Sensus Fidei Fidelium

by empychosnomos

Summary:

"There were many ex-Templars in the Inquisition, to Erika’s distaste, but there was only one Templar, with a capital T. The Templar, though from Kirkwall, was infamous even at Ostwick, one of the few whose name all mages in the Free Marches knew. Knight-Captain Cullen. Everyone always used to say his name like it was one word: Knightcaptaincullen. He belonged to that illustrious category of Templars, to whom their regular self-righteousness was insufficient, and new and inventive kinds had to be devised on the daily."

A mage!Trevelyan/Cullen romance where they both have a lot of issues, most of which will only be exacerbated in this fic.

Notes:

Soooo I didn't like Veilguard and so I'm writing things that I should have written 10 years ago ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Tags (and rating) will be updated as the chapters go on.

Chapter 1: Erika I

There was something deeply unnerving about losing one’s name. After she had emerged out of the Fade, there was no more Erika Trevelyan, thereafter there was only the Herald of Andraste. It seemed impossible to people that she had even existed before that moment, that there ever was a living, breathing person replaced by the weight of the unwanted title. The person in question, being the named Erika Trevelyan, found herself in silent contemplation by the fireplace, hiding in the back rooms of Haven’s Chantry, trying to eat her breakfast in peace.

Hiding was the operative word; as she felt like a circus freak on display whenever she ventured outside. The Inquisition was comprised of many peoples from all walks of life, but very few of them rational enough for Erika’s tastes. One unexplained occurrence, and everyone was up and crying Andraste! Pointing and whispering as she passed, the Herald, the Herald! Was there some naming authority that only gave out the most insipid titles imaginable, or was she to be uniquely cursed?

It was not that she did not believe in the Maker; she simply despised Him. After all, was she not in direct opposition to him just by polluting His air with her abominable mage breath? The Maker, his Prophet, and all their professed servants were natural enemies of all mages, and the patronising paternalistic guidance they sought to provide brought only misery. The presumptuousness of it all, to expect thinking, feeling beings to consent to live out the rest of their lives in cages, and to think that by not calling it slavery, the implications of the word would be avoided! And to be thought of as the Herald of that !

Erika sighed deeply at the thought. If only she could remember what had happened at the Conclave! There was a black hole where her memories of the event were, and no matter how hard she tried to focus she could not bring them back. She was sure that it had nothing to do with Andraste, and longed to disprove the connection. It obviously had to have been some previously unknown type of magic that placed this green mark on her, connected to the tears in the Veil that had appeared all over. She exhaled in frustration; the only thing she missed from Ostwick’s Circle was the library. If she had access to magical research, she might have already arrived at some kind of conclusion. Or if the research the Circle had amassed had not been restricted by the meddlesome Chantry. Who knows what kind of knowledge they could have had by now, if the mages were left unfettered by the unreasonable demands of those unlettered altar lickers! She had, after all, never seen a Templar with a book. Who knew if they even could read.

But there was a glimmer of satisfaction to be found in her situation, after all, she thought, a bitter smile on her face. What would her family think, she, their mage stain of dishonour, as the Chosen of Andraste! They were all very devout, her father and brother to the point of fanaticism, her mother and sisters more fashionably so. To be born a mage into such a family was a curse of the highest order.

Erika’s father had never been especially gentle with his children, but there was a time, once, when she had been considered the favourite, well above and beyond her half-wit brother. She knew the whole Chant of Light by heart at only six years old, and could recite it with all the proper inflections and dramatic pauses. Her father would show her off at the Trevelyan soirees, pride beaming on his usually stern face. But then her magic had manifested, and her pampered life had turned to dust. Then her father had decided that he had three children instead of four. 

It was said he never looked on Erika’s mother after Erika had been taken to the Circle, wailing and crying, for it was her mother’s blood that had brought magic to contaminate the two hundred year old unbroken pure Trevelyan line. As Ostwick’s Circle was in the city proper, she often heard of her family, even if she rarely saw them. They mostly liked to pretend she did not exist. This broke her of her childish faith, as anything her family held to be valuable after their betrayal, she categorically could not. 

Erika used to console herself that if she had not been a mage, her life would have been similarly meaningless. She would have possibly been married by now, and become as dull as all the rest of them. None of it was very conducive to learning, as at least in the Circle she could read (mostly) unimpeded. Now, liberated, she saw that it had been a child’s desperate comfort. What could compare to breathing free air, to see the skies stretching above her, no limit to her horizon!

But the Circle had left its mark on her, she thought dispiritedly. She was uneasy in speaking to non-mages, which probably came off as haughtiness on her part, and tired easily from long ventures into the Fereldan countryside, unused as she was of walking long distances. How much did the Templars have to answer for! Whole generations of mages, left stunted, both physically and mentally. But she could hardly relate to the non-mages, as she could not understand them. She thought theirs only a half-life, cut off from the Fade and its terrifying but comforting power. What could they possibly have to say to her ? And she to them?

Of the mages in Haven, she was only comfortable speaking with Solas, really; she had never met an apostate before, and was consequently fascinated by everything he had to share, and they got along very well. He was living proof that one could resist temptation even without the constant monitoring, which heartened Erika greatly. She looked everywhere for proof of mage self-sufficiency, and rejoiced in each example she found. Vivienne (Erika refused to call her anything but her name), on the other hand, was an ideological opponent; one she could respect; but an adversary nonetheless. She was frightening in her poise, and immediately upon their meeting, tried to assume an almost authoritarian stance over Erika. But Erika would not have it, as she had just gotten out from under the thumb of Enchanters, and would not be compelled to resume what never should have been in the first place. They would not be recreating the perpetual childhood of the Circle at Haven, this she swore to herself.

At this thought, Erika brought her hand up to her face, and rolled it side to side, watching its shining green light refract, and frowned at it. It was disgustingly bright, and she had to place it under three different pillows if she wanted to sleep at night. And Cassandra had almost had her killed because of it. But because of its utility, she had been strongly encouraged to remain with the Inquisition, by its Council. This was mostly fine with her, as she had nowhere else to go, but she was unsure of the institution itself, its origins too closely tied to the Chantry after all. Its goals seemed practical, and she supposed that attempting to fix the Breach brought some kind of purpose to her existence. It was strange, to finally have it, as life in the Circle was purposeless by design. Erika previously held no ambitions because there was no use in having them, but now freed, she found herself greedy for recognition. She thought her talents no lesser than Solas’ and Vivienne’s, and her opinions and strategies much more sensible and to the point than the dithering of the Inquisition Council. And the Council, to her amazement, seemed in agreement with her, as Cassandra insisted that she attend each meeting, and if she would remain quiet for too long, she would be pushed to contribute. Nine times out of ten, it would be Erika’s plan that would be followed, she thought, faintly smiling to herself.

But there was one dampener, and it took the form it usually did in a mage’s life.

The Templar.

There were many ex-Templars in the Inquisition, to Erika’s distaste, but there was only one Templar , with a capital T. The Templar, though from Kirkwall, was infamous even at Ostwick, one of the few whose name all mages in the Free Marches knew. Knight-Captain Cullen. Everyone always used to say his name like it was one word: Knightcaptaincullen. He belonged to that illustrious category of Templars, to whom their regular self-righteousness was insufficient, and new and inventive kinds had to be devised on the daily. The Templar was not even a Marcher, but was sent from his Fereldan backwater to harass the Kirkwall mages, having presumably ran out of any at his home. The tales that reached Ostwick from Kirkwall, spoke of a dire situation under his and his Knight-Commander’s command; Tranquilisations for the least offences, ruthless hunting of apostates, the beatings, the confinements and sedations, even the rapes, if some were to be believed. It was a common threat of the Ostwick Templars; step out of line, and you will be sent to Kirkwall, to the tender mercies of the Knight-Commander and her loyal attack hound. 

And then there had been the Kirkwall Chantry explosion, a light in the dark for the mages, a call for open rebellion which started a chain reaction which freed all Circles, and it had all started under the Templar’s direct command, under his squeezing. Erika supposed she should be grateful to him, as otherwise she still would have been imprisoned, she thought, a faint smile on her face.

When she had first been introduced to him by Cassandra,  as the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces,  it could not be said which one out of the two of them had been more shocked. Erika had been unprepared to meet him, had no idea he had even been at the Conclave, and so barely managed to say two words to him. It had been like meeting a monster out of legend in the flesh, a threat often repeated now materialised before her.

He, on the other hand, seemed appalled to be asked to speak to her, and only grunted and sneered before turning away.

Erika could tell he could not stand her presence in the Inquisition. The other mages he barely tolerated, but he seemed to actively despise her in particular. He never called Erika by her name, only called her You, and even that word would barely pass his tongue, as if he was expelling something unpleasant. He rarely deigned to speak to her, and when he did, it was with the tone of a man unused to answering to mages. 

Erika herself was not thrilled with his presence. She had managed to get over her initial fear of him, but he made her very uneasy, and made her doubt the Inquisition’s purpose anew. Were they truly separate from the Chantry and its tenets, if their forces were to be led by this ruthless mage butcher, whose reputation would surely precede him wherever he went? She felt watched at the Council meetings, which brought back the disquieting feeling of her Circle years, of being dissected and found somehow wanting, as if he knew what she was hiding.

This precarious detente had continued for some time, but soon anger had overpowered her fear. Was she never to have a moment's peace from the Templars and their disdainful looks? She had marched up to him (outside, in full view of half the Inquisition, just in case he tried something), and demanded that he tell her if he had a problem with her. And the bitch-born bastard told her he wouldn't if she behaved! She to behave!  A Fereldan hound-lover to speak like that to a Marcher Trevelyan! Did they not teach any manners in that turnip field he had crawled out of! She had stormed off from him in a rage, too incensed to think of what to reply. 

This had been yesterday, and Erika was still stewing in her indignation. She would take her revenge on him in some way, but could not figure how as of yet. What were his qualifications anyway, to be leading anything? He had been not only a tyrant, but an incompetent one to boot. Erika generally found incompetence to be worse than tyranny. 

She was startled from her resentment by a sudden opening of the door. Speak of the Demon and he shall appear; the Templar himself barged in (no doubt used to intruding in many a mage’s quarters), and stopped upon locking eyes with her. She went to her feet, uneasy at being below him.

“You are wanted in the War room”, he said imperiously, and turned to the door, holding it open. He obviously wanted her to go in front of him. 

Afraid that I will curse him from the back, the coward , Erika thought bitterly as she passed him to leave the room. He followed two steps behind her, like a mage hunter returning a runaway apostate, and they walked in uncomfortable silence.

The hallways seemed interminable to her, and his presence at her back robbed her of her anger and returned the fear. She had an additional reason for her apprehension of him; her great secret.

Ostwick’s Circle had rebelled not long after Kirkwall’s had; and in the confusion and the fighting and running, Erika had never actually had a Harrowing. She thought her secret was fairly safe; most of the people who had known that she was technically still an untested apprentice were killed in the rebellion. She had only found out what the Harrowing actually entailed from Vivienne, and that had been only by accident. Erika had felt a profound sense of relief that she had never been subjected to that sort of Templar barbarity. But there was a niggling feeling always present with her. What if there was a chance they were right, anxiety would grip her . Even the Tevinter Circles had Harrowings, or so she had heard, and there the mages governed themselves. If they had also found the need to have Harrowings, there might be a genuine use for them. Maybe it was necessary to be tested young, so that when greater tests arrived, one could be more secure in overcoming them. 

But a greater fear was less of herself, and more of the Templar at her back. He was deeply suspicious of her already, and he thought her a regular Circle mage. He would surely smite her where she stood if he had any inkling that she walked around unharrowed at her age. To his kind, she might as well be a full abomination already.

She felt a hand on her lower back, which roused her from her spiralling, and flinched. She must have slowed down, deep in thought as she was, and so the Templar had come up pressed directly behind her. She turned her head to look at him; he stared down at her sternly, and motioned with his eyes for her to continue.

She turned back around, shivering slightly, and started walking again to their destination.

His hand remained at her back the entire time.

Chapter 2: Cullen I

 

 

The sky was darkening over the horizon, the servants were rushing in the room to light candles, scurrying around the gathered Inquisition council so as to not draw attention to themselves. Cullen rubbed his eyes in frustration. It was only afternoon and he was ready to be finished with the day. It had been early when the council had met to discuss recruitment of potential allies in closing the Breach, and yet nothing had come even close to being settled, even as the meeting entered its fifth hour. 

 

Everything of some purpose had already been said hours ago, and yet the meeting persisted, as none of its five participants were willing to concede their positions even the slightest bit, even as their arguments had long lost their coherence. The council was split firmly down the middle, with Cassandra and Cullen in favour for the Templars, and Leliana and Trevelyan for the mages. Josephine refused to break their tie and pick a side, instead opting to constantly remind them of drawbacks and advantages of either side. Obviously the Templars were the more sensible option, as Cullen had vehemently expressed many times. He felt compelled to repeat it another time, to the collective groan of Leliana and Josephine.

 

Trevelyan was silent at first, stewing in the corner with her arms crossed, but she found her voice quickly enough as he finished speaking:

 

“What is the sensibility our Commander speaks of, I wonder. He keeps saying that word, and will provide no explanation for it. Why call for a Templar to do a mage’s work? Or perhaps he only wishes to fill our ranks with more of his own, with no thought to their utility? But has forethought ever been a Templar trait?”

 

She spoke to the room in general, in a deceptively light tone, which turned to hissing as her last sentence reached its end.

 

He reddened at her words, and spoke with rising anger in his voice:

 

“Perhaps Mistress Trevelyan, when she deigns to speak, might take into consideration anything else but her own barely disguised ulterior motives, to make us into her shelter for poor maleficarum, murderers and torturers that they are-”

 

“The Commander, I’m sure, knows more about torture at most-”

 

“Listen well, girl-”

 

“Enough!” Cassandra had slapped her hand on the table. “Calm yourselves, the both of you!”

 

Cassandra’s words snapped Cullen out of his haze, and he looked wildly about the room. In his fury, he had gone up to Trevelyan without noticing, and appeared to be almost cornering her. They both looked as if they were seconds from getting into a physical fight, chests puffed and fists clenched. Trevelyan was still shaking in anger, her fine features twisted into a grimace. 

 

“My apologies”, Cullen muttered, still keeping Trevelyan in his gaze, and retreated to a safe ( appropriate ) distance. He had once again been provoked by a mage, as he had swore to himself never again to be. Unworthy, as ever, of any titles and responsibilities, he thought, furious at himself.

 

Cassandra made a clicking noise in disapproval, but looked to be satisfied at this. In the corner of his eye he saw Leliana and Josephine briefly exchange glances, but could not discern their meaning.

 

Trevelyan remembered herself as well (though it took her longer than him), and took a deep breath before speaking. Her voice was still unsteady, even as she made no apologies:

 

“Let us at least speak to the mages at Redcliffe. Surely everyone present can agree that leaving an army right at our doorstep, whether they be hostile or friendly, is unwise, at the very least? Doubly so if Tevinter is involved.”

 

She leaned on the table, nose high, as she looked around the room, searching for dissent.

 

She found none.

 

There was nothing to object to in this at least. An unchecked rabble of mages was a danger indeed, though he was loath to agree with the girl. She still wanted putting in her place.

 

But he would not play at Meredith even if she would at Orsino. He, at least, knew decorum. The Templars, after all, could be reached later, and they need not commit to anything substantial in regards to the mages. 

 

Trevelyan’s eyes shined in triumph when she saw he would argue no further, and a faint smirk appeared on her lips. He wanted to wipe it off her face. 

 

The rest of the speaking was done by the others, and it was decided that Trevelyan would lead the foray into Redcliffe the next day, to speak with the mages. She was very pleased with herself, he saw, as he had been watching her intently. This only served to infuriate him further, and to solidify his determination to stop her from dragging them all into ruin.

 

They were all turning to leave, and he deliberately placed himself by the door. Trevelyan went to leave last, as he had hoped, and he threw his arm in front of the door, blocking her passage.

 

She flinched at his movement, and raised her eyes to him, fury returning to them in full force. 

 

“Not so hasty, if you please”, Cullen said, staring down at her.

 

“I do not please”, she kept her gaze locked with him for a few seconds more, and then uneasily shifted her eyes downward, as if daunted.

 

This emboldened him: “You will please”, he said, with steel in his voice. “I have allowed this excursion , but do not take me as easily duped. Do not think to overreach and make promises to the mages which you have no authority to make. Every one of the mages you bring, if you manage to bring any, will be rigorously checked, and will certainly not be allowed to pretend to be an ordinary person and disturb the rest of the populace. I will not suffer any abominations under my command.”

 

Trevelyan opened her mouth in indignation as if to interrupt, finding her courage again, but he raised his hand in front of her face before she could speak.

 

“Do not interrupt me. This includes you as well. We have all been far too lenient, to the point of negligence. Do not think that I will be as soft to you as the rest of them. I see no reason to think you above the rest of your kind. There will be no argument about this.”

 

She slapped his hand out of her face, which had become red with fury. He allowed it, and lowered his hand, but remained looming over her, unmoving. She crossed her arms defiantly and looked up at him.

 

“Very brave of you, Knight-captain, to speak to me in this way when all who might have stopped you have left the room”, she hissed.

 

“Do you think this pretence of weakness fools anyone? Do you think of yourself as a girl, when we all know what you could do in the blink of an eye?”, Cullen said, in mild disbelief. They were both almost whispering now.

 

“If you are so sure of what I could do, I wonder that you do not soften your tone. After all, you never know when it may become too much for me and I resort to draining you dry”, she spoke silkily, looking at him from under her eyes.

 

“Do not sneer at me, mage. I have seen much worse than you, and more powerful besides. Do as I say, or suffer the consequences”, he turned, and left through the door before she could reply. 

 

His hands were shaking.

 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Trevelyan had left for Redcliffe the next day. She had taken no leave of Cullen, pointedly so, speaking with Leliana with her back turned to him, leaning on her staff. She took none with her that could be counted on to temper the terms of the possible mage alliance, only her favourite apostate, the scheming skulking dwarf and the heathen Qunari, whose presence no virtuous woman would allow herself to abide. Not one in her company had any notion of what obedience was owed to the Maker, despite his warnings both to the council and to Trevelyan, and they left to bring more of the same to an Inquisition which could only barely claim to be Andrastian. Would it fall to him, once again, to put down mad dogs?

 

He had been on edge the entire time Trevelyan had been gone, snapping at everyone and everything in his reach, reduced to pacing wildly in his quarters like a caged beast. Redcliffe was not that far, how long could it possibly take to just negotiate ? But the mages were all like that in the Circles before, endlessly quarreling over incomprehensibly irrelevant matters. 

 

Was there something even the girl would not give them? He smiled smugly to himself at the thought, while obsessively sharpening an already too sharp sword. No doubt they were unwilling to lose even a sliver of their ill-gotten freedom, ensconced as they were in the bosom of a weak king and his demon sent whore. 

 

Snow had been falling heavily for days, promising to further delay her return. How were they to keep at least five former Circles subdued, he knew not. There had to be provisions in place to keep them all safe, but he did not have enough men to make it so. Most of the Inquisition’s recruits had never even seen a mage before the Conclave, let alone hundreds of them. He would have to take it all upon himself. Maker , he would get no sleep at all. 

 

And all this time wasted , who knew if the Templars would even speak to them later, and they would need them desperately. He had complained of this and more to Cassandra numerous times, and she would agree, but only up to a point; she would say no word against Trevelyan. 

 

At last, the scouts reported sightings of a large group headed their way, up the Frostback mountains. When they had finally entered Haven, stretching Cullen’s already frayed nerves to their limits, he had been in the Chantry, trying (and failing) to pray. He had heard the trumpets announcing their arrival, and launched himself across the hall to see what awaited him outside.

 

The mages were here, and so many of them too; Trevelyan was at the front of them, coming towards the Chantry. She seemed in great spirits, cheeks red from the cold, as she was rapidly speaking to a mage next to her; they were both gesticulating wildly. This angered him, but he did not know why. But it did take less and less to set him off these days. 

 

Cullen went back in the Chantry; he would not be waiting for her like an obedient dog at the door. Let her find him .

 

But it was not Trevelyan who came for him; it was Cassandra, and her face was grim. But she would not say what she had learned from Trevelyan until the whole council had gathered.

 

Trevelyan was already waiting in the war room, and at her side was the mage from before. As Cullen was entering the room, the mage leaned over to Trevelyan and whispered something to her. Other than a brief lifting of the corner of her mouth, she made no reaction.

 

There was a tense couple of minutes until everyone had gathered, as Trevelyan refused to look at him, and he refused to stop looking at her. None but him seemed to find the presence of the foreign mage at the war council strange; was he the only one Trevelyan was determined to keep out of the loop? He refused to lower himself to ask her anything, yet he was desperately curious, which left him furious in his impotence.

 

When everyone had come in, she began speaking. She seemed certain that she had secured the mages’ allegiance, but she told a ridiculous story of time travelling and the things she had seen in the future, with sporadic interjections by the foreign mage. Her countenance was grave while she spoke, however Cullen could discern the self-importance in her voice, which irked him greatly. And what a report she gave! If she was to be believed, The Breach would encompass the sky, the Empress of Orlais would be assassinated, and all the world would be thrown into chaos! His mind automatically went to a familiar prayer, which he murmured to himself: Maker, my enemies are abundant. Many are those who rise up against me, but my faith sustains me; I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me.

 

She had noticed his praying, and clicked her tongue scornfully. He paid her no mind; she would not shame him for what was right and good.

 

The whole council had been left very disturbed by her account, and it inspired a new determination to close the Breach as soon as possible; in this at least, they were all in agreement. All but him were blinded to the danger of the mages, however, and even Cassandra, visibly shaken by Trevelyan’s account, waved him off when he tried to bring it up.

 

But Cullen refused to forsake his duty, and he was determined to speak with Trevelyan before she left, to remind her of their last conversation. He wanted her alone, but the foreign mage seemed determined to stick to her side. And still Cullen did not know who he was!

 

Trevelyan pretended not to notice him still; and moved to pass him with the foreign mage a step behind her.

 

“May we speak? ”, Cullen asked before she managed to reach the door, trying to keep his tone level.

 

She abruptly stopped, huffed, and said brusquely: “Speak then.” 

 

This threw Cullen off: “I meant in private.” He directed this at the foreign mage, who smiled beatifically. The mage was almost too handsome up close, and richly dressed, all things which contributed to Cullen’s growing dislike of the man.

“Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of Dorian”, Trevelyan replied as if preparing herself for a fight.

 

“And who is Dorian? Your guardian ?”, Cullen sneered at them both.

 

The newly named Dorian laughed, and made an exaggerated bow towards Cullen.

 

“So this is the famed Templar hospitality of the South. Forgive me, am I to be questioned now? I am not familiar with the protocol. In Tevinter, we at least introduce ourselves before we start flinging invectives. Dorian Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, at your service”, he said, with an insufferably ironic tone to his words.

 

And Trevelyan actually giggled at that, and they exchanged wry glances.

 

A Tevinter, of all things! In the Maker’s house! This revelation shocked Cullen so much that he barely noticed their joint mockery in the moment (though it would return to him in many a sleepless night). Did everyone know what viper they had in their bosom? And allowed it?! And she, to have brought the blood mage schismatic here to listen at their council, to hear their secrets and bring them all to his demon masters!

 

Blood pounded in his ears; he could not see nor hear anything. His hands were clammy and cold, and he felt tremors come all over him. He could not breathe . Maker, please , not this, not now . Please do not let them see . He had remained standing only by sheer force of will, though his legs felt cut off at the knees. 

 

He did not know how long he had stood there, shaking, deaf and blind to the world, when he came back to himself, but Trevelyan and Dorian were no longer in the room; they had used his moment of damnable weakness and left him unchallenged. He could not let it be; he came rushing out of the room, banging the door against the wall as he left; he looked around wildly and saw them; they were not far, walking towards the Chantry exit.

 

He came after them, but all his righteousness had evaporated and his voice remained weak and breathless, and he could only shout weakly after them: “We are not finished!”

 

They both turned their heads to him; and Erika Trevelyan, with a look of scorn of only the very beautiful towards the very ugly, almost too gently said:

 

“Oh, Knight-Captain. You have not even begun.”

 

And they turned and left.

 

He was only too glad of the emptiness of the Chantry. There were none to see him weep.

Chapter 3: Erika II

 

It was over, the Breach had been finally sealed. It had been anticlimactic in a way; Erika had expected more than just a handwave of the present mages. She did have a sense of pride, of course, of it being so easy for her own kind. She kept smugly looking over at Cullen, who had been standing three people to the right of her, as they were watching the proceedings in front of the Haven Chantry, to see if he would have a reaction. But she had no luck; Cullen seemed lost deep in thought, his features grim, the green light of the closing Breach giving his face an eerie glow. 

 

He had been ignoring Erika completely, since his last attempt at corralling her. He had made one additional attempt at persuading the rest of the Council to throw Dorian out from the Inquisition, but was soundly outvoted, and instead of the screaming she had come to expect from him, all she got was a sigh and glare. This had left her strangely bereft; was the mage tormentor she had heard so much about so easily subdued after all? Or was he simply biding his time, lying in wait to spring something on her? She glanced at him once more, but he had already turned his back to her, and she was no closer to discerning his thoughts.

 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

A celebration had naturally ensued after, and raucous laughter and singing was echoing over the sprawling hills of Haven; Dorian had made her join a large group gathered around a fire (thankfully all people that she liked) and thrust a drink in her hand. Erika was unused to drinking, and so even half a tankard made her woozy and giggly, and her head had lolled on Dorian’s shoulder. He patted the general direction of her face absentmindedly, as he was making an animated point to the Iron Bull. Erika’s eyes were half closed, as she felt the vibrations of Dorian’s words through her body. It was pleasant, like purring, and she almost rubbed her face on his shoulder like a cat.

 

But tipsy as she was, there was present a feeling of unease in her; the person (or persons) who had opened the Breach had yet to reveal themselves, and the future she and Dorian had seen in Redcliffe seemed bleak indeed. She felt it too soon for celebration; and being honest to herself, if to no one else, she was also disappointed. She did not want the Inquisition to end. She had wanted to speak with the rest of the Council on this matter, but there had simply been no time with the preparations to close the Breach. It had been so exciting , travelling through time, fighting and winning! And the possibilities of that magic! What knowledge the Tevinters had and hoarded! Why did maniacal devotion to one thing or the other always stand in the way of progress?  She sighed to herself; If the Inquisition was truly over, she supposed she could always beg Dorian to let her come to Minrathous with him. 

 

The greatest discovery on the mission to Redcliffe, maudlin and sentimental though it was to admit, was Dorian himself. Erika did not trust him at first, as she did not trust anyone who spoke so well and so quickly; but she had been so excited to talk with a Tevinter mage, and so she had perhaps overcome her initial distrust a bit too quickly. But he was very helpful, very knowledgeable, and very tender as well. She could even laugh with him, which was a thing you could rarely (if ever) do with Solas, her previous companion of choice.

 

Erika had never gotten close to anyone this quickly, and there were about two hours where she had thought herself in love with him; but the feeling was too steady and disinterested to be anything but friendship. She had reference neither for love nor friendship; both were equally shocking and unexpected.

 

She had been feeling pleasantly warm and comfortable, half-lying and dozing on Dorian’s shoulder, even if his various buckles were digging into her face. She was vaguely following the various conversations; though the subjects interested her, she had no strength to join in. It was pleasant just to be here, without the need to participate.

 

But it was Leliana’s voice that brought her out of her torpor; she was speaking, low and quiet to Josephine, but the subject was such to have drawn Erika’s attention, and she strained her ears to overhear.

 

“She will not come, Josie, and why should she? She has all, or almost all she wants, what incentive is there for her to act?”

 

“But can the Warden-Commander not be persuaded in any way? I am glad the Breach is sealed, but we still have no knowledge of who had opened it in the first place. Can she truly not see the potential danger for Ferelden? Will not the King and Queen act without her?” Josephine inquired, her face anxious.

 

Leliana snorted in reply, and took another sip of her drink before replying.

 

“Alistair agrees with her in all things. When I had been to Denerim last, they had been so harmonious it was almost unseemly. As for Anora, she can barely act in her own self interest, let alone in someone else’s. I was received by Alistair and Amell like there was no Queen in existence. Anora has neither Alistair’s favour nor his love, and in the eyes of many, she is a traitor’s daughter still, and the people’s memories are long. She knows not to ask too much. And the love of the people for Amell is such that I feel she could personally execute half of Denerim in the Market square and they would all cheer and thank her for it.” 

 

“But what was Amell’s reasoning? Can the Hero of Ferelden have changed so much as to not care for the fate of Thedas? Ferelden would not have withstood the Blight without its many alliances”, Josephine was still incredulous.

 

“She says they are Fereldan, and only to Ferelden will they look to now. She had provided refuge to the mages, but will not suffer a foreign interference, from any side. This was pointedly said to me, so I do not think to call on our bond of friendship.”

 

Leliana paused at this, her expression bitter, and continued:

 

“If it had been Morrigan who had come asking instead…but Maker knows where she is nowadays, and she had only ever cared for herself.” 

 

This was said with a note of finality, and Leliana abruptly turned the conversation to other matters, even though Josephine looked like she wanted it continued.

 

So there are no plans to disband the Inquisition as of yet ,  if there are still attempts to bring Ferelden to them in alliance, Erika thought with relief. But the overheard conversation was interesting in other ways as well; she thought of her own ill-fated meeting with the King and Queen, who had shown up just to unceremoniously throw the rebel mages out of Ferelden. Erika had been hoping for a glimpse of the famed Hero of Ferelden herself, but it appeared that she stirred only for her own purposes, if there were any but her own comfort. 

 

Erika remembered a conversation she had had with Fiona, the mage leader, on the long walk back to Haven. It seems that the Warden-Commander had come to Redcliffe, to welcome the rebel mages when they had first arrived, and had been especially interested in Fiona herself, or more exactly, in the manner in which Fiona had ceased to be a Grey Warden. Fiona would not divulge on what exactly it meant to be a Grey Warden in the first place, and how one could exactly cease to be one, and Blackwall had not provided any further answers once asked. Erika felt that there was a simple answer hiding in there, but she lacked the information to reach a proper conclusion.

 

She suddenly felt watched, which roused her from her thoughts, and looking up, locked eyes with Cullen, who was standing in front of the Chantry entrance. He had a harsh expression on his face, but he looked away as soon he saw her watching, and turned and entered the Chantry, his pace brisk.

 

Dorian had also noticed him, and had fallen silent. He looked down at Erika, who was still half-lying on him, and spoke softly as to not draw in the others into their conversation.

 

“Do you think we were too hard on him? He will not join everyone and has been moping around for days now.”

 

“He is a Templar, Dorian”, Erika slurred gently, “They have no feelings to speak of.”

 

“He looked near weeping just from some gentle teasing.”

 

“You're a mage, that wasn't teasing to him, that was back-talk. A few years back and he’d have slapped you to the floor.”

 

Dorian still looked unconvinced, and returned his gaze once more to the Chantry doors, a worried frown still lingering on his face.

 

Erika smiled at him. 

 

“Soft Vint, who would have thought to see you so worried?” 

 

Dorian shoved her off him playfully and tsked, while she kept laughing.

 

Erika, as was the case with most former Circle mages, held her grudges greedily, as they were once one of the few possessions allowed them, and Cullen had given her no reason to get over this one, she thought, glancing again at the closed Chantry door.

 

“Are you speaking of Cullen perhaps? Are you two the reason he has been brooding quite so loudly these past few days? Ah, Vints, uppity mages and a sneering Templar; it is almost like I’m back home”, Varric interrupted them gleefully, while almost falling down in his scramble to lean over from the other side of the fire to join their conversation.

 

“When does a Templar not sneer?”, Erika retorted imperiously and got up to refill her tankard, hoping to end that line of thought there, but as she had returned to her place, it seemed that Cullen still remained the focus of the conversation.

 

“I have to say, I have never seen a man so handsome who knows what to do with his looks less than him. He has amassed quite a following here, and yet he seems not to notice at all. He sneers at everyone equally”, Josephine said.

 

This was so incomprehensible to Erika that she had to speak up:

 

“What is there to find attractive? His death pallor or his dead-eyed stare? Or have people suddenly started to enjoy being preached at, and I haven’t been informed of it?”

 

This was perhaps said a bit too passionately, as it provoked a near unanimous laughter from the group. 

 

“It’s the shutting up of the preaching that is the interesting part”, Iron Bull quipped at her, and she felt her face burn, though she knew not why.

 

Dorian joined in, leaning and mockingly caressing her face:

 

“It’s the thrill of the forbidden, Erika, the thrill of corrupting the pure.”

 

“Yes, the thrill of not knowing whether your head will be rolling on the floor next. You should all be kept in a sanatorium for the good of yourself and others”, Erika said sneeringly, while the Bull and Dorian kept laughing at her.

 

Just as she was preparing to insult both them and Cullen further, the alarm bells sounded. There was a second of delay, where none seemed sure what was happening, and then chaos erupted, with everyone running and yelling with seemingly no purpose. Erika, shocked as any, quickly pulled herself together and ran to the Chantry, with Leliana and Josephine fast at her heels. 

 

Cullen had come out of the Chantry, his gaze wild, and was already receiving a report from one of his soldiers. But there was no need to report what one could see with a naked eye; an army was swarming them, the mountain lit up with little dots of fire, hundreds if not thousands of them. 

 

Erika went pale; what was this, how come no one had noticed an army of this size approaching? Where were their scouts?

 

She was preparing to attack Cullen with the same question, but he was already berating the unfortunate soldier who had delivered the news; the army was unknown, carrying no banners and their scouts were likely dead on their approach.

 

Then, a second shock arrived; a loud banging at the gates from which stumbled a strange man (boy?) named Cole, to warn them: those were Templars that were coming; and no ordinary kind but red, corrupted ones, and led by the finally revealed “Elder One”.

 

“You took his mages; he is very angry that you took his mages”, Cole said, pointing quite unnecessarily at the very visible darkspawn abomination at the head of the army, and its huge black dragon taking up the sky.

 

Erika felt her legs weaken under her, and barely remained standing. Looking where to lash out in her helplessness, she turned to Cullen and snapped at him:

 

“Can none of your kind ever let a mage go?”

 

He ignored her, which made her even angrier; he was too busy staring intently at the Templar next to the Elder One; he seemed to recognize him, and did not like what he saw.

 

“That is Samson, from Kirkwall; He was turned out of the Order years ago, how is he now leading them?” Cullen spoke harshly to Cole, which could provide him with no satisfactory answer. 

 

But there was no more time to speak; Erika refused to think any further than two steps ahead; if she did she knew despair would grip her if she allowed herself to grasp the magnitude of the threat and how unlikely they were to defeat it.

 

She volunteered to lead a group outside, to defend and arm the trebuchets, and left with Dorian, the Bull and Solas out into the awaiting chaos.

 

And it was utter utter chaos, the fight was brutal and the enemy forces endless. Why were they so unprepared and naive? Haven’s gates barely two heads higher than her, the flimsy wood easily breachable, the village poorly situated for defence. They lingered there like sitting ducks, waiting to be picked off by any who came upon them. She knew, she knew it could not have ended so quickly. 

 

The Templars, who were horrors enough as humans, were obscene in their corruption; pulsating red lyrium was protruding from their bodies in a grotesque fashion. They were also much stronger than ordinary Templars, and each attack took all her strength to defend. 

 

Erika felt herself tiring, her arms shaking from exertion. The Templars kept smiting the mages, and each time it felt like someone had knocked her brain inside her head. Her teeth were aching like she had been biting metal, and blood had begun to drip from her nose in thin rivulets. Dorian and Solas, who were next to her, looked just as bad as she felt. 

 

They managed to fire the trebuchets into the mountain above, and an avalanche descended on the enemy army. Erika held her breath; please let it work, let it be done. But there was no such luck; there was the dragon sweeping on them. Maker, they were all going to die here, nothing would save them now.

 

A retreat had been sounded; and they ran with the last of their strength to the gates, picking up whoever they could find with them.  Was it better to lead them inside, into a trap to burn all together, just to buy an additional hour of life? Erika was thinking frantically, as she was picking up the blacksmith under a dead Red Templar. But there was no time to think, there was only an animal instinct to live, as long as possible, by any means necessary. The Iron Bull picked both her and Dorian up bodily, as they had been lagging behind, and carried them running to the gates. 

 

Cullen had been waiting for them; he had come out to assist them with herding people inside. He was deathly pale and his sword was smeared with blood. He was none too gentle with the populace he was helping, almost throwing them bodily inside the gates. He had been left alone, and the Red Templars were swarming him; there was no way he could fight them all off alone. Unthinking, she threw a barrier spell so quickly and so hard that she felt like she had torn something inside. Cullen had flinched when he felt the spell settle over him, but recovered quickly, and after having slashed through the nearest Red Templars, cleared a path for both himself and Erika’s group to enter Haven. They ran to the Chantry together, and sealed the doors behind them.

 

The Iron Bull had settled both Erika and Dorian down by the entrance, and they all slumped at the nearest wall. Cullen was looking at her strangely, breathing heavily and clutching at his chest. Erika turned her gaze to him, but could barely muster up a raised eyebrow. 

 

He seemed to have an internal fight, but then,as if he had reached a painful decision, he came up to her, and nodded faintly. His face was as grim as if he was coming up to his own execution.

 

Was that supposed to be a thank you? , Erika thought with bafflement. He still seemed incapable to do anything but loom over her, which still unnerved her. She pushed herself off the wall, and made him take a step back to give her space.

 

Erika cleared her throat and looked around her to avoid looking him in the eye; it seemed everyone she knew by name had made it inside and were alive and reasonably well.

 

But for how long?

 

Before the idea of waiting for death to come in this tomb of a Chantry could settle over her, help had come from the most unlikely place. Chancellor Roderick had remembered a path through the mountains, which they could use to escape. Finally he had become useful, even though he was bleeding to death. She could feel little compassion for him, there was even a little stab of pleasure at the thought that they would be rid of him with little to no cost; all he had done thus far was to meddle and whine. Cole had come near him, to help him up, and looked on Erika strangely as he did so. His gaze was unnerving, and then he told her what she had already suspected; the Elder One was after her, and her mark alone, and would stop at nothing to get to her. And the dragon was no ordinary dragon, but an Archdemon to boot. 

 

Erika could have screamed; where was Blackwall now! She could not see him in the crowds. And why did Amell not come herself when she had been asked, the bitch , she killed one already, she would have known what to do! And now Erika had to die because of their incompetence and disinterest!

 

While she was fuming, and reaching an unfortunate conclusion she tried hard to avoid all evening, there was a flurry of activity around her; the Inquisition was preparing to depart as soon as possible, and everyone was scrambling to carry as much as they could up into the mountains.

 

Cullen had still remained at her side through all this; Dorian moved to leave, but looked back at her, even as the Bull was crowding him to hurry. She motioned with her head for him to go. He turned, though he looked worried, and allowed the crowd to carry him further into the Chantry.

 

“We’ll never make it through the mountains, there’s too much dead weight. We have maybe an hour until they swarm the Chantry”, Cullen suddenly spoke softly to her, his eyes fixed on the departing crowd. 

 

Erika was surprised at hearing him speak, as she was resolutely trying to pretend he was not still there. She had never heard him speak to her in such a tone.

 

She steeled herself, and began to speak:

 

“I know. That is why we need a distraction. The trebuchets sit unused. If I can aim them and distract them, that should be enough time for everyone to leave. Or at least have a chance.” 

 

He stared at her, uncomprehending at first, and then realization dawned.

 

“You mean to go out there alone. Depleted as you are.” His voice was flat, but with an undercurrent of his usual imperiousness, which raised her hackles immediately.

 

She grabbed a lyrium potion from the crate next to her, and chugged it all in one go, grimacing at the taste, and threw the bottle carelessly away from her, all the while staring at him defiantly. She then crossed her arms, to conceal their trembling.

 

“Someone must. And I alone have the mark. You heard Cole yourself; it is me the Elder One is after. If they follow us, they will surely slaughter everyone in their path. Better to have some chance than no chance at all.”

 

“That is absolute madness!”, he said and the crazed glow she knew him by returned to his eye. 

 

“You cannot go out alone, unsanctioned, with a half-wit plan to do, what, throw yourself at their swords! They are Templars, Erika! When they all set to smiting, you will be as helpless as a newborn babe!” His voice had been rising with each word, until at last he was almost shouting.

 

She grabbed his arm to interrupt him, and he started at her touch.

 

“ Lower your voice. I have no plans to die. But if I do, I am not taking anyone with me. And you can rest satisfied that you did your best in trying to stop me. You know I am right, so stop this false concern and lead the people out into the mountains” 

 

He still looked unconvinced, but made no reply. He swallowed once, and abruptly brought his hand up to her face. She blinked rapidly, and flinched back. He did not let her move farther, as he took a hold of her jaw with one hand and used the other to wipe the blood from under her nose. She stilled, and let him do it, barely breathing. Once he was satisfied that her face was clean, he looked her over a last time, and then said raspily: 

“Good luck.”

 

Erika nodded, avoiding looking him in the eye, and turned from him to leave the Chantry.

Once she was outside, she felt she was blinking through tears; was this the last person she would speak to, just as she was finally beginning to warm to people? This Templar who quite possibly rejoiced in her imminent demise? She was no great sacrifice to him . But she would not dare ask anyone to come with her. She was just as afraid of their acceptance as their refusal. She wiped her tears away, and took a deep shaking breath. She refused to die crying.

 

She found a cloth and wrapped it over her mark, but it remained glowing persistently. Nothing to it then; to death and glory, she thought ironically to herself.

 

Erika moved silently through Haven; the Templars had not yet entered the gates of the village, but she could hear them approaching. To avoid facing them directly, she climbed the roof of a small house and vaulted over the walls, landing badly and skinning her knees. 

 

She got up, cursing under her breath all the while; but finally luck was on her side. The trebuchet was clear of the Templars, and she ran to it quickly, clutching her staff in her hand.

 

But just as quickly as it had arrived, luck abandoned her; the Elder One sweeped down on his Archdemon and slammed Erika straight into the trebuchet. The pain in her left shoulder was excruciating; the bone must have broken at the impact. Whatever vain hope she had harboured of living through this night, had now been firmly extinguished.

 

The thing, the Elder One, Corypheus as he said his name was, was even more horrifying up close; she dared not even glance at the Archdemon, or she would lose what little nerve she had left.

 

Corypheus was speaking of incomprehensible things, of the Golden city and the Maker, of bringing down the Heavens. He reached for her mark to take it off her, but it did not want to leave; it hurt like her skin was being peeled clean off. She did not remember what futile stupid things she had said to him, just to make him speak longer, just so she would not have died completely in vain.

 

She was running out of time, of things to say; but in the distance, finally: a signal in the sky. The Inquisition had left. Cullen must have sent it for her; and for that she was almost unspeakably grateful; she was not forgotten, even if it was him that thought of her.

 

This gave her the strength to throw herself on the arm of the trebuchet, which fired into the mountain one last time, surprising Corypheus and the Archdemon. There was a large rumble, before the mountain had come crashing down, covering everything in its path with heaps of snow. There was no time to think, a tunnel had opened below ground from the shaking, and she threw herself in at the last second and lost consciousness on impact.

 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Erika’s mark had brought her back from unconsciousness. It was pulsating erratically, and a dull pain was spreading from it through the rest of her arm. She pulled herself up into a sitting position, groaning all the while. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed while she lay there. There was no sound beside her own breathing, her mark her only source of light. 

 

These were the tunnels under Haven; Erika remembered Leliana speaking of them, when she had been here during the Blight ten years back. She had said they stretched for miles below the ground like a maze, used as a hideout for the cultists that had occupied Haven before. 

 

Erika was shivering badly; there was not a part of her body that did not hurt in some way, but she pulled herself up. She knew that to sit here was to wait for death. Even this will not draw me into prayer , she thought, and lifted her hand up to illuminate the way. The first thing she saw was her staff, which lay broken next to her. She could have almost screamed in frustration. 

A staff is a crutch, the power is within you , she told herself, willing herself to believe it.  She barely managed to conjure up a small fire, using the staff parts as kindling. 

 

When she felt herself warm enough to not be on the point of freezing anymore, she began walking slowly, following one of the tunnels at random, hoping it led in the general direction of the rest of the Inquisition. She continued on her way, and after some time walking, she happened upon two demons. But before she even had the time to react, her mark took on a will of its own, and brought her up in the air and exploded at them. Erika was unhurt, but the demons were blown to smithereens. She fell to her knees from the force of the impact, clutching her hand. The mark had been stilled by the explosion and hurt her no more. She started laughing hysterically, touching her head to the ground. What else could possibly happen today?

 

She pulled herself together and continued wandering in that manner, her gait slow, her muscles sore; she had allowed herself five minutes for a mental breakdown and no more. Hours must have passed. It hurt to breathe; she thought her ribs must be broken as well. Erika had never cared to learn much healing, and she cursed herself for her hubris. Will Winter’s grasp save your lung from being punctured by your own ribs, arrogant bitch. 

 

But the tunnels turned upwards, and there she was at the exit opening out into the mountain clearing. A snowstorm was in full swing, wind beating at her face, freezing her tears on her cheeks. There was no trace of the Inquisition. Die inside in the dark alone, if you are so afraid, she berated herself for her hesitance, and took her first steps outside.

 

Why didn’t she bother to even glance at a map once ? There was always someone else to think of such things, and she was content to go where the scouts led. She vowed if she lived, never to be so careless again. She would learn to heal and she would memorize the maps of the whole of Ferelden and Orlais, at least .

 

Erika started to walk in a random direction. Even if the Inquisition had gone this way, the snowstorm had covered all tracks. Even hers were covered in a matter of minutes. 

 

She had lost track of time; she had no way of knowing if she had been walking for twenty minutes or two hours, when she had finally come up to the remnants of a fire. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please let me reach them, I have come this far, please do not let me die so close.

 

Her trek continued; after a time she had begun to feel warm and sleepy, and her shivering had stopped. Erika could not remember if that was good or bad. Her thoughts would not remain in her head, she was losing them like she was clutching at mist. She could no longer feel her toes; each step was agony.

 

She came up to a slope, behind a large outcropping. And there they were, all her Inquisition. She thought they were a mirage, all those beautiful fires and tents. If she had any tears left she could have cried. She wanted to run to them, but her legs were obeying her no more, and she slumped in the soft snow cover. Why had she been fighting this? The snow was so nice and comfortable beneath her tired body. She would just rest her eyes and then she would join them below.

 

Her eyes had barely closed, when she heard shouting. Why would they not let her sleep, could they not see she was tired? Someone jostled her, and she half-heartedly kicked them. She felt herself being picked up, and heard her name shouted a couple of times. Erika wanted to respond, but she was so tired. What was the fuss , she just wanted to rest for a bit. But then she felt a hard slap across her cheek, the force of which made her ears ring. Who would dare? She opened her eyes halfway in irritation and looked up. Of course it was Cullen slapping her. He was holding her to him with one arm, and the other was poised to strike her again. His face was inexplicably frightened. She smiled at him dazedly. He just had to kick her while she was down. She wanted to protest, but her vision was growing dark, and she could barely see him. But it was all fine, in the end.

 

His arms were very soft as well.

 

Notes:

Wow I can't believe Amell invented the Monroe doctrine in 9:41 Dragon

Chapter 4: Cullen II

It was guilt that had made Erika Trevelyan the Inquisitor, though none of the Council would admit it outright. There had been a pretence of an election, of course, but what leadership qualities had any other Council members shown, Cullen frequently thought (and expressed in much harsher terms), running with their tails between their legs, with no plan but the reckless self-sacrifice of a mage girl barely Harrowed? These were the great servants of the Maker; the Left and Right hands of the Divine, who had let the Most Holy die like a dog, a gossipmonger, and a failed Templar forever doomed to blindness. It was a miracle that it had worked in the first place, and a greater miracle still that Trevelyan had lived. Their shame won her a title, and she took it with a serene smile, like an heir to the throne whose father finally did her the courtesy of dying. 

 

In the months that followed their arrival to Skyhold, the Inquisition’s new seat inexplicably provided by Solas, Trevelyan was still in the process of recovering from her ordeal, although she refused to admit it. She was still very weak and pale, and would get easily winded walking up the stairs. And no wonder; she had been like a block of ice in Cullen’s arms, that night on Frostback mountains. He thought then, blasphemously, that she would not live through the night; she had looked to be even beyond the power of the mages.The first tendrils of guilt had begun to creep in then, while he was looking at her unmoving body under the pale light of healing magic.

 

This had, after all, been his fault; his scouts had failed to report the approach of an entire army ; and Cullen himself had let Trevelyan go to the enemy with nary a word of protest. He had rationalised it beautifully at the time, of course. It was her that the enemy wanted after all, and better that one unwanted mage should die, so that others might live. And he was shaken by the sight of his former brother Templars, and the appearance of Samson at their head ( another one of his mistakes! ). But it was also very convenient for him; all settled neatly so that he would not have to exert himself either by thinking or by doing, he had thought bitterly. What use was he , were any of them, in the later scramble through the mountains, arguing over directions, over supplies, over blame. If it had not been for Trevelyan’s miraculous reappearance, Maker only knows where they would have ended up.

 

Cullen had been praying for a sign from the Maker his whole life; did His work, in His name, and hoped to contribute to His plan in some small way. He was certain of the Maker, of himself less so. The endless silence stretching out over the years did not shake Cullen’s faith, but his confidence. But there, finally, the Maker did send a sign , and it was she , emerging from the snow, pale and shivering but delivered unto them, radiant. The Lady of Sorrow, armored in Light .  Like Andraste herself, ages before. 

 

He knew then that Erika Trevelyan was the Herald of Andraste; he could see it so clearly now. Of course the Herald would be a mage; the Maker sends his hardest tests to the least deserving, so that they might rise and prove themselves worthy of His love. He felt a curious sense of peace at the revelation-the Maker’s plan finally revealed to him, deposited straight into his arms. But as he carried her to the makeshift healing tents, another thought crystalized- he had been her harshest critic, her strongest denier.

 

Cullen had sworn then, that if she lived, he would doubt her no more. He had sinned greatly against her, and against the Maker. His arrogance, his certainty , had almost ended the life of the Prophet’s own Herald. He understood his penance: he would give all that he had to the Inquisition, and its Herald, or he would die trying-no more half-measures. While the mages had been working over Trevelyan, he had knelt next to her, in desperate prayer, both in penitence and in gratitude. Mother Giselle had knelt next to him at one point, and he saw in her eyes that she had had the same revelation as he did.

 

Trevelyan had lived through the night, and was expected to recover fully,  with time. It had seemed that the survival of the Inquisition depended on her living as well, as the general hopelessness lifted once she had opened her eyes.  She demanded a meeting of the Council almost as soon as she had awoken, to discuss what she had learned in the attack on Haven. She had looked frightful to Cullen, still unable to lift herself from her bedroll, supported in a half upright position by a salvaged sack of grain, but her gaze had been mercifully clear and sharp as always; when he had found her in the snow she had been barely coherent and her eyes had been completely unfocused. Her Tevinter and the elf Solas were by her bedside, and looked to be in no hurry to leave it, even for Council business.

 

After they had all gathered, Trevelyan had spoken in a halting, rasping voice, after waving off further questions about her health-the thing that attacked them claimed to have been one of the ancient Tevinter magisters who had entered the Golden city and blackened it, and was now a sort of a kind of darkspawn. The mark on Trevelyan’s hand was from the orb of its making, though she still claimed she could not remember what had happened at the Conclave. She claimed that the creature-Corypheus was its name, was not able to separate her from the mark, and proclaimed it to be useless for its purposes. They all agreed that Corypheus must have been the Elder one spoken of in Redcliffe, and the discussion quickly devolved into arguments about what was to be done next. Surprisingly,  Solas was the only one with a constructive proposal-he knew of an abandoned elven castle named Skyhold, which was deep in the mountains, where the entire Inquisition could be easily accommodated; and this was the only plan which was unanimously accepted.

 

After the initial shock of the news, Cullen had spoken little; he had understood it perfectly, even if Trevelyan had not-she had been sent by Andraste to defeat an old enemy, to cleanse the world of the darkspawn filth and to make it right for the Maker. That was what the Inquisition was for. 

 

He had seen Trevelyan tiring; she had closed her eyes with a grimace of pain, though she made no attempt to speak; no one else seemed to have noticed, too busy with their petty squabbles to pay attention to her. He had barked harshly at everyone to leave her to rest, and had gotten a surprised look from her in reward.

 

Cullen did not know how to repair their relationship, so on the long trek to Skyhold, he had begun awkwardly hovering around her. He was always a step behind her, handing her things before she even reached for them, and providing his arm when she stumbled on her still weak legs.

 

He could see she was unnerved by his constant presence at her shoulder, but quickly enough she began to treat him like just another piece of furniture, a default state for a Circle mage. He had been used to long vigils as a Templar knight; he did not mind. When he had to leave her presence, he made sure to be appropriately informed on her doings.

 

Cullen had observed that Trevelyan had woken up harder than she had been; what little deference she had paid before to the Council was now gone completely. She spoke as if she expected to be obeyed, and without question at that. Upon reaching Skyhold, and once titled as Inquisitor, she demanded to be consulted on everything-no matter was too low for her concern, from the tapestries in the Great Hall to the official missives to the courts of Fereldan and Orlais. She would tolerate no shirking of duties from anyone, not even herself; Cullen could see candlelight in her window deep into the night. 

 

Once they had fully settled into Skyhold, Cullen had felt it only right to request his removal from the Council for his mistakes, and to serve the Inquisition in a more limited capacity, but she had irritably waved him off. What use are your apologies to me? Better come and look at this map and tell me whether you think we should shore up our defences here, rather than talking nonsense. 

 

They were civil to each other now; whole days would pass where he would even forget that she was mage at all. 

 

The only indulgence she took was in her companionship with the Tevinter; Cullen could not understand what they could possibly be speaking of that necessitated quite so much laughter. It seemed that Solas had been left forgotten. The Tevinter was much better looking, Cullen supposed, though that thought brought him no comfort.

 

The Tevinter had on one occasion approached Cullen to apologise for being rude the time they had met; Cullen did not want to be swayed, though the mage seemed genuinely distressed at the thought of causing Cullen harm, bizarre as it seemed. Of course Cullen was wary of him-who knew what kind of demons the Tevinter was holding in, what kind of perversions they were taught in Minrathous. It might have been the Fade itself for all Cullen knew. 

 

But the Tevinter, Dorian, kept speaking to him afterwards, and Cullen thought it too impolite not to reply, and so he found himself engaged in conversions several times. Better a half-trained companion for the Inquisitor than an unharrowed apostate, Cullen supposed. Dorian had assured him that he had passed his Harrowing with little to no trouble, though how much trouble would an heir to a magister’s seat be exposed to in the first place, Cullen could not say. Trevelyan had been present for that conversation, and Cullen could see her rolling her eyes, though she did not bring them up from the parchment she was writing on.

 

At the Council meetings, whenever the Red Templars would inevitably be mentioned, Trevelyan would always look pointedly at Cullen especially, as if daring him to argue. But he had no wish to. The Red Templars had disturbed him greatly; that was no secret. Those were his former brothers, misshapen and grotesque as they were. But he felt an undercurrent of contempt each time he turned his thoughts to them; how greatly had the Order fallen, to serve a darkspawn Tevinter Magister of all things, who had brought doom upon all the world? 

 

A decision had begun forming in his mind; he had always been uncomfortable with the concept of taking lyrium to be granted his Templar abilities, but he took it as a necessary evil, to protect from a much stronger enemy. There were always those among the Order to whom there was never enough lyrium, who looked to it as the reward for their service, instead of eternity in the Maker’s embrace. Cullen himself always took care never to love it too much, especially after Meredith’s disgrace, even as the feeling of it spreading through his veins never failed to give him a pleasurable shiver. It was unseemly for an Order which professed to be of the Maker to find gratification in such indulgences, and now he saw their final destination-straight into the arms of the original Maleficar. 

 

He would not let anything rule him that might serve his enemies, and the enemies of his Maker. He simply cut himself off one arbitrary day, and looked in contempt on those who were still slinking to the alchemists to take it. He had told no one-it was his business only, and he could and would stand it on his own. But fifteen years of uninterrupted use had their consequences, and Cullen had hardly ever been ill before in his life; he had no way of knowing how badly it would shake him. 

 

It started with headaches, pounding and blinding, where he could hardly stand to keep his eyes open. Then came the tremors in his hands and legs, his muscles clenching so hard he thought he would split his own arm into two. He was losing weight rapidly; he could hardly keep down any food that he would take. He was perpetually cold, and no amount of blankets he would throw over himself would help warm him up.  

 

Cullen’s temper had always been his affliction, but now it flared up at anyone and anything. His men were deathly afraid of him; a soft hand did them no good, as they had well demonstrated. Even people who only knew him by sight took care to cross to the other side of the courtyard while he was passing. Only Trevelyan, bizarrely, seemed pleased with him, and gave him free rein with the disciplinary measures. 

 

Eventually, Cassandra had cornered him in the armoury, while he was giving a well-deserved lecture to an incompetent apprentice. Cassandra had guessed correctly what was the matter, but he was in no mood to listen to her protestations, which he expressed loudly,  in no uncertain terms. She could never understand, as the Seekers of truth took upon themselves no sacrifices, and he was out of patience with her since Haven. He had left her shocked in outrage and stormed off to his quarters.

 

. Enough with the endless questions and false concern ! Cullen was cleansing himself and he needed no false concern to get in his way. In his rage, he grabbed an inkpot from his desk and threw it at the door, unfortunately just at the moment when Trevelyan was opening it.

 

She stopped at the impact, with the door halfway open, and looked at him in alarm.

 

Cullen turned bright red, his rage evaporating, as she closed the door behind her.

 

“Inquisitor, forgive me…I did not mean to”, he rushed to apologise, words tripping over his tongue. Will he never cease to embarrass himself in front of this woman!

 

She looked at him from head to toe, and simply nodded. Trevelyan sat down opposite him, regal in her demeanor, her back completely straight against the back of the chair. He scrambled to sit down as well, feeling ungainly next to her natural grace.

 

They were looking at each other in silence for quite some time; he felt like he was being sized up. His palms began to sweat; what could she possibly want?

 

Trevelyan tapped her fingers against the armrest, clicked her tongue and broke the silence:

 

“Cassandra has complained to me that you have stopped taking lyrium”, she looked at him expectantly.

 

“Yes”, he replied, impassive. He prepared himself for the attack. So that's why she had come, Cassandra must have gone up the chain of command. No matter what even she had to say, she would not make him take it up again, he thought, gripping the armrest.

 

“Good,” Erika said, surprising him. There was no smile on her face, but her look was approving. 

 

“Hm,” he choked, and looked away from her, turning his head.

 

“I am glad; but you do look very bad,” she said bluntly.

 

“So is this all you came to say to me? That I look bad?” he spoke sharply, suddenly irritated.

 

She raised her eyebrows at him and he had to look away again.

 

“I came to say that I approve, but you would surely say that my mage opinions are irrelevant and that I should leave you in peace as I have no way of comprehending the great burden of the Templar or some such equal nonsense you are prone to spouting.”

 

She smiled after she had finished speaking, as if to soften her words. Cullen returned her smile, quite uncertainly, but made no reply. Is she joking with him?

 

“But that is not all I want to speak to you about. Varric has apparently brought a guest-”

 

Blood pounded in his ears suddenly, and he interrupted before she could finish:

 

“ Hawke ”, he barked. Trevelyan started at his sudden proclamation, but recovered quickly, and with a barely perceptible roll of her eyes continued:

 

“He will not say, but I think we can safely determine that it is her. Apparently, she has some information on Corypheus, and I am going to speak with her now. What I want to know is”, she said, raising her hand to stop him, as she had seen him opening his mouth to interrupt her, "will you behave?”

 

Whatever he had meant to say evaporated from his mind instantly.

 

“Will I behave.”

 

“Yes. Varric says you do not like Hawke.”

 

“I do not like Hawke.”

 

“Stop repeating everything I say. I am quite certain you comprehended my meaning quite well” she looked at him expectantly.

 

He let out a long breath, pinched his nose bridge, and letting out a drawn out breath, began speaking:

 

“Do I not like the woman, who has been prancing around doing whatever she pleased in a city under my command, inserting herself in every single matter, meddling in Order business, letting that abomination blow up the Chantry, all the while coming up to me and laughing straight to my face, talking about peace and equality, while she herself was an apostate ? No , I do not like Hawke!” His voice had been rising while he spoke, until it had almost turned into a yell at the end.

 

Trevelyan had been listening to his speech very intently, but did not move or make a sound until he was finished, and then she gave him a discerning look. Cullen felt his face burning again. What had he said?

 

Trevelyan got up abruptly, and Cullen did immediately as well. 

 

“I think both you and Varric are biased and therefore I will form my own opinion on Hawke. None of what you speak sounds so very dreadful to me, but your priorities and mine are by nature and by inclination different,” Trevelyan said, with a sardonic smile on her face. “I will let the Council know, once I have talked with her. I’m sure someone will come and inform you. Kindly refrain from any harsh actions before I have determined her use.”

 

With that, she turned with an incline of her head, and left.

 

Cullen waited a moment, then started after her. He watched her walk across the battlements, his fist clenching. 

 

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Of course Varric’s guest was indeed Hawke, and Hawke who apparently had useful information-a lead on a Grey Warden in Crestwood who may know more about Corypheus. Cullen had to suffer the indignity of that woman’s presence yet again, as Trevelyan brought her before the Council. Hawke was much more subdued than when he had last seen her, but had retained that Amell arrogance which as it seemed, neither time nor tide could erase completely. Vile woman, standing next to Trevelyan to whisper her poison in her ear. Hawke had weakly smiled at him in recognition when she had entered the Council chambers, a half-hour before, and he nodded his head at her, but refused to acknowledge her in any other way. 

 

See, Inquisitor, how he behaves ?

 

But a familiar name brought back his attention from trying not to glower too openly at Hawke:

 

“Have we not tried reaching Warden-Commander Amell? Could she not provide guidance on the matter of the Grey Wardens?” Trevelyan was asking, quite naively, in Cullen’s opinion.

 

Leliana dismissed the notion with a wave of hand.

 

“I'm afraid if I try to reach her again she will have us thrown out of Ferelden entirely. It may be best that we do follow Hawke’s lead.” 

 

No doubt too busy fornicating to do her proper duty , Cullen’s thoughts curdled at the mention of his first tormentor, so much so that his attention had once again strayed from their meeting for a good half-hour, until it had drawn to a close, and everyone was getting up to leave. He scrambled to get up, furious at himself for his inattention, and found himself last on the way to the exit, just behind Hawke and Trevelyan, who were engaged in conversation. He had barely made two steps when he understood from their words that Trevelyan meant to go to Crestwood herself .

 

“You mean to leave, to the field? You are the Inquisitor!”, he interrupted them harshly.

 

Hawke and Trevelyan turned towards him at his interruption, both equally shocked. He felt himself going red, but before he could speak again, Trevelyan sighed and turned to Hawke:

 

“I will come find you afterwards, apparently I have things to discuss with my Commander.”

 

Hawke did a little mocking half-bow towards them both at this,  and left, closing the door behind her, leaving Cullen and Trevelyan alone.

 

Trevelyan turned to Cullen, leaning on the closed door:

 

“I won’t be going alone, obviously , Cullen, and I have all of you to take care of the Inquisition while I'm gone. What kind of a leader hides between stone walls and waits for others to do their work for them?”

 

“ All others do so quite successfully, Inquisitor. Do you think Warden-Commander Amell ever stirs out of doors nowadays? And is this wise, to listen to that woman? And you are still unwell!” All this Cullen said in a manner perhaps too agitated.

 

Trevelyan sighed in exasperation.

 

“I shall address your points in order of their inanity. I am perfectly fine, and have been for some time. I am not the one who looks like death warmed over in this conversation. Further, Hawke is the only lead we currently have on Corypheus. We cannot have the Grey Wardens corrupted, that would be a disaster. If we have the foreknowledge, as we obviously do, we should act on it. And Hawke seems determined to aid us. Lastly, I would kindly ask you to refrain from further comments on my leadership style, especially in front of outsiders , as I am determined to act solely in a way that aligns with my own principles.

 

Cullen gripped her arms suddenly:

 

“ Fine . I will take your points on all matters except on Hawke. She is dangerous . She has had no formal training, no Harrowing, and has proven time and again to be reckless with the lives of others. You do not know her like I do, and you place yourself in needless danger.”

 

Trevelyan blinked at him, then gently placed her hands over his, and took them off her.. She appeared deep in thought, her brow marred with a frown. She spoke deliberately:

 

“I am not enamoured with her, as Varric is. He makes her out to be some kind of otherworldly being. But I am curious to see where this leads, and we would prevent any delays in information, if I went in person.”

 

After she had finished speaking, she slowly raised an uncertain hand, and after a brief hesitation,  briefly patted Cullen’s arm. 

 

“Do not worry so much. I find it unsettling, having to reassure a Templar. And if you had any grievances, you could have properly addressed them to the Council just now.”

 

He made a grimace, and grunted in reply. Trevelyan briefly smiled, and after a moment, asked: 

 

“Hawke told me you let her go, in Kirkwall. She told me that you had her surrounded, and you let her pass without stopping her. Why?”

 

He made no reply for several moments. Trevelyan was looking at him expectantly-there would be no escape from her question.

 

He cleared his throat, and then spoke, haltingly:

 

“The mistakes in Kirkwall…were not solely of Hawke’s making. The Knight-Commander used to be a good woman, pious and stalwart, but the pressures of command proved too much for her. She was…consumed by the red lyrium idol at the end, she was mad for mage blood, for Hawke’s blood. Had I noticed that she had been corrupted, or better still, had she not allowed herself to be corrupted at all, all could have ended differently. No matter how the mages acted, if we had not been tainted ourselves, that chaos could not have started as it had. We were defending from corruption, but we looked everywhere except within. We should have been better than them. I…I could not look at Hawke afterwards. What right had we to judge? All were unworthy under the Maker’s gaze that day. You do not understand what it was like, you were at Ostwick-no one ever had any trouble at Ostwick, you were kept pampered and protected-”

 

Trevelyan had been listening to him intently, but at his last words her eyes flashed and she interrupted him:

 

“You call being in a cage pampered and protected? Just when I thought you could be reasonable!”

 

“I am being reasonable! The damage even one blood mage can do is unaccountable! If you had been at Kirkwall, seen the sheer amount of blood magic we had dealt with on the daily, you would have seen the necessity of the Circles! They would have eaten you alive!”

 

“You just said that the Templars were corrupt as well! Do you even hear yourself when you speak? And by your estimation, I am strong enough not to be a blood mage, but weak enough to be consumed by one, I see,” Trevelyan hissed.

 

“ Not what I meant-”

 

“And besides, any fault of the subordinates-be they mage or Templar-lies with their commander ,” Trevelyan smiled triumphantly, but Cullen would not disagree: 

 

“ Yes , both Meredith and I were most unworthy, and that is why she is dead and I am no longer a Templar. Are you satisfied ?”

 

“I am never satisfied with incompetence. And yet had you stayed, you would have now been an abomination like your brothers. I’d have thought you impaired if I had not heard you say similar things a hundred times before. Why are the Templars always the corrupted and never the corruptors? Mages are, in your view, always scheming, and Templars always preyed upon by others.”

 

“ Everyone is weak, Inquisitor, both mage and Templar, and it is easy to speak of incompetence after the fact. I trust you, no , I have decided that I trust you; that Andraste has chosen to speak through you. That will have to be enough for you. I place my trust in your teachers and your former guardians that you have been instilled with virtue and properly tested. That is a courtesy I am extending to you only, as the Herald of Our Lady Redeemer- not your Tevinter paramour, and not any apostates that you happen to pick up by the wayside.”

 

Trevelyan had a contemptuous smile on her face as he finished speaking:

 

“You fascinate me, truly. I’ll take care not to be eaten alive while I'm out with Hawke-hopefully you will be able to envision that possibility, and if I die, surely you will be able to contrive to establish another Circle right here in Skyhold. I trust your resourceful nature and inherent talent for frustrating mages.”

 

She motioned with her hand for him to move. He huffed, and they awkwardly side stepped each other.

 

Trevelyan grabbed the doorknob, but stopped for a second before opening it. Without turning back, she spoke again, in a softer tone:

 

“I know this is too much to ask, but can you try to trust that I might know what I am doing?”

 

Cullen huffed agan:

 

“It is not you who I do not trust. I am telling you-”

 

Trevelyan groaned in frustration, and without looking back, opened the door forcefully and left. The door crashed back against its hinges under the force of her opening it, leaving Cullen alone once more, to argue with his ghosts.

 

Chapter 5: Erika III

Hawke was Marcher nobility, though one would be forgiven for disbelieving it, as she had the airs and graces of a peasant scarcely turned out of the Ferelden mud, cheerfully traipsing through her natural habitat with no regard to who she carelessly splashed with her heavy footsteps. This was incomprehensible to Erika, her present traveling companion, who had learnt proper posture and manners by the time she was five, and her back had never relaxed since.

Neither Ferelden nor Hawke were growing on Erika on the long trek to Crestwood. Their small expedition had apparently picked the worst time for travel, as the rain was almost unremitting, drenching them to the bone, and sinking them deep into the muddy roads. The only person shivering more than Erika was Dorian, who had managed to last for about two hours into their journey before he started his complaining, which would prove almost incessant in the following week. His grumbling had gained him only the constant ribbing of the Iron Bull, who seemed not to feel the weather at all, and so they two had spent their waking hours in constant back-and-forths, which took Erika until the third day to realize was some bizarre form of flirting, and she made the wise choice not to interfere, which did not make listening to it any less irritating.

Erika was also quite aware of the impolitic nature of her visit, as a leader of a stateless organization traipsing inside a foreign nation's borders, which made her twitchy and eager to have done with her task in it quickly. Perhaps, when the Inquisition was more established, they would not need to skulk around and hide.

They would just have to manage like this for the present, Erika thought, though it did not make her any less uneasy. Should the Warden-Commander have an issue with their presence, she could always get out of her high halls and meet Erika in person to defend her fief. Erika could not remember it exactly, it being so long ago that her relations both near and far were drilled into her, but she was sure that they must be cousins of some kind-all Marcher nobility were related to some degree or another, but whether the Trevelyans of blessed name would connect with such a consistently mage producing family… But, then, horrible thought, that would mean that Hawke was Erika’s cousin as well.

Hawke had been subdued enough at Skyhold, but it was soon revealed that that was not to be her natural state-almost as soon as they were out of the gate, her chatter became almost incessant, and continued on to the many miles until Crestwood. She and Varric were inseparable once reunited, and they might as well have been speaking in code for all anyone could understand them. It grew very tiresome, very quickly. Hawke seemed to attract everyone to her side, almost effortlessly, and soon both the Bull and Dorian were joining in their conversations. It seemed Erika would find a companion in her dislike only in Cullen, of all people. Cullen disliked Hawke immensely and took great pains to keep Hawke and Erika separate, even before they departed Skyhold. She had first thought that he was still angry at Hawke for his own convoluted reasons, but he had acted like he was protecting Erika, as little sense as that made. The man was truly baffling.

He had insisted on seeing them to the gates, as if his scowling visage would somehow put the fear of the Maker back into Hawke, who for her part, only smiled impishly at him. Culled had then turned his gaze on Erika,with that puffed up look he would get when he was struggling to remain silent, but otherwise let her go without complaint. She could see him standing at the gate until they had lost sight of Skyhold. One could hardly survive a battle together without some camaraderie forming, and he took his duties much more seriously as of late, she supposed, though she would not go as far as deceiving herself that his views had at all changed, or that he held any kind of personal preference for her in particular. It was useful, though, to have that sort of unrelenting dedication at her side, for once.

Better for Erika to have him, than the Maker. She would be a gentler mistress, after all.

But Cullen’s hatred of Hawke seemed very personal to Erika, less about what she did to the Chantry, but what she did to Cullen himself. His outburst against Hawke had less in the manner of a morally outraged Templar and more of a jilted lover. Still, that could not be true, as he would never look at a mage like that. But the thought had wormed herself into Erika’s mind, and would hardly let her have peace. She would find herself staring at Hawke with a critical eye, as if she could determine whether a torrid affair had taken place just from the slope of her nose.

Erika would soon discover that Hawke and she had nothing whatsoever in common; Hawke was loud where Erika was quiet, soft where Erika was sharp, and open where Erika was closed. Even the way they used magic was different; Hawke fought like a savage, swinging her staff around recklessly with no finesse, bringing forth magic in wild bursts, and apparently thought her knowledge of the ten or so spells quite enough to get by. Erika had learnt Hawke’s meagre repertoire and more by the time she was ten, and knew to execute them with aplomb besides. Her magic was perfectly stable and used exactly in the amounts Erika wished, when she wished it. But where Erika had spent half of her life resentful of her magic and half of her life guarding it jealously, there was a kind of love in the way Hawke used hers, a kind of attunement which comes from lifelong friendship.

And no wonder that, for Hawke’s parents had not thrown her to the Templars; they had shielded her, protected her, loved her. A lump had formed in Erika’s throat at the thought, but she had swallowed it down; she had not cried over that for well over a decade and would not start now.

But the envy burned through her chest like acid, not just of Hawke, but of Dorian and Solas, and any mage that had breathed free air while she had been choking on incense. There was a difference in demeanor that would never be fixed-a Circle mage would forever be shrinking to fit the four walls of her prison.

Erika could not stay resentful of Dorian for long; but Hawke was another matter entirely. Erika should have been Hawke, and assurances of superior magical knowledge were a cold comfort.

She could barely stand to endure Hawke’s presence, let alone remain polite in it, for more than minutes at a time, and settled for using poor Dorian as a buffer between them.

Poor Dorian did not seem to mind at all, she thought looking over to the group a couple of steps in front of her, laughing raucously at something Hawke had said. They were finally nearing Crestwood, and Erika was ready to be done with it all.

As if sensing that she had been thinking about him (and none too kindly at that) Dorian turned his head backwards towards Erika, and rolling his eyes, left Hawke’s side and came to hers.

“Erika!”, he exclaimed, eyes mockingly wide, and grabbed her arm and bodily dragged her to join Hawke, Varric and the Iron Bull ahead.

“Stop walking so far behind and come join us, if you had had enough sulking for the day.”

Erika hissed at him that she had not been sulking (she had not!) and he smiled pleasantly, but his eyes were brimming with mischief. He was so bothersome!

She shook her arm out from his grip and resumed walking, not before shooting him a piercing look (which he ignored completely). She was now unfortunately firmly in the middle of the group, and Varric turned to her, eager to include her in the conversation:

“Inquisitor! We were just speculating whether anyone had ever managed to have sex in the Gallows-that’s what we called the CIrcle in Krkwall, you know Can you imagine, having to slink about under Curly’s watchful eye?”

“Oh, I doubt there was any slinking of anything at all”, Hawke interjected, “The only thing guarded in the Gallows was the poor mages virtue, and I imagine they well could have done without it. They might have been doing blood sacrifices left, right and center but there was not any fornication happening, I can tell you that!” Hawke said, laughing, but Erika thought she could detect an undercurrent of resentment in her tone.

“Maybe it correlated”, Bull deadpanned, and they all burst into giggles.

Erika managed a weak smile, but the subject had hit upon a sore spot for her (and confirmed a lot of what she had already thought about Cullen). Ostwick, as comparatively relaxed as it was, still did not look kindly on any kind of intercourse happening behind its walls. Of course, this could not completely stop the clandestine meetings of some mages, but Erika never quite managed to arrange her own. The Chantry sisters always spoke how easy it was to fall into sin, but it seemed extremely difficult for Erika. None tempted her enough for transgression, and her own diffident nature (off-putting, as others would call it) was hardly inviting, even after gaining her freedom.

Must they all laugh so, with their pick of lovers, when Erika could not even procure one?

But the conversation had gone on without her:

“..oh yes, we knew Cullen well enough in Kirkwall. Well, I say well,” Hawke was replying to Dorian.

“Yes, Hawke loved provoking him, you did it like it was paid work”, Varric interjected laughingly.

“There was something deeply fascinating in his particular kind of mental disturbance, I never could quite make him out to the end. He once literally said that mages are not people like him and me, to my face. I thought Carver was going to fall down and die right then and there! Fenris never thought it was as funny as I did, either.”

There was nothing Erika liked more when people would insert names of people in conversation as if everyone knew who they were. She refused to deign to ask.

“I was surprised to see him in the Inquisition”, Hawke tried to catch Erika's eye but Erika only offered a tight smile. “He seemed the Templariest Templar ever to live, I hardly thought he would ever leave the Order. My own brother told me all the other Templars were deathly afraid of him too.”

“I always thought he had a bit of a crush on you, you know. He was always less broody with you around. And he let you go, at the end”, Varric said.

Hawke laughed uproariously, while Erika’s blood ran cold.

“On me? Varric. Be serious.”

Surely they had said something after that, but Erika could hear nothing more; her ears were ringing.

It all made sense now. He let Hawke go because he wanted her, the filthy Templar liar. Erika could hardly suppose him capable of feeling love-no, it was all basest lust imaginable.It was so banal, so prosaic, it disgusted her in its simplicity. And she almost fell for his transparent explanations! She knew, she knew it had to be something, she could feel it in her gut, his desperate clutching to his morality, his saintliness, as if the prophet Andraste herself had taken his form!

Another, worse line of thought grabbed her. Did he hope something would come of it yet? Did he not want Hawke in Erika’s presence so he could conceal it from her? But Hawke would not do it, Erika quickly (and desperately) reassured herself. Hawke had an elven lover back in Kirkwall, did she not? And she was laughing at him, she would not consider him.

But the nights were long and lonely, and Kirkwall was far away, and Cullen was here and available and reasonably good looking, if one were to consider that angle. And everyone loved Hawke, wanted Hawke, of course he was angry now, but Hawke could entice him again if she tried, Erika was sure of it. This was unsupportable!

She felt a light touch on her arm, which abruptly brought her back from her spiraling thoughts.

“Erika? I’ve said your name five times now, is everything alright? You are scowling like mad.”, Dorian asked her, a worried frown on his face.

“Yes, fine!” Erika answered abruptly, relaxing her hands from the death-grip with which she had been clutching her staff. Her gaze was drawn to Hawke and Varric in front of her again.

They were still laughing. What if Hawke drowned in the lake? How funny would she be then?, Erika thought darkly, looking at her back.

Crestwood was looming up ahead, and she had no time to think further on the depths of Templar depravities.

—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

All in all, the mission was a resounding success, even as they went well beyond the parameters of the same. The rift in the lake was closed, the mayor apprehended, and Hawke’s warden contact questioned. They have even met with some Inquisition forward scouts, which had commandeered an old military outpost for their needs, and after days at the mercy of the weather, they could finally relax indoors, where Varric had insisted that they hold a mini celebration for a job well done, in the remnants of what was once a great hall. Erika’s head was too full of the impressions of the day to be able to participate, and so she endured the celebration for as long as she deemed it polite, but then made her way to her designated chambers, giving the excuse of a headache. As soon as she was alone in the hallway, she breathed a sign of relief. She needed time alone to think.

The Grey Warden Stroud had many things to say, and none of them particularly good. The concept of all the Grey Wardens experiencing the Calling at the same time…To learn that there is such a thing as the Calling in the first place was unsettling to say the least. Blight magic was seriously underresearched, and Erika was itching to come back to skyhold. There must be something they could find. Why had Blackwall not mentioned it in the first place? Surely he must be sensing something, as well. If Corypheus had all the Grey Wardens under his sway, the consequences could well be catastrophic, she thought, while opening the door to her bedroom. She barely had time to finish this thought, as there was someone already sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace. It was a woman, her long cloak carelessly thrown over the adjacent table, on which there was also lying an unmistakable mage’s staff.

Erika barely had time to flinch and reach for her staff, when the woman spoke:

“There is no need for all that, Inquisitor. Close the door and come sit here.”

Erika lowered her staff, and closed the door behind her, but did not approach. The woman spoke again, in a soft but firm voice:

“Come sit down so that we can be introduced properly, and do not make such a fuss. I’ll not harm you yet,” she smiled kindly, but her eyes were sharp, assessing.

This did not reassure Erika, but she did as she was asked (ordered), but kept her staff firmly clutched in her hands. Her gaze was unwittingly drawn to the woman's arms, which were placed firmly in her lap. The tips of her fingers were completely black down to the second knuckle, and from there her hands and arms were covered in fractal scars, as if she had been struck by lightning. The woman followed her gaze, and as if in mockery, drew the sleeves of her robes farther up for Erika’s further perusal.

Erika reddened at being caught staring, but she had no further doubts as to the identity of the intruder:

“I suppose I am speaking to the famed Hero of Ferelden”.

“You suppose correctly,” Warden-Commander Amell smiled beatifically as she leaned back in her chair.

“How did you get in? Who told you we were here?” Erika demanded, gathering her courage by the minute.

Amell replied softly, almost in a whisper, but with an undercurrent of very real anger:

“All news flows swiftly into Denerim. If a pigeon dies on the street in Amaranthine, I hear of it. I knew you were in Ferelden as soon as you descended the Frostbacks. Who knows Leliana’s methods of concealment better than I. I should have you drawn and quartered in the market square for trespassing, but I am currently inclined to be merciful. But only currently, mind.”

Erika suppressed a shiver which ran down her spine, and forced herself to look Amell straight in the eye.

“There was pressing Inquisition business, and as I have closed a rift that was causing havoc on the countryside, I have basically done you a favour. All of which you would have known had you bothered to come when Leliana had called you.”

Amell had a little smile on her face as Erika spoke, the low light of the fire making her eyes gleam.

“Am I a dog, to be called on whenever Leliana finds it convenient? Have I no responsibilities here? Or do you think that a Warden-Commander can just up and leave her post whenever she pleases?”

“Leliana said-”

“Leliana also said that she had a vision of me before she met me, so you will of course forgive me if I do not take her words to heart. That one came as far as she ever could. But I have not come here to trade meaningless barbs with you. As I have heard nothing bad of you in particular, notwithstanding the people you choose to surround yourself with, I have elected to place a measure of trust in you. To business then!”, Amell slapped her hands on her knees and leaned towards Erika, and Erika instinctively leaned forward as well.

“I understand that you have met with the warden Stroud. He has no doubt spilled our secrets, so I shall speak frankly as well. You know of the Calling?”

Erika nodded.

“I hear it too, so does the King. It is faint for us here, as the source is obviously far away, and unnatural-it is not the usual way of things. This matter has expedited some of my plans, none of which are the Inquisition’s concern. However, you only need know that I am unsure that I would be able to keep my present composure if I come any closer to the source of the Calling, and then I will become less than useless. But I will tell you what I have learned, though it is not much. We have not been much in contact with Orlesian Grey Wardens, and less still with Weisshaupt. Know that I hold no great love for the Order itself, merely gratitude for providing a means of escape at a time I needed it most. I'm sure you understand. I have received reports that they are gathering in the Adamantine fortress, for some purpose yet unknown to me. You would do well to travel there and investigate. I will say only another thing on this matter-there is a reason, and it has to do with the ritual of becoming a Warden, why only a Warden can slay an Archdemon. If Stroud has not elected to share this information with you, I will also refrain. But have a care that you do not slaughter them all, in any case. I have already done my part, and have no wish to try my luck with a second Archdemon, if it should come to that.”

Erika had listened to Amell’s speech in rising indignation, and when she had finished, nodded sharply and spoke:

“You have told me barely anything, and you are just going to throw all the responsibility of this at me?”

“It’s enough to get you started, and more than you deserve”, Amell replied, a faint undertone of contempt to her words.

The dam holding back Erika’s anger broke at last and she got up on her feet, fists clenched:
“How glad you are to threaten me in one instance and have me do your dirty work in another! Why not send another dogsbody, all great and all powerful would-be Queen? What are you doing that is so important, mistress Amell? Nothing for our kind, that is sure!”

Amell had not moved an inch from her seat, but her eyes had gone cold at Erika’s outburst, and when she began speaking, her voice was as cold as ice, rising in volume with each sentence:

“There has not been a Circle in Ferelden these past ten years because of me, the mage rebellion had found refuge in Ferelden because of me, and lest we all so suddenly forget, I was younger than you are now when I stopped the Blight, and I had barely any allies, and no guidance but my own gut, and no lofty titles had fallen into my lap but those I had paid for my own blood. I did all that, while you were still a shivering baby apprentice, playing at shooting sparks from your fingertips by day, and praying for a Templar to stick his cock in you by night so that the slow crawl of days until your death would pass more swiftly, and all this so you could now stand above me and think to tell me my business. Beware the plodding of bureaucracy, Inquisitor, and do not embarrass yourself by believing any one person can change the world.”

Erika was shaking in anger by the time Amell had finished speaking, but could make no reply.
They were both seething at each other; Amell turned an assessing gaze at Erika, and then as if she had reached a conclusion, visibly composed herself, and spoke in a more measured tone:

“Did your Commander speak of me to you?”

“He did not”, Erika said defiantly. What has he to do with anything now?

Amell sighed, and looked at Erika from under her eye:

“Yes, I suppose he never could speak in the presence of a pretty young woman. Have a care, Inquisitor”, she got up from her chair and draped herself in her cloak as she was speaking.

“Have a care of what, now?” Erika understood nothing. The woman was insufferable!

“Reflect on that, but do so on your way back to Skyhold. Your work here is done”, Amell said, picking up her staff and making for the door. When she had reached it and opened it, she turned to Erika once more:

“And should you find yourself around these parts before first asking permission, I may not be so kind as I was today. Have this wreck of a castle as an outpost, if you will, but the next one you think to take without asking I will make sure to burn to the ground, and neither you nor Leliana, and especially not Cullen, would be able to stop me.”

And then she turned and left, leaving Erika with more questions than answers.

Notes:

The opinions of the characters on other characters are not necessarily mine, I just like to create drama whenever possible 😌

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Mala in Se