#only one who gets on really well with cullen is the templar deserter which is kind of funny

[clavicuss-vile]

yk. fuckin actually. in a weird turn of events are'veia and atlas might end up trusting cullen the most out of the advisors (minus josie. everyone loves josie). because- he's ex templar, immediate red flag bad books, and everything he says and does, red flag. they do not LIKE him. BUT. Leliana and cass were quite literally left and right hand of the DIVINE. the divine that was considering an exalted march on kirkwall. the divine that allowed and expected the templars to do their cruelty? not to mention cass is a seeker which is like the one group the templars fear and would listen to, and not once did she use this to keep the templars in check. aurelie would be FAR more hesitant with him because she's from a circle but the dalish kids probably blame the chantry more than the actual templar order

[crossdressingdeath]

dai tries to demonize the wardens and the worst they can tell us is that they are using blood-magic and allowing themselves to get possessed because they think there's a blight coming. and they're doing that in a desert, far away from any civilization and potential innocent bystanders.

then they try to sell us the idea of the templars being good and needed. by having their commander allow a demon to impersonate him and cause chaos while he conducts experiments on the seekers. by telling us that they only broke away from the chantry because they couldn't slaughter the mages, which cullen sympathizes with.

So basically, the wardens do shady shit which we've known since the first game that they do because they are scared and still trying to protect innocent people = wardens are evil according to bioware.

templars do shady shit, consort with demons, attacks innocent people, is upset that they couldn't commit genocide and overall has nasty parallels to 1930s germany = templars are good and righteous and totally necessary.

i don't think anyone at bioware thought that one through.

It's especially funny if you made your Warden a blood mage because it's like. "They're using blood magic!" Yes, I know, I made the Warden-Commander of Ferelden use blood magic, that was an active choice I made. Why would I be surprised by this.

It really does come down to... the Wardens did something dramatic and self-destructive in a desperate attempt to prevent the end of the world, and they're villainized even by characters who should absolutely know better (Hawke freaking out about the blood magic constantly is both really annoying and super funny to me). The Templars literally just want to murder people, and the narrative bends over backwards to coddle them. I don't think it would've worked to begin with, but especially after an entire game where you play as a Warden? Like, players (at least the ones who played the entire series) have a strong emotional connection to the Wardens that they're not going to have to the Templars, if I was going to choose a group to villainize it would be... well, the villains for one, but more importantly the group that the player has no emotional connection to beyond maybe liking individual Templar characters.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 49 - The Blood-Soaked Tower

Chapter Rating: Mature Warnings: Canon-typical violence Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort Chapter Summary:  Rosslyn and Alistair enter the Tower to save everyone they can.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3

------------------------------------

Almost immediately, the stench of the dead overpowered them. Alistair groped in the darkness for the wall so he could brace against it, pushing up his visor as he retched. Around him, he heard the sounds echoed in the others, and at last Rosslyn’s voice, wry but strained as she declared they should have asked Greagoir for a torch.

“I – I can help,” Amell stuttered, and whispered something under her breath.

Warm, yellowish light like a candle grew from the crystal at the point of her staff and chased away the darkness. But then they found what was causing the smell, and she screamed. Not six feet ahead of them, a pile of corpses lay rended and bloody, torn apart like broken toys beside the splintered remains of the Circle’s inner door. The low light turned their already tortured expressions into something grotesque, locked in their last final desperate cries as their hands reached out to the gate for the help that hadn’t come, that must have stood by and listened to the screams and done nothing to at least attempt a rescue. Rage coiled in Alistair’s gut, squeezing his revulsion into something colder, harder, which had no name. The bodies looked small in the dark, but only once Rosslyn knelt down to examine the closest one did the full disparity of size become apparent.

“No more than twelve,” she muttered. “All the injuries are to the back, days old – they were running away.”

He stepped forward and laid a hand on her shoulder as she turned her frown towards the door. With all the armour in the way, he doubted she could feel the press of his gauntlet, but the weight was there nonetheless. Her breath came steady, shallow, every muscle still as she collected herself to move on. There was a clink of mail as she straightened.

“The apprentice dormitories are along here,” Amell managed. Her eyes, wide and liquid black in the low light, were still fixed on the bodies.

“Why is it so dark?” Alistair’s voice was brittle.

“There aren’t any windows on this level. One the candles burned down…”

“Ser Cullen, is there a defensible position somewhere nearby – somewhere we can get the survivors to congregate?” Rosslyn asked, staring straight ahead. Whatever grief welled in her had drained away, and the tightness at the corners of her eyes now was only the steel of her battleblood, the keen rush of calculation that allowed her to take in the whole engagement and decide life and death without compassion.  

“I asked a question, Knight-Lieutenant.”

“Your Ladyship…” Cullen swallowed. “Yes. “There’s… the library, further on this floor, or the refectory upstairs. It can house everyone.” He paused. “But wouldn’t it be dangerous? What if we corral the mages and they turn out to be maleficar?”

Amell shot him a withering look. “What do you mean, ‘corral’? Are we just sheep to you?”

“What? No! That’s not what I said –”

“Sounded like it.”

“We’re here to save as many people as we can,” Alistair interrupted. “And the best way to do that is to keep everyone in a secure location while we clear the halls. Any mages left that haven’t yet become abominations aren’t likely to. We should get moving,” he added quietly to Rosslyn. “Try and do some good before Greagoir comes in on his high horse.”

“Or before anyone else has any bright ideas about how to deal with mages,” she agreed. She leaned into him for a brief instant of reassurance before she sighed and turned back towards the darkness. “We stick together, sweep the place floor by floor, keep our eyes open.”

The corridor was silent, deserted. The same unnatural pressure that had weighted the air outside magnified as they made their cautious way through the apprentice dormitories into the depths of the tower. In every room, the remains of battles stained the walls, gore and burn marks and shattered pieces of furniture. Every so often Cullen or Amell would point out smears on the floor that marked the destruction of a demon, but those were too few when counted next to the number of the dead.

And not one templar among them, Alistair noted with a frown as they cleared the last of the long dormitories.  

The high-arched ceilings recounted their footsteps, their buttresses visible above their little bubble of light only as brief, thrown shadows against the ancient stonework. If not for the crisis at hand, Rosslyn might have paused to examine the patchwork quality of the architecture, the recent facing upon Imperial Tevene upon the solid, sure foundations of the original Alamar builders. Their time slipped away more with every moment, however, and took an uncounted number of lives with it, so she pushed them on through the empty foyer that led down to the cellars, towards the first glow of light they had seen that wasn’t their own.  

And yet, the library was empty as well. The light came from complex runes carved into the ceiling, positioned into clusters over the long reading tables. Piles of books still sat open on the polished wood, next to scattered chairs and ink-splattered notebooks, as if the researchers had not even had time to put down their pens before being forced to run. The question was only which direction they had chosen.

“How do we reach the next level?”

Amell pointed. “The stairs are past the Librarian’s office.”

The door was barred.

Alistair knocked. “Anyone alive in here? I promise we’re not demons, we bring word from the Knight-commander.” For a moment he listened, picking up whispers and movement through the wood, and then stood back as a bolt scraped back and the door swung open.

Three templars greeted them, as well as a dozen or so human and elven mages crammed onto a tiny dais at the centre of the room. Many were children. The air held the stale, sour odour of any small place where people have been forced to cohabit for a period of time, and the inhabitants looked exhausted. A barrier shimmered over the door at the top of the stairs, which had also been blocked with a pile of bookshelves and a sturdy desk, shunted onto its side and pushed as far up the steps as it could go.  

“Maker’s breath, you really aren’t demons are you?” The leading templar lifted his visor to reveal a man with a trimmed moustache just entering middle age. “We’ve been trapped in here for over two days, getting by on conjured water and roast rats. Knight-Lieutenant Dunn – this is Knowles and Owen,” he added.

“This is Prince Alistair and Teyrna Rosslyn Cousland,” Cullen supplied.

“More and more surprising! I hope you’ll forgive the informality – I didn’t recognise you.”

“Have you come to rescue us?” one of the smaller children piped from the corner. They sat in the arms of an older mage who eyed their weapons warily, like a dog that has learned the shape of its master’s stick.

Rosslyn pursed her lips and didn’t reply. “What do you know of what’s happened?” she asked Knight-Lieutenant Dunn.

He shook his head. “Must have been, what, five days ago, six? The alarm came down from the upper floors to say something had got loose, so I ordered most of the lads up to lend a hand. To be honest, we thought it was a drill – they close off the gate, fight a few fires, and then everything’s fine and dandy. And then demons appeared in the hall. We got what kids out we could, and pulled back here when they broke through into the library. We might’ve held them with more numbers, but…” With a half-glance behind him and a subtle nod towards the corner of the room, he took Rosslyn and Alistair aside. “What’s the word from outside?” The set of his mouth confirmed what he did not say: he knew the Right had been invoked.

Alistair cleared his throat. “We’re here to find First Enchanter Irving – the knight-commander said he would only listen to him.”

“I wish you luck with that, Your Highness,” the templar replied. “Irving was on the upper levels, and we haven’t heard anything in days. I’d be surprised if anyone is still alive up there.”

“If we find any survivors, we’ll be sending them to you,” Rosslyn said. “They’re to be kept safe.”

“I understand, Your Ladyship. We’ll try and keep everyone calm.”

“Thank you. Hold out a little longer, and we’ll see an end to it, without bloodshed.”

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

Stepping around him, she nodded and called to Amell, who had bent to talk with the apprentices and offer them some comfort. Perhaps she had also told them about the Right of Annulment, but Rosslyn didn’t pry, only offloaded a packet of dried meat from her pack and slipped it into the knight-lieutenant’s hands.

“The children first,” she instructed.

“Aye, Your Ladyship.”

Cullen was already helping his fellow templars clear away the barricade. One of the eldest apprentices lowered the barrier. She offered a nod and a faint, trembling smile as the party passed, and once they were through the door followed Knight-Lieutenant Dunn’s directions and retreated to the library.

“Maker’s blessings, Your Ladyship, Your Highness,” he said, lingering at the door. “You do your job and I’ll do mine – I don’t want to have to say I failed in my duty.”

Alistair managed a grimace. “Neither do we.”

The level above the library opened out into a narrow space with doors leading off in many directions, cluttered by shelves and not much else. It clearly served as a spare storage space for those items that weren’t considered important enough to be properly locked away. There were windows, tiny and high up on the walls, but they only let in enough light to deepen the shadows in the corners of the room.

The demon attacked them without warning. It boiled out of the wall behind them, a towering mass of flame and molten slag pulled into a rough shape not quite human or animal. Its first swipe caught on Cullen’s shield as he leapt to defend Amell, and a shriek of rage like tearing metal bubbled up from somewhere deep inside its body.

“If we weaken it enough, it’ll be pulled back into the Fade!” The young templar shouted. “Karyna, stay behind me – don’t let it touch you.”

With its path to the mage blocked, the demon whirled on Rosslyn and Alistair. It had no eyes, but its blunt head lowered as if it were peering at them, assessing as it advanced. Rosslyn didn’t give it time to come to any conclusions, and struck forward, bashing it with her shield to expose its side for the cut of her sword. Talon sang as it descended. It remembered the depths of the cave it knew before its forging, the cold dark and the rising water, and gleamed as it bit deep. The molten flesh crumbled around the blade like pumice, its roar this time one of pain instead of rage.

“It doesn’t like the cold!” Rosslyn cried as Alistair made his own strike on the demon’s opposite flank.

“Oh – I have a spell for that!”

The fight did not last long after that. Between the flurry of ice spells and the precision strikes of the warriors’ swords, the demon stood no chance. It got a lucky hit against Alistair’s shield that sent him sprawling with a cry of pain, but bit by bit it chipped, and crumbled, until Cullen thrust one final time into its armpit and it collapsed in on itself like a fire exhausted of fuel.

“Are you two alright?” Rosslyn asked as she knelt to help Alistair to his feet.

Across the room, Amell jumped as Cullen brushed her arm. For an instant, she leaned towards him, but reeled back with a reluctance born of habit. Rosslyn knew the feeling well. She turned away to run a critical eye over Alistair, ignoring his worry for her when she realised he favoured his left shoulder.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “Pulled muscle.”

“And we have three floors to go. Enchanter –”

Something scraped on the stone behind them. As one they turned, weapons raised, and were greeted by a tired-looking man in mage robes, with a mark on his forehead in the shape of a sunburst.

“Owain?” Amell lowered her staff.

“Enchanter,” the Tranquil replied in a flat tone. “You remember me – and you, Knight-Lieutenant Cullen. I am not familiar with your companions.”

“They’re – Owain, what are you doing here? Didn’t you try to leave?”

“Yes,” came the reply. “But when I encountered the barrier on the library door, I thought it best to return to work. The stockroom is in a state not fit to be seen.”

“We have bigger things to worry about,” Rosslyn interrupted. “What do you know about how this began?”

Owain turned to her, unbothered by the sharp edge to her voice. “There was a large explosion on one of the upper floors,” he said, as if reading from a book. “The templars stationed here and in the apprentice rooms went to investigate. Soon after, demons came to kill or capture the mages on this floor. I was in the stockroom and they did not see me. I suppose I should count myself lucky.”

“Why are they taking the mages?”  

“I do not know. Perhaps Niall will succeed and save us all.”

Alistair frowned. “Niall?”

“He came here with several others, and took the Litany of Adralla,” the Tranquil explained.

“But that’s to protect against blood magic, isn’t it?” Amell rubbed her forehead. “Wynne mentioned it to me. If there are blood mages involved in whatever’s happening, we’ll need the Litany to stop it.”

Rosslyn bit down on a curse. She had seen the power a single blood mage could command, and the memory of it sent a cold shiver across her shoulders. There could be a thousand summoned demons between them and any help First Enchanter Irving could offer, if he even still lived, and an army of undead and abominations besides, enough to easily overpower three warriors and one mage with only so much strength between them. And yet, duty bound them now, just as surely as the blocked path behind them. The tower’s architecture would be their best defence, its narrow corridors and curving walls able to act as a shield against superior numbers and ranged magical attacks that relied on line-of-sight to cast with accuracy. They would have to move quickly, and try to reach the source of the destruction before it could spread plaguelike and overwhelm them.

Having watched Amell set a healing spell in Alistair’s shoulder and with orders for Owain to go down and meet the rest of the survivors in the library, she led the way across the shadowed hall, aware of each discordant ring of their footsteps on the stone. Talon all but hummed in her hand, resonating with the nearness of the Fade and eager for another taste of ichor. As the walls closed in again, they found bodies sagged against the walls or lying crumpled on the floor, with blood staining cloth and armour both. Any one of them might rise in an instant, without warning, ungainly but fast enough that Rosslyn nevertheless kept watch out of the corner of her eye. The lack of flies betrayed the unnatural nature of the deaths, and the silence set her teeth on edge.

They made it to Irving’s office unscathed. With most of the mages already defeated or beyond reach, few demons had ventured to the lower levels, and the undead that ambushed them had been new, the spirits unused to their host bodies and the constraints of the physical world. This meant their skirmishes had been sporadic, but the rest granted by the First Enchanter’s quarters was no less welcome, as the spells and protections laid on it would repel all but the strongest demonic energies. As long as they remained quiet, nothing would trouble them.  

Rosslyn laid a hand on Amell’s shoulder as she passed her the waterskin, comforting her as best she could. The enemies they had cut down were recognisable, and considering how many people were as yet unaccounted for, there would likely be worse encounters ahead. Cullen sat a careful distance away, checking his gear. He had taken off his helmet to breathe more easily, and as he ran a distracted hand through his hair, his freed curls bounced against his sweat-damp forehead. Rosslyn stepped around the desk trying not to think about how much older than her he might be while still looking so young, and nudged her elbow against Alistair’s side.

“Anything useful?” she asked.

He turned away from the bookshelf. “Not really. Spellbooks, that sort of thing. There’s a map on the wall that says we’ve got two floors left to clear before we get to the top, which isn’t entirely comforting.”

“At least we’re halfway.”

“See?” He grinned. “That’s what I love about you, you’re always so optimistic.”

“And is that the only thing?” Her eyes flicked to his mouth, then to the others, and back.

“Maker, no. But we don’t have time for me to stand here and list everything.”

“I’ll have to ask again when this is over, then,” she teased, with a growing smile.

A scream from outside cut off Alistair’s answer. They raced out of Irving’s office, weapons drawn and armour hastily jammed into place as a young man in mage robes careened down the stairs to the next level, ducking just in time as a templar blade cleaved the air above his head. He saw the party ahead of him, focussed one the Sword of Mercy etched into Cullen’s armour, and screamed again.

“I’m not one of them! I swear it!”

Rosslyn stepped around him to face the group of advancing templars. Their movements were jerky, disconcerting, and she raised her shield.

“Lower your weapons!” she called. “We’re not your enemy, we’ve come to help.”

The templars paused, wobbling like puppets.

“Do not listen to such lies,” purred a catlike voice from the shadows. “Is your faith so weak that you would submit to the tricks of demons?”

A woman stepped out behind the group of templars. The robes of a revered mother hung from her shoulders, but something in the shine of the thread made her hard to look at. Her smile was too wide, too sharp, her limbs ever so slightly out of proportion.  

“That’s a demon,” Alistair growled, stepping to Rosslyn’s shoulder.

Amell was already winding a spell between her hands. “It’s enchanted the templars. If we can get to it, then –”

“There!” the demon shrieked, cutting her off. “You see! They are hiding a blood mage in their midst!”

“Brothers, please –!” But Cullen’s voice was drowned in the sound of the templars’ charge.

Rosslyn and Alistair drove forward. Their shields butted against blank face plates and their swords flashed in the momentary advantage. One templar went down. The next took his place before he had even hit the floor. Amell hurled an ice spell into the throng, and then another, until Rosslyn, beating back two enemies at once, snarled at her to focus on the demon instead, and slowly, they were pushed back. Even bewitched, the templars had the backing of a lifetime of training, and they had the advantage of numbers, as well as the demon to bolster them as they struck out again and again. Amell’s magic was wearing it down, confusing it, but the templars served it absolutely, energy and bodies both, and every killing blow only made it stronger.

“We need to clear a path!” Rosslyn shouted. She opened her mouth for more orders, but in that instant a greatsword curved down over the edge of her shield. She raised her arm to block, but the movement came too late. Her armour stopped the blade from slicing her flesh, but the impact reverberated down to the bone and she staggered back with a cry. Someone called her name. She blinked and shoved forward again with a snarl, driving through the disorientation to bring Talon up in blunt arc that cut into the templar’s groin.

The fight after that became a haze of pain, and raising her sword even to her shoulder lit fire along her nerves. And still, she hacked at anything that strayed into her line of sight, teeth bared behind the Falcon helm, desperate only to keep her footing as bodies piled up before her. At one point, she felt a flash of magic through her veins, dimming the ache in her muscles and the agony in her arm, and she pushed through, just in time for an unearthly shriek to lance through her skull. The last of her enemies fell, leaving her a clear view of the demon, shocked of its illusion now and impaled upon Cullen’s sword. Arms caught around her waist as she sagged. Gloved fingers scrabbled at her chin to loosen the strap and get her helmet loose.

“Rosslyn – Rosslyn.”

“Huh?”  

The demon was flaking, falling away like wood ash in the wind.  

“I can do it through the armour, it’s fine,” someone was saying, and she rolled her head to the side to find Amell feeling along the length of her upper right arm.  

“It’s just a hairline fracture,” Amell told them. “I can heal it, but it will be weakened. It shouldn’t be used for any heavy lifting for a while. At least as far as you can,” she added, with a rueful glance at their surroundings.

“Do what you can with it,” Rosslyn grunted.

Alistair was still holding her. “That’s twelve templars accounted for, including Dunn and the ones we passed on the way here,” he calculated. “How many would have been in the tower when the gate was shut?”

“Shifts have a full complement of thirty-three.” It was Cullen who answered, his gaze low on the bodies of his fallen comrades, on the blood congealing on his sword. “The number should have been greater, if mages could do this.”

“Demons did this,” Amell corrected, still pushing healing magic into Rosslyn’s arm.

“And who let the demons out?”

“It doesn’t change out plan,” Rosslyn interrupted, before another argument could start. “We have to find this Niall, and then whoever is behind this.”

“Umm…”

They had forgotten the mage the templars had been chasing. He huddled against the wall like a rabbit watching for a hawk, not quite ready to trust them but flicking his gaze from Amell, to Cullen, to the pile of dust that was all that remained of the demon.

“Did you mention Niall?” he asked.

Rosslyn frowned at him. “Do you know where he is?”

“We got separated…” The young mage shook his head.  

“What happened here?”

“Uldred,” came the reply. “It was Uldred. He told everyone Loghain was going to help free us of the Chantry, and in return we would be supporting him. Some said they wanted to stay neutral, and then the fighting started. He rounded everyone up and took them to the Harrowing chamber, but I don’t know what he’s doing to them.”

“Just when I think I can’t hear more bad things about Loghain,” Alistair scoffed. “How well do you know this Uldred, Enchanter?”

“Not well,” Amell answered. “He’s one of Irving’s aides.”

“Is he powerful?”

“He’s maleficar,” Cullen interrupted. “Who knows what he’s capable of.”

Rosslyn’s focus was still on the mage they had rescued. “What’s your name?”

“Godwin,” the mage answered. “Please, I didn’t do anything, I’m not one of them. Niall had a plan to take the Litany of Adralla to First Enchanter Irving, but there were so many demons. He’s still up on the next level somewhere.”

“Will you come with us?”

Godwin stared. “Are you mad? There’s too many of them to fight – I thought I’d, uh, find a cupboard instead and just be very, very quiet.”

“There’s a group of apprentices hiding in the library,” Amell offered. “We cleared all the demons between here and there.”

“Uh… no, I don’t trust –” He glanced at Cullen. “I mean, I’d rather stay here.”

“Suit yourself.” Rosslyn shrugged, and winced. “Just make sure you stay hidden. We don’t want another abomination sneaking up behind us.”

Godwin squeaked at that, but nodded. Then he cleared his throat again and wished them luck with a tentative smile and a mention that he had seen Niall put the Litany into a pocket before they were separated. The party didn’t look back as they climbed the stairs, as grim determination settled over them once more.

“I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this,” Alistair confessed to Rosslyn quietly a little while later. They had stepped from yet another narrow corridor into a high, vaulted room that must once have served as a common area or refectory, until something had stormed through like a dragon on the rampage and cast the now-shattered remains of the furniture against the walls. The aftereffects of whatever magic had caused the destruction raised gooseflesh even under all their layers of armour, and the silence boomed like the pause that hangs between a flash of lightning and the oncoming roll of thunder.

“South Reach was worse,” she told him, her eyes keen on the shadows.

“We’ll be out of it soon,” he said, almost to himself. “I, for one, am looking forward to a long, hot bath.”

“With bubbles?” she asked.

“And lavender-scented soap, and maybe even one of those painted wooden ducks to keep me company.”

She chuckled. “Those are children’s toys.”

“Ah, but I am a prince,” he pointed out. “If I have painted toy ducks, it’ll start a trend.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” She sighed and dropped her voice. “How do you think our friends are holding up?”

Alistair glanced over his shoulder. “Honestly, not well. This is their home – they know these people, and…”

“They’ve fallen on opposite sides of a very old argument,” she finished for him. “It’s only going to get worse. We need to finish this quickly.”

They trudged on. What little could be seen of the sky outside showed the hours passing as they carved their way through those remaining in the tower and slowly lost hope that they would find more survivors. Pustules of what looked like raw flesh grew like mould on the walls, oozing and growing bigger the closer they stepped to the fourth floor, and every inch increased the latent hum of magic in the air. Rosslyn lost count of the number of abominations that fell to Talon’s edge. At the base of the stairs to the tower’s final floor they found Niall’s body crumpled against a wall, and only managed to fish the litany from his pocket after facing down a blood mage who came at them with half a dozen demons dancing at her fingertips. The parchment was faded, the writing smudged in places where the mage’s blood had soaked it, but Amell read it with confidence, memorising each phrase at one reading. It would have to do as their only secret weapon, because there was no doubt anymore that Uldred knew they were coming. They rested, tended their wounds, ate and drank what was left of their supplies, and moved on.

Nothing attacked them on the fourth floor. The fittings here were richer than the ones they had passed below, more comfortable and more decorative, and the windows were bigger. Late afternoon sun lit the brightly coloured spines of dozens of books and intricate Antivan carpets, and stands of polished swords that stood in racks next to spare shields blazing with the templar Sword of Mercy. It might have been a cosy scene, if not for the tang of metal that coiled at the back of the throat, and the growths of flesh that bulged even more thickly out of the walls. The air was hot, and ripe, and utterly still.  

They found the remaining templars at the foot of the last set of stairs up to the Harrowing chamber. Only a few were left alive. They had been stripped of their armour and thrown into a cage of light, their bodies broken, their minds fled. Babbled words grated through chapped lips, and they did not react to the newcomers, not even when Cullen called them by name and tried to smite the prison wall.  

“Poor buggers,” Alistair muttered. There was a hard line between his brows, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

Rosslyn touched his elbow, remembering what he told her about almost being made a templar. “There’s only one way to help them now.”

“Right. Let’s get this son of a pig and be done with it.”

Uldred was waiting for them. The body of a mage lay unmoving at his feet, and a sickly kind of smile split his face as Rosslyn and the others barged in behind their shields. His baldness made his age difficult to decipher, but he held himself with the absolute confidence of a man in complete control of his surroundings, the very picture of hubris. A crowd abominations lurked behind him, grim distortions of people with melted skin, standing guard over the handful of mages who were left to be put to whatever torture he had in mind for them. An older man was among the group, dressed in finer robes than the others, and his mouth fell open as he watched the four approach, whether to shout a warning or simply out of shock.

“We’re here for Irving,” Rosslyn declared. With her helmet covering her face, the words echoed in her ears.

“Are you now?” Uldred replied, and smiled so all of his teeth were visible. “I must admit, I’m impressed you made it this far. I sensed my demons fall, my prey escaping, the eddies of the disturbance ringing through the Fade, and who is it who comes? Why, the pernicious Falcon of Highever and the bastard brat King Cailan decided to make a prince. I’ll get accolades for ridding Loghain of the two of you.”

“Is he your master then?” She edged away from the door, towards the captured mages.

“There are no more masters,” Uldred snapped. “No more chains. But wait, what is this – Irving’s star pupil.” He advanced, dark eyes fixed on Amell. “You’ve seen how it is for mages, out among the wide world. The fear, the contempt. You’ve seen how unjust the Chantry is to people like us. But you don’t have to suffer like the rest of them. You could join me. I could teach you to –”

Cullen stepped in front of her, sword raised. “You won’t touch her.”

“Don’t be so crude.” Uldred swept his hand to the side like he was swatting a fly, and without warning the templar was picked up by some invisible force and flung across the room.

“No!”

The abominations lunged. Amell was beaten back by the swipe of long, malformed claws even as she tried to push past them to reach Cullen. Rosslyn and Alistair flanked her, catching the blows on their shields, but they were outnumbered, and these abominations had been draining the lives of countless mages for days. Even with more ice spells to slow them down, they barely seemed to feel the wounds inflicted on them.

Uldred ignored them.

“We all knew you fawned over her,” he sneered, prowling towards Cullen. He raised his hand, bringing his prey to his knees in prison of crushing light. “Following her movements like a cat watching a mouse. Did you think we didn’t notice? You and all the others, leashing us, forbidding our true potential.” He squeezed his fist and Cullen cried out. “Did you like what we did to your friends? They proved most interesting diversions.”  

“Uldred, stop it!”  

He turned at that, his face twisted into a sneer all the more sinister for the evenness of his voice. “Uldred? He is gone. I am Uldred and yet not Uldred. I am more than he ever was. I offer you one last chance –”

“No!” Irving interrupted from across the room. His teeth were bared with the effort to speak through whatever enchantment was holding him. “You must stop him. He’s building an army – going to destroy the templars, and then –”

“Enough! You’ve said too much, old man, and I wasn’t talking to –” His words cut off in a yell as Amell used the distraction to douse him in fire.

For an instant the abominations fell back, disorientated. One screeched as Alistair severed its arm, the sound cut off when Rosslyn lunged and cut out its throat, but before they could turn and press their advantage, the flames licking at Uldred’s robes flickered, then dimmed until there was nothing left but the scent of charred cloth.

“Some people can be so stubborn. Resistance, everywhere I go.”

The mage raised his hands again, curling his fingers into claws. A force gripped their limbs, burning through their veins and slowing their movements, and the abominations advanced once more, their horribly broken mouths pulled wide in anticipation –

And then the pressure was gone. The world swam into focus again, along with Amell’s voice, chanting low and melodic from behind a shimmering green barrier. Rosslyn raised Talon and cleaved through the nearest abomination, no longer caring about the ones that closed in behind her. Uldred was the goal. Without him, the rest would flounder. She ducked under one outstretched claw and bashed another aside with her shield, but even running flat out, she wasn’t fast enough to stop him. His form was shifting, growing, his robes tearing at the shoulders and across the waist as his body morphed into the true form of the demon sharing his soul. Chitinous black spikes burst from his skin, his teeth sharpened, and as Rosslyn pulled her sword back to strike, his eyes bled scarlet and any trace of the man he had once been succumbed in a bellow of rage. The creature turned to the attack, conjuring a ball of dark energy in one fist, and in the instant Rosslyn’s blade would have pierced its throat, it hurled the spell at her feet.

[wootensmith]

Messy

Sorry this has taken so long. It was actually inspired by @hansaera a while ago, she wanted situations where Solas would be angry. I’m sure she’s found her idea by now, but I kept thinking about it and wanted to write something that wasn’t about saving Lavellan (not that there’s anything wrong with that). So here’s angry Solas and also angry Dorian plus bada@@ Krem, too.

He almost missed it. The training yard was meant for scuffles, after all. It was constantly in use. For combat training, as entertainment on slow days and, yes, to work out tensions that spilled over from the tavern. Part of the normal background noise as Solas made his way across the keep. But the use of an extremely filthy slur caught his ear. Neither Blackwall nor Cassandra barked a halt at the unnecessary insult as they usually would and he paused to look, his wandering thoughts arrested more by the vicious tone than the word itself. The training ring was crowded, eight or nine soldiers in Inquisition uniforms, but the rest of the yard appeared deserted. Instead of evenly matched pairs sparring under a watchful captain’s orders, the men seemed to be focused on only one object. Krem. Solas recognized none of the others and neither Cullen nor Cassandra or Blackwall were anywhere in sight. “Back off,” growled Krem, waving the wooden practice sword at the tightening ring of soldiers. “Was your sorry hide the Inquisitor dropped the Qunari to save. Least we can do is teach you how to defend yourself properly,” said one of the men. Solas disliked the crooked grin the man wore. He glanced at the others. It wasn’t practice swords in their hands. One of them darted forward, his knife flashing. Krem parried it, the metal thunking against wood and sticking. Another man saw his opportunity in Krem’s distraction and lunged. “Stand down!” Solas shouted before it could get worse. Only two of the men even turned to see who it was, and seeing only Solas standing there, turned quickly back to Krem, who grunted when a large sword clanged against his chest plate. He stumbled backward and the other men rushed in closer. “I said ‘stand down’ soldiers!” Solas roared and waded in. Idiot, he thought distantly, no armor, no staff, and you’re both outmatched. But it was a small irritation. He didn’t hesitate, just grabbed another practice sword from the barrel as he dashed past. Should avoid magic anyway. Last thing this situation needs is an angry templar commander out here. He swung the barely shaped board at the legs of a nearby man. It connected with a thwack across his thighs. It could hardly have made a sting through the man’s leather armor but it startled him and he turned toward Solas. “Krem’s a formidable foe,” snapped Solas, “but eight against one? Either your combat skills are embarrassingly poor or this isn’t a fair sparring match.” “Leave, apostate,” said the man, flourishing a dagger. “Not your business. Go back to your books.” Solas smacked the man’s wrist with the flat of his wooden sword and the dagger flew free and slid across the yard. “You leave. It’ll end much better for you,” he warned the man. He shook his head as the man’s face curled into a sneer and he hurled himself toward Solas. A swift sidestep and the man went sprawling. But two more had turned away from Krem and toward him. “Leave,” he told them, “We’re on the same side. Nobody needs to get hurt.” He was unsurprised that the response was only an attempt to stab him. He fade stepped easily out of the way, softening his resolution not to use magic in favor of keeping his internal organs in place. He erupted behind one of his attackers and struck him heavily in the temple with the pommel of the practice sword. The man reeled away and Solas swung at the other in the meantime, catching him squarely in the stomach. His opponent was knocked off kilter, surprised at the sudden arrest in his momentum, but it hardly slowed him and he managed to spin and nick Solas’s arm. “Felasil!” Solas cried, “Save it for Corypheus. We’re allies!” “Not if you’re defending that Vint dog, we aren’t,” grunted the man. Somewhere behind Solas, Krem shouted in pain. It sounded shocked, sudden, and Solas had a flash of fear. Holding back wasn’t helping. They’ve been warned and refused to heed, Solas told himself. Besides, if Cullen doesn’t have their heads for this betrayal, I will. He sent the man who had cut him flying with a stonefist and whirled to face the others. Frost spat from his fingers and crept rapidly down metal weapons, causing the men to drop them in surprise. A few yelped and fled and Solas allowed it, focusing on the four who remained. They’d cornered Krem against the stone wall. Solas could hear the thunk of Krem’s wood sword, but fists jabbed inward anyway, even as one man swore and pulled back at the sudden sting. He yanked one of the men away by the shoulder, but his advantage was mostly gone. The man was unsurprised and twisted rapidly to face him. Solas took a blow to the cheek and was flung to the ground before he could recover. “Should have gone while you could, elf,” snapped the man. “What’s the Vint to you? Cost your precious Inquisitor the favor of the Qun—” “Parshaara!” shouted one of the remaining men, and Solas realized this wasn’t a simple scuffle between Inquisition soldiers. He blasted the man above him with ice and leaped up. “They aren’t ours, Krem,” he called. “Some are,” Krem groaned. Which ones? he wondered, fade stepping in beside Krem, knocking back the other men a few feet. Let Cullen sort them out. Ice cracked and groaned around the knees of the attackers. It would not hold them long. Krem burst out, smashing them one by one across the back of the head with his practice sword. “I could have put them to sleep,” Solas protested. “Didn’t feel like being especially gentle,” grunted Krem. One of his arms hung at an unnatural angle and his face was already beginning to swell where it was struck. “I can’t blame you. But Leliana will want them to talk. Or Bull. There are Qunari spies mixed among them.” “Yeah,” sighed Krem. “I know. Just didn’t expect it today. Hope Bull’s okay.” “Where are the other Chargers?” “Out on a mission. Bull expected this, wanted us gone. I stayed— just thought I’d be with him when they tried.” Krem dropped the wooden sword with a clatter. “Didn’t really expect some of the regular soldiers to get so riled up by what happened on the Storm Coast.” He spat a few drops of blood and wiped his mouth. “Wasn’t just us the Inquisitor saved, you know. Those dreadnoughts were lost either way. There was no winning that battle.” He looked over at Solas, as if expecting some response. Solas nodded, though he’d no idea what had actually happened with the Qunari beyond the brief. It had been a tender point between himself and the Inquisitor and he’d felt it wiser not to ask. It was done, in any case. And Solas believed for the better, though saying it aloud would not have endeared him to the Inquisitor. “I’m— sorry for Bull. This isn’t— never wanted this to happen. When I convinced him to join the Inquisition, I thought it’d be good coin for a good cause. Never dreamed it would make him lose…” Krem shook his head, clutched his injured arm. “Glad you stepped in when you did, but I can handle it myself,” he finished. Solas crossed to him. “I know you can,” he said gently, “but you shouldn’t have to. The Chargers are part of the Inquisition. Allies. Friends. There should never have been room for something like this attack to grow.” He stopped. There was no reason to keep him standing here in pain to fume at unconscious fools. “You’re injured. May I?” He raised his hand, but paused as Krem flinched slightly. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ll wait for Stitches.” Solas frowned slightly. “The bruises are one thing, Krem, but the arm— I think it’s broken. It will fester if you don’t see the surgeon. Krem crooked his head toward the unconscious men. “Surgeon could be with them.” “Hmm.” Solas couldn’t discount the possibility. “I could go with you—” Krem shook his head. “Thank you, but I need to find Bull. If these men were here, it means there are others.” “We’ll find him now. He can go with you to the surgeon afterward.” After hesitating a moment, Krem finally agreed. He clutched Solas’s shoulder with his good hand. “Can’t see for shit,” he said, squinting through his already swelling eyelids, “You’ll have to help.”

It took longer than expected to find Iron Bull. He hadn’t been in the tavern, nor Cullen in his office, Solas stopping there to ask him to clean up the remainder they’d left in the training yard. People inside the Keep had gasped and skittered out of the way when they entered the throne room, but no one offered to help. Krem was leaning heavily on Solas’s shoulder by then, and Solas knew the Charger was in immense pain. “Ambassador Montilyet will know where they are,” he said gently. Krem just muttered an agreement and let Solas lead him toward Josephine’s office. It was Dorian’s voice that erupted from the War Room first. “—thinking? Might as well have the King’s messengers announcing your whereabouts across Thedas—” “Dorian, we all knew the ri—” Iron Bull’s rumble was cut off by another shout. “Vishante kaffas! Neither of us signed up to start a war with Par Vollen—” “Josephine believes we’ve avoided that much. The Arishok sent a letter lamenting the loss, but seeks not to go further.” The Inquisitor’s voice was hesitant, doubtful. “Oh yes? That’s what the letter said, was it? What’s that gaping wound in Bull’s shoulder say?” “It’s not gaping, Kadan. It was two men, easily dispatched. I knew it was coming. It isn’t worth this chaos,” said Bull. “You knew? You knew. Maker’s breath. Why were you up on the ramparts alone then? And where on earth was Krem? He’s supposed to be looking—” Solas pushed the door open and Dorian stopped to look. He looked ready to hurl the croupier rake from the table at him. “Don’t you dare come in here to defend her Sol—” he started but abruptly stopped when he saw Krem hanging onto Solas’s shoulder. “Good, Chief?” he asked, his puffed face squinting hard to find Bull. “Damn sight better than you,” said Iron Bull rising from the chair Dorian had no doubt shoved him into. “What happened?” said Leliana sharply. “Does this have to do with the assassination attempt?” “They tried then?” asked Krem instead of answering. “Could hardly call it ‘trying’,” answered Bull tipping Krem’s face sideways to get a better look at his bruises. “Should get Stitches to look at you. Broken arm.” “He’s with the boys near Verchiel on the job, remember?” “We have healers,” said Cullen. “I’ll go and—” “There were Inquisition soldiers mixed in amongst the assassins,” interrupted Solas. “Not converts. Just men angry about losing the Qunari alliance to save the Chargers. You should head it off now, Commander, unless you want a full blown insurrection on your hands. There are a few left in the training yard, but they are not the only ones who attacked Krem.” “Did you hear rumblings of this?” Cullen muttered to Leliana, even as he strode toward the door. She shook her head. “This is ridiculous!” cried Dorian. “We’re assaulted everywhere we go, at least we ought to be safe in our own hold. Among our own forces.” “I did warn the Inquisitor when we arrived that having such a public presence would entail some risk,” muttered Leliana. Dorian scowled and pushed Solas gently aside to inspect Krem. “The Inquisitor can’t be here constantly to keep order, that’s your jobs,” he said. “Don’t blame her.” “But I am to blame, Dorian. It is my decisions that caused this.” The Inquisitor half reached for Krem, her mana already gathering in her palms. Solas could see the little muscle in her jaw working and the nervous, quick movements in her fingers. She was deeply distressed. Whether it was because of the attempted assassination or Dorian’s anger or Krem’s state, he couldn’t have said. Probably all of them, though Bull seemed calm and whole. “Why has no one seen to you?” she asked Krem. “Solas, why haven’t you aided him?” “He did. Helped me pummel the louts,” said Krem. “Don’t rightly know who I can trust in the Inquisition just now. And— I’d rather people who know me.” “I’m so sorry,” said the Inquisitor. “Is there no one here you would be comfortable with?” “The Chief can set the bone. He’s done it before.” “But the other injuries— they could be worse than they appear.” Krem hesitated. “Apart from— well, you— Dorian, maybe.” “You still trust me?” asked the Inquisitor. Krem grinned, though it appeared painful. “I don’t see why you’d sacrifice an alliance just to send idiots after the Chargers when we got back to Skyhold. Unless you didn’t want the alliance in the first place.” Krem glanced at Solas. “Him— I could see where that could be. But all you had to do to back out of an alliance was not show up. We signed on until this is through. I trust you.” Solas felt a sting at the idea he’d stir up an angry mob to attack the Chargers. The rest, he couldn’t deny. “I think I’d better handle it, sorora,” said Dorian. “You have assassins to track. And I’m not letting Bull or Krem out of my sight until Skyhold’s secure again.” He turned from Krem toward the Inquisitor, pinning her with an angry glare. “They were trying to kill them, sorora. Don’t let Bull’s nonchalance lull you. These were murderers. How many of them did you kill, Solas?” he asked without looking toward him. “As of yet, none,” he admitted. “I believed them more valuable to Leliana alive.” “Hmm,” said Dorian. “You go ahead and finish it. I’ll bring their corpses back to talk.” “Dorian!” cried the Inquisitor. “He is not wrong, Vhenan,” said Solas. “They are murderers. And even if we root out the Qunari spies, the others, the ones native to the Inquisition will remain to try again. Resentment like this does not fade. It only grows stronger and more dangerous. You want to spare them? Then eject them from the Inquisition forces. Otherwise— Dorian and I will handle them if Cullen and Leliana do not.” “No need to get messy,” Leliana said evenly. “It will be over before morning.” “A somniari is never messy,” muttered Dorian, getting an arm under Krem’s good one. “Even when the situation deserves it. Come, Amatus. We have a friend to heal.” He led Bull and Krem back down the hallway.

It was late when Dorian descended into the rotunda. Long after Leliana had interrogated her agents among the soldiers and Cullen had those foolish enough to remain and defiant enough to declare themselves a part of the gang who’d attacked Krem thrown into the stocks. Long after the Inquisitor had called all of Skyhold together for a reckoning among themselves and declared those who participated unwelcome. A few hours before dawn and the candles guttering and still Solas waited while Dorian paced and muttered in the library above. At last, Dorian strode down the stairs, his staff in one hand and a bedroll in the other. “Well?” he asked. “Are you ready to go hunting or not?” “I am ready,” said Solas. “Where’s your bedroll then?” Solas picked up the staff that he had leaned against the desk hours ago. “I don’t need it.” “Right, you can sleep anywhere. Well some of us—” “We aren’t going to do this the somniari way,” said Solas. “What?” cried Dorian, “I thought you agreed with me! You stood at Krem’s side, you saw what they were willing to do.” “I did. I do. And you’re right. This situation deserves messy. It will discourage others from following these men into folly. Leliana will try to keep too many alive, thinking she can get information out of them. The Commander and the Inquisitor will spare too many, thinking they can change them. You and I both know that men like these will not change and are too ignorant to give Leliana anything useful.” “You didn’t hold back for Leliana’s sake earlier did you?” realized Dorian. “No. I held back for Bull’s sake. And Krem’s. But everyone in the keep has seen how injured Krem is. He’s a threat to no one. And the Chargers are all absent. I arranged for Varric and Sera to start up a public game of Wicked Grace in the tavern tonight. By now they are three hands in and Bull is right in the heart of it. None of them will be blamed for what we do tonight.” “We will,” said Dorian. “Yes.” “You’re okay with that? The Inquisitor will be upset.” “She is more upset that Bull and Krem were attacked than she would be by bringing their attackers to justice. They were given the opportunity to flee. If they have not departed yet, then they are fair game.” Solas leaned forward. “But I am willing to do this alone, Dorian, if you would rather—” “No.” Dorian’s hands flashed and a soft illusion fell over them. “Let’s begin, while we still have a few hours of darkness left.”

[fandomn00blr]

Good News

[Context: Post-DA2, some minor canon divergence, a month and a half after Isabela and Merrill and Varric and Hawke fled Kirkwall right after the Chantry explosion on Isabela’s new ship (they didn’t stay to confront Meredith), having just landed at Brandel’s Reach. Hawke was told to stay aboard with Fenris while the others went out looking for information and supplies...]

...

They weren’t gone that long, really. Varric returned first. He was always the most efficient among them at getting news. Hawke was certain he must’ve had contacts in every city, port, or shithole that touched the sea. Or he was just really good at slipping bartenders and barmaids and anyone, really, extra silvers, or extra shots of whiskey, to keep them talking.

“Just spoke to some ‘rebel mages,’ who claim to have come from Kirkwall.”

“What are ‘rebel mages’?”

“It is apparently a trendy thing to be right now…”

Hawke’s eyes lit up. Oh, Anders would be so proud. This sounded a little promising, at least. Maybe Bethany had fled with a group of these rebel mages. “And…?”

“And it seems Kirkwall’s Circle has been completely liberated, and the Templar Order has basically been dissolved there.”

“Um, what?”

“Just like you thought she might, Meredith tried to annul the Circle, and the City Guard and a large number of her own Templars deserted or turned against her, alongside the mages. It was apparently a pretty brutal fight, demons and abominations and all that, but--”

“Maker fucking take you, Varric! What about Bethany?! This isn’t one of your stupid stories...”

He smiled, and she nearly punched him, or hugged him, because at least the expression on his face told her enough. That her sister was alright.

“They refer to her now as the leader of the rebel mages in Kirkwall, with the support of the City Guard, led by Captain Aveline Vallen, and a small contingent of now-former Templars, led by none other than Knight-Captain Cullen S. Rutherford.”

“That’s...wow, that’s better than I think anyone expected, right?” Hawke looked around for confirmation.

“Almost too good to be true,” Fenris nodded, cautiously. He looked apologetically at Hawke.“But if it means Bethany and Aveline are safe, I will gladly believe it.”

Varric laughed. “Well, it seems your sister has managed to work her charm on everyone in the city, Hawke. She may be replacing you as the Champion of Kirkwall!”

“More like the ‘Blessed Perfect Sunshine Savior’ of Kirkwall…” Hawke rolled her eyes, but underneath her obligatorily petty sarcasm, she was beaming with pride and a relief that was threatening to overwhelm her. If these rumors were true, and she had decided already that they were, in spite of Fenris’ habitual skepticism, not only had two of the most beloved people in her life survived the ordeal, they’d seemingly taken over the place.

Isabela and Merrill eventually sauntered back aboard, arm-in-arm, carrying sacks of dried, preserved, and pickled...things, which they claimed were edible, and more bottles of alcohol, of course. This was apparently the best Brandel’s Reach could offer. 

Hawke looked at their haul and her stomach gurgled in disappointment. She wanted meat. Fresh red meat. Slaughtered and thrown on a fire before the last signs of life had even left it. She had always enjoyed meat, but never had she craved it like this, like she needed it to survive another day on this ship. The thought of the fat dripping, melting, off a roasted leg of lamb...or the roasted pork she used to buy from her favorite vendor in Lowtown...the primal longing she suddenly felt for such things almost made her forget her elation at the news from Kirkwall.

“Oh! Oh...this is WONDERFUL!” Merrill exclaimed, after getting all caught up. She hugged Isabela around the neck, then quickly pulled Hawke into the embrace. 

Merrill and Bethany had been close, forming a sisterly bond almost instantly, and it had been especially hard for Merrill when she’d been taken to the Circle. She often worried, in spite of Bethany’s reassurances that everything was fine, what kind of toll being in there was having on her. Even with her own struggles, being a mage, a so-called ‘blood mage’ at that, being cut off from her clan, Merrill couldn’t imagine being locked in the Gallows, unable to wander, to breathe, to think.

Fenris nodded at Hawke with a satisfied smirk as Merrill’s relief, and her enthusiastic affection at the news, broke through the last of Hawke’s emotional defenses and both of them began to cry.

Finally...some good fucking news.

...

[athenril-of-kirkwall]

For the DADWC: “If you’re so cold, why didn’t you say something? Come here.” with the couple of your choosing!

Another first for me! Hopefully this duo appeals to you guys as much as it does to me :D

Jim & Minaeve, “I Hate The Cold” (AO3)

Jim didn’t quite know where he was going.

The last thing he remembered was chucking Sister Nightingale’s report on the Commander’s desk and half-dashing, half-stumbling towards, and then down that ridiculously long flight of stairs towards the central courtyard, just going anywhere which would put as much distance as possible between him and Commander Cullen.

Maker save him, why didn’t he just look up from that blasted scroll when he walked out on those battlements and exercise due discretion?

The more he thought about it the more he realised just what a shit heap he was in. Millions of souls in Thedas and he was one of three that knew that the Inquisitor and her Commander were mashing faces atop Skyhold, and he hadn’t been either participant.

Andraste’s knickers, the Commander would be bearing down on him like an out-of-control bronto just to make sure he didn’t blab about it to anyone. With any luck they’d get more public with it – that way he’d have to split his attention between more than one hapless, unlucky witness. Not the Inquisitor, she had much more important things to do.

He realised that he was blaspheming when he realised that he was hoping that she’d have too many Fade rifts to handle out there to come breathing down his neck, and wandered into the Chantry to make his apologies to the Maker and His Bride.

After sitting on the pews for at least a good five minutes, he stood up to leave, and realised that a minor snowstorm had blown in whilst he was hiding from the Commander.

A thin layer of snow, having been brought over from of the many peaks surrounding Skyhold, now coated everything in the herb garden which was usually tended by Minaeve, that Circle mage who’d been the previous creature researcher. She was seated on the bench near the pavilion, also being gently billowed by the chill breeze.

The elf was hunched over, with her knees touching, but she didn’t seem to be shivering, just…kind of tired.

As he headed to the door back into the main hall, he gave her a kind of wave, sort of turning his head to her general direction.

She gave that kind of forlorn smile she gave everyone, nodding back in his direction.

Jim’s hand wavered at the handle as he thought things through. If he went back to quarters now, or regrouped with his buddies at the Herald’s Rest, there’d be the chance that the Commander would catch up with him, and even if he wasn’t really going to have his guts for garters – Ser Rutherford was an absolute Chantry sister next to the Spymaster, now there was a superior that could make him soil his breeches – he really wasn’t in the mood for the inevitable nod-and-smile, your-secret-is-safe-with-me chat they’d wind up having.

If he was going to waste the next few minutes, it might as well be in the company of a pretty face, or so he reckoned. So, he moved away from the door, and walked up to Minaeve, who only realised that he was approaching when he was about three steps away from the bench.

She gave a start, mostly unintentionally. “Oh! Hello, uh…”

“Jeremias,” he said, “but everyone calls me Jim. You’re Minaeve, aren’t you?”

She nodded, saying, “Yes, that’s me. Is there something you need, Jim?”

“Well, not really. I’m mostly just trying to stay out of the, ah, public eye. Are you, ah, alone?”, he asked, scanning the deserted, snowy, garden.

“I am,” she sighed, staring through him. “But I don’t mind company.”

“Oh, right,” Jim said, brushing some snow off her bench before sitting down a respectful distance away. “So…you like the snow around here?”

A long, painfully awkward, silence, ensued where Minaeve just stared into the space in front of her while Jim shifted uncomfortably. Finally, just as Jim’s breath was catching in his throat, she spoke.

“No,” she said. “I fucking hate it.”

“I…I’m sorry?”

She turned to him, eyes dazzling with far more than the glint of sunshine off the snowdrift. “Can you keep a secret, Jim?”

He stated, “Well…I can,” as he thought back to the circumstances that had led him here.

Minaeve nodded slowly. “Do you know anything about how I joined the Circle?”

He shook his head.

“This is how the story usually goes. I was born to a Dalish clan somewhere around Highever, and when it turned out I had magic they cast me out because they had a limit on them per clan. It was the middle of winter when they did it. All I remember is night after freezing night until I made it to the outskirts of Highever. I tried lighting a fire with my magic and the townspeople were going to string me up until a visiting Templar, a brave man called Emeric, saved my life, and that’s how I got there.”

Realising he’d been biting on his lip, Jim released it, saying, “I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible, what your clan and those townspeople…”

“Except that part about that rule among the Dalish is bullshit. It’s all bullshit,” she cried, sobbing. Jim really didn’t know what to do, so he watched her wipe her tears. She continued, “I’ve been telling lies about the elves for more than a decade because the alternative’s just so much worse. This doesn’t leave the two of us, you understand?”

He immediately nodded complyingly.

“They love magic. They can’t get enough of it. They’d never throw one out unless…”

“Unless..?” Jim asked, expectantly.

“Well, it’s a long story, but my father was killed and my mother was…cursed in the Brecilian Forest shortly before I was born. Her condition got worse and worse, and eventually she had to be…put down.” Minaeve sighed deeply, carrying the sum of her pains in her breath.

“Put down?”

“Her condition had made her violent, right at the end. Nobody wanted to associate with me after that. Not with that damned curse hanging over my head. They were all waiting for me to succumb too, and when they saw I had magic that was excuse enough.”

Jim exhaled, breath condensing in the chill. “Why didn’t you tell people about the curse?”

Minaeve shook her head. “They wouldn’t understand. And those who would, they’d just throw me out just like my clan did.”

“You think that?”

“I know that.”

He thought for a moment. “Why tell me all this?”

She turned to him. “Because you said you could keep a secret. Because I’m just so damned tired of keeping it to myself. Because every time it snows in this blasted place I’m reminded of the worst time of my life, nearly freezing to death because of some short-sighted idiots.”

Minaeve now was shivering, or sobbing, or both. Jim drew a little closer, whipping off his head coverings and getting his helmet off, revealing a short scruff of brown hair with close-cropped sides.

“Well, you should have said you were getting chilled out here! Here, at least cover your head. I’ve got all this green cloth to keep me warm.”

Jim was holding his helmet out, offering it to her. She stared at it, then at him, with an expectant expression that was goofier with every second that passed. Eventually, Minaeve gingerly took it and slipped it over her head, tucking her ears in one by one as it came down. Her brilliant hazel eyes were framed perfectly by the little gap in the helmet’s cheek-plates. Without those in the way, she in turn got her first look of the scout’s face in full.

“Great, now I’m freezing my bum off and I’m sure I look like an idiot. How’s the headscarf?”

Trying to draw the hood a bit closer to his ears, Jim said, “It’s…less warm than I thought it would be, but it’s better than nothing.”

“Well, thanks. Not really for the helmet, but thanks for listening, Jim. It’s been…a while since I got to tell anyone that.”

“You’re welcome. It’s refreshing to just have a chat with someone here besides the Command-

Cullen’s voice broke into the courtyard. “Scout Jeremias!”

As though things could get even colder, the entire scene froze, with Minaeve bearing a mortified expression as she reached for the helmet and Jim just gaping at the Commander as he stood framed in the doorway. In the end, it was Cullen that broke the silence.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere in Skyhold for the past half-hour, but I…see…that we share a common understanding.”

“Sir…?”

Cullen’s eyes flashed as he glanced at Minaeve, who’d managed to get Jim’s helmet off one of her ears and was still staring at Cullen like a stray hedgehog who’d avoided getting run over by a chevalier’s steed.

“I-Sir-this isn’t-we-” Jim stuttered, but the Commander waved him shut.

“Settle your affairs, Jeremias. Dinner’s on the hour and the briefing’s right after that. We’re leaving at sunrise for Emprise du Lion to oversee the bridge.”

“I-affairs?!” he finally managed, standing up to confront the accusation, but Cullen was already gone, the door slamming behind the Commander.

“Here you go,” Minaeve said quietly, passing Jim his helmet back.

Turning slowly back to her, he took it and pulled his hood back, preparing to put it back on. “Oh. Right. Thanks, Minaeve.”

“You’re welcome. But you know what?” she asked. “It’s got to be warmer in the keep. You don’t need to wear that unless you’re concerned about rocks falling from the sky, right?”

“I guess not, what with the Breach closed. Well, more or less,” he said, carelessly threading his free fingers through his helmet-flattened hair.

“Anyway,” she said, standing up, “I suppose I should check in on Helisma. She wanted my advice on some beasts’ diets, I believe. But…it was nice meeting you, Jim.”

“And you, Minaeve,” he said, nodding.

“When do you return from Emprise du Lion?”

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, to be honest. These things could take days, or weeks.”

“Well,” Minaeve said, “if and when you do, I’ll be here. Tending the garden, as usual.”

“Well,” he replied, “I guess I’ll see you then. Oh, look at that. I think it’s stopped snowing.”

“So it has,” she said, lingering in the courtyard for a moment to look at the skies together with him as the setting sun broke through the clouds. “By the way, Jim, what did the Commander mean when he said that you were ‘men of a common understanding?’”

“I, uh, I couldn’t possibly say,” he said, flushing down to his neck.

“Sister Nightingale’s still sweet on the Hero of Ferelden, and Lady Montilyet has Warden Blackwall’s undivided attention, so…” she trailed off, her eyes widening. “It couldn’t be, could it…?”

“You said it best, Minaeve. I can keep a secret,” Jim said with a wink as he left.

Author’s Note: I like to imagine that Jim looks like this under the hood (full credit to the OP)

@dadrunkwriting