Chapter Text
I know not when I realized I was breathing. Everything was a haze, dark, blurred, colorless; the reverberation of sound shaking shapes and breaking what little focus I had. Whirlwind of thoughts, memories, directions I was to follow; I could barely remember faces, names, ideas, words in tongues I didn’t remember learning…
I was cold. The snow sticking, stinging, my toes, saturating my clothes. I was walking, limping, following a cart. Yes, there were others, somber, sorrow, sick and cold. We were the lost. Groaning, crying, whimpering, voices trembling echoes off the rocks. I can see them, hunched over, shielding stretched faces with soiled soaked cloaks and blankets, hiding from the storm.
One foot in front of the next. The body next to me stumbles, and I reach, lifting the frozen frail frame to standing, willing my own body heat to give them just a little more strength.
Gray, everything was gray, the snow falling, rushing, tumbling onto us. I willed myself to keep going. It must not be far. We must get to Skyhold.
There was screaming; blood curdling, pain racked screaming. It echoed and deafened. I turned in time to feel the rip of flesh, and a sword plunged into my side, tearing out the side of my shirt. A huge armored figure hollered a battle cry, and swung again.
The light, the energy that exploded from me, it knocks the red crystalline armor away in fire and smoke. The others were screaming. They were just farmers; they had no weapons, no magic. They huddled, dodged, and hid, the cart and the horses taking hits before men, women, and children. I felt it again, the magic, swarming, swelling, shooting straight at the one bringing a red claw down on a mother and child; the beast cried out, and I willed it to be cut down.
The old man in the cart yelled, begged, flailed for his life. The red armor laughed and lunged, but I stopped it. My mind, my thoughts, my will shielded the old man, the sword bounced off, like hail off a shingled roof. An arrow sored, aimed at the grandfather, and I put myself in its way. The arrow went deep, the shaft jutting out of my thigh. I wonder if I will walk, or even continue to stand.
Another searing pain, an arrow lodged in my shoulder, another scream, another pull, push, point and fire, as my foes fell. Red blurred my eyes, I could see only red, their claws, the crystals that grew from their faces, encrusted their armor, and jutted out of their swords and shields. Yes, I remember, these were the tainted Templars, the ones Corypheus will use against the Inquisitor.
I was here to help.
The others couldn’t fight, it had to be me.
The storm was loud; it silenced the screams and shouts, and darkened the skies. I do not know how long I stood, pushing the magic out, pushing the red men out. But soon, my eyes were darkened, black and tunneled. The last enemy fell, shouts of an Inquisition scout troop approaching faintly cresting the thundering sound of wind and snow.
My knees hit snow; red splattered and dripped onto the battered mountainside as I coughed, and wrenched the arrow from my shoulder, tossing it aside. They were safe…we were safe.
Then, the world suddenly went black.
~*~
I always had vivid dreams. Tonight, they are wild, rushing, pulsing, speeding around and through me, as if I had no control over myself at all. Flashes of images I couldn’t identify trying to latch onto my sanity.
There was the heavy scent of coffee in the room, which had created itself from the gray mists of the dreamscape.
A couch, a computer, the screen alight with dancing images and buzzing with electric life.
I sit at the computer, and in a game, a whole world comes to life. Thedas, a world of magic, swords, kings and gods, battling for a better life.
I spend way too much time on this game. Admittedly, most of that time spent is carefully adjusting my character to look as close as I could to my own face. Only elf, not human. A little bit of fantasy never hurt anyone. I meticulously adjusted each angle as best I could. Knotted ash blonde hair (more silver in the game) fair skinned, sapphire blue eyes, rounded nose, heart-shaped face and jaw, high cheekbones… The elf woman didn’t honestly look too much like me, but perhaps there was a resemblance.
“It is not just a game, child.”
The older woman’s voice was familiar, yet lost to memory. She laughed as I watched my small room collapse into gray mist, and the sensation that I was feeling the cold wind biting at my very real fingertips, that was slowly edging me to wakefulness.
~*~
“You were mighty brave, miss.” One of the soldiers said, leading the horse I was clumsily riding up the mountain path. My leg thrummed with heavy jolts of pain with every step, the bandages around my thigh growing ever colder as my blood seeped into the bandage and began to chill in the wind. The snow had slowed to barely a dusting since the battle the previous night, and the clouds seemed to be trying to part.
“Brave?” I ask, adjusting in the saddle, holding onto a little human girl, asleep against my chest. Her head bumped the spot where the arrow had been removed, and I winced, and couldn’t help but grind my teeth as I adjusted her head to the center of my chest.
“Yes’m.” The female soldier said. “Not many people would have lasted. And ‘specially since you a—“ she glanced away, suddenly afraid of the words she was going to say.
“Apostate.” I continue. I knew I wasn’t a circle mage. I couldn’t remember how I knew that, but I did. I was different, and the way that the others looked at me made me consider a few concepts that, up to that point, had escaped my recovering mind. “They are all afraid of me now, aren’t they?” I ask, nodding toward the cart and remaining survivors that I had been traveling with. The soldier nodded with a heavy sigh.
“They’ll come ‘round, miss.” She said. “Once the Inquisitor hears of your bravery, he’ll set them straight.”
I had heard them cringe, calling me “knife ear” and “apostate”, they blamed me and my ‘rebel ways’ for the war, said the demons I flirted with were going to take my soul, and I should be cut down; all after I saved their lives.
But it was the life I chose, and somewhere, some other time, I’ll let their words hurt. For now, I had to get to Skyhold, and hope this Inquisitor would look kindly on another elven apostate.
“Thank you.” I answer. “And thank you for patching me up.” She smiles and we continue the trek.
I tried to recall everything I could about the inner circle of the Inquisition. I sifted and rummaged through hours of game time, sorting out fragments of memories from countless minutes of text. How long had I immersed myself into the fantasy world? How much knowledge from the famous video game could I actually use now?
I was shocked to realize I had only just considered one very important question: How did I get here?
With the battle, the storm, and the pain of injuries I had never sustained in my life prior to this, I had completely forgotten that this was, in fact, a fantasy world that I was living in. These people, the soldiers, the refugees, they had names, had individual faces, smelled of soil, blood, and sweat; they talked, laughed, and felt just as I did. They were real. For all my trying, I could only accept that this was now my reality, my painful, heavy, and undoubtedly dangerous reality.
The child in my lap shifts and moans, and I carefully wrap the blanket a little tighter around her. “Shh, shh. We are almost there.” I hum, and brush her auburn hair down under my chin.
Skyhold was much more vast than I had recalled from the game. How much was different now that it was translated into a real world? In the game, it was a single walled compound, hardly large enough to fit the entire Inquisition army into. Now, it was perhaps four times the size, the mountain it was perched on wide and flat. Part of the castle bridged to a nearby peak, where a separate tower and courtyard was built. Perhaps, this was the Inquisitor’s doing, and it was just not important in the game? Something deep in my mind said that wasn’t the case. I could see the tops of trees, lush with green leaves, topping over the high walls of Skyhold, and the faint echo of soldier’s sparing.
Would the Inquisitor be kind? Funny? Handsome? Is he human, elven, dwarven, or even Qunari? Is he a fighter, a mage, an archer? Would the companions be just as they were in the game?
“…and get the injured to the medics in the far courtyard!” A vaguely familiar voice rang out as we approached the bridge entering Skyhold. A tall man, human, curly, sandy blonde hair, and defined features was there, directing traffic, helping soldiers who were struggling to walk. His armor shone bright in the emerging sun, making him seem almost intimidating. Even from my hazy view from the back of the caravanning refugees, his rugged, unshaven face looked kind, despite his words of command, and those soldiers obeying him without second guessing him. Yes, I knew that face, that voice; Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition forces, former Knight Captain of the Templar Order. I remember him as kind, selfless, and overly cautious. He also tends to distrust mages. This will be difficult.
The female soldier that had been with me up till now runs up the line, I assume to inform him of the situation. I watch, as the horse follows in step with the traffic, and adjust the child still sleeping on my breast. Cullen looks shocked, as if the scout had said something surprising, and looks down the line at me. There is a sudden heat in my cheeks, and I know I am blushing.
It takes some time for me to breach the gates of Skyhold. The sleeping child is removed from me almost as soon as the horse’s hooves cross the threshold, and is whisked away to the medic’s tent. I, however, am ignored, and I follow the line of horses to the stables.
I see another familiar face; Horsemaster Dennet. He is barking at some stable hands, who are busy with the influx of mounts in need of shelter and food. “Let me help you, my lady.” A husky male voice says beside me. I look down, and find a friendly smile, laden with a dark mass of hair and gruff beard. “I am somewhat surprised you were not taken to the mages, what with that nasty wound there.” He reached up, and with little help, I was dismounted.
“Thank you…” I start. Ah, yes, he smells of sawdust and hay bales, his accent a mix of Farelden, Orleasian, and Free Marches, and gray eyes like dry shale. This must be Blackwall, Gray Warden, who has a dark past. I will have to consider his story soon.
“Blackwall, m’lady.” He bows. “Would you like some help getting to the healers?”
“No, I should be alright. I should be helping.” I answer too quickly. My leg is numb, my backside sore and bruised, and the spot where the arrow was extracted still pulsing with exquisite pain. “There are others far worse off than I.”
“A noble thing to say, however you will do little good in your condition.” Blackwall answers, removing the saddle and bit, handing them off to a stable boy, and guiding the horse into an empty stall. “You will do no good if you end up infected, or passing out with those injuries. Your arm is just about useless until it is healed, and you’ll be lucky to stand for more than an hour with a wound like that.”
I had almost forgotten about my shoulder. I had not moved it since I had mounted the horse on the mountain path. It took a small flex of my shoulder to tell me quite clearly that the man was quite accurate. A sigh escapes me and I relinquish. “Very well, thank you, Master Blackwall.”
“Please, just Blackwall.” He says, offering his arm to steady myself as I limp among the refugees and soldiers. “What may I call you?” He asks suddenly.
My name. What had it been? I thought, strained against my memory. How could I forget my own name? I had remembered all names from a video game, but not my given name? I suppose it would have been a name that would have been very out of place in Thedas, and yet…It was a dark, saddening thought, “I…I do not remember.”
Blackwall looked down at me with pity. I dislik being pitied, but his kindness was not lost on me. “The trauma you have faced is likely to blame. You are not the first to suffer loss of memory as a result of this damned war.”
“You are kind, Blackwall.” I say, choking back the sensation of an outburst of tears. I cannot cry, not now, there is too much to do, and I am strong.
“Well, if you need anything, I am in the stables most of the time. Especially if any of these bastards get rough with you. The Inquisitor takes infighting seriously, so don’t hesitate to tell me if someone …well, because you’re a…”
“It is alright, Blackwall. I am used to it,” I lied, but seeing him struggle was too sad.
“That’s not right, miss. In any case, get well, and do listen to Adan, he is one hell of a bastard when he’s ignored.” And with that, the Warden turns and leaves me leaning against the stone wall by the healers, as mages and apothecaries scurry about the more direly injured.
I thought about the fight. The sensation of magic that came from me was exhilarating, and to be honest, frightening. I knew, before it happened, that I was capable of magic, somehow, I remembered that much. I looked at the palm of my left hand, and I willed small orbs of light to hover in my palm, and dance around before dissipating. My side felt warm and upon inspection, the bandage that had kept my side wound at bay was well beyond saturated, and my right hand, which had been holding pressure on it, was now covered in sticky red blood.
In the palm of my right hand, I gather the threads of magic into a healing force, and press it into the wound on my side. I imagine the flesh and muscle stitching back together; focusing past the nauseating pain as I command my body to repair. In moments, I feel my skin through the tear of my shirt, and it is whole, tender, but whole.
“You’re a mage?” A gruff Fareldan voice asks. I look up to see a bald, olive skinned man in tan robes looking at me, his hands full of vials and jars of salves. Adan, the apothecary that survives Haven if you save him, and the man who helps nurse the Inquisitor back to health, when the magical Anchor tries to kill him.
“Yes.” I answer, wiping my hand on my shirt, unsuccessfully removing some of the blood.
“You any good? We need more healers.” He grumbled, handing off the vials and salves to other medics. “If you are capable, can you help with a few of our guests? I know you aren’t in the best condition, but these boys are gonna die if…”
“Please lead the way,” I interrupt before he finishes. He hands me a vial of red liquid. It smells like Nyquil, and tastes of vodka, grass, and some sort of berry. However, immediately after consuming, my wounds feel less harsh, and my energy is slightly restored.
Adan pushes through to the rear of the encampment, where the worst cases are. I cannot help the tears that well in my eyes, as I see men, women, and two children splayed on cots and bedrolls, blood covering their frail bodies. Two soldiers are nearly gutted, unconscious but clinging to life, if by a hair.
My blanket is discarded as I kneel awkwardly by his side. The boy, and I do mean boy, is barely a teenager. I doubt he’d even celebrated his 16 year yet. I focused, gathering the mana as I had before in my hands, and carefully administer the magic. I focus on the internal damage, mending the nicks to his intestines, the punctured lung, the tear in the stomach, then the broken ribs, and shredded muscles, lastly the flesh. I am sweating, and I feel myself weakening, and the wound to my thigh swell and throb, but this boy will die if I stop.
When I hear him finally inhale heavy and strong, I fall on my heels, and Adan comes to inspect the boy’s condition. With a nod, I am happy. His life is spared.
I am handed another potion, this one shimmery blue in color. Lyrium, I assume, and quaff it as well, and I feel my mana swell, the tingling sensation of liquid magic flowing in my veins. A swig of cool water to get the gritty, somewhat metallic taste from my mouth cleared off, and I am onto the next patient.
~*~
It was well after sundown by the time Adan stopped me. I had saved the first young man, but lost the second, tended the children, delivered one child, and bandaged a dozen soldiers by the time the haggard alchemist started getting on my case. I relented, and allowed him to re-bandage my leg, and apply a salve to prevent infection. Admittedly, I was tired, and not just in the sleepy sort of way, but in my very bones.
I was offered a modest chunk of bread and broth for dinner, as it was all Adan could spare me, and I accepted gracefully. I had not considered eating this whole time.
After eating I rose, stiff but no worse for the wear, and rinsed my face and hands in a bucket of water set aside for such things. I looked around, listened to the groans and whimpers of full grown men and women, and I decided I was not about to let myself rest again until the remaining wounded had been properly seen to.
While most of the patients slept, I kept myself busy helping those who were in the most discomfort, magically easing their pain, calming their nightmares, and redressing wounds as best I could by the light of the dwindling fire. It was the strangest feeling, knowing what to do and how, in regards to healing and aiding the injured and ailing, but not knowing how you know. I suppose, these memories had been knocked out of my head at the same time my name was. Makes sense, in some sort of twisted way.
Sunrise was warm and far more beautiful than I had expected. I could already smell the ovens baking bread for the soldiers and wounded by the time the skies began to turn pink with the rising sun. Everyone I could tend to was resting or being seen by one of the other mages. Adan ordered me to take some time and find a suitable place to wash up, saying it was necessary for my wounds to heal. Honestly, I think he was telling me I smelled bad.
After walking the courtyards for a time, it became very obvious that there was nothing like a bathing area, and that most people resorted to warm water in a pale with a rag. That explained why so few had long hair. How long can I go without washing mine? I do not wish to cut it, I like my hair long.
“It is pretty, long.” A soft male voice muttered beside me. I jumped but a little, admittedly I was not paying attention to the people around me.
Sitting on the ledge over-looking the lower grounds was a young man, thin, dressed in clothes that were patched, fitted strangely, and topped with a large, wide brimmed hat. His white-blonde hair hung over his eyes, which he focused on his fidgeting fingers. He was just as sweet and gentle looking in person as—
“What game? I was never in a game.” The boy looked confused, and focused on me.
Cole, the spirit of compassion, the boy who could read thoughts in order to find their pain and make them better. He had always been one of my favorites.
“Favorite what?” Cole asked, tilting his head ever so slightly.
“Friend,“ I answer with a smile. “I am glad to finally meet you in person.”
“Glad yes.” He hops off the ledge and stands squarely in front of me. “Glad, glad you are not wrong, glad we are who you remember.”
“Something like that, yes.” I shift my weight off the injured leg.
“You still hurt. Why don’t you heal it?” Cole asks, bending down to inspect the bandages.
“In case others need me more. I cannot be selfish in a time like this,” I say, rubbing my sore shoulder. “What if one of the scouting parties comes back and I am needed, but my mana is gone?”
“You help the hurt. Are you a spirit too?” The glitter of hope in his eyes was adorable.
“No, I am sorry. I am just a woman.” I answer, patting him on the shoulder.
“A pretty one. He thinks so.” Cole mutters. “Pretty, patient, proud, perhaps I’ll ask her…”
I am blushing again. “Th-thank you, Cole.” Suddenly, I feel I really need to bathe, if someone is thinking about me like that.
“There is hot water by the barracks.” Cole starts walking away, toward the soldier’s area, and I follow, silently wishing I would turn down the blushing.
~*~
Cole is my not-always-silent companion over the next two weeks. He helps me help the wounded, shows me around Skyhold, and gives me tidbits of information. He never asked for my name, just appeared and began talking to me. “You do not know it, so why should I ask?” he said once, when I had thought about his presence. Such a simple way of thinking, spirits have.
He told me briefly about the companions, mentioning mostly how they treated him. He told me where they liked to spend their time while they were between missions, and what they preferred to be called. There was some gossip about a handful of young recruits going after a particularly good looking servant, something about the arrival of a dwarf that liked magical stuff (I assumed he meant Dagna, the Arcanist who specializes in crafting magical gear), and general gossip about who is in bed with who, who was sited near what camp, and so on.
He also delighted in telling me about the people he helped, and people he wanted to keep helping. On occasion, I’d go with him to ‘help’, although I’d more often than not do the work. With my shoulder on the mend, I began to lend assistance anywhere I could, mostly thanks to Cole’s urging.
Then there were the big events; the ones that changed the political landscape of Thedas and the Inquisition. Cole informed me that the Chantry had been ‘very mean’ to the Inquisitor, when he went to meet with any of the remaining mothers who were willing to listen to reason. The Lord Seeker had abandoned Val Royaeux and the Chantry, and the Inquisitor had recruited the illustrious First Enchanter Vivian (“She has horns too, but they come off” Cole had told me), and Val Royaeux’s local Red Jenny (a group of the poor and downtrodden who like to stick it to nobility), a young, wild-child elf by the name of Sera.
The Inquisitor had just returned from the Storm Coast, returning with the mercenary group, The Chargers. Cole had a rather confused line of inquiry regarding Iron Bull and his horns. Do they come off, are they heavy, and many other painfully adorable questions that I had to resist laughing at, and, equally, try to answer sufficiently. The Inquisitor had fought off a group of radicals who had slaughtered some of the scouts sent to document the area, and had noted siting a dragon flying over the coast.
Lastly, the Inquisitor had made his way to Redcliff, and had come across a strange conflict. The invitation he had received from the former Grand Enchanter Fiona was in question. Fiona denied having been in Val Royaeux, furthermore, a Tevinter magister had convinced the rebel mages to pledge themselves to him, in trade for protection from the Templars. It had been a trap, and as it turns out, the Inquisitor had managed to escape relatively unharmed, and had won over the alliance of the mages.
Well, that was all exciting to hear from the very observant spirit, it was a shame that I only needed a few words to remember the events in the game. Now the next trick would be how to convince the Inquisitor that I knew the outcomes of these events, and hope to prevent more casualties. Furthermore, that I am from some other world, have no memory of my name, and was not an elf before unceremoniously arriving in the middle of a blizzard. It was not going to be easy, especially since I had been in Skyhold for two weeks, and had yet to see him, much less meet him.
I swirl the remnants of my ale about in my mug, sitting on the floor on the third story of the tavern, Cole beside me, watching the patrons laugh and chatter. “About the Inquisitor, Cole…”