven.”

“I don’t understand.”

She made a strangled noise in her throat. “How many people did I kill, Cullen? Hundreds? Thousands?” She turned back to him, and her eyes were glassy with tears.

Cullen folded his arms. “You did it to save dozens. Maker’s breath, Amrita, they were attacking us! The Chant says not to do harm unless provoked – I would say we were provoked!”

“But all those mages, Cullen!” she burst out. “Scared, angry, misled mages who thought we were going to hurt them. How many, Cullen? How many mages forced out of the Circles because they had no choice but to flee or die? How many apprentices, Cullen? How many children, dragged from their families, now torn from their homes and educations? How many brilliant minds died that night? Little Abathas and Wynnys and Dens and―” She broke off, choking, and twisted away from him. “And I killed them. With one shot from the trebuchet, and a decision to go to the templars first. I should have gone to the mages first,” she hissed, biting her hand.

Cullen yanked her hand away from her mouth and tugged her around. She refused to look at him. He had never heard her so… angry, angry and grief-stricken and turning it all inwards. “Amrita,” he said, demanding her attention. She refused it. “Amrita!”

Reluctantly, her eyes met his.

“What do you think would have happened if you had gone to the mages first?”

She did not reply.

“I’ll tell you. You would have met the mages’ Tevinter master. Maybe he would have cooperated – maybe not. Perhaps we could have allied with them – perhaps not. But then the Order would have been poisoned all the way through with red lyrium. We would be facing Therinfal, but across Thedas. Envy would never have been uncovered. We wouldn’t know that this Corypheus wants to kill Empress Celene, or that he’s planning to raise an army of demons. And for all we know, we would be sitting right where we are now after the red templars attacked Haven, lamenting that we didn’t go to the templars first.”

Amrita’s eyes were brimming over with tears, but Cullen kept going. “Amrita, you did the best that you could. What happened was… awful. But you must give yourself credit for all the good that you did before you criticise yourself for your failures. You saved some of the Order. You sealed the Breach. You fought through frailty and stress with an army and a dragon threatening you. You saved lives that night. You’ve done so well, and we are so proud of you. And I wish you could see that.”

He felt the tug of her hand as she tried to pull it back up to her mouth, and he held firm. Tears spilled over, running down her weather-worn face, and she tried so hard, so so hard, to hold them in. She shook. Her breath squeaked with every shallow gasp.

It broke his heart.

He opened his arms.

She hesitated, holding herself back.

“I won’t force you. But if you want… need…”

Dunk. Her forehead collided with his armour as she stepped in too quickly, but she didn’t retreat as she was engulfed by his mantle. Rather, she started sobbing. Maker, she was so small.

Cullen slowly wrapped his arms around her shoulders, giving her time to wriggle away if she was uncomfortable. But she didn’t, and a few moments later he felt arms work their way around his waist. Surprisingly strong arms; he could feel her grip pressing the armour into his back. Maybe she looked frail, but months of travel and staff-twirling must have had some effect, he supposed.

“Grieve all you want,” he murmured into her disarrayed hair. “Be angry. Be scared. Be confused. Cry. Whatever you need. But don’t turn that in on yourself. Be angry at the people who are hurting you. You’ve done so well, and been so badly hurt. You don’t need to hurt yourself, too.”

She only cried harder.

They stayed out until the shuddering gasps and tears subsided. Then Cullen lead her silently back to her tent, wished the wan and weary Herald an unanswered goodnight, and left her be.

He returned to the tent he was sharing with Varric, Blackwall, Solas, Rylen and, much to his chagrin, Dorian. The only relief he had was that Bull was sharing with the other Chargers. He thought he had navigated the sleeping bodies without disturbing anyone and lay down in the gap between the edge of the tent and the Tevinter magister. Altus. Whatever.

“So,” came Varric’s low, teasing voice. “Amrita, huh.”

Various chuckles sounded in the darkness.

“Sod off, Varric.”

~~~

“No,” said Leliana firmly. “Amrita is not suitable for the position of Inquisitor.”

“Why?” demanded Josie, eyes bright and fierce despite clearly being worn out by five days of marching and hard rations. “The people like and respect her, and what they believe she represents. She has proven herself able to fight, heal and show mercy. She tries her best and faces adversity. She brought the templars to us. She has King Alistair’s approval and support. She saved us all from the attack on Haven. Why is she unsuitable?”

Leliana rolled her eyes in frustration. Sometimes Josie could be so obtuse when she let friendship interfere with work. She had been fussing and worrying about Amrita since that first night when they left the tent, and was blinded to her obvious faults. “She is no leader, Josie. Vivienne is doing a remarkable job of coaching her posture considering Amrita lacks a backbone, but it does nothing about the fact that she doesn’t have one.”

“Now, now,” Cullen objected, folding his arms. He didn’t look well either. “That’s hardly fair. It took a lot of courage to face the red templars; and to stay behind in order to save us. Yes, she gets a bit wobbly in debriefing sometimes, but who can blame her? You aside,” he added with a glower. “She’s come a long way since the Conclave. We should acknowledge that.”

Shaking her head, Leliana replied, “She’s reactionary; she doesn’t lead. You’ve all seen how she avoids conflict at all cost,” she reminded them. Josie and Cullen glanced at each other; even they recognised the truth in her words. “When faced with an emergency she rises to the expectations placed upon her… and falls short. Her lack of negotiation at Therinfal. Putting the whole of Thedas in peril by sacrificing herself. She has no sense,” she stressed, “and certainly can’t handle the politics of the Grand Game. She can hardly stand up to us when she’s unhappy. Perhaps if we gave her a year and filled it with coaching, she might prove herself. But we don’t have that time.”

“And who else is there?” challenged Cullen. “Cassandra―”

“―Knows she would be even worse than Amrita at politics,” the Seeker interrupted grimly. Cassandra had been unusually reticent since the big argument with the companions, and had thus far stayed out of the dispute about who should become Inquisitor. With their arrival at Solas’s promised fortress imminent, a decision was needed soon.

Leliana snorted. She was angry, too angry, and she did not care any more for feelings. They had an Inquisition to run, an empire to save, Wardens to find and a monster to defeat. They needed to do their job; damn fragile feelings. “You would manage if you had to, Cassandra. It certainly wouldn’t be Cullen; his decision-making skills have been almost as questionable as Amrita’s as of late.” Cullen jerked back, as though struck by her words. Serves him right. “Perhaps we should consider demoting him to something less challenging. Knight-Captain Rylen has much the same experience, no?”

The tent flap opened up. As one, the four of them turned to look.

Amrita was standing there, scowling at Leliana.

Leliana stared coolly back. “Lady Amrita.”

“Don’t,” the Herald said, eyes narrowed. “Don’t― Don’t pretend that you did not just say all that. About Cullen. And about me.”

“How long have you been there?” asked Cassandra cautiously.

“I heard the comment about my lack of a backbone,” replied Amrita icily.

So she does not know that we were discussing who should become the Inquisitor, thought Leliana. “Lady Amrita―”

“No.” The Herald cut her off, raising a hand to stop her. “I am fed up with your― your― your attitude, Sister Nightingale. You have made it very clear since the moment I arrived that I do not belong here.” Amrita swallowed. “Maybe I don’t. I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want it. I didn’t even want to come to the Conclave. But you are stuck with me,” she practically hissed. “Maybe I would be doing better if I did not fear walking into war councils, knowing I was likely to be attacked by the people who are supposed to be helping me!”

Leliana said nothing. She had not expected such a retaliation. Cullen had gone quite pale. Josie pressed her hand to her mouth, holding back her shock. Cassandra refused to look at the Herald.

Amrita changed tack. “And you can leave Cullen out of this, too. He’s done nothing but protect the Inquisition. What I did at Haven was my decision. He should not suffer for it.”

“He should have stopped you.”

“What makes you think he would have succeeded?” Amrita folded her arms and stared challengingly at Leliana. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He did not even try―”

“And if he had, I would be upset with him, rather than you.” She shifted her weight onto one leg. “And consider this: without Cullen’s plan and my actions, you would be dead. We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Leliana’s lip curled. “Don’t think I’m not grateful for my life.”

“And why not think that? You don’t sound it,” snapped Amrita. She stalked up to Leliana and stared up at her. Small as the Herald was, she currently exuded a dangerous aura, literally chilling the room. Mira Surana had done much the same when pressed, although the Hero of Ferelden had filled the air with static. Leliana felt, for the first time, threatened by Amrita.

“Let me tell you something, Sister Nightingale,” the Herald said in a soft, warning voice. “I am not the Hero of Ferelden. I am not the Champion of Kirkwall. I am almost certainly not the Herald of Andraste, either. I am Amrita of Ostwick, a healer and teacher. I put my magic to good use protecting and caring for others.” Her eyebrows rose. “And right now, I am very angry because my charges have been threatened. The fact that I never asked for them is irrelevant. For whatever reason – fate, chance, the Maker – I have a job to do. So do you. And I can tell you that belittling and mocking your colleagues is not part of it. I suspect that, if what I have heard of Divine Justinia is true, she would be ashamed of you.”

Then she stepped back and looked to Cassandra. “I hope you have reconsidered your own priorities, Seeker Pentaghast. Commander; ambassador; I imagine we shall speak again when we arrive tomorrow,” she stiffly said, inclining her head towards them, before exiting the tent.

Leliana could not tell whether Amrita had registered the insufferably proud smile on Cullen’s face.

There was a long silence. Cullen gave Leliana a smug look that said, I told you so. She returned his gaze with her most withering stare, but for once it did not faze him.

Eventually, Josie cleared her throat. “What… was that about Amrita lacking a backbone, Leliana?”

Chapter Text

“Herald!”

Stomach clenching at the voice, Amrita turned to see Cassandra jogging up through the crowd towards her and Solas. She had expected retribution for last night’s outburst, and now it came, just to make her first day of bleeding even worse. Wearing her best blank face, she resigned herself to her fate and politely greeted the other woman as she halted. “Seeker Pentaghast.”

“If… I might have a moment of your time. I must speak with you.”

“Then speak.”

Cassandra hesitated, eyes flickering to Solas. “I… feel this should be said privately.”

Of course. It’s easier to chew me out alone: no one to judge her or back me up, and no one to see when I start crying.

Amrita could refuse. She was still angry. But her anger barely glowed in the shadow of fear and shame that had grown ever-larger overnight. She had crossed a line in her comments to Leliana. Even Cullen and Josephine had seemed shocked, and rightly so; it would be entirely reasonable of them to think her callous and uncouth. Amrita knew that it was unwise to refuse a templar – and when it came down to it, the Seekers of Truth were simply more powerful templars. “As you wish,” she murmured, stepping away from the elf.

They retreated a short distance from the Inquisition before Amrita swallowed and said, “I am sorry about last—”

“No,” came the swift interruption, pulling her up short. Cassandra frowned at her, but did not seem angry. Chagrined, perhaps. “You have no need to apologise, Amrita. I came to apologise to you.”

Amrita blinked. This, she had not seen coming. An apology to the wicked mage? Surely there was a mistake. “But what I said—”

“Was the truth. Leliana was unkind and unfair to both you and Cullen. As I have been.” Cassandra’s eyes darted away for a moment, but she quickly composed herself and met Amrita’s gaze. “I have not treated you with the dignity and respect I should have. I thought that because we were on a first-name basis, I was treating you like an equal. I was wrong. I was treating you as a child, unable to make sound decisions; when I wasn’t doing that, I was treating you as someone incapable of making poor decisions because you were chosen by Andraste, despite your unhappiness with this belief.”

Dropping her eyes, Amrita shuffled her feet a little.

“Most importantly, though,” Cassandra was continuing, “I was ignoring your humanity and only putting value on what you can do, rather than your existence. I hope you can forgive me.”

Amrita bit her lip. She saw very little wrong with that: her existence was a mistake and curse, and the only thing that began to absolve her of her innate sinfulness was what she could do with the powers she had been burdened with. Still, the Seeker meant well. It was kind of those around her to treat her with decency and look past her magic. “Thank you, Cassandra. I forgive you.” It was what needed to be said.

Cassandra chuckled. “You have given me a taste of what my trainers felt. I believed that you did not think before you acted. But you saw what had to be done, and you did it. It paid off. But please — at least try not to do it again?”

This time it was Amrita’s turn to chuckle. “I already said I would.”

“Good.” Cassandra patted her awkwardly on the arm. “It was brave of you to argue back last night. Do not apologise for it.” She cast about for words for a moment, and then shook her head. “We had best get back; the sooner we leave, the sooner we get to this fortress. I will see you later, Amrita.”

Amrita nodded, and followed the Seeker back to the retinue.

~~~

They reached the gates of Skyhold just after midday, and found themselves locked out. From what Amrita had made out on the approach, there were two portcullises guarding the keep, so it would be a while until they got inside. As the soldiers got to work trying to open the first one, Cullen tapped Amrita on the shoulder. Aware of her current uselessness, she followed him back down the path until they were alone.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, concerned but truly uncertain what to expect. Was his health deteriorating? Did he want to berate her about last night? Had another issue arisen?

“As alright as it can be,” he replied, dropping himself down wearily onto a rock at the side of the path. “Morale has greatly improved since we sighted Skyhold, but I don’t know how long that’ll last – we’re low on supplies, and although our last message from Alist— sorry, the king, said that supplies are moving north to help tide us over until we’re properly set up, there will still be a delay as we try to find them and then bring them back.”

Amrita sat herself next to him, shuffling into his side after a moment. When he looked down at her in surprise, she felt her cheeks warm up. Still, his cheeks were pink and raw too, so it probably did not show. “Windbreak,” she explained.

He laughed, and she felt a little of the worry ease away. With a gentle tug on the Fade, she started a warming spell, and was gratified to see him relax as well. The warming spell was for his sake, but she benefitted too as the cramps in her belly subsided a little.

“You sometimes forget the king’s title,” she observed. “I gather he trained as a templar before becoming a Grey Warden. Did you know each other?”

He scratched the back of his neck and looked away. “I… Yes. He was a few months older than me. The knight-lieutenant overseeing the initiates assigned him to the task of settling me in when I joined at thirteen; he had been there since he was ten, and I had a lot to catch up on. We became… close, over the years.” Cullen cleared his throat. “He was recruited to the Grey Wardens before he took his vows. It was a good thing – unlike me, he hadn’t wanted to join the templars, and he was desperately unhappy at the monastery. Said I was the only thing he’d miss,” he snorted, but it was a sad sound. “We— We fell out of touch. Since joining the Inquisition, however, our duties have brought us into contact again.”

Surprising herself a little with her boldness, Amrita placed a hand on his arm, ignoring the chill of his engraved vambrace. “Was he with the Hero when—”

“Yes.” His clipped answer left no space for further discussion. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Amrita tensed up.

Pressed against his side as she was, he noticed it. “I just wanted to congratulate you on last night.”

“C-congratulate?” she spluttered. “Why would you—”

“It was brave of you. Leliana wasn’t wrong when she said you don’t stand up for yourself often,” he acknowledged. She dropped her chin as he continued, “Doing that took courage. I think we’d all like to see that side of you more often. Cassandra told me earlier that she apologised, and that she was impressed by you.”

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Amrita shifted uncomfortably. “Cullen, I was rude—”

“You really weren’t that rude. Maker knows, you were more tactful than I’d have been, or Cassandra, if we were that angry. Leliana has been unfair to you. And you were following my advice, weren’t you?” he added with a quiet chuckle. “To be angry with the people hurting you. You did the right thing, defending yourself, and it meant more that it came from you than from myself, or Josephine. Leliana’s really reconsidering you.”

Amrita wrapped her arms around herself. There was a strange, hot, queasy sensation in her innards: something between mortification and pride. She was unused to being praised for letting her negative emotions get the better of her; for so many years, she had desperately locked down frustration and fear and fury lest she hurt someone. “She insulted you. My friend. I couldn’t let that stand. Friends… stand up for each other, yes?”

He leaned down to catch her eye. “They also build each other up so they can stand up for themselves.”

They were frozen like that, green eyes staring into gold, when from nearby there was a delicate but deliberate cough. Cullen shot up onto his feet and Amrita twisted sharply to see one of the soldiers on the path. A familiar face. Jim? His gaze was averted and he was blushing like… like… well, the metaphor of a flattered dowager was what came to mind, but Amrita had never actually seen one to compare to.

“What?” growled Cullen. Amrita glanced up at him, and saw that he, too, was rather more pink-cheeked than a moment ago. She swallowed; the rumour that Cullen fancied her was one she was determined to ignore, lest it spoil a perfectly good but still delicate friendship. Maybe the funny feeling she got when she thought about it would go away.

The soldier struggled to get his words out. “S-Seeker P-P-Pentaghast asked me to t-tell you that we got into the keep.”

“Already?” they exclaimed simultaneously.

“How?” demanded Cullen.

“I— I don’t know, ser! Madame de Fer just — walked through the portcullis!”

Amrita and Cullen looked at each other and raised their eyebrows. Amrita flatly said, “Frankly, I am amazed that she didn’t just order the thing to open up.”

“I’ll… just leave you two alone, now I’ve passed that on.” Jim fled.

The implication of his words sunk in for a few moments.

Then they walked up to Skyhold in silence, avoiding eye contact.

~~~

The next week passed in a blur. They set up camp within the walls, using whatever parts of the structure were still sound for shelter. Cullen established guard rotations, and drilled the soldiers as best he could in any free space they could find. Josephine and Leliana dealt with contacts and requisitions, rerouting previous supply lines and calling in what favours they could. Amrita, with some encouragement from Vivienne and Cassandra, marshalled the mages and any unoccupied members of the Inquisition into clearing the ramparts and fortress of beams, rubble and debris, as well as sorting what furniture left by the previous occupants was worth keeping.

She also avoided Leliana wherever possible, but occasionally caught either the spymaster herself or her agents watching her thoughtfully. That made her anxious: if Leliana wanted her observed unseen, it could be done, and so the logical conclusion was that Leliana wanted Amrita to know that she was being watched. To what end, Amrita did not know, but she doubted it was pleasant.

Amrita broke up an argument between Solas and Vivienne, earning the enchanter’s displeasure when she refused to banish Cole. She did not succeed in saving the soldier Cole wanted to help, but she did manage to numb his pain so he did not die in agony. Cole appreciated her efforts.

The supplies promised by King Alistair (At least a part-settlement of the debt we owe for what you did at Therinfal Redoubt, he had written in one letter) arrived on the last day of Cloudreach, just as the rations from Haven completely ran out. Knight-Captain Delrin Barris lead the convoy and the other templars: the king had had to return to Denerim. There was still no word on Amrita’s missing cousin.

After that, more and more people arrived. First a trickle, and then a steady flow of volunteers and refugees. Some wanted to fight. Some were craftsmen, traders, farmers, servants of the Chantry: people who wanted to help in other ways. Someone even said that a barkeeper had shown up.

On the fourth of Bloomingtide, she remembered to seek Cullen out. She found him watching Rylen demonstrate the finer points of deflecting magic with a shield. The commander smiled at her as she appeared at his side, but blanked as she wished him a happy birthday. Flushing bright red in embarrassment at her apparent misstep, Amrita began to stutter out an apology, but he thanked her and admitted that he had lost track of the days. His eyes creased in fondness as he confessed he was surprised that she had remembered, and Amrita smiled back, warmth at having pleased a friend surging through her.

Then his gaze lifted to something above her and his expression dropped. Amrita twisted around to see Sera grinning at the pair of them as she leaned out of a window on the soon-to-be-tavern’s first floor. There was a moment of silence, before Amrita excused herself and refused to lift her eyes from the floor until she was back inside the main hall.

~~~

The next day, Skyhold was buzzing. People whispered behind their hands to each other and watched Amrita, but none would speak to her beyond polite, suspiciously cheerful greetings. Something was going on, and her brain could not help but conjure up awful images of what could happen, despite the positive mood.

Amrita was asked to inspect the defences, such as they were. After making a circuit of the walls with Blackwall and Rylen, she was shown the room with the controls to the portcullis. When she emerged, blinking in the midday sun, she found the advisers huddled together in the courtyard – or bailey, as Cullen had taught her.

Cassandra was the first to notice her, and prompted the others to turn around. Cullen, Cassandra and Josephine wore knowing smiles, and even Leliana did not look unhappy. Amrita’s stomach lurched in anticipation. But still, when Cassandra waved her over and the others dispersed, Amrita went to her.

The Seeker clasped her hands behind her back, and looked to tents where the overflow of people were housed until more of Skyhold was habitable. “They arrive daily from every settlement in the region. Skyhold is becoming a pilgrimage.” After a moment’s silence, she turned and started walking towards the steps, not waiting for Amrita to follow. “If word has reached these people, it will have reached the Elder One. We have the walls and numbers to put up a fight here, but this threat is far beyond the war we anticipated. But,” acknowledged Cassandra as they paused under the arch of the stairs, “we now know what allowed you to stand against Corypheus — what drew him to you.”

Suddenly conscious of the ever-fizzing mark, Amrita hugged herself and squeezed her arms down onto her gloved hands. “He came for the Anchor,” she replied softly. I am irrelevant — whoever had the Anchor would have been targeted. And now he wants me dead.

Cassandra started walking again. “The Anchor has power,” she agreed, leading them up the stairs, “but it’s not why you’re still standing here. Your decisions let us heal the sky. Your determination brought us out of Haven. You are that creature’s rival because of what you did. And we know it. All of us.”

They reached the first landing of the steps. Amrita faltered in her stride as she saw Leliana standing there, an ornate greatsword resting on her upturned hands. What—

“The Inquisition requires a leader: the one who has already been leading it.”

Slowly, weighed down by dread and sudden understanding, Amrita turned to the lower bailey. It was filled by the Inquisition. Faces of all shapes and colours, staring up at her in anticipation and misguided adoration. Up on the ramparts she had inspected earlier were her travelling companions, as well as a few other familiar faces. There was red and black and gold and blue movement at the front of the crowd, and Amrita’s eyes flicked back down to Cullen and Josephine, whose expressions were… so sincerely proud that, for a second, Amrita could almost believe that she was their equal, that she was good, that her magic didn’t matter.

But it did.

“You,” Cassandra confirmed.

“Perhaps I didn’t hear you correctly,” replied Amrita, fighting her diaphragm for control of her breathing as she turned to Cassandra. “A mage at the head of the Inquisition?”

“Not a mage. You.”

“I happen to be a mage.” Nobody seems to understand this fact. Why do they all treat me as though I’m not cursed?

Cassandra straightened up and inhaled through her nose in a way that made Amrita cringe. She recognised it as the Seeker’s I-disapprove-but-I-am-going-to-control-myself response. Diplomatically, Cassandra replied, “I will not pretend no one will object, but times are changing.” Smartly stepping to one side, she gestured to Leliana, who proffered the blade. “Perhaps this is what the Maker intended.”

Amrita hesitantly approached the spymaster. Not looking up, she stated in bewilderment, “You really mean this, don’t you.”

“There would be no Inquisition without you. We know you do not believe that ‘Herald’ is a title you deserve, but ‘Inquisitor’ is one you have earned. No one will argue that, except perhaps you.” Even as Amrita glanced dubiously at Leliana, the spymaster nodded and Cassandra repeated, “No one. How it will serve, how you lead: that must be yours to decide.”

Amrita stared at the blade. Could she accept this responsibility? This role? The weight of the Inquisition’s expectation was palpable, and Amrita realised that with their eyes upon her, she could not refuse them. She dared not. Maker – I really am that malleable.

But they believed in her. Believed in her ability, and suitability for the role. These were people older, wiser, stronger than her, people she respected, even if they scared and perplexed her at times. And apparently, they respected her enough to entrust her with this duty. It would have been entirely acceptable to ask Cassandra or someone else to lead and direct Amrita to where she was needed.

Encouraged by that thought, she reached out and gripped the pommel of the sword. She managed to lift it — just about. “With fear running rampant,” she murmured, “they need to see a mage standing for what is right. But I have never wanted to rule anyone: I’ll defeat Corypheus standing with them, not over them.”

“Wherever you lead us,” returned Cassandra, smiling and coming to the edge of the landing. Raising her voice, she called out, “Have our people been told?”

“They have,” Josephine replied, voice carrying over the multitudes. “And soon, the world.”

Amrita could hardly bear to look down at the ambassador’s face – her friend’s face – as she gazed up at her.

“Commander, will they follow?”

Cullen turned to the people. “Inquisition! Will you follow?”

The roar filled the fortress grounds, sending a flock of birds fleeing from a watchtower, and she hardly heard the next questions as Cullen raised his arms. “Will you fight? Will we triumph?”

Amrita’s throat tightened as the roar grew louder, and she had to blink away tears as her vision blurred. These people believe in me. I must not fail them.

He drew his sword in salute as he turned back. “Your leader! Your Herald!” For just a second, discomfort passed over his face, knowing her hatred of the title. But it vanished, easing into simple, blatant pride and determination as he shouted, “Your Inquisitor!”

After a quick glance at Cassandra, Amrita returned the salute, lifting the sword above her head. Caught up in the mass’s euphoria, she grinned at her applauding – and in Sera’s case, whooping – companions, leaning on the parapet. They had all been in on it – the whole of the Inquisition had been in on it. A flash of gold caught her eye down below, and she looked to see Josephine cheering. When Cullen peered around at her in a comically amused fashion, Josephine quickly reined herself in, flustered, but Amrita couldn’t help but laugh.

Maker, she was lucky to have these people in her life.

She half-wished that her friends from the Conclave could see her now. Would they be proud of her? Displeased that she now stood at the head of a militant organisation with Andrastian foundations?

Even as nausea at the thought grew, she believed that they would at least be glad that she had grown since the journey. And she would certainly do whatever she could to apply her new powers to supporting and lifting their peoples.

Amrita lowered the sword before her arm gave out, and at Cassandra’s prompting, followed Leliana up into the hall, where the celebrations outside were muted. Amrita gazed around, examining the room with fresh eyes. This… was hers? Her space? No, that sounded wrong, because it was for the Inquisition. But it was her Inquisition. Her people. Skyhold was for her people. She had been put in charge. Because she had earned it. Apparently.

She looked to the spymaster. “Sister—”

“You have come to prove your strength and determination in the face of adversity – a fine trait for a leader,” came the swift interruption.

“I— Thank you.” Maybe her outburst had done some good. “I presume I can still rely on you for your advice?”

“But of course.”

A moment later Cullen and Josephine joined them.

“So this is where it begins,” Cullen mused, turning around and inspecting the hall even as he moved towards Amrita and Leliana.

“It began in the courtyard,” Leliana corrected him. “This is where we turn that promise into action.”

With that, so began the first war council of Inquisitor Amrita of Ostwick.

~~~

That evening, when the war council was finally over, Amrita emerged out into the grounds. By that time, the celebrations at her appointment had largely disintegrated into drinking and general merriment. After what they had been through, Amrita in no way begrudged them that. Their last such occasion had been rudely interrupted by Corypheus.

She tolerated the socialisation and repetitive congratulations and offers of drinks for a couple of hours before she slipped away, up to the ramparts. She sat on the low parapet, keeping well away from the edge. For a while she watched the Inquisition being happy, their faces lit by warm fires and silver moonlight, and even when the occasional coarse drinking song broke out she just stuffed her fingers in her ears until the raucous racket ceased.

Many of these people are here because of what I did, she realised. Faolán was right: I am not responsible for all the bad things happening, and I am in fact responsible for some good. Cursed and predisposed towards evil I may be, but that does not mean that it is inevitable that I perform evil acts. I can do good things, just as I can do bad things. While I must remain vigilant, it seems that I have done more good than bad; enough for people to trust me. Of course, I now have a terrifying amount of power. I must truly use it, and my magic, to serve.

The compassion spirits seemed pleased by her epiphany; calm in a way she could not remember.

“There you are!”

Amrita yelped and threw up a barrier as she twisted around. There, at the top of the steps, was Cullen, hands raised in peace. “Oh,” she gasped, letting the barrier go and pressing her hand to her chest as she sagged. “You startled me.”

He didn’t even bother to reply to that, simply quirking an eyebrow. You don’t say? “Mind if I join you, Inquisitor?”