Chapter Text
“Pardon me, ser, but perhaps you could help us. My friends and I are looking for a Professor Fell. Do you know if he’s here?”
The guard huffed, an angry white puff of vapor clouding around his mouth. Haven was freezing, the ground covered in snow. Will burrowed his nose into the soft fur of his cloak and waited for the man to answer. He’d invoked his tower-taught tone of politeness and blinked innocently with the slightest of confused smiles on his pinkened face when approaching the guard, but the man seemed – and this was hard to believe, really – wholly unaffected by Will’s charms. The man shifted his weight from one foot to another and gave Will and his companions an irritated once-over, and then his hand came to rest on the pommel of his sword.
“Haven doesn’t like outsiders wandering in and making demands,” responded the guard with a reproachful sneer. “If you need supplies, you can visit the shop up the hill, but then you need to go.”
Will chomped at his lower lip to keep his rise of anger capped and his sigh of annoyance stifled. The journey from Redcliffe to the little village of Haven had taken two days, and in their hurry to arrive, they’d skipped over sleep entirely, opting, instead, to utilize Alana’s healing magic to temporarily imbibe their tired bones. She’d touched them each in turn and closed her eyes, and after an uncomfortable twinge of cool tingles, their muscles were enlivened and they could walk on. But even with a body that felt refreshed, Will’s mind was fuzzy with exhaustion, for Alana’s spells could do nothing to energize his brain. So when the guard glared and rudely banished them to the supply shop up the hill, Will’s tired mind stumbled upon a response he might not ordinarily have experienced. Or that was his reasoning after he walked up to the guard, sweet expression wiped from his face, and slammed his staff threateningly.
“I’ll ask you again, ser, if you’ve heard news of a Professor Fell in the village of Haven,” Will demanded, and while he could not see his own face, he fancied his eyes were blazing and the line of his mouth was grim, eyebrows furrowed with the promise of retribution upon continued discourtesy.
The guard appraised him with widened eyes, but did not react with Will’s hopes of confessional babbling. After his initial alarm of the young mage stalking up to him, the guard quickly regained his standoffish composure, puffing up his chest and delivering Will a look of withered amusement.
“I don’t know what you’re on about, boy, but you’d best move on from here quick as your poofter boots can carry you.”
Incensed, Will’s hand shot out and grabbed the man’s wrist, the one that was resting atop his sheathed sword. Will didn’t need to use his staff; when need be, his bare hands worked better than fine. The man cried out as the flesh trapped beneath Will’s fingers began to sizzle.
“Please don’t lie to me,” Will said, increasing his grip and watching the smoke rise from beneath his hand. “And don’t call me ‘boy.’ I’m a Grey Warden, and I’m asking you a question.”
The guard sobbed, violently nodding his head, and Will released him. The man’s wrist was riddled with heat blisters and he dropped to his knees to bury his wrist in the snow.
“Professor Fell,” Will repeated. “Is he here?”
Finally, the response he had been waiting for arrived. The guard sniffled and nursed his injury with more snow, and then looked up at Will and answered: “He’s in the Chantry.”
Will turned to face his companions and was met with a rainbow of reactions. Most notable was Katz’s affronted face as she grabbed his elbow and ushered him away from the fallen guard. “Since when was being an asshole punishable by torture?” she whispered.
“That wasn’t torture,” Will defended, startled by her choice of words, “it was motivation.”
Katz looked to be on the edge of arguing when Hannibal stepped between them. “Allow us to look past Will’s inquisitorial prowess and consider the information gained.”
Realizing he was now being ignored, the guard lurched to his feet and stumbled away, kicking up chunks of snow in his haste to escape Haven’s unwelcome newcomers. Will watched him run into a wooden cabin off the main road and slam the door shut behind him.
“A strange man in a strange town,” Alana said.
Will glanced at her and briefly wondered how it was she managed to stay warm in her selected attire of scant leathers and furs that left entire expanses of smooth skin exposed to the elements.
“More like the only man in a strange town,” Katz murmured, her head turning as she searched their surroundings with curious eyes. “Welcome to Haven. Population: one rude guard.”
“And Professor Fell,” Will added, his own eyes sweeping the sleepy mountain village. He had expected the inhabitants to be few, but Katz was correct. There was no one in sight. And now that he was focused, there was an all around disconcerting element to the air. Something was amiss, and he couldn’t quite trace the root of his discomfiture.
“Perhaps we will find more answers when we find this Professor Fell,” Hannibal suggested. “I believe the Chantry is just there, atop the hill.”
Will followed the templar’s gaze up the road, and sitting at the pinnacle of Haven, as was the fashion in most villages, was the Chantry. Unlike the other wooden structures in the humble village, the chantry building looked well maintained and was built from stone, not timber. More noteworthy was its chimney stack, which emitted a hearty smoke, declaring the presence of someone within.
“Shall we ask the good Professor what he knows?” The templar’s attention was for Will alone, and he shied beneath the penetrative stare.
“We’ve come this far,” Will answered, turning his blushing face away from Hannibal and taking a step through the snow toward the Chantry.
They made their way up the hill, the Chantry casting a long shadow across their progression, until they came to a hesitant pause outside the front door. Will looked askance at his companions, and at their encouraging nods, he pressed his hand against the cold surface and pushed. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a rather unexpected scene.
The Chantry’s pews were filled, solving the immediate mystery of Haven’s missing residents; apparently, they were all attending worship. But that was not the unusual detail that had Will gripping his staff tighter than usual. What was strange was the man standing at the altar, dressed not in the standard chantry garb, but odd, crimson robes. More, the words he relayed were not the traditional Chantry chant, but a garble of words Will couldn’t discern, in a language he’d never heard spoken. But strangest of all, past oddities of dress and speech, was the hush that filled the room once their presence was detected and the disturbing synchronization of the room’s occupants as they turned in unison to stare at the intruders.
The door swung closed behind them with a slam that echoed loudly amidst the dense silence, and Will cleared his throat before addressing the man at the altar. “Sorry for the interruption,” he began, keenly aware of the disapproving eyes cast in his direction, “but I’m looking for a Professor Fell. I was told to find him here.”
The man at the altar lifted his arms and spread them wide, and he tilted back his head with a laugh. “Why, I am Professor Fell,” he exclaimed. Slowly, he lowered his arms and slinked from behind the altar, revealing a narrow body, his litheness evident even as it was hidden beneath layers of robes. “Who seeks me?” His walk forward was a display of swaying hips and a smirking mouth, and when he stopped in front of Will, his head jerked to the side and his eyes darted up and down Will’s form in a way that made him feel like he needed a bath as soon as possible. Hannibal, sensing Will’s discomfort, stepped to his side, and Will was satisfied to feel the steady pressure of the templar’s hand on his lower back.
“Professor,” Will said, “Bann Bella of Redcliffe sent us here, and we’re in dire need of your assistance.”
“Is that so?” asked the Professor, licking his lips.
“Erm, yes,” Will replied, feeling more than a little strange having their discussion in the middle of a packed Chantry service. His voice practically echoed within the oversized room. “It’s concerning the urn, ser.” Professor Fell cupped a hand around his ear in a show of his hard hearing and crooked a finger, summoning Will closer. Will frowned, but leaned in enough to speak in a whisper at the Professor’s ear. “The Urn of Sacred Ashes.”
The Professor’s grin was crooked and sly. “You came for the ashes, did you?”
“Yes,” Will answered eagerly; hope swelled in his chest at the idea that this man did, indeed, know where they could find Andraste’s urn.
“I’ll tell you where the ashes are,” said the Professor.
Will waited with baited breath. And then he gasped, taken completely by surprise, when the Professor hooked an arm around Will’s chest and spun him round to press a knife against his neck. Suddenly, Will was a hostage staring out at the shocked expressions of his friends. Or, at least, Alana and Katz were shocked. Hannibal’s face was stone. But Will detected the minute spasm of muscle beneath the templar’s eye, the only visible sign of fury on his otherwise serene facade.
“These renegades seek the ashes of Andraste!” the man announced, slowly backing away with Will secured against his chest, the knife sharp against the hollow of his throat. The people in the pews booed, and Will, seeing them from a new angle, noticed the clothes beneath their cloaks were the same crimson robes the altar man wore. “I will tell you where the ashes are!” The man had backed them up to the altar and he yanked Will’s head back by the curls to whisper in his ear. “In a place you’ll never find.” His words were a hiss that made Will shudder, and the man pressed his nose into Will’s neck and sniffed. “Mmm.”
“Get off!” Will yelled, his eyes meeting Hannibal’s across the Chantry at the exact moment his captor’s tongue darted out to lick a thick line across his jaw.
Will’s mana surged and the man’s robes burst into flame. He released Will instantly to bat at his arms, screaming wildly. Once freed from the crazed man’s clutches, Will instinctively dropped to the floor. A moment later, he heard the sword hit its mark and Will jumped to his feet, bending down to retrieve Hannibal’s sword from the smoldering man’s chest. He turned and tossed it into Hannibal’s waiting hands. Will was pulled into the templar’s arms in the next moment, receiving a quick inspection for cuts at his throat. Approvingly unmarred, Hannibal released him, spinning with his drawn sword into another robed attacker. As Will glanced around Hannibal’s armored frame, he realized the entire occupants of the pews had stood upon their leader’s death and were now swarming with zeal. Crimson cloth ripped and burned, bodies were flung across the Chantry hall, and after an arduous scrimmage –formidable, not by force, but by sheer number! – Will was panting, Alana was looting a body, Katz was wiping blood from her blade, and Hannibal was bent down on one knee, studying the robes of Professor Fell.
“Either the Chantry has enlisted a new seamstress or these are not the robes of the devout,” he remarked.
Will joined him, peering over his shoulder at the face of the madman. He felt a shiver of repulsion and wiped at his jaw with his shirtsleeve. “He doesn’t really match Bella’s description, does he?” Will asked. “Younger than I’d pictured.”
“And crazy!” Katz added gruffly. “Why would he have had that reaction to us?”
“And why did all of his followers attack us?” Alana added. She lifted something shiny in her hand, pulled from around the throat of a dead woman. “Are they all wearing this medallion?”
Will squinted at the object in her hand. A silver necklace with a stone sun hanging from a clasp. Hannibal’s hand disappeared beneath the robes of the leader, returning with an identical medallion strung between his fingers. He placed it in Will’s palm, leaning close to inspect it, one hand steadying Will’s wrist while the other traipsed the sun with studious fingers. When his fingers idled from the jewelry and softly caressed Will’s skin, he looked up at Hannibal. The templar was no longer studying the mysterious medallion, but Will. They remained as such for a long moment, kneeling close on the floor, eyes meeting over their touching hands, and then they heard a muffled cry that broke the spell.
“What was that?” Katz asked, but Alana was already walking to the wall behind the altar. Hannibal stood, offering Will his hand, which was taken without hesitance, and then they were all clamoring up behind Alana.
She waved them back. “Be quiet. Let me listen.” She pressed her ear against the wall. Will heard another muffled sound of distress and watched the narrowing of Alana’s eyes. She knocked her knuckles against the wall, listened, and then knocked again. After a show of jutting out her hip and sighing warily, she turned to Katz. “Kick this down.”
Katz nodded, her glee at getting to put her boot through something evident in her smile, and after a step, step, SMASH, the wall was sporting a decent sized hole. Alana bent over to stick her head through. “Hello,” Will heard her say, and when she righted herself, she wore a look of immense satisfaction. “A secret room with a trussed up man inside,” she informed them breezily.
Hannibal hummed his appreciation. “A fascinating discovery. Well done, Alana.”
“Excuse me!” came a man’s voice from the hole in the wall. “Either kill me or rescue me, but don’t stand around congratulating yourselves all day while I’m tied up like a criminal.”
Alana rolled her eyes and ducked her head, moving into the secret room behind the altar. After an interested smile from Hannibal and a puzzled shrug from Katz, Will followed after her. Soon, the four of them were standing in a half circle around a smallish man with dark hair and serious eyes. He truly was tied tightly with rough rope, and Katz brandished a dagger from her waist to begin the process of his timely rescue.
“Argh! Watch yourself, you oaf. Can’t you see my skin is chaffed?” the man snarked.
Katz recoiled, responding haughtily, “Oaf?!”
“It figures they would send ignoramuses wrapped in brute packaging as my rescuers. No room for any brain between the brawn, I suppose.”
Katz scoffed and resumed the cutting of the man’s bindings with no concern for the friction of rope to skin. “No one sent us to rescue you.” Her blade cut through the ropes around his wrist and she moved to his arms. “We were here for Professor Fell and he’s dead.”
The man’s eyes became huge for a moment, and then he clucked his tongue disagreeably. “I am Professor Fell.”
Katz carved away the last of the ropes and stepped back. “But we just killed him.”
Will snuck another look at Hannibal, who was observing the exchange with a curious tilt of his head. But Will was not quite sneaky enough and the templar caught him looking, rewarding him with a barely-there smile.
“Let me out of this blighted room,” the man harped, standing shakily to his feet and making his way through the smashed wall. Will and the others followed him out, watching as he spun in a slow circle, surveying the scattering of bodies. “Your work, I assume?”
“If you really are Professor Fell,” Will asked, “who was this man and why did he have you tied up?” He gestured toward the corpse of the fallen altar man who had claimed to be Professor Fell.
“That, my mindless machismos, is Matthew Brown,” the Real Professor Fell replied. “Nothing but an insane cultist.”
“A cult?” Katz asked dubiously. “Here in Haven?”
“Brown’s group of zealots flushed this town of any sense years ago,” affirmed the professor. “Can you think of a better location to sew your seeds of insanity than a quiet mountain village?”
“Why was he pretending to be you?”
“To find out why you’d come, obviously,” Fell quipped. “And, of course, you came to inquire of the ashes, did you not?”
Will nodded. “Yes, that’s right. We need to find Andraste’s urn.”
Fell shook his head, arms crossing over his chest. “Typical. I have studied the legend of the urn for decades, and you lot come charging in to reap the benefits of another’s work.”
“Professor Fell, do you know where the ashes are?” Will asked, almost pleading.
“I need not answer your questions,” Fell replied rather nastily, turning up his nose. “Unless you plan to tie me up and poke at me like buffoons.”
“Okay,” Katz spat, grabbing the rude little professor by the collar, “you do realize we just saved your life, right? That if we hadn’t come along, you would have rotted behind a Chantry wall? So why don’t you show some gratitude and tell us what you know about the blasted ashes or I would be more than happy to poke at you like a buffoon.” She reached for the dagger at her waist.
Will walked up behind her and murmured softly, “Since when was being an asshole punishable by torture?” He was pleased when her eyes narrowed at him in annoyance. She released Fell’s collar and his fingers flew up to straighten it, squaring his shoulders and looking more offensively prideful than ever.
But before Professor Fell could comment on his rescuers’ skewed morality and lack of clear leadership, Hannibal stepped in front of him, dangling the sun medallion in front of his face. “Tell me, Professor Fell, what does this symbol signify?”
The Professor fixed Hannibal with a loathsome stare and did not answer.
“Hmm,” the templar intoned thoughtfully. “I thought perhaps your intensive studies would have familiarized you with this symbol. No? Allow me to further your expertise. This sunburst medallion is the symbol of the Cult of Andraste. I believe you are at least familiar with their existence.” He motioned to the bodies surrounding them. “And what purpose would the Cult of Andraste have with taking you prisoner, Professor, unless they considered you a threat? You are weak-boned and weaponless, leaving only your knowledge a danger. What knowledge rested within your commendable brain to upset this Matthew Brown to the point of physical harm?” Hannibal paused. When Professor Fell refused once more to answer, he continued, cool and calm as always. “I believe, and correct me if I am wrong, please, that you know exactly where the Urn of Sacred Ashes resides, and that residence is a secret the Cult of Andraste was willing to kill to keep.”
A hundred questions battered Will’s head, but Hannibal was not finished, so Will just stared and watched the heat behind the templar’s eyes.
“A man such as yourself would have no need to come to Haven unless the urn was nearby,” Hannibal continued, tucking the medallion into his pack. “So tell me, Professor, where is it? It is a matter of life and death.” He leaned down to whisper in the Professor’s ear. “Yours, in case that was unclear.”
Will had to admit, the man was difficult to shake up, and even after his resigned acquiescence following Hannibal’s threat his tone remained defiant and callous, addressing his rescuers turned hoodlums with a repugnant eye. “Remind me to send Bann Bella a fruit basket in thanks for sending you my way,” he seethed. “The ashes are in the temple atop the mountain, not far from Haven. That is why the Cultists are here, to keep outsiders from discovering the urn. Rest assured, there will be more in the temple. Their leader, in fact, and he will not be cut down as easily as Matthew Brown.”
“Who is this leader?” asked Hannibal.
The Professor bristled with displeasure. “He insists his followers call him the Great Red Dragon, but I know his name to be Francis. He dwells in the temple with his closest advisors, drinking dragonling blood and doing Maker knows what else. He is insane. His followers are insane. And you are insane if you believe you can reach the urn alive.”
Will ignored Professor Fell’s ominous dialogue, looking to his friends for their nods of approval. He turned to the Professor again, wondering vaguely if maybe they were a little insane, which, oddly enough, brought a slight smile to his face. “Lead us to the temple.”
--
Their trip up the mountainside with the decidedly unlikeable Professor Fell was a study in patience, as each of Will’s party took turns fighting their base urges to toss him into the abyss. But the time spent traveling could not be considered a total loss. When the Professor was not chiding them cruelly for their graceless handlings of, well, everything, he maintained a steady lecture of all things concerning Andraste. Will, though the opposite of being Fell’s fan, was a student, always, at heart, and he found himself listening earnestly as the man told the story of the prophet whose ashes they were heading to steal.
Andraste the Prophet, the spiritual wife of the Maker, burned at the stake, and now worshipped for her sacrifices. It was her teachings that formed the modern religion of the Chantry, the main religion throughout Ferelden and all of Thedas. Will was not religious - though Chantry study was mandatory within the Circle of Magi - but he found himself rather liking the idea of Andraste, not as a religious icon, but as a person. She had been through quite a lot of hardship before her death, her life consistently challenged, and Will could relate. Of course, Will had no Maker whispering in his ear, but another creature of shadow and antlers and endearing heat. Will’s cheeks blushed to think on his demon and the time they had spent together. He hoped he would not be smited instantly upon entering the sacred temple on account of his Fade fornication. That would probably confound his companions.
When at last they reached the mountaintop, Will’s nose was numb and his calves were burning from the climb, and he followed the others through the mouth of a cave, thankful for Hannibal’s hand keeping his trembling body from slipping on the icy floor. Will rubbed his hands together, expending a minutia of mana to heat his frozen limbs. Noticing the shivers of his companions, he tentatively touched them each with a soft graze of his fingers and allowed a moderate flow of heat to warm their bones, except for Fell, who waved him away with a proud huff. When Will approached Hannibal, he took the man’s hand, removing his gauntlet, and though the templar’s touch was already considerably warm, he held it longer than the others, closing his eyes for a moment as he let his magic seep into Hannibal’s skin.
With everyone warm barring the stubborn Professor Fell, it was time to approach the entrance to the temple, its door hidden in the wall of the cave. Will watched as Fell ran his hands over the smooth stone for a few minutes, before throwing up his hands in annoyance, unable to find a handle or groove in which to open the way inside. It was Alana, in the end, who stepped forward with one of her looted sun-shaped medallions. She arched an eyebrow at the Professor and pressed it against the stone. Almost immediately, the stone began to shift, and a hidden door slid open, revealing the temple within.
Alana did nothing to hide her smirk and secured the medallion around her neck. She extended her arm in front of her and nodded at Fell. “After you.”
Professor Fell grumbled as he walked through the door, the rest following quickly behind. Will had to crane his neck uncomfortably to see all the way to the top of the cavernous antechamber. The room was simply humongous, with ice-coated pillars and wall carvings and statues in every direction. A piece of Will wanted to stay in that first chamber and explore, but they had a vast temple to navigate, and finding the urn was the priority. He began to walk towards the door at the end of the chamber, pausing after a second when he heard the Professor joining the rest of the party in their venture.
“Professor, you need to say here,” Will said.
Fell was shocked to the core. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t come with us,” Will expounded. “The temple is dangerous; you said so yourself. Better you stay here.”
Katz snorted, trying to mask it with an artificial cough. “Will’s right, Professor. Wouldn’t want you to come to any harm.”
“I have worked my whole life to find this urn,” Fell argued irritably.
“An admirable feat,” Hannibal said with clear tones of condescension.
“But you really should wait here,” Alana piped, reaching into her pack and revealing a piece of blank parchment. “Why don’t you take some notes of what you find in this first room, and then we’ll come and fetch you when it’s safe?” She handed Fell the parchment and a small chunk of charcoal.
His face twisted unpleasantly, but he accepted the items. “Unbelievable,” he murmured.
Katz slapped him on the back. “Wish us luck.”
Professor Fell walked to the nearest pillar and began scrutinizing it, but Will heard him mutter under his breath, “I hope you all die.”
Will, Hannibal, Alana, and Katz exited the antechamber, all equally relieved to be free of the irritating man. They walked in companionable, unbothered silence for a few minutes, and Will was beginning to think the icy temple was a peaceful place of solitude, but it was not long before their trek led them to an occupied chamber, and the semblance of serenity was abolished.
Their presence went unnoticed at first, Will’s party coming to an abrupt halt when they spotted the small group of crimson-robed cultists gathered in the center of a smallish chamber, but a cluster of four can only go for so long undetected, and after several chest-clenching heartbeats, the cultists took notice, turning their hooded heads towards Will and the others.
Will tightened his grip on his staff, but remained still, trying to appear nonthreatening for as long as possible. If what the Professor said was true, and the leader called the Great Red Dragon had been feasting on dragonling blood, he would be a powerful foe. If Will could, he would handle the encounter without violence, and he’d worked out a way to do it on the journey up the mountainside.
He began by dropping to one knee. “We have come in search of the Great Red Dragon,” Will declared with a humble bow of his head. He could sense the others regarding him with befuddlement, but, blessedly, they did not contradict his gesture, opting instead to imitate it, each member of his party dropping to their knees. From his peripheral, Will saw Hannibal kneeling at his side. The templar’s body was tensed from the surprise supplication, but he gave no outward rebuttal, bowing his head in equal measure and awaiting the next move with noticeable intrigue.
Though Will’s companions may have been confused by such genuflection, the tallest of the robed cultists seemed to accept it as a given reaction. He stepped towards them, removing his hood, and Will glanced up, head still bowed, and knew the man must be Francis, the Cult Leader. He looked sickly pale, like he hadn’t stepped outside the temple in years, but he didn’t look malnourished or weak. His tall body was broad and muscular and he moved with a laudable grace that reminded Will of a snake’s slither. But when the man spoke, his voice betrayed an unexpected hesitance. Though a deep, rumbling tenor, he spoke softly and slowly, as if every word needed intense consideration before being uttered aloud.
“I am the Great Red Dragon,” said the Leader. “You may rise.”
Will’s joints cracked as he lifted himself to his feet once more, the others following suit. They waited as Francis inspected their appearance. He took in the necklace around Alana’s neck and nodded. A woman standing at his side placed her hand upon his elbow, and he turned his head to her, the look of adoration evident in his eyes.
“Why don’t you ask our visitors why they have come searching for you?” the woman asked sweetly.
Her voice seemed to instantly relax the tall, strange man, and he smiled, strained but genuine. “Yes, Reba,” he whispered. Then he turned back to Will.
“Why have you sought the Great Red Dragon? I do not recognize you from Matthew’s Haven flock. Do you worship the Risen Andraste?”
Will had no idea what he meant by the Risen Andraste, but he was quick to nod his head adamantly. “We worship the Risen Andraste, my lord,” answered Will, hoping ‘lord’ was a permitted term of address. He paused, and when he was not met with disdain he continued. “We have come a far distance to admire the Urn of Sacred Ashes.”
That, apparently, was not the right thing to say. Francis pounded an angry fist against his chest and growled, and Will thought the man might have charged them then and there if not for the gentling touch of Reba’s hand on his. It almost reminded Will of Hannibal’s soothing caresses, his constant touch that calmed Will’s constantly bustling nerves. As Reba hushed the irate Cult Leader and rubbed small circles into his palm, the man began to recollect his temper. After a few deep breaths, he spoke.
“Why would you admire the ashes of a dead prophet, when this mountain contains the spirit of our chosen holy one, the Risen Andraste herself?”
Will fumbled over a heap of thoughts, his mind working quickly to cultivate a suitable response. He ended up with the following: “Forgive me, my lord. The magnificence of the mountain has muddled my words. I meant to say that we have come a far distance to…abolish the Urn of Sacred Ashes.” He gritted his teeth, not sure if he’d just secured them a bloody battle or a rare opening.
Francis looked unsure, as well. “You have come to destroy the ashes?” he asked after a considerable pause.
Will took a deep breath. “That is correct.”
The mage and the Cult Leader stared at one another for a moment, the tension between them thick, and then the Great Red Dragon nodded his head. “That is glorious news. Others have tried to enter the Gauntlet and failed. If you could make it through and reach the ashes to destroy them, the Risen Andraste would be pleased.”
Entirely lost, Will bowed his head again. “It would be the greatest honor to enter the Gauntlet. Pleasing the Risen Andraste is our sole desire.”
“Mine, as well,” the man replied gravely. “Please, my friends, go forth into the next chamber and meet the Guardian. I look forward to speaking more when the ashes have been destroyed.”
Disbelieving of their easy passage, Will walked hastily across the chamber to the far door, the footsteps of his companions close at his heels. He bowed once more to the Great Red Dragon and then disappeared through the chamber door.
When they were alone in the new room and the door was shut solidly behind them, Will collapsed against it with a soft groan.
“What was that?” Katz asked with alarm.
Will spread his hands helplessly. “I have no idea. But I guess we’re looking for a Guardian now.”
“You need not look, for I am he,” said a whimsical voice.
Standing before an archway was a transparent man. Will approached him cautiously, in awe at the spirit before them. “You’re the Guardian?” Will asked.
“I am the keeper of Andraste’s sacred ashes, and only those worthy may pass. I wonder if you are worthy.” The spirit was dressed in full armor. His voice was not unkind, but tinted with boredom. Will wondered how long the spirit had been guarding the archway. Probably for as long as the ashes had resided within the temple.
“Who are you?” Will asked.
The Guardian settled his translucent eyes on Will. “I was the first Disciple of Andraste to watch over the temple, and I watch it still. But more importantly, who are you? There is suffering in your past – your suffering…and the suffering of others.”
“Everyone suffers,” Katz cut in impatiently. “Are you going to let us through or not?”
The Guardian turned from Will to Katz, smiling solemnly. “Always so impatient. You fear the others will notice your weakness if you give them pause to think. You suffer silently, miserable in your doubts. You do not think you deserve to be a Grey Warden, that Jack would be disappointed if he were alive. You disappointed your uncle, didn’t you? Is that why he sent you to the Chantry when you were young?”
Katz stared at the Guardian, her face a pale mask of horror and shame. When she did not respond, the Guardian turned to Alana.
“The Witch of the Wilds,” the Guardian began, “your heart is cold with suffering. No one will ever love you the way you have loved. You are a frozen, miserable creature, your fear too deep to thaw your heart.”
Alana glared at the spirit, unimpressed. “Fuck you.”
The Guardian smiled and turned to Will, and Will felt his blood run cold. “Will,” said the spirit. “Do your friends know how your father died? Have you confessed to them the truth of his death? Or has your fear of their abandonment kept you from being honest? Your father abandoned you when you showed him your true self. So you hide your true self from everyone.”
Will couldn’t breathe. It took all his strength to keep his knees from buckling. They were all staring at him, but he could not meet their eyes. He looked downward, to the space between his boots. After a moment, the Guardian turned his attention to Hannibal.
The Guardian’s silence made Will glance up at the templar. He was staring daggers at the spirit. It was a few more moments before the guardian spoke.
“You,” spoke the spirit softly, “I can see what you are. You suffer most of all, don’t you? Because you are alone and always will be.”
“Debatable,” Hannibal replied.
To Will’s surprise, the Guardian chuckled, glancing almost imperceptibly at Will. “Perhaps.”
“Well?” asked the unfazed templar. “Have we suffered enough to pass your test? May we enter the Gauntlet?”
The Guardian did not answer, but slowly dissipated into mist, disappearing and clearing their way into the next chamber. Will stood quietly, heart still beating uncomfortably in his chest. Alana and Katz also seemed distracted, pulled within themselves. It was Hannibal who roused them, taking Will’s hand and leading the way into the next room. “Do not dwell on the past, Will, for it is unchangeable. Stay in the present, with me,” he whispered in Will’s ear.
Will sighed, feeling the assuredness of the strong hand in his, and looked up at the chamber the templar had led them into. They were in a rectangular room, the walls lined with eight statues. Will shook the fogginess from his head and tried to concentrate. Hannibal was right. Now was not the time to lament their weaknesses. Now was the time to test their strengths. He straightened, offered Hannibal a thankful smile, and approached the first statue.
As he studied the woman’s face carved from stone, Alana and Katz trudged to the other end of the chamber, testing the door.
“It’s locked,” Katz said worriedly.
Will glanced up from the statue to watch them poking fruitlessly at the door for a moment. It would be funny if so much wasn’t riding on their ability to get through to the urn. He turned back to the statue, reaching out to touch the smooth stone with a finger. But before he reached his target, the statue moved beneath his hand. Will yelped, jumping back and ramming into Hannibal’s chest. He stared, agog, as the statue began to speak.
“Echoes from the shadow realm, whispers of things yet to come. Thought's strange sister dwells in the night, is swept away by dawning light. Of what do I speak?”
The statue finished its strange speech and grew still and solid once more.
“Um,” Katz stuttered, making a beeline with Alana towards Will and Hannibal. “Did that statue just talk?”
Will was temporarily speechless, but Hannibal was not. “I believe this statue just asked us a question.”
Will swallowed hard, shaking his head. He carded his fingers through his curls, pushing the hair from his eyes. “It was a riddle,” he said.
Alana and Katz exchanged uncertain looks, but Will was certain. And even better, he knew the answer.
“Dreams,” Will said.
The statue glowed for a moment, and a loud clicking noise echoed from across the chamber.
“Will, I think you just unlocked the door,” Katz said. They all glanced across the room. The door was still sealed, but it glowed partially around its handle.
“I count eight statues in this chamber,” Hannibal said thoughtfully. “Perhaps we need solve eight riddles to unlock the door.”
Will nodded, remembering the Sloth from his Harrowing. He hoped that, in this case, they would not be eaten for answering incorrectly. He moved to the next statue of a man dressed in formal robes. The others followed behind him. Will waited for a moment.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat uncertainly, and then the statue began to shift, coming to life before his eyes long enough to deliver the following words: “I’d neither a guest nor trespasser be; in this place I belong, that belongs also to me. Of what do I speak?” Finished, it stilled and fell to silence.
Will glanced behind him at the others. Hannibal smiled warmly, and the answer sprang to his mind at once. He turned to the statue and answered. “Home.”
The statue glowed and they heard a second click from the door.
“Why are you so good at this?” Katz asked.
“I did spend the first twenty years of my life doing little more than reading,” was Will’s response as he moved confidently towards the third statue. He did not need to prompt the soldierly-looking statue; it began speaking as soon as Will stopped before it.
“A poison of the soul, passion’s cruel counterpart; from love she grows till love lies slain. Of what do I speak?”
“That’s gloomy,” Katz whispered.
Will shushed her and shut his eyes to think. A few images came forward from the back of his mind: Hannibal’s hand touching Katz’s waist as he helped her climb the sylvan; Hannibal linking arms with Alana; the Dust Town prostitutes touching what didn’t belong to them. Will bit his lip. He knew all too well of what the statue spoke.
“Jealousy,” Will whispered, and the statue glowed in his correctness, causing another click in the door.
They walked to the next statue.
“She wields the broken sword, and separates true kings from tyrants. Of what do I speak?”
Will remembered Dimmond lying beneath Katz’s sword, asking politely for his life to be spared.
“Mercy.”
A glow, a click, and they moved to the fifth statue.
“The bones of the world stretch towards the sky’s embrace. Veiled in white, like a bride greeting her groom. Of what do I speak?”
“Ooh, I know!” Katz squeaked excitedly. They all turned to her and waited. Her eyes widened marginally, and then she answered. “Mountains…right?”
The statue glowed and the door clicked, and Katz exhaled with relief. They approached the sixth statue.
“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. The debt of blood must be paid in full. Of what do I speak?”
Alana answered now. “Vengeance.” Will remembered her face when the Broodmother had thrown Dimmond against the stone wall, and the payback in every thrust of her staff after. Will wondered if she was remembering the same moment, for her eyes misted as the statue glowed and the door clicked.
The seventh statue’s riddle was simple, and Will’s answer was quick.
“The smallest lark could carry it, while a strong man might not. Of what do I speak?”
“A tune.”
Glow. Click.
And then they were approaching the eighth and final statue. It came to life slower than the others, and its voice was weaker. Will listened carefully.
“No man has seen it, but all men know it. Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies. Of what do I speak?”
Will’s eyebrows knitted as his brain worked the riddle, this one giving him pause where the others had not. Vaguely, his mind wandered over lurid thoughts. A blade sinking into flesh, the smell of burning skin, and black, bony hips thrusting, burying deep, a thick, heavy cock.
“Hunger.”
Will whipped his head around to Hannibal, for he was the one who had solved the final riddle. The statue glowed brightly, and the door clicked a final time before creaking open and presenting the way through to the next chamber.
Will had to hold his hands in front of his groin for a few moments and banish his burgeoning erection, but the thought of his demon pounding into him had elicited a very particular thrumming in his blood that was difficult to ignore, and he followed the others into the next chamber in a bit of a lust-colored trance.
That trance ended abruptly when Will looked up and saw the single figure standing in the center of the chamber.
“No, no,” Will whimpered, backing up several steps. He blinked, trying to clear the nonsensical impossibility presented before his eyes. But the figure remained unwavering. “No, no no.” Will turned to retreat and Hannibal caught him in his arms.
“Will, do you know this man?” Hannibal asked gently at his ear.
Will shook his head and buried his face into the templar’s chest. “No,” he whispered. “No.”
He felt Hannibal’s hand cradling the back of his neck protectively, felt him step them back as Alana and Katz moved in front with their weapons drawn.
“Who are you?” Alana asked the figure.
Will wished Hannibal wasn’t wearing his templar armor. His tears were too obvious as they rolled down the silver plating. He winced when he heard the figure’s cruel laughter. His heart ached in his chest. He had heard that laugh before, so long ago, so many times.
“Don’t tell me you don’t recognize me, boy,” said the spitting image of Will’s father. “Or are you too ashamed to look me in the eye?”
It wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real. His father was dead. It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real.
“LOOK AT ME WHEN I’M TALKING TO YOU!”
Will cowered against Hannibal, whose arms tightened around him fiercely. “Don’t listen to him, Will,” Hannibal whispered, his lips brushing against Will’s forehead. “Listen to my voice.”
“THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE FROM WHAT YOU DID TO ME, DIDN’T YOU?”
“Shhh,” Hannibal soothed. “It is a crude fragment from the past and nothing more. Don’t listen.”
“YOU LITTLE FUCKING COWARD. COME HERE AND OWN UP TO WHAT YOU DID, BOY.”
Will shuddered beneath a well of rage, and he pulled away from Hannibal, his hands artfully unsheathing the templar’s greatsword. Vision red, he stormed past Alana and Katz, straight for his father. His muscles strained beneath the weight of the sword as he heaved it into the air, and with a terrible cry, he swung. The blade swept through the image of his father, and it vanished. The sword rang loudly when Will dropped it against the stone floor.
“Maker’s breath,” sighed Katz. “Will, are you okay?”
He nodded, but he was numb. Even the hand at his back did little to help. But he let himself be steered into the next room nonetheless.
Will felt the heat first, before he lifted his head from the floor and saw the enormous wall of fire cutting through the center of the next chamber.
“What?” Katz groaned.
Hannibal shadowed Will’s movements as he walked to a modest altar before the flames. Upon the altar was an inscription. A final riddle.
“What does it say?” Hannibal asked him.
“Enter the fire as you entered the world,” Will answered blankly, setting his staff on the floor at his feet.
“Will?” Alana asked concernedly, but Will had little care at the moment, so blasted and abused were his nerves. He slid the vest from his shoulders and his fingers untied the string holding together his shirt. It caught on his head for a moment as he lifted it off, but soon he felt stronger, tremor-less hands taking over, and removing his shirt the rest of the way. Hannibal caught his eye as he folded Will’s discarded clothes. Will did not shy away from his sharp gaze, but held steady to it as he toed off his boots.
“Are we…getting naked?” he heard Katz asking.
“Unless you entered the world fully armed, then I suppose so,” Alana answered.
Will heard the sliding of leathers and clinking of armor as Katz and Alana undressed. Will tucked his fingers beneath the waist of his trousers and pushed them down. He stepped out, kicking them away. Next went his smallclothes, and then he was bared completely.
Hannibal’s templar armor proved marginally more painstaking to remove. Will never realized how many heavy layers were constantly stacked upon his friend. He might have felt embarrassed as he helped unclasp the metal plates from Hannibal’s back, but what room did he have to feel embarrassed in front of Hannibal? Or Katz? Or Alana? What shame was he supposed to feel? He felt nothing but a mindless calm as he assisted the removal of Hannibal’s final piece of armor, and then he stepped back and watch him strip off his final layers. Hannibal’s body was svelte and toned beneath the cumbersome templar costume, but Will kept his eyes trained on Hannibal’s face. Mostly.
Once all four were stripped naked, Will stepped toward the wall of fire. He took a deep breath. And then he stepped through.
The fire did not burn him. In fact, once they had each walked through the flame, the fiery wall disappeared.
“You proved yourselves worthy of Andraste’s blessing,” came the voice of the Guardian behind them, and Will turned to face the spirit. “You may take your pinch of ash. Goodbye and good luck,” he said, already beginning to disappear, “for you are worthy in Andraste’s eyes.”
He was gone.
After a short silence, Katz broke into a fit of laughter. “This has been a weird day.”
They redressed, taking their time now that they had completed the Gauntlet. But Will’s numbing shock from encountering his father had begun to wane swiftly once he’d stepped through the cleansing fire, and he was becoming extremely aware, not only of his own nakedness, but of the nakedness of his companions. He tried to keep his eyes on his feet as he stepped into his clothes, but it was difficult. His eyes kept roaming, out of his control, toward Hannibal, who was taking way too long to get his clothes back on. Will ended up sighing in frustration and walking over to help him refasten his armor. “Thank you, Will,” the templar had said as he’d tightened the wrist of his gauntlet. Will’s cheeks had bloomed bright pink, and he’d hurried away. He thought there was a good chance that Katz’s following burst of laughter might have been directed toward him.
Once they were dressed and had their weapons back in hand, they approached the set of steps that led to a high altar. A light cast down upon it, and the Urn of Sacred Ashes shined brightly.
“There it is,” Katz said as they ascended the steps. She reached into her pack for a vial and handed it to Will.
He took it, and carefully dipped it into the dark grey ashes. The ashes were warm to the touch, like they had only recently been taken from the fire, and the sensation made Will shiver. His vial full, he stoppered it closed and handed it back to Katz. Then he paused.
“What is it, Will?” Alana asked.
“I told Francis I would destroy the ashes.”
“You did,” she agreed. “But will you?”
He looked into the urn and sighed. “No.”
“Francis won’t like it,” Katz warned.
“Don’t worry about Francis,” Alana said with a smile.
Will stepped away from the urn, and they made their way down the steps to a side door that had suddenly opened, revealing an exit to the outside. The cold wind felt good on his face as Will walked through the door. He looked up to the blue sky with a slight pang in his chest.
“You guys,” Katz said, “we did it.”
They smiled slyly at one another as they stood on the mountaintop. They had secured a portion of Andraste’s ashes, and now they could return to Redcliffe, heal the Arl, and collect his army for their fight against the Blight. Despite the cold feeling in his heart the image of his father had imparted, Will had to count this excursion as a solid victory.
“Liars!”
The Great Red Dragon and his elite followers had been awaiting their exit from the temple, it seemed, and they did not look pleased as they approached.
“You swore you would destroy the ashes. Where is your respect for the Risen Andraste?!” boomed the Cult Leader, his hands waving fanatically in front of his fury-scrunched face. “You have disgraced the cause and you have disgraced the Holy One! You must die.”
As Will tightened his hold on his staff, he heard a strange rustling at his back, and then Hannibal was grabbing his waist and pulling him out of the way as an enormous, blue eyed dragon reared back its mighty head and flapped its wings menacingly.
“WHA-?!” Will hollered in surprise, because where had that come from? But then the blue eyes flashed at him, and he laughed, nearly in hysterics. Alana in her dragon form! He stared at her in awe. He had wondered what she looked like the night she flew in and saved their lives from the overrun watchtower, and there she was, in all her scaly, beautiful glory.
Francis was in awe, as well. He dropped his weapon and dropped to his knees. His eyes were huge and tearful with worship. "The Risen Andraste! She comes to us!"
So the cult's Risen Andraste was a dragon? Will could understand why, could have dropped to his knees, too, and stared at her all day. Alana’s dragon was not horrific, like the archdemon, but majestic and wonderful. She dipped her head and Katz and Will stared stupidly at her until Hannibal took control. He swept Will up by the waist first, throwing him atop Alana’s back.
“Hannibal, what are you doing?!” Will yelled, but the intense wind stole the volume of his words.
Hannibal ignored him and turned for Katz. She squeaked when he lifted her, throwing her in front of Will, where she leaned forward and dug her fingers into the scales. Then, Hannibal leapt onto Alana’s back, coming to rest directly behind Will, their bodies fitting snugly together. Hannibal patted one hand on Alana’s back, rubbing her scales like one might rub a horse’s flank, and she lifted her long, serpentine neck, her wings flapping once more.
“Hold on,” Hannibal breathed roughly against Will’s neck, and he did as he was told, reaching desperately for a handhold among Alana’s gorgeous scales. He was finely pinned between Katz and Hannibal, impossibly aware of every press of the templar’s body as it leaned against him. And when Alana roared and began to rise up from the mountaintop, Will, absurdly, felt safer than he had for days. Alana’s wings pushed them higher into the sky, and Will laughed with shaking shoulders. He pressed a tear stained cheek against Katz’s back and relished the feeling of Hannibal’s arm wrapped firmly around his waist. The Great Red Dragon became a small, worshipping dot on the mountainside within seconds, and then Alana glided smoothly through the sky, taking them back in the direction of Redcliffe.
Will was riding a dragon.
He was riding a dragon!
It was so ridiculously excellent that it took a long time for the thought to finally occur to him.
“We forgot Professor Fell!” he yelled.
Katz’s response was almost lost to him on the wind, but he thought he heard her ask, with a laugh, “Who cares?”
Will shook his head and closed his eyes. He certainly didn’t care at the moment. He focused on the warmth at his back and the thumb rubbing small circles over his stomach, determined to enjoy the ride while it lasted.