Morpheus - anjak - Dragon Age [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: I

Chapter Text

Ayah began on the fifth day of Parvulis, fifth Kingsway in the low language, following a rest period of precisely seven hours. She did not dream. She was not born that particular day, for she had been born twenty years prior and had celebrated the anniversary of this event for every year following that Summerday. Though Ayah could recall the reasoning behind this celebration, it was no longer pertinent, as the existence that had celebrated her birthing had ended on the fifth day of Parvulis, when Ayah began. While no longer in that state of being, the things that held meaning then held no meaning now, as she had a new purpose, and a new outlook on the nature of her world. No longer burdened by the dreams and emotions that other sentient beings shared, Ayah simply began.

Chapter 2: II

Chapter Text

Weeks passed, day by monotonous day, and Ayah's life was satisfyingly uneventful. She was assigned to the library and became in charge of re-organizing it en masse. She created a categorical system, followed by alphabetical, and placed a notice by each section dictating how things were to be found and who to ask for help.

She found it . . . vexing . . . when people did ask for help and did not read the notice. She often referred them back to the sign. It was a mystifying assumption that others unconsciously made, as if she did not have better things to do than lead them around like a sheep-dog. Ayah did not find the system so confusing and wondered why the mages could not simply find things on their own. That was, after all, what the signs she had posted were there for, and if they were incapable of reading the signs then they should not move on to books at all. Such a leap in studies would be inadvisable, even for the purposes of practice.

At one point it became such a distraction from her other duties that she sent a recommendation to the First Enchanter to close off the library, to avoid such hassles in the future. To recommendation was denied, much as Ayah anticipated despite the slight chance she determined that it had of gaining approval.

Her late afternoon duties involved cleaning the senior mages' offices, and the First Enchanter's office. This task was almost devoid of effort in its simplicity, and allowed Ayah ample time to ponder.

For the most part, the mages would ignore her as she went about her duties. Sometimes they would make the mistake of asking for her opinion on a matter. She always told them, simply, "I have no opinion." Then they seemed to remember that she was Tranquil, promptly forgot about her, allowing her to return to work unimpeded.

At one point during her cleaning of the offices, Senior Enchanter Torrin was in heated discussion about the Fraternities of Enchanters with Senior Enchanter Uldred, and two other Senior Enchanters whose names and faces escaped her. It was probably unimportant. She had no opinion on the matter, anyway.

"My apprentice is starting to sound like a Loyalist," one of the nameless mages spat, using the word like an epithet.

"Really?" Torrin marveled, and Ayah detected a hint of sarcasm. 'Reading others,' as the Tranquil Elijah had put it, was a difficult task nigh to the point of impossibility, but Ayah had been improving. "She seemed so sensible before, too."

Uldred snorted derisively. "Loyalists will be the death of us."

"What you suggest is no better, Uldred," the other nameless enchanter retorted in a patient, even cadence that struck a chord of familiarity in Ayah. "If the Circle withdraws completely from the Chantry it would only spell ruin, no pun intended. The Chantry would ne—"

Uldred scoffed, cutting the woman off. "The Chantry doesn't have to like it, Wynne. I don't much care if we have their support or not, the point is independence and freedom from tyranny. You would have us all bound and shackled, no better than slaves in the Imperium? This is Ferelden. This is a country of free men. Mages, ideally, should be no different!"

"Which would work fine in a world composed of ideals," the one named Wynne continued, eyes becoming shadowed in the dim magelight, "but unfortunately, we do not live in one. We live in a place called 'reality' where things never, if they do at all, work out like we plan. The Chantry organized the Circle of Magi with the intention of control without oversight, and without them we are—"

Torrin started laughing. "Dear me, you're starting to sound like a Loyalist too! It seems they're popping up everywhere."

The other nameless mage smiled and chuckled along with him. "Personally, if we're going to escape the Chantry's clutches, I think we ought to do it in style. Blow the tower right up from the ground – make it an explosion they'll see all the way from Denerim!" The other two mages scoffed and Torrin laughed.

Ayah was satisfied with life in the tower, and did not approve of this plan, nor of the chuckling. She stopped suddenly in her cleaning duties, turned to the four senior enchanters and said plainly, "That course of action is unwise."

That brought them all short. They looked to the Tranquil in surprise. "I'm sorry, what?" Torrin spluttered.

"I said, that is unwise," Ayah helpfully repeated.

Uldred shook his head slowly and sighed. "We don't need a Tranquil in on this discussion," stressing the word 'tranquil' in disgust. "Go back to your duties—"

"On the contrary," Torrin said very seriously, holding up a hand to silence his fellow enchanter, "I'd like to hear this. It's a perspective I don't believe I've ever heard. What is unwise, and why, Tranquil?"

Ayah Surana glanced between the four mages, gauging their expectations. "Explosion of the Tower is an unwise venture," Ayah explained. "It is the place that I live in. I would be . . . distressed," she said in a lower tone, eyes compulsively narrowing, shifting from side to side, "to see it explode. If freedom from the Tower is desired, one may always escape. Provided that one is clever enough to evade templar notice, one may even manage to remain so. There are, however, other methods."

Torrin, intrigued, made a vague gesture with his hand for her to continue. "Such as?"

Ayah blinked. The solution was so logical, so obvious, that if she were capable of pity, she would feel it for these lesser beings. "Increasing production of our goods en masse. Potions, runes, staves, and various enchantments. These items are only found amongst one group of people in Thedas, the Circles of Magi. As such, this one group is invaluable for its commodities. Increase production and others will expect more and demand more; when demand cannot meet expectation because of Chantry law, the consumer population will demand that the Chantry give the Circle its own commercial independence and reduce restrictions on lyrium law, even at the expense of the Templars. Wealth and political power is gained by rendering ourselves a necessary staple of the world economy, and freedom is given by political pressure exercised by outside parties. The Chantry cannot blame the Circle, the Circle mutually cannot blame the Chantry, and it gains its freedom by default." Ayah paused, considering how this topic was relatable to the current discussion about Fraternities. "This appeases all prominent Fraternities out of Cumberland: Aequitarians have no explicit reason to complain, Libertarians gain the freedom they desire, Isolationists will be free to live a life at their own merit, and Lucrosians stand to gain immense profit as the Circle undergoes metamorphosis into a corporation. It is the most desirable outcome." She paused, waiting the appropriate length of time to bring her logic full-circle. "The Tower would also not explode in the process, an event that, as a sentient creature, I am intrinsically opposed to."

The room was silent for several moments as the four mages stared at the Tranquil mage in disbelief. Ayah did not understand why, but if she had, she would have known that Tranquil did not have opinions. Opinions, which are rooted in feeling, which are alien to Tranquil, cannot be made in their state of mind. Ayah did not express her view on the Fraternities out of feeling but out of logic – it made the most sense, and Senior Enchanter had instigated the interaction in the first place. If he was experiencing discomfort, it was his problem.

Like most, however, the mages mistook it for a sign, but of what they could not say. There was an expression in Ayah's eyes that was frighteningly familiar to a few of those present, who had known her before she became . . . this. And Tranquil simply did not debate. They were quiet, industrious, and spoke in monotone. Luckily for them, Ayah had been practicing her vocal tone after Cullen had said it upset him and now adopted a more amiable method of speech, faster and filled with arbitrary expression. Admittedly it did not mimic how others spoke and Owain had remarked that it still retained a simulated sound, but it was not entirely disturbing, and the less disturbing others found her, the more easy it was to go about her work.

The four stared.

Ayah stared back.

Several moments of silence passed in the cold stone chamber while the two parties gazed at one another. Ayah dauntlessly kept eye contact while the others looked upon the odd being before them in a careful mixture of fear and wonder. She absently counted seven distinct flickers of firelight from the brazier nearest the doorway.

Torrin laughed uproariously, throwing his dark braided head back. "Well! Who knew the Tranquil were such Lucrosians?" This seemed to 'break the ice' and the other mages chuckled along, all except Uldred who eyed Ayah with renewed interest. She met the Senior Enchanter's gaze unflinchingly and waited patiently until she was dismissed.

Eventually – "return to your duties, will you?" –she was dismissed, and went back to cleaning.

It was an uneventful day.

She related the incident to one of the other Tranquil in the stockroom that day, who informed her for future reference that she was not permitted to intrude on the mages' conversations, despite how logical her points had been. When Ayah asked why, the Tranquil told her it was just rude. Ayah accepted this.

She became disturbed later when she realized she did not know that Tranquil's name or face, as her face and name had blended in with all the rest. She wondered if she would forget her own face soon, but it was unimportant.

Many more weeks passed. She began to forget more faces, and it did not disturb her. She remembered Cullen's face and the First Enchanter's face, and those were the only two that still held any significance over her old self.

Irving began to look better and Ayah suspected this was because he had taken her dieting advice. She did not see Cullen very often those first few weeks but later he was assigned to guard duty in the library where she spent most of her time, and discovered that he was not looking well. He looked worse than she remembered him. He had not taken her advice, and foolishly so.

"You have not been consuming lyrium," she said one day, guessing the source of his apparent illness.

He did not answer her. This was his usual behavior when she attempted to strike up conversation. It was rare that he would respond to her at all, as he seemed to prefer to pretend that she did not exist. She did not understand this behavior. Entire days would pass and Ayah would go about her duties as she normally did, the monotony of the activity being second nature to her. Cullen would go about his, although far less efficiently than he had before.

Ayah knew that it was odd, for a Tranquil to think on their life before, but she began to wonder. Attachments ran deep and if the source of Cullen's distress was rooted in her, than perhaps her distress was rooted in him. The psychological tie could go both ways. Each time she would politely broach the subject, however, she was ignored.

Ayah Surana discovered that she did not like to be ignored.

It was a subtle thing, the discovery. At one point it crossed her mind that while she was incapable of feeling emotion, she preferred certain activities above others. She knew that she was incapable of having an opinion, but some things in the world seemed to more desirable to her than others, and not all of the Tranquil agreed. They seemed to find her odd, but agreeable. Except for Owain. She suspected that was because Owain did not care, and that did not bother her. The discovery sneaked up on her, and eventually she ascertained that despite all these things being true, there were certain things that she liked and certain things that she disliked.

Everyone had preferences, but genuinely liking something was a foreign concept to a Tranquil. Moreover, since she could not drive the faces of certain people from her previous life from her mind, she must obviously like them, since dwelling on them otherwise would be unhealthy. It was almost shocking, to discover that she liked people. Even certain people. People were an obstruction in the world of a Tranquil – a nuisance that must be either contained or served until they cease their obstructive behaviors. They were objects of pity, because they would never know the clarity of the Tranquil's world, as they were bogged down by their vague conceptions and clouds of emotions.

The realization was a subtle thing, in truth, but it felt more like she had been hit with a large sack of bricks. Metaphorically, of course; there were no real bricks involved. She had been placing a book away, and stepped away from the shelf, and it struck her. She stopped, squinted, and glared at the offending templar-guard out of the corner of her eye. Cullen was ignoring her.

This was not agreeable.

She began to realize that being polite would simply not get through with Cullen. He was atypical of people. She did not fully understand what was special about him or why she singled him out above others (all others were the same – they were all faceless, nameless bumblers who ruined her organized library), but she found herself oddly unbothered by it all. He was important, simply and unconditionally, without complication. Oh, and he was ignoring her.

"This will not do," she told Cullen blandly after he refused to look her in the eye for the six-hundred forty-eighth time. It was a reflex, to count such things – the books on the shelf, the steps she took up stairs, the seconds that ticked when her duties became especially tedious. She liked to be occupied. But she couldn't, because Cullen was ignoring her, and that was distracting.

So she dropped a copy of Fortikum Kadab on his foot.

A large one.

She hadn't been intending to be subtle, but she made a secret of it, making sure that no one but Cullen (if he had been looking – again, a glare out of the corner of her eye, a turn of the head, an unconscious shift in behavior). No mages or templars would hear him cry out in pain for his foot. No one to hear him shout.

She found his pain to be agreeable. After all, he was responding to her. That was a vast improvement. Ayah swelled with pride at her actions.

Cullen was not happy with her. He yelled at her, swore, cursed a bit. And then he realized what he was doing and paled, looking much worse off than he had been before. Ayah's pride dimmed, and she became concerned. Her actions had consequences that she did not anticipate. This was not acceptable either.

"Ayah . . ." He began slowly, like he was cajoling it out of a child. Or perhaps it was for his own benefit. Ayah did not know. "Why did you do that? Why did you just drop a book on me?" He looked afraid. Ayah couldn't explain why, but considered it an improvement that he was looking her in the eye and calling her by her first name. Yes, a vast improvement. She corrected her conclusion from earlier and rationalized that if the consequence of causing Cullen pain, reprehensible though it was, resulted in such an improvement, then the pain was good.

"You were not responding to my attempts at social interaction," she explained simply, methodically, as if reciting a report. "Pain is something all beings respond to, for those that are capable of feeling it. I am likewise capable of pain. You distressed me by not addressing me, Cullen." Then Ayah seemed to realize what she was saying, and co*cked her head to the side, finding what she said aloud just as odd as Cullen did: "you upset me. I was upset. I responded irrationally. I apologize. That was absurd of me. I intended . . . to hurt."

Cullen seemed more amazed than Ayah at this development. "Yes, yes you did . . . you did."

"I did," Ayah confirmed, nodding sharply. She paused, though it was not because of social decorum. This was a pause that was unconscious. It was rooted in uncertainty. Ayah had not experienced uncertainty ever, not since she began. She dismissed it as it could not have been uncertainty, because that simply did not make any sense, and continued: "do you know why I did such a thing, Cullen? I find I have difficulty explaining it. Perhaps if you speak to me, it will not occur again, since my irrational behavior seemed to be a result of your own."

For the first time since Ayah had begun, the ghost of a smile graced Cullen's face. "I'll try not to make you, uh, angry then." The smile fled when his expression became suddenly quite serious. "Ayah, are you—no, nevermind, silly question."

Ayah co*cked her head to the side, examining the templar. "What is your query, Cullen?"

"It's not important."

He was right, it was not important, and Ayah accepted this.

The subsequent week went by without much incidence. When Cullen patrolled the library, Ayah was content to have him nearby, and he did not ignore her anymore when she attempted at conversation or tried to get his aid in putting an item away. It was a satisfactory arrangement. Not once did he ever speak to her first, however, which was of note.

The following week, coincidentally the fifth day of Parvulis, a loud argument was happening in the library between a senior mage and a templar. Ayah cared not for the origin of this argument or its purpose, only that it was happening inside of the library that she was responsible for, and they were endangering the peaceful and orderly atmosphere she had worked to cultivate.

She interrupted them, despite knowing that it was a social faux pas, but since the two were so absorbed in each other, she reasoned they weren't likely to care. "Excuse me," she interjected politely.

The senior mage turned to her. He was elderly, and she could not recall a name to his face – a common thing, for her. "What, what?" He blurted rudely.

"You are interrupting absolutely everyone's studies here with your loud vocalizing," she explained in even, dulcet tones, "and now you must leave. Goodbye." She pointed to the door imperiously.

The templar and the senior mage stared down the Tranquil like she'd grown a second head, although Ayah wasn't entirely clear where she'd received that impression, only that she'd heard the phrase from one of the apprentices. Also, the templar was wearing a helmet and it was difficult to tell what he was conveying, but his body language spoke volumes. He assumed Tranquil were polite and quiet and did not interrupt other people's arguments. It wouldn't do.

Ayah continued pointing at the door. "I will repeat this only once, as is polite of me to do," she announced. "Please leave the library and have a pleasant day."

They went back to their bickering, ignoring Ayah entirely.

Now Ayah, who while was not one for drawing attention to herself, did not like being ignored. When she meant to be noticed, she meant to be noticed, and being ignored when she needed to be seen was unacceptable. She considered her options – she could perhaps convince Cullen to eject the loud couple from the library, but he would not patrol the library until much later in the day. The other Tranquil did not care what happened in the library, and the mages would just find another place to study. Maybe eventually the senior mage and the templar would quit their bickering and would leave of their own accord, which would be nice if that were in immediate option, but it was not. What it came down to was simple: the library was Ayah's responsibility, and this argument was jeopardizing what was under her care.

Since the mage was elderly and she did not want to be accused of negligence if he ended up with a broken arm, she first harshly grasped the armored arm of the templar instead and pushed with her other hand on his shoulder, leading him swiftly out the door. The templar might have objected and stood his ground if he had been expecting the fast action, but he was not, and Ayah ejected him.

"What in Andraste's holy name do you think you're doing, Tranquil?" The templar demanded, confused and outraged. Ayah continued pushing him out into the hall.

"You may return when you are in a less antagonistic mood," she instructed, and released her vice grip on his arm. She snatched the senior mage, albeit more gently, who allowed himself to be led by her out the door in shocked silence.

"Goodbye," she said with a customary wave and quietly shut the door on the stunned duo.

Ayah had not realized that her actions had caused a scene, and everyone was staring at her. She was not aware that she had warranted the attentions of everyone and made a mental note to examine her actions in the future in case they caused a likewise scene. It was an undesirable outcome.

There was nothing to say or do, though, so she returned to organizing the books that she'd left behind and thought no more of it.

She did not hear more of the incident until at least a few days later, late in the evening, when the complaint had apparently gotten to Irving's ears. The Knight-Commander was apparently too busy to deal with complaints against the Tranquil; she considered the peaceful mannerisms of her brethren and wondered why it was that others seem so inclined to dislike them, since they did nothing to offend other beings. Their only desire was to work in peace.

It was simple curiosity, not offense that drove her to submit a missive regarding her own activities, requesting that she be investigated for a breach of conduct of some kind. She of course knew that she had done no such thing, but there was no harm that she could perceive from the simple inquiry. If ever asked directly, she would admit this, but indirect questions she could not help but give indirect answers. If accused of lying in some fashion, Ayah would be appropriately indignant.

Irving, meanwhile, had a disgruntled look on his face.

Ayah made a mental note to observe Irving's facial expressions later. He was quite good at a variety of them. She also made a mental note to ask the other Tranquil for advice and also to question Cullen when she had an opportunity. She knew that she lacked expressions almost entirely and was certain that this was disconcerting to the mages she lived with, which was something to be avoided in a vocation that tied in so closely into their own. The less they were uncomfortable on the whole, the more easily and efficiently the job could be done. (Perhaps this was why they sent in the complaints? Ayah made a note to investigate this later and remand her findings to Owain.)

"First Enchanter," Ayah said as blithely as she could manage (she was still working out the kinks of not sounding so monotone), "you have ignored my dieting advice again. You appear to be unwell. This could also be due to indigestion. Would you like me to brew a potion?"

"No, Ayah, that is not why I called you here," he reassured.

"That is smart, as I am not uniquely gifted at herbalism as the other Tranquil. I have yet to cleave to a single such task, unfortunately. What do you require of me, First Enchanter?"

"Irving is fine," the elderly man murmured, "and I heard about a bit of an incident the library earlier."

"The library is not the place for disturbances. You were misinformed." She paused and in order to avoid the idea she was lying or concealing information, continued, "There was an altercation within the library that I quelled earlier, and this could be what you are referring to." Seeing that Irving motioned her to continue, she did so. "I am told, Irving, that it was the templar Gregory and Senior Enchanter Sweeney involved, which I was not particularly aware of at the time of my actions. My awareness of this would not have altered my actions. The studies of the other mages were interrupted by their argument about burned trousers. I deemed this unnecessary and foolish and wisely ejected them from the library by force, since they did not move when I asked twice politely. To put it unsubtly and in simpler terms," she summarized, inadvertently returning to her standard monotone, "they were disruptive and I kicked them out. Is this report satisfactory, Irving?"

Irving, apparently at a loss for reactions that day, shrugged. He would admit to himself that on the whole, it was more amusing than anything else, but Gregory's reach extended his logic, not that his logic wasn't entirely unsound. It was not normal behavior with a Tranquil and considering the Tranquil in question, Irving felt morally obligated to investigate this matter beforehand before it got, well, out of hand. That was the last thing he needed. He didn't know what her behavior was a sign of, but it couldn't be anything good, if Greagoir was to be believed.

"I don't know what to do with you Ayah," Irving admitted honestly, helplessly shrugging. "No matter what you are or where you are, you cause a stir."

Ayah Surana was confused. She was certain that there was something more to the First Enchanter's tone. She began to suspect that her body was becoming quite tired, as she was unable to properly analyze things. It had been a very long day. "I do not understand your meaning, Irving."

"It's not important." She accepted this. "Firstly, good job for quick thinking, and secondly, I'm glad for the care you apply to the library. It's always in need of a good caretaker."

"It is my responsibility," she replied, tonally deficit. She was too tired to bother being anything other than her natural self.

Irving sighed, as if he'd expected that answer. "I expected that answer, I did," he confirmed, "though I was hoping for another. I don't suppose you care to tell me what exactly was running through your head when you decided to raise the hackles of Greagoir's lapdog and one of my oldest senior enchanters – who has tenure like myself, might I add?"

Ayah carefully considered every part of what Irving had just said. His wording was casual, indicating exhaustion on his part, if the memories of him from her old life served correctly. She was not entirely clear on what Irving was saying, so she focused on the part that was the most confusing:

". . . I was not aware that templar Gregory could transform into a dog. If he is a mage, this is a conflict of interest, and also illegal, as he would technically be an apostate despite living in the Tower's halls. I should hope you arrest him, Irving, as it is idiotic to keep such a liability around, even if it is of the more harmless 'lap' variety."

Irving did not know how to respond to this. He settled for laughing out loud. He couldn't seem to stop laughing – it was just too unexpected, too much. It was nearly something the old Ayah would have said, which did make the pill all the more bittersweet, but that didn't stop him from laughing. Especially when the old man knew that his former apprentice-turned-Tranquil was being completely and utterly honest, as she was incapable of even telling a joke, or even understanding one when it was delivered. Somehow, it made it better. He cackled all the harder.

Ayah was confused again. "I am confused – were you being literal?" She inquired, and Irving managed to nod in-between chuckles. Ayah bowed her head, coming to an understanding. "Forgive me. I was also unaware that tenure constituted the right to disrupt the library's most carefully cultivated ambiance at any given whim – if this is customary, then I was not informed of this at any point during my duties and feel as though it is something I should have known for future reference. Thank you for calling me aside and correcting me on this issue, but unfortunately due to my vast oversight of policies –" Ayah had to speak louder now over whatever Irving was finding that was so funny, which was irritating to her, "I must request that you relieve me of duty, First Enchanter."

Irving managed to calm down eventually while Ayah waited patiently for his response. He paused, took a few calm breaths and eventually wobbled back over to his desk, sitting down. "No," he said, finally responding to her question – he looked her straight in the eye, too, something that Ayah found notable, "not today, I think. This might be the most entertaining development in years. Tell me, did you send that report to Greagoir? I understand his shape shifter has been throwing a hissy fit over the rude actions of a certain Tranquil. Tranquil of all things," he said, more to himself than anything else. Ayah knew she was missing out on something, possibly a private something. "Who would have known, eh, Uldred?"

Ayah was unsure of how to respond, as she was still terribly confused by this conversation and couldn't help but revert. Had Uldred slipped into the room behind her when she wasn't looking? Slowly she turned around to make sure this was not the case.

No Uldred. Ayah blinked. Yes, she was surely exhausted. She wished this conversation would be sped along, since she longed to retire.

"I am confused, First Enchanter. Are you referring to the lapdog? Or Gregory? I assume they are two separate entities that you have confused together, in your mild age."

Irving coughed back another bought of chuckles. "Gregory of course, Ayah. The lapdog is, eh, the same thing." He couldn't quite resist it, now that the terribly bewildered Tranquil was bringing it up again. This was sure to be good, and would definitely get Greagoir's goat – which was more than good as he'd been itching to spice things up around the Tower for a bit. He never expected that spice to come in the form of Ayah, but he supposed that he had also never expected Ayah Surana herself.

"I did send in the report, Irving. I believe now that you have confirmed that those with tenure have the ability to abuse their tenure whenever they desire, combined with the fact that I was previously unaware of this development is proof enough that I am unfit for the library. I also request that the templar Gregory, due his status as a dog, either be executed or at a minimal sentence, be relieved from duty and sent to retire at the Chantry where he may bark in peace."

"No doubt there is a dog house there just waiting for him," Irving mused, eyes twinkling merrily at the flood of mental images that came up. Ayah co*cked her head the side, tragically unable to understand his humor but definitely certain there was something she had missed. "I'm told some noblewomen in Denerim enjoy such animals as pets. Perhaps we can pawn Gregory off on a bored Bann's wife; he has been particularly annoying lately. Not that this information leaves these chambers, but I assure you, I will consider it. For now, go back to the library and return to your duties."

Ayah accepted this, more than glad to return to the comfortable tedium of her day to day, despite her weariness. She left without another word.

Irving, for several moments afterwards, debated whether or not to actually hand the missive over to the Knight-Commander. Instead he looked down at the handwriting, delicate and precise. So very little like the meaningless chicken-scratch his old apprentice had unfortunately developed. He had used to tell her that patience came with age and with patience came an understanding of proper legibility. She refused to take the joke and, ever the arrogant elf, told him confidently that the only sort of writing that her people had performed had been etched in stone, or not at all. Everything else was Tevinter-bound, citing the wandering Dalish and the young Eadric as examples. Irving had, at the time, shaken his head and done his best to decipher her illegible notes, to no avail.

The missive was a strange reminder. The same signature was there, and it was odd that it was the same as before. Irving suspected this was more out of logic than a sign of the miraculous return of the old Surana, however. The latter was impossible besides despite the templars' superstitious misgivings. He noted the same left-handed markings but no smears of ink, indicating the kind of work and patience that only a Tranquil could afford to put into anything. It was nothing like the old impatient, impulsive Ayah Surana, which Irving would admit to himself was as disquieting a thought as it was a comforting one – this would reassure those suspicious bigots.

Gregory was not, after all, the first to question Ayah's seeming independence. He'd received the odd report from Owain to the contrary, but so far most everyone Ayah encountered seemed to have one thing or another to say about her behavior. Too 'human.' Too 'life-like.' He hadn't heard another word from the girl about Cullen, despite asking after him those weeks ago, nor had he heard anything from the templar in question. He'd suspected they'd been involved before her transformation, but that was out of his jurisdiction, and in the past besides. Whatever was left of Ayah was causing problems, and that was all that mattered.

Overall he considered this new strangeness of the Tranquil elf to be an odd development. It was neither good nor bad. Nothing more, nothing less. Let the templars wallow in their paranoia.

While the old apprentice would have taken everything with an incorrigible sense of humor, it was strange to note that the new one was doing the exact same thing in an entirely different way, by complete accident.

Irving chuckled merrily a bit more to himself. At least it was entertaining. And with that thought, he summoned another Tranquil hand off to the Knight-Commander upstairs Ayah's professional complaint against herself.

Chapter 3: III

Chapter Text

Ayah had heard nothing more of the library incident or the complaint she had made against herself. She did not expect it to cause much of a ruckus; it had been a point of curiosity for her, nothing more.

Akin to throwing a stone into a pool and examining the ripples, Ayah began to test the limits of her actions. She pressed the boundaries of Tranquil behavior in order to examine their effects on others. She never did anything that was beyond protocol, but began to adopt more normal behavior mechanisms, and discovered the art of white-lies. Over the following weeks she would change up her own behaviors, adopt more animated mannerisms, and would speak in less even tones. It was intriguing to see the varied reactions amongst the mages and the templars.

Cullen, in particular, seemed pleased that she was attempting to be more 'normal.' Ayah was not aware that her behavior was anything but abnormal but if Cullen was feeling better, then she supposed that it would do no harm to let him think what he will. She preferred it when Cullen was not sad.

Ayah still pondered the nature of her fascination with the templar and eventually assumed that it rooted in the activities of her old life – their clandestine meetings at dark were easy for her to recall. She suspected that Cullen sought no such reenactment, so torn was he from the feeling known as 'guilt' due to Ayah's condition.

The concept of guilt was puzzling to her and she determined to pursue its meaning, even as it vexed her. She wondered vaguely if Cullen desired reassurances and platitudes from her, but he always rejected them when offered. Guilt was the root of this baffling behavior. It was truly a mystery. Still, there in the back of her mind, as a silent presence he dwelt.

Ayah continued as she was for some time. It was quite remarkable that Owain and the others had not thought to do the tests that she had been doing – she promised to share the findings of her social experiment, and they were eager to see what she would come up with. Or rather, as eager as one of the Tranquil become, which is rather mildly interested, but still apathetic.

Eventually, however, it had to come to an end. Ayah was a bit startled that she had not considered there would be an end to her experiment. It was continuous, ongoing, unstopping, forever. It would last the remainder of her expendable life. The concept that her erratic new behavior might be mistaken for something other than what it was – innocent social experimentation – and would have consequences, was intriguing to Ayah. More intriguing was that she herself had not foreseen this. She usually prided herself on expecting the unexpected, as it were.

Cullen had come to her instead of the other way around; this was surprising in and of itself. What he had to tell her was even more unsettling. Ayah Surana did not like being unsettled.

"Cullen," Ayah stated blandly, "that does not make any sense. It is likely that I would have heard of such a thing before."

"Ayah," he began desperately, and Ayah was somewhat surprised by his tone. He gazed into her eyes and she listened, since he only did that when he was being very serious. "Listen to me. It's not . . . they don't tell the mages about this. If they knew, well, it would end badly. They might get the hope that there's some coming back from this and there isn't – once you're branded, there is no going back."

"I do not wish to go back. I am content."

Cullen winced, which forced Ayah Surana to rethink her statement, since it had caused him some distress. He shook it off, and she put it out of her mind. "But sometimes wi-with particularly strong mages, or with people with strong personalities, they can leave pieces l-like tendrils behind in the Fade, that can latch o—"

"You are suggesting myself as a likely candidate," Ayah interrupted, the realization hitting her. Her eyes narrowed as she thought of this. "I am one of the Tranquil that require re-branding. Have I been marked?"

Cullen nodded, leaning against the cold stone wall, the links in his chainmail clinking. He appeared to still be ill, but he did look slightly better, which Ayah considered good. She had not been forced to drop any books on him in the past month and he had not ignored her, even going so far as to occasionally indulge her in idle conversation. Ayah was unsure if they were what others might call 'friends,' for she had none of those, but she did appreciate his company insofar as he was willing to offer it. She had begun to perfect the art of small talk vicariously through Cullen, although she suspected that these conversations were far from normal – for the most part, he attempted to get her distracted and push her away while she pushed back with equal or greater force until he simply could not ignore her anymore. It sorted itself out into a satisfactory arrangement. Ayah preferred things to remain as they were, but knew that it too, would come to pass.

She admitted that she did not expect it to be in this fashion, despite her prepared nature. She had not heard of Tranquil that required a second branding, but it did make sense – not all Tranquil were alike. Some were more docile than others. She did not consider herself docile anymore, after having come to the realization that she was somewhere betwixt her former life and this next one, which began on the fifth of Parvulis.

The realization had been gradual in its coming. She did not wake up one morning and discover that she was different – it was the culmination of several weeks' idle thoughts and moments that the passage of time formed seamlessly into the semblance of the self. Tranquil knew themselves as individuals, but they were individual cogs in mechanism of surpassing vastness, far beyond their singular control. There was no identity beyond that which others attributed to you. Tranquil were not singular – they were tools of the templars, and they were content in the security of this knowledge.

Ayah had known for a great deal of time that she was not only an individual, but also singular, and not a part of a machine. She was whole. Tranquil were not. Her unnecessary introspection and social experiments had resulted in a resolution of the self, which was not the same Ayah, but a different kind of Ayah than the self-that-came-before. She did not think upon her mage-self except when accessing old memories, as mage-Ayah had no place in this Ayah's worldview. Other Tranquil thought only of the now, and the task before them. For Ayah, there was the now, and also the future. It was a bewildering concept that both enticed and worried her, which were both unknown notions to her. It was not uncertainty, as there was no uncertainty in the mind of a Tranquil. It was a new sort of certainty, different than the unwholesome one her cloudy-minded peers ritualistically experienced. Ayah knew only perfect clarity while they fumbled in the dark, weak, small, and unknowing. If she knew how to pity, she would pity their ignorance.

Ayah could also admit that the fact that Cullen had come to her with this was surprising. He was breaching duty by informing her of this. She would not report it, as that would be inconvenient, but was curious as to why he had done such a thing when she knew he held some distaste for her. She wanted to know why.

"Why have you informed me of this development, Cullen?"

His eyes met hers again and something passed through them that Ayah did not catch. "Because," he said wearily, and then sighed, his shoulders falling under some great invisible weight. Perhaps it was guilt? Guilt was so pointless and confusing. "Because you're not like them. The other Tranquil."

"No, I am not," she agreed easily. "We are not all alike."

Many emotions crossed his face and Ayah counted them as they passed, utterly fascinated. She had never seen such conflict in an individual. Cullen was unique too. "Maybe," he said softly after several moments, his voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe I'm reading too much into it. I don't know anymore. But you're still . . . you. You're still Ayah. You may not know it but you remember being her, you have her face, the way you move, how you sometimes tilt your head to the side like a—yes, exactly like that," he nodded as she co*cked her head, like a bird. "It's still there. I can see it. It's nothing but a shadow, but it's still there. Call me an idiot for clinging to it, but I can't just let go. I can't let that happen to you again, selfish as it is. I-I . . . I can't go through that again."

Ayah tilted her head to the other side and mulled this over.

She had been selected for a re-brand. According to Cullen, being selected for a secondary brand was not entirely uncommon – for some Tranquil, the initial severing of the ties into the Fade was not enough. With particularly strong-willed individuals or those with particular talents in magic, they may leave imprints behind. Blood mages and those with a mastery of magic dealing heavily with the Fade were often candidates. While they were still Tranquil, echoes of their former lives still remained in the Fade – the ties that had been severed still had a few tendrils left, floating about in the semblance of an identity that manifested back in this reality as odd mannerisms or strange behavioral patterns.

Such was the case now with Ayah. She had not thought of herself as a statistical outlier, as a deviant, one who was out of control or beyond the norm; she knew that she was not as other Tranquil, but was unaware that this was a problem for others. She was content with her way of life and did not wish this to change or to become more 'lifeless', as Cullen put it, than she already was. She naturally desired to reject the brand, but as for how to do this was beyond her.

Ayah was not capable of disobeying the templars. If they chose to re-brand her, she would submit, as she was not a disobedient girl. However, she was capable of obfuscating them. It was the only way for her to continue her way of life and still please her superiors. Ayah Surana would have to lie.

She did not find the idea of lying disagreeable. In truth, she had been telling 'white lies' for some great deal of time now, but had not classified them as true lies. She had been merely concealing facts, mussing truths. Pretending that she cleaned this and that to see if she could get away with it. She was impressed with the number of ridiculous things that people supposed about her – it was nigh inconceivable that a Tranquil would ever lie. It gave her much leeway. The others had been very impressed with her findings. She had not told them that being around Cullen had taught her to lie; when he ever asked her how she was doing, or how she felt – which he rarely did – Ayah always lied. She told him she was content.

Of course, she was not. She had not been content for some time, up until that moment.

She met Cullen's eyes again, feeling truly certain for the first time since Parvulis. She recognized in retrospect that her mind had been fogged by memories, which had given her doubts. There was no conflict in her now, no, it was all quite clear. Hindsight was always clear and it was hard to understand how it could ever have not been so clear.

"Thank you for informing me of this, Cullen," Ayah said, attempting for his sake to put an emotion she did not feel in her words. "Your desire is not selfish. I am appreciative of your concern. I do not wish to be re-branded either."

"Me neither," he admitted. And neither of them had lied in this. He knew that she was different as well as she did. She found that she appreciated it, in the way one appreciates an unexpectedly convenient or easy thing, that Cullen chose to acknowledge her the way that she was. Ayah knew now that due to their prior association, he would never be able to accept and enjoy her fully in her current state; he would never be content with her as she was, and because of that, neither could she – at least not completely. His approval was unfathomably important to her. That he had now chosen to make the distinction between now-Ayah and old-Ayah was significant, although Ayah did not know precisely why – she did not have a name for the concept. However, concepts such as gratitude and joy were meaningless to Ayah as she was now, and she was content with that fact. That was all that mattered.

Sometime later, Cullen told her that she was to be taken to the Harrowing Chamber within the week and tested there. What such a test entailed, he either didn't know or didn't say. Ayah was unbothered since there was nothing that she was not prepared for. Even before she had begun she had been excellent at improvisation, and even better at planning. And that was what she was doing – Ayah was planning for a way out, a way to trick the templars, to convince them of her usefulness in her current state; failing that, there were always alternatives and fallbacks.

Yes, Ayah had a plan.

She looked up at Cullen and gave him a very non-Tranquil smile that she had been practicing in front of a mirror. He was sufficiently astounded, which pleased her. "Do not worry, Cullen," she assured him in her best placating tone. "All will be as it should be."

"Will it?" he wondered bitterly, pushing himself off of the wall he was leaning on. "Sometimes I wonder."

"It will," she said simply, "because I have a plan. And I will be fine."

He looked at her rather helplessly and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, muttering under his breath. "Why do you have to be so . . . so . . ."

When he did not finished, Ayah waited for the appropriate length of pause before asking, "why do I have to be so what, Cullen?"

"So . . . you," he finished.

This sentence did not make sense. Ayah's brow crinkled as she tried to work her mind through that mangled statement. "I do not know what you mean. I am so me? You are making less sense than that dog of Greagoir's." She frowned ever-so-slightly at the memory of that irritating shape-shifting templar liar. "He makes the least sense of all."

"No, I – wait, Greagoir has a dog? Since when?"

Ayah nodded tersely and folded her arms as she thought more of the distasteful lapdog Gregory. "Yes. I was unaware of his status as a dog until Irving informed me. Irving is an intelligent person in high regard and I do not have reason to believe he would lie – I am troubled to inform you, Cullen, that your fellow templar, Gregory, is indeed a shapeshifting canine. You will recall that he is the one that caused such a fuss with Senior Enchanter Sweeney in the library? I was told later he was a lapdog of Greagoir's. I now consider it likely that the ruckus he caused was due to a territorial issue, as is common of lesser beasts."

Cullen really didn't have much to say to this. He opened his mouth several times and closed it, giving Ayah the impression of a drying-out fish. Words having failed him, he started to laugh, helplessly and openly. Ayah had never heard him laugh, at least not in this life. It was a peculiar thing, but it did not last long enough for her to analyze. He cut himself off and fixed Ayah with a reprimanding glare. "Okay, you see, Ayah, these are the kinds of things we have to avoid. If people start to think you have a sense of humor, you're not going to pass the test."

"I do not jest," she insisted seriously. "Gregory is a lapdog. Irving told me. He would not lie to me."

"I, uh, I think you should, um, talk to Irving about that." He coughed a few times to avoid bursting into laughter again and then looked around rather meekly, hoping and praying to the Maker that no one had overheard their conversation. Seeing as they were in the basem*nt, however, he didn't see how.

He glanced back to Ayah, feeling suddenly as if he were a piece of glass perched on a high precipice, inches away from shattering. If it had been anyone else on the face of the planet, he wouldn't have even thought about disobeying Greagoir's orders. If it were literally anyone else, he wouldn't have even bothered. Perhaps that made him selfish. Perhaps it was a sin. Maker knew it wouldn't be the first sin to his name, Cullen could admit that much. A Tranquil's rebranding was not something to bother himself with. It was a trifle. It was just this unfortunate thing that sometimes happened, and like the Harrowing it was his duty as a templar to deal with it whatever the price.

Some prices were too high. Cullen was willing to admit to himself that most of him was doing it because of guilt. He never even considered before Ayah came along what would happen if someone he knew became Tranquil. Yet he couldn't even classify Ayah as a Tranquil in his mind anymore, despite the ominous red sun burned into the soft tan flesh of her forehead – she was something new, something a bit frightening, and more importantly, something wearing the face of her former life. Most of him would agree if he said he was trying to spare what was left of her from what she'd become; he hadn't lied when he said he couldn't ignore the flashes of personality, the spark that sometimes lit up those dark eyes. Even before she was Tranquil, when she betrayed the Circle by helping those blood mages behind his back, he couldn't find it in himself to be angry. Maybe that too, was the guilt talking. Or maybe it was too hard to stay angry with her; he could also admit to himself that if he'd only known, maybe he could've stopped her before it all came down, but at the end, she just hadn't trusted him enough. The pain of that was almost as bad as losing her to the brand. Now he had the lovely vision of her glassy-eyed gaze beneath a red sun to keep him company whenever he closed his eyes.

He pushed the painful memories out of his head. She meant too much. He wasn't about to lose her again. He couldn't take it. That was all there was to it. If not for the sake of his own conscience, then for the sake of this new Ayah before him.

All the while Ayah, oblivious to the inner turmoil of her companion, co*cked her head to the side and regarded him curiously. The faint light and shadowy alcoves of Kinloch Hold did little to flatter his complexion. She wondered absently what he would look like outside, in the sun, which she had never seen. She would never leave this Tower, so she would never know. He would also look very attractive in the color blue, she decided. Blue with gold trim maybe, but nothing too opulent. Elegance didn't befit him, unless it was casually applied. Red would be nice as well, even green, but definitely not brown or purple or yellow. Those would be wretched.

When they said goodbyes, Cullen disappeared into the Templar's quarters and Ayah, finding herself a rare free moment, went directly to the library. Any good lie was based in truth, and Ayah knew that before she could fight to keep her brand intact, she had to find some fire to fight with. It was only logical.

It was time for research.

"Describe your duties so assigned."

"I clean, organize, and categorize mage materials in the stock room under my superior Owain. I was recently in charge of administrative work, and before then, janitorial. I have no other duties."

"Do you find your activities satisfactory?"

"I do not."

There was a slight stirring.

"Elaborate," the Knight-Commander spoke up.

Ayah paused, eyeing the Tranquil before her. She had never met this Tranquil before. The girl must have been a recent addition. She found it peculiar that they found another Tranquil to test her, but understood that it was likely due to the unbiased nature of her kind. They had no opinion one way or another on anything, even each other. They were all perfectly objective. It made sense. She could not help but wonder, however, if the Tranquil in front of her was satisfied with her task, but that thought served no purpose, and so Ayah put it aside.

But why, a small voice in the back of Ayah's mind had to ask, are they so surprised? Why am I different? Are we dangerous? Do we frighten them? The sudden volley of questions confused her.

"I am ill-suited to janitorial, administrative, and organizational tasks. Those are not my primary skill sets. I have a keen mind and athletic build better suited for other work."

A look that Ayah recognized as curiosity crossed the Knight-Commander's face. Perhaps he had been speaking with Irving. "What work might that be?"

Ayah blinked, suppressing the urge to shrug. It was strange, as shrugging was an unnatural thing to do, and yet she had grown so accustomed to appearing normal that it was an exercise to not be. Ayah knew that this is what she had been striving for all along, and felt a surge of pride, despite quickly suppressing it.

"I have yet to discover that, Knight-Commander," she said blandly, "but I will inform you upon its discovery." The truth was that she did have an idea – several – all as a result of her late-night library search for records on Tranquil activities in other Circles. It had been most enlightening. Now was not the time to bring those to light, though.

A moment passed in brief silence. The Tranquil before her continued in the questioning. Ayah adjusted in her seat out of discomfort. She did not like sitting still. She preferred to be active. "You were involved in a discussion with four senior mages a ten-day ago," the Tranquil reported. "Please describe the conversation you engaged in with said mages, and summarize your remarks."

Ayah recalled the moment in time. She ran through her answer in her head, wondering at the relevance of the incident, and determined to choose her words carefully. "I overheard a conversation between several mages discussing the Fraternities of Enchanters. Among the topics discussed were the nature of mages within the Circle, and the Circle's tense relationship with the Chantry of Our Lady. Autonomy of the Circle appeared to be universally desired by the mages present. One of the mages suggested to his fellows that the Tower should be eradicated in an explosion that, I quote, 'could be seen from Denerim.' I interjected because this topic distressed me, as the Tower is my home."

There was another stirring amongst the few templars present, as well as Irving and Senior Enchanter Uldred, who was present for reasons Ayah had yet to determine. She assumed that he was, in some small part, responsible for this hearing – but to what end? What was his goal? Did it matter?

The Tranquil before her blinked. Ayah blinked right back. "Please explain why you chose to interject, when you knew not to engage mages unless first engaged."

Ayah felt a strange and previously unknown urge to throttle the Tranquil before her.

She paused, holding her breath.

She did not know where on Thedas that urge came from. It was quickly quelled. It had startled her greatly.

Ayah mulled it over briefly before considering next how to answer her question – although she made certain the pause in thought was not overlong, as she did not want to arouse suspicion. She spent no longer than what was the customary pause in speech before deciding that victimizing herself and vilifying the mages was the better course of action, as it redirected the negativity.

"I engaged because I take issue with destruction of the Tower. I am still unsure if the suggestion was entirely in jest or not. I am told by Owain that I possess a difficulty at discerning humor and the concept known as sarcasm. Regardless, I told the mages present that destruction would be unwise, and offered an alternative, which I am certain they have enlightened you upon, otherwise this conversation would not be taking place. Had they continued in their discussion I am certain that the results would have been catastrophic for my continued existence, the existence of the Templars, the Tower, and the existence of all mages, Tranquil or not. A breach in minor protocol was necessary."

"Your point is well-received," the Tranquil affirmed. Ayah nodded.

A movement from across the darkened Harrowing chamber caught in the corner of her eye – a flash of light as one of the templars shifted, folding his arms. She found it curious that they continued to wear armor, even this late in the day, even with no danger present. She supposed that it was only part of their motto, 'Constant Vigilance.' Irving muttered something under his breath to his counterpart, the Knight-Commander. Ayah strained to hear and struggled to remember the Knight-Commanders name, but came up blank. Every time it was spoken to her, it seemed to slip her mind. It must not be a very memorable name.

The interrogation continued for some time. It was really quite boring. The Tranquil asked her fellow Tranquil about all kind of pesky inane details. Ayah noted one detail that was omitted – Cullen. He was not among her audience nor was he even mentioned in passing. She was rather . . . grateful for that. Of all her behaviors, if Ayah were to classify any of them as "erratic," it would be the fascination she had for that one templar.

Ayah Surana also wondered at the objectivity of the Tranquil before her. Her questions were not probing, nor were they particularly accusative or malicious. They were gentle and easy enough to lie about. Was this because she had been ordered to by someone? Perhaps Irving? And what was Uldred doing here? It would explain Irving's presence, but not the other's. Or perhaps this Tranquil possessed a loyalty to her own kind. It would not be unheard of. Ayah had once reprimanded a mage in the Tower who had been unkind to one of her brethren – the reprimand was deserved for a mistake he made in mixing a potion, but she had also enjoyed it because of his attitude towards the branded. She surmised this arose as another quirk of being different.

Then came the final question. It was a simple question, and Ayah was unprepared for its stunning simplicity.

"Ayah Surana. Are you capable of lying?"

How was she to answer this? With a lie? Or with truth? Which would be more harmful? Was a white lie something so completely unbelievable in a Tranquil? The ability to say one thing and think another is what separated them from the animals, is it not? Then again, Tranquil were considered little more than furniture in the Tower. Tables that could talk and move. Chairs that accepted orders. They were not people, they were not even animals. They were seen, not heard. Ayah did not consider this to be an unjust or undeserved assessment; it was no mystery where this common opinion was based in. Perhaps lying, in this light, might be the better option.

"No," she lied. "I am not. I obey."

There was a stirring in her audience. She wondered if the lie had been seen through. It did not bother her, although she suspected it probably should have. It made her feel strange.

Slowly and stiffly her Tranquil interrogator stood up from her chair, unfurling her lanky body and stretching. At a nod from Irving, Uldred left the room, followed by the tranquil mage Knight-Commander's word. Uldred's brief presence remained a mystery to Ayah; his footsteps echoed outside the hall as he left down the stairs and out of earshot. Ayah could, however, hear the soft padding of her interrogator's feet out in the hall, where she had stopped to eavesdrop on the proceedings. "Curious," Ayah murmured aloud. It was unlikely the girl had been ordered to do so – at least by someone currently within the Harrowing Chamber. Ayah could not guess. It was unimportant.

The few templars in the room fanned out as the Knight-Commander clanked forward, steel toe hitting tile in a biting, grating way. It was an irritating sound. More bafflingly irritating was the way Irving slunk back into the shadows, clearly a sign of withdrawal . . . or consent.

"Ayah Surana," the Knight-Commander barked. Ayah stared at him, eyes glittering with interest. "By the power vested in me by the Chantry of Our Lady Andraste, you are to be submitted to the brand for the greater good."

His voice was loud, sonorous, and familiar, as were the words he spoke. They struck an old chord in her. He had spoken them on the fourth of Parvulis, just before Ayah began, and now he was repeating them, consigning Ayah to her doom once more. It was the first thing about this man that had stricken Ayah as familiar. She searched her memories for a name, a name that had been oddly elusive these past months since the fifth of Parvulis. Greagoir. His name is Greagoir. He is not a stranger anymore.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir," Ayah queried in the even tone of the Tranquil, belying her inner turmoil, "I do not understand. I have a brand, and it would be useless to place another on me."

"The re-branding of the Tranquil is an old practice," he explained patiently. His eyes were bored. He was reciting this from somewhere. Ayah absently wondered how many times Greagoir's duty had forced him to say these words to Tranquil like her. Or was she not unique? "Some Tranquil do not take to the brand naturally, leaving behind fragments in the Fade. The connection is not wholly severed, and for those a second branding is required over the first."

Ayah realized now that this was inevitable, and in the face of inevitability, there was only one thing to do: submit.

"I do not wish to be re-branded."

Ayah regretted the words before they came out. She had never experienced regret before. All of the new experiences she had this day were beginning to tire her. First the homicidal rage at her interrogator, now this? When would it end? Maybe re-branding was the better option, if it would end all of this tedious hassle.

"Your opinion is irrelevant, Tranquil," Greagoir informed. His tone was firm, but not unyielding. Ayah remembered Cullen telling her once that terrible things are often done in the name of duty, but we do them anyway, because they are necessary. For the Greater Good. She, of course, had to argue with that. (Her self-preservation instincts required her to admit that if the Greater Good came at her own expense, she wanted no part of it.)

"I have no opinion," she needlessly reminded him. She was a Tranquil, after all. "I am merely observing the uselessness of a second brand as a gesture. I was made Tranquil as punishment for my actions. I have done nothing to warrant a second and equal punishment."

The Knight-Commander shifted, hands now linked behind his back. It was an officious and intimidating stance that was wasted upon one such as her. Habit, maybe. "This is no punishment."

"Then I am confused. Is it a reward? Brands are not often rewards except for those who do not wish to endure the Harrowing, and I am no longer eligible for the Harrowing."

Greagoir was silent and Irving stepped forward instead. "No punishment or reward, Ayah," he said gently, "nothing of the sort. Just a necessary action we must take, for your sake as well as our own."

Ayah stared blankly at him, her facing giving nothing away to the sudden, foreign desperation she experienced inside. She could not submit. That was unacceptable. And Irving's tired, even tone was irritating her. Was this how she sounded to others? How loathsome. This must be rectified. Ayah grasped at something, anything, an idea. The research the other night. How could she introduce this in an innocuous way? How could she get rid of this?

"The Rite of Tranquility is an alternative to punishment," Greagoir said suddenly, and his tone sounded like he was objecting to something. Perhaps it was Irving's attitude. The two had never quite meshed as leaders. Ayah watched their silent interaction with great interest, thousands of micro-expressions crossing their faces. Perhaps she wouldn't have to do anything at all – perhaps they would do all the convincing for her by themselves. Wouldn't that be nice, marveled the new and unfriendly, tiny voice in the back of her mind.

Meanwhile, Greagoir was red in the face. "It is not the—"

"Harrumph!" Irving grunted. "Tell that to the apprentice mages, Greagoir. If it is an alternative, it's only the lesser of two evils – take the Harrowing and risk the potential of failure, or losing one's very identity. A choice young minds shouldn't have to face."

Greagoir became even redder and Ayah imagined that if she had been any other situation, now would be an appropriate time to smirk. "And in the face of Aeonar? Which would you choose, Irving? Don't speak to me of lesser evils. Need I remind you that this one masterminded the greatest breach in security this Tower has faced in the last fifty years! She would have faced the gallows were it not for a certain mage. Tranquility was a mercy."

This seemed to quiet Irving down, much to Ayah's distress. And here she was counting on the old man doing all her convincing for her. "I'm afraid, old friend, that I must agree."

It was time to bring this discussion back to order. "I believe I have an alternative, Knight-Commander."

Greagoir looked to Irving, who gave only a noncommittal shrug. He sighed. There was a gentle clattering somewhere behind him from one of the templars present, when someone shifted in place impatiently. Ayah could sympathize. This interview was taxing. "I'll indulge," said Greagoir. "What alternative might that be?"

Ayah took a deep breath. This was it. If she could not convince them of her value with this, then she would be consigned to a second brand and would return to the mindless cog she had been before. All of her experiences would be lost. As annoying as her experiences tended to be, she did not want to lose them. They were unique. They belonged to her. Cullen did too, and she would lose him. She would lose all that was hers. It was simply and purely unacceptable.

"I am useful in my current state. While I am not under the impression that I am worthy of a secondary brand, I do believe that I differ from other Tranquil because I do not suffer the lack of independence that they do – Owain and I agree that I am most unlike the others. I possess the same clarity of mind and focus of task that they do, but I am bored by menial labor and am ill-suited to administrative work, due to my forceful approach to such situations. I am capable of herbalism and rune-crafting, but do not possess a particular talent for this. My talents, I believe, lie in a different area.

"In the records of the Antivan, Nevarran, and Kirkwall Circles, there have been Tranquil that were frequently assigned guard duties when the Templars were absentee, having been trained extensively in combat. Further, there were several remarkable instances that indicated Tranquil had been trained for the specific task of training other templars in combat. I can cite the dates if you wish. This is the task that I believe I am suited most for. Failing that I request a transfer to Denerim, where I may shopkeep, since I am told I am slightly more personable than some of my other brethren." At least where templar-hounds named Gregory and enchanters named Sweeney are not involved, she silently added.

As Ayah ended her speech she examined her persecutors, gauging their reactions. The other templars in the room were clouded in shadow and their reactions obscure to her. Greagoir's posture was less rigid and he seemed a little impressed, if unaffected. Irving fidgeted, his eyes now twinkling under his bushy eyebrows with the onset of an idea. This was good. All she had to do was persuade one of the two, and the other would cave. That was their weakness. Together the Circle's leaders would stand, but divided they would crumble.

"An interesting argument," Greagoir finally spoke, "and further proof that you require a secondary brand."

"I do not wish to be re-branded," she said firmly, eyes squinting ever so briefly into a glare. She relied upon the hope that he had not witnessed her brief lapse. "If it is your final judgment that I am to be re-branded, I will submit, but I will contest this until such a judgment is rendered. I am more useful as I am. To consign me to a secondary brand and force me to relinquish what little independence I have as a person would be a deplorable waste of resources. I am different, but still bound to the Circle. I wish to serve it in a better capacity, nothing more. Is there something inherently wrong or morally reprehensible about this desire?"

The silence was deafening. Greagoir did not speak, and neither did Irving. They merely shared glance. Their faces were difficult for Ayah to read. Her time with Cullen had helped her ability to read people, but they would always be somewhat a mystery to her.

Finally, Greagoir seemed to sigh. She did not understand the meaning of this gesture. He turned to her, looking for a brief instant very, very old. She knew that both of the Tower's figureheads were elderly, but never before had either so quite looked their age. Ayah suspected it was the shoddy lighting in the Harrowing Chamber. The magefire from the braziers lining the walls was low and poor. She made a mental note to submit a recommendation for renovation up there.

A dull numb filled her while she waited those few seconds for either man to speak. Ayah knew that if she were a mage, it would be terror and fear that would fill her, but instead she felt only the absence of it. It was not a sad thing. She was relieved she could no longer experience guilt, fear, or sadness. From what she had observed in others, they looked like such troublesome things. Still, she wondered if this coherency, this realization of what she felt and did not, the capacity to know and recognize such things – if it too, would be burned away for a second time.

Her memory was perfect. All Tranquil had perfect memory. Ayah knew even before her branding she had a precision memory. She had always been excellent at remembering details. Would this change with a second brand? Would she begin again? Was there any use to these questions? No, there was not. Ayah wished these all these pointless, exhausting thoughts away. Independence was so tiresome. Maybe a second brand would be a good thing, if it would erase all of this new conflict from her mind.

Then, Greagoir spoke, his deep voice reverberating in the Harrowing Chamber and filling every shadowed nook and cranny: "My decision has been made."

9:29 Dragon, 4th Umbralis

I am Amelia, a Tranquil of the Circle of Magi in Ferelden. I have been tasked by my superior, Owain, to record my findings on the events of today. The relevance of this record is currently unknown to me.

The events are as described:

Approximately five hours ago, I was chosen at random from a pool of potential interviewers for the simple task of interrogating another tranquil for the possibility of a secondary brand. I was told which questions to ask and which to omit by Owain, who inserted himself into my affairs.

The interview in question was conducted without incident. I had been ordered before the interview to listen at the door for its conclusion, and I did so. My superior appeared relieved when I informed him of the result.

I have been told to record my impressions and thoughts, which are as follows:

Owain's reaction was strange and question-begging, as were his instructions. Surana conducted herself in a logical and sane manner; it did not occur to me at any point that she was peculiar in any fashion – Owain told me otherwise, but I believe his assumption was incorrect. Upon being informed by the Knight-Commander of the existence and wide prevalence of secondary branding, I theorized that many of us in the Tower are or have been candidates in the past; specific names come to mind, but are not relevant to a long term record. There are only two options for magi in the Circle, and those are the Harrowing, and the Rite. There is no other path. If Surana were at all peculiar, her presence would suggest the existence of a third path, and that is impossible. I find the implications of a tranquil escaping the brand, secondary or not, disquieting.

Chapter 4: IV

Chapter Text

Something was missing. Ayah did not know what was missing but it bothered her, like a lingering ring in her ears long after a bell toll, or an itch in she could almost – but not quite – reach. She filed it away at the back of her mind, since it was a pointless thought, but every now and then the sensation would rear its head and come to the forefront of her mind once more.

"And no longer was it formless, ever-changing, but held fast, immutable . . ."

The Chant of Light rung out of the Tower's small Chantry with pure and simplistic clarity as the morning rolled by, marking it a day since Ayah Surana's trial. Ayah found herself pausing in the hallway and listening to the sound of the words and their heavy rhythm; the Chant held no comfort or distress for her one way or another, but she found it linguistically interesting that although the Chant was indeed a chant, it was rare to hear it chanted, and when it was, it was often under-appreciated. (The Chant of Light was intellectually useless, but very pretty.) Though the words to the many Canticles were known to Ayah, she had never heard them sung before. She did not recognize the voice of the sister in the Chantry, but found the girl's clear tones to be aesthetically pleasing to the ear.

" . . for heaven and for earth, sea and sky. At last did the Maker, from the living world Make men. Immutable, as the substance of the earth, with souls made of dream and idea, hope and fear, endless possibilities . . ."

She had places to be, obligations to fulfill, people to meet. Things to pack. Ayah knew that this delay was inappropriate. Her feet were oddly weighted and a peculiar part of her disliked the idea of moving from that spot. She could not fathom why. Ayah shuffled uncomfortably in the hallway, feeling perturbed. She did not like the new feeling. The Chant was disturbing to her. It was at fault.

" . . . gift: In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame all-consuming, and never satisfied. From the Fade did I craft you, and to the Fade you shall return each night in dreams, that you may always remember me."

Ayah finally forced her feet to move and stalked away from the Chantry, slippers slapping harshly against the Tower's cold stone.

Tranquil were instructed on all aspects of Chantry law and history, but attendance to the Chantry weekly was deemed wholly unnecessary. Some universally accepted the Maker's Will as absolute and others did not; the gap between the faithful and the faithless was a missionary's eternal job to bridge. As for the Tranquil, a being who is literally incapable of feeling faith or emotion attending a religious service where one goes to feel hope and fulfillment and connect with their fellow Man and Maker, was nothing short of foolish. There was nothing to be gained from it. Tranquil did not hold religion in contempt, they only viewed it as a useless staple in life. Ayah's day to day did not involve the eternal philosophic debate between the mortal and the divine; it was none of her concern.

Yet, she had been pondering her old life more. Tranquil are said to never think on their life before, but this is untrue; the memories exist, but there was simply no emotional attachment to them. It was separate set of memories of a different life that the person who was in their body once lived, and that was all. The brand cleansed them of that life, baptizing them into a new and brighter world full of focus. Thinking about their nearsighted past was a waste of time; the past was irrelevant. She knew this, as did they all. That had not and would not change.

Still, Ayah wondered. She was not like other Tranquil, and as a result was unable to describe herself. There was focus and clarity, but no role, no placement. She floundered. It was a disquieting state of being.

As she swiftly padded her way down the Tower's dark, winding corridors in the early morning, she began to wonder. "An unquenchable flame, all-consuming," she murmured aloud to herself.

Metaphors were always good to use, universal in their meaning, and universally objective. Each individual perspective offered a different chance at meaning. Useful from a literary or intellectual standpoint, but frustrating for Ayah since she did not understand them anymore. For a moment she considered the line from a literal purview, but of course it did not literally refer to a fire in one's chest. That would be silly. Perhaps it referred to emotion? Ayah recalled an instance where a face from her old life – a mage named Jowan – described the thing called 'love' as a 'wonderful fire that warms you as it consumes you.'

She frowned to herself at the thought. It was confusing. Something had to be missing. Fire was bad. Why would someone describe something which was supposedly as 'wonderful' as love as something as terrible as fire? Certainly fire was useful, from a safe distance, but not when you were closer than common sense would dictate – close enough to let it 'warm' you as it 'consumes you.' There was no logic in that. Perhaps the metaphor was incorrect. Ayah determined to ask Cullen if she saw him that day. He would know about these sorts of things.

Ayah did not ever remember feeling as though a fire were warming and consuming her, except once when she used elemental fire magic in her old life. Her past relationship with the templar might qualify, but she had refrained so far from bringing the subject up in said favorite templar's presence, since she knew it appeared to cause him some amount of distress.

Ayah did not feel distress, or discomfort, except only so rarely, and then only in a physical sense. Those things were sensations, not feelings. If anything, she felt as there was a hole at the center of her being, not a fire that warmed or consumed. A hole that she could not fill, a void that would not be satisfied - there was no flame of any sort. That was all. No matter how she tried to rationalize it away, she still felt nothing like the fire the Chant described. There was no warmth at the core of her being, was there? She did not feel any physical warmth there beyond the natural, normal temperature of her body. And since she did not feel any warmth otherwise, she was left to conclude that the fire had something to do with her brand.

Ayah Surana stopped in front of the door to the Tranquil's quarters, her hand inches away from the large brass knob. Every inch of her body tensed as the answer came to her, quite suddenly. The Chantry sister's voice recited the words of Threnodies 5 in her mind:

From the Fade I crafted you,
And to the Fade you shall return
Each night in dreams
That you may always remember me.

Something was missing. Of course. Ayah was no longer the same as before, so it made sense that something could've been lost in the transition from Old Self to Now-Self. Something could have quite easily been lost.

The Fade had not spawned Ayah, for she was the handiwork of the Templar justice. Her solitary nights were silent because she did not dream, and thus she did not return to the Fade. The anagogic brand kept the Fade at bay, and without dreams, Ayah had forgotten the Maker.

He had likely forgotten all about Ayah as well. She reasoned that it was probably for the best, since she was far too busy to worry about invisible, omnipotent avengers that lurked in the sky. Living in the Tower, she never saw the sky anyway. It was not important. Such matters were better left for scholars to write about, so Chanters could later have something pretty to sing about.

So, something was missing, yes, but could not for certain be the Maker. Ayah Surana supposed that whatever it was, it would come to her in its own time. Most things did.

She opened the door to the Tranquil's quarters and quietly rushed to her enclosure, methodically gathering what little she owned into neat, orderly piles. Clothing, various clean washrags, a hairbrush, and so on – useful tools that made her existence easier; there was no personal attachment to any of the items. She pushed all thoughts of the Chant out of her mind as she worked. In the meantime, she would ready herself for a journey per Greagoir's orders, and then – most importantly – she would find Cullen. There was much to discuss. This recently discovered hole in her core would not heal itself. She required advice.

He stood watch outside the gloomy templar quarters', still as the stone beneath his feet, like a gleaming metal statue. His posture was tense, wary, as if he were expecting an attack at a moment's notice. Ayah could not fathom what would have held his attention so much that he had not noticed her coming, but even as she approached Cullen's shadowed eyes were Elsewhere, gazing at some far-off, imaginary vista. Perhaps this was the lyrium withdrawal, or perhaps he was simply tired, she could not begin to guess. She took a brief moment to examine her own reflection in the pauldron of his armor before lightly tapping him on the shoulder, drawing his attention back to the present moment.

"Ah!" He practically leapt into the air in fright, and Ayah watched him carefully. His face turned into a funny mask of surprise, confusion, and fear, before finally absolving and settling on relief. How did he cycle through so many emotions so quickly? It must be terribly exhausting.

"Ayah," Cullen breathed. Almost absently he outstretched his hand to touch her, but seemed to regain control of his arm at the last minute and forced it firmly back at his side. The relief promptly fled from his face, his expression becoming guarded. "How . . . how are you?" He asked. His voice was laden with concern and unease.

She tilted her head to the side, unwittingly resembling a wren, and debated internally on the best way to answer his question. There were various approaches she could take, but which one would get the best reaction out of Cullen? He was an odd, unpredictable creature. She could be blunt and cut to the chase, she could waylay the information, she could feign humor . . . what would First Enchanter Irving do? -she finally asked herself. The old man was also an interesting person, and a good enough standard of behavior to copy off of.

Ultimately, however, the reaction she finally settled on, after a few moments of silence, was this: "'Though all before me is shadow,'" she gently recited, plucking the verse from memory, "'Yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.'"

Cullen didn't look startled by this at all. It seemed very much like something the old Ayah would do, quote verses at him in lieu of an answer, or give some cryptic, metaphoric reply. Old Ayah was ever fond confusing people. He gave a small, tired smile. "You're okay, then," he translated. "You weren't branded?"

The unorthodox elf shook her head. "I was not. Does this relieve you?"

"Very much, yes, though I admit . . . I have difficulty understanding why. I guess it shouldn't have worried me. I mean, you always used to, well, nevermind."

What a mangled statement, she thought. Cullen had confusing grammar. She selected her reply carefully. ". . . Yes, I also have difficulty understanding. And I too, was relieved."

A moment of companionable silence passed between the pair. Cullen had often associated silence with the idea of the Tranquil; demons didn't take more than one look at them, since they'd been cut off from the Fade, and without their magic they were effectively silenced. They were the quiet, industrious working class of the caste system in the Tower – at the bottom of the food chain – and nothing more. Except for Ayah, it seemed, who was not content to work, who was not content to be quiet, who was not content to simply Be like the others. She was . . . different.

Ayah thought back briefly to her encounter with the unseen Chanter in the Temple this morning. The verses of the Chant of Light were utterly useless, but if Cullen found some mysterious comfort in them, then she would abide.

The silence had begun companionably but Ayah grew uncomfortable very quickly, shifting from foot to foot. "There is something I must tell you, Cullen."

"Oh?" He perked up, a little smile coming to his face.

She rather liked the smile and didn't want to see it go away quite so quickly. "It can wait, however," she announced on impulse. "In the meantime, you are looking much better, and healthier. I assume you have resumed the consumption of lyrium."

"Well, you assume right."

She nodded approvingly. "This is good. The addiction is unfortunate, but necessary, I am told. It is better when you are well."

"What was it you had to tell me?" He interrupted.

Ayah blinked, but answered easily enough. "I am leaving with a retinue of your fellows to Denerim, and from there, to Antiva." Before his eyebrows could shoot any higher up his forehead, she explained further. "Knight-Commander Greagoir has determined, per my suggestion, that I am more useful in my current state of independence and instead shall be trained extensively in combat for the purposes of training other templars. For that purpose, I am being transferred to Antiva City. It will be many months before I return to Ferelden."

Cullen was silent for a few moments, apparently stunned. "Wait, wait." He held up his hands, brows furrowing. "You go in to get re-branded. And emerge not only perfectly fine, but better off when Greagoir hands you a sword and says, 'have at it?'"

"That is not a literal summary of what occurred," Ayah criticized.

"'And guess what, we're sending you on vacation to Antiva?'"

Ayah was definitely confused now. "Does this classify as a vacation? I was unaware. I did not particularly suggest Antiva as a destination, but I am resigned to the Knight-Commander's decision. It fits well with my skill set and state of mind. Does this upset you in some way?"

Cullen stared at her for another second before guffawing. "Upset? Maker's breath, no, I only want to know what you told him. Wish I could get shipped off to Antiva at a moments' notice."

Unsure of what to say to this, Ayah said quietly, "I would rather remain here at the Tower, for the satisfaction of your company, but this is a necessary venture. I am sorry, Cullen."

He seemed even more dumbfounded by her reaction than before. "W-what are you apologizing for? You're not getting re-branded and they're letting you off the leash. You don't have anything to be sorry for, Ayah." And then he laughed, because something was inexplicably funny about this all. The laughter faded quickly and his expression sobered. "I don't . . . I don't really know what came over me, I'm sorry. I should be the one apologizing, I-I just. Didn't really know what to do. I ended up being so worried while you were in there, though I had no right to be, and it didn't make sense, and then I couldn't explain to myself why I was worried, and I just felt like . . ." Like something was missing, he left unsaid.

"I understand," Ayah said quietly, placing a small hand on his arm for reassurance. She did her best to bring out the reassurance in her voice, and as Cullen relaxed she was glad that it seemed to have an effect on him.

There had been something different about him today, something lighter in his demeanor ever since he saw her. She preferred it this way, when he was seemingly happy. Or if not happy, then at least relieved with nothing serious pressing on his mind. Ayah was not as relieved as he was, as something was bothering her. An uncomfortable, twisting phantom mass appeared somewhere in her abdomen, and she frowned. What kind of stomach ache was this? It definitely wasn't dysentery. It couldn't be something physical. That meant something else was bothering her. As she examined Cullen in this new light, an idea came to her as to what this might be – uncertainty.

Something vital was missing. The twisting feeling in her gut could not be ignored.

"Ayah?" He frowned, looking more concerned than Ayah felt he had a right to be. "I-Is something wrong? What is it?"

"I am puzzled," she confessed, her voice dropping into the old low monotone. "Something may be wrong with me. I feel somewhat ill."

He looked to be at a loss for words, for a moment. "If you're sick, I can escort you to the infirmary, er, if you like."

She shook her head and frowned, attempting to sort it all out in her head. The ugly sensation in her stomach had lurched upwards and nestled into her chest. She desired it gone, but more importantly she yearned for something. Anything. There was something missing. The void, the hole at her core felt suddenly raw and hurt. She had to get it back. What was it? She searched the old Ayah's memories. It must have something to do with those. Some previous illness or physiological quirk would reveal itself soon enough.

Cullen continued to make suggestions, and Ayah continued to shake her head, enveloped in turmoil. She finally gave up on her memories, as nothing really made sense anyway. The tiny, unfamiliar, unfriendly rationality that had emerged in the back of her mind during her trial took this moment to come forth, and seize the opportunity. Ayah blinked, a realization and wild impulse hitting her at the same time. She had never experienced anything quite like it.

"Ayah?" Cullen looked more mystified than ever. Ayah noted there was no one in the hallway. They were alone. This was good, for what she was about to do. Yes. It all made sense now. After all, her physiological reactions were no different than before, even if there was no emotional attachment involved.

She realized she was gripping his arm a little too tightly, but he did not seem to mind overmuch. Another verse from the Chant came to mind. "'Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm." She inched closer to him and he seemed to shrink back, afraid, unsure. Uncertain. That was fine – Ayah was full of certainty. He could borrow some of hers. Her voice was hardly above a whisper for the rest of the words of Trial 1.10: "'I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.'"

Cullen couldn't find it in him to walk away, though he considered it unfair that she had chosen those words, of all the words. He went through a volley of emotions that were too rapid for Ayah to count and analyze. "Wh-what are you d-doing?" He finally choked out. It seemed he had devolved back to stuttering. Ayah recalled that in her old life, it had taken him some time to overcome his speech impediment whenever he was within five feet of her. She found it vaguely curious that it would manifest again now.

Ayah then realized her other hand had found its way to his cheek. The touch of his skin was quite unlike anything she had ever felt before. She valiantly ignored the reasonable impulse to pull away and apologize, instead pulling closer. The blazing touch – ah yes, here was the thing that was missing – here was the thing that was wrong, that had plagued her. Here was her fire. He had taken it with him and kept it away from her. Here was the reason behind her remaining doubts and faint diffidence. Everything fell into the right place. But why didn't he seem to understand? An expression Ayah had become all too familiar with took hold of him suddenly, and she repressed the wholly justified urge to kick and shout and set fire to things. Guilt. That was what stood in his way. Guilt getting in the way again. Guilt was silly.

No, said the small, wicked voice in the back of her mind, not this time. He won't get away.

"Ayah, no," he insisted, attempting to push her away. She stood fast, and he was a little surprised at how immovable she was. The lithe elf was stronger than she looked.

Where were the words that could convince him? Ayah searched her memories. "Please," she managed out; it emerged as a hollow rasp. "Help me."

Guilt twisted and churned inside him once more and made him deny it. Ayah decided right then and there that guilt was an idiotic feeling, and she didn't like it. "I-I can't, it's wrong, Ayah . . . we can't. You. Please. Don't."

"I want to feel."

For a brief, glorious amount of time, the guilt and grief were washed away. Ayah's eyes reflected only a desperate, pleading sincerity that Cullen had always hoped, ever since she'd been cleansed – but always known was not really there. Perhaps it was his imagination playing tricks on him. Part of him didn't even mind if it was. Maybe it was too much to believe that she felt anything at all, let alone realized that something was missing here. He was not as she remembered him, but neither was she. None of it mattered. He couldn't even remember why it was wrong, or why he was upset. It was all so very unimportant now.

The incessantly analytical part of Ayah's mind went blissfully still for a few moments when his lips crashed into hers. There was no data to process, no tasks to complete, no parameters to fulfill, nothing to decipher or comprehend. Ayah Surana felt, absent clarity of thought or greater purpose. Her fingers wove their way into his short curls; he pulled her tightly against him; she opened her mouth, moaned, and blind instinct took over. For a brief, glorious amount of time, he was lost, but Ayah was found, and this was all that mattered.

Much, much later, Ayah would reflect on what it was about touch – finite physical contact with others – that made it so integral to one's being. It had not been important to her before, but it made more sense when she recalled the way Cullen's calloused hands and harsh lips felt on her skin – first there in that quiet hall, then there in the undisturbed quiet of the Repository – almost afraid to touch yet yearning to, his gentle hands, as rough as a whisper; the way her body betrayed her, warming and moving to accommodate him as it had in an old, forgotten memory; the way her heart had battered against her ribcage like a war drum, or the frantic wing-beat of a grounded bird. She had not understood it then – she had only felt, which was as it should be.

So therefore it was in the memory of touch, not then in the delicious ache of the action itself that Ayah recognized the truth of the lingering burn beneath her fingertips when they raked their way across his bare back for what it was, and wondered absently if that inner fire would grow to consume her one day, or if she would care if it did.

Ayah could not remember seeing the sun before. Word of mouth did no justice to the sun; no secondhand description was enough to illustrate the way its warm, incandescent radiance illuminated the green Ferelden countryside. Ferelden itself was something to behold as well - the tall reeds and mangy cattails edging Lake Calenhad spoke of spring, while the gentle wind rustling through the taller forests beyond the lake whispered a hushed anticipation of summer. It was nothing short of spectacular, and were she not a Tranquil, Ayah would have been moved. But she had never been moved before and saw no reason to begin now.

She did, however, like the feeling of the sun on her skin. It was all the warmth of a hearth with none of the harshness. She was curious as to what sunburn would be like, having never encountered it before in the insular Tower, but was cautioned against attempting to obtain it by her templar guardians. Ayah stared at her skin, her naturally dark complexion, the smattering of freckles that had spawned seemingly the instant she stepped outside. Would she even get sunburned? What would it feel like? She was tempted to forgo the salve she put on her skin each morning just to see what sunburn would feel like, but her guardians had told her specifically not to do that, so she would refrain. Curiosity could wait another day.

The sky was also very interesting. Being Outside for the first time left much idle time that Ayah spent mostly squinting up at the endless sky. The stars would be visible at night, like a scattering of diamonds on black velvet. She could spy several constellations then that she had studied on star-maps in the Tower as a mage, but never had the opportunity to see. The studies had been so tedious, and it was vaguely ironic to her that only now did they have a payoff. The moon was not visible for the first few nights in Ferelden, it being a new moon, but when it finally peeked out Ayah found it to be a most curious sight. It was quite pretty, but ultimately useless – like cosmetics, or morality. The moon offered no illumination, only existing to keep the stars company and rein in the tides.

In a flash of insight she wondered if this was similar to how surface dwarves felt, when they emerged from the dark underground of Orzammar for the first time. She would have no way of knowing, and it was a useless thought, so she put it away and focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

Ayah Surana had left the Tower in the company of several templars for Denerim, with a writ signed by the Knight-Commander in their possession that authorized her transfer to Antiva. The trek to Denerim was long and tedious and if there was one thing Ayah did not enjoy, it was tedium. She preferred to be occupied, but there was little to do along the road except occasionally clean, cook, and set up or disassemble camp when required.

It was not quite as boring as expected, however. The templars around her would occasionally engage her in conversation, but eventually they all seemed to become a bit put-off with her, as if something in her mannerisms offended or disturbed them. She reasoned this was because she had escaped her second brand, and dismissed the issue as 'their problem.'

For the most part, Ayah passed the time spent traveling examining and memorizing the countryside. She was not likely to see it again for some time, and who was to say that when she saw it next it would even be in the same season? She imagined briefly what the pine trees, the thrush, the yarrow, the green grass, and the swampy hinterlands would appear as when covered by a white blanket of snow. She had never seen snow, either. There were many new experiences in Thedas to behold. It would be . . . intriguing.

Still, she felt displeased at the thought of leaving the Tower for so long. She had just begin to discover, with Cullen's help (after some hefty persuasion) what exactly had been . . . itching her for so long, and now she had to leave. It was inconvenient timing.

There were still many things she had yet to discover back at the Tower, as well. Uldred's appearance in her trial, the interference of Owain. Too many things yet to learn.

In the end, however, it was all unimportant. She had a new place to go, with a new task to fulfill. There was no reason to waste energy on speculation, and no logic to be found in looking backwards. Strangely, she couldn't stop herself from doing either. How bothersome.

After five days of travelling, Ayah and her caretakers arrived at Denerim. Having never seen a city before, Ayah allowed herself a few minutes to examine the sights around her for the sake of curiosity. The city was an odd, dirty conglomeration of wood and masonry, full of mismatching buildings and nonsensical street patterns. It would have made sense to Ayah for the city to have been arranged in grid-like pattern, with streets named by number or descending letters, but as it were she had to form a mental map in her head with all the twists and turns they took. Whoever would design a city this confusing and disorderly needed to be severely reprimanded, she decided. The people in Denerim were no better – many that she saw were impoverished, and she already caught the eye of a pickpocket trying to steal from one of her templars. The boy – just a small child – caught her eye and gasped, frightened, and ran away. The templar target looked briefly confused, but shrugged it off.

All in all, Ayah didn't like Denerim. It was strange and smelly, and dominated by weak human lords. It was inefficiently organized and dogs and pickpockets ran rampant in the streets. She could see someone, like the elves in the alienage, being forced to live here as punishment; why anyone would want to live here in the long term, given the choice, was beyond her.

One of her templar guardians asked if she was well. She hadn't realized that she appeared at all unwell. "I dislike this city," she told him flatly. "It smells of dogs and unwashed peasants. When will we arrive at the Chantry?"

The templar looked a little amused by her blunt reply. "I'm not a big fan of it either," he commented, "but it shouldn't be too long. I didn't think Tranquil got impatient."

"We do not." Ayah paused, giving this templar a cursory examination. Dark hair. Forgettable face. She did not recognize him, but that was not uncommon for her. "I did not think templars indulged curiosity," she said.

"We don't," he said simply.

"Why did you ask if I was unwell? Did I appear so earlier?"

He shrugged. "Couldn't say. You looked a little off, which kind of an odd expression on a Tranquil, if you don't mind me saying so. I'm a bit curious. Apparently you're not like most of them. You had Greagoir all up in a funny uproar."

Ayah couldn't disagree with that, and nodded her head. "I am not like most, and Knight-Commander Greagoir is prone to overreaction. You are very talkative," she noted.

The templar smiled wryly. "I've heard that before."

He was correct, it wasn't long until the traveling party reached the central part of Denerim, where the main Chantry was located. Ayah found it to be a squat and boring building that reeked of old incense, an assessment that her new talkative templar friend agreed with. She had heard that Chantries were supposed to reflect the glory of the Maker; then why was this building in such disarray? Then again, celebrating an absent god was another concept that eluded Ayah – why anyone would build buildings in the Maker's glory was unfathomable. He was never around to appreciate them. It was all very stupid.

Her templars guided her to the central altar, under the highest point in the Chantry's vaulted ceiling where a solitary statue of Andraste stood in silent repose. Behind Our marble Lady were tapestries of gold and scarlet, depicting the burning of Andraste and the subsequent redemption of the Archon. To Ayah, the white of the marble seemed stark and alien juxtaposed to the dark wooden walls. At the center of the altar, there were two brothers guiding a small congregation in a murmuring Chant. A few of the templars broke off from the company and joined the congregation in knelt prayer, which left Ayah, one templar whose decorated armor designated him as the Knight-Captain whose name she did not know, and her talkative friend.

They went left of the central statue and up some winding steps, which were hidden in a shadowy alcove. At the top of the stairs was a simple, unassuming door which Ayah supposed was the office of the Grand Cleric. The Knight-Captain knocked once politely and opened the door, revealing a brightly-lit chamber and an elderly woman in black and gold Chantry robes, whom he greeted fondly.

"Knight-Captain Alanir," the Grand Cleric said warmly. She grasped the hands of the young man whom, Ayah just now was beginning to notice, was gangly and red-headed. She had not paid him any mind before, but now there was a name to the face, and it stuck in her memory. Why he was on a first name basis with the Grand Cleric was a mystery, though.

The Grand Cleric of the Denerim Chantry was aging, yes, reminding Ayah of a mage she knew once in her old life. Something with a 'W', she was sure . . . an odd name . . . bah, it didn't matter. The Cleric's once blue eyes were watery and fogged, and her face was lined. Time had not been kind to her, although her hands were delicate and slender – the wrinkled hands of a scholar. Ayah looked down briefly at her own hands. Her hands had once been smooth – the hands of a mage who cast spells and read books all day. Now they were strong and callused from work. What a peculiar change. I wonder what else of me has changed?

The talkative templar stepped forward when the Grand Cleric's eyes turned to him. "Knight-Lieutenant Delaney, your Grace."

The Grand Cleric murmured a vague greeting. Ayah stared at Delaney, committing his face to memory as well. She did not appreciate how her memory of the people around her seemed to escape her now and then. Only certain individuals stuck to mind – though even they were not immune to the tide of Lethe. Now, Ayah could barely recall the face of the First Enchanter. There had to be a way to rectify it. (Luckily there was no chance of her forgetting Cullen's face. He was too important to forget.)

The old woman finally turned to Ayah. When her eyes alighted on the red sun emblazoned on Ayah's forehead, her features wrinkled in confusion for a bit, until Knight-Captain Alanir shoved a missive into her hands that, as she read, seemed to alleviate the ugly furrow in her brow. "Ah yes," she finally muttered. "I had almost forgotten. Ayah Surana."

Ayah stepped forward. "I am here."

" . . . Yes, I can see that." The Grand Cleric cleared her throat and rolled up the paper, which Ayah realized must have held the Knight-Commander's report. "It seems you will be staying here for a sojourn while the ship you're leaving on gets ready to leave. Do you understand?"

"Naturally. How many days?"

The old woman seemed confused about the question, though Ayah didn't know why, because it had been a very normal question to ask. "Well, I wouldn't expect more than two, dear. You will be rooming with the sisters in the lower quarters. Oh, Knight-Lieutenant Delaney will be staying here and leaving with you, to act as your escort." Ayah assumed that 'escort' was a euphemism for 'bodyguard.' She refrained from pointing this out. Euphemisms were irritating to Ayah. Lying she could understand for its practical purposes, but euphemisms were the worst form of cheating, when it came to honesty.

Ayah just nodded. "That is acceptable. Ser Delaney and I have established an equitable working relationship in the brief time that I have known him."

The Knight-Captain smirked. "Hear that Delaney? She likes you! You have a fan. A Tranquil fan. D'awww."

Delaney did not look amused, though Ayah could not detect anything offensive in Ser Alanir's remarks. "You be quiet."

"I do not understand," Ayah stated slowly, "is it a joke? It is not humorous."

"Ser Alanir," the Grand Cleric snapped. Alanir ducked his head at the reprimand and had the grace to look ashamed. Ayah frowned, still missing the punch line. "There will be no bickering in my Chantry. Gentlemen, if you would, escort the young miss to her quarters for the evening. I'll send a sister down with refreshments later."

Knight-Lieutenant Delaney bowed his head in assent. "At once, your Grace."

Time did not increase Ayah's fondness, or lack thereof, for the Denerim Chantry. Three days past and it was still as terrible as it had been the first time she'd seen it. She commented on this to the Knight-Lieutenant and he artfully hid a smirk, explaining that the people of Denerim liked it this way. Ayah could not fathom it.

She was very grateful when it was time to leave for Antiva, and had never been so relieved to see a ship in her life, though not so surprising as she had never seen a ship before. She forgot to add inflection into her voice when she told Delaney, "I am experiencing something like happiness," which was something he found inexplicably funny. Once again, Ayah could not fathom it.

Ayah found that she liked the ocean, and the rocky Waking Sea. Once she adjusted to the roiling waves and whipping winds it was rather nice. She liked the feeling of the wind on her face and the odd thrill that accompanied sailing. It was quite unlike anything she had experienced since she began. New experiences were ever so interesting. Knight-Lieutenant Delaney, she noted, was having the opposite reaction; "sea-sickness," it was called. The sea did not seem to agree with him at all, if the immense amounts of vomit he was spewing over the edge of the boat were any indication. The rowdy sailors around him laughed uproariously at his predicament. After the man heaved up far more than he had eaten that day, Ayah offered to make him a remedy, although he refused. She supposed that was the concept known as 'pride' interfering with common sense, and that he would likely renege on his decision later.

Although the not-so-Tranquil was uncertain about one thing: she wasn't too keen on the idea of spending a week on a ship with this group of motley Nevarran sailors. As reliable as their nautical abilities might be, they had a suspicious lack of understanding of the theories and applications of personal hygiene. Three days in the Denerim Chantry was a bearable amount of time, though the thick incense had been so cloying that at one point, Ayah had thought she had actually been sick; these sailors were smelly on an entirely new level. Seven days at sea of intense male body odor was a new experience that Ayah would not enjoy cataloging, no, not at all.

Chapter 5: V

Chapter Text

[I will not cower in the face of the unknown.]

For all he'd cracked up to be, Armand thought he made an underwhelming figure, clad in dull gray and dirt brown. He was an easy figure to miss in a crowd, or in this case in a group of rowdy tavern patrons. As the cloaked man made an uneven beeline towards Armand's table, the Barone revised his opinion; wasn't that the point, to be just noticeable enough to be ignored? Hiding in plain sight had to be better than hiding just out of sight, where your enemies were sure to look first.

The lean figure plopped in front of him without preamble and sat there, in the din, waiting. Armand raised an eyebrow, though the man said not a word. The Barone gave in. (This is absurd.) "Stormy weather we're having, no?" It wasn't really a question, and it wasn't really stormy. Quite sunny actually, well, earlier today it had been. The night was clear and crisp and loud with revelry, a typical Antivan summer night.

Noting the code with a nod (that damn silly phrase), the figure before him leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together. The Barone got the distinct impression that he was being sized up, and fidgeted a bit under small man's disproportionately heavy gaze.

"How fares Seleny, Signore?" The man finally asked, his voice a surprisingly pleasant tenor.

"Well," Armand answered tersely, "but we did not come here to engage in small talk."

"Straight to business, eh? I admire that in a man." He leaned back, slouching and kicking boots up on the table. The Barone of Seleny wrinkled his nose in distaste at his guest's manners, but refrained from saying anything. "Indulge me, though, if you will – I find myself curious as to the nature of your quarrel with this cazzo."

Armand sniffed. "The Maestro has outlived his usefulness. There was a time I might have been more forgiving, but it has passed. He has stolen from me, he has lied to me, he has murdered my men, and now he will pay. I trust your employers have no problem helping me with that?"

The smaller man – whom Armand was beginning to suspect was an elf – chuckled. It was a dark, rich sound, but at the same time chillingly hollow, devoid of joy. Such is the empty laugh of a murdering Crow, whose currency is life, and product is death. "No, he does not, amico. The Crows take care of their own."

"Andiamo, passerota!"

"Sì, maestro."

Ayah Surana barely had time to process her body's reaction to this command; her training had ingrained the process so thoroughly into her being that she attacked without thought. She felt that this was a good thing to have developed, since it improved her usefulness.

She went low with her rapier, cutting down towards her teacher's knees. He deftly countered the blow, but she had anticipated this; their movements had become practiced this last year. She had studied her opponent very well. A quick twist of the wrist almost had her land a blow on his shoulder, but he stepped to the side, batting her blade aside and going in for a sharp jab. She parried; he struck; she struck back, and so on in a tantalizing dance.

Ayah didn't know how long the back and forth lasted. Time had a strange way of gliding by without her notice. She had been concerned at first that some magic was at work, as she had always previously been aware of the passing of minutes before due to her own inner schedule; no second was unaccounted for in Ayah's pristine world. Every task and moment was timed for the maximum efficiency. Time did not just slip by, unless of course it was being bent by the Fade by some manner of magic. It took some time for Ayah, and some useful rationalization from her knight-protector Delaney, to realize that the time had not evaporated, just passed unconsciously while she was wholly engaged in training. Now that she had something to occupy her, something that she was particularly skilled at, something that satisfied all of her faculties and kept her undivided attention, time appeared to go by a great deal faster than it had before. Delaney had called it a 'fairly ordinary phenomenon.' Ayah had criticized Delaney on his poor grammar.

Thus, when the lesson finally ended, and she had yet to land a blow on her teacher, she was faintly surprised by how late it had become. Her training room was outside the Chantry proper, in the templars' barracks where there was but one window in her training room which opened up to overlook the eastern sky; the sky above Antiva City was already stained with oily streaks of orange and purple, and if she focused, she could hear the far-off sounds of the markets closing for the day as people hurried home, eager to be safe from the darkening streets. Ayah had never been allowed to leave the Chantry excepting when being escorted by Delaney to and from the Tower, and even she knew that the people of Antiva City feared to walk the streets after dark. She did not understand why; judging from the crime rates, the city seemed to be a safe enough place during all times of the day. Perhaps she was missing some information that would help her to make sense of this conundrum . . .

Her teacher, Master Liborio, interrupted her rampant thoughts with a decisive clap. He was an older human man, though his exact age Ayah could not determine. His age appeared to be irrelevant as his skill was without question, for which he had been hired to train Ayah in combat until her guardians deemed her fit to return to Ferelden. She didn't know when precisely this would happen, but was unconcerned. It was not her decision and for the moment, despite being parted from Cullen, she was content.

Ayah knew little of Liborio, except that he was an unusual human specimen: unlike all of the others Ayah had encountered in her new life, the Master had taken to Ayah quite well and appeared to genuinely enjoy her company. She found this profoundly odd. He seemed completely unconcerned with the sigil on her forehead – Ayah had watched him closely in their interactions and never once did his eyes drift upwards to rest uneasily on her brand, as every other person's gaze inevitably did. It was an interesting difference. She knew that Liborio had trained one other Tranquil before her at the local Antivan Circle of Magi; she had not met this individual yet and did not care to, but it would explain the Antivan's easy interactions with her.

She found it . . . refreshingly normal.

"Enough, Passerota." Passerota. He had refused to call Ayah by her name, choosing instead a nickname – so like a bird you are, he had said, lovely little sparrow. But I will fledge this passerota yet. Ayah had never had a nickname before. It was easier and less confusing to just call a thing what it was, but it was harmless to let the man continue with his endearment. After all, he was much older than Ayah; the Chantry taught that elders were to be respected, while experience in dealing with First Enchanter Irving taught Ayah that elders were less troublesome if they were indulged. "You've done well today."

Ayah looked down at her sword arm and frowned. "I disagree with that assessment. I have trained under your guidance each day for over a year, and yet I did not land a blow on you. Comparatively, I have done poorly."

The man shook his head and grinned, his oddly white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin. "No, no. The day you manage to hit me, I'll eat my hat."

"That is inadvisable," Ayah said plainly. "Hats are nutritious only by the broadest definition of the terms 'hat' and 'nutrition.' I do not know why anyone would voluntarily eat one. I doubt there exists a sufficient amount of gravy or seasoning that could make a hat palatable to one's taste buds."

He laughed, finding something funny about the Tranquil. Ayah wished then that she understood humor, as she was certain that she was the end of a joke. People often made no sense. "'Tis a phrase, passerota. Just a phrase."

Ayah nodded gravely. "I see. Mi dispiace. Grazie for your clarification."

"Your accent's getting better too," her teacher noted, still smiling. "Soon we'll have you speaking like a native!"

Ayah co*cked her head to the side, thinking about this. "I am a native," she revealed.

"Come?"

"I was born in Antiva to an elven man and his wife in the alienage at the heart of Antiva City. When I displayed signs of magic at a young age, I was delivered to the Circle, and later transferred to Ferelden."

Liborio quirked a dark eyebrow and wrapped an arm around Ayah's shoulders, guiding the elf slowly away from the window and to the door. "I said 'like' a native. Not that you'll be one, or that you are one. Being born somewhere doesn't make you a native of a place any more than speaking the native language. To be a real Antivan, one must live and breathe Antiva. This country can't be seen, it must be . . . experienced, which is something that I'm afraid you'll never do, locked away in this cage of yours. Lovely cage though it is. Brasca. Tragic. To really call yourself an Antivan you must first," he ticked off the items on his left hand, "drink enough Antivan wine to drown a cat, two, visited one of our famous whor*houses and done something you regret, and three, pissed off the Crows. And there's no guarantee that you'll survive any of the three, with your delicate constitution."

He removed his arm from her shoulders and Ayah processed this. Determining what was and was not useful within Liborio's little speeches was a skill she had developed, as the man said a great many confusing and useless things Ayah assumed that he thought were 'witty.' Wit was entirely useless, much like art, and morality, so Ayah picked apart what he had said in her mind and focused on the only thing that she had not quite understood. "I am uncertain what foul little black scavenger birds have to do with Antivan nativity."

Liborio, frustratingly enough, laughed at her. "Ah, passerota. Never change."

How vexing. For the second, and certainly not the last time that day, Ayah wished that she could understand humor. "You are an odd little man, Maestro," she concluded. "Vi sò cinese."

"Knight-Lieutenant Delaney," Ayah greeted calmly. Delaney barely looked up from his breakfast to nod his charge a hello. She sat down in front of him and leveled him with an unnervingly intent gaze. The dark-haired templar swallowed what was left of his food and leaned back, uneasy.

The templar could not say that he knew his Tranquil charge very well, despite having been in her undivided presence for several months. She was not like other Tranquil, for certain, being prone to the odd idiosyncrasy; such as the curious tilt of her head when she spoke, the slight glimmer in her eyes when she saw something that sparked her interest, or the way her voice would become animated and lightened whenever she asked him inane questions. Except Tranquil did not have curiosities, interests, or questions. Ayah was unique, but Delaney could not precisely tell you how or why.

Lately, Delaney had found himself surprised to be grateful for Ayah's differences in character, rather than suspicious as he felt a templar probably should feel. Yet whatever quirk or fault it was that separated her from the other pieces of talking furniture had been his sole relief from undying boredom since he had come to Antiva City. Antiva was a lovely and exciting place. . . if you were not confined to the Chantry and sworn to Andraste's eternal service. He would never admit it out loud, but the Knight-Lieutenant had come to rely upon his Tranquil ward for the purposes of entertainment – nothing too terrible, no, no, but there was certainly no harm in putting a few silly notions in her head. Like the rumor that all the Enchanters in the Antivan Circle strip naked and cavort around a fire under the moonlight once every full moon. Just little lies that he could sit back and watch Ayah Surana run away with. She was an awfully gullible creature, despite her keen logical mind. That particular story had amused him for a good while – she had become so convinced that what he had told her was true that she managed to raise the issue to the Grand Cleric – who, of course, had an absolute hissy fit and called for an immediate investigation into the Circle's nocturnal activities. It hadn't ended very well, especially not for Antiva City's First Enchanter, who was caught with a few apprentices under his desk busily earning "credit," but at least it was really, really funny.

"What is a crow?" She asked suddenly, interrupting his thoughts.

Delaney blinked. Where had this come from? "Scavenger bird, lives off of garbage, tough but filthy animals," he answered numbly. "Why do you ask?"

Ayah nodded, as if she'd known this all along. "Maestro Liborio made curious mention of crows during my daily lesson. We were discussing Antiva. I was not aware that crows were indigenous to this region. What he said was illogical, because it had nothing to do with birds. Will you help me clarify? I do not understand."

The Knight-Lieutenant frowned, and pushed his plate away. He was a little bit amused that Ayah had assumed the old Antivan was talking about actual crows, but more than worried that he had been talking about Crows at all. Come to think of it . . . "He was likely referring to the Antivan Crows," Delaney said slowly, "which are a guild of assassins that come out of Antiva. They're centralized here in the City. Fairly famous. I-i-infamous, rather."

The Tranquil paused, her face a mask of impassivity. Sometimes he wondered what went on in that head of hers. Most times, he was glad he didn't know. Before meeting Ayah Surana, all Tranquil had made him uneasy at best and creeped out at worst. Ayah was strange, but at least she didn't creep him out too much. In some ways, it was easy to forget that she wasn't normal. That was, perhaps, the scariest thing about her. "Thank you for helping me, Knight-Lieutenant." With that, she stood up and left him to his meal, to which he gratefully returned.

If Liborio filled her head with strange ideas about Crows, it wasn't any skin off his back – though he worried a bit what exactly that discussion between the Tranquil and her trainer had entailed. Tranquil were indoctrinated to obey the Circle, however, so he naturally figured there was no danger in whatever Liborio talked to her about. The Chantry sanctioned her training, as well as the appointment of Liborio as Ayah's mentor, by the grace of King Natale. Though the Maestro was hired for his talents as a former Crow, not a gossiping fishwife - a distinction the old man clearly had some difficulty understanding.

The Knight-Lieutenant let that all of that information in one ear and out the other. After all, it wasn't important.

Ayah had felt the ominous urge of curiosity pull at her ever since her discussion with Delaney about Crows. She'd been blissfully incurious for the last year. Now, it tugged at her again. Liborio's mentioning of them seemed oddly placed in the conversation, in retrospect, as if it were deliberate. Ayah knew that the Maestro enjoyed playing with words and confusing people, but she had no patience for such games. A Tranquil's world was a world of clearly set boundaries and practicality – the whims of an old Antivan were not anywhere on her list of carefully-set priorities. Still, curiosity tingled. What was it? There was something there, something to discover. Something new to learn. It didn't matter. It does.

Ayah was not unfamiliar with curiosity anymore. The stars were a curiosity. The sea was a curiosity. The outdoors were a curiosity. Cullen was a curiosity. Antiva City's nightlife was a curiosity. She liked curiosities. Why? So, she decided to pursue this curiosity – she would uncover what it was about Liborio and Antiva and Crows that was so very interesting, and see if she liked it. And if she didn't, she'd ignore it until it went away, or fixed itself. Problem solved. Why?

However, hunting for answers was not something Ayah was familiar with. She could not figure precisely where to begin, so, logically, she decided the best place to begin was at the source.

With all the subtlety of a five-ton wheel of Orlesian cheese being defenestrated from a fourth story window, Ayah waltzed up to Liborio one evening and asked him plainly, "Maestro, are you currently affiliated with the Antivan Crows? I would appreciate an honest answer, as I dislike searching for secrets. I am not experienced in deciphering hidden truths. I am obligated to warn you that my patience is immense, and I am prepared to pursue this subject at great length, until your will crumbles into nothing and I have the answer that I seek."

"Eh? Now where would you get a silly notion like that?" His face betrayed nothing but a vague amusem*nt at his student's antics, but Ayah detected a slight tightening around the eyes that was a sign of discomfort. Lies were discomforting. This was a clue. There. Ayah was getting better at this lie-detecting game of Liborio's.

"The skin around your eyes has wrinkled," she told him bluntly. "You are lying."

The Maestro chuckled, but it was a false sound. Another lie, perhaps. Ayah had not known that people could lie by laughing. She was learning many new things about people today. "Lying? Maker, no. Concealing truth, perhaps, perhaps. But never lying. Lying is always a last resort, my dear; lies are too easily caught. 'Tis better to stick with half-truths." Ayah nodded, filing this piece of wisdom away in her mind for later contemplation. "And if you must know, yes, I know a bit about Crows, something that the Chantry here in Antiva knows but doesn't like to mention in polite company. So keep it secret for me, passerota, eh? Don't need word going around that Liborio has been up to his old tricks."

"You have still not answered my question. Are you attempting to distract me?"

"Yes, I am," Liborio laughed, "is it working?"

"I am experiencing impatience," Ayah drawled. "Are you, or are you not still affiliated with the Antivan Crows?"

"That, my dear, is a very good question." The Maestro stepped back and began to pace in front of Ayah, who waited patiently in silence for the answer to the question. She had already asked the question twice and had yet to receive a satisfactory answer; there was no need to repeat it, since she was certain that Liborio had understood her, and that he was stalling. She could not comprehend why such a simple question required such a complicated answer. Perhaps the Maestro gave complicated answers because he, himself, was a complex human.

"You are a strange, conflicted man, Maestro," Ayah surmised, after a few seconds of silence, in which Liborio still had not answered her question. Ayah suspected though that he was indeed a Crow, regardless if it was confirmed or not. He was clearly dodging the subject for whatever reason, but the truth was fairly obvious. She decided that she much preferred dealing with people like Delaney and Cullen, who were at least honest about their intentions with her and didn't go out of their way to attempt to confuse her. Truly, this was a nuisance Ayah Surana did not need.

Liborio replied wryly, "Indeed, I am."

"Yes. I just said so. Why did the Chantry hire you to tutor me?"

"Well aren't you feeling curious today, eh passerota? If it weren't for that brand, I'd almost say you remind me of myself at your age. Let me give you a word to the wise when you're dealing with Crows: questions get you killed."

Ayah processed this. It was not spoken in a threatening tone, but she recognized the violence in his words as some type of veiled threat to her own, or some imaginary, person. But, why would Liborio threaten her? He had expressed fondness for her before. Unless it was merely a warning. Why were questions dangerous? Nonetheless, she took his advice - conflict was not her motive - and ceased in her questioning, instead turning towards leading and probing statements: "You speak with the weight of experience."

Liborio laughed at that, accused her of being persistent and annoying (in a joking manner), and then dismissed Ayah. The Maestro was indeed a complicated man. Ayah didn't like complications. She was made to disseminate the complicated things in the world, and make them small and simple to manage. She was barely starting to understand that there were some things that it was just impossible to do that with, and the realization of that was vexing in the extreme.

Ayah Surana continued to pester her mentor with ill-disguised questions after each of her combat lessons in the following weeks. She learned quite a bit, even though Master Liborio answered literally none of her questions. It was in the way he dodged her questions that she began to deduce the answers herself. She considered the possibility that perhaps this, too, was a lesson he was teaching her.

Upon reflection, she learned why it was that Antiva City was so dangerous at dark, which was good. That mystery had been bothering her for weeks. She had not known of the existence of the Crows until Liborio had made mention; after some investigation of her own, she determined without venturing outdoors that the Crows in Antiva functioned in the capital city as a sort of crime syndicate - except legal and even endorsed by the royalty. The city's streets at dark were not dangerous if you were in league, or in, with the Crows; but for any who did not wish to cross their path or become involved in their criminal dealings, the night was dangerous. She learned from overhearing some of the templars talking, when they thought she wasn't listening, that there were pockets of Antiva City that were loud with revelry all night and into dawn, taverns and brothels and such, and figured that the Crows must also have control over those things - given that they were profitable businesses, and any crime syndicate that was run with half a brain would know how to profit from such things. It was simple economics. No one ever mentioned the government of Antiva in conversation, and after reading a few books about Antiva's royal family and political process, Ayah surmised that Antiva's nobility were far too convoluted and silly to maintain effective governance. Thus, the Crows existed and stepped in as not only a guild of assassins, but a shadow government. So intimately were this guild and the government that the two could not be distinguished from one another, in writing or rumor.

She had read about them, these Crows, and in her readings had stumbled upon the realization out that the Maestro was no ordinary Crow, and most likely had been a Master Crow or even the guildmaster at some point, which they seemed to call Talons. It was simply logic. The Crows were an assassins' guild. A group of professional mercenaries who were renowned to buy slaves, train them in their ways, and send them out into the world to kill people for profit. The average life expectancy of a professional killer is not long. No assassin dies of old age. Yet, Liborio was an aged man, but still in clearly good shape - which would mean that he didn't get to the age he was at by being easy to kill. In a kill-or-be-killed environment such as the guild of the Crows, you had to be more than merely exceptional at your profession in order to live to the Maestro's age. Upon realizing this, Ayah wondered at the idea that a former Crow Maestro had been coaching her in combat for over a year. One did not retire from a guild of assassins, especially one as ruthless as the Crows. She could not describe the sensation it evoked in her.

She had yet to figure out exactly why, though, Liborio was teaching her. That was the question that had been bothering her the most. Why had the Chantry taken him in? Or had he gone to the Chantry for asylum? How had the Chantry secured him as her teacher? Had they hired him, like any other? Liborio refused to talk and Ayah could not deduce a satisfactory answer from his mannerisms.

After two weeks, a few other things began to bother her about the whole scenario. Yes, she wanted to know the Maestro's past, where exactly he had come from, and why. Unexpectedly, her curiosity over her mentor's origins evoked a curiosity in Ayah about her own origins. Why was she different? Why was she questioning these things? Why had her old self allowed Tranquility to happen to her? She found her state of being acceptable, but a new, illogical line of questioning began somewhere in her, and it demanded the origins of her current state of being. She was aware of the circ*mstances of her being made Tranquil, and was aware the crimes committed by the mage she used to be. What bothered her was why her mind seemed intent on focusing on them so much, on making her remember those things. Why was she dwelling? She did not know, and it was annoying and distracting. The thoughts and memories would come, unbidden, to irk her no matter what she focused on. Combat training was her only solace from her thoughts.

While she was being irritated and distracted by her own thoughts, a person bumped into Ayah as she made her way through the Chantry. The idea that she could have been so lost in her own thoughts so as not to be aware of the people around her was uncomfortable. She found herself genuinely startled, for the first time since she began.

"My sincerest apologies, sorella," said a young, male tenor in a thick Antivan accent. Ayah Surana stared up into the face of a parishioner in peasant garb. He was only slightly taller than her, but his skin was tanned from time spent outside. The body that had collided into her own was lean and supple, with clearly defined musculature. While the clothes that this man wore were simple and rough, everything else about him was far from it. His hair shined in the candle-light; well-maintained, and the color of hay in the sun. Ayah could not help but stare, fascinated, as her mind immediately reeled back to Cullen without her consent. I like this color. "Forgive me, I did not see you there," the man went on, disrupting Ayah's brain's momentary lapse. The man suddenly went silent, as he no doubt had seen the brand upon her forehead, determining that she was no Sister. True, Ayah did occasionally don the black and gold robes characteristic of the Chantry Sisters, it was only out of convenience. She had no belongings of her own - only what the Chantry gave her. When she lived in the Tower, she was given old apprentice robes to wear, or whatever else wasn't be used at the time. Clothing didn't matter. Only the work that needed to be done mattered. The only reason she bothered donning clothes at all was because people told her she had to, and she was conditioned to obey. (She was unbothered by nudity, even preferred it, for clothes restricted movement.)

Ayah, in the space of the few seconds of silence after the parishioner's eyes had alighted on her brand, took the time to observe the individual that had interrupted her thoughts and reminded her inadvertently of Cullen. Other than the color of his hair, which upon second thought was a different shade of blond than the templar's, there was no physical resemblance. The man's eyes left her brand then and traveled down to her own, staring. Ayah stared back, liquid jet meeting jasper.

"You are an elf," she noticed.

The man's eyes, which Ayah noted were almost the same color as the candles in the Chantry itself, slid away from Ayah's gaze and fixated on something else on her face. It seemed as if he were trying to avoid her eyes, or possibly avoid staring at her brand. "The ears must have given me away," he said, his tone light and at odds with his wary posture. Ayah co*cked her head to the side, examining the man more closely. He was not Cullen, yet he was interesting. As were the twin lines of ink that slid down his temple to his chin. Ayah had never seen a tattoo before.

"I have never met another elf, since I began," she clarified. "Nor have I ever seen a tattoo on a face. Did it hurt? I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable. I am told that I often make others uncomfortable when I stare at them. Discomforting you was not my intention; I was merely studying your appearance."

The man smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes, once more reminding Ayah Surana of the curious templar she had left behind in Ferelden. "Ah, no harm done at all. And if it did hurt, I cannot remember. I've never seen a brand on someone's forehead before, such as it is. It most likely hurt worse than my own mark. Perhaps you should be the one forgiving me for staring so rudely. I must be going, however, though it has been a pleasure to bump into you." And with that, the strange elf left.

Ayah was … surprised, but not in unpleasant way, that this odd elven male would mention her brand so casually. Some seemed to take pains to avoid mentioning it in conversation - others avoided conversation entirely. This man did neither. Either he was very bold, or very rude. Whichever, he had been unafraid. Ayah was ill-equipped to deal with someone who was bold or rude, and thus could only stare after the elf's retreating form as he exited the Chantry. Perhaps, if she met him again, she would ask him why he was unafraid of her. Part of her wanted - needed - to understand why. Why?

She told no one of the strange elf she had met yet, not even Delaney. No, there was no necessity in bothering others with the trivialities of her day. There was nothing trivial about him. He was no ordinary elf. She wanted to study him further, and found herself calculating the statistical possibility of the elf attending the Chantry again the next day. However, it was fruitless, as she knew next to nothing about the man save his tattoo - not even his name. (If she ever did see him again, she would pry a name from him for certain.)

She could not shake the odd encounter from her mind all day, no matter her efforts. She found her mind, against her volition, slipping back to reexamine her memories of the strange elf, even during training. Why? Her Maestro asked after her performance during the day, when their training was done. He seemed to think she was physically ill. She could not fault him for such an assumption - Tranquil did not become distracted. Ayah was always focused on her task - in her life, the task was all that mattered. Thoughts and curiosities were only to be indulged when the task was finished. Without really knowing why, she told him that she did feel slightly ill, and assured him that after eating and resting, she would feel better. He ceased his line of questioning, which was amicable to her.

It did not occur to Ayah til she laid down for sleep that night that she had told her first real, convincing lie. Even what she had told the Knight-Commander during her examination was not technically a lie. Not like this. She felt like the lie didn't matter; it being such a little thing.

[A fate worse than death.]

[The Tranquil are tools.]

[By the broadest definition of the term, they are conscious.]

"Zev!" He turned his head to that wonderful sound, and his eyes alighted upon his favorite sight in the world. Rinnala, waving and grinning that wicked smile of hers, with the perpetually-smirking Taliesen at her side. Surely there were times when his life and existence had been dreadful, but his two partners made the dreadful parts less so.

Zevran Arainai threw out his arms and grinned, greeting his two favorite people. "Ah, my lovelies. Eager for my return?"

"We didn't know when you'd be back," Rinna said, still smiling but sounding nonchalant.

"So we ate without you," Talisen finished, looking entirely unapologetic.

Zevran held a hand over his heart and mocked distress. "Rinnala, tell me this is not true?" The elf-blooded girl shrugged, and rolled her eyes. "My friends… you wound me. Next you'll tell me you took my prize dagger!"

"Well, no, but I did borrow it when I needed to pick my teeth," she teased. "And I may or may not have used it to trim Tali's hair earlier."

Talisen rubbed a pleased hand over his dark, short hair. "She did a fine job, too."

"Traitors, both of you!"

"And I used a wool brush to un-polish your boots," Talisen went on, "because I could."

"Will the betrayals never end?"

Rinna smirked, sending a thrill up Zevran's spine. "Well, we are assassins," she purred. She crossed the room and slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, drawing him into a warm embrace. Her lips traced the shell of Zevran's ear, drawing a low growl out of the back of his throat. "It is in our nature, mio bello. Io e Taliesen vi siete persi…"

Zevran turned in her arms to face his Rinna. "Vai, avanti."

Taliesen, ever the voice of reason, wondered, "Do we have time for this?"

Zevran turned to his partner and smiled, all while his fingers swiftly and deftly loosened the laces on Rinna's top.. "There is always time for this." Rinna echoed Zevran and reached out to Taliesen, drawing the Antivan in, completing the circle. In a life where he was allowed so few liberties, this one was precious to Zevran above all others. He would never be able to feel enough of his Rinna, or his Tali; in moments like these, when their bodies entwined in breathless ecstasy . . . skin against skin . . . he felt for a few moments that he was free. It was only a touch - a taste - of freedom, true, but it meant everything in the moment.

Additionally, f*cking before a kill had become traditional for the three. A sort of baptism, before the hunt. There was also the post-kill celebration to look forward to. Really, Zevran would take any excuse he could find to celebrate, and the more the merrier.

Ayah was occasionally allowed to eat alone. This was mostly out of convenience - sometimes, if her training sessions were late in the day and went past dinner, she would be required to find sustenance on her own. She was deemed responsible enough to do so without supervision. Traditionally, ate with her guardian templar, Delaney.

It was during one of those dinners with the Knight-Lieutenant that Ayah found herself burdened with curiosity again. She was starting to annoy herself with this. She knew Delaney was more likely to indulge her than the other templars, so she felt safe in unburdening her curiosity upon him. The only other person she allowed herself to express her curiosity towards was the Maestro, but his answers to her questions were often misleading, or full of hidden meanings. Delaney was not so artful, and typically meant the things that he said, for which she valued his presence. His straightforward nature was a constant that she had been able to rely upon.

Ayah put her fork down on her plate and politely dabbed her mouth with a napkin. "May I ask you a few questions, Knight-Lieutenant?" She asked him.

He looked up from his corned beef and flashed her a brief smile. He held his fork, eating-interrupted. "Of course. What is it?"

"Do you have a tattoo?"

His face scrunched up in a strange expression that Ayah had difficult placing on her inner scale of emotion. It looked similar to constipated. "That's an odd ques- er, yeah, I've got one on my arm. My brother and I have matching ones, we got 'em when we were boys. It's a mabari." He put down the fork and rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a dark blue interpretation of a Ferelden mabari warhound. It resembled Chasind artwork - more expressive than accurate, comprised of twisting lines ending in sharp points. Ayah wondered the purpose of having a thing on your arm that was not accurate - further more, of having a thing like that on your arm in the first place, but that was not what she was curious about today.

She stared at the blue dog on Delaney's arm until he rolled his sleeve, slowly. Her eyes traveled up and met the templar's, and she identified the expression finally as utter confusion. "Did it hurt?" She wondered.

He shrugged. "We were pretty drunk when we got 'em. Still, it hurt quite a lot - they have to do it slow, dot by dot, by poking you with an inked up needle. Sometimes pain is worth it, for the outcome. Why'd you ask about tattoos?"

"Why would someone get at tattoo on their face?" She wondered, instead of answering his questions. After all, he had given her permission to do so - she had not done the same for him.

"Er, ah." Delaney didn't seem to know. Ayah huffed in disappointment, but Delaney went on. "Well, tribal ones are common in Ferelden. I've seen nobles with marks on their faces - symbolic, mostly, some just cosmetic. I-it's a rare place to get a tattoo, all the same. Tattoos, for the most part, are mementos - they usually mean something significant to the person. So, someone would get one on their face because they wanted to remember something, or someone. Or maybe it's a rite of passage, like how the Chasind mark themselves when they become adults."

Ayah was going to have to learn to reserve her judgment about the Knight-Lieutenant. He was full of interesting information. "I see." She nodded. "Thank you, Delaney." Out of courtesy, she went on: "To answer your earlier query, I asked because I met an elf in the Chantry with long marks down the sides of his face, from the temple to the jawline, tracing his cheekbone." She ran her hand down the side of her face for a visual demonstration. "I have never seen a tattoo on a face like that before, and wanted to know more about them. His was very interesting looking. It did not detract from his appearance, but rather, made him stand out. I wondered if this was the reason why he received those markings - to differentiate himself from the others of his kind. I have heard of the elves of the Dales who had a tradition of marking themselves in peculiar ways, but this elf was distinctly Antivan."

Delaney went on and mumbled about how facial tattoos weren't all that uncommon, and started poking his corned beef with his fork with a hungry look.

Still, Ayah went on, unable or unwilling (she wasn't sure which) to stop herself from voicing her thoughts on the matter, the same matter she'd found herself lying about earlier without really knowing why: "When I spoke with him, he drew a comparison to the brand on my forehead. He had never seen one before, just like I had never seen a tattoo. He did not seem frightened by my brand. I have always seen signs of discomfort in others when the subject of Tranquility is brought to the table." True to form, Ayah saw Delaney shifting uncomfortably in his seat when she brought up the word Tranquil. It was the same in every person. Even Cullen was no exception, although his reactions were more aggressive when the subject was brought up. The elf in the Chantry hadn't been afraid, though, had he? He looked away. Don't you remember? "It was odd. I have been unable to remove it from my mind. I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable with this subject. I will not interrupt your meal further."

Delaney seemed grateful for the release, and happily returned to his food, all the while giving her sidelong looks that she politely pretended not to notice.

He's afraid of you. Delaney's your guardian, and he's afraid of what you are. (You're no one.)

Ayah Surana stared down at her dinner in dispassion. Everything tasted unappetizing. She may as well have been eating a hat with gravy on it. Something about that thought made a strange light feeling erupt in her gut. Uncomfortable with the experience, she went back to eating her tasteless dinner and silenced her own thoughts on the matter. She had too many other things to focus on to dither her time away.

"Does it bother you that much?"

The silence at the table had been so pleasant that it actually felt like a jolt, to Ayah, when it was broken. She put her fork down a little too harshly, by mistake, and looked up to see Delaney staring at her. She processed what he had just said to her. His eyebrows were knitted together, either in concentration, or concern. She couldn't tell the difference between the two expressions. "I do not understand what you mean," she told him honestly.

"Sure you do," he insisted around a mouthful of corned beef. Although polite table manners had been hammered into her, she did not possess the capacity to care about Delaney's own appalling table manners. "I mean, you notice everything, don't you? You're always watching people, so you notice things about them that others don't, because they don't think you're watching. It just doesn't go the other way around. And it's because of that brand." He pointed at her forehead with a fork. She confessed to being a little startled by the Knight-Lieutenant's frankness. So many others simply dodged the subject. Once more, she was grateful for his blunt nature. "People are afraid of it, afraid to look you in the eye. They acknowledge you if they have to, but they don't talk with you much, because they don't know what you are, and they're scared of what they can't understand. That would bother anyone, even if they couldn't feel anything."

[But who would call that living?] Ayah looked around for the source of the voice that had spoken those words in the Hall, but found no one but her and Delaney present. She rationalized that it had been someone out in an adjoining room, and filed the experience away as irrelevant.

Although she was impressed by Delaney's inference, he was wrong. She shook her head. "I am unbothered."

"If you say so." He once again returned to his meal, and she followed suit.

I am unbothered. I only wish to know why.

Chapter 6: VI

Chapter Text

[ Moving and talking furniture. ]

[An empty husk.]

The next thing that Ayah Surana was aware of was a crack in the cold stone tile of the floor that was right at her eye level. At first, the uneven spot in the ground annoyed her (why would it have not been fixed? Someone more careless could trip over it). The fact that she could see it so closely bothered her when she realized she couldn’t remember being on the ground. Had she tripped and fallen? Was it possible she’d been so careless? It must have been sudden, for her to not remember it readily. As she stood up, her mind raced - but there was nothing. She hadn’t tripped. Or fainted. She didn’t have a headache. There was no explanation for how she’d ended up on the ground.

“That sounded defensive!” He laughed. He clucked his tongue at the bland expression on Ayah’s face. The master and student circled one another before switching their epee’s to a different grip at his whistle. “That couldn’t possibly be true, though, could it?”

He was perceptive, she’d give him that. Perhaps his perception could be rewarded with a grain of truth. “I did not sleep as much as I should have, last night,” Ayah conceded slowly. “I am not distracted, merely tired.”

He frowned. “That’s quite unlike you, my dear.” As he finished this remark, he launched himself at Ayah. His quick strikes were easy for her eye to follow, but her tired body had trouble keeping up with her quick mind, and she was forced to stop parrying and go on the defensive. Eventually, she managed to break away from his assault and twirled away under his guard when he went high, and she went low. She struck out at his backside with as much speed and force as she could manage, but it was not enough to send him reeling. Instead, her dull weapon glanced off of his chestplate. He did whistle in appreciation, however, which made her feel like she had accomplished something.

She was getting tired of the dance. Ayah knew she wasn’t functioning at her maximum capacity that day. It would be unwise to over-do herself. Instead, she decided to remain on the defensive with Liborio and wait for the right opportunity to attempt to land a blow, instead of practicing the whole breadth of her repertoire as was her usual idiom. It seemed more efficient, anyway, as her strategy did eventually work and she was able to graze Liborio on the arm, resulting in a shallow cut that startled the both of them.

Mainly, because Ayah hadn’t realized they were training with real blades, instead of the training blades. Such had been her mental distraction. It was unforgivable. Liborio was impressed. Ayah was concerned. Mostly because she hadn’t possessed the wherewithal to realize the difference in weight between her current epee, and the dull training sword. Truly, the lack of sleep must have been getting to her.

“Distracted or no, you performed well today,” Liborio assured her after he dismissed her concerns over his injury. He at least let her dress it properly - wound care was one of the first lessons he Maestro had taught her, next to proper weapon care. His logic, which she found sound, was that one must learn how to care for a tool if one is going to use it - and there is no greater weapon than the body. (Ayah thought this idiom of Liborio’s was illogcal, since gaatlok existed, but she had not told him that.)

After she was done applying an elfroot poultice to the cut, Ayah sat back from her work on the ground and contemplated the fight. She went over the steps in her mind leading up to the minor injury - the fact that she had been more distracted today and less focused did not merit her performance. Had Liborio let her win a blow on him? Or had he grown complacent, and she had taken him off guard with her suddenly aggressive tactic? It was strange.

He laughed. “I can always buy one and then eat it.”

“You would be going to impressive lengths to prove an irrelevant point. I am not certain that you did not let me strike you.”

Liborio stared down at her with an intensity and seriousness that she had not known the man possessed - he was so silly so often. This was new behavior for the old man - how curious. “ Passerota , if you were able to strike me, it was not by any allowance of mine, but hard-earned skill on your part. I think your kind are too focused on perfection - forgetting that a perfect technique is impossible to achieve. Besides, battle is never about whose technique is better than the others’. It’s about who’s alive and who’s dead. Winning means you live, and they die, at any cost.”

Ayah thought about this. It made perfect sense, from a practical standpoint - and technique was all well and good, for the purposes of practicing. In a life-or-death situation, Liborio’s advice made sense. In the training room, however, it did not. He had endangered himself to prove a point that appeared to have gone right over her head, and resulted in his bodily injury. What was his motive? “Why did you give me a real blade?” She wondered. “Without telling me? I could have hurt you, and suffered punishment.”

The old Crow smirked. “I knew you couldn’t hurt me. I’ve trained you, after all. It was just to add a bit of realism to the tableau. I wanted to see what you would do. As always, you fail to disappoint me.”

Ayah’s eyes widened in understanding. “It was an experiment?”

“Sì, passerota. Now, let us see if you can hit me once more. Andiamo! ”

And so the dance began again, despite Ayah’s exhaustion. They trained that day longer and harder than Ayah ever had before. To her annoyance, she was unable to repeat her feat and hit the Master again, but she did manage to get him on the defensive as soon as she began to get frustrated. It seemed that her exhaustion was serving her well - with the added realism of the actual swords, that is. Her mentor had been correct to conduct his experiment - it seemed that, with the threat of injury looming, Ayah was able to better pace her attacks during battle, allowing for a more realistic power struggle.

She was still not certain that he was not simply letting her win, though. It seemed too out of the blue, for her to be performing better when she was not feeling at her physical peak. True, she was athletic - her body had experienced some initial soreness during the first two months of her training, but her musculature developed enough over the past year to compensate for her new activity level, thanks to the Maestro’s exercises every day - but it was not believable that all of her work had only now, suddenly paid off, on this strangest of mornings.

Ayah somehow felt both invigorated and exhausted after their sparring. The Master had pressed her harder than he ever had before, until she felt like her limbs were made of lead and her joints screamed at her. She had gone past her limit, and then some, until she had nothing more to give, and only then had her trainer relented. He dismissed her with a strange, sad sort of nod, and nary a word.

As she laid down to sleep that night, she found that rest would not avail her. Her body was tired, but her mind would not quiet. Her teacher’s behaviors that evening stuck in her mind. His odd words, and the strike she could swear he allowed her to hit… the more she analyzed the fight, the more she felt that it was not her skill that allowed her to win that match, but carelessness on Liborio’s behalf. His guard had been lowered only a fraction, just enough for her to leverage a proper strike. It seemed almost as if chance had been in her favor, except in Ayah’s world, there was no such thing as chance.

There were only probabilities.

The probability of Liborio becoming careless due to his age was low. He was yet in his prime, despite the grey at the human’s temples. Distraction was more likely the cause of his carelessness - but the Maestro had never been distracted by anything, in the year she had known him, and seen him she had - every day for several hours. He was curiously untroubled by the affairs of the world, and solely focused on bettering her in his craft. Therefore, it had to be a personal issue. What manner of personal issue would trouble a man like Liborio? A family matter? That did not fit Ayah Surana’s mental analysis of her teacher. He was a former Crow, this she knew - and perhaps had been a Talon, at one point. Attachments are a liability in such work, and inevitably fail. Also, one did not have not retire from being an assassin, especially not a (potential) cell-leader… no, that would not have been allowed to happen in any self-respecting association of freelance assassins.

And one did not become a Crow, or survive as one, with emotional attachments - to be an efficient killer, one must clear one’s mind of doubt, fear, and emotion. Ayah had the disposition of one, but not the inclination - as it was, she was property of the Chantry, and accepted this, as the Chantry had made her into what she is. It made sense that she would belong to them. However, the Chantry appeared to have made a mistake when they made her - as Ayah had discovered over time. As a Tranquil, these pieces provided a measure of curiosity, but no real attachment as of yet. They only served to differ her from her brethren behaviorally; she was confident that, had another Tranquil been in her place, the same situation would have resulted. Therefore the blow could not have been due to an increase in her skill.

So, the probability of Liborio’s carelessness due to distraction, on account of his past, was most likely. Liborio must not have been like other Crows, or he would not have sought solace in a place like the Chantry - nor would he have allowed himself to have been employed by the Chantry without some sort of ulterior motive - what self respecting Crow, after all, would spend his days training a Tranquil in the art of combat? It seemed unlikely, at best.

Now she knew the Maestro’s behavior was most suspect. And curious. His facial expressions during their match had not been as jubilant as they normally were. In fact, he had smiled only twice. The rest of the time, it appeared he had been stricken with either apathy or melancholia. No tears, but there was a distinctly dissatisfied, and almost detached air about him that day. Especially after she had landed a blow on him. His facade had not faltered once in the time she’d known him, til now.

Ayah could not sleep. Though her body felt leaden, her mind compelled her to wake and pursue the truth. It vexed her.

That was how she wound up, determined but sore, trying to figure out how to walk as quietly as possible, so that she could spy on her trainer to figure out why he had been behaving so oddly, and what was troubling him. Perhaps, Ayah thought, if she discovered why his behavior had deviated from his normal pattern, he would go back to normal and their routine could continue uninterrupted. If she possessed the ability to hope, she would have hoped for that, as Ayah was a creature of habit and disliked the Maestro’s moods disrupting their training routine.

In the attempted process of sneaking down the halls of the Chantry, to find her master’s chambers, Ayah discovered that she really had no idea how to spy on someone. Her feet were silent on the stone floors, but she was hardly invisible. She was known to the guards, and they would know she was past curfew if she were seen. Yet, strangely, there was no guard at the foot of the stairs - something she would have normally found alarming, but instead chose to accept with aplomb as it made her job easier.

A mental map of the Chantry assured her that she was on the right track. The hall Liborio used to train her and spar in was located upstairs, a few hundred feet from the chambers of the Master himself. She had never been inside, as that would have been impolite, but she had seen him walk to and fro often enough. It was where the man was most likely to be, hopefully asleep at that dark hour.

As she walked up the abandoned, unguarded stairs, Ayah suddenly had to brace herself against the wall to fight against the curious sensation of falling while standing still. Her head began to feel light, and something warm in her gut churned, not unpleasantly. All around her, the air ringed - or was it only in her ears? Voices seemed to clamor from the walls surrounding her, as if people were trapped inside the stones. They all spoke over one another, in a simultaneous cacophony that rang in her head painfully.

[-it can only take you so far-]

[What if I told you-]

[Quiet.]

[-prey upon the living-]

[The Tranquil are tools.]

[-I have-]

[-our undivided attention.]

[They are conscious.]

[They feel pain.]

[-but who would call-]

[-that life is without end? That we persist, hereafter death?]

In an unsuccessful attempt to drown out the sound of the voices from the stones, Ayah whimpered buried her face in her arms, and protectively clamped her hands over her pointed ears. It didn’t help, but it did help her realize that the voices weren’t coming from the walls, but inside her head. Using the cold stone to stabilize herself, Ayah leaned back against the walled stairwell and slowly sank to the ground.

Ayah didn’t know why, but something unbearably awful and wretched wrenched in her chest, like the icy hand of grief gripping her heart and squeezing. It was acute, and searing misery. The feeling was so overwhelming that tears pricked at her eyes, until the unfriendly part of her recognized Despair as an old friend. Unnoticed and alone, she helplessly wept without really knowing why, finding it was the only thing she could do.

Zevran was beginning to wonder why Rinnala had shied away from this contract. They’d met no resistance from the staff, had found the Sisters to be oblivious, and the templar guardians were ill-suited to crossing swords with a Crow. Two had been cleanly dispatched before they even fought him in earnest, and Rinna had grabbed the third with an impressive shot he doubt he’d be able to mimic. Showing off while Tali wasn’t about, no doubt - the latter having a somewhat sensitive ego, often taking Rinna’s natural excellence as a challenge. As Zevran reminisced once again about his comrades, his ears pricked as he picked up on the distant sound of distressed, heavy breathing down the stone hall of the Chantry he was walking down.

He stopped, reaching beneath his robe for the hilt of his dagger as he kept to the shadows of the corridor. He approached softly, the sounds growing louder. His alarm grew to concern when he realized it wasn’t breathing, it was sobbing - awful, heaping cries. He released his hilt and grabbed a torch on the wall instead, and approached the shadowed form of a girl, crouched against the wall with her arms around her knees protectively. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust in the dark, as he left the light of the torch behind as to not alarm her. She wore the robes of a Sister. She’ll likely not notice as I slip past . . .

The girl didn’t seem to notice his approach, though he was nearly at her feet. She continued crying, and started to hiccup as well. It was truly one of the most pathetic things he’d ever seen. An argument ensued in his head against his better judgment, telling him to continue and not look back, as he had a job to do. Yet, he knew the old Talon as still abed - and they had every exit guarded. His inner argument stilled as his mind became blank when the girl raised her head and stared up at him miserably with wide, dark, red-rimmed eyes. Her hair was as black as her eyes, and her skin was a russet - the color of desert clay, with tear tracks trailing down from her eyes to her jaw. She was a lovely mess. He instinctively crouched down to her level and held up his hands in a calming gesture when he noticed her pointed ears. When he got closer, he realized he recognized her from the Chantry - the Tranquil he’d bumped into, only days ago. The brand on her forehead immediately caught his eye as it was half-hidden by her mussed hair, and he forced himself to look away.

The girl’s sobs stopped, but her breathing didn’t even out. It didn’t register, really, that she was a Tranquil. Not instinctively. That was what he told himself later, when he reached out to touch her. When he saw she didn’t shy away, he pulled up on her hand, to get her back up on her feet. She either weighed almost nothing, or sprung up so quickly he didn’t notice as nearly none of her weight fell on him. She let go almost immediately and fell back against the wall, looking bewildered and confused.

It didn’t register, that she was Tranquil. He knew what trauma looked like. The fact that she wasn’t supposed to be able to be sad made it worse, somehow. Or, perhaps they were wrong about that - he wasn’t sure it mattered, ultimately. It was likely one of her templar guardians, he mused - he expected such things happened amongst the templar ranks as much as they did the Crow ranks. Most corrupt organizations were basically the same. This sight was worse, somehow - or more compelling. “Easy,” he cautioned her. “Just take slow breaths.”

He had time. Right? He had time. He forced his inner frustration with the situation down as the dark slip of a girl breathed in slow, even breaths. Her expression became blank as her eyes closed, and smoothed into calm. He felt relieved, until she opened her eyes again and tears welled up once more. She cried, and covered her face with her hands. Something in him stirred at the sound and once more he reached out to instinctively touch her, just a hand on a shoulder. She stiffened. When he pulled away, she reached out to grab his hand with a warm, callused grip. “I remember you,” she said around the tears. After a few breaths and a sniffle, she seemed calm again. “You have a tattoo…” she trailed off, like this was an afterthought. “I don’t know how I got here. Where am I?” She wondered, not panicked, but curious.

“It’s alright,” he assured her. “You’re safe, for the moment. Can you tell me what happened?” And since I’m running on a schedule , he didn’t add.

She glanced around, nonplussed. Her tears had stopped by then, and she wiped away at her eyes with the black sleeve of her chantry robe. “I can’t hear them anymore,” she mused.

“Hear whom?” He asked, growing impatient.

“There were some voices inside the stones of the walls,” she explained plainly, “or, in my head, depending on your perspective. I remember now. That is good. You should not be here,” she said suddenly, and pulled a little closer to him, causing Zevran to instinctively step back. Her eyes were wide, dark, and inquisitive - an abrupt change from the blank, despaired look she’d had only a few seconds before. “What’s your name? I am Ayah Surana.” She bowed her head and held her hands as if to pray, the greeting between the sisters of the Chantry he’d seen before. It was a fluid movement that startled him.

He had time. Didn’t he? And there was something… definitely off about her. It didn’t completely register that she was Tranquil, still, though he had of course noticed the brand. It was hard not to. But no; she seemed stranger than that. He bowed, just as fluid. “I am Zevran,” he introduced. “Or Zev, to my friends. It seems we keep running into each other,” he smirked. “Perhaps the Maker is having a laugh, eh?”

Ayah Surana co*cked her head to the side. “With what mouth would He laugh? He is either dead or gone, or so the Chantry teaches.”

The bleak statement piqued his interest, but alas, my schedule . “Well, sorella, you seem to be in better spirits. I must be off, however.”

She stared at him instead of responding. When he tried to leave, her arm snaked out, and grabbed his. “You are not a Brother,” she stated, and it wasn’t a question, it was just a fact.

He couldn’t lie to her. He could lie to anybody, but . . . she was a Tranquil. Between the two of them, she was the greater victim of society - a mage with a magnificent gift, oppressed and denied that gift and stripped of everything that made life worth living. What use would it be to him, in lying to a creature like that? “No,” he admitted. “But I really must be off. I’ll make you a deal,” he suggested, and plucked her unresistant arm off of his own. “Give me the name of the one who hurt you, and you’ll never see me, or them, again. Would you like that?”

She blinked at him, uncomprehendingly. “Where are you going?” She asked, and he wanted to throttle something in frustration. “Are . . . you a Crow?” She asked, and her eyes widened when he did not immediate give an answer. She stepped in closer, and once more, he took steps back, until it felt like she was trying to back him into the opposite wall. Ah, why do I ever bother?

“Why I am here is unimportant,” he insisted, and grabbed her by the shoulder. And everything else about her stilled. He felt the atmosphere change, and become tense. “Tell me, who hurt you?” A part of him felt like he had to know, to at least justify his delay.

It took the girl a second to formulate an answer. Her eyes focused on something distant, and she said, “I am the one who hurts myself.”

“Is that what they tell you?” A part of him was disgusted with the Chantry. The rest of him wasn’t surprised to hear her say something like that. It sounded so similar to something he’d heard as a child that the scars on his back tickled.

She looked at him and he was forced to make eye contact. Her wide, dark eyes were almost black; a memory triggered of his mother, though he wasn’t entirely sure why as her eyes had been several shades lighter. There was something about her that evoked a feeling of rare pity in him - perhaps pity was not the right word, though. Something else. She was strange, and strangely familiar. It made him a little uncomfortable. “No. They told me I was wrong. I decided to hurt myself before that, because it felt right.”

Her answer made the kind of sense that didn’t, at all. However, he could delay no longer, and before she’d spoken he’d decided the only path out was to keep her quiet - it felt like kicking a puppy, knocking her unconscious, but he swore he’d be as gentle as possible. If there was one death he didn’t want on his conscience, it would be this sad Tranquil elf’s. “Then my mistake, sorella , but I really must be going. I do apologize for this in advance.”

Her expression didn’t change at all as he approached, relaxed, and grabbed arm and swung around to her back. His intention had been to grab her in a simple hold and cut off her air supply, but she inexplicably made that difficult by twisting away and not being there for him to grab. She instead ducked down and away, and kicked him in the chest, knocking the breath momentarily out of his lungs and forcing him to let go of her arm - accidentally ripping her sleeve in the process.

Zevran prided himself on never being ‘off’ guard. Getting kicked in the chest by a Tranquilized elven girl who’s even shorter than you are was something that was hard to prepare for, so her suddenly assault did catch him off guard. He took another kick to the back and suddenly found himself being tackled. He managed to roll around and throw the girl off of him, and they both found themselves face to face and upright again, each in almost identical combat stances.

“How?” He wondered, feeling delighted and simultaneously outraged by this odd turn of events.

“You are here to kill the Maestro ,” she surmised in monotone. “He has much yet to teach me. I will not allow you to murder him. You should leave, or I may kill you.”

Zevran couldn’t help it. He started laughing. The girl didn’t budge an inch or react in any way, she stood in careful guard, no traces of her earlier upset. Racking his brain, he wondered just what kind of trouble Liborio had gotten himself into if he’d had to take a deal such as this with the Chantry - imparting Crow secrets was the worst sort of offense. All the odd pieces that didn’t fit that Rinna had been complaining about when they were given the contract fell into place. And to the Chantry ? For what? Now they were training Tranquil assassins? “Tranquil assassins,” he chuckled. “What will be thought of next?”

“I am not an assassin, that is your job,” she bit out, almost irritably. “Are you going to fight me or not?”

“I’m not sure that’d be ethical of me,” he admitted honestly, “but it seems I have no choice. Are you really Tranquil at all?”

She didn’t respond, which seemed to be an answer in itself. He didn’t really doubt what she was, only the earlier episode with the tears didn’t make much sense. Perhaps he was wrong, in that they couldn’t feel any emotion at all. He’d never spoken to an authority on it - never been curious. Though it seemed cruel to him if the only emotions they could feel were the bad ones. He’d never seen one smile.

Zevran rushed at her in a full tackle, and she pounded on his back and head with her fists. On top and with the advantage, he was easily able to lift her up and slam her back down into the ground. The force knocked the wind out of her for a few seconds, but she still managed to wrap her legs around and under one of his arms, and tried to claw at his face. It was surreal, to be fighting someone who made almost no noise at all - no grunts, no expressions, no taunts - just a few changes in breathing. He did regret having to hurt her, but she wasn’t leaving him any other option - he picked her up again and once more she collided with the ground. Her head made a crack, causing him to wince, and she let go reflexively, momentarily stunned.

She rolled away before he could wrap her in a hold again and braced herself against the wall to stand. She fumbled and grabbed the back of her head, and a little blood came back on her finger, which he felt guilty for. He surmised that someone in the Chantry would take care of her wounds, especially after alarm he and the others would raise. “Again, I do apologize,” he told her, and before she could collect herself he trapped her against the wall. A wild, immature impulse welled up then that he’d question later in hindsight. “I’d rather not fight,” he said, and instead of fighting her, he kissed her on the brand on her forehead, gently - she held still when he drew in close and shivered when his lips touched her warm scarred skin. The brand was real, no doubt. “ Non lasciare che vedano le tue lacrime ,” he murmured against her brow.

He pulled away too quickly for her to react and bolted for the Maestro’s room, leaving the disoriented Tranquil girl behind him. I’ve wasted too much time as it is.

When he got to the door, he was very startled to find himself being pulled back by the hood of his disguise. The cloth ripped with the force it was being tugged at, and he whipped around to face the girl - right behind him, keeping pace. “I underestimated you,” he admitted.

She wasted no time on words and reached for him again, only to tear more of the robe away and reveal his Crow armor. He lashed out with his sheathed short sword, still on some level feeling uncomfortable actually hurting her. I’m going to get lashed for this . She back-stepped and he slammed open the door. He was stunned to discover inside that the Maestro himself, fully-armored, was on his way out the window by a rope tied around his best post. Liborio gave Zevran a co*cky wave as he jumped out. Zevran, cursing, wasted no time and ran for the window. He heard the girl behind him and ducked out of the way of her trying to knock him straight out of it with a thrown stool. Before she could clobber him, he glanced out the window and grabbed the rope, jumping after the Maestro to the grounds below. He knew, based off of the scouting missions they’d done, that the stables weren’t far from the Tower Liborio resided in. At that point, the ex-Talon would be walking right into Talisen’s trap that Zevran had been meant to lure him to, if he couldn’t kill him in a straight duel. Before he would know it, Liborio would be dead, and then he could maybe shake the Tranquil assassin off his trail and enjoy his victory in peace.

He cut the rope after he got to the bottom, already spying the girl dangling at the top and climbing down with surprising agility. He quickly scanned for signs of the Maestro and found none, so he cursed again and took off towards the stables, leaving the girl to fate.

That was, perhaps, a mistake as he found himself being shoved into a pile of hay by the Tranquil elf not moments later as she dove at him from the roof of the stables - which she appeared to have swung onto from the balcony rope. Zevran sneezed and rolled out of the hay and cursed some more. “You just never quit, do you!” he bit out. “Heh, I’m impressed. Tell me, do you feel pain?”

“Yes,” she answered just as easily. He nodded, and took a nearby pitchfork from one of the hay stacks and swung it at her. She dodged and hid behind a pile of hay that he knocked almost completely over with the blow - the force of it hurting his arm a little more than he anticipated. With a new grudging respect for farmers, he kept the pitchfork and made his way to the stables. The growing sound of horses neighing alerted him to the presence of people there, which meant Talisen’s trap would spring any second.

He kept Ayah successfully away from him with the pitchfork a few times, but when she ran in the other direction, things got complicated. Confused and alarmed, he abandoned the pitchfork and crept towards the back and hid behind one of the black chargers’ stables. Liborio would likely be picking up the most reliable mare - the dun colored one three stables down, or so he’d surmised. It sounded to his ears as if there were people in the barn - likely acquiring, or packing a saddle. It only made sense.

All there was left to do was wait… and worry about the assassin-trained Tranquil likely about to jump out from the shadows any second and try to kill him. Nothing about this makes sense.

He drew both of his short swords and crept towards the barn, to where he hurt the rustling of leather and clothes. Sticking to the shadows, he was certain he had been unnoticed until a shadowy from leapt down from the stable’s rooftop to the ground in front of him with a light thud and a cloud of dirt, rolling to a stand. The same girl from before, and this time, covered in hay and dirt and with a rapier. She brought the sword up into a familiar dueling stance that he couldn’t help but chuckle at. “I really do have to admire your persistence.”

“You fight very well,” she commented right back, matter-of-factly. It was an unexpected compliment in lieu of the moment that made him chuckle more. He knew any sounds of swords clashing would raise Liborio’s alarm, so he sheathed his weapons and watched as her sword dropped reflexively in acceptance of the surrender. He took advantage of her lowered guard to rush forward knock her with the butt of one of his side-daggers, but she surprised him again by head-butting him, sending them both reeling to the ground in pain. There was a scramble after they reached for their weapons that ended with both of them disarming the other and getting into a wrestling match in the stables. Their fight almost got them kicked to death by an aggressive horse whose stall they’d knocked each other into, resulting in both of them getting covered in muck and manure, battered and bruised.

Zevran attempted to stand up a few times, but the third attempt did him in as he was clobbered right over the head while still on his knees by an annoyed Ayah with a horseshoe in her dirty hand. The blond Crow fell over into the dirt, still breathing but dead to the world.

Ayah stood over Zevran the assassin for a few moments while she caught her breath, and eventually allowed the horseshoe to fall out of her listless hand. It hit the ground near Zevran’s golden head with a loud clang, striking a hidden rock in the dirt. Before she could really collect herself, the sound of a neighing horse in alarm caught her interest, from the barn. Then, there were shouts, followed by clangs. Feeling a wave of physical exhaustion, she fell to her hands and knees and had to struggle to stand back up, her head throbbing. She grabbed one of the assassin’s short swords and the horseshoe in her other hand, and staggered towards the barn, where she could heard the sounds of combat.

By the time she managed to get to the barn, Liborio had already saved himself, as she caught the tail end of the fight. A young human Crow in armor similar to other’s from before was engaged in an all out-duel that he didn’t realize he was losing. His moves were aggressive, and sloppy, and eventually his enthusiasm caused him to leave his guard open for Liborio to sneak in and disarm him. The Crow backpedaled right into Ayah, who hit him over the head with the same horseshoe she’d slogged Zevran with. He was out cold before he even caught a glimpse of her.

Tired beyond words, Ayah merely dropped to her knees and sighed, closing her eyes. She heard her teacher approach and gazed up at him in relief. “I thought they had killed you for certain,” she admitted.

Liborio smiled. “They underestimated you and I, I think.”

She nodded, and he smiled. Then she frowned. “Are you leaving me?”

Her teacher looked sad and old, like Irving. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, passerota . You have no past to run from. A part of me almost envies you for that.”

‘I run because I have a past to run from.’ The memory, like the voices in the stones, came to her unbidden. It was nonsensical, only images - green eyes, a lyrical, cultured voice that spoke in puzzles. It had no face, no name, no other connection - it was like the shadow of a thought. ‘ An indistinct recollection of a dream.’ It was so sudden she wasn’t entirely sure it was real, and thought for a moment that it might make sense if she were insane, and this was a brief moment signifying a psychotic breakage. ‘ You’re what they should be, not this shadow they’ve become. I had hope…’

A sharp pain in her shoulder sent her falling into the dirt in confusion. Liborio shouted at her in Antivan, and his face hovered above her own for a few moments. She felt at her shoulder and noted a large wooden protrusion - an arrow - sticking out of it. The full pain hadn’t connected yet. What connected was that there was a third assassin - perhaps a fourth, or even a fifth, from the rooftops. If only you’d checked - she clenched her teeth and told the Master to run while she scrambled for cover away from the barn’s entrance. A few more arrows thudded into the ground where she had collapsed only moments before.

It was fire, the brand, the agony of beginning all over again in her shoulder. She did not scream or flinch when she braced it and broke the end of the arrow of, leaving the tip inside for the healer to take care of once Liborio was safe. There was no need to alert the enemy to her presence. As Liborio mounted a dun mare he’d previously saddled and made for the opposite exit, Ayah looked for anything to use as a shield, or a way to perhaps get to the roof, and spied a few crates and a rope ladder that led through a hole in the top - likely a development exploited by the Crowd in infiltration, which she noted with some annoyance (how was anyone not killed sooner?). Improvising with a piece of wood, she used it as a tower shield and had to run backwards to the opposite side of the barn, due to her one bad shoulder being unable to support its weight. Two arrows thudded into the wood and pierced through it, but thankfully got wedged before they could hit her. Liborio used the distraction, like she had hoped, to take off - she heard the sound of his horse whinnying as he whipped it into a gallop.

The sounds of alarm bells began to ring around the Chantry. Ayah was annoyed that it had taken them so long to raise alarm. Pinned down by the archer, she decided to risk it and climb up, knowing it would at least take a few minutes before the enemy archer realized she wasn’t there. When she made her way to the roof, crawled, doing her best to keep her shoulder motionless as she tried to get to cover. Hearing more alarm bells as as reassuring as it was disorienting - below in the coutyard, she could hear the sounds of armor clamping as templars stomped their way to the scene, finally responding to the danger. She used their noise to slide to the other side of the barn and leapt off, rolling to her feet and almost crying out from the pain in her shoulder. When she got to her feet, no arrows had pierced her sides and she caught the tail end of Liborio’s horse running out of the Chantry’s gate. The shadows played tricks on her eyes, making the forms of the templars seem like black flame in the early pre-dawn light. The sky wasn’t yet yellow, but pale blue.

Then, screams - wailing, shocked screams came from the entrance as Liborio’s mare thundered past. Ayah could hear the sound of hooves and distressed neighs. She gave chase, limping and clutching her shoulder, grabbing a shovel along the way to use as an improvised weapon.

The Maestro hadn’t gotten far. Three arrows had pierced his neck, side, and chest. He’d fallen in his saddle, still in his stirrups, still being carried by the alarmed horse who simply didn’t know better. It had run into more than one person and was chomping at its bit as its dead rider wobbled from side to side, and was being waved down by a templar and stable handler trying to calm the beast down. Ayah dropped her shovel in the dirt and approached, and felt nothing.

The horse was being confused by the unbalanced weight. Liborio’s body was half-falling out of his own saddle and had pulled on the lead, directing it to one side. When Ayah approached, she grabbed the Maestro’s bootknife and cut the lead rope and simply pulled him out of it, dropping his dead weight on the ground before it became too much for her. Though there were people standing all around her, Ayah did not see any of them, nor recognize their faces. They were shadows in the faint light. She stared down at her teacher, and felt only failure.

Absently, she checked his vitals. Finding nothing, she left the arrows and began to drag the man back by his feet to the Chantry. She heard whispers from the stones and shadows all around her, and her head throbbed with each beat of her heart.

At the gate, there was Delaney in shining armor. He stopped her and almost asked her about how she ended up covered in manure. She told him that it did not matter because she had failed, and asked him about the Crows in the stable and barn. He, confused, told her there were no Crows anywhere, only a few dead templars and a lot of head shaking - as well as one dead ex-Crow. Delaney tells her that it is Liborio’s own fault, for trying to flee his sanctuary with the Chantry. He tells her that he had sought asylum from the Crows, and they probably exacted revenge. That these sorts of things happened often, in Antiva. When she asked him what exactly he had sought asylum for, he had no answer.

Ayah frowned at that. She knew it didn’t matter because Liborio was dead. He would never teach her anything again, nor flatter her with compliments and nicknames, nor comb his hair or wax his immaculate moustaches. He would never do those things that had become him, in her mind - but his face was still clear to her, so that still mattered. She wondered what would become of her, but no one seemed to have an answer for her. When she showed up at the gate with her teacher’s body, covered in dirt and muck and a blank expression, all they had for her were seeming endless questions. Eventually she was allowed to sit down, and they examined her head and gave her potions. It stopped the bleeding and swelling, but not the voices, or shadows in the corners of her eyes that had seemingly come to stay.

The questions from her keepers lasted all night. Despite being bone-tired, she was unable to find rest and had to be forcibly given sleeping draught in the wee hours of the morning by the Sisters, because her mind betrayed her body and refused to sleep. She did not dream, but she remembered.

Chapter 7: Interlude: A Memory

Chapter Text

Then I'll name you Hope.

I thought giving me a name would make me real?

You're the only real thing here, da'len.

Ayah took a deep breath and gazed out at the faces of her colleagues. Fellow Enchanters, friends, and their apprentices - all gathered together to listen to her lecture. She knew, for certain, that this presentation would mean the success or failure of her proposal. For ***** sake, she would not allow herself to fail. So, she smiled, and spoke, using the same patient, effusive voice she'd practiced at to better teach the children in the Tower. It was a voice that miraculously managed not to sound condescending, unlike Torrin's holier-than-thou approach to instructing on the finer points of elemental magic, or Irving's slow and monotone gravel.

"What if I told you that life is without end?" Ayah began. "That we persist, hereafter death?"

Uldred, ever the critic, snorted. "I'd laugh and call you a Loyalist," her old mentor scoffed.

She continued without missing a beat, anticipating his comments: "And if I went on to say that I found proof?"

"There's no need for dramatics, Enchanter," Wynne - their resident regenerative wonder, interjected. Though her tone was blithe, her smile was friendly. She knew Wynne's approval would mean the approval from the Aequitarian corner, which might make or break her. "You have our undivided attention."

Ayah Surana paused to nod at her, and continued. "The Fade has always been the greatest of our mysteries – what is it, where'd it come from, why's it there, what's its influence is on us. Our history, our entire known world, is built upon our manipulations of the energies that leak through the Veil from the Fade, a realm we know so little about." As she lectured, she paced, more out of a sense of restlessness than anything else. Her energy levels never allowed her to quiet down, it seemed. "With the lens of magic we're able to gaze deeply into the Fade, but very few new discoveries into its nature have been made in recent years, due to the Chantry breathing down the necks' of Circles everywhere. We who are blessed with magic, are forbidden to investigate the origins of our blessing. All of the knowledge we've acquired about the Fade we've received almost solely from the tattered remnants of the Imperium, making it a controversial thing to even consider studying. The fact that the Fade still holds any mystery over us after centuries of deliberation is a testament not to the Chantry's overbearing belligerence, but to our own ignorance and lack of ambition. Fortunately, as my mentors have assured me, I have ambition in spades." There was another snort from Uldred's corner, which made her smile. She knew the fact that he was present at all meant he had already approved, in his grudging way. "I will not cower in the face of the unknown," she announced confidently, "and I am not afraid to seek the answers to the questions that have stunted our progress for over an age."

She forced herself to come to a stand still before the lectern, and gripped it gently with both hands, hoping her inner anxiety wouldn't show. "Whenever the soul leaves its body, whether it is to dream or to die, it enters the ethereal realm we call the Fade," she went on, "only when we die, the connection between our soul – or our consciousness, whatever you want to call it, it completely severed. Gone. Utterly. The cord that tethers us this waking, material realm, is snipped. It's the nature of death . . . though in a way, it's more, because we know that a person can exist on in the Fade after death in some form. But what about the link it leaves behind? What becomes of it? Does the connection truly disappear completely? Why does it sever then, upon mortal death – here –" she chopped down with her hand for emphasis, "rather than in any other instance? Why not when we dream? This is a unique phenomenon, as whenever we enter the Fade otherwise – primarily when we dream – there is still a connection that somehow ties us to this plane, allowing us to wake up and walk in both worlds. The connection between the soul, the body, and the ethereal realm is the key." Feeling anxious again, she began to pace. "I believe that this chain, this connection is essential to our understanding of mana, and the very nature of life itself. However, our insight into this link is limited. There are only so few safe ways to study it without resorting to the unsavory means of our predecessors in Arcanum. We can enter the Fade temporarily through means of lyrium or lucid dreaming, but lyrium isn't grown on trees and lucid dreaming can only take you so far."

From the back of the room, Torrin's pet reformation project chuckled, which brought a smile to Ayah's face. "You mean it can only take you so far unless you're a super special sparkly somniari?" At his tone, she flushed, feeling a little embarrassed. It wasn't something she was aware that the everyone knew about, and didn't like others knowing - since it always resulted in Greagoir popping up to glare the maleficar out of (or into) her. Her abilities made her naturally skilled in Fade magic - in most magic, really - but they also resulted in her acting as a lighthouse for denizens of the Fade. Something which made you very unpopular in the Tower, as it turned out.

She heard Torrin snap back, "Quiet. Keep your idiotic remarks to yourself, Anders, and remember whom the apprentice is here."

"Don't be such a stick in the mud, T," Anders whined. Ayah had a feeling that if Anders weren't such a skilled mage, Torrin wouldn't have bothered. The temperaments of the elder mage and the younger apprentice couldn't have been more at odds. She'd considered taking Anders herself, but thought their past trysts might make it awkward.

"Every day with you is a new vexation," Torrin growled. At least someone is capable of getting under his skin. The Nevarran Enchanter was so rarely ruffled, it was amusing to watch.

"If I may continue?" Ayah politely asked. "I meant that dreaming of something can only take you so far; it can't tide you over the edge. In order to truly know what lies beyond the Fade and to really comprehend the enigma of death, there is almost nothing short of dying itself that can aid in our understanding. Almost. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, our keepers themselves have provided us with the perfect solution: the Tranquil."

More unrest from Uldred's corner: "Tranquility, Surana? Really?" He sneered. "The Tranquil are tools. Moving and talking furniture. Honestly, it might be better to actually study talking furniture as that's something you don't see every day."

Her former mentor had made his opinions on the subject of her study clear earlier, when she'd first proposed the idea to him. The objection was more for show - he didn't want to be seen playing favorites. "I shouldn't have to remind you, Uldred, that the unique emotional nullification of our Tranquil brethren also suppresses their ability to perform magic, and prevents them from Fade-walking," she reminded him anyway, eliciting a well-earned scoff. "In order to gain a better understanding of the healing arts, one must spend a great deal of time studying the sick and the ill. It follows that in order to learn more about magic, we must study Tranquility. Tranquility is a magical illness, of sorts. It is not a natural state of being, but one made manually by the Chantry. There is no naturally occurring Tranquility in the world; it is a forced state. The perfect grounds for study and experimentation." She paused, gathering herself. "Demons all prey upon the living, yet avoid the Tranquil like a plague, even more so than templars, because a Tranquil cannot dream. The Fade is as antithetical to a Tranquilized mage even more than it is to a dwarf. Why is this? The Dwarven conundrum has been studied and explained, but not the Tranquil one. The answer we're given is fairly simple: because their connection to the Fade is gone. Yet, although they cannot feel emotions or dream, the Tranquil are still conscious."

Though the other mages were mostly silent, taking in her words, Torrin and Uldred were by far her most vocal hecklers. This time, the criticism came from Torrin's corner. "By the broadest definition of the term, they are conscious," he drawled. "But who would call that living? I have to agree with Uldred."

"They self-identify," Ayah Surana pointed out matter-of-factly. "They can breathe, they feel pain, and they learn. Are those not observable, legitimate signs of consciousness? It makes you uncomfortable to think of them as whole because of what's been done to them. Nonetheless, they're still people. And, as far as we know, having emotions is not a prerequisite to possessing the ability to walk in the Fade. People experience varying degrees of emotion, after all." She paused, but there were no further objections or comments, so she continued, feeling more confident. "The Tranquil are still in a way themselves, only incomplete, as if an essential part of their person was somehow removed, locked away, and sealed with a brand of the red sun. As only the First Enchanter, the Chantry, and the Tranquil themselves are privy to the secrets of the process in which one becomes Tranquil, we have only speculation – but speculation can be fairly accurate based off of observable results."

Ayah paced back to the center of the lectern and looked out, inadvertently catching eye contact with Irving, who looked consternated. She went on, unaffected. "Curiously, Tranquility is often dramatized as a fate worse than death. In truth, it is the closest thing to death that there is. It's well-known that the connection between the soul and the body is lost when a person is made Tranquil. This is why they cannot enter the Fade, even if only to dream. The only other instance in a natural person's life when this happens is death; however, in death it is the body which dies and the soul that 'moves on.' In Tranquility, the body yet lives, and the soul is thought to have died instead, leaving behind an empty husk."

She paused, for dramatic effect. "I have a different theory. In one case I studied, I observed a Tranquil that spoke of dreams that played out like memories behind their eyes - very similar to recorded interviews with Dwarves on the same matter. Memories played out with slight alterations. In another case, a Tranquil girl woke up each morning with irrational anxiety that faded throughout the day, but resurfaced each morning. In another, I witnessed a fugue state where one would lapse into solipsism after a period of self-induced sleep-deprivation. How, I have had to wonder, can such things occur when they are 'unfeeling,' or 'soulless?' I believe it is possible that the connection between their conscious mind and subconscious one is suppressed by the brand, but perhaps not destroyed as we have always thought. If I am correct, it may be possible to cure Tranquility - or perhaps help to find a better path for our less fortunate brethren. However, further study requires a leap of faith from the College, and a long-term study of many different consenting Tranquil. My work with Owain and the others has been an excellent first step, but it has become clear to me that I require a wider body for study."

Sensing her time was up, Ayah closed up her remarks and left the podium as the Circle Mages dispersed. A few lingered to give her their thoughts or endorsem*nts, and wished her luck on the trip to Cumberland next month. Her end-goal was a study of hundreds of other Tranquil - noninvasive interviews, physical and psychological exams - which would require the permission and participation of many other Circles. She knew it was a long shot, but for the sake of her friend, she knew she couldn't rest until she found an answer.

A gold-robe stopped her on her way out of the lecture hall, reminding her of a class on Entropic Fields she was meant to hold downstairs, which nearly made Ayah curse aloud. "I can't be bothered," Ayah dismissed. "I'm close reaching a-just tell them everything's cancelled today," she told the wide-eyed younger girl (probably not too much younger, Ayah realized later, since she tended to forget about things like age). With that, she twirled on her heel, her thick black braid spinning behind her, and headed back to her personal quarters.

As the patrol passed by in the hall, she locked eyes with Cullen, and felt a rush of warmth that his gaze returned. With witnesses all around, they couldn't be seen expressing interest in each other, so she quickly looked away and did her best to hide her smile, knowing he would do the same. As they did so, a heaviness settled into her gut - it was an old hurt, and easily cast aside as such, but it embittered her knowing neither of them were free.

When she got to her study, she immediately noticed the two silent forms of ***** and Owain, ready and waiting with parchment, charcoal, and perfect postures. Of the two, only ***** looked around the room at his surroundings, and caught her eye. He gave a little wave of greeting and watched her closely as she came over. She put down her notes from the lecture and shoved them into a drawer on her desk, deciding to deal with it later. Feeling a little tired, she perched herself on a stool next to Owain, who had been staring blankly ahead; now he turned to her and awaited her word.

"I'm sorry if I'm late," she apologized. "I finished up as quickly as I could with the other Enchanters."

"It is no problem," **** said agreeably.

"Shall I begin recording?" Owain wondered, quill poised.

Ayah nodded and turned her attention solely to **** *****. The face of her Rivaini-Marcher friend wasn't the same as it was in her memory. Her memories of him in the Fade were colorful and spotless, but less true. This **** was biologically the same, and true, but lacked the luster of the old. The light in his amber eyes had dimmed after he'd been scarred. The crooked angle of his nose seemed even somehow seemed less charming. He no linger smirked, his brow no longer creased. He'd been beautiful to her once, and now . . .

Ayah smiled. He smiled back, instinctively, and it miraculously reached his eyes. It lit her up. He is still lovely in so many little ways. "How was your day, Enchanter Surana?" **** asked politely.

"You should call me Ayah," she corrected. She'd had to correct him many times because he kept forgetting. It had stopped making her sad once she'd understood why; in his world, it seemed everything was symmetrical and uniform. Enchanters were all addressed by their titles and names because it made sense to group all of the mages under a common title, to differentiate between themselves and the rest of the Tower. It didn't make her sad, anymore, that he didn't see a friend when he looked at her. It used to. The Chantry had wiped away the part of him that recognized friend from foe; it wasn't grief she felt for her dearest friend, but righteous, quiet fury. "It was . . . An interesting day," she offered. "How was yours, ****?'

"Ayah." He pronounced the name slowly, as if unsure. "Nothing of note happened today. It was routine. Have you been eating the recommended amount? You appear to have lost weight."

Ayah smiled again, and did feel a little sad for no explicable reason. Shrugging it off, she continued with the interview. "Don't worry about me. This is about you. Tell me, have you had any dreams?"

**** shook his head. To her side, she could hear Owain scratching on the parchment, his neat handwriting printing out a transcript of their conversation. It had been ***** best idea, to get Owain to transcribe the interviews for her - her own handwriting was . . . Not up to task. "No dreams," **** said, "only another memory."

She perked up. "Alright, let's see where this leads. What did you remember this time?"

"I remembered being a little boy, or I assume I was because the world seemed much larger. My mother, her name was Revka, was there. And another woman she addressed as her sister . . ."

I'm not a child.

That is relative. I'm your elder, so you are a child to me.

Are you sure you're not Pride? You talk about yourself a lot.

Chapter 8: VII

Chapter Text

It was a day like any other, for Cullen Rutherford. He didn't find himself overburdened with task, or exhausted from long patrols. Every day was usually like every other. Life in the Tower was rarely eventful; the only real slip ups were the fault of the occasional, out of control apprentice who hadn't yet learned how to properly reign themselves in. Ever so rarely, a botched escape attempt would increase the paranoia of Knight-Commander, and that paranoia would trickle down the ranks until everyone kept their heads down for a few months for fear of unwarranted reprisals. They all learned, in time.

No, there was really nothing eventful about that day, other than - as usual - he missed her. He knew he shouldn't, but it was hard not to. They would be standing within ten feet of each other and somehow he'd still miss her. He'd catch her scent as they passed each other in the halls, and he'd miss her. They'd spy each other across the library, and his arms missed the shape of her because they would remember how it felt to wrap around her smaller form. It was too dangerous to be seen being friendly to the mages; he knew Greagoir didn't like that. If the Knight-Commander knew the truth, it'd be the end of him. It was funny how only a few years ago, how he'd been terrified of that eventuality. It was funny how having someone, even if only in secret, can change how you feel about the world. Or, yourself. Though the secrecy was painful at times, he didn't regret it, because the world seemed kinder with her in it.

Cullen Rutherford's current world was small, however, at least by his own reckoning. Though the Tower was large, austere, and beautiful, it was not populous - or representative of any population. Many mages had been transfers from other Circles, but most grew up in the Tower and stayed there until they died. It made him a little sad, when he thought about it too much, which was why he preferred to think about her. She wouldn't be the type to be confined there, like the rest of them. She was already a transfer from Nevarra; there, she'd been just as much of a commodity, or so they'd heard. She was too passionate to be caged and languish there in the dark with the others of her kind.

The young templar's ruminations on his vigil outside the fourth floor's entrance was cut short by a swarm of rank and file. In shining, clanging armor, a veritable troupe of his brethren stormed past, swords half-drawn and focused single-mindedly on getting to the lower levels.

"Rutherford!" Snapped his Knight-Captain. "What are you doing?" Without giving Cullen the time to answer, the Knight-Captain barked, "we need you and every able-bodied templar on this level to seal of the Mage's quarters! There's been a breakout! Kill anyone who tries to leave - lock those quarters down!"

Ice ran through his veins. Cullen didn't hesitate to nod, despite the thought that hit him that he wouldn't - couldn't - just 'kill anyone.' He ran for the mage's quarters, spying another of his fellows along the way and hearing the Knight-Captain barking at her, too. When he reached the Mage's quarters, he had no time to peek inside to see if Ayah was inside, since the doors were already sealed. As the other templar drew her sword and grimaced, he drew his, wondering just what by the Maker's name was going on, and what had happened to this perfectly ordinary day.

Beneath his feet, Cullen Rutherford began to feel the weight of mana being released. Perhaps it was his paranoia, or his previous train of thought, that led him to believe that he felt the tenor of Ayah Surana's craft amongst the signatures. Perhaps it was his imagination, but it felt real, so he abandoned his post and demanded the other guard the door. Oblivious or just uncaring to his fellow's objections, he ran after the rest of the rank and file with his sword drawn, and made for the lower floors' entrance. "I'm going to find out what's going on!" He called back, like an afterthought.

Down and down he went, down the spiral stairs of Kinloch Hold, til he reached the apprentice's dormitories. At the very base of the door were two templars sprawled on the floor - the ones he'd seen sprinting past him not seconds ago. His mouth became dry as he checked his brothers' pulses; they were alive, at least. Down the corridor, he could hear the sounds of jolts of lightning - a typical hallmark of offensive elemental craft. Concerned and fighting down panic, Cullen found himself unable to control his anxiety as he continued onward, desperate to disprove his fear.

The sounds of battle grew with the sounds of spell-craft. He could feel both templars and mages alike, throwing mana and suppressing it; the sounds of shouts, clanging, and the occasional scream could be heard echoing all the way down the hall. The apprentice's dorm was unguarded; at least three mages lay unconscious on the ground, though alive, and suffering many cuts that stained their robes with blood. One mage, amongst the three, was more conscious than he appeared at first and gave a start as Cullen approached him.

With an expression of pure terror, the bloodstained apprentice shuffled away on the ground from Cullen, desperate to put distance between himself and the templar. With his sword drawn, Cullen could understand a little about the image he presented; the other part of his mind whispered that this was a maleficar, not an apprentice. Eventually his instincts won out over his paranoia and he lowered the sword, feeling ashamed of himself. He left the terrified apprentice boy and ran towards where he heard the shouting and casting.

Cullen was dumbfounded by the scene he found in the entrance hall. The gate outside was wide open, and blowing in freezing sleet from the blizzard that was currently battering Lake Calenhad outside the Tower. There, half-outside and half-in, stood the Knight-Commander with the Knight-Captain and many others - some battered and bloody, others stumbling, others unconscious. The ones with the wherewithal had their swords and shields drawn and seemed to be targeting a singular mage in Enchanter robes of red, bloodied like the rest of her fellows all around her. One of them lay at dead at her feet; her attention seemed to be occupied with this.

Her magic was brilliant and cloying at the same time. Everyone sensed mana a bit differently. For Cullen, it was always a vibration of a kind - or a tingling on the skin, occasionally accompanied by a scent. The First Enchanter, for instance, always smelled of lightning and parchment when he cast. Senior Enchanter Wynne, of clean linen and elfroot. Ayah, though, had always been different - more, perhaps. Her magic was the thrum of a lyre, and simultaneously a clap of thunder, that left the faint scent of cloves and ginger in its wake. Where the apprentices' spells were strident, Ayah's was lyrical. Ordinarily a mage only achieved such control over their own casting after decades of study, but Ayah was different cut. Magic was a gift from the Maker; but Ayah herself was a gift, some had said.

He was unable to do anything other than stare, helplessly, silently, as the gift in her was snuffed out by three simultaneous holy smites, one of them issued from the bloodied sword-point of the Knight-Commander himself. In a rush of air, the smites descended on her in a column of holy light that hurt his eyes to look at. She made no sound as it happened, or as she dropped to the ground unconscious in a battered, bloodied heap, motionless as a child's discarded doll. She simply collapsed in the snow next to the dead apprentice, and his brothers let her lay there while they caught their breath and examined the others.

He was unable to do anything but stare, as one of his brothers took the pulse of a fallen templar, pronouncing him dead. No one other than the dead templar, and the one dead apprentice at Ayah's feet, seemed to be too injured. Though the blood that seemed to have been splattered onto at least half of those present (Ayah included) indicated, with surety, that blood magic had been used.

Again in his minds eye, she fell down, over and over and over and over. The column of light descended on her head and then she was cold, and still, and dead. He left the hall eventually after looking for too long at her long, dark hair, loose and likely matted from blood and sleet. Again and again she collapsed, her animated features stilling into the stillness of dreamless sleep.

Cullen backed out, all the way out of the hall, back into the quiet, still unseen by the Knight-Commander. When he closed his eyes she fell again. The more she fell the more nauseous he felt, and his sword slipped from his fingers to clatter on the ground—

How long had it been since he'd stuttered around her? They'd been not that much younger, when the butterflies that surfaced in his gut whenever he was near her melted into untamed passion. He'd felt unsure, before, of her regard. Preoccupied with regulations and consequence, perhaps. When had it changed, he couldn't say for certain.

In many ways being with her was still new. Still frightening - in a thrilling sort of way. He wasn't sure if that was the anxiety at the thought of being caught, or just the feelings she evoked. Sometimes, all it took was a glance or a light touch, and the feelings would surface even after they had dimmed in her absence. Though they could go days without seeing each other, the Tower was only so large, so they'd inevitably bump into one another again and it would all come back like it had never faded at all.

Behind the stacks in the apprentice' library, they were afforded a rare privacy. There were many such unnoticed spots in the Tower, if you knew where to look for them. Ayah, it seemed, knew them all - or kept an ear to the ground, because there was always some clever hidden alcove, or secret room, she'd slip him directions to. How exactly she was finding all of these spots was something he preferred not to think about, it since it suggested a lax in security on the templars' part that he was inadvertently reaping the benefits of. It was a complicated issue that he blissfully didn't have time to dwell on when they were wrapped up in each other.

As a gaggle of young apprentices wandered by on the other side of the stacks, Cullen and Ayah tensed. Both were out of breath and red-faced, attempting to keep their breathing low and even. She buried her face in his neck as the apprentices' stopped and began gossiping. About what, Cullen couldn't tell you, because he was preoccupied with Ayah's tongue and teeth, worrying and nibbling away at his neck and ear. The smooth skin of her cheek dragged against his evening stubble, causing him to nearly bite his tongue to avoid gasping. His hands clenched around her waist while he felt her shake with amusem*nt.

The distraction continued until the apprentices moved away, and she finally stepped back to look up at him beneath her lashes with wide, dark, innocent eyes. "You're evil," he declared.

She smiled, and pulled him down into a slow and sensuous kiss. His bare hand slipped up to grasp at her hair, tugging it gently and causing her to let out a gasp that—

—from his fingers to clatter onto the ground. The noise startled him so much that he gasped, and stumbled out of the hall after hazily grabbing his fallen weapon and sheathing it. He had to duck into the apprentice's dormitory again to avoid being seen. Out of sight from his brothers, he could quietly gather himself, and try not to heave. Maybe, he thought, he might even succeed.

He probably would have, if Ayah's unconscious body hadn't been dragged by on a cot by two of his brothers just as he stepped out of the room. Her arm slipped off of the cotton and dangled carelessly off of the edge, bouncing with each step the templars took. The procession was followed by another, second cot, upon which the body of a young Tranquil mage in apprentice' robes had been placed. For a moment, Cullen thought he recognized the boy - the nose was familiar, and the long dark hair, but his mind was unable to latch onto the identity. He was left feeling confused in addition to being nauseous, since the Tranquil's body raised more questions that he was certain had no good answers.

He nearly cried out of startle when his Knight-Captain clapped an armored hand down on his pauldron. "Just where do you think you're going?" The Knight-Captain demanded. The man's dark grey eyes bored into Cullen's own with grizzled intensity, punctuated by the blood stains that peppered the man's face and gleaming armor.

"I-I-I just, w-wanted to s-see if y-you needed b-backup," the young Cullen managed to stutter out.. "I-I—"

"AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"

Cullen screamed and clamped his hands around his head, gripping it with what strength he had left, trying to press the images out of his eyes and his head. If he couldn't push them out physically, he'd bang his head against the floor until they stopped. He'd scream until his lungs collapsed or they went deaf, whichever came first; he'd starve himself til he died if they kept him prisoner. They wouldn't win, they wouldn't, he won't let them because that was sacred. They wouldn't have that. They wouldn't have her. He'd die before that. He'd die before he let them see that part of him.

"Interesting," the blood mage crooned. Her name used to be Nissa. She used to have blue eyes and a wicked smile and a gap between her teeth that gave her a slight lisp. She used to take care of the youngest children, who liked her because of her curly hair and kind manner. She hadn't smiled much after her twin died on that awful, awful night. Her eyes glowed an eerie purple now, so he wasn't sure if she was a demon. They were all demons now, trying to slice into his head and pick apart all the pieces of him. They wanted to stitch him back together in their own order, to use them against his brothers. They'd use the memory of her against him, along with every other decent memory he still had. They wouldn't win. They wouldn't. Some things were still sacred. They had to be. "You're either remarkably strong willed," the maleficar continued, "or there's something I don't understand at work. Either way, color me intrigued." With a twist of the maleficar's hands, cold snakes began crawling in the insides of his skull, trying to slither their way into his innermost self.

"Stop it," Cullen cried, clawing at his head, scratching, pleading, screaming, aching. They bored into his skull and he slammed down with his fists on his head to make it stop. "Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get out, get out of my bloody head! GET OUT, GET OUT!"

Nissa the Maleficar laughed because this was a great joke, to her reckoning. "I never would have dreamed you were so naughty with the golden girl! I suppose I have two things to thank Surana for, now. I think we'll see where this path leads . . . Let's take it from the beginning."

Ayah collapsed in the wet snow, she was red on black on red, fragile and small and quiet. The branding iron, thrumming with lyrium, seared into her living flesh above her brow. Her agony and cries became Cullen's as the blood mage's assault on his innermost self continued.

By the third day of his patrol duty, Cullen was pretty confident that he had made a mistake. Oh, he believed in the Maker like everyone else. He believed in his duty to the Maker, and to his brothers in arms. He recited the Chant, and meant every word of the vows he had taken. There was no question in his mind that he was doing a good thing, but he wasn't certain he was fit for the duty. One of his first challenges had been to stand guard over the Harrowing of a young, rather talented mage. The mage had passed with flying colors, which was good for the both of them - as it would have been Cullen's duty to kill him if the young man had failed and become an abomination.

As far as duties go, it wasn't his favorite one so far.

Amell was certain to pass the Harrowing; they'd all known it. He'd been trained by Irving, hand-picked. Cullen hadn't been worried, standing guard over the boy's unconscious form. Still, it was quite a thing, to hold a life in your hands. He wasn't sure he was cut out for it; the image of Nili waking with glowing, demonic eyes had haunted his dreams for several nights. He hadn't talked to his fellows about that, so he wasn't sure if he was the only one, but it had to be a sign of weakness, right? He doubted the Knight-Commander was haunted by such things; they were a part of everyday templar life. Part of him thought it might be a good thing, that he was so disturbed by something he should be disturbed by. Part of him thought it was a strength, to take one's duty so seriously. He just couldn't picture any of his superiors with such fears - they didn't seem the type. Surely, he wasn't cut out for this.

Hindsight was funny like that.

His current duty wasn't so bad, he mused - standing guard was hardly a trial. Sure, he was supposed to be on alert with the mages practicing nearby, but it had never bothered him. Never, when Surana was in charge.

In his periphery, the elf demonstrated a lucid control of runic magic - incomplete and unfinished, causing the spell to fizzle out into whorls of color and light. Her magic curled and flowed through the air like fingers through water, rippling outward as the Fade echoed around her hand. She was showing off; such reckless displays of magic were often discouraged, but he wasn't going to be the one to discourage her. Personally, he rather liked it when they all practiced so freely - it was often quite a sight that he was sure few others got to see. In many ways, he felt magic was beautiful - truly the greatest blessing the Maker had bestowed upon the world. Additionally, magic had a certain feel to it that didn't bother him like it did most of his brothers. He'd heard many describe it as an itch, or a tingling on the scalp, always a sensory experience. Like a sound and smell, or trembling in the earth or air.

While some of the Enchanters' magic did bother him, such as Uldred's chaotic churning, Surana's was always soothing. Perhaps it was the way she approached her magic without fear, similar to Anders, now that he noticed them. Or perhaps it was a quality she passed onto the people around her. Her low, and patient voice had a way of luring your attention in the same way her magic did. He knew his admiration wasn't entirely appropriate; she happened to be the first female in the Tower he'd taken notice of, which made him feel guilty . . . Whenever she caught him looking her way he got butterflies in his stomach, and it was hard to form words in her presence because she emanated this confidence that he was certain he lacked, and she had to know and, well. He'd done his best to squash those feelings as best he could. No, this was definitely his favorite duty, even if it was sometimes his most stressful. That wasn't Surana's fault, though.

Anders, the apprentice she was instructing, had attempted to one-up her with geometric patterns of his own. Anders he only knew by reputation, because most of his brothers had had run-ins with the rebellious apprentice. If Anders wasn't caught in a prank, he was being blamed for one, or caught trying to escape, or cozied up with another mage in some alcove by not being discreet enough. Though Cullen hadn't been the one to catch Anders in the act yet, he knew it was only a matter of time. Everyone eventually did, or so they said.

Half of a fiery rune latched itself onto the ground near Anders during his attempt, which is when Surana began to lecture him on deconstruction. As he watched, he noticed Anders' eyes unwisely vary away from Surana's lecture. In the process of an eye-roll, her foot snaked out and tripped him, causing him to stumble and set off the rune beneath his feet. She laughed in delight as his hem caught fire and he shot ice magic at it, trying to put himself out. Cullen didn't move from his position, thoroughly entertained.

The kerfuffle brought the attention of the Knight-Commander, however, who unfortunately had been walking down the hall just as Anders had been busily setting himself on fire. Cullen's back instinctively stiffened as the Commander stepped inside, and the two mages' immediately halted their motions and held still. He looked between the three, before turning to Cullen and asking him what the commotion was. "Nothing, ser," Cullen reports. Ayah Surana's expression darkened as she approached, unafraid and visibly irritated.

"Hello, Knight-Commander," she bit out. "Didn't I run into you yesterday, while I was peacefully studying?"

"It is my duty to protect the Tower and its residents," Greagoir responded dully.

"I was in no more danger then than I am now," Surana asserted.

"It's not you I worry about, but everyone else around you." With that charming remark, he left, and Cullen was allowed to finally breathe a sigh of relief that he'd been holding in. Ayah scowled at the Commander's back as he left.

Surana was closer than she'd ever been before. That didn't occur to him until he looked at her, and she turned her head and smiled. He hoped he wasn't blushing, but he knew he was. They didn't talk about how he had lied to cover for them. She's so . . . he doesn't let himself finish that thought, because Ayah's eyes begin to emit light. From behind her, Anders' glowed as well. Her once-dark eyes become purple, and her smile was no longer beautiful or charming. Her teeth were gleaming, and sharp, and her form changed before his eyes. Her body stretched out and grew until Cullen couldn't tell the difference between his memory, and Desire.

Cullen stumbled back in horror, and wept.

Nissa cackled.

The massive, Dwarven doors shut as templar arms pulled it closed behind them. When the lock clicked, the protective runes on the door activated, causing it to emit a radiant white light from the lyrium-infused lines etched into the stone. Greagoir looked amongst what was left of his Order. Wounded boys and broken men. They needed something, anything after what they had just witnessed. His own mind was having trouble grasping the enormity of what had occurred in the last few hours.

He closed his eyes, and breathed. When he opened them, he was sure. "I need a volunteer runner to bring a message to Denerim. I have declared the Right of Annulment; the Ferelden Circle is lost." There were some gasps of dismay, but not a single objection.

This is the end. I'm sorry, Irving, more than you will ever know.

Chapter 9: VIII

Chapter Text

In the vast and untamed Dreaming lay a shining, bejeweled, and impossible city that was not built, but grown. The foundation rose out of blackened, volcanic sand and seemed to naturally shape itself into dwellings for the spirits that could live there. However, no spirits dwelt inside. The city, once called the Monad, was now empty and silent. No wind blew, no fires burned, no lights shone - all was silent.

Curiosity liked to think that it was not deserted, but waiting for all its people to return home. Of all its outcast people, only Curiosity and Desire remained - and Desire was fickle and far too interested in the mortal plane to remain for long, while Curiosity was . . . Bound. It spent the lonely moments watching vainly for signs of life within the Monad, to no avail. It endured a lonely existence, without Hope.

It was not completely abandoned; there was at least one that Curiosity would see visiting rarely, a shadow of itself only. Always it came in the form of an animal, like it’d forgotten how to walk like a man, or stopped caring enough to do so. When Hope had still been living there, it had been an elven boy. It suspected that, with Hope gone, it had become formless with nothing to keep its mind busy. That had been Hope’s entire self-imposed job, after all. Yet entrance was denied to the spirits, the wards that kept the city’s former residents at bay bowed and bent when the shadow-beast walked past them, always welcoming the sorrowful shapeshifter inside. Sometimes, it would prowl on all fours like a wolf. Sometimes, it would stalk the edges of the city as a panther. Always, it would plaintively howl and crow when it reached the center, as if to call for Hope’s return.

Curiosity waited outside, patiently, and was always locked out. It remembered a time when they all lived in the city, spirit and demon, man and idea, but that memory was now a distant dream. It watched as the shade became an eagle, and circled over Curiosity’s head before swooping inside on dark wings. It never approached, so Curiosity could not ask what had happened to the boy that had once played with them, and why he no longer spoke to them at all. Once, the being had been full of stories and memories and had loved to share its wisdom. Once they had played, and grown, and learned the many mysteries of the Fade. Now, Hope was gone, and it was as if it had taken the life from the boy with it.

Curiosity didn’t know what to do with itself now. It felt frightened and alone. The glistening city was silent as the grave, but for the cry of the eagle overhead. In a formless realm, only the Monad stood still in time and place unchanging.

“You did very well, da’len,” said an elven boy with green eyes and snowy tufts of hair. His hair grew rapidly all over his body, changing into fur, and his body shrunk as he smiled, shape-changing into a small white mouse. Though his mouth did not move, the words sounded clearly into Ayah’s head and the pale whiskers on the mouse’s nose twitched in emphasis. “I wasn’t worried. Your growth in power recently has been astounding.”

Ayah Surana, newly Harrowed mage and owner of the sordid honor of being the youngest to take it on record in the Ferelden Circle (at the gangly age of twelve), pouted. “Yes you were too worried,” she accused, and knelt down to the mouse’s level. In a fluid and practiced motion, the little mouse walked forward onto her outstretched palm and let her place him gently on her small shoulder. With him nestled warmly near her neck, and Ayah in charge of their destination, they moved as one through their shared dream. They passed through peaceful glens and dark moors, the world spinning and shifting beneath the girl’s feet. Whorls of light and repeating patterns followed in her steps, creating geometric structures of light and dark glass. “You almost bit that demon in half,” she reminisced, and giggled. “You made a nice bear, though - but I’ve never seen a real one, so I guess I don’t know if it was nice. It looked much like the drawings in the Chantry books. But, I thought you were a nice bear. Mousey? Do you think you could teach me to be a bear?”

The mouse defended itself with an irritated squeak. “Mousey? That’s just degrading. And it tried to touch you, and you let it get too close!” He bit back, irritated. Twin red eyes glared up at the mage-child. “You’re not cautious enough. The Fade’s denizens are not your playmates! Sometimes, I wonder if this is what it feels like to talk to a stone. I honestly feel as though I’d have a better conversation with a rock, since I’d really just be talking to myself and not have to waste any time putting up with your attitude.”

Ayah shrugged off the lecture, causing the mouse to let out a small eep as its position was disrupted. It burrowed itself into the long hair at the nape of her neck, and crossed to the other shoulder, making the girl squirm. “Ah! Stop fidgeting!” She giggled girlishly. “That tickles!” She tried to grab at the mouse, but it slipped out of her fingers and crawled down her arm to the ground. As it landed, its form shifted and expanded into that of a golden-eyed cat.

The cat consented to an apology-ear-scratch, when Ayah knelt down to his level again. After a few seconds of attention, the cat twirled away out of reach and sat back on his haunches to stare penetratingly at the newly-Harrowed twelve-year-old. “They aren’t pets that you can name and keep. They’re not all going to change for you.”

Ayah glared back at the cat and studied its features up close, committing them to her memory. “Sometimes, I wonder if you’re my real challenge,” she admitted. “Though, I suppose you wouldn’t try to lecture me so much if you were after abominationhood.”

The cat made a scoffing noise and flicked his white, bushy tail irritably. “I look like a demon to you? And that isn’t a real word.” Ayah began to shift her own form, starting with a tail and ending with black paws crested with white fur. In a matter of seconds, a lankier calico version of the white cat sat in the place where the little elven mage had once stood. Rather than respond, she leaned back on her haunches and began to flick her tail, poised to pounce. The white cat stood and held his ground, and he issued a chuckle. “Fine, I’ll go first this time,” he promised, and bolted.

As the two cats chased each other, the ground around them began to grow upwards and out, as buildings made of stone and and spires made of glass accelerated up and out of the ground. The Fade changed around them, and the ground beneath them rumbled as its physics changed with the whims of its denizens. As the cats leapt from wall to spire, challenging each other to create and scale even more impossible structures, the ground took flight and became an ever-shifting isle soaring through the green sky.

The calico almost had her prey in her grasp when a scream shattered across her consciousness and forced Ayah Surana into wakefulness. The memory melted into pitch dark. Her eyes opened to shadow and cold stone, with the unmistakable echo of Cullen’s scream in her head. Momentarily paralyzed by the suddenness of the wake-up from her deep sleep, it only took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. She rolled onto her knees and stood up, brushing her hands off of the dirt from the ground. As she stretched, her bones cracked from the chill. The memory that had played in her mind during her sleep drifted in and out of her thoughts, before dissipating completely.

When her mind didn’t immediately recognize her environment, or remember how she had arrived in it, Ayah went through a checklist of her surroundings. Dirt on the floor meant she couldn’t have been on the main level of the Tower, which was kept meticulously clean by the other Tranquil. One door - wooden, and warded judging from the scratched sigils around the edges, which likely meant it was the Repository, the only place where wards were necessary (to keep what artifacts they had out of prying or irresponsible hands). While she tested the door and looked for a way to break the wards, she tried to remember exactly what had happened between the Repository and her last memory - of arriving with the surviving mages and templars of the Circle after the slaughter at Ostagar. She hadn’t done anything that warranted a punishment via solitary isolation - she was certain of it - though admitted it was possible that Cullen was involved. Unlikely, but possible.

It was far more likely that she had been imprisoned against her will, since she could not recall one way or the other. After finding a loose stone in the wall and wedging it free, she did her best to break it against the door’s handle and frame, to disrupt the wards. As she did so, she concentrated, but with each blow of the stone in her hand, her mind was frustratingly blank. She had been upstairs . . . CRACK . . . She’d been confined to the Chantry with Owain and the others . . . CRACK . . . Someone had entered the Chantry, called her by name . . . CRACK . . . There was no face. She couldn’t remember. There was nothing. CRACK. Who had put her here? Someone had said her name. Surana. CRACK. ‘Surana!’

The mana in the door leeched away, and as dull as Ayah’s senses were to the flow of it there was a distinctive temperature change that denoted the wards’ deactivation. That, at least, was one problem taken care of. Ayah turned her attention to breaking the lock and trying to push it open simultaneously. It took a few tries, but she eventually managed to break it. On the other side of the door was the phylactery chamber.

Ayah blinked as the a torch on the wall forced her eyes to suddenly adjust to more light. Painted and squinting, she inched her way inside the cold chamber, kept so by the Ice enchantments inscribed into the walls and floors. She could feel winter seeping in through her boots the further in she walked. When her eyes finally adjusted, something in her memory clicked and it occurred to her that the girl who had called her by name in the Chantry was Nissa.

’Surana!’ the girl name Nissa had called. ’Hello there, dear. I missed you awfully. Please tell me you remember me.’ Ayah had been confused, and couldn’t remember what she’d replied with. There was nothing.

While Ayah was away at Ostagar, Nissa Amell had been locked in the dungeons and was awaiting transfer to Aeonar. Nissa Amell, whom Ayah’s memory recalled as a curious blankness. There was no face to the name, only those words, but there was something about Nissa to uncover, Ayah was sure, and she was absolutely certain it had something to do with blood magic. There could be no doubt; Ayah had been the one who had taught her how to do it in the first place - that detail, at least, she could recall. It had been one of many charges brought against her, before she began. They’d told her as much, when Nissa had been imprisoned after she had begun on the Fifth; Nissa had been quite vocal about it. It hadn’t mattered, much. The punishment had been rendered. She had not been allowed near Apprentices for a time, for fear of disturbing them, and her duties had changed from maintenance to attending Irving personally for a short time. Nothing had resulted of it.

Nissa Amell. Nissa. Nissa. Hello there, dear. I missed you awfully. Nissa. Surana! Slight lisp in the voice. Unique. Amber eyes, the color of honey. The thought of them hit a place in Ayah’s stomach that stopped her cold for a few moments, while she tried to process the sensation. She couldn’t tell if it was intuition or indigestion, and soldiered on.

She eventually reached the exit, which memory told her was also warded, but the lack of context in that memory confused her. Annoyed (and unused to feeling so confused over so many different things in such a short time), she focused on the wards and determined how to best break them. Most mages tended to throw magic at each other’s wards until they exploded. Templars had to get creative since they couldn’t smite a ward, and none other than her old friend Delaney had inadvertently given her the idea of smashing the writing with an irritating anecdote about ducks. After noting that the wards were not etched, but drawn, she knocked over one or two of the phylactery rooms’ shelves onto the door and sent the contents smashing all over the floor.

Dodging the bits of frozen blood chunks and glass, she toed her way back to the entrance and carefully pulled away the bits of wood and fallen beams. After clearing herself a small enough entrance, she managed to wedge through the broken door. On the other side was darkness.

A piece of Ayah’s skirt stuck itself to a sliver of wood from the door. As she ripped herself free, the shadows on the other side began to move and change shape. Just as Ayah turned around, three shades had formed out of the dark and rushed forward with claws outstretched, trying to gut her. She barely had time to react: Ayah leapt to the side, and dove between two of the shades in a moment of desperation. She rolled quickly to her feet and took off in a sprint toward the entrance, knowing that without the proper weapons, she stood little to no chance in the darkness against such demons. Claws dripping with black ichor tore at her skirts, causing her to nearly stumble. She gauged the possibility of the door to the lowest level being locked, but decided it was worth the risk compared to the alternative.

By good fortune or design, the door was unlocked, and Ayah stumbled out of the pitch darkness of the repository into the dim light of the main atrium. Such entities could only thrive in the shadows, or their native realm, where only the idea and memory of light could exist. Neither hearing nor seeing the shades behind her, Ayah took a moment to catch her breath and regain her bearings.

She knew only a few things. First, was that something terrible had happened to the Circle, to both the mages and templars. The most likely possibility was that the Tower had been taken over by demons, possibly at the bidding of one of the Senior Mages in attempt at a coup. Ayah presumed it to be either Torrin or Uldred, though most likely her former teacher due to his prior experience with blood magic.

The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. It could be no other; Uldred was the one who expressed the most unrest after they returned from the slaughter at Ostagar. He had the most motivation, having suffered the loss of most of his apprentices to the Tower’s templars - Ayah herself was not even the first such victim. That had been . . . What was his name? Who were the others? A series of faces swam in her memories, with no names attached. Her head felt funny. Ayah rubbed her brow, and hissed in pain, noting that there was a welt on her forehead where she’d been struck.

Feeling better about her certainty, she took a few deep breaths and decided to head further in, rather than out. It was simple - Uldred would not leave if his intention was to take over. There would be templars in the atrium and repository if they were still in control of the Circle. This meant that Cullen was somewhere, probably inside and in danger, or possibly dead.

A guilty stone sunk in her gut at the thought of Cullen’s demise. He isn’t dead. [He might be.] We don’t know til we find him. Shaking her head of the uncontrollable thoughts, she continued through the main hall towards the apprentice’ dormitory, uncertain of what she would find. Cullen’s life was the only thing that mattered, if the Circle was lost. [The only way out, is in.] She’d find him, and this curiously blank Nissa, and extract answers from Uldred should they cross paths.

The hall outside of the apprentice’s chambers was eerily quiet. Ayah was mostly unaffected, preoccupied with thoughts of Cullen as she was and experiencing dissatisfaction at the dirty state of the floors. She encountered nothing, and no one. The dorms were empty and unkempt, as if beds had been moved in a struggle and stacks had been knocked over. No one was inside, but all evidence seemed to support the idea of a riot. The body of a young templar near the entrance to the library was all the further proof needed. Ayah could not remember his name, or his face, but thanked his empty corpse for the sword he had left behind. Ayah picked up the templar’s weapon to test its weight, and feeling satisfied, ventured into the library without trepidation.

The site that awaited her in the library gave her pause. Many dead apprentices cluttered the floors, some with faces she knew, others not. There was no signs of life, or sounds - except a dripping noise from one of the windows. The further she walked into the dim candlight, the more carnage she saw, until her slippers became soaked with blood.

Ayah searched for signs of life. Young mages were draped over fallen shelves, stools, and podiums. Among them a few mages of higher rank, and some children, but none with senior robes. Not a pulse among them. A few templars, with scorch marks and scores running through their chain-mail and armor. She tipped each templar body over and pried off their helmets, relieved that she didn’t recognize Cullen amongst them. He’s all that matters. Still, the thought of finding his body drove her on. [The only way out, is in.]

Past the classrooms and stacks, the sounds of stirring set Ayah on high alert. She crouched down near one of the fallen stacks and stared out into the darkness as the sound of wretched lungs drawing breath reached her. In the shadows, two of the fallen apprentices began to stand. They hunched, and contorted, and Ayah watched intently as their forms began to expand and crunch, growing grotesque tubers and additional limbs. A roar unlike any she had ever heard before emerged from the mouths of the newly formed abominations.

As the two monsters began to hobble about, the Tranquil realized that they hadn’t seen her yet. Standing on her sticky, bloodstained shoes, she took her sword and clanged it against the bookcase to get their attention. Almost as one, the ex-mages shuffled around and turned towards her with snarling, twisted expressions. They lurched towards her with claws outstretched while Ayah stood still and waited.

As the first one reached her, Ayah cut low and spun around its backside, impaling it with her sword. It squealed and writhed in pain. With another swift motion, she yanked the sword free and swung at the other’s neck (or what used to be its neck). The abomination surprised her with its swift dodge, and swiped at her with its claws, attempting to grab her. Ayah pulled away fast enough for it to only grab at her clothes, giving her skirt another tear. Annoyed, she dodged its next sloppy swipe and stabbed it right through the side of the head, and left the sword inside.

Ayah ripped at the rest of her skirt, leaving only her leggings behind and part of the back half. She picked up another fallen templar’s sword and carried on, undeterred.

Her battle seemed to stir the spirits of the other fallen, and a few more abominations rose from the ground. They didn’t last long in battle, but the Rage demon that clawed its fiery way out of the ground right near the stairs up took her by surprise. It managed to get in a good gut swipe that cauterized almost immediately due to Rage’s fiery appendages, before Ayah’s templar sword cleaved it in twain, sending it screaming back to the Fade. Clutching her wounded side, she ran up the stairs to the Mage’s Quarters as fast as she could, irritated at the wound and at the bloody footprints she was leaving behind since she knew one of her fellows would have to clean all the mess up later and would likely suffer ingratitude.

She took a moment to catch her breath at the top of the stairs before continuing on. She ran into several more abominations and picked up a few daggers off of the bodies of fallen templars, noting that their number of dead templars and abominations were increasing the further up in the Tower she ascended. On the third floor, near the cafeteria, she encountered her first intact survivors in the Mage’s Quarters.

There were three of them, all of either apprentice or mage rank, who greeted her with familiarity and startle.

“Who’s there?” One of them cried out, pointing her staff at Ayah’s huddled and bloodied form.

“It’s one of the sisters!” A male to her side called out. Neither had faces Ayah could recall, so they were unimportant.

“Peace,” Ayah croaked out. “Know you any healing spells?” She inquired, and came into the candlelight.

One of them, an apprentice, approached her cautiously but kept her staff pointed down. “I-” she began, but one of the fellows cut her off. “I thought they were all dead!” The first female hissed. “Why would a sister be here? They were all in the Chantry!”

The apprentice, close enough to Ayah to see her face, flinched back once she did. “Oh. No. You’re-she’s one of the Tranquil. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Ayah affirmed impatiently. “Know you any healing spells? I am wounded.” The two mages looked amongst each other, as if debating something, and then one of them waved a hand at her and sent a rudimentary healing spell that patched her side. It wasn’t the most elegant work she’d ever felt, but the cool snake-like feeling of the healing magic was relieving, and Ayah let out a sigh, straightening her posture. “Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t be up here,” the apprentice said, seeming nervous. “All the others—”

“Wait a minute,” the male mage said, “I recognize you. You’re Surana!” Funny that they should know her, and she would know them not. Ayah was about to object, but the first female mage spoke up and continued the male’s thought.

“Oh, right. You helped Jowan escape, right? Didn’t something bad happen? I don’t remember. Hey, did Uldred send you?” The female mage asked.

This actually stopped Ayah up short. It was rare that she was at a loss for words, but the question had stunned her. “Uldred?” She repeated, questioningly. “Uldred is behind this, then,” she surmised. “Yes, that makes sense. Thank you for the information.”

They didn’t seem to know how to respond to her. “Uldred said you helped free us all,” the apprentice stated, nervously. She exchanged further glances with her compatriots. The apprentice began to back away from Ayah slowly. “Didn’t you?”

“It sounds like something I would do,” Ayah told her, and threw her sword through the apprentice blood mage’s throat. The other two began to draw on their mana, but before the male could draw breath, his throat was cut with Ayah’s dagger. The first mage, the female, let out a panicked cry and drew on the blood of the fallen apprentice to give her strength. Ayah recognized the spell and recited the counter litany in her mind, grabbing her sword out of the apprentice’s throat and cutting through the staff the girl raised in self-defense.

“How—” she began, but was silenced by Ayah’s blade. She felt nothing as the three died, knowing they would have killed her the instant they found out that she neither knew nor cared for Uldred’s plans. Cullen was her only concern anymore. The Circle was done. It had been dismantled. Should she have felt something about that? The Circle defined her existence. It was her life. [What is my life, if it is not mine?] Cullen was the only thing that mattered anymore. His safety was paramount.

As she ventured further, Ayah encountered Owain, uninjured and largely unruffled in the stock room. He didn’t seem surprised to find her there. “Hello, Ayah,” Owain greeted. “I apologize for the disarray of the stock room. During the commotion, I have not had the opportunity to put it in order.”

“Hello Owain. It is good to see you. That is understandable.” Ayah nodded. “I pity the Tranquil in charge of cleaning the dormitories. There was much bloodshed.”

Owain nodded too. “Blood mages have tried to take over the Tower. They left me alone, but took some of the others.” This grabbed Ayah’s interest - after all, what would a maleficar desire from a Tranquil? A blood sacrifice, perhaps? That made the most logical sense. “I do not know where they have gone, but you are the only other I have seen,” Owain went on. “I am relieved you are alive.”

Ayah took a moment to ransack the stock room (with Owain’s permission) for poultices. He assisted her in the treatment of her burn and other cuts, while they engaged in meditative silence. After her wounds were properly treated, Ayah asked, “Do you recall what happened, after we were locked in the Chantry?”

Owain blinked. “You were taken by one of the blood mages,” he recalled. “I did not expect to see you alive again.”

“I think she locked me in the repository,” Ayah explained. “I was alone, and escaped, killing my way here.”

“Naturally,” he went on, “and after that, I heard cries and commotion. They took several of the others. I hid in the Chantry behind one of the statues, and waited until the noise died. I do not know what has happened to any of the others. I made my way to the stock room, and have been here ever since. I thought to recover the Litany of Adralla, since it would be needed if the Right of Annulment was called for, but one of the mages who survived the onslaught requested it from me, and I gave it to him instead, hoping it would be of some use. I have not seem him since.”

Ayah hadn’t even considered annulment. She realized that, now that the Tower was in such disarray, it was likely that Greagoir would call for it and exterminate everything in the Tower - herself included. This was simply unacceptable. “If the dissension is quelled, Annulment will be unnecessary,” she surmised. “If I find Uldred, I will kill him, and do my best to save the others,” she promised Owain.

He merely nodded. “I believe you are connected to this, peripherally,” he added. “I don’t know in what capacity, but there must have been a reason you were set aside and spared.”

“It is likely,” she agreed, “but I can’t imagine why. I remember the Litany, and so as long as I kill them all, I should be fine.”

Owain didn’t smile because there wasn’t a reason to, but there was a twitch in his expression that spoke of something. Of what, Ayah couldn’t tell. Her fellows were much harder to read than the others. “I thought so. You requested it from me before you were branded.”

Ayah struggled to recall the incident he spoke of, but her mind was blank. “I do not remember exactly when, but the words are present in my mind. It has already proven useful when encountering a demons and several maleficar on the lower levels.”

“The memory loss is likely the result of trauma,” Owain guessed. “That is often the case with Tranquility - memories of my old life have faded, particularly the traumatic ones. It is a relief, compared to life before.” Ayah couldn’t disagree with this statement. She knew that Owain had not had the easiest life as a mage, especially given his nature as an Apologist, though Ayah was still a child when he was branded. She had not known him, before, even though he knew her in both states.

“I think it is something else,” Ayah disagreed, then changed the subject. “Do you know where the templar Cullen is?”

Owain’s face scrunched up into concentration. “I do not know that name or face. I am uncertain. Many templars are dead. Perhaps you should search there.”

Ayah stared at the ground, and then nodded. She stood and stretched, and picked up her weapons from where she had placed them on the ground. “Thank you, Owain. I need to find him.”

“Then I hope to see you again, but do not expect it,” Owain said in parting. He gave her a few of the potions he had left in a bag, keeping the rest for himself in case of emergency. She thought this wise, since she knew it was very possible she would not return.

She left, feeling . . . Strange, as if there were a thousand worms or snakes slithering around her guts. It was an unpleasant, jarring sensation that caused one of her hands to begin to shake. Cullen. I have to find Cullen. She pressed on. Demons, shades, and abominations alike fell before her sword and daggers. She endured cut after blow after bruise, barely taking the time to take swigs of an elfroot potion in her potion sack at her belt.

In the atrium leading to the Senior Mage’s quarters, Ayah met her match in the demon of Sloth. When she encountered Sloth, Ayah was too distracted by her own anxiety to complete the Litany of Adralla. She swung her sword blindly, overwhelmed with lethargy. The blow didn’t land, and her sword clattered to the ground. She reached for a dagger, but found her body falling rather than responding to the commands she was issuing it. Her limbs went limp, and her eyes closed as the shadowy, spiky form of Sloth hovered over her, whispering a peculiar lullaby in her ear. No amount of struggle seemed to aid her, and there was nothing she could do but sleep.

She collapsed near the body of a desiccated mage. The scent of his rot filled her nostrils as Ayah closed her eyes, finally giving in, waiting for another memory to take her as she knew no dreams would await her.

Only, when Ayah opened her eyes and regained control of her limbs merely moments later, she was surprised to find the blackened ground and green sky of the raw Fade all around her.

Ayah blinked.

And blinked again.

She stood, and took a step forward. Underneath her bloodstained slippers, the world shuddered and whorls of light and patterns spiraled outward. With each step she took, more patterns and light spread, blues and greens and golds. As she waved her hand, she watched the tracer of her hand as it moved, leaving trails of light in the air itself. She looked up, and saw a wide and open sky full of a churning black and green storm. When she stared hard enough at the roiling clouds, the storm seemed to still.

Confused, she spun in circles, trying to get her bearings. It did not feel like a memory, but it must have been, for it could not be a dream. The ground around her was flat and dry as a desert. No wind, nor sound. She was alone, as far as she could tell, in the raw Fade.

It was utterly baffling. After a while, she started walking in a random direction. It seemed the most logical thing to do. The patterns followed her steps and left strange shapes in her wake, when she looked back in the direction she came from - and then she saw something behind her.

Behind her in the distance was a figure. On a queer impulse, she gave chase to it. What seemed like a shadow from afar in the shape of person grew and morphed into a horizon. The closer she got, the further she ran, the more the horizon stretched until it filled out into a shimmering, broken city that was further than her eyes could see. The broken spires of the city stemmed up from the ground - some had shattered completely some seemed to be intact. The walls of the city were crumbled, but the closer she got, she saw the runic wards carved into the ground all around the edges of the city. ’Could it be a dream?’ Surely it would not be a memory - surely she would recall something so vivid and strange as a city grown from volcanic rock.

She walked along the edge of the city, determined to find its end, but could not fathom it. Eventually, as she walked, the Fade itself bent the ground up and around to give her a better view - it was as if she were on the inside of a sphere, rather than walking along its edge. She saw then that it did have an end, it was simply huge - and on some kind of island, given that the land ended when the city did.

Terribly confused and a little worried about Sloth, she ran along the edges of the city until she found a gate, and struggled to find the memory that would explain what she saw. She remembered a dream, as a child, before the brand - but was not certain that this was not simply a fantasy given all the stories the Chantry told of the Black City. Something in her felt like the Maker’s city and this one had to have been very different things - but why she felt that way, she didn’t know.

A tingling on the back of her neck alerted her to the presence of another - she reached for a weapon that was not there and whirled around to face the Sloth demon, but was irritated to discover it was not so.

Behind her was a being in the shape of a tall humanoid, comprised not of substance but carved from the surrounding void of the Fade. Where a being might stand and be seen, was merely the absence of light - like a hole in the air. She noted that it was at least in the shape of an elf from the distinctive pointed ears, but was too wide to be her own shadow. Ayah, it said in a whisper at the edge of hearing, so close that it tickled her brain. It seemed happy, and rather warm, and she got the sense that it was no threat.

“Hello. Are you a spirit?” She wondered, and dropped her guard.

The feeling of warmth was replaced by a feeling of despair. The entity didn’t respond but reached for her. She held still, knowing instinctively that it couldn’t hurt her - it reached a shadowy, shaking hand to her brand and touched it. Ayah was a little startled that she felt a physical touch - it was cool, like water. The being’s outstretched hand radiated bitterness, shimmering and shaking. ’You do not know me,’ it finally stated, mournfully. ’Not my form, my voice, my . . .’ It trailed off, and sounded so sad to her that Ayah wondered what would happen if a spirit tried to cry.

Struggling to recall her encounters with beings in the Fade before her branding was like trying to piece together a jigsaw without knowing what it was supposed to look like. Clearly, the being knew her, and from her few memories of dream-walking Ayah knew that she had met many spirits, both benign and malicious in the Fade. This one must have been one of the benign ones, likely a powerful one - perhaps an old ally? A friend? Slowly, the reality of her situation began to come to her. She was not in a dream, but she was in the Fade - the Sloth demon had somehow succeeded in putting a Tranquil in the Fade. Her mind tried cope with that idea, and found it oddly easy to accept. What wasn’t easy was trying to remember the name or shape of the being in front of her.

“Were you . . . “ She racked her brain. A particular memory stuck out, of a cat and mouse that used to play together in a shining city. “Perhaps . . . a mouse, once?” It curved around her, and gestured as if to escort her into the city. She followed as it walked soundlessly past the wards on the ground. Ayah gave them no mind as she followed it, and wasn’t surprised when they didn’t give her any trouble as she walked by. Most of the structures had crumbled, but a few stood. Some seemed to be made of gemstones, but most were carved out of fade-touched obsidian and stretched up like seashells. “What is your name?” She asked it, as it led her on.

‘Giving me a name would be unwise,’ it instructed in a teacherly tone. ’A name implies identity, and I am free of that self that confines you. That I speak at all is because you allow it. Here, you are the only truth - your will is reality. To give me a name would make me real, and spoil it.’

As it monologued, Ayah decided that it must enjoy the sound of its own voice a great deal and grew irritated. “I will name you Pester, then,” she decided, “because you pester me with information I didn’t ask for.” The entity stopped in its escort to stare at her. It stopped shaking and shimmering so much, and she got the sense that it was irritated with her - or amused. “I do not know this place,” she told it, “but it seems as if we were friends once. I apologize if you were expecting something else, but I’d very much like to wake up now. I have a Sloth demon to slay, and then I have to find Cullen. Many lives are in danger.”

It refused, even after she pleaded with it. ’The only way out is further in, da’len,’ it told her. The phrase stuck in her memory and echoed across all the scattered parts of her - this truth vibrated through her like a stricken chord. [The only way out, is in.] Something in the city stirred, and grumbled beneath her feet. The geometric patterns beneath her feet spilled out from her and touched the volcanic glass, alighting the towers and spires in the vicinity. She looked around herself in wonder at the magic, something she’d assumed was lost forever. How could something so significant have been lost? How could she have willingly surrendered such a thing? She no longer remembered. [Does it matter?]

“Very well,” she agreed, “but please become solid. Talking to a blurry spot in the air is distracting.” With an amused chuckle, Pester bled with light from the inside until he became as bright as a sun. Ayah looked away instinctively, forgetting that she was in the Fade and had no eyes to hurt.

As she looked away, she noticed a strange bobbing light behind them that had seemingly been trailing after them. Upon being noticed, it stopped and dove behind one of the fallen spires. She paid it no mind and looked back to Pester, who had transformed into a white-furred wolf with three golden eyes. He sat back on its haunches and panted at her. She reached for his ears when his butted her leg with his snout, and followed when he led her toward the city’s center.

Occasionally, Ayah would look back, and see the bobbing light trailing faithfully. Each time it was hazy and unclear - unlike the entity beside her, who was powerful enough to control its own shape at will. Somehow she knew that no evil could enter the city, but the light did bother her with its persistence.

Eventually, she asked Pester what it was. His wolf’s mouth didn’t move, but his low voice echoed in her head all the same. ’I’m surprised you don’t recognize him, at the very least. That’s Curiosity. It used to live here.’

Ayah was confused. The light was another old friend? “Is it a spirit like you?” She wondered. Did spirits dwell in the city? Had she, once? Wouldn’t she have recalled such a thing?

‘We’re all spirits,’ the wolf replied. ’But none are like me. Perhaps, if you think on it, the memory will come to you.’

Ayah continued guided by the strange three-eyed wolf, but checked back every few minutes to make sure Curiosity was still there. It followed, but no longer tried to hide when she caught it in her periphery. Always it was close behind, and watching.

Aedan Cousland wasn’t having the best day of his life so far. Ever since the disaster at Ostagar, every day had been the worst day, now that he thought about it. After slogging through an entire magic tower of possessed templars, demons, and abominations galore, they’d fallen literally head-first into a trap laid by a demon. Awareness of this fact hadn’t helped him when he’d ‘awoken’ in Highever, half-convinced that everything he’d experienced up until that point in his life had been nothing more than a nightmarish fever-dream. Unfortunately, the memories and feelings of that bloody night in Highever were more vivid than anything the Fade could conjure. He knew from personal experience; he’d dreamed of his family dying every night since it happened. Dreams were funny.

“You’ll have to try a lot harder than this, you know,” Aedan told the ceiling - or at least, what he hoped was the general direction of the demon that had trapped him.

“What’s the matter, pup?” Bryce Cousland asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

“It’s nothing, Da,” Aedan instinctively dismissed, then cringed. “Andraste’s arse, this is painfully pathetic.”

“You seem out of sorts, pup. Is everything alright?” The shade wearing his father’s face was awfully convincing. It hadn’t taken him more than a moment to figure it out, but it was really the one wearing his mother’s face that had given it away.

“Stay for dinner at least, dear,” Eleanor Cousland suggested. Her smile was wide and touched the crinkles at the corners of her eyes. It was almost as if she hadn’t been slaughtered with the rest of his family. “You’re always off gallivanting - I feel like I never get to see you anymore.”

His real mother wouldn’t have questioned his motives. His real mother would have told him to keep fighting, and never stop until Howe was dead. His real mother would’ve understood, but his real mother was dead, and this was nothing more than a demon that wore his real mother’s face.

Dreams were funny.

After killing the shades of his family, Aedan noticed the absence of a particular scar on Fergus’ face that made him feel a little better. After all, they weren’t even good copies, and crying after you’ve killed your family was normal, even in dream-form. Right? That didn’t make drawing his sword on the shade of his nephew Oren any easier, though.

Aedan angrily wiped at the traces of grief left on his face and picked his sword back up from where he’d dropped it. The bloodied weapon had lost its blood, evaporating off of the metal into mist just like the bodies of his fake-family. “I’m going to murder that demon if it’s the last thing I bloody do,” he vowed, and marched towards the only thing in the dream he was certain was real - the pedastle that he’d never seen before, glowing with white light next to the fireplace in the main hall. Otherwise, everything in Highever castle was exactly the way he remembered it - down to the frays at the end of the tapestries in his room, and the taste of the food from Nan’s kitchen. Everything had been perfect, save for the scar on Fergus’ face, his mother’s false words, and the color of the sky outside. “Pleasant dream, otherwise,” he commented as he touched the pedastle.

The young Warden wasn’t sure what would happen to him, or if nothing would happen at all. He wasn’t terribly startled when his vision went white and he woke up in another area of the Fade, however. Somehow, he knew it wasn’t going to be as easy as hitting a demon with his sword until it died. When he could see again and the spots faded from his eyesight, he was standing over a crumbling replica of the Tower they’d just left. Or perhaps Ostagar? Examining his surroundings didn’t help - they could have been anywhere, as far as he knew. “Bloody demons,” he complained, and adjusted the Grey Warden shield on his arm. “Guess I’d better find another pedastle . . .?”

“Oh. What are you doing here?”

The voice startled Aedan so much that he drew his sword. One quick maneuver later and a young mage in blue apprentice’s robes with dull eyes and dark hair was staring him down from the end of his sword point, looking rather unconcerned about the fact that the young Warden had almost chopped his head off. Cousland swore and sheathed his weapon. “Don’t sneak up on a man with a sharp sword,” Aedan advised, “I mean, I could’ve killed you!”

The dull-eyed mage shrugged. “Wouldn’t matter if you did. This isn’t the real world, so I wouldn’t actually die. Or would I? I’m probably already dead, so I wouldn’t worry about that. I’m more surprised to see someone else caught in the trap. Did the Sloth demon get to you too?”

The mage’s tone suggested he was talking about the weather, rather than a life and death matter. Aedan frowned. “It’s a Sloth demon? What do you know about it?” He pressed. “How’d you get here? And who in the Void are you? Try to answer that one first.”

The mage nodded and looked at a point somewhere behind the Warden. When Aedan turned, he saw a strange glitter in the distance, like a shining star, but it wasn’t so fascinating that it held his interest. The mage went on in the same bored voice as before: “I’m Niall,” he introduced, touching his chest. “I was here before - I don’t . . . Remember how long, exactly. Too long, I think. I feel the connection fading even now. I think my body must be dead, or dying, but I’m still here. Still caught in this trap.” Niall huffed and looked down at the ground. “Like a rat in the jaws of a snake. I suspect the same thing happened to you, but you’re not a templar. That . . . Might be a good thing. Or a horrible thing.”

Aedan stared at the mage named Niall with a baffled expression. “Are you . . . Right, in the head? Probably not the best question to ask,” he added apologetically. “Well, nevermind that, Niall. I’m a Grey Warden. The templars agreed to let us past the sealed gates if we cleared out the abominations and stopped the rioting. We were looking for mages to join our army to stop the Blight. I don’t suppose you know the quickest way out of here?”

Niall frowned and squinted at the light in the distance. He turned his gaze back to Aedan, and there was something sharper in them that hadn’t been there before. “I think the only way out, is further in,” he said quietly. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told. There are others here you might find.” Niall jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in a vague direction. “Around. Some were trapped in dreams, like you.”

“Uh-huh,” Aedan nodded, thinking of his friends. And Wynne. “And . . . are any of them like you?”

Niall shook his head. “I don’t think so. Maybe one. She’s around somewhere. She found me, pulled me out of my dream.” Immediately, Aedan thought of Morrigan, before he remembered that Morrigan had refused to join them in the Tower due to her status as an apostate. Perhaps it was for the best - Aedan knew she’d likely do nothing but lecture them on their stupidity for falling into this trap in the first place, rather than help them out of it. “She’ll probably find you, now that you’re free. I think she’s trying to kill the demon.”

Aedan liked this mystery person already. “Sounds like an ally. Aren’t you trying to kill it too?”

Niall shrugged and fidgeted. “I don’t really see the point. I’m certain I’m already dead.”

The Warden stared at the maybe-dead mage for a few seconds before clearing his throat. “Well, alright then. If you could just give me directions to the nearest nightmare, I’d appreciate it.”

The mage nodded at the pedastle Aedan had touched before, behind him. “I saw her use that,” he said. “The demons, too. The Fade is more about intent that anything - I think if you think of where you need to go, it’ll take you. Of course, there are other beings here . . . Demons, spirits . . . They’re drawn to violent dreams. And the dreams of the Tower now are, well, violent. I don’t know for certain where you’ll end up.”

“That’s lovely, Niall,” Aedan muttered, and impulsively slapped his hand on the pedastle with nary a goodbye. He’d had plenty of the unsettling conversation with the unsettling mage, and tried his best to focus on thoughts of his allies. At the least another nightmare had to be better than the conversation he’d been trapped in.

When the light dimmed and Aedan could see again, he was facing a strange scene. There, in an almost identical section of the raw Fade to the one he’d just left, were two people outside of a ramshackle abode. One was Alistair; one was a red-headed woman he’d never seen before, and together they were pinning laundry on a string outside whilst chatting amicably. Given the stormy sky, the black city in the distance, and the general strangeness of everything he’d just endured, the sight made Aedan reflexively laugh.

“Oh! Hey, Aedan!” Alistair called over to his chuckling, hunched over brother Warden. Alistair was smiling wide and looked happy, which was an expression on his face that seemed as natural as it was foreign; Aedan hadn’t seen him smile so easily since before Ostagar. Every now and then, cheerful-Al would pop out to say hello, but for the most part Alistair had been stuck in a permanent sulk that Aedan could empathize with. Neither of them had an easy road. Alistair had jogged over to the younger man, who managed to compose himself. “Hey! We weren’t expecting you. Lucky Goldanna made such a large pot of stew. Join us! How’ve you been?” Alistair reached in for a hug which Aedan instinctively returned even though he felt really, really weird about it in the awkward moment.

“Uh,” Aedan began, and pulled away. “Alistair. Listen to me: wait—who is Goldanna?”

Alistair smiled and looked back to the red-headed woman, who was approaching. “That’s my sister. That’s right! You’ve never met! Goldanna, you have to meet Aedan. He’s another Warden, like me. I told you about him, right?”

Goldanna was a small woman with red hair and gold-green eyes. She looked like a younger, female clone of her brother. Aedan was a little surprised since Alistair had never spoken of any sisters, and only mentioned that he was an illegitimate child raised near Redcliffe. The details suddenly seemed important; not once could Aedan recall his brother Warden ever mentioning a blasted sister. “Alistair. You don’t have a sister, as far as I know,” Aedan pointed out. “And besides that, we need to leave. We’re on a schedule.”

Goldanna frowned and placed an arm on Alistair’s. She looked up at her pseudo-brother with a puzzled frown. “Of course I know of Aedan. He’s said such nice things about you. What’s the matter, Alistair? Did something happen?”

Aedan didn’t let Alistair consider the demon’s words for a moment and started to pull him away, but the demon named Goldanna refused to let go. “Remember the Tower?” He pressed. “The Sloth demon? Falling asleep? We’ve been in the Fade ever since?”

Realization began to dawn on Alistair’s face like a slow sunrise. “Wait a minute . . .”

Aedan didn’t have time for Alistair to question him, and drew his sword on Goldanna. Alistair drew back, shocked, as Aedan pierced the demon through the stomach before it could attack either of them. “What in Andraste’s flaming knickers are you doing?!” Alistair cried, alarmed, but stopped short when Goldanna’s body disappeared into mist along with the blood on Aedan’s blade. Alistair paled. “Maker’s breath—what—”

He sheathed his weapon and turned back to his brother Warden. “Sorry about that,” Aedan apologized insincerely, “but I wasn’t going to wait around for you to pull your head out of your own arse.”

Alistair was rubbing his forehead with an upset expression. “Maker’s Breath, I — that — she was a demon. Damn, I can’t believe I fell for that - hey, uh, so. Thanks.” Alistair glanced up at his fellow Warden in begrudging respect. “Er. Could you maybe do me a favor, and not tell anyone how easily a demon fooled me? I think they already think I’m a joke of a templar as it is, and I don’t want Morrigan to hold that over me forever.”

“Your secret shame is safe with me,” Aedan promised, only half-kidding. “Now hurry up and dream up some armor - there’s a demon of Sloth we have to murder to bits.”

Alistair nodded. “Right. Let’s go.” He looked down at his clothing, probably wondering how one goes about ‘dreaming up armor,’ if Aedan knew him. “Er. How do we go about doing any of that?”

Wynne’s world had fallen to pieces. Every student, every child, everyone who had ever depended on her was gone. She’d failed utterly, in the worst way. There at rock bottom, there was nothing to do but wallow in shame.

It was, perhaps, Aneirin that haunted her the most. Not knowing of his fate had hurt her the most, when she’d first begun taking apprentices. It almost made her wish she’d stopped him in some way - the not knowing was the worst part, wasn’t it? If he had stayed, she would have known . . . But Aneirin was curious, and yearned to stretch his wings. Just like Anders, and the Amells.

They all stood in a row, her old students and apprentices. Aneirin, Petra, Anders, and even Nili and Nissa, before Irving and Surana had gotten to them. Such talent had lay in them all for the Spirit School - and she’d had the marvelous opportunity to teach them the fundamentals and watched them hone their craft ever since. She’d watch them grow and form, and then she watched them slowly die over years. While Nili had been taken so suddenly, it was Nissa that had broke her heart so - inch by inch, time had drained the life out of the girl in the loss of her twin. Her isolated imprisonment had only exacerbated the negative aspects of the poor girl’s personality, until there was nothing left but a burning desire for revenge against everyone who had failed her. Wynne was one such person.

“You deserve this, you know,” Anerin scolded her. Wynne nodded in agreement. She deserved this shame - and deep down, she knew a part of her craved it. “You made this. It’s your fault.”

“Is it?” The shade of Nili Amell wondered aloud. His robes were crisp and his hair was pulled back into a low tail, contrasting with her memories of the lazy, unkempt boy she’d once known. His voice was lackluster, almost bored, but it sounded and looked so much like her old apprentice that she couldn’t help but believe it had to be him - or his spirit, in any case, since she knew Nili was long-since dead. “I mean, there’s so many to blame. It’s not just her, or Irving, or Greagoir, is it? It’s the Chantry itself. The Tower itself. There’s too many to count, too much blame to lay on any one person.”

Nissa, his passionate counterpart, seethed. Her dark hair was wild and free, her mage’s robes were stained and saturated with blood - the only strangeness about her, for Wynne hadn’t seen the girl in many months, locked away in solitary as she had been. “The bitch is as much to blame as the others. All the Seniors - and Irving, the worst of ’em all!”

“It started with her,” Petra confirmed, and though a part of her knew it was not true, a brand materialized on Petra’s forehead that made Wynne’s heart hurt. The truth of it escaped her; it was the fear, the feeling, the illusion alone that told her she had failed in the worst way. Gentle, sweet Petra had been given to the brand. “She was the first to fail. She set the pattern.”

“I-I know I failed you,” Wynne agreed, with tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how, but I must make amends. Tell me what I can do, please. I’ll do it.”

They all looked at her as one with the same, sharp expression. “You would?” Nili questioned softly. “Even if it was something terrible we asked you to do?”

“I must make amends,” she vowed. “I-I can’t go on like this, knowing I could’ve stopped this. If I could have saved you all, I would have.”

“So kill yourself,” Nissa told her, and the other apprentices nodded in agreement.

Wynne blinked. “W-what?”

They conferred amongst themselves, before deciding that the best way for Wynne to help them was to die. “It’s for the greater good,” Aneirin told Wynne in a tone of voice that made perfect sense, though his words did not. “If you die, we’ll all rest in peace.”

“It’s the only way,” Tranquil-Petra intoned.

“But I—” Wynne protested.

“Please?” the bloodied Nissa pleaded. “It’ll make us happy to see you again - you can join us here, Wynne! You’ll be with us. You’d like that, right?”

“Death’s nothing to be afraid of,” Nili assured the enchanter. “It’ll be alright, Wynne. Like Aneirin said, it’s for the greater good.”

“There is no greater good in death, Senior Enchanter,” a voice from the back of the group. The four apprentices hissed like snakes and pulling back just as quickly from a fifth form that hadn’t spoken yet. Wynne wondered if she’d been there all along - it did seem like Ayah Surana’s style to wait for the right, dramatic moment to pop out and scare everyone. It suddenly became pertinent that Surana was in blood-stained chantry robes, with the brand that Wynne remembered given to her, on that awful day. Nili’s presence suddenly seemed too obvious, too illusory, next to her. The truth seeped into Wynne’s brain, breaking down the illusion as she took in Surana’s appearance. Two curved swords of Dalish make were carried at her sides in each hand, and Wynne’s apprentices formed a threatening circle around Surana as the girl stepped forward. They eyed her like a wolf might eye its prey, but Surana seemed unbothered and paid none of them any mind. Her dark eyes focused on Wynne’s alone. “Death is only a door. Now please, come with me if you want to live.”

Caught as she was in the grip of her grief, Wynne gave a startle when the dream ended in that moment. All it had taken was a few words from the right person for it to occur to Wynne that no apprentice of hers - and never, never Aneirin or Nili Amell - would suggest she kill herself to make them happy. The idea was absurd. She’d known it was absurd, but somehow seeing Surana there - the living cause and consequence of the downfall of the Amell twins - brought it all into perspective. Besides, Petra was alive, the last she recalled - and definitely not Tranquil. No, she was certain then - none of them were real. Nissa, even at her worst, wouldn’t do such a thing. Aneirin was gone, likely dead. Nili, she knew was dead. Surana and Petra were most certainly alive, at least when she last checked.

“She is ours!” Nissa hissed, drawing a staff from out of seeming nowhere. The others followed suit, turning on Surana, but simultaneously taking steps back, as if they feared to approach. Still, Surana paid them no mind, and focused on Wynne. Wynne’s eyes narrowed as she prepared a spell in her head, releasing a stone blast at the last second and laughing it at the shade of Petra, knocking the demon over. Surana snapped into action simultaneously and attacked the shade nearest to her left.

They tore apart the shades together with ease; likely the demons had figured the older woman an easy target, and were not prepared for such resistance. Nili’s shadow was the last, and Wynne watched as Ayah froze in the process of ending the demon’s life. As she did so, Ayah’s gaze became fixed on a light in the distance for a few moments, leaving her wide open to an attack from Nissa’s shade. Wynne fired another stone blast, though, and the sound of it seemed to snap Ayah out of her reverie.

Once it was finished, Wynne caught her breath before remembering that she was in a dream, and felt silly about it. She sighed, composed herself, and approached Surana. “You’re no demon,” the old mage stated. “Or if you are, you’re far too clever for me.”

Ayah shook her head, and pulled her hood down closer around her ears. “I was here before you, but only just. You know you’re in the Fade.”

“As are you,” Wynne pointed out. “And it really is you, Surana, isn’t it?” Wynne’s was in wonder. “Last I saw you was after the return from Ostagar. It seems I now owe you my life twice over.” Ayah Surana shrugged dismissively at this. “I thought you and the others must have been dead for certain, after the fighting broke out. How in blazes did you fall into the Sloth demon’s trap? I didn’t even think a Tranquil could get into the Fade. Somehow I’m not surprised it’s you, of all people.”

Ayah looked at her with interest. “You remember it all. This is good. I am pleased some of the mages are not dead. You are a talented healer, and I will need your skills when we wake.” Ayah began to march off in another direction, forcing Wynne to follow her.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Wynne pointed out.

Ayah nodded. “Does it matter?” she wondered. “You won’t remember most of this when it’s done. We need to find the spirit of Sloth, then we need to disperse it, and then I must kill Uldred. I know the way out, and wish to proceed with as little trouble as possible. I find the Fade disagreeable. Please hold your questions until the end.” With that, she stopped, and Wynne noticed they stood in front of a strange pedestal that reminded her of her own Harrowing, many years ago. Surana, bloody but unbattered, beckoned Wynne forward with one hand and pointed at the pedastle. “Touch that, please.”

Wynne examined it with curiosity. “What is it? Do you know if the others are here? How—”

Wynne’s questioning was cut short as Ayah impatiently grabbed the older mage’s hand and slapped it down on the glowing pedestal, causing the world to spin and churn and become brighter and brighter until—

—The Tower, Wynne’s home, materialized around her when the light faded. After some momentary dizziness, Wynne regained her balance and took in her surroundings. Surana was still with her - and still Tranquil, which confirmed for her that the girl was definitely not a demon in disguise. After touching the pedestal, they’d been somehow transported to an alternate version of the Tower, one as of yet unplagued by the abominations and demons that stalked its halls in the waking world. Though a few things in her periphery felt off, to her memory, the vision around her was unmistakably the repository.

“Is this a dream?” Wynne wondered aloud.

“It is a nightmare,” Surana responded, and started to walk off. Wynne was forced to trail after her.

“You seem to know quite a bit about this place,” Wynne stated, catching up to the former mage. Surana looked back at Wynne briefly but continued her way through the library, her foosteps as silent as the grave. “How long have you been trapped here?” She continued asking several more questions, but Surana refused to answer any. Some she responded with stony silence, others she merely repeated that Wynne should ‘hold her questions til the end,’ whatever that end may be.

They encountered a few shades; not a peaceful dream, after all. They were easily dispatched between the two of them, but the further they traveled through the Tower’s levels, the more Wynne wondered if they were making any progress at all. It didn’t feel that way. She didn’t doubt that the Surana in front of her was real, but it seemed like they were experiencing a lack of direction. Fed up with all the stairs and walking, Wynne finally stopped. “Ayah,” she said primly in a practiced tone of voice that tended to bring all her students to heel. Surana stopped to turn and face her. “Do you have any idea of where we’re going?”

Surana co*cked her head to the side. “Yes,” she said . . . And turned to keep walking. “It doesn’t matter what direction,” she called over her shoulder. “Every path will take us there. You’re only thinking with your conscious mind, Senior Enchanter. When has the ethereal plane ever responded to the logic of the material plane? It only follows that the only way out, is in.” Wynne really couldn’t formulate a response to that, less because it made sense but more because it sounded very much like something Ayah would have said before she was branded. It stuck in her head, and compelled her to follow.

Every now and then, though, Wynne would glance back and notice a small light behind them. It was non-threatening, and didn’t appear to be a wisp, so she paid it no mind. Surana was aware of it - she’d seen the girl stop and look back a few times as if to assure her own self it was there. She was even less verbose on the matter of the light than she was with everything else.

Surana seemed to know what she was about, though - on the third floor, Wynne’s body flooded with relief to see two familiar Wardens slicing their way through a demon of Desire’s summoned minions, in the dreamer’s vision of the former Mage’s Quarters. The battle ended quickly once Wynne and Surana joined, making short work of the shades while the templar-trained Warden focused on Desire.

After a sword through the chest, Desire let out a final cry before literally melting into the ground around Alistair’s sword. The blond Grey Warden frowned and put away his weapon, looking disturbed. “Ewwww,” he childishly whined. “Why do only some of them do that?”

His fellow Warden, dark of hair, whose name Wynne recalled as Aedan snorted and shook his head. “If I never see another abomination after this, it’ll be too soon. Wynne, tell me that’s you and not a demon wearing your face,” he said, turning to the Senior Enchanter and her companion with his drawn sword.

Surana’s response to this was to raise her dual swords on the Wardens and enter a combat stance. The Wardens responded in kind, suddenly on alert. “Peace,” Wynne suggested tiredly. “Ayah, put your weapons down. These two are Grey Wardens - I was with them, helping them to free the Tower from Uldred’s and his followers. We fell victim to Sloth at the same time.”

Surana put her weapons back down at her sides, though it took the Wardens a few seconds longer to respond in kind. She eyed them up and down a few times, before nodding as if in agreement. “I see.”

“Well, I don’t. Who’s this?” Aedan asked, addressing Wynne and jabbing a thumb at Ayah.

“She, it’s, she’s,” Wynne struggled to explain, and then gave up, sighing. “It’s complicated.”

“Well, I’m not about to turn down help,” Alistair threw in, and sheathed his sword. “She’s not the first Sister I’ve seen who’s good in a fight.”

“Ayah Surana is no Chantry Sister,” Wynne crossly informed.

“Every moment we waste speaking is a moment we spend dying in the clutch of Sloth,” Ayah suddenly announced. With that cheery remark, she marched right past the Grey Wardens and Wynne, either uncaring or oblivious to the stares she garnered.

“Well, Wynne, your new friend is a positive ray of sunshine,” Alistair quipped. “Which drainpipe, did you say, she crawled out of? Wait, did she say that we’re dying?”

Wynne sighed, again. “She has a point. Each moment we spend in this trap is a moment the demon gets a chance to feed on our spirits. But, time dilates in the Fade, as compared to the waking world . . . Minutes pass there, while hours pass here.”

Aedan waved his hand dismissively and started trailing after the non-sister. “How comforting. That sounds like a fascinating lecture that can wait for never, after I’ve chopped off that Sloth demon’s head.” He paused, considering his own statement. “If it even has a head. I’ll settle for dismemberment.”

Alistair was unable to fight off the wave of nausea when he first came too, and ended up bowled over retching on his hands and knees, looking at his half-digested breakfast on the stone floor. Near him, he could hear the sounds of groaning and panting, and swearing in Orlesian. The details slowly came back to him bit by bit, until it occurred to him that he had just woken up from a dream, and— “the demon!” He blurted, scrambling for his sword and trying to stand. The last thing he definitely remembered was Aedan talking about dismemberment, and then . . .

His attack was unnecessary, as the demon of Sloth had vanished, and he’d unsheathed his sword halfway before he’d noticed. Alistair blinked. His eyes alighted on the rest of his party, gathering their bearings after their strange ordeal. Next to him was Leliana, the one cursing in Orlesian, and similarly vomiting. He sympathetically offered her a hand and helped her stand up. “Are you alright? Stupid question,” he corrected when Leliana gave him a weak smile.

She shook her head. “It . . . I think . . . I am having a hard time remembering what happened. Which is perhaps a blessing, because I feel as if something terrible has happened to me.”

“Indeed,” intoned Wynne, the mage they’d picked up at the Tower’s base. She seemed unruffled, for the most part, and was using healing magic on a small stranger in tattered Chantry robes, strapped with weapons. With a start, he noted that it was a dark-skinned girl - her name was on the tip of his tongue. Annie? Alex? Alicia? Blast it, I know we must have met in the Fade. What in blazes happened there? For some reason, I’m picturing an golem smashing an ogre into a pulp, and it’s really entertaining. Aedan was standing over the desiccated body of a fallen mage, the only other individual in the room.

His head was pounding, but the headache was already subsiding, as were his memories of the dream - or rather nightmare - they’d endured. The only thing he definitively remembered was a vague feeling of embarrassment when he woke up from the dream about Goldanna thanks to Aedan, followed by finding Leliana getting flogged by Chantry Mothers. Given it was all a dream, he wasn’t sure if it was real or his imagination, but seeing Leliana as shaken up as she was made him wonder why her nightmare had been more volatile than his. Wait a minute. Am I . . . Gullible, to demons? Now that’s not fair.

Alistair approached Aedan and the dead mage, something about it striking him as familiar. Aedan was rifling through the mages robes, and let out a victorious cry when he found a sheaf of papers attached by a leather thong to mage’s belt. “This is it,” Aedan announced, as if this made some kind of sense. “Thank you, Niall,” he added, addressing the body with gratitude.

“Somehow I’m not surprised to find a dead body here. They do seem to pile up wherever we go,” Alistair commented.

“They do at that,” Aedan agreed.

“Did we know him?” Alistair wondered. “And what are those?”

Aedan’s brow wrinkled. “It’s something called the Litany of Adralla. It’s supposed to help against domination by blood magic. And no, we didn’t know him. He was already dead before we got here. You don’t remember? I guess that makes sense. Surana said it might be like that for some of us.” He looked over to Leliana, who seemed just as disoriented.

“It’s not common for people to remember their travels in the Fade,” Wynne spoke up, finally having finished her work on the girl. She indicated to the papers in Aedan’s hand. “That is perhaps the most valuable spell in this entire Tower, now. It’s good you retrieved it. May I see it? It must be spoken aloud to work.”

Aedan handed it over to Wynne with small hesitation. “What is it, exactly? I’ve never heard of a spell written out like this.”

The very short sister in tattered robes spoke up, approaching the two of them. “Adralla was a bard, and a mage of considerable talent. The story is unimportant. We must find Uldred, now.”

Wynne nodded in almost absent agreement, examining the old papers closely with their delicate scrawling letters. “In case you don’t remember meeting her in the Fade, this is Ayah Surana. She is one of the Tranquil that serve here in the Tower, and fell into the trap, like us. I’m . . . Not entirely sure how that was possible.” With another start, Alistair noted that he could see a sun-brand scarred on her forehead, designating her as one of the Tranquil. He re-assessed the blood-stained, tattered robes and weapons at her side, and came up with more questions than answers. “One of her duties was to train templars in combat and fitness.”

Alistair’s brow furrowed, and he turned to Surana. The idea of one of the Tranquilized mages being handed a weapon seemed contrary, even hypocritical, of the Chantry. He wouldn’t put it past them, though, but it was odd to hear. Even odder to see. “Really? What’s a Tranquil mage doing fighting?”

She stared up at him with eyes so dark that all he could see was his own reflection. It was more than a little unsettling. “This is not an appropriate time to answer inane questions. Please, desist so we may focus on evacuating the Tower, and killing Uldred.”

Wynne looked up from the papers for a moment. “Don’t worry about her; she can handle herself. She saved many of our people, both templars and mages, when we escaped Ostagar. It’s useful we happened across each other. There is more strength in numbers.” He hadn’t remembered seeing a small, heavily armed Tranquil at Ostagar in the mage’s encampment. Surely such a sight would stand out. Then again, he’d done his best to avoid eye contact every time he’d been sent over to that part of the camp, mostly because he was never sent over there to deliver happy news.

“You were at Ostagar?” Alistair blurted.

“Yes,” Surana agreed flatly, and started walking towards the exit that they’d never made it to, thanks to Sloth. Her feet made so little noise on the floor that it reminded him of Leliana for a moment, and he noted the Sister watching the Tranquil rather closely.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Alistair muttered, and looked over at his brother Warden. He was still staring at Niall’s body. Aedan made a vague noise of agreement, before clapping his hands together abruptly and making toward the stairs up, where the Tranquil girl had stood and waited for them.

“Wait,” Aedan stopped, “did you say you were at Ostagar?” He repeated Alistair’s earlier question with a tone of disbelief.

Surana looked up at him and if Alistair didn’t know better, he’d peg her as annoyed. She said nothing, and merely stared at him. Eventually, Wynne cut in with, “we should keep moving,” and the discussion was ended before it could start.

They encountered little demonic activity further upstairs in the Senior Enchanter’s quarters. Capitalizing on the moment, Aedan ordered them to spread out and look for supplies - specifically potions. He and Leliana went off to search through the offices while Wynne, Alistair, and the Tranquil went about searching through the quarters. At one point they encountered a demon of Desire actively attempting to possess a templar; part of Alistair was really getting tired of all the demon/abomination killing, and that same part wasn’t surprised when it turned into a full-blown fight that a few shades had to show up and crash.

Surana ended up killing the templar and Alistair smote the demon, giving Wynne the opportunity to cast a spell that blasted the demon with stone and dispersed it back to the Fade. Aedan and Leliana showed up a minute after the battle ended, having heard the commotion.

Altogether, they’d managed to acquire a few supplies - plus a weird book that Aedan seemed intent on stealing and Alistair wasn’t going to question it, since really they were doing this as a favor to the Tower and the least they could do is donate a few potions and books. They gave the lyrium to Wynne and split the elfroots amongst themselves, and followed Wynne and Surana to the Harrowing Chamber, where apparently Irving was being kept - at least according to Surana, who seemed to be both the most in-the-know and tight-lipped about the coup.

At one point, Wynne had stopped them and held her hand up before a door that seemed to emanate a faint, musky-kind of magic (at least, that’s what it felt like to Alistair - some magic had a feel rather than a smell, and some felt like a smell, which is something he’d never been able to explain to anyone without sounding nuts). When he looked at it closely, there was a faint glow about the door that Wynne’s touch seemed to magnify. “It’s warded,” she noted, and nodded, and he made an interested noise. “Give me but a moment,” she requested, and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, a sound like air popping let off near his ear and the ward-glow faded. He looked to Aedan, who looked to him, and they both nodded.

“Stand back,” Aedan commanded, and opened the door crouched with his sword drawn, ready to fight. Behind him, Leliana co*cked an arrow that would let loose over Aedan’s head.

It was an empty chamber inside but for the sounds of faint sobbing. Alistair squinted at the darkness and followed close behind, letting his eyes adjust to the faint torchlight from the opposite wall. Wynne, behind him, ignited a magelight on her staff that ascended over their heads to provide illumination.

The room was empty save for the stairs that led to the Harrowing chamber, and an apparent magical cage in the otherwise empty chamber in which a lone soul in templar armor sat. The glow of a large Imprisonment spell, and the smell, alerted Alistair that this was a makeshift dungeon to house prisoners, and definitely not the enemy base they’d expected. “Peace,” Wynne spoke, and he sheathed his weapon since he didn’t sense any threats. “I think I know this templar . . . But he could be under the influence of blood magic.” Both Aedan and Leliana remained drawn and wary.

Alistair approached, noting the distress on the young man’s face and the bent posture, as if he were locked in prayer. He struggled to hear the what the he was whispering, but it was clear he wasn’t an immediate threat. “Something’s wrong here,” he noted. “I don’t like this. Why would he have been kept from the others?”

“As a toy, perhaps?” Leliana suggested darkly. “Or to torture information out of him.”

“What sort of information?” Aedan asked, dubious. Leliana shrugged.

“Cullen?” Surana murmured.

“NO!” The young man cried out, and cowered, clutching his head in response to the noise. “No you won’t have it! I won’t! Stop it!!”

Suddenly, Surana pushed past them all and approached the magical cage, and dropped her bloodied, curved swords on the ground with clangs. She pulled down her hood and a long, black, frazzled braid tumbled out the back, putting her pointed ears on display. It hadn’t occurred to Alistair til that moment that she might be an elf, though he wasn’t surprised. The man behind the cage looked up in startle, and let out a horrified gasp. He scuttled back away, practically crawling - scrambling - to the very back of the cage, as far as he could go to get away from her. This seemed to confuse Surana, who put up one still hand on the ward and pressed against it, causing the air around her hand to emanate the blue glow from the spell. “Cullen,” she addressed, her voice barely past a whisper. “You’re alive.” She seemed almost relieved, but her monotone was hard to decipher. “I was almost certain that you had died with many others, but I never found you. Why would they keep you separate, alone? This requires explanation.”

“Ayah, I take it you know this templar?” Wynne asked, and Surana turned around to stare at Wynne as if she’d forgotten that Wynne was in the room at all.

Surana didn’t address Wynne’s question, probably because it was obvious she knew the templar (since she apparently trained them all). She looked back to the cowering Cullen in the cage. “Are you afraid of me?” She wondered with an almost fragile tone. Almost. Can’t really tell if she’s concerned or not. Probably they just instructed her to be. “I am here to rescue you, Cullen. You do not need to be frightened. I’d never hurt you.”

“I don’t think this is helping,” Alistair spoke up, and walked up to get Surana’s attention. She stared up at him uncomprehendingly with those dark eyes. “He’s not well,” he pointed out, looking to the templar who was beginning to hysterically cry and shake. “Right now he’s probably going through lyrium withdrawal. I’ve seen it enough to know the symptoms. Plus, I’m not sure he can recognize you in the state he’s in, even if you are good friends.”

“Friends?” Surana seemed to taste this word as she said it, like it was an unfamiliar spice.

“Oh, I know you,” Cullen suddenly spat venomously. He was shaking, incoherent, but there was a vicious understanding in his gaze. “I know you, DEMON! You can’t wear her face anymore. Your lies won’t work on me! IT WON’T WORK ON ME!” He hated Surana with a passion, that much was obvious. “You can taunt me, tempt me, torture me, but no matter how deep you go, you won’t have ME!”

Surana, for her part, mostly just seemed confused. Alistair was glad that she was Tranquil since anybody else would likely take someone - perhaps an old friend or student - reacting to them in such a way rather personally. Instead, she asked clinically, “Cullen, have you been hurt? Tell me who has hurt you, and I’ll kill them.” She stated with such surety, such confidence, that the callousness of her statement seemed almost endearing - in a creepy way.

Cullen refused to answer further and went back to his desperate, crouched prayers, pointedly ignoring Surana. She continued to stare at him, examining him, and palpating the cage in bewilderment. “Uldred is the key to it all,” Wynne reminded everyone. “If we find him, and stop him, we can save everyone - including this boy.”

Aedan approached the cage and knocked on the force-field as if to test it. He cleared his throat to get the praying templar’s attention, who barely hesitated in his prayers in acknowledgment. “Look, we’re not demons,” he defended. “We’re Grey Wardens. Greagoir let us in to clear the demons out and save who we could. Why would a demon lie to be Grey Wardens you’ve never met before, in the company of someone you had? Have to be quite a barmy demon, for sure.”

Cullen looked up, but saw Surana, and flinched away. She frowned. “She’s not real, she’s not real, she’s not real,” the templar whispered to himself repetitively, as if assuring himself of it.

“I am real, Cullen,” she insisted firmly. “Why do you insist that I am something other than what I am? I thought we were past this.”

Cullen had started to cry. Alistair lookeda way in discomfort. Aedan tapped Surana on the head, who seemed startled at the touch, but didn’t object even though she craned her head to give the Warden a bewildered look. “Definitely real. Can’t prove it to you, but if you could snap out of your crazy for a few moments,” Alistair coughed a ‘tactful’ under his breath while Leliana concealed a smile out of the corner of his eye, “we’d really appreciate any information you can give us on Irving’s whereabouts.”

“Why would he know where Irving is being kept?” Alistair wondered. “If he’s been held captive, wouldn’t he be just as ignorant as us?”

“Figured it couldn’t hurt to ask, at least,” Aedan shrugged. “She seemed to know him, and no one’s been shooting any better ideas my way.”

“Fair point,” Alistair conceded.

Surana tapped on the force-field again, and Cullen slowly unfurled to stand and look at them. He maintained his distance at the back of the cage in a defensive position, but was at least looking at and addressing them. “I-I-I don’t know where Irving is,” he said. Aedan cursed. “Ul-Uldred, he took - he took the rest of them to the Ha-Harrowing chamber . . . The noises from there . . . So-something awful’s happened up there, I just know it.”

“Well, that settles that, then,” Wynne sighed. “I doubt Uldred would kill Irving too quickly, but if he truly is dead, than this Tower might as well be lost.”

“You’re a very cheerful person, has anyone ever told you that?” Alistair commented.

Wynne huffed. “Forgive me for being a bit maudlin. I just watched my home get dismantled by abominations of my former friends and students.”

“Who hurt you, Cullen?” Surana asked again, tapping on the force-field to get Cullen’s attention.

The templar seemed startled by the question. A twisted, aggrieved expression came over his face the longer he looked at Surana. “You did, but it wasn’t—not you. But it was . . . Every time, she said it, all those, all those horrid things . . . It’s just another lie. I can’t . . .” He seemed to break down again, and went back to his prayers. With that apparent shutdown, the conversation ended, and Surana picked up her swords and marched off towards the Harrowing chamber’s stairs with simple determination.

“Hang on now,” Aedan called, causing the Tranquil to pause. “We don’t know all of what’s waiting for us up there - we need a plan.”

“The plan is to kill Uldred,” Surana stated, like it was the most obvious, easy thing in the world to do. “There will be other blood mages with him. I know the Litany, as does Wynne.”

“It somehow doesn’t surprise me that you remember it,” Wynne stated dryly.

“I recall everything of note,” Surana affirmed matter-of-factly.

Wynne looked to the Wardens. “No matter what happens up there, we’ll ensure no blood magic can control you.”

“That’s comforting,” Leliana said, checking her bow and counting the arrows in her quiver. “But what about regular magic?”

“Any defenses against getting frozen with one of those ice spells?” Alistair asked dryly.

Wynne chuckled. “You’re templar-trained, young man. I’m sure you’ll be of more help than I in that regard.”

With a less vague plan in mind, they set on up the stairs, determined to - at the very least - put a stop to whatever ritual was going on. Inside the Harrowing chamber, seven mages had gathered over a bound collection of their beaten fellows. Wynne’s eyes went wide and she hissed out, ‘Irving!’ which seemed to please Ayah. Ayah’s pleasure manifested with the unsheathing of her swords, followed simultaneously by Aedan stepping forward in front of her in a dominant fashion. Alistair stepped into a guarded stance near Wynne and Leliana, the ordinarily gregarious templar’s face fixed in concentration as he waited for the slightest hint of mana coagulating.

“Oh,” spoke one of the mages in the center drolly, almost tiredly, in spite of the circ*mstances. “It’s you,” he spat distastefully. The other presumed blood mages stepped away from this one, who rather leisurely strolled his way forward to regard the group.

“I remember you from Ostagar and don’t recall a single word exchanged, so I don’t understand how I’ve already earned that snide tone,” Aedan snarked. “You wanker,” he added.

“That would be Uldred,” Wynne chimed in helpfully, but her voice held a bitter understone. “Don’t be offended, Warden, that’s only his usual cheer.”

Uldred peered at Wynne with squinted eyes. “Ah, Wynne. Lovely.” His tone was as dry as a cactus, and he turned away from the elder mage as if bored. Ayah stepped in front of his gaze of her own accord, sword drawn. “But to be honest, Warden,” he went on, not even bothering to look at Aedan, “I’m not terribly interested in you. I felt something stirring in the Fade earlier, old and familiar. Hard to believe it was you. Tell me, Surana, did you finally find your way out?” Ayah held her sword a little higher in response. Uldred seemed disappointed. “A pity.” He turned away, back toward the hostages.

Uldred then snapped his fingers and a young mage was dragged forward by two of his minions.

“I guess we should start the killing, then,” Aedan suggested lightly. Like an afterthought, one of Leliana’s arrows sailed over, whizzing over Ayah’s head and hitting Uldred in the back. The arrow went clean through, but the mage merely stopped and held his breath for a moment.

Ayah rushed foward with her sword and stabbed it through Uldred’s chest, who stumbled onto his knees with the force of it. Where the blow had struck, no blood emerged. She tried to pull her sword free, but it was stuck. As she tried to wedge it out of Uldred’s back using her foot for leverage, the flesh that had given way around the sword point grew in size at an alarming rate. Where Uldred’s mortal flesh had been were then scales, blue and jagged, and as they grew they pushed the sword out of the abomination’s back and sent it, and the small Tranquil elf, clattering to the ground. Ayah scrambled back where the others had scattered their formation in light of the circ*mstances.

Wynne began to chant the Litany under her breath, pulling out the scroll and reciting the words. One of the beaten mages in the collection of hostages seemed to cry out something intelligible, but it was cut off by a loud roar from the creature that had once been Uldred. A massive, scaled behemoth with monstrous teeth and glowing orange eyes stood atop a pile of Uldred’s robes. His minions scattered around him, and had pulled out their staves, turning their attention to the Wardens. One had begun to sling fireballs at Wynne, who erected a barrier around herself and Leliana. Alistair stepped back into it and knelt in concentration, preparing for a holy smiting.

Ayah, recognizing Alistair’s intention, threw herself at one of the blood mages, who had been a little unprepared for a tiny, dark, whirling fury to stab him in the neck. The pyromancer that had been attacking the others sent flames in her direction, igniting the remains of her robe, which she simply threw off and followed up by throwing her sword at the mage. It clattered away to the ground after cleaving the mage’s staff in twain, but far from Ayah’s position. Just as she had picked up the remains of the staff to beat the frightened mage to death with, the unmistakable scent of copper and salt alerted Ayah to the Warden-Templar’s smiting. Ayah found her knees growing weak and a slight headache entering her brow as it struck near the mage, knocking down another not far from the pyromancer who had been attempting to heal his fellows. Stumbling and unable to shake off the feeling, Ayah fell prey to the behemoth’s tail that whacked her in the side and knocked her several feet away, bruised and battered, into the circle of hostages.

Aedan engaged the behemoth head on, drawing its attention while Wynne recited the Litany, doing her best to balance recitations and spells while Leliana filled the room up with flying arrows. Alistair, after executing his smite, charged at the behemoth from behind, aiming for the back legs. Its scales were strong, but not impenetrable, and it was more a matter of finding the right soft spots to stab - underbelly, under the legs, under the arms if he caught it quick enough. Eventually, it grew tired of Alistair’s assault and kicked back at the templar with one of his legs, which is precisely when Wynne hit him with a stone-hold that grew out of the ground and wrapped around its protruding leg, causing it to stumble and fall nearly crushing Aedan to death.

“Are you dead yet?” Alistair shouted to his brother Warden over the fray.

“Will you stop trying to kill me?!” Aedan called disturbingly cheerily back, and started hacking at the snarling behemoth’s head. “Why! Won’t! You! DIE! And here I was, Alistair, planning our lives together!”

“I thought the plan was to die young surrounded by darkspawn?”

“Still is!”

Their taunting banter seemed to enrage the Uldred-abomination, or greatly irritate it, for it roared out in rage. That, or it was all the painful stabbing. It thrashed and shook, even batting off the stab-happy Wardens a few times and sending them clattering to the ground. Eventually the creature managed to kick itself free of Wynne’s spell and got back onto its feet, more disgruntled from its own blood loss and injuries than actually affected. It swatted at the Wardens, but only managed to glance Alistair’s shield and miss the dodging Aedan by a hair. As it reached back for a final blow, a well-aimed shot from Leliana’s bow thudded into the creature’s left eye and sunk deep. She had crept forward and fired it nearly point-blank, just as it had leaned back for an attack.

It seemed confused for a moment, and then fell over dead, the point of the arrow having penetrated deep into its deformed skull and into Uldred’s human brain. Just for good measure, though, Aedan had also stabbed it in the other eye repeatedly with his sword. The combined effort seemed to do the trick, and the abomination stopped moving.

As the Wardens (and Leliana) panted and gathered their breath, they looked over the rest of the small battlefield that had become of the Harrowing Chamber, and noted that all the other minions were dead. Those Leliana had not gotten to had been killed by either Wynne, or Ayah before she was knocked unconscious. The Tranquil was half-awake and stirring, and being helped up by some of the surviving hostages. She blearily accepted a healing potion from Wynne, who was tapped out of spells entirely. Alistair, Aedan, and Leliana gathered their bearings (and arrows) while Wynne exchanged words with an elderly man amongst the hostages. After getting one final good stabbing into the abomination’s skull, Aedan strolled over to make nice with the mages.

“You’re one of the Wardens from Ostagar, I hear,” the old man said as Aedan approached, rather than offering a greeting.

“It’s Aedan,” Aedan offered, “and that over there is Alistair. We’re here with treaties that say you’re obliged to help us in a Blight. Didn’t expect we’d have to help you, first.”

“We’re grateful for the assistance,” Irving said somewhat wryly, and wrung his wrinkled hands together. “This sort of thing doesn’t happen usually in our Tower. Things are typically quiet.”

“I am well enough to stand,” Ayah was insisting to Wynne behind the First Enchanter, as she stumbled onto her feet.

“Careful now,” Aedan suggested, “bloody thing got you in the back but good.”

“I am well,” she asserted again, in a tone that suggested this was a fact and not an argument.

Aedan shrugged, and turned back to the old man. “As Nan often said of me, you can’t argue with stubborn. If you’re well enough to walk to the first level, we’ve cleared the way. I’d appreciate it if you ambled down and convinced Greagoir not to kill you. He seemed resolute when we left, which is why we’re even in this mess at all.”

Irving’s face blanched even whiter than it already was, which was a feat. “Tell me he didn’t call for the Right of Annulment.”

“Hard to believe someone has the ‘right’ to kill an entire Tower full of people,” Aedan commented blithely, “though with so many demons mucking about, it’s just as hard to argue.”

“He did, Irving,” Wynne confirmed gravely. “As far as we know, it hasn’t arrived yet - thanks to the Wardens and their friends. And Ayah. I don’t think we’d have escaped the Fade without her assistance.”

Irving’s eyebrows went up. “The Fade? It sounds as if there’s a story here. But, Greagoir is a more important matter to attend to. I am tired, and bruised, but well enough to walk.” He began to shamble off to the stairs, only for Ayah to chase after him and grab his arm in assistance. He murmured some words under his breath to the Tranquil that the Wardens didn’t catch.

Alistair approached Aedan from behind as the other mages began to follow Irving out of the Harrowing chamber, some weeping in joy, others in sorrow, but all affected. “Well, that was very bracing. I take it went well?”

“Yes. Probably. Maybe. Don’t know about that army I wanted to throw at the horde full of mages and fireballs,” he added glumly.

Alistair clapped his brother Warden on the shoulder. “Well, maybe the templars will come along for the ride to even out the numbers. That should count for something.”

“Mages and templars fighting together,” Aedan snorted. “Oh, that’ll be the day. Darkspawn surely make strange bedfellows.”

“You know, I’ve always said the same thing,” the blond ex-templar remarked, “but never quite so eloquently.”

“I’m full of aphorisms.”

As they went down the stairs, Alistair’s senses alerted him to the Imprisonment spell falling before his eyes did. The templar that had been imprisoned inside remained, however, still kneeling and praying against the back wall. At first Alistair assumed it was trauma, but then he noticed Ayah seated cross-legged on the ground outside the boundaries of the fallen spell on the ground. Given Cullen’s reaction to her before, he wasn’t surprised the young templar hadn’t dared move. He likely thought the Tranquil still a demon, and it would take some convincing for him to believe otherwise in the state he was in. She perked up as the Wardens approached, but remained seated.

“Thank you for your service,” the Tranquil stated blandly. Her eyes roved over them like water over glass; gently, but with nothing to hold them, they fell and fixed upon Cullen’s kneeling form. Aedan and Alistair exchanged glances with each other and Leliana, debating silently what to do, when Wynne piped up with the suggestion that they simply leave her be. Ayah did not appear to desire to move, and without any reason to force her to, they had no choice but to leave her behind with the young traumatized templar. Alistair doubted he would be able to hurt the capable Tranquil, nor she him, but a part of him was irked by the scene they left - a great deal of tension had been in the air, fizzling with nowhere to go.

Aedan arrived to the main door already having been opened, and the mages filtering in peacefully with the templars. Over the armored heads and robed figures, he could see the grizzled Knight-Commander speaking with the elderly First Enchanter in low tones, and approached with Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne close behind.

Alistair tuned out most of the negotiations; not that there was much to negotiate. The Tower had been intended as a quick pit-stop on the way to Redcliffe by boat from Lake Calenhad, but with the Lake quarantined, they’d then had no choice but to investigate. None of them had been expecting the Tower to be exploding with demons, let alone the sheer amount of carnage that they had witnessed. For his part, Alistair was more bothered by the fact that he wasn’t bothered at all; it had been fairly non-stop battle during Ostagar (which still made him wince when he thought about it), and aside from their convalescence at Flemeth’s (which still made him shudder when he thought about it), there had only been a few moments of respite at camp and fairly non-stop carnage since they’d began the journey. He felt that, knowing their luck, Redcliffe would be taken over by demons too - and Orzammar, and the Dalish would have all run away from the country while Ferelden fought with itself to death on behalf of the darkspawn, who would thank everyone for their efforts by squatting an Archdemon on the throne. Though that does save me a great deal of trouble, when I think about it.

While all this important thinking was going on in Alistair’s head, Surana and a small contingent of mages and templars arrived - and Alistair was surprised to note the blond one, Cullen, was amongst them (albeit as far away from Surana as he could manage to be). While the group stopped and dispersed, the Tranquil made a beeline for the Wardens.

“Fancy seeing you here, Ayah,” Alistair greeted when Surana reached him, and stopped.

“Hello,” Surana greeted back. She squinted at him. “Is it . . . Alistair?”

“That’s me. I’m flattered you remember - I’m usually awful with names.”

“I am Ayah Surana,” the Tranquil asserted in a tone that suggested Alistair was an idiot.

“Hey, I remember your name,” he defended. “It’s you who had trouble remembering mine.”

“There you are,” Aedan said, turning away from the Knight-Commander and to them. “I meant to thank you earlier for . . . Whatever you did?” He seemed unsure of his own statement. “During the fight, I mean, of course, but before. In the Fade. Hard to remember now, but you definitely did something.”

“I definitely did something,” Ayah Surana repeated, nodding in agreement. “It is best to forget one’s dreams, so that they do not have bearing on this world. Greagoir.” Surana turned to the Knight-Commander suddenly, interrupting her own conversation. “It is good you are alive.”

Greagoir nodded hesitantly. “I was unsure if you were. I’m not surprised,” he added with a bothered expression. There was clearly no love lost between them, but the feelings seemed unreciprocated on Surana’s end, who regarded everyone with neutrality.

“I would like to join the Wardens in their attempt to stop the Blight and fight darkspawn, as at Ostagar before,” Ayah claimed out of nowhere.

There were several reactions to this amongst those present with hearing range. No one that had traveled there with Aedan reacted with anything but quiet interest; Irving immediately balked and seemed to wither slightly at the thought, as if the weariness of the entire day had finally reached him in that moment and affect his posture; Greagoir blinked and in an somewhat outraged tone said, “What? No, absolutely not! Who knows what happened to you up there?”

“Make sure you do not kill Owain, who hid in the stock room and is unarmed,” Ayah informed him, “and I was not asking you.” A wretched expression flashed across Greagoir’s face. She turned to the Wardens. “Please conscript me.”

Alistair and Aedan looked to each other. “Well, we do need all the help we can get,” he mused. Alistair’s brows went up. “But we still need the help of the mages and templars here, more than anything. A Blight is coming.” Aedan’s tone changed to a rare, serious one that he had only used once before that Alistair had seen, when speaking to Sten when the qunari was still in the cage. “That’s just a fact everyone needs to accept, whether they like it or not. Alistair and I are the only Wardens left in Ferelden that we know of, and with the King dead and the Bannorn divided, Ferelden will be too busy killing itself over this civil war to notice the darkspawn on their doorsteps. We need your help, when the time comes.”

“Maker’s Breath,” Greagoir cursed, looking down. “I was praying it was not a Blight.”

“I saw a great dragon over the red fields,” Surana spoke up, drawing their attention and sending a chill down Alistair’s spine at her words - for he too had seen the dragon, only in dreams. “It breathed blue fire and flew over my head. It disappeared into the Wilds.” Wait, the archdemon wasn’t seen near Ostagar according to the other Wardens. . . Where could the dragon have come from?

“I saw it too,” Wynne threw in. “And I’d like to join them as well, with your permission. It is a fine idea, and they will certainly need help.”

Irving frowned. “Does the Circle not also need your help?”

Wynne smiled, but there was something broken on the edges of it, reminding Alistair of a tattered tapestry. “I am old, Irving, as are you - and surely you understand my desire to go out into the world once more. They’re about to make history - how could I pass up a chance to take part in that? And with the Circle as it is . . . They need your leadership and guidance, more than anything. I can do no more for the others. Here, I believe I can do some good. That is, if they will accept me. I think it would be wise for you to take Ayah with you as well, even if you choose not to take me - she battled more darkspawn than I, after all.”

Aedan shrugged. “We’re always accepting applications. Alistair? Thoughts?”

Alistair felt surprised that Aedan had asked him for his opinion, but was pleased. “She can definitely fight,” he assessed, eying the blood-stained elven girl in the tattered Chantry robes. “Going to be hard to find armor that fits her, though. And we could always use more magic on our side - good magic, mind you, not the evil swamp witchy kind that we already have. I say yes.”

“I’m telling Morrigan you called her a swamp witch,” Leliana threatened under her breath with a grin.

Alistair blanched. “If you ever loved me, please, don’t say a word,” he hissed back.

Leliana kept smiling. “Who said anything about love, now? Perhaps I enjoy watching Morrigan torture you.”

“Orlesian sad*st,” Alistair half-heartedly accused.

“Uldred was only alive because of her, which was some gratitude,” Wynne was saying. Alistair tuned in just as the old woman was speaking of Ostagar, causing his ears to perk up to attention. “I doubt many of us would have made it out alive if she hadn’t covered our retreat against the shrieks. We were harried by darkspawn every step of the way through the Wilds, and made a makeshift camp once we finally made it out of the swamps. Ayah found us in the night, having escaped, but she was so wounded she almost didn’t survive. I healed her and we carried on foot to the Tower, when we reached some traders that told us of Loghain quitting the field. I wasn’t privy to the meeting, so I’m not sure what happened after that, only that we were separated.”

“Someone locked me in the repository,” Surana said, “I believe as a gesture of mercy.”

Wynne wasn’t sure. “Mercy seems unlike Uldred. Regardless, I suppose the matter is dealt with.”

“I guess I don’t really have any choice but to approve it,” Irving said, and heaved a tired sigh. Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for the old man’s knees for having endured all those stairs. “I know you’ll be alright, Wynne. Ayah, though . . .”

“We’ll take her whether you like it or not, if it’s her choice,” Aedan threw in, as the old man trailed off. Is she capable of choice, though? I know Tranquil are different, but not much else about them. She’s definitely off, but doesn’t seem to be in a bad way. Less crazy than Leliana, at least.

“I wish to go,” Ayah affirmed.

“Then go,” said Greagoir.

Irving, Wynne, and Ayah all raised their eyebrows. “Are you certain of this?” Irving asked the old templar.

Greagoir sighed. “No. But she best leave now, before I change my mind, since I can’t find a good enough reason to say no. I wish you luck on your journey. You’ll have what allies are available here, when the time comes, Wardens. I can promise no more than that.”

“That’s all we can ask for,” Aedan said. He bowed in a fluid, almost noble gesture, crossing his arms to the Knight-Commander and bending at the knee. He’d seen Duncan do the gesture before, and recognized it from his childhood as a common greeting among Ferelden nobility. Greagoir returned the gesture slowly. Irving merely nodded, when Aedan bowed, which Alistair couldn’t blame him or his old-man-knees for.

As they left, Surana was the last to depart. She lingered for a while longer in the ancient stone Tower, looking mostly at the ceiling and at the blond templar from before. Her expression was unreadable when she left and got on the boat, but it was far from blank. They ferried through the night silently, back to the shore and Inn where the other half of their group had remained. Alistair could hear Aedan’s hound barking before he saw the great beast running up and down the shoreline in excitement, but Sten’s hulking form was the first shape he saw in the dawn light. As a raven cawed and crowed over their heads, circling and drawing eyes, Alistair let out a sigh of relief as he felt the exhaustion creeping up on him finally seep in.

“Well, that was quite a trip,” Leliana summarized once they touched down the shore, on everyone’s behalf. Alistair had never been happier to get sand stuck in his greaves. He was grateful, when he woke up the next morning, that someone had the courtesy of plopping him into a real bed after he’d collapsed on the ground after taking off his armor. Thankfully, his sleep had been dreamless.

Chapter 10: IX

Chapter Text

Ayah had never, in this life, been accused of blood magic until Cullen threw the accusation at her with hateful eyes. She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. Her had never, in her experience, looked at her in such a way. She had only been accused of it by the templars once, when she was judged, and had felt nothing. She did not remember a feeling with the terminology. She only recalled asking to be made Tranquil, and then that it had happened.

For the first time, she wondered if the self-she-was had escaped into Tranquility, rather than the finality of death. She’d killed many since being made Tranquil, but had been labeled a maleficar before and killed no one. What was the difference, at the end? Was there any? Still, Cullen had asked: “I taught Nissa Amell how to cast blood magic,” she had told him. “It seemed like a useful spell for a mage to know, if she were to be cornered, stripped of all other defenses, and held against her will.” After all, Cullen had asked after the warding spell fell and Irving and the others retreated to the lower level. Cullen hadn’t been able to tell the difference between her and a demon that had tortured him. “I do not recall a time where I did not know how to perform blood magic.”

Her memories before weren’t entirely clear, but there were parts that were distinct. She knew that blood magic had come to her after a dream, as a girl. She knew there had once been a weight in her mind, freed only by Tranquility - she only knew that the weight had been lifted, but not what had caused it to be there. She knew she had only used blood magic a handful of times, each time in emergencies. She knew she’d only been caught once. She was not capable of feeling guilty about it, nor believed she was a bad person - that was simply what the Chantry had told her she was: a penitent sinner. “I’m not certain why I did it,” she’d admitted. That much was true. Ayah wasn’t really certain of anything about the situation anymore.

Cullen had cried openly. He felt betrayed. He said she had betrayed everything he knew. She didn’t understand, because she wasn’t the same person as the one who had wronged him. All it had been was a lie of omission. The self-she’d-been had rightfully ascertained that Cullen would overreact if he knew she had learned how to cast blood magic and passed the knowledge onto others. She kept that information from him on purpose. All she could make for certain out of the short conversation with her traumatized lover was that Nissa had been the one who had hurt him. That was the only thing that was really certain anymore.

Her memories of Nissa were so sparse that she wasn’t sure where the girl would be. Was she among the deceased? Had she escaped the destruction of the Tower, and fled? Was she free? Regardless, it was clear Cullen didn’t want her anywhere near him. It would be for the best if she left. (She only hoped Owain was alright.) Ayah Surana pondered these things as she walked with the Wardens and their company along the south road to Redcliffe. There was not much to occupy one’s mind while traveling, so she spent the time introspecting. In the back of her mind was a girl with short, dark, curly hair and a gap-toothed smile . . . And questions.

As the party arrived at the outskirts of the arling in the middle of a seeming endless, golden stretch of unploughed farmland, Ayah was enjoying one of the most magnificent silences of her life with Sten of the Baaresad when a runner from the city arrived and nearly collapsed in Aedan’s arms, panting. Word got back to them as it was announced that Redcliffe had been in the midst of a nightly assault by the walking dead, and Ayah almost felt for a moment as though she had never left the Tower at all. It did, however, explain why the farms were going unploughed, and why they hadn’t run into anyone friendly in a while.

Or is the world just full of unfriendly people? Statistically, it couldn’t be. You’d never know. They kept you in a cage because you were born to fly. [You were meant for great things.] You’re nothing. {Do you have any idea how lonely it was?!} And so the odd voices, emotions, and memories stirred as she listened to the man’s story. She had since learned not to attach any meaning to them and let them fly through her mind, unhindered. It was easier than attempting to stop or make sense of them. The man said undead walked each night down from the castle, killed many who either failed or could not defend themselves, and all the dead walked up at the end of the night to join their ranks and return to the castle. It was a fight of attrition. No one living had emerged from Arl Eamon’s estate. Something about the scenario struck Ayah as too familiar; as if she’d lived this tale before. ‘Why’ was a hard question she had to ask herself; the why had always been a mystery. It came but in moments, and never completely went away. The ground beneath her feet felt dead, but she couldn’t say why it felt that way.

Aedan gathered the group together before entering the town of Redcliffe, as the runner caught his breath with some water Alistair had offered him. “Right, so we came here to meet with the arl,” Aedan summarized, “but he’s sick or possibly worse, and his brother’s stuck running things while the town gets run over by walking dead nightly. In short, we’re pretty well buggered, but it could be worse because Teagan’s a sensible sort of gentleman. I suggest we meet with him and move from there. Any questions? Objections? Gossip? Marriage proposals?”

“There is a demon at work,” Morrigan asserted, which Ayah found herself agreeing with out because it just made sense, “And count yourself lucky at the lack of frivolity or proposals. This is most likely the work of a local mage or abomination, and I should hope you wouldn’t desire such a creature lusting after you.”

“We just keep running into abominations everywhere, don’t we?” Alistair groaned.

It definitely didn’t seem like the darkspawn were at fault. Ayah could see many score marks on the ground beneath their feet, but no signs of corruption or taint. The Blight hadn’t yet spread, but still the land was besieged with problems. When had Ferelden started imploding? It seemed to the Tranquil that everything happened one after the other; the Warden’s arrival, Ostagar, then the Tower coup, the civil war, and now this. Would it never end? And if it did, to what end? Also, “Why are we here?” Ayah had to ask. “Is Wynne going to heal the arl? How did he become sick? With what?”

“Well, we don’t know what he’s sick with, only that there’s a rumor he’s been poisoned,” Aedan explained cheerfully. “So, he could be dead and we just don’t know about it yet. No news has gotten out of the castle since the undead started appearing, is my guess. We won’t know until we talk to Teagan.”

“Then we are seeking the assistance of a weakened or dead ruler?” Sten scoffed. The purple-eyed giant was totally unimpressed. Ayah was equally unimpressed, now that the qunari had pointed it out in such a way. It would be more sensible to abandon Redcliffe to its fate and storm the castle, to verify the arl’s condition and place his apparently sensible and gentlemanly brother as ruler in his stead.

“He’s not dead,” Alistair quickly threw in. “I mean, I don’t know for sure he’s not, but he’s probably not dead.”

“Right. We just don’t know enough about the situation. Teagan’s at the Chantry. Worst case scenario, he’s the acting arl, and can call for a Landsmeet once this mess is sorted out. I figured that once our friend caught his breath, he could just lead us there.”

“How does this aid us with the Blight?” Sten asked, and Ayah was glad he did, as the question had burned in her as well.

Aedan shrugged noncommittally in response. It was not the sort of response Ayah had grown to expect out of a leader of men, who were - in her experience - strait-laced and stoic, and of few words. The Warden Aedan was many things, but short of words (and stoic), he was not. “Might not. Worth a shot, though. Could help with the civil war if Eamon was on our side, and in our debt. People don’t trust the Wardens ever since Loghain put that price on our head and said we killed the King, so we’re short on allies.”

“Which we didn’t,” Alistair added hurriedly.

“And we can’t very well fend off a Blight with people who are fighting each other, even if the other treaties were going to be honored. Worst case scenario, we continue to Orzammar, or the Brecilian Forest, and lose a few days at most of time. I say it’s worth it.” Sten seemed to find this answer acceptable, and they all moved on, with Redcliffe’s runner leading them down the cliff and into the town gates.

Barely five minutes passed before Alistair had a crisis of apparent conscience and decided halfway into Redcliffe was the perfect time to pull everyone aside and blurt out he was the illegitimate son of King Maric, and the current legitimate heir to the Ferelden Throne. Leliana threw a small rock at his head and suggested he work on his timing. Alistair was relieved that nobody seemed to care (no one really, not even the dog, who cared little about and had very little use for politics in his life, insofar as it affected him - or at least, this is what Ayah was able to decipher from the dog when Alistair asked her to translate for him).

Aedan threatened to marry Alistair off to Anora if he had any more dark secrets to reveal, which is when Alistair broke down and confessed he had eaten the last of Bodahn’s cookies. Sten became enraged and had to be calmed down. It was all very odd.

“It’s not that she doesn’t like you,” Leliana explained to the small elf. “She doesn’t really like anybody. She barely tolerates Aedan. I hesitate to say, but it may be because of your brand.”

It always came back to that, for Ayah. She scratched at the tingling scar on her forehead. Now that they had descended into the village proper, the strange feeling she’d gotten from the land had intensified - and her scar seemed to enjoy tingling whenever she chose to look up at the castle on the hill. The others had dispersed while Alistair and Aedan went to speak with the Bann of Rainesfere inside the Chantry, and Ayah had decided to ask the Orlesian lay sister just why it was every time that Ayah approached Morrigan, the witch turned into an animal and ran (or flew) away.

“Perhaps you give her the fright,” Leliana had suggested with a chuckle. Ayah did not think of herself as frightening; she was obsessed with Morrigan’s magic and was undeterred by the witch’s rude comments and behavior. If it was because of her brand that Morrigan avoided her, that wasn’t something she could fix. “Don’t be too offended,” the red head went on. “As I said, she doesn’t really like anybody. It’s rare I can get a few words out of her on the road. I think she holds herself above us out of habit - the Wardens have said that she used to live out on the wilderness alone, with her mother. They say her mother was a witch of the wilds named Flemeth, but I doubt it is the same woman of stories.”

Ayah doubted that very much indeed. “This scar will likely always define who I am,” she told Leliana, “and how others perceive me. I am incapable of being offended.”

Their conversation was cut short by the emergence of the Wardens. From there, the human men described the bare bones of a plan - stay and defend Redcliffe, minimize the losses by rallying the men, and prepare defenses. As Ayah looked out at the village, she found herself feeling curiously hesitant at the idea of staying and fighting. She did not wish to die, and it was unlikely that they would be able to protect the people unless they all agreed to flee their homes to the countryside. Some of them dispersed to look for supplies, some of them to speak to the mayor and blacksmith, others up to the Inn to convince villagers to take up arms.

Ayah did not really see the point in convincing untrained villagers to fight, when they should simply flee. Sten seemed to agree, and that was how she ended up standing around with the qunari and bodily dragging a well-armed dwarf out of his home who had refused to join in the fight. “It is useless to resist,” Ayah suggested blithely while Dwyn, the dwarf, struggled against his abductors.

Dwyn let out a long series of curses aimed at the qunari dragging him out. His bodyguards, two human-shaped mercenaries, had armed themselves in response to their abduction. Ayah had politely knocked on the dwarf’s door after hearing that he had a stockpile of weapons, and had hired mercenaries to protect himself. He had refused to help; so, she had broken in, and asked politely again. He refused again, violently this time, and threatened her. Now, she and Sten had to force him to follow the Wardens’ commands. It seemed pretty clear to the Tranquil that the dwarf was out of options, but his bodyguards seemed to disagree - at least, until she had easily disarmed them with a dagger and pointed the sharp end closely against Dwyn’s throat.

“Quit your whining, dwarf,” Sten growled, and literally kicked Dwyn out of the door.

Amidst the dwarf’s curses, an oddly racial remark seemed to enrage the giant to near murderous-ness. Ayah, having not heard it clearly, did her best to pacify the situation by placing herself between the qunari and the dwarf, and politely asking Dwyn what he meant.

“Er, what?” Dwyn was blinking. He looked to his bodyguards, who were shaking their heads and in the process of leaving, muttering under their breaths. Ayah doubted they would get far before they were enlisted by the others. He seemed frustrated by this, and cursed.

“Please explain what you mean,” Ayah suggested, with her sword this time, since that seemed to be the only thing she’d discovered that Dwyn responded positively to.

“Er, well, there, ah, ain’t many of his . . . kind around here, so it’s. It’s been a while since I’ve, uh, seen one.” The dwarf seemed to have difficulty selecting his words. Sten bristled at this comment, but did not lose his composure.

Ayah looked back to her companion. “Are qunari uncommon here in Ferelden? I have honestly never met one other than you, except from afar in Antiva City.”

Sten shook his head. “Save myself, and the men of my antaam, none have touched these profane, dog-shores.” Many clues about the quiet giant’s background began to add into an updated schema in Ayah’s mind; he was not a Grey Warden, but walked with them as if he had always been one. His swords swung with purpose and strength beyond both of the Wardens’ years, and yet he answered to them. Aedan and Alistair were both skilled in their art, but they were young - Ayah had fought against old, young, mage, and templar alike in practice, and combat. She had battled darkspawn, but she fully admitted she did not have the wherewithal (or disposition) for leadership. Sten was sensible, attentive, quick-witted at times, and moved his body in a way is if he knew its limitations well; he was a seasoned warrior, like Liborio, or his elven assassin. He wielded his cumbersome claymore skillfully, with measured strikes; the Tranquil deduced that only in qunari culture would such a caliber of warrior been comfortable following the orders of those younger and more inexperienced than he, Grey Wardens or no. Indeed, it was almost as if their society were designed to indoctrinate its inhabitants to become like the Tranquil.

Dwyn had scoffed at Sten’s reply. “Yeah, that sure explains all the mercs.”

The qunari warrior bristled again. “Tal-Vashoth are not qunari, basra! I tire of this. It would be quicker if we killed him.” While Ayah had picked up a few qunlat words from Sten, Tal-Vashoth was not one that she recognized. Antaam, however, was one that she knew meant ‘unit’ or ‘piece.’ From her memory, it was a war-band. She hadn’t been aware that the qunari wanted to wage war with Ferelden, or that Sten had been a part of one, but since his pronamen was ‘Sten’ which meant some manner of warrior, it made some sense to her. It made sense that they would assume it was his name, but it didn’t make sense that a sten was separate from his band. How he had ended up with Aedan wasn’t something the others had spoken of, and Ayah was too polite by nature to ask.

Some of the pieces of his story began to fall into place in her head as Ayah looked between the dwarf and the qunari, noting how she was barely taller than the former. “Where is your antaam?” Ayah asked politely. Sten was silent on the matter. She turned to Dwyn. “You have seen other qunari, yes? I’d appreciate any information you have on them. It’s an important matter to my friend.”

“For the last time, Tal-Vashoth are not qunari,” Sten repeated insistently, more quietly this time.

Dwyn seemed uneasy, but more than willing to answer once she raised her sword. She’d never tried using her sword to talk to people before; it seemed to be the most efficient way to go about things with the unwilling. Dwyn gulped visibly as he stared up the sword from its point to the still hand of the calm and quiet elf. “Well, er, I, uh, o-off the King’s Road near Calenhad, ah. They . . . I saw—uh. There were bones. Giant bones. You know, horned ones. Like him. That’s all. That’s all I saw, I-I swear.”

This, if anything, enraged Sten even further. He spoke many words rapidly in his mother tongue, too fast for her to even try and make sense of. It took quite some convincing from Ayah to calm him down. Eventually she managed to convince him that it was best to let her handle the matter, because she needed the practice with people in the world, and he wasn’t being level-headed enough.

“Dwyn,” Ayah began, “my qunlat is not the best, as there was only one book with qunari writing in the Tower. I am still learning, but I know that ‘asala’ is a very important word to qunari. It is my understanding that it is an object of great value that houses an individual’s awareness, and the preservation of it is integral to their standing in society. Imagine a mage without magic, or a dwarf without a beard. If you have any qunari items in your possession, particular any you acquired from the battleground of fallen qunari you stumbled upon near Lake Calenhad, I suggest you hand them over immediately before my friend takes over this negotiation. He will not ask as nicely.”

Dwyn scoffed. “Yeah. Sure. The last thing I need is a pissed off qunari and his pet knife-ear at my doorstep, rifling through my things. But, since you’ve scared off my men, doesn’t look like I have a choice.”

Out of courtesy, Ayah decided to the racial slur slide. Sten grumbled. “I’m glad we have reached an understanding,” she said without a smile and thanked him for his time. As they ransacked Dwyn’s weapons-closet, it occurred to Ayah that she was yet a mage without magic, just as Sten had been without his asala.

It came out that Sten had seen the same bones, the bones of his antaam, when they had left Lake Calenhad, and been in distress ever since. He had not found his Asala there, which was his sword - something that he had lost, and he considered this a great shame to him. Ayah did not ask him how he had lost it, or how he had survived. It seemed to be a sensitive subject and Ayah had learned from Cullen the hard way that it was sometimes best not to press subjects (especially culturally sensitive ones). They did indeed ransack Dwyn’s house and found a qunari sword inside that Sten recognized. If it was not his, he didn’t say anything, but he seemed satisfied in his silence. Dwyn was nearly tossed into the lake by Sten until Aedan appeared to talk him out of it. Ayah found herself annoyed with the dwarf and took a sword for herself from Dwyn’s stash that seemed to be of elven make and balanced well in her hand.

All in all, it was a success, and they decided to reconvene with the others at the tavern after rounding up anyone into Chantry that didn’t look like they’d be able to fight.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Morrigan huffed. “’Tis boring to insult one who lacks the capacity to feel the sting of your insult.”

“Don’t mind her,” Leliana suggested, “she’s used to having Alistair around, but he usually gives at least as good as he gets.”

“That pea brain?” Morrigan’s voice rose into a condescending tone. “He only wishes it were so.”

“I am unbothered,” Ayah corrected, maintaining eye contact with the witch. “Insults are an ineffective way of gaining my attention because I am uninterested in what you think of me, Morrigan. My only interest lies in who you are as an individual.”

The witch seemed irritated, or taken aback. Her expressions were broad but difficult to read, because they passed so quickly that they were difficult for Ayah to keep track of. The elf suspected that the hedge witch did so intentionally, as a way of keeping others at bay socially; social interaction seemed to drain and exhaust the young woman much more quickly than others. Morrigan looked Ayah up and down and mused, “not . . . if even you know . . .?” Ayah co*cked her head to the side, but Morrigan did not clarify and simply trailed off, huffed, and turned tail to go back to glaring at the statue of Andraste in the Chantry.

“Any idea what she meant?” Leliana asked. Ayah shrugged, and turned toward Sten, who had not paid attention to any of it and was watching the villagers mull by with a bored expression.

They’d been instructed, more than asked, to guard the Bann and the others in the Chantry while Aedan and the others led the rest of Redcliffe’s knights against the horde coming from the castle. Stories they’d gathered from the locals were mixed, and no one could agree on anything except that the dead seemed to pop up out of the ground itself, like daisies. They’d surmised that it was more likely that they came from the castle from down the hill, as scouts reported more concentrated numbers up there, and so they lined the hills with pitch and set a runner to wait for the knights’ signal. Wynne had suggested that they could be coming from the water, so it was that Morrigan in raven form would survey the battle from above when the signal from the hill went off, and report to both squads. If magical help was necessary should the undead get to the village, she would set up wards and join the fray, but it seemed that Alistair was a bit nervous about the Chantry discovering her abilities. Aedan didn’t seem to share his fears, but it caused a minor argument. Sten was unofficially in charge for the time being.

Ayah’s thoughts were interrupted by the screeching cry of a baby. Annoyed, she looked over at the human woman responsible, but decided it wouldn’t be polite to mention it. The infants cries were enough to arouse Morrigan’s ire, who scoffed loudly enough to draw Teagan’s attention and consternation. The bann seemed to visibly soften in the presence of women, however, and lost his ire once he began speaking with with her.

As the child’s cries loudened against its mothers’ wishes, the hair on the nape of Ayah’s skull stood on end. An old, familiar tremor rattled her knees for a moment. Simultaneously she heard Morrigan stop speaking and grow silent. “That is Wynne’s craft,” Ayah guessed aloud, probably accurately.

Morrigan nodded. “It has the feel of the hag, yes.”

“Isn’t it a little ironic for you to be calling Wynne a hag?” Leliana wondered in an amused tone.

Morrigan simply glared at the Orlesian sister, turned into a crow, and flew away out of the window of the Chantry to the gasps of several villagers that were watching. Bann Teagan watched her swirl away in fascination, and almost absently picked up a black feather that had fallen from the witch’s outfit. Approximately thirty seconds later to Ayah’s reckoning, a fiery arrow pierced the mist over the hills; the signal that Aedan sent, that the undead had been set alight with pitch on the hillside, and were incoming. Sten drew his sword, Leliana her bow, and Ayah her new sword.

Leliana paused to regard the Bann. “We’ll hold them off.”

Teagan perked up. “My men and I will join you, then.”

“No.” Leliana didn’t even need to look back to consult Sten or Ayah; they had all been in agreement about the plan before. “You and your men must stay here to guard these people. We will help the militia to fend off the undead.”

Teagan didn’t like it, but couldn’t really disagree because it made the most sense. After all, the town needed a leader intact before the night was through.

Outside of the chantry, the militia were restless after having seen the signal. Many fiddled nervously with their weapons and bows, some hyperventilated. Ayah frowned. “They are not ready. They must be ready,” she stated.

Leliana gave her a look that suggested she should remain silent. It was a lot to convey with one look, but the sister managed it. “They are ready. Men!” Her voice raised. “Tonight, you must fight for your families! For your lives, and the lives of the men beside you! Tell me, are you ready?”

A few people had the audacity to shout ‘aye.’ Leliana managed to coax a few louder ‘ayes’ out of the group in some masterful crowd-manipulation that made Ayah question the lay sister’s background quite a bit. In a minute, the militia were cheering, even as the skeletal undead crawled from under the docks under the cover of night. The only thing that was clearly visible was the reflection of the moon off of wet bones and kelp, dragged by limbs and shambles of flesh out of the water in a mindless quest for violence.

Ayah saw, near the front of the line they had made out of trenches, hay, wooden posts, and whatever they had lying around, a boy that couldn’t have been any older than she was when she took her Harrowing. He had his bow ready, but his hands shook too severely to hold them steady. She frowned and approached him, taking the young man by surprise. She put away her sword, gave him her other one, and took his bow and quiver right off of his numb shoulders without saying a word. Once she had an arrow drawn, she told him, “Go to the Chantry. Guard the Bann, boy.” Just like that, he fled, with tears in his eyes. She felt, rather than saw Leliana take position near her on the edge, and bark orders to the bowmen. “Have you commanded before?” She wondered under her breath, to the woman she now suspected had to have been a bard (she’d sung quite a few songs along the road to Redcliffe, after all, and had a lovely voice).

Leliana only chuckled, and gave the order to loose. Ayah aimed inexpertly for the spinal column of a skeletal undead that had managed to crawl quite quickly to the front lines, only to lodge an arrow unsuccessfully in its sternum. The creature seemed confused, patted at it absently, then kept shambling forward right into a trench the men had dug earlier, under Aedan’s instruction. Ayah dropped her bow and ran forward into the ditch and severed its skull.

She remained in the trench til reinforcements arrived, with a few other militia men about using spears and swords. Whatever undead stumbled their way were quickly dismantled while the others were picked off with arrows. At least one or two of the men fighting alongside her died, but she had not counted. Before Aedan and the others arrived down the hill with the knights, she had received a few minor wounds and Morrigan had rejoined the fight, sending fireballs into the fray. A few of the screaming, burning undead fell their ways into the trench, causing Ayah to receive several burn wounds before she managed to climb out with the help of Sten.

As the Wardens arrived, they let the undead pile up in the trench as the blacksmith set off the trap in the trench - a barrel of pitch that fell down the incline of the hole in the village that the undead themselves lit on fire with their own bodies. She sensed Wynne’s healing magic before it arrived and made a point to thank the spirit mage for her excellent timing, as she arrived just in time for the worst of the wounds.

The battle for Redcliffe was not over quickly. Undead continued pouring in throughout the night, but had largely been defeated in the first wave, which is when the militia received its most heavy losses. Over ten were dead total, two knights and eight villagers, each with ‘a sword in their hands’ according to the Teagan, who gave a speech about it later in gratitude for the sacrifice of those men.

As dawn broke, the Wardens and company stood with the arl, battered but unbeaten, while he commended them for their sacrifice too. (Ayah was confused by that; what had they sacrificed, besides time?) He followed it up with a showy and unnecessary display involving handing over some ancestral armor to Aedan, who accepted it with grace. Their small army of people were tired, and starving, but alive. The undead littered the ground, alongside the dead. It was considered an all-around success, and there was a unanimous vote to create an expedition into the castle, to determine the cause of the undead.

“Probably a demon,” Ayah unnecessarily informed Aedan out of the blue, when they had all taken a moment to resupply for the journey (in the likely case of more undead). “Usually it’s a demon.”

“She’s not wrong,” Morrigan agreed, which felt weird to everyone since everyone had been under the impression that Morrigan was incapable of agreeing to things. “This has the feel of a demon about it, my guess is it is one of lesser power than the one who ensnared us in the Tower.”

Aedan smiled. “That’s sort of comforting, in a not-at-all way.”

“Undead are easy to summon, but not in such numbers,” Morrigan clarified. “That requires strength of will that mortals are not typically known to possess. Only a handful of mages could do such a thing. I only know of one - my mother.”

Aedan visibly paled, as did Alistair. “Oh, please tell me there’s only one old witch in the wilds,” Alistair whined.

Morrigan chuckled. “Have no fear. I have never met any others than myself, and mother, in my entire life.”

“What would a demon gain from attacking Redcliffe?” Sten asked, and his response was thoughtful silence.

“That’s a good point,” Alistair concurred, “I mean, what sort of dastardly plan is ‘attack the villagers so they can die and join my army of undead’ - oh wait, I just figured it out, that was the plan, wasn’t it? That’s . . . Pretty brutal.”

Aedan nodded. “For every one of them that died, another joined the ranks. A true war of attrition.”

“So we are dealing with a clever, but also illogical demon?” Sten seemed confused. “What could a demon want from such a small village, when it would surely face inevitable extermination by more powerful foe? Why are we wasting time on this, when we should be killing darkspawn.”

“An equally good point,” Morrigan agreed, causing everyone to feel weird again.

Aedan sighed. “I really thought we went over this, you guys. Remember how there’s a civil war in Ferelden? And we need Arl Eamon’s support?”

“He is sick and no one has heard from him in days, correct?” Ayah summarized.

“He’s alive, I’m sure of it,” Alistair interjected firmly. “And even if he isn’t, worst case, than the arling becomes Teagan’s, whom we already know will help us.”

“Eamon’s political support base is massive,” Aedan went on, “so without his voice in the Landsmeet, Alistair and I will continue walking around with a bounty on our heads and the civil war will continue while darkspawn ravage and rape our country.”

“Why are you looking at me while explaining this?” Ayah questioned. “I have heard this already.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t, I mean I just happened to be looking at you. I was explaining to Sten.”

“My face is over here, not there,” Sten confirmed, and Aedan made a point to stare at Sten for a few seconds and sigh. “But, I concede your point, kadan,” Sten then added after Aedan’s heavy sigh.

Ayah’s eyebrows raised, as did Aedan’s, but she suspected for different reasons. The new nickname slid by without anyone paying it much mind, but Ayah knew that in that moment, two hearts had become one for the qunari. As they traveled up the hill to the half-burnt-from-the-recent-battle mill, where they had agreed to meet Teagan so they might travel together, Ayah wondered how wonderful and strange it would be to have an asala of her own. As they walked, Sten was beside her, as had become usual. He was, by far, the most tolerant of her out of all the companions so far - and even seemed to prefer her quiet company, along with the dog’s.

“I must thank you,” Sten told her.

She stared up at him, and had to brush some hair that had fallen from her braid out of her face. “What for?”

“You have found, even if by accident, a single sword in a country at war. You have helped me find my asala. I think you must be an ashkaari, to do such a feat.”

“Ashkaari?” She repeated, questioningly.

“One who seeks,” he defined. “Though by how fearlessly you jumped into the fray, perhaps katari is better. You are not so callow as I assumed.”

“These are compliments?” she confirmed.

Sten nodded, to her delight. “You are basalit-an - one worthy of respect. As is the Warden. The loud one, perhaps less so.”

She assumed he meant Alistair, but that was less significant to her. “I did not intend to earn your respect, but I am pleased to have it,” she told the qunari honestly. It had been the last thing she’d expected to get out of the day.

“Nonetheless, you have it,” he said, and went back to staring at the road ahead after giving her the strangest pat on the head she’d ever received. His hands were at least big enough to grab her by the head with only one of them; it felt like briefly being patted by a literal giant.

“That was the most words I’ve ever heard out of you, you know,” Alistair commented from a few paces ahead, apparently having been listening in. Sten merely grunted. “And I’m a little hurt with not being basaltyanne too considering we’ve fought together longer and you’ve turned out to be alright despite all that, uh, mess in Lothering, but I’m happy you’re finally making friends.” Sten didn’t even bother grunting and just totally ignored him.

“Are we friends?” Ayah asked Alistair, distracting him.

The templar lit up, in spite of the pall that had been cast over the morning by the battle, from which they had yet to gain any rest. “Of course we are! Friends are people who kill demons together.”

Ayah didn’t quite know what to say. “That is a strange definition, but I think you are just a strange person. I’m . . . pleased to be making friends with you.”

“Aedan’s stranger than I am, for sure,” Alistair pointed out.

“I wouldn’t know,” Aedan shot back, “I’m too busy focusing on the mission like a good Grey Warden.”

By then, they had all reached the top of the hill. “And what exactly is our mission, here? Knock on the door of the castle and ask for the demon?” Alistair wondered.

“That is a terrible plan,” the Tranquil criticized, imagining all the horrible ways everyone would die. “All of us will die horribly.”

“One day, I will get you to understand what sarcasm is,” Alistair vowed, “and it will be a fantastic day.”

“No, that’s definitely not the plan,” Teagan announced. He, with a few of the Knights - including Ser Perth, which was all of whatever was left of Redcliffe castle’s forces - had clearly been waiting a little longer than they’d expected, judging from the impatience in the man’s voice and all the sweating underneath the armor in the gleaming sun. The mist had completely dispersed, and the quiet over the town of Redcliffe was unsettling in light of the commotion of the previous night. Teagan looked fresh, however, in a clean doublet and trousers, with light leather armor strapped on top, and a shiny sword by his side. “There’s a secret entrance into the castle. I didn’t want to talk about it within earshot of the villagers. If they’d known I knew of a way into the castle all along, but hadn’t used it . . .”

“Wait. You haven’t?” Aedan wondered.

“Would you have?” Teagan asked, rather helplessly.

“Yes,” Aedan immediately answered. “Of course!”

Teagan seemed not to pay his answer any mind. “Each night, with undead pouring out . . . For every villager they killed, another joined the ranks of the undead. It was a losing battle until you came along. I didn’t want to waste the manpower on a fruitless mission. We all had to unite to protect ourselves against the onslaught. I was afraid of the worst, but now . . . Wait . . . What in blazes-?!”

Behind them from the road that led to the castle, in the distance was a gleaming silver object that was winding its way down from the castle grounds. As Ayah squinted, she realized it was the glint of sun off of chain mail - there were live people coming out of the castle. Teagan and his men scrambled into formation while the Wardens & co. sort of aimlessly milled about and fiddled with their weapons. No one sensed any undead, or darkspawn, and assumed everything was fine and that Teagan was overreacting. The last thing that people were expecting, as the retinue of soldiers approached, was a shocked female (and distinctly Orlesian) voice crying out, “Teagan? Teagan, who are all these strange people?”

A few tired looking soldiers were guarding a lone woman in noble’s dress as she approached on foot. The wrinkles around her blue eyes could not conceal her beauty, just as her accent could not conceal her heritage. Her long golden hair was pulled away from her face in a tight bun that seemed to stretch out her features, it was so severe. Teagan approached in shock and engulfed the small woman in a hug. “Isolde!” He cried out. “By the Maker, you’re alive! But how? Why? Tell me, what’s happened at the castle? I must know, Isolde!”

A blubbering explanation that Ayah only got the gist of issued forth that resulted in Isolde not explaining much of anything, Aedan becoming very irritated with her, and Teagan leaving with her while the rest of the group all crawled into the mill to use the secret passage. Sten had to stay behind because he was too tall to fit in the tunnel, unfortunately, and remained behind with the Knights of Redcliffe and Ser Perth outside the gate, so that when they regained control of the castle they could let them in. No one was sure what to expect except that someone named Connor was at fault, possibly Isolde’s child or nephew, and that it was most definitely some kind of demon. They had confirmed that the arl was alive, which was enough for the Wardens to be willing to charge in, even without a proper explanation.

Chapter 11: X

Chapter Text

Like rats, all the way up the castle’s pitch-black and dank escape tunnel the Warden’s party scuttled. Due to issues of size, bad knees, and utter apathy respectively, Sten, Wynne, and Morrigan chose to remain behind while the others continued forward. It was decided that they would charge in with the rest of the knights when the gate was opened from the other side, while the rest of them would infiltrate the castle grounds through Teagan’s tunnel; the Bann himself would do some reconnaissance with the Arlessa.

The tunnel was cramped and cold, and slick with algae that made their hands and knees slip several times, nearly causing a few injuries and earning many curses. Eventually through a combination of willpower and literal manpower, they managed to scurry inside and found themselves in a spider-infested corner of a dark, dank cellar.

“Well, this has just been lovely,” Leliana joked, attempting to brush the grime off of her leather armor. “I’m going to need to find a bath after this. Perhaps several.”

“Get in line,” Aedan grumbled and adjusted his sword over his back once more. They’d had to remove the bulkiest of their weapons and drag them in a burlap sack behind them to fit inside. Only Ayah and the dog did not face that issue being very small, and the two stared at one another for a moment, blinking as both their eyes adjusted to the light. It occurred to her in that moment that she had no idea what Aedan’s mabari’s name was. It didn’t seem to matter to the warhound as she scratched him on the head with dirty fingers.

The dog’s ear twitched just as Ayah’s did, both pricking at the same sound of distressed and distant breathing that alerted them to the fact that they were not alone in the dark. The Wardens were murmuring amongst themselves, but grew silent when the hound let out a light yip to get their attention.

“Someone is here,” Ayah informed everyone, struggling to hear over the sounds of her fellows breathing. She took a few steps forward into a dim light, finding it easier after a few moments to make her way to a set of bars. She tested their strength. “We appear to be in a dungeon,” she added.

“Just lovely,” Leliana repeated and sidled up alongside her. “Let me see if I can find the door,” the Orlesian muttered to herself as she felt her way around for an exit. Ayah, not knowing what to do, stood back and helped the Wardens with their weapons.

“Who builds their escape tunnel in a dungeon cell?” Aedan asked no one in an incredulous voice. “I mean, really, Eamon! Brilliant planning, this.”

“Can anyone see anything? Any demons?” Alistair wondered, uselessly.

The hound began to growl. “Uh, hello? Is someone there?” A faint voice called from further in the dark. Ayah stretched out the faint senses that she had grown from her time amongst templars - it was like a muscle that she’d had to practice, and it felt very different from how it felt before she began, but she had discovered that she could sense magic by degrees. Near her, she could sense the templar, and something faint within both him and the Warden, like a familiar tingle from a forgotten past. (It wasn’t unlike Morrigan’s ‘feel,’ but the witch’s was far . . . More.) Further along she felt the distinctive and diminutive light of the hound, the unusually dark warmth of Leliana, and further into the dungeon was a similar tingle like the Wardens along with the comforting hum of mortal magic.

“It isn’t a demon,” Ayah confirmed with confidence.

“Are you sure about that?” Alistair asked dubiously.

She looked up at him and blinked her dark eyes, a useless gesture since he couldn’t see her. “Aren’t you?”

The templar-Warden huffed. “This whole place feels too demon-y to me. A demon would’ve attacked us by now, though.”

“Unless they were locked in the dungeon,” Leliana pointed out, deliberately holding the door open for Alistair who had been taking his time.

“Swore I heard something,” the voice continued faintly. A distinctly human male voice. Her hand went to the hound’s ear in a comforting gesture that she’d seen Sten perform many times; the mabari may have been a warhound, but his master often spoiled him with affection. It calmed the beast fairly quickly, just as Leliana let out a satisfied hum when she managed to get the cell’s door open.

“Definitely not a demon,” Aedan called from further in the dungeon. He’d marched his way down to the source of the noise, and had managed to find himself a torch so he could gaze at something suspiciously. “Or a very silly looking one, at any rate.”

“I - I’m not a demon!” A male voice protested.

[No, Lily - I - I’m not a demon!]

Ayah’s step faltered at the visceral memory, but she was able to shake it off fairly quickly. Nowadays, it seemed she couldn’t go anywhere without being reminded of something she’d forgotten. While she’d never been able to identify the source of the many voices, she felt strongly that it must have been connected to her beginning. Some memories of her previous life were vivid enough to infiltrate her current state, across time and space, while others were simply gone. Some faces were ingrained forever, like the face of Uldred, or Irving, or Cullen. The face staring at her from across the bars was not one of those faces.

“No,” the dirty human mage on the other side seemed to be in denial about something. “Surana? How, n-not - how? How did -?!” His dark hair had fallen in limp strands around his face, a gaunt and sunken shape. “Oh, Maker, this has to be a nightmare. This can’t be real.” He stared openly at Ayah, so she felt it only right to stare back - after all, people treated you how they expected to be treated. His eyes were brown, and perhaps familiar, but so were her own in her reflection. The closer she looked, though, she was surprised to feel a faint stirring. The second she glanced away from him, she noticed the runes around the edge of his cage, rudimentary and etched only faintly, as if with a piece of rock. Such runes had been carved around the door in the repository, which she knew instinctively but could not really explain why. She hadn’t had much time to examine them when she’d broken out . . . But she was certain of the nature of these protective, Tevenese anti-magic runes. Moreover, the runes were smeared with dark and dry human blood, which she knew could only have come from the mage who carved them.

“Maker’s breath,” the mage murmured. “What did they do to you?”

“For someone who spent all her time locked up in a Tower, you seem to get around,” Warden Alistair commented lightly.

“Have we met, before?” She asked, feeling disturbed. “I feel as though we have, but I cannot explain why. Is it . . . Lily? Is that name meaningful?”

The mage flinched back, as if her words had struck him. “No . . .”

Warden Aedan held his torch a little closer to the bars and tapped it on them, causing the mage to divert his attention from his staring contest to pat at some embers that had escaped from the torch. “Oi. I assure you. We are very real, very dirty Grey Wardens who have had a very, very long day fending off a horde of undead. And considering this castle, and really the whole village has been overrun by said undead that we figured must have been the fault of some demon, we’ve come to sort it out and hopefully kill it to death. Since you look more malnourished than demon-y, I’m going to get you out of this cage and let you share our rations in exchange for answering some questions. If you attack us, we will kill you without hesitation. Do you understand?”

The mage gaped like a fish for a few minutes. “You-you’re letting me out? You’d do that for me?”

Alistair also seemed to be in disbelief. “Now, hang on just a minute. We don’t know he didn’t summon this demon in the first place!”

“That is technically true,” Ayah admitted. “However, he carved those runes to protect himself from magic. From the demon, m—”

“I-I didn’t summon the demon,” the human stuttered. “I swear! B-but I know who did. If you let me out, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I promise.”

“He used his own blood to activate the runes,” she added, finishing her thought, and feeling annoyed at the interruption.

It was the templar’s turn to gape like a fish while Aedan merely ordered Leliana to open the cage, and flippantly dismissed his concerns about maleficary. When his fellow Warden objected, Aedan was quick to point out that Wardens never turned down help from any corner, and didn’t discriminate against anyone no matter their practices. It was an eminently practical attitude that Ayah found herself wishing the Chantry would adopt; their teachings were very much unlike their practices, after all. Perhaps maleficarum would be less troublesome if they were treated as something more than trouble. Perhaps then the Chantry would waste less templar lives pursuing foolish mages who didn’t know better, because they had never formally learned.

When the mage was out of his cell, he introduced himself as Jowan. Ayah found a few memories of a less-gaunt and hauntingly familiar face once Jowan began speaking, and wondered if it was in another life that they had met. Jowan seemed to certainly know her, but from what, she couldn’t say. She had grown used to so many things fading, since she began, that it wouldn’t surprise her to know they had once met.

The man was an mage formerly of the Circle. He had become an apostate for practicing blood magic, and though he claimed to have harmed no one, was nonetheless driven out. He found himself with few connections in the world and in Redcliffe, working as a healer on the side for those who kept him fed and kept his secret. Word of him had reached Arlessa Isolde, whose son had begun to emit the initial signs of mage-hood. Being as pious as she was desperate, she sent her guards to fetch the mage and demanded he teach her son to control his magic or she would turn him over to the Chantry.

“The Arlessa must be a very stupid woman,” Ayah ascertained, earning a guffaw from Alistair and a chuckle from Aedan. “Magic cannot be controlled at such a young age. The boy should have been brought to the Circle, to learn in safety with his peers.” It certainly would not surprise Ayah to learn that the boy was responsible for all of what happened here. Her own faint memories of her childhood were telling about the dangers of a young mage, left orphaned and alone in an Alienage. Like animals backed into a corner, or so her memory told her, a young mage would fight back against anything it saw as a threat instinctively.

“I know,” Jowan agreed softly. “You once . . . Well, you can’t control it when you don’t know anything about it. I’m not an expert, I still left the Circle when I was apprentice. I taught Connor everything I knew because I was afraid for my life. He’s a bright child, and I had nowhere near the ability necessary to rein him in. I had the benefit of good teachers, but Connor is . . . Very impulsive, and untrained. I fear he may have met a demon in the Fade during his dreams and made a deal with it. I haven’t heard much from being down here, but the fact that no one has come here . . . And you mentioned undead, well. I think Connor may be the one doing all of this.”

There was a quiet over the group as everyone processed this. Even the hound whimpered. “Then . . . The arl’s son is possessed?” Leliana did not ask this so much as she seemed to meet an unpleasant realization.

“Most likely,” Jowan confirmed before biting into some jerky.

“If he is an abomination, he’ll have to be killed the save the people in the castle,” Ayah explained for Jowan’s benefit, since the man seemed preoccupied with food. “Though they might all now be among the ranks of the undead.”

“What a pleasant thought,” Aedan huffed.

“Is that sarcasm?” Ayah asked outright. “I am sometimes unable to tell.”

“That was. Good on you. We’ll teach you sarcasm yet.”

“Isolde didn’t seem too dead to me when she went to fetch Teagan, though,” Alistair pointed out.

“Oh no, Teagan,” Alistair groaned. “What have we sent him into? This is a bleeding mess!”

A thought occurred to Ayah. But, “It would depend on the kind of demon,” she said aloud just as the thought occurred to her, “but it might be amenable to simply leaving, if we make a bargain with it. Not all are destructive, like Uldred. And even he was not always that way. The possessions in the Tower were desperate, done in the heat of the moment. If the boy is backed into a corner, he will probably fight back in the same way.”

That gave the group pause. “There was that one templar,” Aedan murmured. “I think that must have been a Desire demon, but then again, there were so many in the Fade I can’t remember them all.”

“Those were unusual circ*mstances to encounter the Fade in,” Ayah told him. “It’s probably a demon of Desire in this case. They find children to be easy prey. If so, it can likely be exorcised by a competent ritual. Killing it would be simpler, of course, and would solve the problem.”

“We only came here for Eamon,” Aedan seemed to be reminding himself more than anyone else of this fact. “And we don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.”

“I think . . . He is still alive,” Jowan stated uneasily.

There was some debate over what to do for a minute before Jowan decided after his small meal that then would be a good moment to admit to poisoning the arl. The arl hadn’t died, to anyone’s knowledge, but he had fallen into a dreamless sleep. Shortly thereafter, Jowan was locked in his cell and heard nothing more. His theory, which Ayah found to be sound, was that the boy had become possessed shortly after his father had fallen ill - the mental stress of that event had likely drawn a demon’s attention across the Fade. After much cursing, it was decided that Jowan would be left to his fate - but Aedan wouldn’t be putting him back in the cell. He told Jowan it was useless to get out through the tunnel they’d come in, since Sten and Morrigan were on the other side, and then instructed his dog to make sure the man wouldn’t run away so he could face the arl’s justice.

That was a moment before it came out that Arl Loghain was the one who had hired him in the first place, complicating the situation a little further since (and this became news to Ayah) Loghain was someone the Wardens wanted very much dead for ‘murdering the king’ at Ostagar. Ayah had recalled no such thing from the battle, ubt had also never met the King. Leliana clarified when she asked that Loghain had quit the battlefield, leaving the King and his men, along with the Wardens, to die by darkspawn. How Alistair and Aedan survived was, according to her, a tale for another time.

After quite a few revelations, Leliana parted with a few more dry rations for the mage and the rest of them went up through the dungeon into the barracks of the guards, and encountered numerous undead before cutting their way through to the courtyard. Undead seemed to be guarding every entrance - Leliana began firing arrows at anything that moved while the Warden ran to the gates and let the knights in, with Sten and Wynne. Ayah started knocking off the heads of any near her while the rest picked off the others.

Just as they all seemed to get a moment to breathe after the swift battle, there was a surge of mana near the corpse of a fallen knight, and a shadow that crawled along the ground towards its body. Alistair proved himself to be a fine templar and alerted everyone before dropping a holy smite on the spot, but it wasn’t enough to stop the Revenant from being born. The knight’s body reanimated with clattering armor cracking joints, operating its limbs and head like a puppet master would control its doll. The creature picked up its sword before quickly throwing itself at Aedan.

The Grey Warden barely had time to drive the thing back with his shield before it was on him again. Sten briefly got its attention, but it was fast - inhuman, a corpse that felt no pain driven solely by hatred of the living. Their combined efforts were enough to keep the creature busy, but not enough to stop it - it was not so much an expert in sword play, but a speed-demon with twice the strength of the man it used to be. It slashed and hacked and never stopped to breathe, recover, or reel in pain.

Morrigan then descended as a crow from above with a cry, and turned into a bear before she hit the ground running and charging at the beast from behind Alistair. He barely managed to get out of the way in time before bear-Morrigan was on the beast, pinning it to the ground with her massive paws and powerful jaw. Sten was nearest to the place of impact, and was quick to rush up and chop the thing’s head off while it was down with a mighty cleave from his Asala. The body went limp, and Morrigan let it loose after giving it one last wriggle with her mighty maw. She stood up from her kneeled position and primly shook the dirty off of her robes.

“Is it over?” One of the knights wondered fearfully.

“Not at all,” Aedan reassured them, “but at least we’re not dead.” They didn’t seem to be reassured.

Ser Perth instructed the other knights to keep guard and finish off any undead, while he and the Warden’s group headed toward the throne room. None of them knew exactly what they’d be facing on the inside, but not a single one of them was expecting to walk in on Teagan doing athletic head-stands and cartwheels to entertain a young boy sitting in the arl’s chair. The boy clapped enthusiastically when Teagan fell from his head-stand after being startled by the entrance of the others. The Bann of Rainesfere tumbled and rolled all the way down the steps to fall near the Wardens’ feet, panting and sweating. Isolde, seated nearby with a miserable expression on her face, looked at them all with a mixture of sorrow and terror and watched it happen.

The boy clapped and cackled while everyone stood about trying to figure out what exactly to do in such a situation, and if anyone had ever imagined themselves in such a place. Teagan was catching his breath on the ground near the steps to the throne, and Ayah offered to help him up. Instead, the wild-eyed Bann grabbed her arm tried to pull her down with him. She instinctively went limp and into a tumble, rolling quickly in her squeaking leather back up on her feet and gave the manic Bann the most annoyed look she could muster. “I must ask you to acquit yourself, Ser. And not do that again. Ever.”

“Wonderful! Absolutely wonderful!” The boy on the throne crowed in a strange voice. “Uncle, make the knife-ear fall again! Do it! I command you!!”

“Connor!” Isolde let out, sounding shocked. “You should not use such language!”

Aedan marched up a few steps past Teagan and stared at the Arlessa with a mixture of disappointment and disbelief. “Allow me to ask you something, Isolde, and I want you to answer me honestly: where exactly are your priorities? Because it certainly isn’t to the people of Redcliffe.”

“Hey, you can’t just come in anywhere as you please!” the little boy roared, standing up to his full height. It came to about Aedan’s chest, and the Warden was wholly unimpressed. “And you can’t speak to my mother that way!” he added.

“Connor, I presume?” Aedan asked. “Pleasure to meet you, but I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to your mother. Now be a good boy and quiet while your mother answers my question.”

“You can’t speak to me that way!” Connor shrieked. “I am the Arl!” Alistair and the others uneasily began to draw their weapons, not exactly sure what was about to happen but each of them certain that Aedan’s strategy was going to get people killed.

Isolde was very near tears. “Connor, is . . . He is . . . Sick . . .”

“Your son is possessed,” Morrigan told the arlessa factually, and impassively. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “The simplest solution, and best thing for him, would be to end his suffering.”

“How dare you?” Isolde hissed, red-faced and now fully crying. She stood in her seat and screamed down at the unimpressed witch. “How dare - who are you!? How dare you traipse in here, clad in rags, and tell me what to do with my SON!”

“’Tis not a boy,” Morrigan went on, eyes narrowing, “it is a parasite unable to find foothold in this realm—”

“I SAID YOU CAN’T SPEAK TO ME THAT WAY!” Connor shrieked. The force of his emotion through his body was enough to cause a shockwave; the magic merely glossed over Wynne’s swiftly constructed shield that domed over the party and the knights, along with Teagan, infuriating the child further. The demon showed through the boy’s eyes with a bright purple flare of light, before quickly disappearing and leaving the boy to panic. Before anyone could really stop him, he ran away down a side-corridor and slammed the doors behind him telekinetically. Ser Perth and Alistair attempted to open it and give chase, but it was sealed.

“Don’t worry, he won’t get far,” Arlessa Isolde said tiredly. She seemed to have calmed down considerably in the few seconds after she stopped screaming at Morrigan. Ayah still felt it was very rude and unbecoming of a leader. “He does this sometimes . . . He gets scared, and he runs away to his father. He - he won’t hurt anyone if you leave him alone.”

“Tell that to all the villagers that died,” Aedan told her in a cold voice. “Tell that to the blacksmith, whose daughter we found trapped in the kitchen pantry and surrounded by undead. Tell that to your castle staff, all now among the ranks of the undead. Tell that to the knights that died outside to get in here, to try to save you. Tell that to the mayor who had to arm peasants and farmers to fight for the lives, because of your foolishness.”

Each word of Aedan’s seemed to hit Isolde like a blow, but did not diminish her composure. It seemed to only enhance it once the Warden finished, and the Arlessa stood with a sigh. “I am not ashamed for defending my son’s life,” she stated in a shaking voice.

Meanwhile, Teagan had been staring up at Ayah and blinking with a confused expression on his face. He made a noise and tried to stand, and she offered him a reluctant hand again. He took it gratefully, this time standing with a back-cracking crunch. “Ah,” the bann groaned, looking pained and held his lower back. “Thank you, my lady. How did I get down there? Wait, where’s Connor?” He seemed to panic momentarily.

“You fell down,” Ayah told him helpfully. “We don’t know where he is. He ran away down there.” She pointed at the door.

“It doesn’t seem to be a full possession,” Wynne suddenly added, drawing everyone’s attention. She had been musing to herself quietly during the exchange, and staring at the door Connor had sealed shut. “It couldn’t be a full possession, or he wouldn’t have run away in fear like that. A demon would be able to completely control him, and defended itself. He seems to be too emotional and impulsive . . . He reacted like a child. It’s possible he could be exorcised without killing him.”

Morrigan scoffed, clicking her tongue against her teeth. “The lyrium required for such a task would be immense. I don’t suppose you have any on you, do you, Wynne? Hiding somewhere under your skirt?”

“Well, it isn’t hiding under mine,” Leliana said cheekily.

“Definitely not under mine either,” Alistair added.

“The Circle could help, if we asked,” Wynne went on, ignoring the comment. “Though, I don’t know how much help they could offer, considering recent losses.”

“The same Circle that recently became overrun by abominations?” Aedan questioned incredulously. “The one we had to save you from? You want the help of that Circle?”

“Well, it isn’t always infested with abominations,” Wynne snapped.

Aedan shook his head and turned back to Isolde. “How about, instead of that, we talk about the mage you’re keeping in your dungeon? The man you threatened into helping you teach Connor magic, only to turn around and torture him, and then lock him in a dungeon to starve to death.”

“HE POISONED MY HUSBAND, YOU IMPUDENT BOY!” Isolde shrieked, her composure now completely lost. Ayah was surprised that the Orlesian woman had managed to maintain it at all in the face of Warden Aedan’s attitude. Few were able to withstand him, she had noted. “That monster corrupted my son!”

“No, Isolde, YOU corrupted him!” Teagan snapped, drawing Isolde’s shocked gasp. “You invited this disaster when you refused to hand your son over to the Circle! None of this would have happened if you’d thought about someone other than yourself for one Maker-forsaken moment!”

“Yes, Maker forbid a mage be allowed to learn without the Chantry looming over their shoulders,” Morrigan couldn’t seem to help herself from snarking.

“Don’t you start too,” Aedan somewhat affectionately chided. Morrigan huffed at him but nonetheless went quiet, which drew a disbelieving guffaw from Alistair. “His name is Jowan, and he admitted to poisoning the arl,” Aedan turned to Teagan, “and isn’t it funny that the fellow doing cartwheels a few moments ago is the voice of reason in the room? Anyway, he also said Loghain hired him, so he’s still in the dungeon with a very good guard dog.”

And a very good guard dog he was. Sten offered the hound a few scratches after he received thanks and a treat from his master for fetching Jowan for them, thankfully intact. The disheveled mage was visibly uncomfortable in the throne room under everyone’s gaze, but seemed resigned to his fate. Ayah offered him her water, which he took with a strange expression on his face.

“I’ve heard quite a few disturbing things about you,” the Bann told Jowan sternly after examining him for a few seconds. “Tell me true: did you summon this demon?”

“Of course not!” Jowan objected. “I know better than that. I . . . I know blood magic. And I know that admitted that may get me sentenced to death, but if you decided that I was the one who summoned the demon, I would die anyway. Why would I lie about such a thing, facing certain death?”

“Perhaps to gain a better death?” Teagan wondered. “But you do have a good point. So, then Connor is the one responsible for all this bloodshed? How is such a thing possible?”

“Trust me, it happens more often than you’d think,” Aedan told him. Ayah was getting better at detecting sarcasm thanks to Aedan - the Warden seemed to possess a boundless capacity for it. “Abominations happen every day.”

“We think there might be a way to save him without killing him, though,” Alistair interjected. “With enough lyrium and some mages, a person could enter the Fade and perhaps kill or disperse the demon from the other side, thus breaking its hold over Connor. The Circle might be able to help us if we could get a message to them in time. They owe us big time for fixing their blood magic infestation.”

Teagan thought about this for a few moments. “It would take three days in total if you crossed Lake Calenhad from here . . . Who knows what could happen in three days?”

Jowan flinched. “There . . .” He began, but found himself trailing off and losing confidence. Ayah squinted at him when the gesture gave her a feeling in the gut like a borrowed pain - something that didn’t belong, something that wasn’t right. The scrutiny of the others seemed to break him after only two seconds. “There might be . . . An alternative method to entering the Fade. We could do it right now, even. It . . . I thought I should offer, because I don’t want Connor to die. He, this, this isn’t his fault. He shouldn’t have to suffer because I wasn’t a good teacher.”

[Lily . . .] There was something about that name.

“What do you mean?” Aedan pressed. “Don’t tell me you just so happen to have a magical artifact that one can use to enter the Fade from anywhere at any time?”

“Please tell me you do and it’s hidden up your skirt,” Alistair pleaded.

“No, nothing like that,” Jowan shook his head, and his brows scrunched. “You found me in a dungeon, remember?”

Ayah had grown tired of the conversation. “Blood is a sufficient substitute for lyrium in a crisis,” she stated, drawing the information out of her memory like a fact from a textbook. “It would require a sacrifice.” This wasn’t something that pleased anybody in the room, and a few seemed upset at Jowan for suggesting it in the first place. Ayah found herself in the strange position of defending Jowan, then. “Grey Wardens are known for using blood magic to combat the Blight,” she pointed out, “and we are pressed for time. I don’t believe something as fleeting as the law of a land should affect your judgment in a life-or-death matter, Warden.”

“Oh, I hate it when she has good points about awful things,” Alistair grumbled.

“Then take mine,” the Arlessa threw in. “Take my life. Use my life to save my son.” She approached Jowan, teary-eyed, who started to back away in fright.

“Absolutely not!” Teagan barked. There were almost unanimous disagreements from everyone in the room on this subject, but only Ayah, Morrigan, and Jowan seemed unable to find words on the subject.

Once everyone had quieted down, Aedan spoke. “I don’t know how I can explain to Eamon, should he yet live through this, that I let this happen to you,” he addressed Isolde directly, “or your son. No matter how much you may infuriate me.” She cried, and buried her face in her hands. Leliana awkwardly comforted the woman and offered her a slightly dirty handkerchief from her breast. “Teagan? Thoughts?”

The Bann had no answer. Isolde had no answer, but seemed determined to die, which disturbed everyone except for Ayah who saw no problem in sacrificing the willing. Ayah was further confused when Aedan insisted that he, Morrigan, her, and Sten all remain at the castle to keep watch on Connor and the situation, while the rest of the group led by Alistair would travel across Calenhad to bid the mages’ assistance. Connor was unstable at best, and if the boy’s condition worsened, they had to agree to sacrifice Isolde’s life with Jowan or Morrigan’s help to enter the Fade, since she wouldn’t hear of anyone laying a single finger on the boy’s head. ( Quietly, during an aside, Aedan informed them that they were to ignore Isolde’s demands and lock her in a room while they dealt with Connor should the worst happen.)

“Enchantment!” the young dwarf Sandal cooed as he petted the great doors. His eyes seemed to gleam in wonder as he touched it, and reacted as if he could feel the magic tactiley - his fingers twitched and his expression changed dramatically. Ayah co*cked her head to examine the savant closely. It was clear he was unusually intelligent, and yet had difficulty tying his shoes, and seemed to her a simpleton at first. She had to help him tie them that morning when she was instructed to go and fetch him and his father from Redcliffe, by Wynne. Wynne, before leaving with Alistair and the others, insisted that the boy would be of service. When she’d had to tie his shoes for him while he stared in wonder at her forehead and called her ‘Enchantment,’ she was going to disagree. She’d thought ‘Enchantment’ was merely a nickname he had for her. His father had told her that the word was the only one that Sandal was currently capable of speaking, to his knowledge. Then, she heard from Bodahn how he had come to care for his adoptive son.

Sandal was very interesting. Sandal was certainly special, and had a clear mind. Much like her. The feel of him was clearer than anyone Ayah had ever felt - almost pure, like spring water, as compared to all the others she had met in her life. It was as if the world was full of noise and he was one quiet corner. Like a babbling brook compared to a rushing river. When Sandal touched the door, she instinctively copied him and touched it too. The dwarf looked up at her. “Enchantment?” he asked eagerly.

Not really knowing why, she smiled and nodded. “Yes, Sandal. Enchantment. Can you fix it?” Since Alistair had left, they had no templars at their disposal to drain the magic on the door. Morrigan had had no luck breaking the curse, as she called it, and did not like to muddle with Fade-crafting. Ayah found herself then in the strange position of wishing to be a mage as she was - she knew of the mechanics of the spell needed to break Connor’s ward, but had not the skill. Feeling it closely in her mind, she touched Sandal’s head and ran her fingers through his hair.

Sandal nodded beneath her fingers. “Enchantment,” he insisted, and closed his eyes. Somehow, she knew to trust him to do the work. She let the dwarf go about his business and walked toward the Warden and Bann, who had been watching over the main hall and eying them curiously.

“That is a most peculiar young dwarf,” the Bann said. “Where did you say you found them, Aedan?”

An expression Ayah identified as curiosity passed over Aedan’s face. He scratched at his black beard and squinted at Sandal’s door. “Doomed and surrounded by darkspawn . . . Actually, we seem to find a lot of things that way. A hazard of the job, I suppose.”

Bann Teagan chuckled. “It is good to know all this darkness hasn’t dimmed your humor. I wish . . .” The Bann of Rainesfere’s face twisted into something unidentifiable to Ayah, before he seemed to shake himself of the feeling. “No matter. Forgive me. I do not wish to dwell on such things now. We can only focus on one solution at a time.”

Aedan shrugged, completely nonchalant. “No need. I’ll be at peace once I have Howe’s severed head mounted on my mantle. I don’t suppose you know where he is?”

Ayah’s gaze whipped between the Bann and the Warden as they shot back and forth. Teagan shook his head. “I’ve been here in Redcliffe since Ostagar, and we’ve received no word from Denerim since the news of the King’s death. Last I heard, Rendon was headed toward Ostagar. I must assume he fled with Loghain’s men. Or never arrived, knowing him.”

Aedan’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought. Our next stop after this is Denerim, by way of the Brecilian Forest to try and find the Dalish. Perhaps it’s too much to hope that we’ll find him on the road and I can gut him.”

This was news to Ayah indeed. A part of her needed to blurt out: “We are meeting with Dalish elves?”

The Warden turned to her. “That’s the plan, anyway.” His brows knitted together. “Don’t suppose you’ve ever met them?”

“She’s Tranquil,” Teagan pointed out. Ayah felt like that didn’t needed to be pointed out; it was rather obvious. She scratched at her brand. “How would she have met the Dalish? Begging your pardon, my lady,” he added with a glance toward her.

Aedan shrugged causing the scales of his armor to chime and clink. “I don’t know, but Al had a point - she seems to get around.”

She had to think back through many scattered memories across her lifetime. Why did they all seem to be out of order? “Once, on the way back from Antiva, we met Dalish archers. They were . . . unkind.” That was the best description she could muster of the dirty, suspicious-eyed, scarred and tattooed elves that had so fascinated and repulsed her all at once. It had very nearly been a violent encounter, only for one of them to prove a little more rational than the other and suggest lowering weapons. They were hunting, nothing more. Ser Delaney had tried to make a joke then that flew over their heads, and seemed only to make them confused and angry. From there it was only bitter insults followed by storming off. “I know some elven language, I think. It has been a long time.” She wasn’t exactly sure why she knew any elven, since it was not spoken any more - even Dalish only knew a smattering - but she was just certain that she knew. “Though they spoke our language finely, with only a slight accent. They both had rough-hewn leather armor and curving facial tattoos, like a cultural brand, with hair in many ties. They gain their tattoos, called vallaslin, made from their own blood when they reach adulthood by hunting and preparing prey. They have a primitive culture. There was little about the Dalish in the Circle texts. Scant mentions of their mythology. They also seemed to dislike me more than the humans I traveled with.” They had glared at her with fierce contempt throughout the encounter.

Aedan blinked. “Well, you already know more than I about them. I thought they were fictional as a child until I read about Garahel. I used to be obsessed with the Wardens, honestly. I saw one or two Dalish Ostagar - Wardens, both of them. They’re fine warriors, that much I know, but a reclusive lot. They were pretty humorless. We’re definitely going to need their help against the Blight, and someone mentioned seeing Dalish on the road to Denerim while we were in Lothering. Seemed the best lead.”

She nodded, and felt her eyes drawn to Bann Teagan’s. “You know the two Wardens well, ser,” she asserted.

He perked up. “Ah, not so well, I think. Alistair, yes, I’ve known since he was a boy. He is, was, my brother’s ward. And as for young Aedan here, it is less that I am—”

“My family runs the Terynir of Highever,” Aedan cut in, simplifying Teagan’s awkward explanation. “Arl Howe killed my parents and burned down my home before he left for Ostagar about a month ago. Long story short, the Warden-commander saved me. Also, Alistair was Maric’s bastard son and was raised by Eamon, before being recruited by the Wardens as a templar. I mention it because it’s bound to come up sooner or later.”

Ayah took this in and processed it, before deciding it sounded like a lot of problems that didn’t need to be hers. Clearly, they had a lot going on. “This doesn’t seem very important next to the Blight,” she told him slowly.

Aedan nodded grimly. “That’s why we’re going to shove a giant spear up the Archdemon’s arse before doing the same to Howe, and maybe Loghain too if he or his men try to kill us again.”

“Again?” Teagan frowned.

The Tranquil frowned. “It would be easier to cut its wings to prevent it from flying, and injure its legs before putting a spear through its underbelly,” she advised, “since that’s how I’ve read the Nevarrans do it.”

Teagan sighed happily. “I would give the key to my treasury to see you try to impale an Archdemon.”

Ayah shook her head while they laughed, and walked away, muttering to herself about impractical strategies in confusion.

It had been a day since Alistair, Wynne, and Leliana had left with the warhound across the lake to the Circle. Although the place had been Ayah’s home for most of her life, she found herself indifferent to the idea of returning to it. She certainly preferred being outside, if for the air quality alone. She hadn’t realized how musty the Tower was until she had been on the open sea. She had no more answers about herself than she before she left, but the experiences thus far she had found to be enriching. The variety of people that she’d interacted with was something she knew she’d never encounter in the Circle, and found herself with a desire to not return upon reflection.

No, she would not return to the Circle if she could avoid it. It did not need her. It had devolved past the point of needing her, and all of those connected to her past (save Cullen) were gone. The thought of Cullen’s parting was enough for her to want to stay away - there was no reason at all to visit such unpleasantness upon him again. She understood now that her presence had only caused him pain since she began. There was no healing to be done while she was constantly there. He needed space, far away from her and those things that hurt him, to heal. To protect him, she had to leave him. It left a discomforting ache in her gut when she thought of it. Though she was Tranquil, she still felt some things. Perhaps it was guilt.

She stopped and wondered if this was the same thought that Loghain had when he abandoned Ostagar. She had heard the tale from Aedan and Teagan since, of the Teryn’s retreat and the doomed King. Having not known King Cailan personally (or really caring), she was largely unaffected by the news. It did explain why the people they kept encountering seemed to be worried about an imminent civil war. According to Teagan, it had already erupted in the Bannorn - he’d been unable to return to his own lands as a result of this and Redcliffe’s troubles. One thing seemed to be certain: the only solution to the imminent conflict was the Landsmeet.

Ayah’s memory recalled a letter from King Maric to the Circle, announcing Ferelden’s freedom from Orlais at the end of the occupation. A Landsmeet had been called, and he had been named King. It had been sent before her birth, was before her time, and had lost its relevance. There had once been a few Orlesian mages and templars at the Circle, and now there were simply fewer. It didn’t seem to her to have anything to do with Maric or kingship at all; people came and went from Circles all the time. She herself had been born in Antiva, sent to Nevarra, then to Ferelden, then to Antiva again, and then back. What did nationality matter? She wondered how these men around her seemed so reverent of a name that truly meant so little to others, and supposed that they had lacked perspective. To her, the dying of the world as the darkspawn tromped over it seemed a more pressing concern than any civil war, and she had trouble understanding how people could be so-short sighted. Why be concerned with land and titles when all lands were threatened with obliteration?

Worst of all, none of the others could help in her understanding. Morrigan seemed just as confused (and a little angry) as Ayah herself was at the ‘nature of men,’ as she called it. Sten did not understand human ways and was very insistent that such a thing would not happen under the Qun (though somehow she doubted this, since text alone did not seem to be substantial enough to keep any society strung together, and she had heard of distant wars with qunari even from the Tower). Aedan had told her that ‘stupidity is rampant and unavoidable.’ Bodahn had confessed to not paying much attention to politics, and seemed surprised and a bit eager at the thought of a civil war. All responses disturbed her. How could there be no answer? How could people be so short-sighted about a life-and-death matter?

Shemlen, they are called. It was an elven word that came to her mind, meaning swift-children. Humans were quick to anger, quick to retaliate, quick to laugh, and always seemed to be in a rush to die. Though she had not met many elves, so did not know if her own people were different. Somehow, she doubted they were. Most had lived amongst humans and interbred with them for so long that there was no longer a difference between their societies. One was merely a dark reflection of the other, and there were none left who remembered a time before the fall of Arlathan. Perhaps Aedan was right - stupidity was rampant across all races, and unavoidable.

They took turns guarding the door while Sandal worked on it. He did eventually manage to get the first door open with a victorious cry of ‘enchantment’ at the top of his little lungs. Sten, herself, and Morrigan were the first to venture through it, only to discover the demon had similarly warded a door down the hall leading to the Arl’s quarters upstairs. Morrigan let out a cry of frustration and stalked away, flying out of a window as a crow before anyone could bother her. Aedan followed in after them and tsked, while Sandal went about feeling up the new Enchantment on the door. “Give it a rest,” Aedan commanded the dwarf, whom Bodahn had to fetch away. “We’ll give it a day. I need to give Al the benefit of the doubt, here, and I’m sure this one will be easier to break with more mages.”

“That is not how wards work,” Ayah told him, but he had already made his decision.

She decided to study the ward herself while the others milled about. She had to promise not to fiddle with it - not that she could, since there was no physical inscription to disrupt. They would need the help of a templar, she knew. Waiting for Alistair appeared to be their best option, despite everyone’s disagreements. Sten’s were the most fervent and vocal - he did not want to suffer an abomination or a mage to live. Ayah had not been aware, til that moment, that magic was such a problem in the Wun. She had done little reading on the subject, and decided then that she needed to do more if she were to understand the stolid giant. Morrigan was impatient and wanted the mess to be over so they could move on - she disliked places built of wood or stone, and knew that Isolde stood ready as a sacrifice.

Why Aedan seemed to insistent upon preserving the Arlessa’s life was beyond Ayah. The woman was positively determined to die for her son. She seemed to react to the concept of martyrdom like many Andrastians Ayah had met, perhaps forgetting that Andraste did not offer her life freely to the fire.

The days passed in tense silence. They did not linger around each other long, and avoided discussing Connor. The Arlessa passed her time in the Arl’s study, weeping periodically. Ayah and Sten took turns guarding the door while Sandal worked on it. Morrigan flew in and out, only stopping to exchange hushed conversation with Aedan. She had not noticed before, but the witch’s body language changed around the Warden. It was curious to Ayah, but she did not have the chance to study it. They ate in quiet. Teagan spent most of his time pacing in the main hall, occasionally stopping to speak to Aedan or Ayah; he seemed to have a fascination with the Tranquil elf that she did not personally share, but she was content to occupy him with stilted conversation. He seemed to need the distraction, although Ayah remained unbothered.

At noon on the third day, Alistair and the others arrived from across the Lake with another ferry shortly thereafter them, with another grumpy templar and four mages. Ayah didn’t recognize any of them except for Irving; time had robbed her memory of their significances. Irving greeted her with some familiarity, but she largely ignored the congregation from the Tower and chose to keep her eye on the door with a hand near her swords. If the demon had sensed their arrival, it would surely retaliate; if it was not yet a full possession, they might have a brief window in which to conduct the ritual to save the boy.

As Aedan spoke to the Circle mages who were overseeing the swift setup of a Harrowing ritual in order to send a mage consciously through the Fade, she and Sten kept guard at the door that Connor had sealed. Alistair approached, eyes bright, and she noted the stubble that had started to grow on the man’s chin over the last few days. “Welcome back,” she greeted the Warden.

He smiled tightly. “Yes, hello. Don’t tell me you two’ve been standing guard here for the last few days.”

Sten grunted. “The boy has not made a stir, though we expected him to attack.”

“Sandal hasn’t been able to open this door,” Ayah stated, “though he was able to disenchant the last. We needed a templar.”

“Well, you’ve got two now,” Alistair offered with a smile. He turned his head to look at the blue-robed mages, where Aedan caught his eye and gave a wave and headed over.

“Morrigan’s out, so we’re sending Wynne,” was Aedan’s greeting. “Once she’s in, do you think you can dispel the door?”

Alistair shrugged. “Only one way to find out.”

It took all of an hour. The templar that had arrived with the Circle mages stood guard over Wynne’s sleeping form, while the other mages sat in a circle around her and focused on pooling their mana. Once the elderly mage had volunteered to take the lyrium, they spelled her into sleep and played the waiting game. Ayah and Sten kept guard by the door with Alistair just in case anything bad happened. She watched as Irving half-hobbled over to Jowan, where the gaunt apostate was seated on a bench guarded by two of Redcliffe’s knights. Jowan visibly winced at the First Enchanter’s approach and traded only a few hushed words with him before seeming to cave in on himself in shame. Irving let out a long and tired sigh before taking a seat that Bann Teagan offered to him. The entire hall fell into hushed silence as everyone waited. It wasn’t long before Wynne awoke with a start in the center of the silent hall, drawing everyone’s eyes.

“Now!” Aedan barked. Alistair nodded and concentrated on the door. After a few seconds, he closed his eyes and extended a hand and took a deep breath. On the exhale, his efforts fell on the demon’s ward and Ayah flinched as she felt a cold, skin-crawling sensation pierce the air in front of her. She was surprised that she could feel the ward fall; she hadn’t completely lost her sense for magic, though it was nowhere as acute as it was before she began. Sandal clapped and cooed from the corner of the hall as his father shushed him, and Sten kicked open the door on a nod from Warden Cousland.

Ayah elected to remain behind to make sure Wynne was alright, since she felt a sense of obligation to the mage that had once tutored her. Presently, the spirit healer was being helped to her feet. As Surana approached, Wynne was grimacing. “Ooh. Cold stone floors don’t seem to agree with my joints. Ah well, I should be alright in a few.”

“Would you like a healing spell?” one of the mages offered. She was young and blond, in yellow robes.

Wynne shook her head. “I’m alright, Petra. Save your energy.” Her eyes alighted on the Tranquil who offered her arm to Wynne for support. “I could use some fresh air, actually. Go on, now.” The mage Petra fussed for a little while but eventually gathered with the other Circle mages that had traveled there and started gathering their supplies. “Thank you, my dear. How long was I out?”

“Approximately one hour,” Ayah informed her. They passed from the hall to the courtyard with little fuss. Either way that the incident ended, Ayah was certain the Wardens could handle it from there. Handling Isolde on the other hand . . . She eyed the Arlessa askance who at present had been harassing Teagan and the knights who were blocking her from going upstairs to the Arl’s quarters, and blubbering nonsensically about her son.

“I seem to remember your Harrowing being much shorter,” Wynne chuckled. After they stepped outside into the sun, Wynne took a deep breath of fresh air and closed her eyes in contentment. She let go of Ayah’s support and crossed her arms under her breasts. “I was able to purge the demon from the boy. It may return one day, but I believe with proper tutoring he’ll be just fine.”

“Will Connor go to the Circle?” Ayah asked. She hadn’t been aware of the party’s intentions, but it seemed that the Bann was in favor of sending the boy to the Circle for proper instruction. After witnessing how Morrigan had acquitted herself so far, however, Ayah was no longer so certain that the Circle was the best place for mages. Perhaps it was a trade-off; the Circle allowed for privacy and instruction amongst their fellows, but the restrictions imposed upon the Chantry on their craft also hindered their development. She could not picture the elderly Wynne or Irving as shape-shifters, after all.

“Most likely,” Wynne confirmed, “although I suppose that will be determined by determined by his parents. He’s in a unique position as the son of the Arl while he lays on his deathbed.” The woman paused and looked up into the sky as a distant cloud caught her eye. “I sensed his mind while in the Fade. I suspect one day he will make a fine and powerful mage. Having lived most of his life here, however, I can’t say whether or not he would do well in the Ferelden Circle, especially considering how fractured it is now.”

“The Circle will recover,” Ayah insisted. “It is an enduring idea that cannot die.”

Wynne frowned. “Once I would have agreed with you. Most of my life, I would have agreed with that and defended the Circle. I was proud to be a part of it, to help mold young minds. But, Surana, the things I have seen from the Chantry in the last ten years alone . . . They have shocked me. I am of an age where I can feel my mortality creeping closer with every dawn. I know the Circle is dying as surely as I am. Uldred’s . . . Rebellion was its throes. When the final blow will come, I do not know, but it cannot be many years from now, I expect.”

This surprised Ayah. Wynne had always been a staunch Aequitarian; she’d never known the woman to sound so cynical about the Chantry. She didn’t get the chance for clarification from Wynne as Leliana came rushing out of the hall towards them. “Wynne, are you well?” The Orlesian rushed and her accent seemed to become more pronounced in her haste. “Aedan has asked for you to assess the Arl. It appears the demon was the one keeping Eamon from dying.”

Wynne patted Ayah Surana’s arm and passed back into the hall, leaving her alone in the empty courtyard that Ayah was just now beginning to notice was positively filled with corpses. She stared around the bodies, in various states of decay. Toward the middle of the yard she spied the corpse of the revenant - the young knight’s body was mangled into mad angles that defied anatomical bone structure. There was no more blood in it left to drain; it laid in a long-dried pool of it. Somehow she had expected it to disappear when she left, but here lay the grisly reminder of the cost of Isolde’s foolishness. Aedan’s irritation with the woman made plain sense to her.

Eamon lay in a coma from which he would certainly not awake. Wynne, Ayah knew, was the prominent authority in the entire arcane collegiate outside of Tevinter on healing magic. She was also a talented herbalist, but perhaps not the authority; still, Ayah had never encountered any herb that would cure what Eamon had without knowing the exact origin of the poison. Leliana had suggested it was Crow poison, but since Jowan did not know what it was either (he hadn’t questioned Loghain further, being justifiably terrified of the teryn turning him over to the templars), it was only a theory. From what little Ayah learned about the Crows fighting them and being trained by one, she did not know any more about poisons than any other herbalist. She suspected a woman such as Morrigan of the Wilds knew more, but she seemed reluctant and hostile on her good days and on her bad days she did not leave beast form.

The bottom line, once the sun had set, was that there was no chance that Arl Eamon would recover. The Arlessa had sent knights away from Redcliffe months prior (leaving the castle largely undefended and Aedan practically steaming when he heard about it) to search for the sacred ashes of Andraste in the hopes that they would cure the arl. The Bann almost went on a tirade on the spot about Isolde sending away knights for such a foolish endeavor - he managed to stop himself mid-rant, and Ayah found herself sympathizing with the man. Why anyone thought that a pile of ashes would be a panacea for illness was beyond Ayah. It certainly could not be worth jeopardizing Redcliffe’s security in a crisis.

All in all, it had been a tense, trying day for everyone. Morrigan loudly lamented about how she’d had to listen to the Arlessa whine for days and left in the form of a bird with the promise of returning soon. Isolde did have a way of grating on one’s nerves, but Ayah supposed that was due to the woman’s piousness. Piety, she found, had a way of reducing the capacity for rational thought, and seemed to be a particular peeve of Morrigan’s. Only someone who was mad would waste time during a civil war and Blight by traipsing through Ferelden looking for a pile of mythic dirt. After much private discussion, both Wardens seemed grim about their chances to end the civil war. Warden Cousland only managed to make one joke about it; Ayah had begun to understand that both Wardens’ senses of humor were their primary behavioral defenses. Jokes fell flat on ears, however, as Redcliffe was in a very dour mood when news of the Arl’s condition got out.

As the sun started falling below the horizon, Jowan elected to return to his cell under templar guard to await a decision. The man seemed defeated in demeanor, and even spoke in a resigned tone. There was not a single defiant bone in his spine; it too seemed to cave beneath an invisible weight. The maleficar had asked to speak to Ayah, for reasons she could not discern and he would not speak of in the hall. When she approached him in the dungeon, locked behind bars once more, there was a knowing in his eyes that baffled her.

He stared at her in silence for a while. She waited for him to speak first, for she was at a loss for words. “Do you remember me at all?” Jowan finally asked her quietly, fearfully.

Ayah shook her head. “I do not. I know you now, and must have known you, but I forget a lot of faces. Now, I will never forget yours again. I know you must remember me, and I’m sorry for that.”

Jowan sighed. It was a bitter, rasping sound that didn’t belong. He must have had a pallor other than sickly pale, once; he must have had eyes that weren’t sunken in, hair that was groomed . . . A part of her felt like he didn’t belong in that cage, but she rationalized that feeling by remembering he had asked specifically to be there. “I guess that was too much to hope for. I-I’m . . . I’m more sorry than you will ever know, that this happened to you. I-it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” He choked on the last word, and seemed to be close to tears.

She knew the feeling of grief from Cullen’s face. It was a necessary feeling, but difficult for her to grasp, like trying to hold onto a writhing snake. She did not possess regrets, fears, or losses. Everything was transitory, even her. Why people felt this, why it moved them, why they cried . . . “Why are you sorry?” She asked, hoping to distract him from crying. She didn’t want to witness his grief, as it would only remind her of her frustrating inability to relate to him.

Jowan shook his head. A tear escaped, and he wiped it away angrily. “I don’t know. I-I thought maybe they did this to punish you for helping me.”

A realization that Ayah was very grateful for finally washed over her. “You are referring to my Tranquility,” she ascertained. “I understand. No, this was not your fault, Jowan. I asked to be made Tranquil.”

The tears stopped and a strange expression crossed the emaciated mage’s face. “Why would you ask for such a horrible thing?” He finally managed to ask, after a few seconds of spluttering for words.

She started to answer him, but the response she had prepared suddenly fled. The words died on her tongue. She touched the bars of the cell with her gloved hands and gave the bars an experimental tug. “For the same reason you asked to be put in here. I am better this way,” she finally said, feeling out the response as she uttered it. “I would not have asked for this if I did not want it. I know that much. The reason, I think, has been lost like so many faces. I remembered a girl when I first saw you here, red-haired. I think her name was Lily. Who is she? Do you know, Jowan?”

Jowan went through a myriad of emotional responses in a few seconds. He was as fascinating for her to study as Cullen was. It seemed so many people connected to her past had become broken by it; it made her wonder if she, too, had been broken. She would not know if she had been, now. She didn’t feel broken, at any rate. “She-she helped me. I might have loved her, I don’t know,” he whispered. “She wouldn’t escape with me. I-I tried, but she was scared of me after what happened. I hoped that maybe you might know. She was a lay sister in the Chantry . . . Maybe she went back to that.”

Ayah didn’t know what to say, which was twice in the span of a few minutes that had happened to her. It was a rare occurrence. “I do not remember anyone named Lily in the Chantry, but I did not frequent it. The Chant is lovely poetry, but irksome when uttered continuously.”

He laughed, or choked, she wasn’t sure. A chuckle? “That sounds like something you might say. May I ask . . . Maybe . . . Maybe you don’t remember, but, I . . .” He trailed off for a moment, and then stepped closer to the bars. She stepped closer too, since it seemed the polite thing to do. “What happened to ********* when I left?” He asked.

The sound Jowan did not make its way to her ears. It was not quite a silence, but a garbled noise that came from under water, or like a voice muffled by a gag. Ayah frowned and scratched behind her points. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Jowan’s eyes widened in surprise, or anger. “What do you mean? He was the whole reason you stayed—I told you to come with us, but you wouldn’t leave him! He-he’s why I had to leave, why I couldn’t let them do that to me. And then . . . And then they did it to you.”

Ayah didn’t understand what he meant. He wouldn’t explain further, and his answers only sent her mind spinning. She couldn’t make sense of the noise, and knew not the ‘he’ that Jowan spoke of. The only thought that came to mind was a distant memory warmth, of soft eyes the color of amber framed by dark lashes, of a child’s laughter and a gap-toothed grin. Whenever she tried to focus on them, the memories slipped through her mind like sand.

[Do you have any idea how lonely it was?! If you had died, it would have been easier!!] A distant and angry girl spat accusations at Ayah from the stony walls as she left Jowan in the dungeon under the careful watch of a templar named Ser Rowan, a wiry lass she vaguely recalled training in another life. Perhaps it was not the walls that talked to her, but some cruel trick of the mind - a summoned memory lacking context. When they had started, she wasn’t sure, but ever since her training in Antiva they had dogged her. Ayah was no longer sure of anything now, except that she was certainly broken in some way and didn’t know how or why.

Eamon was stabilized, thanks to Wynne, but would likely die slowly. A templar and mage remained behind as volunteers to tutor Connor and assist with the arl while the rest returned with Irving to the Tower. The Wardens decided to continue their plan to make contact with the Dalish in the Brecilian in the morning, knowing that Redcliffe was temporarily safe in Teagan’s capable hands. Ayah was just glad the Bann had stopped doing flips and falling down stairs. She saw little hope for Redcliffe.

However, the Blight would not wait for them to fight it. It would march on, and so must they. She wondered, as she drifted off to sleep in a cot they’d set up in the main hall, if she would die soon. It seemed likely, given the Blight’s magnificent ability to completely corrupt all life around it. Should they face darkspawn in battle, she knew the chances of her person becoming corrupted were high. Wardens had an immunity to the corruption of darkspawn, but the rest of them did not. It was likely they would all die soon, in battle, or of something worse.

She did not mind. Death is but a door. Ayah had known this truth before she began. Every step she took into the future she encountered more of the past. Her answers lay forward, toward her death. This was the way of things. She watched the wild witch as a raven fly past the window, becoming a black streak against the darkening orange sky, and remembered old words. Old dreams. An elven boy with hair like snow. Nothing really ends, da’len. We merely change form.

Chapter 12: XI

Chapter Text

Leliana was certain there was something mentally wrong with the girl, but she didn't have the ability to tell whether or not it was a side-effect of Tranquility. It was the most likely reason, and for a person that was an open, blank book, the little elf held many secrets in her black eyes. The bard saw the weight of secrets in her own reflection, in the few moments she was able to catch it these days. She saw it in Aedan's eyes - the shadows behind the blue, a troubled glimmer in Sten's lavender orbs, and even Morrigan's glittered in a similar way . . . It seemed no one in their group was not weighed down by some strange, dark past or crime. Except maybe the dog. She told herself that it was because of her caution that she followed the quiet girl down to the dungeons after she saw Ayah Surana walk down there, alone, when no one else seemed to be paying attention.

The templar guard that was supposed to be watching the dungeons had fallen asleep at her post. The Orlesian politely decided to take advantage of this and paid her no heed, but did swipe her coin purse for giggles - it hardly had anything in it, and she was sure that the bann would provide for his volunteer templar guardians. She kept to the shadows of the dungeons once she heard the faint stirrings of conversation from within; their Tranquil had taken it upon herself to speak alone with the arl's poisoner.

The conversation didn't become clear until she crept close enough, for both were soft-spoken. It seemed to be non-threatening, but she noted the distressed posture of the mage named Jowan slumped over in his cell. ". . . I did not frequent it," Ayah was saying. "The Chant is lovely poetry, but irksome when uttered continuously."

To that, Jowan laughed, but it started Leliana as it came out as more of choking chuckle. It rattled the mage's entire body for a moment, and the part of her that she'd long repressed recognized the aftermath of torture. Her heart, unexpectedly, went out to the young maleficar. "That sounds like something you might say. May I ask . . . Maybe . . . Maybe you don't remember, but, I . . . What happened to Nili Amell when I left?" The mage said.

She'd gotten the hint that those two had been acquainted; having visited the Tower, she wouldn't have been surprised to discover that everyone knew everyone. It was a small community, after all. A Circle was not a full or diverse population, from what she had seen - the Tower was not a city. But, Ayah did not reply to this for a while - a hesitation that surprised the Orlesian eavesdropper. "I don't understand what you're saying," said the girl. It rang monotone, that statement, but true. Nothing in the girls' posture or undertone suggested a lie; it occurred to Leliana that Tranquil might make excellent spies, if they ever could learn to successfully lie.

The mage Jowan seemed to be baffled. "What do you mean? He was the whole reason you stayed—I told you to come with us, but you wouldn't leave him! He-he's why I had to leave, why I couldn't let them do that to me. And then . . . And then they did it to you."

Leliana crept back up the stairs then, past the sleeping guard (but not before patting the boy on the head), back to the main hall, out the front door, and stood out in last light in the courtyard.

She sorted through it in her head, and nothing about the interaction to her seemed threatening. Only dark words, dark thoughts. There were clear holes in the story she was now gathering about the Tranquil, but the gists of a tragic tale began to formulate in her mind. The Nili person Jowan had mentioned was perhaps another Tranquilized mage, each someone the other had known in another life. Perhaps even the reason for the sad Jowan's escape from his prison in the Tower, and then someone named Lily had gotten lost in the attempt. Someone had died, or perhaps been sacrificed. Jowan clearly had once looked up to the elf, which struck her as a little odd since she was certain that Jowan was older than her by several years. Ayah had remained behind for this fellow, but the girl was Tranquil now and could no longer feel anything about it. How and why were two questions that were yet unanswered, but the bard was sure it would all come clear in time. And here after all this time they stood reunited, caught and drawn into the twisting, winding events surrounding the Fifth Blight - caught in the wake of the Wardens as they battled for the soul of the land. Leliana smiled up at the sky, composing her ballad on the Blight in her head.

The rose of Lothering remained present in her thoughts, most days. The dream had arrested her like nothing else before ever had. Though she had found refuge in the Chantry after leaving Orlais, there had been no true refuge for her soul in the arms of the Maker. No matter how far she slipped into her new Fereldan identity as a lay sister, there were shreds of Leliana always left behind cynically narrating every interaction in her head. Casting doubts, observations; it wasn't until the dream that the reason for that became clear - it was clear to her now in a way that it never had been before. It was not a matter of faith, for Leliana, that she followed the Wardens. Even one who was faithless could see the danger of the Blight. She had come to acknowledge that it may not have been sent by the Maker . . . And the point was not that her dream had divine source, but that it happened at all. Real or prophetical, the feeling was true. The meaning in her heart was true. And if it was true for her in this sense, then perhaps the Maker could be true as well - in a different sort of sense, perhaps in a different sort of form. Perhaps the Maker was not some distant, far-off god who petulantly abandoned his children when they'd bit back at a slave rebellion. Perhaps . . . The Maker was the land, just as her dream was divine. And by saving the land and stopping the Blight, they were in fact saving the divine.

It certainly made a lot more sense than what half of the Chantry said, though Leliana would never be the one to tell an Andrastian that. It had just occurred to her after traveling with the Wardens for a while, is all. Meeting so many strange and different people, seeing them all come together, seeing them save the people of Redcliffe and restore hope to the eyes of the down-trod . . . well, the bard side of her was singing in joy at the tale that unfolded beneath her feet. It was history in the making, and she felt privileged to be a part of it.

The night went by swiftly for them. Leliana found her thoughts blissfully blank while she thudded arrows into a target in the courtyard until night fell. She watched the Wardens train with each other and Sten to improve their styles, and felt honestly in her heart that they stood a better chance against the Blight than the arch-demon knew. They were more than capable - they were fierce, and inspired those around them with their words and deeds. The interaction she'd witnessed in the dungeon filtered into her head again, evoking a frown. Perhaps the only one of them who remained uninspired was the Tranquil, and the Orlesian could hardly blame the girl for that. It wasn't as if she asked for Tranquility to be thrust upon her, after all.

As Leliana drifted to sleep that night, she thought of someone from Lothering. So many that she knew in that town, but one dwelt on her thoughts more than others. She hoped - and even prayed, but not aloud - that each of her friends had evacuated in time. News had reached them up the road as they got back to Redcliffe with the mages from the Tower that the town had been effectively wiped out by darkspawn. It hurt something deep in that repressed part of Leliana to know that she had abandoned many people to their individual fates. She knew that the Blight would take many more lives before it ran its course; her heart and mind only reached out to a boy she'd fancied, though, with flashing amber eyes and cheekbones that could have been cut from glass. His tongue had likely been cut from the same, as she amusedly recalled many of his debates with the sisters. She'd never truly met someone so . . . defiantly Fereldan.

Her dreams were kind to her that night, despite there being the occasional darkspawn to slay in them. Her mind was still on the boy, who had pleasantly invaded her sleeping mind and left far too soon. That morning, they all packed up their gear, loaded up Bodahn's wagon with some new supplies (and unloaded others that Teagan had purchased for the villagers), and headed easterly on the road to Denerim.

It was a quiet journey, at first. Most of their war-band were too sleepy for any conversation. Morrigan hadn't even bothered to change into animal form - she had decided to perch herself queenly on Bodahn's cart next to the quiet one named Sandal, and yawned periodically as the circles under her eyes gradually disappeared. Leliana had caught the witch up multiple nights since escaping that awful dream from the Tower pouring over a strange old text with letterings she could not place. Aedan, she knew, had given Morrigan the book after finding it in the First Enchanter's office, and Leliana initially assumed it had been a gift of courting. She'd been with them for at least a month now and had seen Morrigan open up willingly to conversation only with the dark-haired Warden. Aedan himself was cheeky, and a little too charming, but rarely did she see him genuinely smile unless he was coaxing the prickly mage into a private conversation. Morrigan's eyes brightened around him at times, as did Aedan's around Morrigan - and though she had certainly flirted with him, it had never seemed very serious. Morrigan, she knew, was a serious person uncomfortable with frivolity - unless, it seems, it came from Aedan.

The bard smiled. Morrigan gave her a strange look for staring and huffed, turning to face away from the Orlesian. Leliana chuckled. It made her wistful, watching their blooming courtship, for the intrigues of her old life. New love always usually made her nostalgic for those times. The Orlesian bard in her bones ruminated the story of love blooming in the Blight.

As dawn passed, Leliana took to singing songs, first quietly and then louder when she received a few requests from Wynne and the Wardens. Eventually Bodahn offered her a lute from his supplies (which she bought immediately) and she strolled along, accompanying them with tunes.

"I heard from the loud woman now in charge of the Inn in Redcliffe that bandits frequent these roads," the Tranquil spoke up from behind Leliana, nearly startling her. Thankfully she was able to school her surprise and flip around to walk backwards, keeping her fingers dancing merrily over her lute as she turned. She faced Alistair and Surana, one rather comically dwarfing the other in keeping the rear guard with Bodahn's cart - the former looking smug and amused and the other as blank-faced as always.

"Lousywith bandits, were Bella's words verbatim," Alistair concurred with a smile. "Offered us free ale for life if we get rid of 'em, too."

"Well, I don't know about bandits," the bard chirped, "but anyone should be sorry to cross our paths! We are mighty foes to face, after all!" From somewhere up ahead, she heard Aedan's beloved mabari yip in agreement. He'd (frustratingly) named the mabari Doug the Dog, short for Lord Douglas III (though everyone just called the dog Dog and Doug didn't seem to understand Leliana's frustration). Sometimes, she worried about the state of the Warden's mind (and Alistair was hardly better, obsessed with cheese).

The group came to a sudden halt as, up ahead at point Aedan and the qunari had stopped to help an injured woman they found in the road. Leliana stopped playing immediately and handed her lute to a confused Alistair, and ran up ahead to assess the situation.

The first thing she noted was that she had been very right to worry about Aedan's mental state. There were no injuries visible on the woman, and moreover she'd been verbally entirely too grateful to him for assistance than was seemly. The more her eyes roved over the woman's travel-worn clothes, high-quality leather boots, and the shape of a concealed weapon inside of both of them, Leliana grew certain they were facing an ambush. "Have you need of coin, my lady?" She offered politely, betraying nothing. "We have plenty to spare to help you on your way."

"No, I'll not need—" the woman stuttered for a moment, then turned to Aedan. "But you must help us! They attacked our cart— I was sent to look out for help! Come quickly!" Before anyone could really object, she started hobbling up the road in a convincing limp toward her apparent caravan around the bend. Up ahead, Leliana could faintly hear the sounds of people moving, and a clink like armor.

"Our journey is dangerous," Sten objected in a rare moment of candor and blatant disapproval. "Helping an injured caravan would be a liability as we battle darkspawn. We should move on."

"I saw no injury," Wynne noted out loud, drawing a considering look out of the qunari.

"We should send Morrigan to scout ahead," Leliana suggested. She was pleased to see Aedan nod in grudging agreement.

The witch did not even need to be convinced. She acted often as if she was uncomfortable in her own human form, and was eager to take a wild shape. A small, golden-eyed eagle appeared in front of them where the witch was seated and took off soundlessly. She soared up on updrafts past where Leliana's eye could detect her form, and flew overhead up the road, no more than a small dot against the white and puffy clouds.

"I don't understand." The Tranquil frowned. "Are we helping the people with the broken cart?"

Leliana thought carefully about how best to phrase her answer. "She was lying. I am certain of that, trust me." Ayah nodded, accepting this easily.

Leliana checked back up in the sky to see if Morrigan had returned. It took the witch but a few minutes. As soon as she solidified into her own body again, Morrigan began to report: "At least fifteen armed bandits lay ahead. Their leader, I think, is an elf hiding inside the broken cart. They have concealed themselves into the trees and hills to try and catch us unawares." It took but a moment for them to form a plan. She supposed that growing used to thinking quickly on your feet had to be a trait the Wardens developed, or they would not have survived as long with as much useless bickering as they seemed to do. The plan was simple, and sound.

Their group formed quickly into one unit who would spring the trap, and the other that would route the ones hidden in the trees to attack the group from behind. The problem is that the game would be up the moment they were spotted, given that the woman was in on it and not a hostage. Sten proved to be stealthier than his size would ever suggest and led the distraction, composing of herself, Wynne, and Morrigan in raven-form, from the trees. The rest - the Wardens, Ayah, and the dog, went up ahead while Bodahn and Sandal were instructed to remain where they were and get into hiding. Sandal, surprisingly, handed Wynne a random rune that he'd apparently crafted that proved to be an excellent boost for Wynne's warding, which was key to the whole plan.

It didn't take her long to silently creep through the trees. Her greater concern was the others, but Sten merely crawled along the ground, concealing his height; Wynne had cast a spell around herself that seemed to quiet the air around her, and Morrigan swooped around effortlessly through the sky, undisturbed but watchful. It took her a little time, but she got into position opposite of the ambushers, hiding behind the rocks and other trees in one or two person huddles. The Wardens, she realized, would become bottlenecked by arrow fire unless Wynne could set up enough explosive wards in time. She could no longer see the mage, since they'd be separated, but the old woman carried herself with such confidence that Leliana couldn't see a reason to worry then.

The small elf took the rear while the Wardens with the shields led the way to the woman near the broken cart around the bend. "Please hurry!" She called, sounding almost believably desperate.

"Decent actress," Leliana commented under her breath lightly. "She could find work in Orlais easily. 'Tis almost a shame she will likely die." From her perch, she could see the movement of the enemy. They were not too far away now - the road had changed around the bend as a small hill stretched up and dropped in a small, dirt cliff that had been carved down when the road was cleared. The trees gave way to a secluded clearing littered with camp supplies, tents, and the central passenger cart with its broken wheel. There were no animals were attached to it, and none that she could see or smell to carry it nearby. A faint noise like a distant twig snapping alerted her to the drawing of bowstrings from the trees. When she looked for it, indeed she saw the far-off glint of sunlight on a small metal surface. Just a faint glint that quickly disappeared from the sun overhead, fighting its way to be seen through the green of the forest.

Just then, a figure stood from the wagon and leapt its way to the top. All Leliana could really see was blond hair before a roaring sound erupted from their surroundings from the mouths of every bandit in hiding. Swords were unsheathed, and dark figures poured out of the tents. Arrows let loose with snaps of wind. There were no words exchanged as Aedan and Alistair, already having approached with their weapons drawn, formed a solid unit side by side with their shields. Ayah was so small beside them that she probably went unnoticed. Leliana fired an arrow before a single blow from anyone was landed right at the actress, but was disappointed to see it bounce off of magic shield that the apparent mage had summoned.

Alistair suddenly pushed forward with his shield to knock the surprised mage down while Aedan pointed his shield up, just as the bandit leader descended upon them. She fired at him, then, distracting the blond one with arrows, but was unsurprised to discover that he had a penchant for dodging them judging from his pointed ears.Strange that I should encounter two deadly elven assassins in Ferelden within a week . . .

Ayah leapt out from behind Aedan and jumped from his shield over everyone's heads with surpassing agility, and landed on top of the downed mage while she was casting a spell, sword-first. Her blade quickly pierced the mage's side, who died just in time for one of Leliana's arrows to pierce her head. The spell in her hands fizzled into nothing.

The bard was forced to move quite a bit in the battle as her enemies became aware of her covering and charged her, but luckily Sten or Morrigan was always nearby to assist while she providing covering fire for the Wardens. Wynne had managed to set explosive wards all over the tree line, so that the few that didn't go off immediately hid in wait for the few bandits that tried to retreat when they became suddenly overwhelmed. Morrigan, when she wasn't busy swatting her enemies as a bear or ripping them apart as a wolf, fired freezing blasts of ice that grew on the surface of her enemies' skins and debilitated them painfully. It was enough to make Leliana wince. She took care to aim lethal shots at those targets, if only to speed the process of their dying.

Alistair took care of a secondary mage hiding in the hills that had been slinging fireballs at them with a smite while Aedan bowled his targets over, using his shield as a weapon just as much as his sword. Before long, more than half of their opponents were dead and only a few injuries had been sustained. What had been hit had been just as quickly healed by a Sten-guarded Wynne on watch for any struggling ally. Leliana even caught herself humming a battle hymn under her breath.

Ayah had engaged herself with the bandit leader after drawing his attention away from the Wardens, and it appeared to be a fairly even match - she had a sword and dagger, while he carried two short-swords, and they were both too agile to catch the other.

The blond elf seemed didn't seem to realize that he was fighting a losing battle, and continued pressing the Tranquil as fiercely. Eventually, however, the Wardens joined the fray and he left himself open to an attack from Ayah after she performed a successful feint, and knocked him on the back of the head with the pommel of her blade. He fell in a heap like a limp noodle.

Suddenly, in the clearing, was silence. Leliana took stock of all the well-armed dead at her feet and started to loot them. When she discovered a small piece of parchment with familiar lettering on it, she gasped in realization. Confusion was etched in her brow. "I do not think these are bandits," she shouted down to them. She scuttled down from the tree she'd climbed up after one rather large and well-armed fellow had tried to get a swipe at her, but couldn't climb up the damn tree fast enough after her before bear-Morrigan had gotten to him. "These men, they are not all Fereldans or Chasind. That one, I am certain of it, was Orlesian!"

"These fellows were obviously too well-armed for bandits," Morrigan agreed, having decided to retain her human form for a while and had perched herself atop the wagon, presumably to make herself superior. "Mercenaries, I should think. Likely hired by a rich enemy of the Wardens - this Loghain fellow, perhaps?"

"Did any escape?" Aedan's head whipped about to look for an answer.

Sten approached them with his Asala bloodied. "Two tried to run. None survived."

The black-haired Warden nodded and stared at Morrigan pensively, and scratched at the growing stubble on his chin. She returned his gaze with raised eyebrows. "There's only two people in Fereldan who would pay this much to see me dead." Aedan's blue orbs narrowed. "I'd like to know which one specifically, so I can prepare the correctly painful death for them, but to be honest it's probably not Loghain. He'd never hire an Orlesian."

"Bet you a sovereign it is," Alistair offered.

Aedan's eyes narrowed. "Fine. And a sovereign for me if it's Isolde!"

The Tranquil then flipped her defeated, muddied opponent over and calmly checked the man's vitals. "He is only unconscious," she reported as she held her hand on his chest, gaging his breathing. Her eyes seemed to be glued to the bandit's face and Leliana watched, intrigued, as a rare expression of dawning recognition and seeming excitement crossed her face as she examined him. "I know him. He was . . . He is a Crow."

That stopped everyone up short for a moment. How the elf had become acquainted with a Crow was beyond her ability to process at the moment. Too many coincidences had already piled up in such a short amount of time that it didn't register as relevant right now, to the bard. "Who would have the money to hire Crows to kill you? And so many of them?" Leliana asked aloud, but already knew the answer. "It has to be Loghain."

"It could be Howe," Aedan admitted. He suddenly rolled his eyes. "Or Isolde. Or Anora. There's probably a lot of people who want me dead. Let's not make assumptions. I say we interrogate him." The Warden paused and then turned to stare at Ayah, who was crouched on the ground by the assassin's side looking as blank as usual. "Wait a second. You said you know him?"

"How is it wherever we go, she seems to know people?" Alistair wondered, addressing the air. "How often do Tranquil get around, anyway?"

"It's probably a coincidence," Leliana reassured him, patting the templar patronizingly on the arm. He glared at her, earning himself a grin in response. "It's a good question, though."

"I was sent to the Chantry in Antiva, where I was trained by an ex-Talon," Ayah explained very simply to Leliana directly, like it was the most obvious thing and they all should have somehow known. "In order to train other templars to be better in combat. I met this man when he tried to assassinate my teacher."

Alistair cleared his throat. "Uh, that can't be common. Is it? I-I think I would have heard of this sort of thing happened. Then again, I never took my vows, so I suppose I wouldn't know."

Leliana chuckled. "Ah, Alistair. Strange that a prince would be so unfamiliar with politics. Perhaps the Chantry did not want this secret to get out, hmm? What are the templars, besides a standing army that obeys the Divine?"

Alistair's eyes rolled up in his skull. What he said next pleasantly surprised her. "It's not surprising that the Chantry might be secretly training an army of assassins. Just, sort of disappointing. And here I thought they just trained people to hunt down renegade mages who may or may not have committed crimes and kill them with swords! No, thanks, I'm glad not to be a templar. I don't like blood magic, but I don't want to be killing any more blood mages. That was just depressing, what happened in the Tower. That about turned me off of templar-hood forever."

Ayah continued after Alistair finished (always polite, that one), looking to Aedan now. "The tattoo is unmistakable. I remember how he fought and moved once we engaged. I am certain that this is the same person. Crows do what they are paid to do, and they do it very well. I have since learned that this is standard practice among the Crows - young initiates prove themselves by slaying the old."

"But you won?" Aedan wondered.

"No," she admitted frankly, "this one tried to escape on rooftop, and then I pursued him to the stables, where I managed to wrestle him down in the hay and eventually knocked him out with a horseshoe I found after I lost my weapons. Maestro tried to escape on horseback, but was shot down by other Crows who were waiting. When I returned to find this one, he was gone."

The Warden eyed the Tranquil approvingly. "You're certainly tenacious enough, I believe it." Then he frowned. "Well, tie him up and Wynne, see to his wounds. I want to ask him some questions."

Wynne hesitated. "Warden," she began sternly, "if you intend to torture this man—"

"Oh, no, I'm sure he'd never give me anything if I tried to torture him." Aedan's eyebrows went up in surprise, and his eyes twinkled with mirth. "I'm young, not stupid, Wynne. There's a difference, you know. I'm sure in your dotage, you just forget these things. It's quite alright."

Wynne's lips pursed disapprovingly, but her eyes betrayed her amusem*nt. "Quite."

"I think that'd be the first thing you'd want to train an assassin to be, is to be defiant under threat of pain. No, I'm simply going to ask him some questions. He can answer, or not, it's really up to him."

"And if he doesn't?" the elderly mage challenged.

He rolled his eyes. "Then I'll probably kill him. Does that bother you?"

The elderly mage's eyes narrowed on the Warden. "To kill someone when you have them at their mercy? Yes, I'd say it does bother me."

Aedan waved his hand noncommittally. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Patch him up for me, would you?"

The old woman grumbled but nonetheless went to work, as Ayah hunted about for proper bindings. Leliana took pity on the girl when she saw the elf's small fingers having a rough time tying the rope, and taught her how to knot it good when she took over. It was almost funny to see the quiet young woman look so confused and helpless, for a change.

The bard insisted that she be present for the interrogation - if the assassin tried anything, she didn't trust everyone's reflexes. After she had searched the elven assassin for weapons, she was not certain that he was not hiding something. Crows were crafty, so she had warned. She adjusted the knots until she was doubly certain he could not escape, and then Aedan bade Wynne attempt to wake him up.

"It's not so complicated, young man," the old mage said slyly. "I simply healed his head wound and spelled him into sleep. A simple nudge on the shoulder suffice."

". . . Oh," was Aedan Cousland's only reply to that, and then he kicked the assassin's shinguard with his sabaton. "Wakey-wakey!" He crowed.

The assassin grumbled inaudibly and struggled to open up his eyes. "Agh, why does my mouth taste like cat sh*t?" Was the first thing that the assassin said as he was coming to. He had been placed on his side with his hands bound, and discovered his predicament quickly and without surprise. The elf's startlingly bright hazel eyes assessed the chipper Aedan, took in Leliana's wary stance, and then locked on the Tranquil sitting unassumingly at his feet with a sword strapped to her back, and another in her hands. His brow scrunched in confusion. "Well, I rather thought I would wake up dead," he said, addressing no one in particular but gazing intently at Ayah, clearly remembering her. His accent was distinctly Antivan. "Or not at all. This is certainly a . . . strange surprise. Not pleasant, but not really unpleasant either. Tell me, have you decided upon revenge, sorella? I cannot fathom another reason for your presence. Truly, this is an elaborate plot. I commend you."

Ayah co*cked her head to the side, shifting her hood back slightly, and did not answer. Aedan cleared his throat. "Actually, I'm the one in charge here, thank you very much, and I have some questions for you—"

"I'm certain you do, Warden," the Crow smoothly interjected, "and I'm pleased to tell you that a dour fellow in the capitol named Loghain is the one who hired my organization. Now that I have failed, others will assuredly come after you to fulfill the contract. My life, such as it is, is forfeit." The assassin stated this with such surety and nonchalance that Leliana couldn't help but draw a parallel to the other elf sitting at his boots. Said elf did nothing but blink and quietly take in the exchange, keeping her eyes trained on the assassin for any swift movement.

"Damn it all to the Void!" Aedan cursed the sky.

Alistair began to laugh, drawing everyone's eye. He stepped up toward his brother Warden, hand extended. "Give it," he commanded.

Aedan grumblingly pulled out the pouch of coins he kept at his side and placed a sovereign in the templar's expectant hand. "I thought for sure it would be Isolde or Howe," Aedan whined. He turned to the assassin and glared. "You made me lose a bet!"

The prone elf blinked. "I . . . Am sorry?"

The Cousland heir shook his head. "No matter. So what's your name, anyhow?"

"Zevran Arainai," the assassin answered swiftly, a sort of lilt coming to his tone, "Zev to my friends, and if you are done settling bets among you, I have a proposition."

One of Aedan's brows attempted to crawl up to his hairline. "Are you trying to propose to me, now? You should know that in my family, the standard dowry is a herd of goats and a sack of a hundred sovereigns."

Zevran had recovered from his concussion fully and his responsive, salacious smirk proved he was fully up to the task of keeping with Aedan's humor. "Now, now, we shouldn't rush things. We'll go about this relationship properly. First, I shall have to become a goat herder. Or kill a goat herder and steal his goats - I'm a resourceful fellow."

"I bet you are," Aedan smirked right back, clearly pleased to have finally found someone who could stand to banter with him that wasn't Alistair. "That must be how you ended up bound in rope and at our mercy."

"Most of my exes tried to kill me before I swayed them with my charms," Zevran said with a smile. There was a heaviness in his eyes that Leliana saw flash by - it was but for a moment - but she knew it for what it was without a doubt. "And there are worse things than being bound to such attractive company."

Aedan folded his arms, his expression growing guarded. "Persuade me," he suggested, "and use small words for Al's benefit."

Alistair took a few seconds too long realize he was being insulted. "He-ey!"

Zevran, Zev to his friends, launched a convincing argument. His life was forfeit; Leliana suspected that, much like her case, the price for returning to his old life would be death. Crows did not tolerate failures, that much was common knowledge. He truly was at their mercy and had no reason to lie - and Leliana could not detect a single lie from him the entire time they spoke to him. What she couldn't fathom was why he'd attempted the contract in the first place; surely knew, tactically, that such a force could hold no hope against them? The assassin admitted he had underestimated them and their numbers, but Wardens were always notoriously fierce warriors. They were known to fall only to darkspawn. Or perhaps Loghain did not know that the Wardens did not travel alone.

It took Alistair more convincing than anyone to let the assassin live. He would be unbound and fight with them, or die as Aedan said - it was clear that between the two of the Wardens, the dark-haired one made the decisions. Alistair didn't like it, but didn't object vehemently. Leliana approved; the assassin was interesting, nice to look at, and useful if he decided not to try to kill them in their sleep. The bard shared a long and look with Morrigan full of silent communication. They would assuredly be watching the cooking fire closely, and prepare to use any anti-venoms they had, should the worst happen.

It was strange, though. The Tranquil had said nothing the entire time, although it was clear she and the assassin had been old enemies. Yet this fact didn't seem to bother either one of them at all from what Leliana could tell. She knew that she would chafe at having an old enemy fight at her side; but even the assassin, instantly wary in sight of the others when he was unbound, let his shoulders drop a few inches when Ayah was near. She supposed it was the subconscious assurance of a familiar face. That, and neither seemed to display any rancor despite their negative association.To be a fly on the wall during that barn fight, though . . .

"It is better to die at the hands of beautiful people than someone or somethingelse," Zevran had said, as Ayah was untying his knots with a consternated expression.

"Compliments will always help," Leliana chirped with a smile. "They won't help you with Morrigan, though."

Zevran looked around until his eyes alighted on the dark-haired mage, glaring holes into him from her perch afar on the wagon. "She is the one who turned into a bear," he noted with a shudder. "You Wardens share frighteningly interesting company."

Leliana caught herself laughing. "That's a way to describe it . . . But you should know I am no Warden. That is only Alistair and Aedan." She gestured to the armored fellows speaking in hushed tones aside.

"And your name, ma bella?" He wondered, and an admiring but sly smile took over his features.

Leliana felt something harden in her. "Leliana. Leli, to my friends." Her tone matched his in flippancy, but she assured him with her steady gaze that there was steel beneath the friendliness.

The smile did not flee, but it did dim. "A lovely name for a lovely woman. I think, perhaps, I should watch myself most carefully around you."

Leliana's returning smile was as cryptic as Zevran's. It seemed the assassin had assessed them just as she had observed him. She was, in a way, pleased by the development. It would do nicely to have someone else present who understood well the Game, even if he had never played it in Orlais. "Your instincts are right. I think you shall be a useful addition to our party. I hope you do not prove me wrong."

"I would have to be suicidal if I did." He said this in a bitter tone, but his face only displayed the same amused interest as it had before.

Ayah had finally finished with the last knot and let out a sigh. Zevran stretched out his arms and fingers and stood up, looking relieved. When he turned to face her, Ayah came up only to his chest. "Do not worry," she suggested to both of them. "We will all likely die by darkspawn soon, and none of this will matter at all."

Zevran chuckled. "Still a ray of sunshine, I see."

"That's probably true," Leliana assented lightly. Her eyes flicked back to the Crow. Or ex-Crow, she now supposed. "Rest assured I'd have an arrow in you before you tried anything, though. And if you got to me first, Ayah would be next." She nodded at Ayah.

Zevran grinned. "Yes. The sorella is mystifyingly quick. I have longed for a re-match since my ignoble defeat face-down in horse sh*t."

Ayah's head tilted to the side again, in a gesture Leliana was understanding that she made out of confusion. "You keep calling me that, but my name is Ayah Surana and I have never been a Sister. Now you wish to fight me again? You're a very strange person."

"Ah . . . my apologies, Ayah," he backpedaled. In his accent, he seemed to taste the name rather than speak it. "Well, no, actually, not at all. You've already beaten me quite senseless. I've learned my lesson and have no wish to be clobbered about the head again with any hard metal objects. You win, thoroughly - I concede defeat."

The girl frowned. "Should you ever change your mind and desire to improve your form, I require a new sparring partner." Ayah appeared genuinely puzzled by Leliana's laughter.

He didn't really know what he'd been expecting, though it must have been something more than the reality of the Dalish. It had to have been more, or he wouldn't have felt so unfulfilled after meeting them. Zevran couldn't quite put a finger on what it was, because there were many little things that stacked together in front of his eyes when he watched them. They were dirty, suspicious, but also curious. They were weary, disquiet, and also fierce. What had been irking him had finally struck him when he finally caught a glimpse of the infamous vallaslin up close; his Wardens talked prettily, or so it seemed - he hadn't been really paying attention, expecting to be attacked at any second occupied him - and then they were led into the strangest camp he'd ever seen full of faces tattooed that should have been just like his own.

Perhaps, he thought, it was because he had never seen so many elves in one place, other than an Alienage.I am not sure this is an improvement.The branded sorella had been near, always near with those eyes of dark intent, and seemingly spoke his own mind aloud: "I suppose this is less smelly than an Alienage, but I do not understand the appeal," she spoke for his ears alone.

It took Zevran a second to realize no one was really paying him any mind as they walked by - only her. Was she to be his designated guard? The Wardens had strange senses of humor. "The ground is not a very comfortable place to sleep, either," he agreed, "and neither are trees. Nothing compares to a feather bed. Ah, it has been nearly a year since I have slept in a feather bed . . ." In Zevran's head, he tallied 'sleeping in a feather bed' again under his growing list of 'reasons to stay alive,' right under getting Leliana naked.

The bard a few steps ahead of them chuckled at this. "I have forgotten what it's like to wake up without feeling sore down to my toes." The Tranquil missed the humor per usual, which actually amused Zevran a bit. It was a comforting strangeness in that it seemed immune to change.

It was definitely the vallaslin that bothered him the most, the bloody marks that were delicately carved around their skulls like decorative Orlesian masks and crowns. They curved and twisted differently on the one called Lanaya than the older, bald one, Zathrian. Each one seemed to be unique, but many were similar. The significances of the forms escaped him, but not their meanings. He thought of the marks on his own cheek - a signal of ownership inked in his own blood when he was given to the Crows. He'd been allowed to choose the location, and wore it with pride. The vallaslin marked them as Dalish, just as he was Crow and not an elf; just as Ayah's brand meant she was Tranquil, and not an elf. He had hoped, on some level, to find something he had in common with his mother's people . . . but he saw no traces of himself in them despite some visual similarities. Even the memory of his mother that resurfaced - he pushed it down. Down, down, down where it belonged, where he could not yearn for false dreams.

The disturbed instinct in his gut seemed validated when he noticed the way the Dalish looked upon him - there were different eyes, different faces for the humans than they wore for him or the Tranquil. She seemed oblivious to the nearly pitying stares that the Dalish gave the two of them.Ah yes. How they must pity us poor, misguided city-dwelling flat-ears.He'd overheard the pejorative uttered a few times as they had walked by, and guessed its contextual meaning. Irritation flared up in him, which he instinctively hid behind a smile. Surana turned to look at him then, as if she had read his thoughts once more (though that might have been his paranoia). A moment later he realized that she was staring at something behind him; he turned to look and caught the eye of a barefaced elven child, who quickly flushed and skittered away into the trees before he could get a look at her. He caught Surana's gaze as he turned back and found her, as usual, to be unreadable.

Aedan and Alistair, the one's he'd been hired to kill, were taken to the Dalish leader by themselves after they'd entered the camp at arrow-point by the fiercely protective guards. When it was clear that they meant no harm, still none of the Dalish went out of their way to approach any of them. Gradually their group dispersed one-by-one, first the witch Morrigan who transformed into a magnificent raven and took off to the trees, earning a few gasps and intrigued stares. Then, the elder mage who gravitated toward an area closed off by tent curtains where many moaning and wounded hunters lay in cots, attended to by other tattooed elves.

For a moment, it seemed Zevran had been forgotten amidst all the noise, but even as that thought hit him and he turned his head, his eyes locked with the Tranquil's. "I take it you are my more or less permanent guard, hmm?" He wondered, smirking.

"That is Sten's job today," she corrected, and pointed at the qunari behind him. Zevran turned to glance at the purple-eyed, white haired warrior. Calling Sten imposing was almost insulting. The qunari looked like he'd walked out of a book about war, with his huge claymore and plated mail. His charms, Zevran knew, would never work on Sten and the thought of that made him a little nervous. He did his best to ignore his guard, who thankfully remained at a reasonable distance - but still close-enough that he was within head-slicing range of the giant weapon strapped to his back. He could hardly blame them, though.

He turned to the Tranquil again, but she was gone, wandering off toward the first Dalish elf she saw - who immediately skittered away at her approach. She seemed confused and tried this again, even got around to asking a few questions to the ones that didn't skitter away, but it became painfully obvious after awhile that they were avoiding her on purpose.

"It is your ears," Zevran suggested as she approached again. "And maybe the brand a little bit, too. They seem to have an easier time accepting humans than city elves. Don't ask me why, it doesn't make any sense to me either."

Ayah frowned. "Should I wear my hair down and grow bangs?" She wondered aloud. "If I hid it, would they speak to me more?"

"Probably not," he answered easily. "They are as wary of you as they are of me."

"Good news and awful news," Aedan's voice drew their attention. Leliana was at his side, and Morrigan floated down and shifted back to human form at his other. Wynne was still occupied with the wounded hunters, doing her best to heal wounds with her magic. It struck Zevran as a slice of irony that he was now saddled with a bunch of do-gooders after his attempted suicide in attacking them.

"They have agreed to help, which is the good news," Leliana announced.

Aedan nodded. "Bad news is that there's a contagious condition afflicting the hunters," he continued. "Apparently there's a pretty severe werewolf problem in the woods, and they're targeting the clan. I've agreed to help them stop it in exchange for their help against the Blight."

"What kind of a werewolf problem?" The Tranquil wondered.

"I was sort of hoping you and Wynne and Morrigan would know more about that," the Warden continued uneasily, "as I'm not exactly a font magical information."

"Lycanthropy is a curse," Morrigan spoke up with a thoughtful expression on her face, "a transformation tied to the moon cycle. It is powerful, old, dark magic."

"Blood magic?" He perked up.

"I would ill describe it as such," the wild witch cautioned, "as there are tribes of Chasind who worship the moon and the wolf, tied to its tidal cycle. To them it is not a curse, but a blessing. Werewolves are chosen by their small gods to be warriors in defense of their tribes. In this instance, I am unsure of what to call it. I have never heard of it exclusively afflicting elves. It would depend on how long the werewolves had been here. I was not aware of this population of them in the forest."

"Do you know how to stop them?" the Warden asked her.

"I would need to break the curse," Morrigan explained patiently in a rare tone she reserved exclusively for Aedan, "which requires the knowledge of the nature of the curse, its duration, and knowing who originally cast it. I can confirm with certainty that the original caster is still alive, as if they had died the curse would have prematurely ended. Finding them is the only sure way to cure the affliction."

He frowned. "This is a lot more complicated than I thought, then. I thought we'd arm up on silver and just kill them."

"Silver is a weak metal better for coinage and jewelry, not weapons," the Tranquil lectured. "It does not affect werewolves in any particular way. That is myth."

"Well, whatdoesparticularly hurt werewolves, then?" he asked the group, exasperated.

There was a silence as they all contemplated this. No one seemed to have any ideas, other than 'keep the werewolves at bay with sharp and pointy things.' "Maybe fire?" Zevran suggested bluntly. "Most furry things don't like fire."

The Warden's fingers snapped in approval. "Yes! Fireballs. Those also hurt trees, though, and we don't want to start a forest fire. Maybe stick to ice magic in here unless we're especially desperate," he directed this to Morrigan, who rolled her eyes but nodded in assent.

As Alistair and Wynne joined, Zevran became peripherally aware of a few of the Dalish watching them. Whenever he tried to meet their gaze, they turned away, but he still felt the curious stares on his back as the Wardens and their allies spoke of strategy. He paid little attention to the proceedings; if someone had wanted his opinion, they would have asked for it. And besides, all he needed was to be pointed at a target. Beyond that, it wasn't his business who killed who in the name of which king.

He found the branded one some distance away, her eyes fixed with certainty upon a small statue of a wolf that was facing away from the camp. The Dalish all kept clear of it, and her. Still conscious of his qunari guard, Zevran approached her again wondering if it was just familiarity he sought, or something else. "You have been staring at that thing for the past several minutes, sorella," he said.

"Yes," she confirmed.

"Do I have to ask you why? Indulge me," he very nearly begged. "I am bored of waiting around in this forest."

She turned to study him as intently as she had the wolf, and as always spoke quietly. "I am curious about the Dalish, but they will not speak to me," she said. "Little is known by the Circle about their gods outside of their oral traditions. They are opposed to recording them in writing. I do not know this statue, but it reminded me of someone I met in the Fade. He was a wolf."

Each time a mage spoke about the Fade, something in Zevran's gaze would gloss over. "Ah, you have lost me," he admitted.

She struggled to explain. "There was a demon of Sloth that had trapped myself, the Wardens, Wynne, and Leliana in a dream. The Tower had become overrun by demons. The dream was structured like a puzzle. Ordinarily, Tranquil cannot enter the Fade, because we cannot dream. Yet, there I was. I was helped by an . . . Entity there. He took the form of a wolf . . . But when I first met him, he was a mouse. Forms are fluid in the Fade. I wonder now if they only mistook their gods for entities such as that. Spirits, in the Fade, are formless and change skin with more ease than even Morrigan does."

"I know little of the Fade, I am afraid," Zevran admitted. He eyed Sten askance, but the quiet giant had his back to the assassin and was watching the elves of the camp mill about carefully. It seemed he did not worry about the assassin, when the elf was watching him. He sidled up to Ayah, who did not seem to mind. He was, on some level, afraid that if he spent too much time in silent thought that he would brood a hole right through his head, and the girl was as good a distraction as any. "I know it's the word for where we go when we dream, but that is my entire knowledge exhausted."

She nodded. "It is where magic comes from; from our dreams it leaks into the world of waking. It cannot be accessed physically without letting go of the physical. Most experience this as they dream. People typically forget their dreams upon waking, but one can be trained to remember and control them over time. I was able to do this as a child with ease, before I became Tranquil. I went into the Fade as freely as you walk through doors. I lived in the Circle, but I was free in the Fade." She paused and looked down at her feet, studying her boots for a moment. "I used to believe the Great Magisters had all been mages and dreamers of great caliber like myself, who could dream and stay lucid and fly and create and change forms. That was before I met Morrigan, and realized that this too is a skill any mage may learn or train over time. She walks freely as animal or woman; this I think is something that the Dalish have forgotten. I wonder now if the elven gods were the same, before Arlathan fell - mages of such power that they could be functionally immortal, and control reality as a dreamer controls the Fade."

At the mention of immortality, he perked up. He had overhead the elf mage Zathrian boast about such an accomplishment. "Ah. You are thinking of Zathrian. I am certain he is not truly immortal, or he would look a great deal younger," he assured Ayah. "With a fuller head of hair."

"Nothing is immortal in this world," Ayah agreed easily. "He has prolonged his life unnaturally, through unknown means. He is fortunate that the Chantry does not know of him. It is most curious."

"What is curious is your ability to turn a dog statue into a complex cultural metaphor," he admitted, and situated himself so that he was sitting on the wolf's head.

"I often get lost in details," she confessed. "You seem to me to see much more than I, with less effort."

He wondered at that, and at how deeply that brand went. "Was that a compliment?" He wondered. "I'll take it."

She abruptly tore off one of her boots and shook it out, sending some dirt and a few small rocks to the forest floor. "What do you make of this statue, Zevran?" She asked of him as she emptied out the other boot.

"You want to know what I think? Or what I see?" Strange how even her questions could catch him off-guard.

"Either, both," she waffled, slipping on her boot with a few experimental stomps. "Whatever you wish to share."

He stared down at his perch. "It looks like a mossy rock to me," he admitted with a chuckle. "I would think it a Fereldan mabari statue if you had not said it was elven. It reminds me of my mother in a way . . . Though they all do. This whole place does. The Dalish. My mother was Dalish." How he had wound up admitting that out loud to the Tranquil was beyond him, but it seemed to spill out beyond his control like water through his hands.

Ayah's gaze was attentive and pointed. "Did she leave her people?" She asked.

Zevran's first instinct when it came to personal matters was to change the subject. This conflicted with his instinct around Ayah to indulge her questions. They seemed rare, and she talked so very little to the others that he wondered why. He had spoken of his mother to exactly one woman before - Rinna - and only after many months of laying in her company had he felt comfortable enough to share such personal details. Yet, it was not so long ago that he had thrown himself at the swords of the Wardens to pay for his sins . . . And what did comfort matter, in the face of Ayah's boundless curiosity? There was nothing in indulging her that would hurt him.

So it was that Zevran found himself uncharacteristically telling her, "No, not as such, or not by choice. I know little of my father, but suspect he shares some blame for her . . . relocation. She was enslaved. She had some of the vallaslin that they have, on the face."

She traced the tattoo that curved across his cheek with her eyes. "So do you."

"They are what markmeas a slave," he corrected. "A slave to the Crows."

She nodded. "That is unfortunately common in Antiva."

"It is common everywhere," he laughed, "at least in my experience."

"It is outlawed in most places that I know of," Ayah said with a frown.

"Ah, how to explain," Zevran struggled - how could he explain, to one who was a slave herself and did not seem to know it? "Did you know that in Nevarra, there's no different word for—that the word for prisoner, slave, and servant are all the same? They are all the same thing. Places that vaunt their freedom have just as many words for the same concept. Even now, I am the Wardens' slave. Perhaps an upgrade from my previous enslavement, but enslavement nonetheless."

Ayah looked over to where the Wardens were speaking with Lanaya in hushed tones. "I do not believe Alistair and Aedan see you as a slave," she told him. "So long as you do not betray them, they will treat you as an equal. It is their way. I will make sure of it if necessary."

"While a kind offer of you, you are entirely missing my point," Zevran intoned dryly. "You are a slave as well, to the Chantry. Wardens are slaves to their duty. Even rulers slaves to their subjects' will; plenty of them in Antiva have been dragged and quartered, screaming, out of their estates for raising taxes in the wrong season."

Ayah was engulfed in thoughtful silence for a few moments while she studied the Wardens from afar before turning back to Zevran. "The Dalish are still slaves too," she realized, finally getting the point. "No elves are free."

"In a way," Zevran could agree. "There's no such thing as freedom. No one is free. We are all slaves to something. Though of all the elves I have ever met, the Dalish are most fierce and brave. I admire them for clinging to their dying ways."

"Dying?"

He thought then of his mother, and the songs that she had used to sing to him whose words were lost to memory. He wondered if he'd hear the songs again if he walked amongst the camp and simply listened. "It is inevitable, is it not?" He asked rhetorically. "They don't teach elven in the Alienages. My mother barely spoke it at all by the time she died. I was still a child and know nothing of it, save the word 'shemlen' which strikes me as a little ironic. The only thing my mother had that was Dalish were the vallaslin, and a pair of embroidered gloves. They had these twining, antler designs on them. I remember those gloves so vividly, in spite of remembering her so little." He had kept them after she had died, and had given them to Rinna as a gift once. They were meant for an archer, not a sneak thief such as him, and Rinna had been fierce with a bow. Now, they were lost forever.

As if she had read his mind, Ayah spoke, "Our minds cling to relevant details by association. I could teach you elven."

The offer surprised him and caught him off-guard yet again. He sidled down from his perch on the wolf's head and stood beside her. "You speak it?" He marveled. "They teach elven in the Circle?"

"I know every language except qunari, which I am still learning," she informed him primly. "Sten is a most patient teacher."

Zevran eyed the giant, still facing away from them, and the sudden mental image of Sten as a grammarian hammering the proper qunari syntax while Ayah practiced struck him and made him laugh.

Before they could continue speaking, Aedan shouted over at them, "OI! We're leaving!"

Ayah tumbled head over heels down the side of the mossy forest knoll, striking roots on the way down that left bruises in their wake. It was unlike her to be so clumsy. Once she got her bearings at the bottom of the small hill, she had to quickly maneuver out of the way lest she be bowled over by Sten's tumbling form after her, who clamored on the way down with the clatter of armor banging against his Asala. He quickly rolled to his feet and looked over to her, and they nodded in mute understanding of their task. As one unit, they ran around the forest to flank their enemy - a revenant that had appeared out of the ether when Alistair made the simple mistake of leaning up against the wrong tombstone.

Their readiness was for naught, however, as by the time they reached the top of the hill, there was no revenant, and only an unconscious Zevran and depleted Wynne remained of their number. The rest had been separated by the fight, which they heard distantly in the woods. Ayah went about the task of reviving Zevran while Sten pulled Wynne up and offered her a potion from his belt to replenish her energy.

"Where are the others?" The qunari demanded of the mage.

Wynne shook her head. "I know not. There was that shockwave that sent you two tumbling down, and it knocked us two aside. The rest must've followed the creature further into the forest."

Zevran rolled up to his feet once he was awake with a groan and sigh. "Ah. I feel . . . Heinous. What happened? I have never seen anything like it."

"A revenant," Ayah supplied, like this explained everything, when it did not and he was left even more confused by the lack of an answer.

It was an unspoken, but universal decision that Sten was in charge while the Wardens were gone. He seemed to carry himself with the most battle experience, and despite Wynne's superior age, she seemed to have no desire to lead their way through the underbrush; Sten hacked away at bushes and saplings that stood in their way with aplomb and said not a word of complaint. Nor any word at all, really. He was silent in his task as they made their way to the sounds of battle in the distance.

At some point the sounds of far-off battle stopped, however, and they had to admit that they were lost. They called out to their companions as they wandered, but no one but the birds answered them. After seemingly hours of trekking through the woods, they came upon a clearing where they decided to take a short break - or rather that Zevran and Wynne insisted upon stopping to take a few breaths while Ayah and Sten milled about restlessly.

"We should keep moving," Sten insisted.

"There's no harm in pausing a moment to rest," Wynne said blithely. "Is anyone suffering any injuries from the fight?" They took stock of themselves, but they were in good shape, all things considered.

That was the precise moment they were set upon by werewolves.

A howling was the only alert - Sten had time to draw his sword and Zevran his blades before three werewolves approached the foursome from the edges of the clearing. Ayah's hands strayed near her blades, only to be met by a snarling maw a few feet away from her face. She scuttled backward, and all four of the Wardens' companions found themselves back-to-back surrounded by the beasts.

Then, one of them spoke. "The watch-wolves speak true," said the tallest of the three in a snarling, guttural voice. "The Dalish send humans to put us in our place. What bitter irony."

"You can speak!" Wynne marveled, academically impressed. This drew her the perturbed stares of her companions, who all three silently wondered what her priorities were. "But . . . How?"

"Who are you?" Sten demanded over Wynne, lowering his sword slightly but clenching it tighter.

The golden eyes of the tallest werewolf bored into Sten's lavender orbs. "You speak to Swiftrunner. I lead my brothers and sisters." At a glance, the other two werewolves withdrew from the group, putting them all a little more at ease. "Turn back now. Tell the Dalish you have failed, and tell them we will gladly watch them suffer the same curse that we have suffered for too long!" A bark from one of the werewolves, very dog-like, punctuated the end of this sentence.

The four of them exchanged glances, each one disturbed but also intrigued by this turn of events. Wynne stepped forward when Sten made no move to do so. "We would prefer to speak to you, rather than fight," she began tentatively. "Yes, it was Zathrian who sent us into the woods to discover and remove the source of this curse. We can aid you, just as we wish to aid the Dalish."

Swiftrunner growled. "You know nothing!" He accused. "Zathrian seeks only our destruction, not the end of this curse! He would seek us out himself if he so wished. Instead, he sends his pawns."

"You're right, we do know very little about this curse," Wynne agreed diplomatically. "Help us to understand. How did this affliction come to you, Swiftrunner?"

"You are fools, doing Zathrian's bidding without question," said Swiftrunner. "We cannot trust you. Leave now, and tell the Dalish they are doomed!" With these portents, the werewolves departed into the woods, disappearing into the underbrush as swiftly as they had appeared.

"And I thought I'd seen strange things," Zevran commented lightly. "Never a dull day with the Wardens, is it?"

"You should have seen where they found me," Wynne laughed.

"And where did they acquire you, my tall friend?" Zevran wondered, appraising Sten.

Sten was as silent as the grave, and put his Asala away. "We must find the Wardens, and tell them of this encounter," he announced, and marched on his long legs out of the clearing while the other three scrambled to keep up with him.

"Wait," Wynne spoke up from the back, bringing them to a halt. She looked about with worry. "I sense a thinning of the Veil here . . ."

As she spoke, Ayah felt a strange tingle up her spine, and then a sense of vertigo as she was lifted out of the air and the life began to get squeezed out of her. Stars crossed her vision as her companions scrambled in alarm as a tree branch had reached down to grab her off its own accord, and lift her into the air. A hacking sound of sword against branch freed her from her predicament, sending her sprawling at Sten's feet with his Asala drawn over her.

"Did that tree just—?!" Zevran began, and scrambled backward as a tree branch moved to swipe him and sent him flying to the ground feet away.

"It's a sylvan!" Wynne shouted as she sent a hail of rocks at the tree whose roots began to uproot themselves, sending raw earth tumbling to the ground. It's trunk began to separate into leg-like appendages and it stepped forward to them threateningly.

They eventually managed to hack away at enough of its limbs while Wynne held it in place with wards, and finally an explosive ward that it stepped over caused it to be set on fire. It finally was cut in two by one powerful blow from Sten, and they all breathed deep sighs of relief when the harrowing - if brief - battle was finally over.

"Sometimes demons from the Fade possess trees, rather than people," Wynne supplied, examining the remains. "I've read about them, but never encountered one before. I expect where there is thinning of the Veil in the forest, we will encounter more."

"How lovely," Zevran deadpanned. "Will we—"

As he spoke, another tree trunk of a grand oak nearby separated itself from the ground and began to quake, sending leaves and white flowers tumbling to the ground. Zevran rolled away instinctively and drew his swords just as they all armed themselves, but the tree did not attack.

Instead, it hummed. Then, it spoke: "What manner of beast be thee, that comes before the Elder Tree?" It rumbled in an aged voice that sounded like the groaning of oak and pine in the breeze.

"A talking tree," Zevran spat. "First talking werewolves, now a talkingtree."

"Shall we kill it?" Ayah wondered, looking hesitant. Sten raised his sword eagerly.

"Hold!" Wynne spoke firmly, raising her staff and approaching the grand oak. It shivered and quaked, sending the ground rumbling beneath their feet as its roots uprooted and settled themselves in front of her, the result of the sylvan taking two massive steps forward. "What . . . Are you?" She wondered. "Will you attack us?"

"Nay," the tree grumbled. "Allow me a moment to welcome thee. I am called the Grand Oak, sometimes the Elder Tree. Thou speakest of those others like me, so filled with hate - forgive them, they cannot control their fate."

Zevran couldn't seem to believe what he was seeing. "A talking f*cking tree. Whorhymes."

"A poet tree," Wynne said wryly. Zevran groaned while Ayah looked puzzled by the pun. Sten just sighed.

"Unless thou thinkest it far too soon, might I ask of thee a boon?" The tree politely requested, shaking off a few dead leaves that fluttered to the ground gently along with a cloud of white oak flowers.

Ayah picked up one that had fallen into her hair and examined it closely in her fingers while the others put their weapons away. Wynne continued speaking, seeing as she was the only one present with the patience to handle a talking, rhyming tree. "Certainly, we will aid you however we can, if you answer a few questions for us," she said.

"I have but one desire, to solve a matter dire," the tree began, causing Zevran to groan again at all the rhyming. "As I slumbered an early morn, a thief came and stole a single acorn."

"And you wish this acorn returned?" Wynne guessed. "We can manage that, if you can tell us about this forest and the beasts that inhabit it."

As it happened, the skin of the great oak - one of his branches, offered freely - was promised protection from the sylvans of the forest. Sadly the tree did not know about the origins of the werewolves, but knew of a place that the werewolves lived deeper in the forest, and swore to give them directions upon the return of his acorn. This acorn was apparently an item of great importance, and the tree seemed physically attached to it and professed he thought he would die without it. His description of the thief was unhelpful, since all mortal beings tended to look the same to tree eyes, but Wynne seemed certain that they would run into the thief sooner or later. Ayah and Sten were largely disappointed at the lack of battle, but Zevran was relieved not to have to fight another possessed tree. Wynne gained a new oak staff, and all was well, for once.

True to the Elder Tree's word, no more sylvans attacked them as they wandered the wood. The sun began to set before they found themselves in a new clearing, and found their companions on the other side, speaking to a strange man that was dancing and yelping wildly in place.

"There you are!" Aedan exclaimed, throwing up his arms in relief. "We've been looking for you four for hours!"

"We've had . . . Quite an adventure," Wynne said hesitantly. She eyed the strange dancing man with trepidation. "It appears you have also had an adventure."

"You mean the revenant? It didn't survive a good beheading. But we can chat about that later," Alistair promised. "Right now we're trying to, er . . ."

"Trying to reason with this damnable man," Aedan summarized, indicating the strangely dressed yelping man.

He was disheveled, but human, with a strange oaken staff attached to his back, and seemed to be muttering to himself - or to anyone that was listening - about nonsensical things. The clearing they stood in housed a small encampment, with a tent and a lively fire. "Does he live here?" Zevran asked aloud.

"Seems to," Aedan confirmed.

The strange hermit jumped at nothing, startled. Zevran continued, "in the haunted forest? With the werewolves, and talking, moving trees? What does he eat?"

"Talking, moving trees? Just what kind of trouble did you get up to while we were separated?" Leliana wondered with amusem*nt.

"You do not want to know," Zevran promised.

"Excuse me," Ayah said, approaching the hermit of the woods.

"Eh? Ehh?" The man answered, eyeing her up and down. "What's it say?"

"What is your name?" She asked politely.

"A question for a question!" He cackled. "Nothing is free, not in this world, no, serah. No no no. It wants to know my name, it must give me its name first!"

"I am Ayah Surana," she introduced, holding out her hand.

The hermit ignored it, but seemed surprised that he'd received an answer at all. "Good, good, good," he said. "Now, what is your favorite color?"

"I prefer the color yellow," she answered easily. "Have you stolen any acorns recently?"

"What is happening?" Aedan wondered aloud.

"It was not invited!" The hermit hissed at him. "This is between the elf and myself! Ah, but it knows - it is working for the tree! Yes, yes, yes, this one has the acorn. Saw it on the ground, said it was mine, yes. Where are you from?"

"Antiva," she replied. "May I see the acorn, please?"

The hermit fished a small golden acorn out of his pocket. What happened next was quite rapid - Ayah simply took the acorn out of the hermit's unsuspecting hand, he immediately accused her of "TREACHERY" at the top of his lungs, and then Zevran's sword was in the hermit's neck. He was in a pile of cooling blood on the ground before anyone else could react.

"You must stop getting yourself into these situations, sorella," the Antivan Crow said as he wiped the blood off of his blade with the hermit's tattered tunic.

"I am lucky I have you to watch my back," she said. He gave an answering flourishing bow. She handed the acorn over to Wynne's waiting hand, who looked simultaneously pleased and discomforted to receive it. "This should satisfy the talking tree, yes?"

"Again, talkingtree?" Aedan guffawed. "What in the blazes happened while we were gone?"

Wynne sighed.

The Elder Tree was positively ecstatic to receive his acorn back, and didn't much care how they'd gotten it - the hermit was of no concern to him. He informed him of the location in the southern woods where they might find the encampment of the werewolves, and they decided to set up camp there around the Elder Oak since it didn't seem to mind the company of mortals for the time being, it being too happy to care much about anything except the return of its acorn.

"And you're sure it was talking?" Aedan asked, referring to the werewolves.

Wynne sighed again. "Yes, child. We are certain. His name was Swiftrunner, and he said he spoke for his brothers and sisters. He seemed to . . . Hate Zathrian a great deal. He even seemed to blame the old elf for the curse that is afflicting them."

"So, let me summarize. We're dealing with a band of intelligent werewolves with a racial grudge against the Dalish, and if we can't solve this matter between them and somehow end this curse - which we know next to nothing about - we won't have any help against the Blight whatsoever. How am I doing so far?"

"We know that this curse is ancient blood magic," Morrigan supplied. "As are most ancient curses. We also know that whoever first cast the curse must still be alive, for without a living seal, the curse would gradually unravel."

"That bodes well," Aedan commented.

"Right, it's only an ancient blood magic curse, we fix things like that all the time," Alistair snarked. "It's our Warden tradition, on Sundays."

"Other than this white wolf 'Witherfang' being connected to it," Aedan added. "That about sums it up."

"Stew is ready," Leliana announced. The smell of food distracted all of them momentarily.

They spent that night out in the woods, taking turns for watch while Sten volunteered for the first shift. Ayah found herself unable to sleep, and so stayed awake and received qunari lessons from the quiet giant, and volunteered to take the second shift. She was incapable of feeling fear or trepidation, but she was hesitant to fall asleep in a place where the Veil was so reputedly thin; she did not wish to get trapped in another demon's puzzle, and could still remember her most recent journey through the Fade quite vividly. Leliana took the third shift and was content to while the time away telling Ayah stories of distant Orlais. She heard the tragic story of a female chevalier, and the story of Shartan before she was able to fall asleep for a few hours, thankfully without any dreams.

In the morning, they all disassembled camp and marched into the southern woods, pausing only briefly to stop and help to heal an injured hunter and return him to the Dalish camp. They re-entered the camp to replenish some of their supplies of potions and briefly talk to Zathrian, although this did not yield any new information and only resulted in frustration as the old bald elf stonewalled them with his short answers to their probing questions. He seemed insistent upon retrieving the heart of the white wolf he named Witherfang so he could personally end the curse, and claimed to know nothing of its origin. Frustrated, they followed the old tree's directions until they encountered a tall elven ruin deep in the woods, shadowed by overhanging trees and massive cobwebs that they had to hack through in order to comfortably walk.

"Zathrian is lying," Leliana announced as they approached.

Aedan gave her a side-eye. "What makes you so certain?"

"I know liars when I see them," she replied easily. "It comes from living in Orlais for many years. You could almost say that I am an expert in lying. Zevran, I am sure you noticed this as well."

"He is certainly hiding something," the Crow agreed, "and I say that from experience. I am someone with many things to hide, and I know the weight of such secrets when I see them upon others."

"What do you think he's lying about?" Alistair wondered as he hacked away at a massive web, and made a face as its tendrils got caught in his hair.

"He knows more about this curse than he is letting on," Leliana figured. "Perhaps he is privy to its origins after all, and wishes to keep it secret from strangers. But I am curious - why does he hide this from his own people? What benefit could it bring to them, to keep such a secret, when it has harmed them? Very curious indeed."

"Well, you're the liar expert," Aedan shrugged. "I'm just here to stab things and look pretty while doing it."

"I thought that was my job," said Alistair.

"No, that is my job," Zevran corrected with a laugh. "Well, or, at least it used to be."

"You know, I'm starting to be glad we didn't kill you after all," Aedan commented. "You're decently useful, and funny."

"High praise from the lovely Warden. I will take it."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, you know."

Ayah perked up. "Something approaches," she declared from the front of the group, where she had taken point with the hound - elven and mabari eyes and eyes being keener than most of the rest of theirs.

It was Swiftrunner, with four fellow snarling werewolves at his side that stood on their massive haunches and loomed over them. The party drew their weapons, but Wynne stepped forward unflinchingly and addressed the werewolf by name. "Swiftrunner," she greeted. "We meet again."

"The forest has not been vigilant," the werewolf with the golden eyes snarled. "You come despite our warnings! We will not allow you to harm Witherfang!"

"We seek no harm," she promised, "but we will defend ourselves if you attack - now tell us, what is Witherfang? How do we end your curse!"

"You will not listen - you are intruders in our home, and come here with weapons!" The werewolf continued snarling as if he hadn't heard the woman. He leaned back to let out a guttural howl up at the forest canopy. The other werewolves at his sides answered him with howls of their own, sending chills up everyone but Sten's spines. "Protect the Lady!" Swiftrunner cried and launched himself right at Wynne.

The old woman was far from helpless, and responded by whapping the werewolf upside the head with her staff and sending the beast careening to the side. The other werewolves attacked simultaneously, each launching themselves at a different member of the group. Leliana took several steps back and began setting arrows flying over everyone's heads, thudding into flanks and arms and hitting at least one werewolf painfully in the jaw. Sten saw this and took advantage of the werewolf's handicap and sent his Asala through its neck, tumbling its head on down to the ground. Alistair flanked one that was engaged in a tear-all match with the mabari and stabbed it in the side just as Ayah came up to its other side and aimed for its chest, nearly bisecting the beast. Aedan charged Swiftrunner with his shield as Morrigan sent fireballs at the rest, catching their fur and spreading panic.

Swiftrunner scrambled to gain purchase against the shield but was pushed back, and in his surprise left himself open to a stab from Zevran. The Crow quickly retreated before the werewolf could attack, and Aedan pressed his assault - only to be stopped as a strange white wolf bounded into the fray and planted itself between Swiftrunner and the Warden.

Confused and alarmed, Aedan backed up and blurted out, "ah, you must be Witherfang, lovely to meet you, shame it's under these circ*mstances." The wolves who survived the onslaught bounded away before anything else could be said. The white wolf stared at him intently with silver eyes and seemed to lock him in that intense gaze. Small vines began to grow from the earth to wrap around its paws and crawl up its legs, but before the vines could travel any further, the wolf bounded away causing the vines to snap and disappear, and the spell seemed to be broken.

Aedan took a deep breath and lowered his shield as everyone put their weapons away, taken aback by the sudden bracing battle. "Anyone bitten?" He asked.

They took stock, but no one had been injured. The werewolves hadn't been prepared for such a defense, that much was clear.

"Lovely. Onward we go toward uncertain doom," the Warden announced, and led the way into the ruins.

The Brecilian ruins were a dream come true for the researcher in Ayah. They used Doug the dog to track the scent of the werewolves to a sealed off door, and quickly realized they'd have to descend further into the ruins if they were to have the hope of finding a way around. They couldn't return to the Dalish empty handed, so down they went - further into the cavernous depths where giant spiders and undead lurked and barred them entry. Their large party was easily able to carve a path through their obstacles, though more than once they had to double back and go down a different path as they met dead end after dead end. Leliana and Zevran ended up leading the way, despite half of the party still mistrusting the assassin, due to both of them having keen and experienced eyes for traps. After Alistair nearly got roasted by a fire trap, even he was more keen on having Zevran lead the way. Ayah learned much about trapping by observing them.

Eventually they began to descend further into the ruin, and met a strange smell that the dog balked at. "What is it, boy?" Aedan asked, patting Doug on the head. The mabari whined plaintively as a peculiar sound echoed back to them from further in the ruins - something between a distant snarl and a howl, distinctly unlike the werewolves they had previously encountered.

"Smells like dragon," Sten announced with foreboding, which sent a nervous titter through the companions.

Ayah had never seen a dragon before, and had no desire to meet one. Still, they pressed onward, high on alert for any sudden movements. The ruins opened up into a larger cavern that at some point had broken apart and become exposed to the sun and forest canopy. Another smell assaulted their nostrils as they took stock of their surroundings - death. More recent death, not merely bones and bonemeal, but the corpses of the recently deceased that occupied the ground around their feet, littering the cavern.

"We really go to the loveliest places," Alistair commented lightly.

There was a sudden screeching noise unlike anything Ayah had ever heard before. "Everyone down!" Aedan barked, throwing up his shield over his head as everyone scrambled backwards and ducked. A searing heat nearly singed her hair as a small dragon flew by overhead and set a jet of flame over their heads, before it came to a skittering halt on top of a broken mosaic in the center of the room. It was a beautiful beast with glaring golden, slitted eyes and a magnificent scaled hide of pure silver. It stared at them, flapped its wings, and screeched again letting out another jet of flame from its mouth and nostrils.

"Morrigan! Ground it!" Aedan commanded. As soon as he finished speaking, icicles spread over the ground from Morrigan's staff and rapidly encased the dragon's feet in their wintry grasp, crawling up the dragon's legs toward its wings. It flapped in place desperately, fanning its feet with flames from its mouth. In its distraction, Sten, Aedan, and Alistair charged it with their weapons drawn.

Ayah didn't know exactly what the plan was at that point, and it seemed to be anyone's guess. She looked at Zevran out of the corner of her eye and noted he seemed just as confused as to what to do in that situation - none of them had exactly faced a dragon before, except perhaps Sten. That much was obvious. Figuring that keeping it grounded was the priority, Ayah went for its wings and dove at the panicking beast with one of her swords drawn, aiming for the webbing between its wing-joints.

It howled in desperation as her sword cleanly sliced through, tearing one of its wings nearly in half. It craned its neck up reflexively in pain and turned to glare at her and possibly send another jet of flame, but this position gave Alistair an excellent angle at which to chop with his sword. It didn't sever its head off, but it did make a deep cut that distracted the dragon enough.

Ayah wasn't looking out for its tail, however, and it swiped at her as soon as it turned away and sent her flying into the walls of the crumbling ruins. Her impact jostled loose a stone that fell down from above on her head, and she knew no more.

Chapter 13: XII

Chapter Text

"Easy now," Leliana cautioned as she helped the small elf into a sitting position.

Ayah mumbled in pain. "What happened to the dragon?" she queried.

"The dragon is dead. Alistair and Sten managed to kill it after you, Morrigan, and Wynne helped ground it. You were knocked unconscious and had a bad blow to the head."

"You have suffered a concussion," Wynne reported from her other side, her hands glowing with ethereal light. As the light faded, Ayah began to feel a little more coherent - or at least, more conscious of her surroundings. Her head pounded, and her vision swam uncomfortably, causing nausea that resulted in her retching her breakfast and lunch onto the ground.

"Easy now," Leliana repeated, patting her on the back. "You'll be fine."

As soon as she finished vomiting, she felt a great deal better. "May I have some water?" She asked politely. Leliana handed the tiny elf her water-skin, which Ayah gulped down gratefully.

"Thank you," she said, handing it back. "I feel ready to continue."

"I'll tell the Wardens," Wynne offered, standing up with a creak of her joints. "That is once, they're done 'looting' the room like bandits," she added dryly.

"Don't judge me, Wynne!" Aedan called over. "I heard that! There's some good armor on these bodies, and they're not going to make any use of it!"

Ayah glanced over in his direction where she saw Aedan, Alistair, and Sten busily wrestling the armor off of several of the recently deceased warriors that the dragon had likely felled before they had slain it. "How did these warriors make it past the werewolves?" She wondered aloud, watching them struggle to pull off a pair of sabatons.

"That is anyone's guess," Leliana said wryly. "Perhaps the werewolves let them past? Or perhaps they fought their way past? Or perhaps the dragon was playing with his food?"

"It matters little, now that it is dead," said Wynne.

They stuffed the armor they retrieved from the dead into various packs, the Wardens figuring they could trade it for sovereigns when they got back to civilization. Searching the dragon's hoard yielded better results - at least one fine elven bow that was a significant upgrade for Leliana, which Ayah identified as inscribed with the sigils of Falon'Din, the elven god of the dead. Leliana named it Falon'Din's Reach. Other than a few gems, there was a small but lovely silver medallion that Aedan found and immediately gifted to Morrigan, as a 'tribute to the lady' which she took without a single sarcastic remark, and even seemed pleased by. Once everyone was done licking their wounds from the battle, Ayah and the dog took point again with Leliana and Zevran to keep an eye and ear out for enemies and traps as they searched for the exit to the chamber. They eventually found a door leading further down into a darkness lit only by faint torches.

"Did the werewolves light these?" Ayah had to wonder as they passed through a hallway with the odd torch on the side. Leliana took one from one of the walls and used it to guide their way forward.

"Werewolves need to see too," Alistair defended. "Though that is a good point - why would they light these? For our benefit? Can't they see in the dark?"

"Animals cannot see in the dark," Morrigan explained with a scoff. "That is a myth. They simply have excellent eyesight in dim light. Nothing can see in pitch blackness."

"I suppose you would know," Alistair conceded.

"This is magefire," Morrigan identified, looking at the torch Leliana held more closely. She drew back reflexively. "The werewolves did not place these here—"

"Hold," Ayah requested, placing a hand in the air and the party drew to a halt. Something stirred in her vision ahead - a strange form that coalesced out of the air and solidified finally into the form of an elven child.

It was translucent, and its face too wavery to see clearly. It opened its mouth and it was as if the sound was delayed from its uttering, reaching them only a second later. "Mamae!" It cried. "Mamae na mara san!" Ayah took a step forward to approach it, but it reacted in fear and turned around and ran down the darkness of the hall, leaving the Wardens and company behind.

"What is blazes—" Aedan was about to complain, but a shuffling noise put him on the high alert. "Oh no. I know that sound from Redcliffe. We've got undead, right ahead!"

True to his prediction, the forms of several skeletons clambered together and assembled in front of them, and charged at them. The crew made short work of them despite their close quarters making combat a little difficult. Ayah and Zevran beheaded and dismembered one while the Wardens did the same to another, and a third one turned into ice that shattered into pieces when it was hit with Sten's asala. A fourth one broke apart when it was hit with a stone blast from Wynne.

Aedan turned to Morrigan. "You were saying something about the torches?" He asked politely.

"That the werewolves did not light them," Morrigan continued.

Leliana put the torch back on the wall, her expression twisting. "So you are saying that the undead lit them, then?"

"I said no such thing!"

"Everyone saw that ghostly elf boy, right?" Alistair spoke up nervously.

Ayah, who was well versed in elven, paused to think about what she had seen and heard. While she had never seen a 'ghost' before, and doubted the existence thereof, she couldn't deny that strange tingling on her scalp and the back of her neck indicating the presence of heavy magic. The Veil had been thin in the forest, but it thinned even more the further they went down into the ruins. Echoes of the living, in such places, were not unheard of. The presence of undead indicated the work of a demon of some kind, somewhere in the ruins that lay ahead. And yet, the boy hadn't said anything sinister. If anything, he had seemed only confused.

"I couldn't make out what he said, but yes Alistair, I believe we all saw him," Leliana reported.

"He was crying for his mother," Ayah translated. "I know the language," she clarified at the confused glances this announcement got her.

"That's not ominous at all," Alistair said cheerily.

". . . That was sarcasm!" Ayah accurately identified, pleased with herself.

"Good! You're finally getting it. I'm proud of you."

They continued down winding corridor after winding corridor, occasionally meeting more undead and spiders along the way that they made quick work of. They ran into several tombs that Wynne managed to persuade Aedan not to loot, for fear of waking up more of the unquiet dead from their slumber. Ayah spotted statues of Falon'Din and Dirthamen here and there, and took many mental notes to inform Lanaya or Zathrian of when they returned to the elven camp, figuring that the Keeper and his First would wish to preserve their history as best they could since the Wardens had cleared the path of enemies.

Eventually they encountered what appeared to be a storage room, with unfortunately little to loot inside of it. Aedan's eye caught a peculiarly gleaming red gem situated on top of a pedestal that he was urged by Wynne not to touch, but decided to do so anyway. They braced themselves as he wrapped a gloved hand around it and easily picked it up, and collectively drew their weapons as they awaited the horde of undead that everyone was certain was likely to approach - it seemed everything in the lower ruins was capable of summoning undead when it was disturbed, after all.

But, nothing happened. Aedan seemed consternated as he eyed the gem. "It's definitely magical," he announced, and handed it off to a reluctant but curious Alistair. "I don't know. What do you make of it, Al?"

"It's shiny," Alistair decided. "Very shiny. Certainly enchanted with something, but I have no idea what. Morrigan?"

"I'm not touching that thing," Morrigan announced huffily.

"Fine. Wynne?"

The gem was passed around to every member of their party that volunteered to hold it, except for Morrigan and Sten - Morrigan who refused on principle and Sten because the gem was a 'basra' not worthy of being handled. Leliana claimed that she could feel something from it - as if it were trying to say something to her in her mind, but she could only understand every other word. Wynne confirmed that it was an enchanted object and not a phylactery, and declared that it wasn't dangerous, though no one could make head or tails of it.

Ayah, who remained quiet during the exchange, offered to hold it last after Zevran had gotten a turn.

A flood of images overwhelmed her mind and washed away her consciousness. She struggled desperately to stay afloat and managed to form her identity -Ayah Surana- into a fortress to keep the images at bay.I am Ayah. I am Ayah. She repeated this thought until it was all she knew. The stone in her hands glittered like a ruby and seemed to contain thousands of memories from an entire lifetime. Just what it was, she couldn't say, but it was certainly elven in nature - and even seemed to speak in elven in her mind.

(En anhe ma?)The question spread across her mind like a breeze that passed through trees, stirring her thoughts in its wake and scattering them as leaves in the wind.(An anhe ma?)She got the image of an elven man, armored, charging into a mighty battle against human foes as magic churned and whorled from his hands. Lightning streaked from his fingertips, charring and scorching both enemy and earth just as his blade rose from his other hand and drew forth blood and death. He asked her who she was, what she was, and oddly Ayah found she had no clear answer for him.I am Ayah Surana, she repeated in her mind.I am me.

"It's elvish," she struggled to report. "It . . . He . . . Is elvish."

"He?" Aedan queried, looking worried.

"He was once an elf," she corrected, struggling to define what she felt through the images that were flashing by her mind. Battles, lovers, children, leaders, enemies - everything blended together into one mass of experience that she could only identify as one very lonely person trapped inside that gem. Centuries of loneliness had made him a beacon for Despair, something she knew well from her own childhood. Her Tranquil mind was a balm to to the man in the gem for the moment that she held it, as it shared her thoughts and feelings and unified them both. She was able to share her life with his, just as he had shared his life with her. For a moment, Tranquility was not a hindrance. For a moment, they were truly kin. They were of one mind. One life. A body with a soul. There was completion.

She knew what the being in the gem wanted more than anything. They shared their hopes, dreams, and desires, and even though it hurt her in a way she couldn't identify to do so, she hurled the gem to the ground with all her might and smashed it into a thousand million pieces. A feeling of bittersweet joy, like the sun alighting and evaporating the morning dew, overwhelmed her as the light faded from the gem.Dareth shiral, she silently wished.

"What in Andraste's flaming knickers are you doing?!" Aedan demanded.

"He wanted to die," Ayah reported. For some reason she felt like crying, but the tears would not come. "More than anything, he wanted an end to uthenera. He was once an arcane warrior, and had been trapped here for centuries after battling the Tevenese hordes, in this place of memorial. Slowly, he was forgotten in this place by his own people as it became abandoned to the elements. Now, he is free to die in peace."

"It was a person? How?" Leliana wanted to know.

"A consciousness, preserved in an object," Wynne marveled. "It must be ancient elven magic. Pity we won't be able to study it further, now that it's destroyed."

Ayah frowned. "He would not have wanted to be studied. He only wanted an end."

"And you were able to figure this out how exactly?" Aedan wondered with a raised eyebrow.

"I speak elven," she reminded him. "I was the only one who understood his questions." She did not add that she suspected it was because she was Tranquil, not in spite of it, that this was at all possible. Her spirit was trapped somewhere in the Fade, severed from her consciousness; to the spirit in the gem, this meant she was the equivalent of an empty vessel for its lingering memories. Or at least, this was her working theory. The spirit had seemed quite surprised to encounter a being as strange as she, just as she was of him.

"Fair enough," Aedan decided. "Let's move on."

As they continued descending down through the ruins, Ayah was surprised to discover that she could faintly recall what the walls looked like before they were crumbling all around them - she could distantly remember the sound of chanting echoing through the halls as Falon'Din's brethren and Dirthamen's secret-keepers went about their rituals of death, to prepare the elderly for their eternal sleep. It distracted her as they were forced to slog through a veritable horde of undead, and took her some time to piece together that they were not her thoughts or fantasies but memories that didn't belong to her - they belonged to the man in the gem.

He had seen these halls as they were, before and during the fall of Arlathan eons ago. Disoriented, Ayah forced herself to concentrate on the feeling of the furry scruff of the hound at her side as Doug guided them through the walls with his snout, sniffing out undead and traps just as quickly as Leliana and Zevran spotted and disarmed them. It grounded her in the present, and kept her mind from wandering too far into the past.

"Are you alright, Ayah?" Wynne stopped to ask her as they took a moment to reorganize their potions, appearing concerned. Ayah commended herself silently on her growing skills at identifying the emotions in others.

"I am fine," she answered automatically. Then added, "my head feels heavy."

"Perhaps a lingering effect from your connection to that spirit?" Wynne guessed.

Ayah shrugged. "It will pass. I am . . . Remembering things, about these halls."

"What sort of things?" Zevran asked, happening to overhear.

"What it once was, before it became ruins," she revealed quietly. "A resting place for those in uthenera, the sleep of the immortals. Now that their keepers are gone, the dead are restless . . . And angry."

"How ominous. You have a flair for the dramatic, sorella," Zevran commented.

"I am not a sister," she corrected for what she felt was the thousandth time. "Leliana is the lay sister, not I."

"Yes, but it suits you better," he decided.

They left a trail of carnage in their wake, like all shemlen. They were not hard to find. He had to commend them on their destructive prowess, even as it disgusted Zathrian to be forced to rely upon humans. That they kept elves among them was a nonessential fact; flat ears were not kindred. They were not People. They did not belong.

He followed them to the ruins in the forest that had remained closed off to him, as part of Witherfang's domain. He could sense the distrust burning in the young and callow Warden when they last parted, echoed in his questions about the nature of Witherfang. They did not understand. Could not. Humans were, and always would be, the enemy.

He paused to examine a fallen werewolf near the entrance, quickly determining its cause of death. The magic that cloyed off of the corpse was commendable - the work of their woods-witch, no doubt. The icicles were still cooling on the corpse. He hated that he admired them for accomplishing what he and his tribe could not.

"Ah," he greeted as they approached. The Wardens and their companions were a formidable, and formidably sized, group. He heard the clanking of their armored footsteps before he saw them emerge from the dark of the ruins, and their leader fixed him with a pointed glare. "And here you are," Zathrian said.

"Keeper," said the Grey Warden. He folded his arms in front of him. "What are you doing here?"

"You carved a path, safe enough for me to follow," the Keeper said. "Have you the heart?"

It took the Warden some time before flippantly answering, "No."

Inwardly, Zathrian seethed. Outwardly, the Keeper remained composed. "Then may I ask why you are leaving the ruin?" He asked coolly.

"I'll answer a question in exchange for a question," the Warden offered. "And this time, no bullsh*t from you. I left the ruin to find you. Now tell me, why didn't you tell us about this ruin?"

"It is the domain of Witherfang," Zathrian answered carefully. "It was sealed to us with Witherfang's magic, where we could not access it." That they had left without the heart was infuriating, and alarming.What lies had the spirit told them?"Will you retrieve the heart, and put an end to this curse?" He asked.

"No, because as my Nan used to say, there's more than one way to skin a cat. Alistair, do you remember breaking any magical seals to get in here?"

The blond Warden next to the dark haired one scratched at his scruffy beard thoughtfully. "As I recall we sort of, simply walked in. Well, the werewolves tried to stop us, but I don't remember any seals of any kind. We did have to re-murder a lot of undead on our way down though. Wait, what's this about skinning cats?"

"I don't bloody know, Nan was barmy at times," said the dark-haired Warden. "My point is, there's more than one way to end a curse. Isn't that right, Zathrian?"

Zathrian struggled to find a way to salvage the situation. It appeared the Warden had already made up his mind. "What did the spirit tell you? It seems she has convinced you to speak on her behalf. What is it she wants?"

"An end to the curse," the Warden answered easily. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"I have given you the path to end it," Zathrian spoke angrily, "and yet here we stand, talking. Remove the heart, and return it to me. Then, the curse will be lifted."

"It has occurred to me that you've lied to me several times since we first started speaking," the Warden went on, "which I'd ordinarily not hold against you - I grew up surrounded by politicians, and lying has become a reflex - but this is a bit different. Morrigan, how does one go about ending a blood magic curse?"

The witch clad in rags and feathers to his left responded acidly, "By killing its creator. That is, of course, the simplest way."

A chill ran up Zathrian's spine. "Witherfang is the source of this curse," he insisted. "I don't know what the spirit has told you, but it is motivated by its own survival. It—"

"It is motivated by no such thing," the Warden snapped. "And you're lucky all it wants to do is talk to you. So that's what we're going to do, Keeper. You're going to come with us and talk to it, and listen. Listen to the beasts you've condemned."

"The curse came first from her!" The Keeper continued, hoping they would listen to reason. "Those she afflicted reflected her own nature, becoming savage beasts as well as human."

"It's amazing he can say that with a straight face," the blond one commented with a laugh.

"Bloody hilarious," the dark one complimented. "Sten? Ayah? Would you mind accompanying the Keeper and escorting him to Witherfang? Please and thank you."

"Of course," said the branded elf in leathers, and drew out an elven sword from where it was strapped to her back. She circled quietly toward the Keeper, accompanied by the qunari giant who dwarfed her.I'll give it to the Warden, he keeps eclectic company."Please, accompany us," she politely requested at sword point. The silent giant punctuated this by drawing his sword.

Though Zathrian was certain he could take the two of them in a fight, he was not so certain he'd be able to escape a fight with the whole group unscathed. Indignant, he acquiesced, and followed the Wardens and their company down into the ruins to meet with the bestial Witherfang.

"I do not see what talking to the spirit will accomplish," he found himself saying as they walked down. "She and her kin are mindless savages."

"Hardly," the Warden snorted. "And to be honest, I'm not sure what it'll accomplish either. You're infuriatingly stubborn."

"They are not mindless, nor are they savages," the elderly human mage spoke up from behind them. "They only wish to parley with you."

"I have nothing to say to them," Zathrian professed.

"Then maybe you'll shut up and listen," the Warden snapped, and whirled around to face him. "The crimes inflicted by ancient humans no longer belong to the people afflicted by this curse. The only harm they've wrought against your clan has been in retaliation for the curse you inflicted upon them!"

"You are not Dalish! You would not understand!" Zathrian roared, finally losing his temper. Over and over he saw it, day after day, year after endless year - in the faces of his people were the faces of his children, ravaged and tortured by the savage shemlen. They deserved their fate, and more. "You were not there," he said, much quieter as he composed himself. "You did not see what they did . . . To my son, to my daughter." He felt his voice breaking, and struggled again to fight a wave of grief that threatened to sweep him away. "How could you possibly understand how our People struggle, each day, to remain in this world? How could I let such a crime go unanswered?!"

The Warden was quiet for a long moment. "Is there nothing left in you but hatred, Zathrian?" He finally asked, stilling the Keeper into silence. "Those people, heinous though their crimes were, have long since died. They paid for what they did. You made certain of that, and your legacy of pain and sorrow has now come to afflict your people. You're reaping what you've sown. Speak to Witherfang, Keeper. And if you have no words, then listen."

There was nothing left to say to the Warden. He was convinced. He would see. They all would. Those beasts would pay for what they did.

The musty chamber of Witherfang had become significantly overgrown with moss since had last visited it, upon the day the curse was created, but other than this minor detail nothing about it had changed. Save the addition of a horde of snarling werewolves at the spirit's side. She was beautiful in her way, humanoid and clad in naught but vines, but his hatred for the shemlen burned in his heart when he took in the sight of her with her pets at her side.

"You have come," she spoke, her voice echoing ethereally off of the walls. Her coal-black eyes blinked. "I am surprised you were willing, Zathrian. Come. Let us speak as we once did."

The branded elf's sword at his back suggested he was less than willing, but he nonetheless stepped forward to - what was it the Warden had called it? Ah yes, 'parley.' "Yes, I have come, spirit," he spat out. "Though I do not see the point in it. There is nothing more that need be said."

One of the taller of the werewolves, covered in battle scars, leapt and loomed over him. The Wardens did nothing to stop this, and Zathrian did not flinch, unimpressed. "Hragh!" He growled. "She is the Lady of the Forest," he spoke in a deep, scratching voice, surprising Zathrian a little. "You will show her respect!"

"So you've taken a name, spirit?" Zathrian peered around the werewolf to eye the so-called Lady. "And what are these, your pets?"

"Be at ease, Swiftrunner," the spirit spoke gently, stepping forward to place a small and dainty hand on the werewolf's shivering shoulder. Slowly, angrily, the beast withdrew. "It was they who gave me this name, Zathrian," she informed him. "I have helped them discover who they are."

"So you've taught dogs how to speak," spat the Keeper. "Wonderful. We should charge admission."

"Hah!" The Warden laughed inappropriately, and then coughed awkwardly when he received a pointed look from his companions. The witch chuckled. "Er, sorry. He's kinda funny when he's not pissing me off."

"Their twisted shapes mirror only their monstrous nature," Zathrian snapped. "They—"

"He will not help us, Lady!" the one called Swiftrunner cried. "It is as I warned you, he wishes only to see us destroyed! He is not here to talk!"

"No, I am," the Keeper said, pointedly staring at the dark-eyed, dark-haired elvhen whose blade was yet at his back, "though I see little point in this. We both know where this ends."

"It does not have to be this way," the Lady said. Her hands wrung together in a disturbingly human-like gesture of distress. "There is room in your heart for compassion. Surely your retribution must be spent, Zathrian."

Each day, he saw the faces of his children.No. There is no end to vengeance."My retribution is eternal, spirit, as is my pain," he declared. "This is justice."

The spirit's eyebrows rose archly. "Are you certain your pain is the reason you will not end this curse? Have you told the mortals how it was created?"

"We figured out it was blood magic, if that's what you're wondering," the dark Warden spoke.

"Blood magic," Zathrian scoffed. "Magic is magic. That you forbid yourselves the study of a school based on an archaic prejudice is foolish. Yes, I bound a spirit to a wolf, to create this curse. Is that what you wanted to tell them? They know this."

The lady's black eyes blinked, and narrowed. "Your People believe in you, Zathrian. They believe you have recovered the immortality of your ancestors, but that is not true. You bound your life to this curse. So long as it remains, so do you."

The sword at his back poked him. "Nothing is immortal," the branded one intoned. "Everything dies."

"This is brilliant," the Warden scoffed. "So not only have you prolonged your life through unnatural means, you've dragged the suffering of innocent people - including your people - in for the ride. Bloody brilliant, Zathrian. If you don't end this curse, I'm going to end you."

"I did this for my people!" The Keeper insisted. "For my son, and daughter, for justice, I would do anything!"

"You did this for you!" The Warden shot back. "For your vengeance, for your suffering, not theirs! It's time the truth was heard, Zathrian!"

"How dare you judge me?!"

The Lady remained calm in spite of Zathrian's rancor. "Zathrian's death would not end this curse," she explained. "But, I believe his death may have a role in its ending."

"Then we tear him apart right now!" Swiftrunner roared.

"He's bad at listening," the blond Grey Warden noted. "You'd think with wolf ears he'd be better at it, but nooo."

"What did she just say?" The Warden reminded Swiftrunner tiredly. His only answer was a growl.

This, to Zathrian, only proved him right. They were nothing more than animals. "For all your powers of speech, you are beasts still," he assessed coldly. "What could you possibly gain from my death? Only I know the ritual, and I will never perform it!"

It was at that precise moment that something very surprising happened to Zathrian. The horrid smell of bear and meat wafted down to him as he was knocked flat on his back by a massive female brown bear that pressed its paws into his chest, constricting his breath. Mana pooled around him in a surprise reflex, and just as he was about to burst out with magic in retaliation the mana drained away as a column of light crashed down upon his head. He lolled, dizzily, as the branded elf's sword pressed into his throat. Between the sword and the bear, he was pinned, and unable to move, and drained of mana.

The dark haired Warden crouched near his head. "You see, Keeper," he began drolly, "we've had a very long day of traipsing through the forest, getting attacked by trees, werewolves, revenants and worse, and we've had enough. We could keep doing this, and fight you until your last breath, but that wouldn't really accomplish anything, now would it? We're Wardens, and one of us is a templar, and we outnumber you eight to one. Plus there's all these werewolves that are itching for an excuse to tear you apart limb from limb for all the suffering you've caused them. So, this is where we're at. You want a fight? You'll have one. But first you'll have to fight Morrigan here," he patted the bear, "and that's only if you can get away in time before Ayah there slits your throat."

"No!" The spirit cried out, surprisingly, in his defense. "Do not hurt him," she requested softly. "Please. Show mercy."

"Mercy?" The Warden scoffed. "After what he just tried to pull?"

"We should kill him now!" Swiftrunner insisted.

"We cannot ask him to show mercy if we are unable to," she explained with a tired note in her echoing voice. Slowly, the bear eased off of Zathrian's chest, allowing him to breathe. Drained of mana and suddenly exhausted, he stared up at the spirit in trepidation. He ignored the sword blade that pressed at his neck.

"I know what you ask of me," he said, and shook his head. "And I cannot do it. All I see . . . All I see are the faces of my children. Of my people. I am too old to know mercy."

"I beg of you, Maker," she requested, getting down on one knee, and humbled herself before them. In spite of himself, Zathrian was moved. "We beg of you. Let this end."

He stared at the faces of the Wardens and their companions. The branded elf finally withdrew her blade from his neck, and instead offered him a hand to stand up. He took it, grateful, and felt a weariness in his bones that he had not felt since the day his daughter killed herself.

"Perhaps . . . Perhaps it is time," he mused. "You shame me, spirit. Perhaps I have lived too long. This hatred has . . . Has grown into me, like an old gnarled root. It has consumed me." He stared at the Lady of the Forest, and watched idly as the vines that encased her form moved over her green limbs. Her black eyes betrayed nothing but serene emptiness. "What of you, spirit? This curse is tied to your life as well. If it ends, so will you."

"You are my maker, Zathrian," she confessed, "and you gave me form and consciousness where none existed. I have known pain, and I have known love. I have known what it is to create and what it is to destroy. I have known what it is to live. Hope, and fear . . . All the joys that life can bring. Yet above all else in this world, I desire an end. I beg of you, Maker. Let this end."

Ayah was grateful she was incapable of feeling the weight of the tragedies that had unfolded all around her ever since she had begun. She had seen its weight upon others around her. She watched as Morrigan shifted back into a human and picked up Zathrian's discarded staff dispassionately, testing its weight in her hands to her satisfaction. The Keeper's body dropped to the ground when he struck it with his staff, as he held the hand of the Lady of the Forest. The strange and powerful spirit faded away before their eyes, dissolving into a pile of leaves that withered just as Zathrian's body now withered away into dust. He had lived long past his time, and met his end with grace.

She did not comprehend the act of self-sacrifice; or rather, Ayah did not understand Zathrian's act. He had fought against it so vehemently, only to acquiesce in the end with the kind of world-weariness she'd sensed previously in the elf-gem. Such weariness only came from outliving one's time. She and her companions had fought tooth and nail, performed rituals, been spooked by ghosts, rooted through dust and tombs all to get to the chamber of Witherfang, only to find that Witherfang was not at all what it had seemed to be. It was an ancient forest spirit, bound in the form of a wolf. Zathrian was nothing more than an old elf, heart heavy with retribution. In the end, it did not matter.

The wolves before them began to glow and change, until they finally shrunk and the golden light about them dissipated. No one seemed more surprised by this than them. Where a group of snarling werewolves had stood were now a group of very confused, yellow-eyed humans. The one that had been Swiftrunner had transformed into a long red-haired stocky man, and approached the Warden with an outstretched, long-nailed hand and shook his mailed glove with enthusiasm. "Thank you, Wardens," he said in a choked voice, harsh from disuse. "We . . . We are finally free."

"Just don't go messing up your freedom and making me regret it, and we're even," Aedan promised. "Where will you go?"

Swiftrunner the man looked to his fellows with consideration. "Out there, I suppose. Away from this forest, hopefully for good," he said. "It should be interesting, don't you think?"

"Try north," Aedan suggested lightly, "south is a no-go. Nothing but darkspawn coming up that way. Be safe out there, there's lots of bandits prowling the countryside."

"Thank you again," said Swiftrunner, and true to his name, he swiftly ran for the exit, followed closely by his fellows.

Ayah's eyes followed them as they left, letting out whoops of joy. When they were gone, she approached the bones of Zathrian, now turning into dust, and picked up some of the dust with her hands and let it fall to the ground through her fingers. He had been a fierce man in life, and it was strange to see him so reduced in a matter of minutes. The magic that had kept him alive was powerful indeed. She wondered at his power; what had he sacrificed, for this curse? Such an act required a powerful blood sacrifice, after all. Ayah knew that much from her own studies of blood magic under Uldred. The cost of creating such an abomination, particularly with the side-effect of longevity, was very high. Whatever price he paid, they now would never know. Like the elf-gem with so many memories, Zathrian was no more.

"What are you thinking, sorella?" Zevran asked, coming up behind her shoulder.

She let the dust fall through her gloved fingertips. "I am thinking about sacrifice."

"You dwell on such morbid thoughts," he said. "Don't you ever smile?"

Ayah did not know. She tried to, but judging from the expression on Zevran's face, she did not succeed. "I do not know how to," she answered honestly. "I wish this could have ended differently."

Aedan's hound bounded up to her and head-butted her hand, seeking pets. His tongue lolled as she scratched behind his ears. "This truly is dog-land," Zevran murmured as he stared at the great smelly beast. "Come, sorella. Let us leave this place for good."

"Yes. Thank you, Zevran," she said, surprising him.

"Whatever for?" he wondered, mystified.

"For treating me like a real person," she explained. She thought back to their first encounter, when she had been overwhelmed by emotion and reduced to a crying mess in the halls. He hadn't looked at her any differently for being Tranquil, and treated her like he would have anyone else. "You are . . . someone rare, because that is something rare," she deduced.

"That shouldn't be so rare," he disagreed.

"Perhaps not. The Warden and his company have been very good to me. But even when we fought those years ago, you did not treat me any different. You talked to me as if I were normal. It was . . . Refreshing." Refreshing, to not be reduced to talking furniture, or have orders spat at her, or for constant stilted reminders of a past she'd rather forget like it was with Cullen. It reminded her Delaney, the first person outside of the Tower to treat her as if she were just another girl. True, though Delaney was fond of reminding her of her Tranquil, but only ever in a joking manner - he never disparaged her for it. Not like everyone else who stared at her brand and barked commands at her, and treated her like she was an idiot.

"I was not sure that you remembered that," he recalled, perhaps thinking back to the moment they had met in the Chantry and discussed tattoos.

"I remember quite clearly," she affirmed. She pushed the sitting mabari over onto his back and started scratching his belly, knowing that this was the dog's favorite treatment. "I do not know why I was crying," she admitted. "I have not done that since before I was made Tranquil. I heard these strange voices in my head . . ."

"Voices?" He perked up. "Admitting to such a thing is dangerous, sorella. People will talk, and think you mad."

She considered this. "Perhaps I am mad, then."

He laughed. The sound of his laughter pleased her in a way that warmed something in her abdomen.

They left the ruins behind for good, and were all glad to do so. They trekked through the woods for several hours all the way back to the Dalish encampment, to deliver the sorrowful news to the First - now new Keeper - Lanaya. Though, to their surprise, it was not news to her.

"I felt his death," Lanaya admitted. "I cannot explain it, but I knew it when he was dead. I knew when he left that he would not return. The curse has been lifted from our hunters . . . But this will be a day of mourning, for what we have lost."

"All isn't lost," Aedan said, trying to find the upside. "There's a whole elven ruin in the woods now clear of enemies for you to investigate, when you've the time and numbers. Ayah said there's a great deal of history in there worth keeping. That's what you do, right? As Keepers?"

"We are the Keepers of the People's history," Lanaya nodded. "This is good news, indeed."

"It is an ancient mausoleum," Ayah reported, "a Tevenese ruin built on top of an elven one, with many statues of Dirthamen and Falon'Din, though you may encounter some undead should you choose to investigate it, as we did. Best be prepared. We spied several ghostly entities in the lower levels, and an arcane horror that had breached the Veil. We brought you this tablet." Ayah pulled out a small elven tablet she had placed carefully in her pack that she had found in the ruins, detailing a pictographic ritual whose nature they had not the time to discern.

"Alarming, but not unexpected," Keeper Lanaya said. "I thank you for this." She took it from Ayah's hands gently and deposited it in her aravel behind them. "You have been true to your word, Wardens, and we will honor our treaty with you," she said after she walked back to Aedan and Alistair. "It will be our privilege to fight at your side against this Blight."

"We appreciate it," Alistair chirped. "We're collecting quite a list of allies as it is, and the Dalish will certainly bolster our numbers."

"Now if only we could get the whole of Ferelden to stop civil-warring," Aedan jested.

"All in good time!"

They decided to remain with the Dalish for the night, with the clan's new Keeper's blessing. While the others set up camp, Wynne departed to treat the wounded hunters still recovering from werewolf attacks, Morrigan settled in to study her strange text, and Ayah approached the Dalish hunters to watch them go about their work of skinning and cooking their most recent catches. When they caught her spying on them, they - to her surprise - invited her to join them, teaching her how to properly dress kills and set snares. After a while she practiced shooting bows with them, though due to her size she was forced to use a shortbow that they normally reserved for da'lens. She was pleased by their company and that they no longer seemed to find her revolting; when she inquired about their change in attitude, they explained that they assumed the humans had scarred her forehead as a type of slave-marking.

Ayah was unsure after her talk with Zevran if she was or was not a slave, and did not know what to tell them. She told them instead that she was with the Wardens of her own free will to combat the Blight, a concept the hunters could understand and support since one of their own had recently suffered and died from Blight-sickness.

That night, after a bonfire celebrating Zathrian's life (since none of his remains were recoverable), the hahren of the clan - a senior elf with diamond-shaped markings upon his face - told a story of Fen'Harel locking the gods away. This, he cited, led to the fall of Arlathan and the end of elven immortality at the hands of the shemlen. He described how the vagrant elves ended up enslaved by humans, until Andraste's march with her elven disciple, Shartan, pushed for their freedom. Those elves who chose to follow Andraste became the Dalish, and this history was largely forgotten by the shemlen. Ayah doubted its authenticity as a true origin story, if not its honesty; Sarel's story painted the Dalish as victims of humanity, rather than people capable of any agency in their own fate.

Sten was the first to speak up and disagree with Sarel's story, questioning the part they played in their own downfall. "Oh, I am certain we played a part in our downfall," hahren Sarel said. "We believed that the shemlen would not revoke their prophet's gift so lightly. We were wrong. They took our lands, forcing us to abandon our gods and live as beggars in shemlen cities."

"You should have fought," Sten disagreed. "You should have fought to the last of you. Better that than to submit."

"Is it not the qunari way, to force submission?" Sarel disagreed right back. Ayah silently conceded this was an excellent point. "Surely that would not be your advice to my people were they attacked by the mighty qunari."

Sten's lips pursed. "That would be different," he said. "The qun would improve your people. The humans have improved nothing."

"Perhaps. Even so, many of us did fight. We fought and we lost."

Ayah looked around them at the encampment, full of men, woman, and children - all fiercely independent and capable of surviving off of the land, and living with it in synchronicity. They roamed freely, occasionally disturbed by the errant band of humans, but they were more than capable of defending their turf and their livelihoods. "I do not see loss here," she said to Sarel. "I see harmony."

Sarel stared at her for a time. "You would have done well, among the People," he admitted. "It is a shame so many of our city-brethren never make their way to us."

"I grew up in the Circle, in a tower," she corrected gently. "I was once a mage."

"Once?" he questioned.

"I am now Tranquil," she struggled to explain, knowing that this was not a concept that the Dalish had a name for. "My magic was . . . Taken from me, by the templars."

"Then you have faced a great injustice," hahren Sarel intoned. "Perhaps you know a little of our pain, then."

"Perhaps." She did not add that she went to this injustice willingly, rather than face death.

Eventually she grew tired of hearing the stories Sarel spun, and wandered away from the fire to admire the twisted-horned white halla they kept as beasts of burden. Their tender was busy listening to the stories. They were docile upon her approach, giving her the courage to reach out and pet one and admire its thick pearly coat. Behind her, she heard a muted crunch of leaves and twigs as the tell-tale footsteps of the assassin alerted her to Zevran's presence before he announced it.

"If you are here to kill me," she noted aloud, still facing the halla, "you will need to be quieter about it."

"I would never dream of it," Zevran laughed. "You are much more entertaining alive."

"Entertaining? Me?" She doubted this.

"Quite. Part of your charm is you have no conception of it."

She faced away from the halla to get a better look at him. The halla she had been petting reached over with its snout to nudge her in the back of the head, as if upset by the sudden lack of interest she showed in it. She absently patted it again and moved away toward the former Crow. She noted that he was alone - the Wardens had shown a great deal of trust in the assassin since he fought at their sides in the ruins, and had not assigned him a guard that day. That, or she was his presumed guardian. She wondered at the draw she felt to him, perhaps born out of shared experience, but perhaps born out of something less predictable. "You remind me of someone," she realized.

"I should not like to remind anyone of anyone else," Zevran scoffed, "and stand unique. May I ask of whom?"

"A templar, I knew in the Circle. His name is Cullen."

"I imagine you knew many templars. Why this one?"

Ayah thought of the simplest way to explain it, which was the truth. "He liked me. And treated me like a woman. I used him as a front to conceal my ability with blood magic. I remember that I grew very fond of him, and saw that he did not hate mages or magic like I expected him to."

"I have no idea what I expected you to say, but it was certainly not that," Zevran said. "Not many people would freely admit to a renegade Crow that they have a history of practicing blood magic. Would this not make you, what do they call them, a maleficar?"

"It would, if I were no longer a mage. Part of my punishment for being caught practicing blood magic was to be made Tranquil. And I find it easy to talk to you about such things, since there is no danger of you doing anything with this information. It matters little, as we will all very likely die against the Blight."

"Nice to see you are still cheery as ever," he remarked with a hint of sarcasm. Ayah felt proud that she was getting better at detecting this. "I admit, I'm pleased you seem to be . . . Better, since our last parting. I never intended to drag you into my contract, but it felt wrong to leave you there in such distress. In hindsight, I suppose I should not have stopped to comfort you. It was a little unprofessional of me. Though part of me is glad I did, despite."

Ayah shrugged, and sniffed the air that wafted by them, thick with the smoke of well-cooked meat. "I do not blame you. You performed your duty. Maestro Liborio would not want me to dwell on past events. Let us instead appreciate that the venison is nearly done."

As they walked back to the large campfire circle in silence, Alistair happened upon them and clapped them both on the back with startling ferocity. "There you are! You know, I might have to change my opinion of you," he remarked to Zevran. "You fought pretty well today. I'm still not totally convinced you won't stab us in our sleep, but time will tell. Come on, there's venison and stew by the fire. You know, I've been meaning to ask - why would the Crows have sent you?"

Zevran's eyebrow rose. "Is there some reason why they should not have?"

"Plenty of reasons," Alistair said. "Starting with the fact that you weren't exactly the best they had, were you?"

"Slander and lies," Zevran drawled. "For shame, Alistair."

"I'm not an idiot despite what Morrigan says. Well, not most of the time," Alistair corrected affably. "You're no raw recruit, but I've seen you fight. You're no master of combat, by any means."

"Assuming that I intended a fair fight, that would indeed be a problem."

"But the Crows have master assassins, don't they? Men with years and years of experience in the field. Why not send one of them?"

"Why not indeed? It is a mystery for the ages!"

"Oh, I get it," Alistair realized, "you're not going to tell me."

"Morrigan said you were sharp. No liar, she."

The funeral for Zathrian was that night by the fire; there was no celebration even though the hunters had been cured of their affliction, as all the Dalish were given to mourning their fallen Keeper. Aedan was asked to tell the tale of Zathrian's death, which gave him pause. The Warden ended up telling a much edited version of the story, leaving out Zathrian's role as the curse-creator and simply telling them that he had died to put an end to the curse, by slaying the mighty Witherfang. There was as much joy that night at the bonfire as there was sorrow. Many had lost friends and family to the werewolves' curse, but many more were saved.

Ayah found herself cornered by Keeper Lanaya who expressed curiosity over the role of an elf in the Circle. Once more she found herself correcting someone that day that she was no longer a mage; yet Lanaya insisted she knew a mage when she saw one. The little elf didn't quite know how to explain her predicament to one who had no knowledge of human circles and their ways - Tranquility was a complex thing to try and explain and justify to someone who had no understanding of it. Instead, Ayah said nothing.

"Is that some type of city-elf vallaslin?" the Keeper remarked, pointing at the sun-brand on her forehead.

Ayah found herself the object of curiosity for a change. "No," was all she would say without elaboration, fearing that the answer would be ill-received. She instead simply said that she could not cast magic any longer, but that she was born a somniari - or Dreamer, and found herself treated with equal parts discrimination and support in the Circle. Lanaya nodded, as if she expected this, and didn't ask any more questions, but told her that Dreamers are rare and cherished in the clans, and had she the fortune to be born into one, Ayah would have flourished among them.

The Tranquil asked Lanaya if she herself felt as though she had flourished, and Lanaya hesitated before answering, "in many ways. In others, I feel limited. Such as in speaking to you now, where I find myself at a disadvantage. Sometimes, I wish that our people were not isolated as they were. It sometimes can weaken us when we need to cooperate with others for our survival. But, I am proud of our independence, and I know I would languish in a place such as the Circle."

Ayah internally found herself disagreeing with the Keeper, as she had since reflected upon it and discovered that the Circle had shaped her into who and what she was, and she rather enjoyed being as she was. Insomuch as she was capable of enjoyment. She was content. There was something that she was curious about, however. "What punishments do the Dalish have, for those who use magic for ill?" She wondered.

Lanaya seemed startled by this question. "Well, there are no bad People - some of us are perhaps misguided, but the hahren do their best to teach us to mind ourselves. There is only one Keeper, and one First, per clan. If there are more than that, they are given to a clan who is less blessed with magic. Otherwise, they are trained to control their abilities by a Keeper and are allowed to pursue what they desire, as long as it's for the good of the clan. If it isn't, then, I suppose they're exiled - but those cases are very rare. What about in your Circle?"

Ayah nodded along and explained that in her Circle, "you are either labeled criminal or very good at hiding your misdeeds. There is freedom to practice freely, but like all things, it is only a different type of cage. Some are caged by duty, obligation, love, or tradition, like you. In my home, the templars are watchful for any infraction to such a degree that it is impossible to make no misstep. Still I feel I excelled there, in my craft under such pressure, and I am now content with my current state of being."

Lanaya was dubious in her agreement, but Ayah surmised that was for the best - as most sentients were too attached to their emotions to imagine what the world might look like without some of them. Thinking back to the elf-gem in the ruins, Ayah wondered if Lanaya had heard of such things as a Keeper. "Do you know much about ancient elven mages?" She asked, hesitant.

Keeper Lanaya sighed. "We know so little about our past. I admit I am excited to explore the ruins in the forest further, as they'd been inaccessible due to the werewolf problem . . ."

Ayah presumed this to mean that she likely would never have heard of an arcane warrior, armed and armored as the elf from her memories was. "Then you should explore them quickly, before another dragon roosts in there," Ayah suggested, which alarmed Lanaya.

That evening, Ayah sought some distance from the camp in the woods as Aedan took the first watch with a few of the Dalish hunters. She asked his hound to accompany her, to alert her to anyone's presence, and Doug was happy to oblige. She suspected that she might have been his third or fourth favorite of the two-legs, with Aedan obviously in first place and Alistair in second due to all the cheese and snacks he sneaked to the dog when he thought no one was looking. Once she felt sufficiently isolated and in privacy, she seated herself on the ground and closed her eyes and meditated.

She had attempted to do meditation before with little to no success; she wasn't sure if she fully understood the concept of it, but recalled that it had helped her once before she began to learn how to focus magic for the spirit school. Elemental magic had always been more reflexive and emotional, whereas the more complex schools recalled a little more thought and planning.

Ayah searched back through her memories until she hit the wall of the fortress she had built against the elven gem's memories, and slowly tore it down and let herself become awash in them. It was difficult, but not impossible to retain her sense of identity against that tidal swell; she suspected that with enough practice it would become much easier over time.I am Ayah, she repeated.I am me.

He could no longer remember his name. That, like so much of him, had been forgotten. He remembered still the smell of new grass in spring, and autumn winds, and first snowfalls. He had spent his life in the land the humans now called Ferelden, when it had gone by another elven name; though this too, he had forgotten. He could still remember the feel of his sword in his hands as it cut swaths through his enemies, human, demon, or dragon - he had faced them all and prevailed. He had known magic the way Ayah had, as an extension of himself, as familiar and vital as his weapon. He had trained for decades in its use under instructors whose teachings were now lost to the world, preserved only in Ayah's mind.

It was these memories that she sought out. The memories of battle, of honing, of training, of blood and screaming and scorching unkindness. The ancient elf had once walked in-between worlds, diving through the physical to step in and out of the Fade while waking. He was a half-physical and half-ethereal knight of a forgotten age who had bequeathed everything he had left in the world - himself - to Ayah's keeping. She decided she would honor him best by remembering his art.

So, she focused. She breathed. She recalled the words of those ancient instructors, and recalled how it had once felt in her own life to walk in dreams and build cities with her mind. She recalled the Sloth demon's trap, and how she had learned how to Fade-shift into a mouse, a golem, and more. She had done it as a child, and had simply forgotten how. She knew she could do it again. She focused. She breathed.

She pressed her hands together in front of her, and watched as a light formed in-between them. Slowly, her fingers coalesced into translucence until she could no longer feel them - they were lighter than air. Beads of sweat formed on her brow as she pressed them further together, until her hands were able to pass through one-another with no effort at all - as if they were the ghosts of hands, immaterial.

Startled by her success, she pulled her hands apart and couldn't fight off a wave of exhaustion that overtook her. She fell back into the dirt and loam and into unconsciousness. Some time later, she had no way of knowing how much time, she awoke to the feeling of Doug's slobbery tongue licking her face. Perturbed, she pushed the animal off of her and gave him a few congratulatory and thankful pats. "That will require much more practice," she said aloud to the dog. He yipped in agreement. She looked up and noted that it was still dark out. Feeling tired, she curled up around Aedan's hound and fell asleep under the stars, and dreamed of a life that wasn't hers.

Ayah perched herself on Bodahn's cart near Morrigan, who did not object or seem to mind her presence in any way. It was a vast improvement from the outright avoidance the witch had given her since they had met. Morrigan merely acknowledged her presence with a slight nod, and that was that. They were traveling south along the road, then bound east for Orzammar as their next destination, to use their ancient Grey Warden treaties to bind the dwarves into their makeshift army against the Blight. Privately, Ayah thought this was a foolish task, but even she could admit that in her brief experience in the Wardens company, strange and incredible things tended to happen to them. Perhaps their fool plan would work after all.

"It's a good thing you got recruited into the Wardens, Alistair," Aedan remarked.

"What makes you say that? Not that I don't agree," Alistair responded.

"Well, just look at what happened to all the templars in the Tower. You would've ended up demon food."

"Fair point."

"Ayah? You used to train them. What do you think - is he templar material?"

Ayah perked up after hearing her name and thought about the question carefully before answering, "No. He is too disobedient."

"Well that's slightly insulting as well as comforting," Alistair laughed.

Morrigan cleared her throat. "I take it you did not enjoy your training?" She queried.

"That's directed at me, I take it?" Alistair surmised.

"Do you see any others about who have failed at their religious instruction?" Morrigan shot back snidely.

Ayah was about to correct the witch and point out that she herself had actually failed out of her own religious tutoring in the Tower, but Alistair shot back defensively, "I didn't fail. I was recruited into the Grey Wardens."

"And if you had not been recruited?" Morrigan wondered. "What would have happened instead?"

Alistair didn't miss a beat: "I would have turned into a drooling lunatic, slaughtered the grand cleric and run through the streets of Denerim in my small clothes, I guess." Ayah suspected this was another example of sarcasm.

Morrigan seemed pleased as she said, "your self-awareness does you credit."

He chuckled. "I thought you'd like that." Then, the humorous light bled out of his eyes as his face paled. "Oh no."

"I'm feeling that ugly tingly again," Aedan said in a tone of alarm as he scratched at his head, and looked to his brother Warden. "So that means—"

"Darkspawn!" Alistair shouted as everyone simultaneously drew their weapons and formed a circle around Bodahn, Sandal, and the cart. The dwarves dove for cover underneath a few sacks of supplies. Ayah leapt off the end of the cart and found herself next to Leliana with her bow drawn waiting for an enemy to strike, just as Morrigan took off in crow form for the skies to ascertain enemy movements.

She heard nothing - saw nothing - and yet the Wardens insisted they were there.

That was when, out of the earth and mud in front of them, they arose. Clawing their way out of the ground through a cloud of dust, genlocks, hurlocks, and shrieks emerged screaming out into the daylight, darkening the ground with their passing footsteps. Though the Wardens and their company were a formidable group, for once, they were outnumbered.

Ayah swiftly found herself in the position of fending off darkspawn from their archer as Leliana drove arrow after arrow into the heads of enemies, felling several but mostly drawing more attention to herself than necessary. The little Tranquil was overwhelmed by her task when a hurlock got the better of her and knocked her onto the ground by tripping her feet, and diving down with its sword. She managed to roll away in time and the hurlock quickly became the object of Zevran's focus, who intercepted with a thrown knife and dove into the battle.

"That's twice I've saved you now!" He called over the din of battle.

Ayah beheaded a genlock that had charged at him from behind, giving him a little startle. "We are even," she declared, and launched back into the fray. Between the two of them, they were able to keep the enemies from getting to Leliana, but the battle wasn't going so well on everyone's end.

Sten began to become overwhelmed by shrieks, and the Wardens had their hands full and couldn't reach them. Wynne was busy keeping everyone alive and healing any injury from atop the cart while Morrigan was busy on the other side hurling ice bolts and fireballs into the battle. The mabari jumped in to help him, but a hurlock general charged at the qunari and literally kicked the warhound out of the way with one mighty leg. The monster towered at least as tall as the qunari.

"Cover me," she requested of Leliana and ran to Sten's aid. Arrows flew over her head as Leliana gave a quick nod.

She let the qunari tackle the hurlock general and focused on drawing the attention of the shrieks, who moved at least as quickly as she did. There were three of them and they played a strange dancing game between them, where one would dodge the other's strikes back and forth for some time. Eventually one of them managed to get a slash across Ayah's face and knocked her down, and she rolled back onto her feet backward and thrust her swords up to gut one that had charged her in her fall. Another came at her side so quickly she was forced to abandon her blades in order to dodge, and then she was weapon-less with two angry shrieks circling her.

Ayah took quick stock of the battle all around them and noted everyone was in dire straits, similar to hers. Sten was locked in a standoff, the Wardens were surrounded, Morrigan became injured and Leliana had been forced to abandon her bow and fight side-by-side with Zevran with daggers.

"NO!" Wynne cried out from the cart, and with an outburst of magic stronger than anything Ayah had ever felt - aside from Uldred - she was floored.

[Then I'll name you Hope.]{Do you have any idea how lonely it was?! It would've been better if you had died—}[But who would call that living?][The only way out is in, da'len.]

The voices of the past and the unknown came in a flood, as did the tears. She had lost something vital to herself that she couldn't name, only that she wasn't wholly herself without it. The last thing she remembered clearly were a pair of golden eyes framed by soft lashes, and then nothing more except an inexplicable, indescribable pain. It wrenched through her chest like an emotional knife, twisting and carving into her heart. Then the magic came back to her like remembering a dream and suddenly, after what felt like ages of loneliness, she wasn't alone any longer . . . And Despair was right there with her, whispering in her ear, hovering behind her shoulder, ever present, ever there, telling her she was nothing, no one, unworthy, weak, nothing . . .

Ayah wept.

She wept harder than she could ever remember weeping in her life. She bent over like a willow and wept some more, falling to the ground, helpless in her bottomless grief.

Reduced to a huddle as she attempted to piece together the fragments of her shattered psyche, Ayah Surana took little notice of the battle that progressed all around her. Everyone had been knocked to the ground by Wynne's outburst, but the Wardens and their company recovered first and leapt upon the dazed darkspawn with ferocity. She was still crying when it ended, and felt a gentle touch at her shoulder.

A face swam in her vision as she pulled her head up. She almost recognized it for a moment - those curved tattoos around the elf's chin stirred something in her mind - but the chaos of her thoughts was such that the notion slipped away like Zathrian's dust through her fingers. Alarmed, she crawled back on the ground until she hit the body of a fallen shriek, and in amazement she stared down at her own blood-stained and blackened hands, wondering just how she'd gotten to where she was and what had happened. "W-what is this? What's happening to me?!" She demanded through sobs.

"Everything will be alright," the tattooed man reassured with confidence he didn't seem to visibly possess. He seemed just as confused as she was. "I promise — just breathe, sorella. Focus on trying to breathe."

She tried to take his advice, but her breath only came in short gasps. The mana from her core slipped away. She clung to it desperately and tried to manifest it, but it wouldn't answer her call. She had the sensation of falling through an hourglass, and was just about to hit the bottom. "What—why—wh—it's leaving, it's leaving me, I can feel it! I can feel it slipping away again!"

"Breathe, sorella. I am here, you are here. Just breathe."

She took his advice, because it seemed sound enough. It seemed logical, and she wanted something logical in all of the nonsense that transpired in her head.

"Wynne, what is this?" A male voice from nearby demanded. "What did you do to her?"

"I-I did nothing," came the familiar voice of the Senior Enchanter. "I mean, I did something, but not . . . This was unexpected."

Eventually, Ayah felt like herself again. She just couldn't fathom why she'd been crying so much, and wiped at her face. She looked up and noticed that Zevran was sitting next to her, looking concerned. "Why are you staring at me like that?" She wondered.

"Ayah . . . What happened?" He asked in turn.

"I . . . Do not know," she answered uneasily. It was difficult to recall. One moment, she had been fine. The next, there had been a flash of strange memories and a helpless feeling like spiraling out of control. The magic had returned to her, only to disappear again and she was left feeling like herself again. "I feel . . . Fine now."

"Wynne!" Aedan said demandingly. "An explanation would be lovely, please!"

Wynne buried her face in one of her hands. "Oh, good grief. This will take some time. We should find a place to rest, first."

Zevran helped Ayah to her feet, and offered her a clean cloth to wipe her face with when she noticed how dirty her hands were. She accepted, gratefully, and then went hunting for her discarded swords. "Are you sure you are alright?" He asked as she picked up the blades and sheathed them on her back.

She frowned. "Why would I not be?"

"Ayah, tell me," Leliana spoke up delicately. "Do you, erm, remember what just happened to you?"

She struggled to recall, and her brow furrowed. "I remember crying. The urge to do so has since passed. I felt . . . Magic. But then it passed."

"I may be able to shed some light on it," Wynne offered, "but as I suggested, first, we should find a place to rest. Then, I will try to explain."

The mabari led them to fresh water with his nose, where they were all allowed a quiet moment to recover. In the midst of that quiet moment, an explanation from Wynne began to unwind.

As it turned out, Wynne had died. In the Tower against abominations, she had fought and she had fallen. As she described it, she had drifted through the Fade until she encountered a bright white light, and something told her that it was not quite yet her time. The next thing she knew, she was awake and back in the fight. A few hours later she had met the Wardens as they were carving a path through the Tower.

Wynne believed this to be the fault of a Spirit of Wisdom, that had attached itself to her in her youth since her Harrowing. Ayah knew from reputation that Wynne, in her generation, had been the youngest to go through the Harrowing at the age of sixteen; a record that Ayah had beaten when she had been allowed to go through the Harrowing at age thirteen. But while Ayah had been forced to do so, being a bright and shining beacon to demons and spirits alike as a somniari, Wynne claimed had been a relatively ordinary young mage - if extraordinarily talented - until this spirit latched onto herself, and created within her a unique understanding of the Spirit school that she passed onto her apprentices.

Ayah did not experience envy, but she did find herself wondering what might have become of her, if a benevolent spirit had attached itself to her at a young age, rather than Despair. Wisdom seemed a kinder fate.

Wynne theorized that as she had summoned the spirit forth when they were battling the darkspawn and had been overwhelmed, Wisdom had manifested through her into the physical world for a moment and regenerated her allies' energy even as it had the unexpected effect of returning Ayah's connection to the Fade for one visceral moment. She was speculating; to her knowledge, nothing like this had ever happened before to a Tranquil. Then again, the Chantry kept such tight reigns on their Tranquil that so little knowledge of them and their creation got out.

Ayah found herself displeased with Wynne's admission. She had been perfectly content, until she received the knowledge that at any moment Wynne could choose to erase her sense of self with a mere manifestation. "Please do not do something like this again, Senior Enchanter," she requested when Wynne was finished with her tales and theories.

"Ayah, don't you understand what this could mean?" Wynne seemed eager, even hyper. "There might be a way to reconnect you to the Fade - to regain your magic, perhaps even reverse your Tranquility with enough research! This is something you yourself researched before—"

"I do not wish to have my magic back," Ayah insisted, which quieted Wynne. "I am content to be. I was never content, before now. Please, let me be." The idea that Despair was waiting for her back in the Fade made her never want to be reconnected to the Fade again.

Wynne didn't seem to have a reply to this, and even the Wardens - both normally verbose and quick-witted - had no idea what to say.

"Well, I suppose that's all well and good," Aedan finally uttered. "Just try not to keep major things like this a secret again. I'd rather know than be surprised."

"Wait, does this make you an abomination?" Alistair wondered.

Wynne shrugged and smiled. Ayah turned away, and caught Morrigan's eye as the witch had been eavesdropping on them. Without a word, the woman turned into a crow and flew away on an up-draft as Ayah watched her circle overhead. She marveled at the witch's freedom.Perhaps this, she wondered,is envy.

Chapter 14: XIII

Chapter Text

"Dueling . . . Bard?" Alistair guessed, pointing the wand at the deactivated golem, and was disappointed by the lack of movement. "Looming . . . Barn!"

Honnleath was a small Ferelden hamlet near the border of Orlais, and it was a massacre. Darkspawn had overcome the town completely, ravaging everything in their path, turning the once populous and prosperous village into a cesspit of corruption. The one building left standing had been a warded lab made by a resident mage; Aedan and the others had gone inside to investigate while Alistair, Doug the dog, Zevran, Sten, and Ayah were left on the surface to pick off any remaining darkspawn that came near. It gave Ayah much-needed practice with her new bow that she'd acquired from the Dalish upon parting their company in the Brecilian Forest, and resulted in Alistair attempting to guess the golem's activation phrase with his attempts becoming increasingly stupid the more bored he got.

The golem stood in the center of Honnleath's main plaza, as if the plaza had been built around it. It was covered in bird droppings, and seemed more like an abstract statue than a sentient being, made of rock and strange crystals with jagged, raw edges. The head comprised of a boulder with a vague face seemingly carved into it, expressionlessly tilted toward the sky, with a strange rune in the center of the forehead that Ayah did not recognize. They'd encountered a merchant on the road to Honnleath, en-route to Orzammar to the north-east, who managed persuade the Wardens into purchasing an 'activation rod' for a golem in Honnleath with the promise of its activation phrase upon purchase. Only, the phrase hadn't worked, and they were left carving a path through darkspawn to investigate what had happened to the townspeople.

"Ruling chard?" Alistair queried the empty air. "Fooling . . . lard?"

"This is getting to be absurd," Zevran muttered under his breath.

Ayah fired an arrow that sailed over the head of a genlock that had poked its head out from behind collapsed structure's support beams. Zevran ran forward with his swords to skewer it, and returned looking sullen. "That had better be the last one," he said. "This wretched place is entirely overrun. Why are we even still here?"

"Because this stupid rod isn't working the way it was advertised," Alistair snapped. He turned back as an idea occurred to him and he pointed the rod at the statue again authoritatively. "Drooly . . . Guard?"

"Face it, you got conned by a wandering fool," Zevran drawled.

"Pluming farm?" The former templar added hopefully.

The golem didn't budge. Lord Douglass barked.

"No," Ayah summed up.

"Damn it all to the Void!"

As time passed, the conversation drifted. Sten arrived from his self-imposed outer patrol of the town with a black-blooded Asala, and chose to sit in silent meditation in the town square across from the golem. The dog perched himself next to Sten, content to sit still and pant. Alistair continued occasionally throwing out the random, incorrect guesses. Ayah mulled in silence.

She had never been surrounded by so many elves before as she had in the Brecilian Forest. It was strange to see so many people like her, and yet unlike her. They had not treated her as kin until the problem with the werewolves had been resolved, and even then they had kept her at a safe distance, answering her queries with mild trepidation as if they'd been unsure of the source. She had marveled at the Dalish tattoos, and wondered how it would have felt to get one herself; she did not recall the pain of the brand on her forehead, only waking up one day to everything suddenly being different. She had always seen her brand as an advantage over others, that allowed her to have a more clear perspective on the events surrounding her. It was only upon interacting with the Dalish, and Keeper Lanaya, that she had ever felt at a disadvantage with her brand. It prevented her from belonging to any group, even one composed of her own people.

Now, she had begun to wonder if it was better to keep it hidden. At least then, no one would treat her any differently than any other elf. Of their companions, she noted that only Wynne still treated her like a Tranquil from time to time while the rest of her addressed her as they would any other - Ayah supposed that this was the definition of 'friendship' by the standards of others. The thought of it brought Despair back to mind, creeping into her thoughts with insidiousness, telling her she did not belong anywhere, to anyone or anything, that she was alone . . .

"You seem . . . Pensive," Zevran commented, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She glanced over at him, fingering the string of her Dalish shortbow. "I have been thinking . . . Of cutting my hair," she said. "Like so, with bangs that cover my brand."

"Why?" He wondered.

"It would be easier for me to be seen as no different than any other," she admitted. "I would, I think, prefer that than to be seen as different."

"But it works in your favor," Zevran disagreed. "The brand unsettles those who gaze upon it, and causes them to underestimate you, such as I did years ago."

"I agree," Alistair said, having eavesdropped. "You look fine as you are, and long hair is—is elegant, I mean to say, you look elegant with your hair long, er . . ."

Zevran smirked at Alistair's verbal fumble. "I think what the lovely Alistair is attempting to say is that he finds you extremely f—"

"No, no no, that isn't what I said! I said she looks fine!"

"Is that how they teach you to compliment women in Grey Warden school? Tch. You must be more descriptive! Tell her that her hair is like a raven's wing, and her voice is as the song of a starling. Compare her eyes to gemstones if you must. Don't just say 'you look fine.' They hear that and think what you really mean is that you can't come up with something better, because you're an idiot."

Alistair flushed. "I'm not a—you, you're evil. An evil assassin, that's what you are."

Ayah still thought it'd be better if she simply chopped the length off and did away with it. She eyed her braid over her shoulder contemplatively. "Hair gets in the way, I may as well . . ."

Alistair shook his head and changed the subject. "You know, speaking of golems, I seem to remember you transforming into one when we were trapped in the Fade. Or was that a dream that I had the other night? No, no it couldn't have been a dream, there weren't any darkspawn in it clamoring to get a taste of my innards. Most of my dreams usually end that way."

"I did," she informed him. "You remember correctly. I am surprised you remember anything about the Fade at all. Even most mages struggle to recall their travels through the Fade. We had an . . . Unusual journey."

"Well, it stuck out in my memory," Alistair said. "Where'd you learn how to do that, anyhow? I know dreams don't follow the same logic as the real world, but, well, I guess nothing about that situation was normal."

Ayah smiled, or at least attempted to. "A mouse taught me how," she told him honestly.

It was at that moment that Aedan and the others burst out of the wizard's lab, covered in demonic ichor, with a strange man and a little girl in tow. "You would not believe the time we've had," Aedan said snappishly, glancing back at the man and the girl trailing after him.

"Been pretty mild up here," Alistair reported cheerfully. "Just a few darkspawn, nothing major."

"I should've sent you down there," Aedan said venomously. "You would've had quite a time, sorting through all those demons and ilk."

"Rather glad you didn't," Alistair shot back cheerfully.

"We'll be leaving Honnleath now," the strange man said, drawing the little girl close to him. Now that they stood together, Ayah could note their familial resemblance. "Remember, the phrase is 'dulen harn.'"

"Dulen harn?!" Alistair spat. "I was trying all sorts of combinations up here for hours—and you go and find it just like that!"

"Don't be sassy," Aedan threatened, "like I said you wouldn't believe the time we've had. Go on, get in the bloody Void of here Matthias. Take Amalia and run north, and keep running all the way 'til you get to Highever, and then leave Ferelden and never look back," Aedan told the man. "This country is about to be overrun by darkspawn. Take the word of us Wardens, a Blight is coming."

"I believe you," the man named Matthias said fearfully as he took in their darkpawn-corpse-riddled surroundings, and grabbed his tearful daughter Amalia by the hand and together they ran out of Honnleath without once looking back. Ayah watched them disappear into the distance dispassionately.

"Is it safe to send them off on their own like so?" Leliana wondered.

"He's a mage, he can take care of himself," Aedan said dismissively. He turned to Alistair, who still held the golem activation rod. "Care to do the honors?" He gestured toward the inactive golem.

Alistair cleared his throat, pointed the wand at the golem, and uttered, "Dulen harn!"

At first, nothing happened.

"I should mention, the golem crushed his previous owner to death," Aedan suddenly threw out. Alistair and everyone who hadn't been down into the wizard's lab stared at him in alarm as the golem activated.

"Why would you say such a thingnow?!" Alistair demanded.

"Well, it seemed relevant," Aedan said with a shrug.

The ground beneath the golem rumbled with action, its upraised arms cracking in the air as they moved for the first time in decades. Light began to emanate from its eyes, finally it moved, its arms reaching down just as its feet moved from their immobile prison. Everyone took a step back as the ground around them shuddered with the golem's first steps. The pale crystals on its shoulders that were embedded into its rocky flesh shined with inner light. It stretched itself, and finally regarded the people surrounding it with its stone face.

Everyone seemed to take in a deep breath.

"I knew that the day would come when someone would find the control rod," it spoke with indifference in a gravelly, droll voice. "I am only lucky it is not another mage," it added, and then eyed the forms of Morrigan and Wynne, "although it does seem to collect mages, doesn't it?"

Alistair and Aedan eyed each other, just as Alistair quickly passed the rod to his fellow Warden. "Erm, he did it," Alistair shot out.

"Did it? It matters not," the golem stated with the same indifferent, scraping, gravel tone. "I stood here in this spot and watched the wretched little villagers scurry around me for, oh, I have no idea how long. Many, many years." Ayah tried to imagine how it would be to stay in one place and helplessly watch as the world passed herself by for decades at a time. She could not fathom it.

"You poor dear," Leliana simpered. "So you've been stuck here for thirty years? That must have been really, really boring."

"Has it been that long?" The golem wondered.

"Best as we can tell, yes," Aedan replied.

"I was just beginning to get used to the quiet, too," the golem went on wistfully. "Tell me, are all of the villagers dead?" It eyed its corrupted surroundings appraisingly.

No one seemed to know how to answer them. "Not all of them, no," Alistair finally replied. "Many are still alive, and escaped."

"Pity," the golem grumbled.

"Not a fan of the locals, then?" Alistair quipped.

"Familiarity breeds contempt, as they say, and I was familiar enough with them after thirty or so years as a captive audience to find them quite contemptuous," the loquacious golem replied easily. "Not that I wished their fate upon them, no, but it made for a delightful change of pace. Well, go on. Out with it. What is its command?"

Aedan glanced at the others uneasily, and then back to the golem. "Erm, I don't suppose you have a name, do you? I'd rather not refer to you as 'hey you' or just 'golem.'"

The golem shrugged its crystalline shoulders in a surprisingly sentient gesture. "I have forgotten in all my years of being called 'golem.' 'Golem, fetch me that chair.' 'Do be a good golem and squash that insipid bandit.' And let's not forget, 'golem, pick me up, I tire of walking.'"

Aedan winced. "That sounds dreadful, to be honest."

The golem's head regarded the Warden thoughtfully. "It does have the control rod, does it not? I am awake, so it must."

"It certainly does, right here in its hand," Aedan replied. "Though technically, Alistair—"

"Was just here, minding his own business thinking about cheese at the time and had nothing to do with it," Alistair defended immediately.

"I see the control rod, yet I feel . . ." The golem paused. Ayah wondered what, if anything, a golem might 'feel.' "Go on. Order me to do something."

Aedan held up the rod. "Alright, walk over here and pick up Alistair for me."

"Hey!" His brother Warden objected.

The golem, however, remained in place. "And . . . I feel nothing!" It marveled. "I feel no compulsion to carry out its command. I suppose this means the rod is . . . Broken?"

Once more, no one seemed to know what to say. "Does that mean you are free?" Ayah wondered.

"I suppose it does," the golem marveled.

"If you can't be commanded, and yet you're still talking to us, that must mean you're free to do as you choose," Aedan continued, eyebrows raising at this revelation.

"It is only . . . What should I do?" The golem asked aloud existentially. "I have no memories, beyond watching this village for so long. I have no designed purpose. I find myself at a bit of a loss."

Aedan glanced at his surroundings. "Well, you probably won't want to stay here in Honnleath," he offered. "It's a sh*tshow."

"What about it?" The golem demanded to know. "It must have awoken me with a purpose in mind. What did it intend to do with me?"

"I wanted the help of a golem to fight the Blight," Aedan admitted honestly. "I'm a Grey Warden. As is Al, here."

Alistair waved nervously.

"It refers then to the darkspawn, the creatures that destroyed this village," the golem guessed. "They must be destroyed, this is true. They are evil, corrupting everything in their passage. Not as evil as the birds. Damnable feathered fiends." The golem cracked its knuckles, and send spirals of dust to the ground. "I suppose I have two options, then? Go with it, or go . . . Elsewhere? I do not know what lies beyond this village."

Aedan considered the golem in front of him carefully, and dropped the control rod on the ground, stomping on it and cracking it with aplomb. "Well, we could give you a map if you wanted to go your own way," he offered generously, "but what is it that you want to do?" He asked.

Ayah suspected that no one had ever asked this golem this question before. Strangely, she realized at that moment that no one had ever asked her that question either - at least until Aedan and Alistair came along and offered her a compelling choice. "I watched this village for so long, unable to act or move," it spoke, "and my memories of anything before are . . . Vague. At best. I have no idea what I want to do. I am only glad to be mobile."

"Well, if you do decide to come along with me, are you going to keep calling us 'it,'?" Aedan wondered.

"Yes," the golem declared, "very likely."

"Well, we've been called worse," Aedan decided abruptly. "You're welcome to join us."

"Are you sure about that?" Alistair asked. "They're very large and . . . Large."

"Think of them as a portable battering ram," Aedan offered.

"Good point. Better them than me," Alistair quickly reasoned.

"I will follow it about then for as long as it amuses me," the golem announced. "I have decided that I am to be called Shale, by the way."

"Is that a pun about rocks?" Alistair snickered. When the golem stared at him blankly, and did not laugh, Alistair's laughter died down awkwardly. "Well it's better than being called Pebbles," he noted.

"Before we go, about those crystals," Aedan wondered, pointing to the bright crystals embedded in the golem's shoulders and down its arms. "What . . . Are those, exactly?"

"I like to think of them as accessories," Shale said. "I suspect that they were installed when golems were more commonplace. My former master collected them, and added them. He searched far and wide for any information he could find on the subject. They are not unpleasant to me."

"Are they magical in nature?" Morrigan asked, curious. "I sense . . . Mana, emanating from them."

"As I understand it, they alter the flow of magic around me. My former master had hoped to turn me into a battery of mana, something he could tap into at will."

"Did he succeed?" Aedan asked, curiosity coloring his tone.

"Not really," Shale replied. "Though perhaps the alterations he practiced are to blame for my . . . disruption."

"You mean when you crushed your former master to death?"

"Yes. Some of the crystals increase the presence of mana, some absorb or reflect spells. They are various in kind. Should it ever find more crystals, I may be able to tell it what its functions are and what they would do if added to me."

"You'd be willing to be altered?" Ayah had to wonder, after hearing the golem's story.

"Why not?" It replied. "I do not get to wear clothing, or other adornments like the rest of you creatures, after all."

"They are very shiny," Leliana complimented with a smile.

"I like to think so," Shale agreed.

And so it was that they had gained the oddest companion yet against the Blight. As it turned out, Aedan had confiscated many crystals in the lab below, and was willing to venture back down there with Shale to ransack it - Shale took a profuse joy in smashing its former master's equipment as well, which seemed to be a cathartic exercise for the golem. With Wynne and Ayah's help, they were able to install more crystals into its form - these ones blue-colored and making it spell-resistant, which Aedan decided would be the most useful against their future enemies down the road. Shale expressed a strangely anxious concern about being 'too wide' once the crystals were installed, but was reassured when Alistair and Zevran both declared that the crystals were quite slimming and in fact made it seem more intimidating. The golem seemed to be pleased with this, and even more pleased when Leliana declared they were 'quite lovely.'

Ayah didn't know what to make of their new companion, and was positively fascinated by the golem, a fascination Shale did not share with the 'creepy elf' as they had come to declare Ayah. She was unbothered by Shale's rebuffing. Alistair and Aedan had the honor of being called 'it,' Zevran was the 'painted elf,' Leliana was the 'sister,' Wynne was the 'elder mage,' Morrigan was the 'witch,' Sten the 'qunari' and Lord Douglass simply 'dog.' It seemed Shale preferred to call things by what they were, rather than who they were; though everyone took care to address Shale by name rather than simply 'golem' given their history. Though there were still many questions that Shale arose, one thing that was certain was that the golem absolutely hated birds. Leliana had to shoo a few crows away that had landed to feast on the innards of a few fallen villagers, if only to keep Shale from stomping on them. Every bird in Shale's sight was fair game - this was due to the fact that for thirty odd years, Shale had been an immobile statue pooped upon by aforementioned birds. Ayah suspected she was incapable of hatred, but she conceded it would be very annoying to be in Shale's predicament.

They traveled away from the village of Honnleath, not far from the road in order to make camp without worrying about the errant darkspawn. Once the Wardens had declared the area clear, they set up and turned in. Ayah silently assisted Morrigan with the sorting of herbs for potions and poultices, to keep their stock from running low. It was Leliana's turn to cook, so she sat poised over the fire repudiating Alistair's suggestions to add more cheese. Aedan, Sten, and Zevran maintenanced weapons and armor, clearing off the darkspawn muck as best they could. Shale perched themselves some distance away from the others in the camp and watched them all with glowing eyes, keeping wary of any birds that may approach, and was busily disregarding Wynne's questions.

Ayah reflected on all that she had learned over the course of the weeks she had been in the Wardens' eclectic company. She had learned a significant amount about herbalism from her mute observations of Morrigan's toil; there were curious compounds that grew near the Wilds that she would have never thought to use in elfroot potions that seemed to have the effect of enhancing the potion's effects and lengthening them. There were also numerous poisons that also grew out in Ferelden wilderness that she never would have been aware of, had Morrigan not casually pointed them out to her. She'd learned much about people from simply watching Leliana - the former bard had an ease about her as she moved between people and conversations that Ayah found she entirely lacked, and wished she had possessed. It required a nuance of expression with a mixture of sincerity, both things that were foreign to the Tranquil. Ayah had learned a great deal about strategy and battle from watching the Wardens, as well as Sten, now that she was in a small squad that operated outside of the realms of law and men, more than she thought it would be possible to learn after her studies of combat under Liborio. Those studies had barely scraped the tip of the iceberg - training templars how to fight in small groups against mages and maleficary was a small matter in comparison to the encroaching darkspawn they faced nearly every day, as the Blight dragged on.

In short, her time outside of the Tower had been fruitful and invaluable toward her continued existence, even as more questions arose around her about her past and her now current abilities. She knew the Chantry had floundered when it came to finding Ayah a purpose in their fold; if she was not to be a mage, what was she? Another janitor? Another herbalist? Another enchanter? Another Tranquilized mage, running another shop? No, such mundanity did not suit Ayah at all. Here among the Wardens she fit seamlessly into their squad with the others, united under the common purpose of stopping the Blight. Here, she felt for the first time since she began, as if she actually belonged somewhere.

They had reached an impasse, Zevran and Ayah, in the midst of their spar. For each blow delivered, an equally effective parry or counterstrike was issued. Finally, after their audience (which mainly consisted of Doug) yawned in boredom, Zevran's struck at Ayah with his right sword, and she was left to parry the blow or risk being struck in the head just as his left foot snaked out and quickly tripped her by hooking behind her knee and bringing her face-down into the dirt, startled. She quickly rolled away from him and back into an upright position, but not before he was able to bring his blunted blade's edge to her neck in defeat.

She conceded the match; there was little else to do. They had grown accustomed to sparring with one another, even after his initial refusal - it was good to keep one's skills sharp, so he reasoned, and so he, the Wardens, and even Sten and Leliana from time to time would engage in sparring matches in the evenings and early mornings, each of them picking up valuable traits from the others as they did. "A dirty trick, I know," Zevran said as he offered her a hand to stand up, which she took. "One you should always use when given the opportunity. People rarely guard their legs as well as their center, or head. Orlesians and knights of any nation are particularly notorious for this, for certain below-the-belt blows are forbidden in tourneys. You must become more mercenary with your style, and less strict. Strike by any means necessary."

"I will keep that in mind," she promised, and made a silent vow to trip up Alistair or Aedan during their next spar to see if it worked on armored foes as well as it had worked on her. She had left her guard open; it was her fault and she appreciated the advice, even if it annoyed her to brush dirt out of her hair later. Once more she wished that she could simply chop it all off, but it seemed others around her did not agree with her. She even dared to ask Leliana if the lay sister would cut her hair for her, much like she had done her own, and Leliana seemed appalled to have been asked. Leliana braided it back for her, but refused to cut it. Ayah did not think it a nuisance to do so, and could not see how some like Morrigan could stand to have it bound up all the time.

They were settling down in camp for the evening, about a day or so's journey from the entrance to Orzammar, when a trader with a cart pulled by two druffalo happened upon them near the road. While the others began setting up tents and Wynne began preparing the evening meal, Ayah followed the Wardens to the trader in the event that they should need back-up and it should turn out to be another ambush.

She needn't have worried; this trader was in particular looking for the Wardens, and wanted their help. "You're a hard man to find," the stranger greeted with hope in his pale blue eyes. He was tall with long blond hair, and stood slumped wearily from his long journey. "Did Duncan never mention me? Levi of the coins? Levi the trader?"

Aedan scratched his head. Ayah took her hand off of her blade at the mention of the deceased Warden-Commander, when she noticed that Aedan and Alistair's postures immediately betrayed their ease. It seemed this name was the key to getting under their guard. "I'm Aedan, this is Alistair, and I'm quite sure we've never heard of you. Al?"

"Nope," Alistair confirmed.

"Really, he never told you of old Levi?" The trader seemed disappointed by this. "We've known each other for years . . . Well, listen to me carry on. Duncan made a promise to me years back, but poor Duncan's . . . No more. A tragedy, that is. But I know he'd want this work done, his pledge fulfilled."

"How'd you know him?" Aedan demanded.

"It's a bit of a tale," Levi warned.

"We're always ready for a tale," Alistair said brightly.

"Well I'm one of the ones who brought the Grey Wardens back to Ferelden," Levi revealed. "Maker's breath, I'm a bit nervous," he admitted. "Honored to be here with you, truly."

"How'd you bring the Wardens back?" Aedan wondered.

"After King Maric freed us from the Orlesians, a few Warden sympathizers banded together to try and restore the Order to Ferelden. Teyrn Loghain opposed it, worried about admitting Orlesian Wardens into the country . . . But Maric was a fair minded monarch, and let them in. When the Wardens showed up to court with their leader Genevieve, Duncan was still young - bit of a scamp. Maric went with the Wardens on their business, and when he came back, he rescinded King Arland's decree and the Wardens came back to Ferelden for good. At least, until Loghain betrayed the king."

"Glad you're on our side of the argument there," Aedan threw in.

"Be a bit awkward if I wasn't," said Levi.

"Why were we cast out in the first place? I was never clear on that."

"Who knows?" Alistair shrugged.

"People say they were soaking up the tithes and not doing a thing for the kingdom. I say that's bollocks," Levi vehemently defended. "Wardens are needed now, more than ever."

"So Maric just rescinded the decree like that?" Aedan prompted.

"He was an alright sort," Levi said, "must have seen their worth during his travels with them, how important the Grey Warden cause is, and been moved by it."

"Well, what promise did Duncan make to you? Any friend of his is a friend of ours. I'll see it fulfilled if I can."

Levi described his family's checkered past - the Drydens - as descended from the last Warden-Commander to grace Ferelden before the Wardens were admitted back into the country. When Arland banished the Grey Wardens, he took the Dryden's land and titles. After the death of Arland, a civil war ensued, and the Drydens fled. They eventually rebuilt from the ground-up and became a merchant house, fiercely prideful. They revered Sophia Dryden, and simply wanted evidence clearing her name of wrongdoing - not to restore their lost land or titles, but their honor. She was last stationed at Soldier's Peak, an abandoned Warden fortress to the north that Alistair had been sure was a myth until just then receiving word of its existence. Levi had mapped out the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the place, looking for a secret entrance he'd heard of passed down in his family for generations, and had successfully found the entrance a few years ago. He tried to convince the former Warden-Commander Duncan to reclaim the old base, but Duncan had not had the time to follow through between chasing down Warden recruits such as Aedan, and defending the south from the darkspawn incursion.

"I think it's worth the pursuit," Aedan decided, nodding firmly, "what do you say, Al?"

"I say we go," Alistair nodded along with him. "Duncan would have wanted it. But we're supposed to be heading toward Orzammar next, aren't we?"

Aedan paused to think about this. "What if we split our forces? Some of us reclaim the Peak, the rest of us chase down the dwarf King?"

Alistair was surprised. "Is that safe?"

"It's like killing two birds with one stone, as Shale would put it," Aedan reasoned. "Think about it. I'll take some of us to Orzammar to speak to the King, and you can lead the rest of us to reclaim Soldier's Peak."

"You want me to lead?" Alistair practically squeaked.

"Ayah, what do you think? You're a reasonable sort," Aedan asked, turning to the tiny elf behind him who had been silently watching the entire exchange.

She thought of this for a moment. "It is a liberal distribution of our current forces, and will doubtlessly save crucial time. A Warden base in the north would be most useful during a prolonged darkspawn siege from the south," she reported.

"See? Our little tactician agrees," Aedan smiled.

Alistair did not look as confident, but couldn't find it within himself to disagree. Aedan decided to put it to a vote with the others, whom more or less unanimously agreed that splitting the party in two would save them the most time and effort in the long run. No one thought that Orzammar would truly be as much trouble as the Dalish or the Circle had been. Really, only Alistair disagreed, but he consented to the arrangement without any heat and only a hint of nervousness. It was clear he was uncomfortable at the idea of being in charge for a change, but Ayah felt after observing him for the month or so she had been in the Warden's company that he would fill out his role with aplomb when given the opportunity. There were hidden depths to the templar that he himself did not see.

They drew sticks to determine who would go with whom, and the end result was the Aedan would take his mabari, Leliana, Morrigan, and Shale to Orzammar while Alistair led Sten, Zevran, Wynne, and Ayah to the Peak. Morrigan had originally drawn the stick that would have her sorted with Alistair, but she objected to this - as did he, as apparently they had trouble being within ten feet of each other let alone weeks in each other's uninhibited company with Aedan to operate as a necessary buffer - so she switched with Wynne and everyone seemed content with this arrangement. The unspoken agreement was that if one of them had finished with their task before the other, then they'd head toward the other party.

"No dragon-killing without me," Aedan made Alistair promise. "I'll cry and you'll feel terrible."

"I'll try not to," Alistair wryly agreed. "No dying without me."

"No, we agreed - we die together, in the Deep Roads, surrounded by darkspawn thirty years from now. I'm holding you to that depressing, drunkenly settled-upon fate."

"Oh, what a wonderful death I have to look forward to," Alistair sighed.

"Are the squishies done with their goodbyes?" Shale demanded to know.

"We're not leaving just yet, you know," Aedan said, "we still have 'til morning."

The golem scoffed, "Ah yes, we must set aside time so that it may masticate, fornicate, and then slumber in a weak and unguarded state for several boring hours. I had nearly forgotten."

"It needs its beauty sleep," Aedan defended. "And I'll thank you to leave my, er, mastications and fornications out of it. They're no one's business but mine."

"It's everyone's business when you and Morrigan wake the whole camp up," Alistair pointed out with a steadily reddening face.

"I do not mind the noise," Ayah felt the need to say, "it is not so different from living amongst the apprentices in close dormitories. One inevitably overhears such matters." She had noticed Aedan and Morrigan's growing physical relationship, but thought little of it.

"Maker's breath, I don't need that mental picture of the Circle right now," Alistair said, exasperated.

"I thought this was known to templars," Ayah mused.

"Wait, are you telling me those stories about Circle orgies are true?" Aedan asked excitedly.

They had just walked back to the main camp where the others were, and this question happened to be overheard by Wynne. "Ayah! What are you telling them?" Wynne demanded.

"I know your secrets old woman!" Aedan threatened. "You're debauched, you are!"

"I am no such thing," Wynne defended primly, "I'm sure this is all a simple misunderstanding."

"I know what I heard! And you had the gall to give me tripe about being in a relationship, when all this time you were a closeted libertine! I'm not even upset. I'm impressed, Wynne."

"What did you tell him?" Wynne pressed Ayah.

"The truth," Ayah reported, confused.

". . . Perhaps I underestimated the Circles after all," Morrigan felt compelled to quietly admit.

"Clearly you have never heard any stories from the Antivan Circle," Zevran chuckled.

They left for Soldier's Peak the following morning. The camp was subdued upon the parting, and Ayah found herself subjected to two hugs - one lingering hug from Leliana who whispered that she would pray for them, and a quick one from Aedan as he was making the rounds. "Don't get killed," the Warden made her promise, and she nodded.

"No stabbing Al in the back," Aedan commanded of Zevran.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Zevran said.

Then the Warden turned to Alistair. "And . . . Good luck," he finally said.

Alistair found himself wrapped up in one of Leliana's lingering hugs. "Oof. Alright, yes, hopefully we don't get lost and stranded without pants somewhere under my leadership. I mean, you never know."

"I have faith in you," Leliana reassured him. "You will do fine."

"Well . . . Thank you," Alistair said more sincerely and gave her a tight, flushed smile.

"Let us be off, lest we find ourselves marching at night," Morrigan suggested.

Aedan nodded to her, and turned finally to Sten. He offered his hand to the massive warrior, who took it and clasped him by the forearm in a brotherly shake. "Keep them safe for me, Sten," the Warden requested.

"As you will, kadan," Sten said and nodded firmly.

"Are the squishies finally done with their goodbyes?" Shale demanded to know.

"Yes, Shale, the squishies are done," Aedan assured them. "Off to dwarf-land we go!"

Aedan led his troupe down the road to the east toward the Frostbacks, which stretched up to scratch at the sky with craggy, snow-capped fingers. The rest of them finished packing up their supplies, and began to head westerly towards where Levi Dryden indicated on their map that Soldier's Peak would be. As they packed, Wynne reared her head and displayed a rather filthy looking object that she'd found in her bedroll with a grimace.

"Alistair," she said, approaching him, "what is this?"

"It's a sock?" He guessed.

"It's a filthy sock. How did it find its way to my bedroll?" She demanded to know.

"Maybe it likes you?" Alistair guessed, shrugging. "Socks are sneaky like that. Anyway, it's not mine."

"It has your name stitched on it," Wynne pointed out, displaying the other side where indeed Alistair's name had been stitched.

Alistair laughed reflexively, almost nervously. "Part of templar training, back at the Chantry. The men were always getting their socks mixed up. Anyway, uh, sorry about that. I'll take that from you right now," he snatched it. "One of my socks is feeling a little damp anyway. A change would be nice."

Wynne looked horrified. It was a curious expression - Ayah had not even seen her truly horrified even in the Fade surrounded by the convincing illusion of dead apprentices. "You're going to put it on? It's filthy!"

"And dry," Alistair pointed out as he took off one of his boots and socks, and wriggled his toes. Ayah made sure she was standing down-wind. "We're not exactly traveling in the lap of luxury here."

"What hideous habits you've picked up," Wynne grimaced.

Marching along the road was a strangely quiet affair at first, as Ayah realized that Leliana had often been the one to instigate conversations on the road or entertain them with music as they walked along. Without her or Aedan's presence to smooth things along, the conversations she overheard seemed stilted and awkward.

Alistair at one point attempted to make conversation with Sten. He sidled up to the qunari warrior and asked, "Don't you ever talk?"

Sten looked down at him, unimpressed. Alistair went on: "You know, make polite conversation just to put people at ease?"

". . . You mean that I should remark upon the weather before I cut off a man's head?" Sten replied, still unimpressed. He adjusted his Asala on his back.

"Nevermind," the Warden muttered, and continued trudging along.

They continued down the North Road past the village of West Hill in silence, save the sound of booted feet hitting the earth and Bodahn's cart being pulled along by a trudging druffalo. The merchant had elected to travel with Alistair, figuring he'd have a chance to trade along the few villages they passed through on the way to the Peak, rather than return to Orzammar where he'd been banished from. A bored Alistair managed to pry Bodahn's life story from him on their way, though Sandal's 'condition' was still ill-explained. They marched for most of the day until they were thoroughly exhausted from walking, and the air had started becoming a few shades colder as they increased in elevation toward the northern mountain range. They made camp once they passed the road to Highever, about a half-day from the Soldier's Peak map marker.

Ayah and Wynne went about the work of setting up glyphs and traps around the camp in the event they were ambushed at night, while the others set up the tents and bedrolls. As Alistair took his turn to cook for the evening, Wynne started to eye Zevran with a displeased air about her.

"You must know that murder is wrong, I assume," Wynne spoke up.

When no one else reared their head to answer her, Zevran perked up, looking a little confused and amused at the same time. "I'm sorry, are you speaking to me?" He asked politely.

"That is why you wish to leave your Crows," Wynne assumed, falsely. Ayah had spoken to Zevran and would never accuse him of having something as trivial as a conscience about his kills. He was a professional assassin. "A crisis of conscience."

Zevran smirked. "Yes, that is exactly it."

"Joke if you wish, but I have the feeling that deep down you regret the life you have lived," Wynne waxed on.

Ayah highly doubted the validity of this assumption, and was proven right when Zevran remarked with the utmost sarcasm (she almost had difficulty detecting it this time, but was proud of herself for understanding such a subtle emotional thing), "it's true. I regret it all!"

Wynne scoffed. "Must you be such a child? Are you incapable of a single, serious conversation?"

Zevran gave a very insincere sounding sniffle. "I know. I am terrible and it makes me so sad. May I rest my head in your bosom? I wish to cry."

"You can cry well away from my bosom, I'm certain," Wynne said primly.

"Did I tell you I was an orphan?" Zevran went on. "I never knew my mother . . ."

"Egad, I give up," Wynne blustered and fell silent.

Ayah had never known her mother either, now that she thought about it. The closest thing she had ever had to a motherly figure was Wynne herself, but they had not spent a great deal of time around one another at the Tower beyond a few lessons here and there. Wynne had her own apprentices and colleagues; Ayah had hers, and Uldred. She knew nothing of her life in the alienage, and had no memory of that place - her first solid memories were of the Circle. Everything else was a blur of dreams and reality.

Sten took up first watch, and Ayah the second. By the time she woke, she found Alistair tossing and turning in the throes of a darkspawn-themed nightmare, and wondered if it were at all possible to teach one who was not a mage to navigate their dreams with ease as she once had. She had the advantage of great teachers; spirit friends and Circle friends alike. Though she knew not how, much like how she could still sense magic in a way, the Grey Wardens sensed darkspawn - and vice versa. She remained on edge, expecting darkspawn to trigger the traps or glyphs, but nothing happened and eventually Alistair's dreams must have ceased, because he stilled. She awoke him gently for the third watch, and she slept dreamlessly until it was time to march again in the morning.

They continued tirelessly up the way through the mountainous North Road, approaching what appeared to be storm clouds, until they happened upon Levi Dryden's cart and his druffalo pulled off to the mountain side of the road. "Ser Alistair!" Levi greeted cheerfully. "Glad you could make it. Where's Ser Aedan?"

"Aedan and I split the group, figured we'd cover more ground this way. We'll investigate the Peak while he heads into Orzammar. I'm only surprised we didn't encounter more darkspawn on our way up," Alistair remarked. "So! Show us this fortress."

"There's a cave not that far from here, an old mining tunnel," Levi explained, pointing toward the Coast mountains. "It leads to a series of other tunnels that run beneath Soldier's Peak. You'd get lost for hours if I hadn't mapped out the way. Follow me."

It was hours lit by magelight and torch through cramped labyrinthine mining tunnels, most of which Sten had to nearly crawl his way through due to his height. The air got steadily colder the further up they went into the tunnels, until they finally reached the exit a few hours later and Ayah's breath was fogging the air. Suddenly chilly in her leathers, she wished she'd brought an extra cloak.

"How did you find the way down here?" Alistair had to wonder as they turned down another dark, shadowy bend identical to the last.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Levi cautioned.

"Try me."

"It . . . Came to me in a dream?"

"We get a surprising amount of strange dreams happening around here, actually, so I do believe you," Alistair commented lightly. "Remind me to tell of the time we were all trapped in the Fade surrounded by abominations looking to eat us. Ah, good times."

When they finally emerged into the light, squinting, the fortress of Soldier's Peak stretched out before them as a massive black shadow against the noon sun, its mighty towers stretching up, piercing the snowy white sky. Ayah touched her cheek that had suddenly grown cold, and realized after a few seconds that it was snowing. They had increased in elevation enough in the tunnels to wind up on the other side of the massive Peak that the fortress had been situated upon. "And here we are," Levi breathed. "Soldier's Peak . . . Maker's breath, look at the size of her! What a fortress." He turned to Alistair. "Told you I could get us here."

"Admit it, you were lost a few times," Alistair joked.

"I wasn't," Levi insisted, "just the map was hard to read, is all. Now that we're here, I'll follow you - er, from a distance. There's the stench of death up ahead, and I suspect trouble."

"Of course, our day isn't complete without the stench of death and the suspicion trouble," Alistair quipped. He took a deep breath and stared up at the keep. "Soldier's Keep . . . Looks like it's seen better days. Better centuries, more like."

"It's certainly impressive, for a castle that's stood since the end of the second Blight," Wynne commented. There was a tingling on Ayah's scalp that was all too familiar from her time in the Tower during Uldred's attempted coup. Just as she felt it, Wynne announced, "the Veil here is very thin. I would be cautious up ahead."

"Great, that means more demons," Alistair groaned.

"Or undead," Ayah informed him. He gave her a dirty look she felt she hadn't warranted. "What is it?" she wondered.

"You had to go and jinx us," the Warden complained and sighed. "I'm starting to think Aedan saddled himself with the easy job."

As they approached the courtyard, the tingling on Ayah's scalp grew to an itch. As she reached up to scratch, she was startled by a figure walking through her back and out her front painlessly, leaving behind a curiously disorienting but momentary nausea. As it did so, the world flashed around her as the Veil was shunted aside for a moment and the Fade bled through, staining everything gray.

Rather than erupting with demons, the figures of human soldiers emerged out of a living memory that had scarred its form upon the land. There was a commanding figure in elaborate armor that shouted, "Fall back!"

The figure of a soldier in more standard armor that walked through Ayah approached this person and said, "taking the Peak is no easy task, milord—"

The man addressed interrupted by spitting out, "I gave the Grey Wardens one chance to die with honor! Instead the hole up here like cowards. We follow the King's advice - starve them out."

"The Peak has months of supplies," the soldier tried to reason. "Surely—"

"Then we wait! When they are too weak to lift their weapons, we will send them to their final judgment!"

The figures faded and the natural color of reality seeped back in. Ayah looked around and noticed that everyone except for Wynne seemed confused. "What was that?" Levi breathed. "I-I'm not mad, am I? You saw it too?"

"I saw it too," Alistair assured him. "And I'm not sure, but I think I sense magic up ahead. Best to stay behind us."

Levi looked uneasy. "I'm glad you're here," he said honestly.

No sooner than after he had spoken, six corpses sat up in the snow, revealing their forms and the forms of countless others that had died in this forgotten battle. A few even wore Grey Warden tabards. Weapons slung out of their sheaths and Wynne with a flick of her wrist activated an explosive glyph under the shambling feet of two of them, splitting them apart with a concussive bang in seconds. One survived, armless, only to be quickly cut down by Zevran's flashing blades.

Alistair charged with his shield two others, knocking one down for an easy kill with his sword, while Ayah decided to charge the other one that had been knocked back and took it down with her blades, cleaning slicing its head off and sending it back to rest. Sten charged at one of the last two, which had been attempting to pelt them full of crossbow bolts. It succeeded in hitting Ayah in the center of her chest, but the bolt bounced off of her Dalish armor that craftmaster Varathorn had reinforced with some ironbark found in the woods by Aedan before they left the Brecilian Forest. She spared a moment to be grateful for the Warden's foresight, as her previous makeshift armor would likely have broken under the blow from the powerful bow at such close range.

She ran for the last of the skeletons and swiftly cut it down with Zevran's help while Sten finished off the bowman. Sten picked up the crossbow the undead had dropped and eyed it experimentally before quickly deciding to sling it over his shoulder.

"You had to go and jinx us," was the first thing Alistair said to her when the battle was over.

"I . . . Apologize?" She said uncertainly, not sure what she had done wrong.

"Maker's breath!" Levi breathed. "This place is haunted!"

"Yes, though not by spirits of the dead," Ayah informed him. "The Veil here has been thinned, likely by the violence of the battle that took place here so many years ago. We are seeing echoes of the memories of the living who once inhabited this place - the Fade reflects such things. There have been many reported incidents of these things happening, such as in the Tower."

"The Veil?" Levi said uncertainly.

"The barrier that separates this world from the world of the Fade, dreams, and spirits," Wynne gently explained. "Demons are attracted to places of great violence, and in places such as this where the Veil is thin, they may manifest in this world as undead."

Levi with wide eyes turned back to Alistair. "You think demons might be involved? Andraste's blood . . . I think I'll stand behind your tall friend here," he nodded toward the impassive Sten who had started to load his new crossbow.

"That's for the best," Alistair assured him. "Don't worry, we'll clear this place of demons. That's one of our Warden specialties."

After some brief exploration of the yards, Alistair led them up the stone steps of the keep, trudging a careful path through the snow up the steps. Ayah took a moment to pause, grab a handful of snow, and experimentally decided to eat it, having never seen it before. It was curiously pristine. She stopped when she saw Zevran giving her an odd look, like he wanted to laugh but wouldn't, and tromped through the snow the rest of the way up the stairs.

The nausea came back when the world shifted again out of color, and more figures - this time of Grey Wardens, judging by their armor and tabards - manifested as another residual memory played out in front of them. "Is that . . ." Alistair trailed off, staring at the figure of a helmet-less woman pacing in front of the line of figures.

"Sophia Dryden!" Levi exclaimed in awe.

The specter addressed her troops in a commanding, confident voice that rang throughout the room in a charismatic way even apparent to someone like Ayah, who had yet to master emotional inflection.

"Men, I won't lie to you. The situation is grim: our forces outnumbered, our bellies empty, and our hearts are sagging. But we are Wardens! Darkspawn flee when they hear our horns. Archdemons die when they taste our blades. So are we to bend knee to a mere human despot? No! I, for one, will never give up! I, for one, will never surrender, just to dance on Arland's gallows! So I propose here and now, in these hallowed halls were generations of our brethren stood vigil against darkspawn and evil, that we send a message to that fat bastard. In this sacred place, proud men, strong men, stood defiant, and would rather die that submit to tyranny!"

As the scene faded and reality bled back through the tear in the Veil, Ayah pulled out her swords as everyone simultaneously did the same thing, each of them expecting undead at any second. Yet, nothing happened - perhaps because there were no corpses on the ground of the hall for spirits to inhabit.

Levi went to stand in the spot that Sophia had stood in, and took a deep breath. "They were so brave, even while starving . . . And my grandmother stood with them."

"It's uncharacteristic of the Wardens to be so politically motivated, even against a supposed tyrant like Arland," Alistair commented.

"Most of the history of that period was lost in the subsequent conflict surrounding his death that nearly tore the entire kingdom apart, eventually reducing it to such a weak state that it never fully recovered, and it was conquered by Orlais," Wynne went into teacher-mode, her voice gaining a lecture-like cadence that Ayah found too familiar. "Perhaps, with this visions from the past, we might learn something new."

As they explored, they found more corpses rising to battle them, some wearing Arland's colors while some wearing the Warden's faded blue. Two rage demons rose out of the ground in flaming red glory, and were easily torn apart by their well-armed group thanks to a well-timed smiting and stabbing. They discovered an ancient note penned to Sophia by a man named Wulff, indicating some of the extent of Arland's tyranny which detailed the ordered execution of political dissidents and those dissidents' families. More demons rose as they entered what appeared to be an archive; the demons were dispatched quickly and little of note was recovered in the archive, which had suffered some type of fire. Another residual gray-scaled memory played out before their eyes of a Warden archivist attempting to record the events of the siege for posterity, only for his writings to have been unrecoverable. The archivist in the memory spoke of a 'grand rebellion' dying in its infancy, something which raised a few eyebrows as none of them had ever heard of any sort of rebellion organized by Wardens against the crown. There were many questions about the events of Soldier's Peak, and even more questions arose the further they explored.

"Once again, I have to stress that the Wardens aren't supposed to be politically motivated," Alistair complained.

"If only the book weren't burned," Levi lamented as he put down the archivist's singed text. "All that effort, gone to waste . . ."

"Aren't you organizing a political movement against Teryn Loghain?" Ayah wondered, looking to Alistair.

Alistair seemed embarrassed. "Hush, you."

"Yes Alistair, aren't we doing just that?" Wynne seemed amused.

"Sophia must have had her reasons," Levi defended. "Some injustices can't be ignored, and judging from this note from the Arl, the King was a no-good tyrant even on his good days."

"I don't think someone like Arland had any good days," Alistair said dubiously.

They explored further and found a mess hall with scattered corpses here and there, a few which rose upon being disturbed by their investigation and were swiftly put back down. As they ascended to the second level of the keep, they entered a massive open hall scattered with corpses of both Warden and invader, but once they stepped inside the tingling on Ayah's scalp erupted into a full-on itch. She could feel Despair acutely, much like she had when Wynne had manifested her spirit partner as they had been overwhelmed by darkspawn on the road. Whispers reached her from across the Void:

[You were the best of us-]

You're nothing.

[-who would call that living?]

You're empty.

[This can't be the end.]

You're soulless.

[I'll always find you.]

You're alone.

Ayah clutched her head and found herself nearly swaying in place just as Wynne reported to Alistair, "This is the place where the Veil was sundered." It suddenly made all too much sense, that she should experience such fluctuations. The world flashed gray again as another memory played out before their eyes, and it took all the mental effort that Ayah possessed to push her own thoughts aside and focus.

"Make them pay for every inch, men!" Sophia Dryden commanded. The men in Arland's colors flooded into the room like a dam had been broken, and the tone of the battle shifted as the defenders began to find themselves pressed for their lives. All around them, the battle raged. "Avernus!" Sophia cried out, turning to a man in mage's robes. "We need you!"

As the man in mage's robes nodded and began to chant, a rage demon clawed its way out of the Fade and into the world. The King's men fell back as the demon started to tear through their ranks with ferocity.

"More, Avernus!" Sophia cried. "Whatever it takes!"

He summoned more rage demons, and shades, calling them screeching and screaming out of the Fade regardless of the strain it put on the Veil. At one point, one of the rage demons summoned turned on one of the Warden mages, sending her flying and broken body careening into the wall where she fell to permanent rest. Heads rolled as Avernus shouted, "No! No, I command you, fight the King's men!"

"Fool," the shade hissed, approaching Avernus who had begun to backpedal. "So much death, so much suffering, and blood. The Veil is torn now. Your soul is MINE, Avernus!"

Avernus backed away from the carnage erupting all around him. He found himself spattered with the blood of another dying Warden. "Acolytes, retreat! The battle is lost," he called out, but it seemed no one but Sophia heard him over the cacophony.

Sophia Dryden turned at Avernus' call and screamed his name just as the Veil folded back and the vision finally ended.

Ayah hadn't realized she was still on the floor until she took Zevran's hand and stood up. "Sorella?" He said questioningly.

She shook her head. She didn't have the wherewithal or time to explain her predicament to him, as she could feel the tear in the Veil - the wound - peeling slowly open.

"Levi! Get back!" Alistair commanded as he must have felt the same thing, and a slough of undead and rage demons manifested before them.

Barriers snapped into place from Wynne as Alistair and Sten charged at the demons, leaving Zevran and Ayah to rush the undead while Levi carefully cowered in a corner by the stairs well out of sight. Wynne threw arcane bolts and stone blasts into their enemies over Ayah and Zevran's heads as Sten and Alistair tore through the demons.

Aedan pressed his foot down on the chest of the genlock he'd gotten his family sword stuck into, and heaved. With a detestable shucking sound, the sword finally slid out and the wound leaked night-colored blood. In the heat of the battle, he'd been forced to use the genlock as a 'living' shield when he couldn't wrest the weapon free. He looked over the sea of corpses in the cavern, lit by the dim magelight from Morrigan's staff and the enchanted halls of the Aeducan thaig, and noted all of them were spattered with black blood but otherwise fine. Leliana was retrieving some of her arrows, Shale was stomping on a twitching hurlock's head and grinding it into paste, and Lord Douglass was shaking himself of gore and barked happily when Aedan stopped to pat him on the head.

Now that the battle was over, he took quick stock of their prize - the dwarf in the fanciest armor of the party of dwarves that had been found exploring the Aeducan thaig. "Lord Dace, I presume," Aedan spoke up, offering his hand to the dwarf to shake.

"That I am," the man answered. He shook Aedan's hand. "Not that we're not grateful, but what's a bunch of surfacers doing down here?"

"Grey Warden," Aedan corrected. "We were actually looking for you, Lord Dace. You'll want to take a look at these notes I have here," Aedan offered and pulled the folded promissory notes out of his pack and placed them in Lord Dace's waiting hands. "Seems Lord Harrowmont's been trying to cheat your family. Just, er, don't ask where I got them." Or why I'm involving myself in dwarven politics, he silently added.

As Dace studied the notes, he pulled off his helmet, revealing a weathered face and white hair. "The charlatan!" He exclaimed. "He's promised the same land to Helmi!"

"Aye," Aedan agreed. "Politicians, eh?"

The dwarf didn't seem to get the joke, probably because he was a noble, but his rage wasn't directed at Aedan and that was enough for him. "Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Warden," Dace said sincerely, even as his teeth were grit. "I owe you my life twice now. My life, and my family's fortune."

"I take it you won't be voting for Harrowmont, then?" Aedan wondered with a smile.

"Absolutely not," Dace affirmed angrily. "I'll tell everyone I know what sort of trick Harrowmont tried to play here." He signaled his men behind him to form up, and they did so in a line. Aedan's own companions milled, restlessly. "I must return to Orzammar now to sort this out. Do you wish to travel with us?"

"Safety in numbers, eh? We'll join you," Aedan decided. As Dace nodded and led the way, Aedan and his companions followed at a more sedate pace. He hung back next to Morrigan and sighed. "I hope they're neck-deep in demons," he complained. "That's what Al should get for sticking me with dwarven politics."

"To whom are you speaking?" Leliana wondered, overhearing.

"Anyone! Maybe to you, I don't know. Don't ask me these questions."

"Be grateful you are not a qunari, and bumping your head on every doorway," was Morrigan's sympathetic, smirking suggestion.

"The Wardens summoned demons," Levi intoned disappointedly. "I can't believe it. And my grandmother . . . She knew!"

"The Grey Wardens do not forbid the summoning of demons or blood magic," Ayah informed him.

"Don't remind me," Alistair bit out, looking bitter. "Let's keep going."

Though some of their number was missing, Ayah was well-pleased by the smoothness of their operation thus far. She had to wonder how Aedan and the others were faring in their absence; Alistair may have personally doubted his own abilities to lead them, but they had done admirably thus far with little incident. The former templar turned Warden cleared the area with a holy cleanse after the last of the undead was put down, and led them toward a door with a glowing blue barrier that leaked ambient magic.

"I sense a demon up ahead," Wynne warmed them, as Alistair was about to raise a hand to lower the barrier.

"A demon? Oh nooo," Alistair said sarcastically, "whatever are the odds?"

"Don't get smart with me, young man," Wynne warned lightly.

It was an office, or what had once been an office. A disturbingly cheerful fire burned away in the hearth, and across an ancient desk stood a woman whose back faced them donned in plate armor with the blue tabard and heraldry of the Wardens.

"Step no further," the woman intoned in a voice far too deep to belong to her. She turned, and it was clear that she'd been dead for a very long time. The decayed face of Sophia Dryden stared back at them with white eyes. Alistair's hands went to his weapon, but he did not draw, and the others silently followed his lead. "This one would speak with you," the entity stated.

"Alright, then, speak," Alistair suggested, wary and ready to fight at any moment. "Who . . . What are you?"

"This one is the Dryden," the demon wearing Sophia's face explained. "Commander. Sophia. All these things. You have slain many of the demon ilk to reach here. This one would propose a deal."

"Demon ilk is an interesting word choice. Levi, I'm afraid your great-great-grandmother has been possessed," Alistair reported with a grim smile.

"That, or she's really let herself go," Levi agreed. He stared at the possessed corpse in trepidation and positioned himself carefully behind Sten's massive, hulking frame. "My great-great-grandmother is dead. I don't know what that is."

"What, if anything, of Sophia Dryden is left inside of you?" Wynne wondered curiously.

The demon turned its sightless eyes toward the elderly mage. "This one has tasted her memories, seen her thoughts, and hidden places, but she is food for this one, no more, no less."

"So, you might have some answers as to what happened to this once-great fortress," Wynne surmised.

"This one knows all, but will not talk for nothing. This Soldier's Peak is a trap. This one sees so many tantalizing places in the Dryden's memories – this one would see the world herself. To be free, into the old mage tower you go and destroy. In return, this one seals the Veil. No more demons, no more enemies. Your Peak would be safe. Just let this one go into the world."

Alistair turned to Levi. "Any questions for her?" He asked.

"Warden, my family has been looking for answers for over a century . . . But not like this," said Levi,

"That settles it then," Alistair said. He drew his sword and faced 'the Dryden,' who bared its rotted teeth at her. "No deal."

Shades leapt out of the corners of the room, and every dessicated corpse that had lain rotting on the ground sprang up to defend the demon wearing Sophia's body. The demon-possessed corpse drew its sword and stepped over the desk, jumping down and bringing its Warden-crested blade down in a shining arc toward Alistair's head. He raised his shield in time, sending the sword clanging back as he pushed at the moment of the strike, leaving Sophia Dryden's sword arm swinging wide and her front un-defended.

Sten at Alistair's side swung his Asala at the possessed commander with a roar and it clanged against Sophia's Warden shield. Wynne's barrier slid over them all with a cool hiss just as the small office erupted into all-out battle. Ayah found herself side-by-side with Zevran once more as they took down the undead and made themselves moving targets for the shades, kiting them away from the Warden and Sten who engaged the possessed commander and kept her attention on them. Wynne sent spells flying over their heads and under their feet, boosting their stamina and speed with glyphs even as she sent bolts of arcane energy at their targets to assist them.

Ayah beheaded one undead archer and moved on to a shade, pirouetting out of its clawed reach just as it charged her. She struck with a flurry of sword strikes from her blades and dispersed it back to the Fade, swiftly moving on to the next target just as Zevran at her back finished with another. They fought tirelessly thanks to Wynne's wards, and made short work of the allies that the Dryden corpse had summoned to defend herself.

Sophia seemed to sense that the tide of the battle was turning on her, so she let out a rasping yell and burst forth a torrent of energy that knocked everyone simultaneously onto their backs. Ayah had been standing behind Sten and alone remained unaffected; while everyone scrambled on the ground to get back to their feet, she advanced on the commander blade-first and engaged her in combat.

The commander's corpse seemed to possess all of its martial training, in addition to the painless energy supplied by the demon wearing its form. She got in a few blows behind the demon's guard, but nothing slowed Sophia down even for a second. "Ayah!" She heard Zevran cry out, just in time to turn and dodge a blow from another shade that would have nearly gutted her. The commander took her distraction as an opportunity to inflict a killing blow, and it struck painlessly as Ayah instinctively felt herself shift.

She wasn't sure what exactly had happened, only that it had been reflexive. The entire world flashed gray again, and for a moment Ayah wondered if they were all caught in another vision. Nothing changed, however, except her. The sword of Sophia Dryden passed through her effortlessly once, and back again as Sophia's corpse angrily tried to strike Ayah only to find the Tranquil elf immune to any physical harm. Ayah stared down at her hands and saw right through them, as they flickered translucently into some other spectrum. It lasted but a moment before the world flashed back into color, and Ayah found herself collapsing as Dryden's shield slammed into her face and nearly knocked her unconscious, breaking her nose.

The distraction of Ayah's predicament left Sophia's corpse wide open to an attack from Alistair, who stabbed right through the corpse's spine with a yell. Sophia's sightless eyes stared down at the protruding blade for but a moment before Sten roared and Asala swung forth and took off her head.

The battle was over. Zevran once more offered Ayah a hand, and she took it. She stood with a pounding headache, but was nonetheless intact. "Ayah, what was that, that you did?" Wynne demanded to know immediately.

The Tranquil found herself struggling to explain something for the first time since she began. It should have been an easy explanation, but Ayah herself was unsure of what exactly happened to her. She'd attempted to do what she'd done instinctively back in the Brecilian Forest, under careful meditation. It had been an ability of the arcane warrior's, that much she knew - but what it was exactly and why it had happened were answers that she didn't have.

"Let's figure that out later and just be glad it happened, yeah?" Alistair suggested blithely, tossing her a tight grin. "Levi? You alright?" His eyes searched for the trader.

"Here," Levi replied as he emerged from the corner he'd been curled up and hiding in. "Maker's breath, that was bracing! Is she . . ." He stared down at his great-some odd-grandmother's corpse nervously.

"Re-deadified, yes," Alistair reported cheerily. "We still have that tower outside to explore, though, and apparently a mage in it to confront."

"The one who summoned the demons, perhaps, and is responsible for the tear in the Veil," Wynne said grimly.

"You Wardens really do take me to the most charming of places," Zevran complimented. "Haunted forests, haunted fortresses . . . Is there anywhere you go that isn't haunted?"

"So far, no," Alistair said. He started to ransack the office and found a journal in Sophia's desk that looked well-preserved. "Seems like everything is haunted these days. Hey look, it's Sophia's journal. Levi, you want this?"

"Thanks, Warden," Levi supplied with a nervous grin, and took the book from Alistair's hands.

Wynne pulled Ayah's nose back into position with delicate fingers and sent a healing spell through them, finally stopping the bleeding. It was the only battle wound they'd really suffered so far. Ayah wiped her face on her sleeve and they continued trudging through the keep. They came to another doorway with a barrier, easily dispersed by Alistair, and stepped through the doorway and up a series of stairs that led to the top of the keep.

A snow storm awaited them outside, along with a long bridge that led to a tower, and a swarm of undead to greet them. Wynne set off another explosive glyph that knocked a few off the bridge and sent them careening over the edge while Sten and Alistair charged ahead, knocking a few of the other undead back. Ayah and Zevran stayed close behind them, attacking the downed once and quickly severing their heads. They were momentarily halted by a few bear traps that had been hidden by the falling snow, but Zevran and Ayah took lead once the undead were handled and quickly led their party on a path through the snow, levering the traps as they went.

As they entered the tower's bottom-most room, a few more undead rose to fight them, but were quickly cut down. "Someone's definitely been living here," Zevran surmised as he kicked the last de-animated corpse off his blade. "Though how they have managed with the undead at every turn is anyone's guess."

"I found some notes, Alistair," Wynne reported, holding up a sheaf of paper she'd found bound together on an ancient table. "Recently written, it seems."

"Let me see," Alistair offered a hand and perused the notes with a steadily darkening expression. He pursed his lips and the color drained out of his face as he read on, looking steadily more disturbed - it was actually an excellent exercise for Ayah to study Alistair's expression, as emotions she'd never seen before began to cross it.

"These are Avernus' personal notes, I think," Alistair finally reported. "He talks about the Joining ritual, the . . . Well, I'm not sure how much I should say. Some of this, the Wardens wouldn't want getting out. But he was looking for a cure to the Calling, and I think he may have come close to finding it."

"The Calling?" Ayah wondered.

Alistair sighed and seemed to debate something internally. After a few seconds, it appeared he made his decision. "Grey Wardens . . . Are Tainted with the Blight. Just like the darkspawn. That's how we can sense them. The Calling is . . . Well, we take the Taint in us during a ritual called the Joining. Some of us survive. Some don't. Avernus was looking for a way to decrease the fatality rate of the Joining, to make it possible for more Wardens to be made. At least, that's what these notes say."

Ayah searched the room as he read, and found a dusty tome written in the same hand as the one who had written the notes. She opened the book to a random page, and began to read quietly out loud: "Day thirty-two: the subject is not responding to the stimuli. Testing the pain threshold has uncovered nothing. Only three subjects are left." Ayah turned the page and read another entry aloud. "Day eighty-two: if only I could reproduce last night's success. Electricity is only a catalyst. The blood is the key. Day ninety-seven: energy and blood. Repeated applications have duplicated the results. I conjecture that success can be induced alchemically, but there are no more subjects left to use. If only I had one more, or a dozen, the things I could do . . ."

"What do you make of these?" Alistair asked her, looking down at the notes she was holding with distaste.

She thought best how to answer this question. The notes were written in an elegant, patient hand, and great care was taken to preserve the record. The only experience she had with magical experimentation was her own before she began, and those records had likely been lost and perhaps burned when she was taken by the templars. "These are the experimental notes of a mage," she said, "who perhaps tested blood magic on living subjects."

Alistair's expression fell even further, twisting with disgust. "This fortress is just full of lovely little secrets, isn't it? Alright, let's see if this Avernus is still alive."

"And if he is?" Wynne asked him archly.

"Then we'll see," was all Alistair could promise.

Avernus was an ancient seeming man, housed in the highest chamber of the tower of Soldier's Peak, hairless and wrinkled heavily with a straight posture. Even Ayah could sense the magic flowing off of him in waves, whispering to his power. "I was expecting someone, or something," he said in lieu of a greeting in a cultured, yet rasping voice that had clearly seen some disuse. "Please, come in. I sense a Warden among you, though it has been so long . . ."

"And you must be Avernus," Alistair greeted in a clipped, neutral tone. "Be straight with me - are you possessed?"

The mage started to laugh. "I see you've met dear old Sophia."

"Met, and beheaded," Alistair informed him.

"My body is sustained from a similar source, I'll grant you, but my mind and will are my own. Now tell me, why have you come to this place?"

Something in Alistair's posture relaxed a little as he understood they wouldn't be facing a fight. "We're here to recover the Warden's property, and uncover what really happened here," the Warden answered. He looked to Levi. "We're here for some answers."

"To what questions?" Avernus asked politely. "Ask. I have nothing but time."

"How have you survived this many years?" Alistair had to know.

"The Chantry foolishly forbids blood magic, but there are so many secrets to uncover," Avernus answered. "As my body decayed, I found ways to extend it. However, that can only go so far, and over the past year I have come to realize that my time is coming to an end. I have been plagued with dreams and visions of the darkspawn, and the song of the Calling . . ."

"Oh, that's probably just the Blight," Alistair quipped.

Avernus blinked. "There—there is a Blight in Thedas?" He stuttered out.

"Darkspawn emerged from the Korcari Wilds not long ago. We've seen the archdemon," Alistair said.

"And the Wardens need a proper base," Avernus figured.

"That, and we're trying to stop a civil war thanks to Teryn Loghain," Alistair went on.

"Who is Teryn Loghain? Another tyrant?" Avernus wondered.

Alistair shrugged. "Something like that. Funny how history seems to repeat itself. Anyway, the country's being torn apart by a civil war he started, leaving it defenseless against the Blight, so we're trying to stop that from happening."

"And where are the rest of the Wardens?" Avernus had to wonder.

"Well, they were only allowed back into Ferelden recently thanks to Levi and his friends here," Alistair nodded at Levi, who waved nervously, "and the Ferelden chapter was completely wiped out barring myself and my brother Warden, Aedan, who's in Orzammar recruiting right now. Tell me, since you're being friendly, what happened to this place?"

"What use would storytelling serve?" Avernus paced. "The tyrant Arland is long dead. As is all our noble co-conspirators and the grand rebellion. Sophia's corpse may have walked and talked, but she too is no more."

"We've lost much of the history about that time period," Wynne spoke up. "How was Arland a tyrant? What happened to the rebellion?"

"Arland ruled by fear and poison. His treachery pit noble against noble in terrible battle," Avernus answered. "We thought him a monster, and gathered allies to rebel. The toll of years has erased our failure. It seemed so pressing then, but the kingdom lives on. As for the rebellion? There were too many mouths to quiet. So we met with Teyrn Cousland. With him on our side, we had a chance of victory. Instead, the king's guard ambushed us. Commander Dryden and I barely escaped with our lives."

"Speaking of Drydens," Alistair spoke up, and turned to Levi, pushing him forward. "Levi? Got any questions for the loquacious maleficar?"

"Master mage, uh, ser," Levi began, wringing his fingers. "My family name has been worth less than dirt for over a century. Do you have any proof that Sophia was a hero?"

"The boy who braved the mists," Avernus said mysteriously. "So you heeded my call. And you are a Dryden? The cosmos has a sense of humor."

"Your call?" Levi asked.

"He was but a boy when he entered the tunnels below the peak. His heart pure. His character certain. In dreams I gave him the keys he would need. He would be my deliverance."

"The dream you had," Wynne put it together first, "he must have sent it to you through the Fade. Delicate, dangerous magic."

Levi looked disturbed.

"Your great-great-grandmother was the best of us," Avernus told Levi. "Brave, charismatic, fiery. Utterly devoted to the fight. Still, we lost. We fought against a tyrant, you know? So full of vigor, then. So blind to consequence. As for proof? There's none to be had."

"I'm sorry, Levi," Alistair said.

"I had hoped," Levi said, looking down and a little disappointed, "but thank you, Warden. It means the world to me that we came here, strange and dangerous as the journey has been."

"You haven't seen dangerous or strange yet," Zevran said. "Just wait until a rhyming tree ambushes you."

"So, where do we go from here?" Alistair had to wonder. "You've clearly been experimenting on people. What . . . What was the point of any of it?"

"Blood magic comes from demons," Avernus explained. "They could counter every bit of lore I knew. But the darkspawn taint? That is alien to them, and it has power. The Wardens merely use it to sense darkspawn . . . A triviality. My research has discovered so much more, and hinted at even greater heights. This knowledge could not only save Soldier's Peak – and with it, the Wardens could grow even more powerful!"

"And to make these discoveries, you sacrificed your fellow Wardens?" Alistair bitterly spat.

"It was necessary," Avernus defended. "The few meager years of life they had would have spent trapped in this tower were nothing compared to the greater goal. I gave their death meaning."

"You're no better than the demons you summoned," Alistair decided grimly.

"I have done what I must," Avernus insisted, but looked weary. "But you shall be my judge. When you have what you need of me, I'll accept your judgment. But for now, we must mend the tear in the Veil, to stop more demons from coming through. Then, you may do with me what you will. For this task, you will have need of my help."

Alistair's hand clenched around his sword for but a moment before it eased. "Alright," he agreed stiffly. "Lead the way."

They meandered back down to the main hall where the Veil tear was. The closer they were too it, the more uncomfortable Ayah became; perhaps it was because Avernus reminded her too much of Uldred, and the feel of his magic was too akin to home. She had to remind herself that this was different - Avernus was an ancient maleficar from the Storm Age, not her teacher, and he was most certainly in control of his faculties and not possessed by a demon of pride. Indeed, she doubted that a Warden mage such as Avernus would ever succumb to such a fate, no matter his practices or experiments. He seemed to value his senses too much to sacrifice them for the sake of another entity.

The Veil tear spat forth voices and whispers from the Fade at her, but Ayah ignored them and drew her weapons, ready for demons to spew forth at any moment. "I will strengthen the Veil," Avernus spoke, "but doing so will cause alarm on the other side."

"That means more demons, right?" Alistair guessed easily. He drew his sword and shield, and stood ready with his companions. "We'll handle them and keep them off you while you do what you need to."

"Very well. I shall begin."

At first it was only shades that appeared out of the corners. They didn't manage to land a scratch on their company and were quickly dispatched. A second wave of demons poured through not long after, of rage, clawing their way out of the ground leaving behind a trail of scorched embers. They posed a little more of a challenge and one of them managed to get a swipe at Alistair's face, nearly clawing off his helmet. It was little more than a scratch. A desire demon manifested last, proving to be a bit more of a challenge, but it was stunned by a holy smite that Alistair dropped on its head with a column of light and Ayah rushed in with her elven swords to gut it while it was distracted. It dispersed back into the Fade on her blades, leaving behind ichor. Before any more demons could pull through, Avernus stopped and a strange popping sound resounded throughout the room.

"It is done," the blood mage intoned. He turned to Alistair grimly. "Now, you may do with me as you will."

Alistair's hand clenched on his sword. He raised it to Avernus' neck. "Give me one good reason we shouldn't kill you for what you've done," he said.

"There has been enough death on his account, Alistair," Wynne unexpectedly spoke up, leaning on her staff. "Remember, before everything, he is your fellow Warden."

"He experimented on the Wardens!" Alistair objected. "He killed them - tortured them for his experiments! You'd have me spare his life?"

"The Wardens do not outlaw the practice of blood magic," Ayah reminded him, and thought to offer him an alternative solution that she felt Wynne was only touching upon. "We are in a Blight, and require all the aid we can muster against it."

Alistair seemed to be in an internal conflict for a while, before he sheathed his blade and glared murderously at Avernus. Avernus, for his part, seemed unimpressed with the display. "You'll stay here in the Peak for now," Alistair told him. "And if you continue any experiments, I'll see this mercy rescinded. For now, I think you and I need to have a chat. Grey Warden to Grey Warden. Everyone, stay here, I'll be back," he said, and motioned toward the door to the tower's bridge. Avernus led the way, with a mixture of curiosity and relief etched on his face.

It was well over an hour before Alistair returned, this time without Avernus, but with no blood staining his blade Ayah guessed that he had chosen to spare the Warden mage regardless of his feelings towards the man's practices. Wynne was the first to speak upon his return: "So, you have decided to spare him," she surmised.

Alistair shrugged, but his expression was far from its usual carefree countenance. "Insofar as Aedan and I can both reach an agreement on his fate. For now, he's only to experiment ethically. That means no blood magic for -Magic-Is-The-Answer-To-Everything. He's to stay put here and not even so much as sneeze something that sounds like blood magic. I'm surprised you wanted me to spare him, Wynne. I thought for sure you'd come down hard on his practices."

"He is a Warden," Wynne tried to explain. "It is not our place to judge Wardens for the things they do out of necessity. It is not so much that I wish to see Avernus' life spared, as it is that I believe his death would solve nothing. The man is living history, and is not long for this world besides. I can empathize with that, to an albeit small degree."

"You're no spring chicken," Alistair quipped cheekily. Wynne whapped him upside the head with the back of her hand. "Ow!"

Levi, for his part, was disappointed at the lack of proof the Peak held toward redeeming his family's name, but elected to return to trading with his family and upon a little cajoling from Alistair decided to use Soldier's Peak as a place to store his goods. His brother Mikhail was apparently an excellent blacksmith, and there were facilities that the Peak had for them to use - true that the Peak needed cleaning and repair after so many years of disuse, but Levi's spirits didn't seemed dimmed by his task. Now that the Keep was no longer haunted, it could be open once again for business. Though the Ferelden chapter of the order of Grey Wardens had been decimated, Ayah could predict that once they had been rebuilt, they would be well-pleased with their fortress.

In the room with the Veil tear, Wynne had turned her attention to Zevran again. "Have you changed your mind yet? Are you willing to speak seriously?" She asked.

Zevran perked up. "Of your bosom? As you wish."

Wynne seemed exasperated by this answer. "No," she said wearily, "I do not wish to speak of my bosom."

"But it is a marvelous bosom! I have seen women half your age who have not held up half so well. Perhaps it is a magical bosom?"

"Stop — talking about my bosom!"

"But I thought you wished to speak seriously?"

"I do. I thought, however foolishly, that you might be willing to speak of your past."

"We could do that. There have been many bosoms in my past, though only few as fine as yours."

"Enough. I am ending this conversation," Wynne snapped, and the subject was finally dropped.

As they turned in for the night, most of them decided to set up their bedrolls in the few rooms that didn't have ancient corpses peppering them. Ayah chose to turn in in the hall where the Veil tear used to be, where Sten had appeared to have taken it upon himself to set up guard - or was meditating with his sword in his lap, it wasn't clear. She approached Alistair with a question that had been burning in her for some time. "Alistair, may I ask you a question?"

"Oh! Ask away," he offered, seeming surprised.

"You perform your abilities without consuming lyrium," she noted. "I was not aware it was possible for a templar to do so."

"Well, it's not a secret the Chantry likes to get out," Alistair confirmed, "since they use the lyrium addiction to control the templars and keep them in line. I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens before I took my first lyrium draught, and have never needed it. Why do you ask?"

She thought of Cullen, still caught in the web of his addiction, and wondered that she had been so blind before. It had never occurred to her that the Chantry had leashed the templars, as well as the mages, through means of lyrium. "I was wondering if you would be willing to teach me," she queried. "That is, if you would be willing to teach me how to use a templar's abilities to negate magic."

Alistair seemed hesitant. "The Grand Cleric wouldn't like it," he drawled, "but I like things that the Grand Cleric doesn't like. Tell you what, let me think about it, and I'll get back to you."

"Very well."

That night, Sandal and Wynne warded the outskirts of the keep while everyone but Sten turned in to rest. Alistair made the decision that they'd head out the following day toward Orzammar, unable to even imagine what sort of trouble Aedan had gotten himself into in their absence, and now that the Peak had been recovered there was no reason for them to stay. They had a long march ahead of them. Still, Ayah found herself too awake to rest, and took up a post next to Sten who was sitting and staring at the place that the Veil had torn, keeping guard for demons.

"Imekari ashkaari," Sten greeted, and welcomed her at his side. They kept watch together in respectful silence until Ayah finally found herself leaning on Sten's shoulder, finally falling asleep.

Chapter 15: Interlude: A Dream

Chapter Text

'A new name won't change its nature, da'len. They are not like us.'

"This way," Ayah indicated, holding the magelight off to the left. **** followed with his eyes, their liquid gold carefully and narrowly focused on the light. She slowly willed it to the right. "Now, this way. Good. Are you familiar with the Chant of Light?"

"Yes, Senior Enchanter," **** answered.

"It's Ayah. You're to call me Ayah."

"Ayah."

The sound of her name in his voice sent a bittersweet smile across her face. "You keep forgetting that I prefer to be called by my name. I must've told you twice now."

**** turned his golden stare onto her, sending a chill down her spine at their familiar glint. He was still there, only changed. It broke her to think about, made Despair inside all the louder. She studiously ignored its stirrings. "I was told that it was impolite to address the mages by their first name."

"Who told you that?" She demanded to know. "And why did you listen to them?"

"Knight-Commander Greagoir. He said it would confuse them, and make it harder for me to adjust to my new life. I am to always listen to the Knight-Commander. He is in charge of the Circle."

"Yes, he sure likes to think he is," she scoffed. "Don't forget that a Circle doesn't exist without its mages. Irving's word is just as much law as Greagoir's is. And tell me, has it been? Hard for you to adjust, I mean," she wondered.

"No. I find this new state of being . . . Agreeable."

It was the same thing Owain had said when she asked him about his Tranquility. She spied the other Tranquil in question out of the corner of her eye, ever watchful and taking notes on the proceeding before him. She'd interviewed every Tranquil at the Tower, even Owain, and each of them had a nearly identical answer. It disturbed her. "What do you find . . . Disagreeable?" Ayah asked.

**** blinked. A line in his brow furrowed in confusion. "I do not understand your question."

Ayah explained, "disagreeable, unsatisfactory, obtrusive, or otherwise upsetting in some way."

**** blinked again, and looked away, lost in thought for a moment. He looked back with utter blankness. "Nothing, Ayah. I am quite content."

Ayah was frustrated with this answer, but it didn't show. "Is there anything that could make you discontent?"

**** once again took time with his answer, such careful thought. Even before he'd been Tranquilized, he was always thoughtfully soft-spoken and prone to pensive pauses. "If the Circle were to dissolve, I would be discontented. Then I would have no home, or purpose."

"What is your purpose?" Ayah honestly wondered.

"To serve the Circle as best as I can."

Ayah looked down at her hands and disguised her frustration behind the careful teacher's mask she wore around the apprentices. "Back to the Chant. Are you familiar with it?" She asked again.

"Yes, Ayah," **** answered, and this time she smiled at the sound of her name. "Why do you ask?"

"Can you recite Transfigurations one for me?"

"'These truths the Maker has revealed to me: as there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker. They are sinners, who have given their love to false gods.' Shall I continue, Ayah?"

"No, thank you. These are simple memory tests and reflex tests. Now, I have some more questions for you."

"May I ask what these questions are for?" **** wondered curiously.

"You may. I am attempting to discover a cure for Tranquility," Ayah revealed. "Would you wish to be cured, if you were given the choice, ****?"

**** paused in his answering once more lost in thought. "I am content with my current state of being. I was never content, before now. I do not know what I would do, if I were given the choice to be anything other than what I am."

"Fair enough," Ayah surmised, and crossed her legs to the other-side, readjusting her posture uncomfortably. "Do you have any questions for me, about this work?"

"How are these interviews helping your studies, Ayah?" **** asked.

"You are helping me to understand the nature of the Fade better," she revealed.

"How? I cannot perceive the Fade any longer."

"Don't worry about it, ****. It's important for us to study aberrations to learn more about what is normal and healthy. What happened to you was—it was—" Ayah struggled to answer, and looked over to Owain who had paused in his writing to regard her, his quill poised over his parchment, waiting for her to continue. "It shouldn't have happened that way," Ayah weakly finished.

"But it did happen," **** unexpectedly insisted, and leveled her with a careful, quiet gaze.

"It—you—" she cleared her throat, and thought of her other questions. "Would you care to answer more questions for me, ****?"

"How would you care to answer some of my questions?" He asked instead. Before her eyes, his shadow on the floor began to lengthen and stretch until it became the shadow of a giant, even though he did not move. Ayah watched, uncertain of what would happen next.

"Is this . . . You're not real," she realized, and cursed under her breath. "Andraste's flaming tit*, you'd think I would've figured that out sooner," she muttered. "Whatever you really are, you had best show yourself."

**** stood and stretched, and stretched, andstretchedfar and away until Owain faded away into nothingness and only a very old, old friend remained. The room disappeared into the raw Fade, spiraling away into nothingness. ***** form coalesced until there stood an elven man, not too different from the boy she had once known as a fellow Dreamer who had helped her explore those hidden depths of the Fade in her youth. His hair fell white from his head, long and bound back in a braid identical to hers, and he extended a hand for her.

"I wasn't expecting to see you ever again," she admitted with a painful smile. The man's smile echoed her own and he reached a hand toward her. She took it and stood from her chair, and it too disappeared until there was nothing left but them and the raw Fade around them.

"I'll always find you," he promised warmly.

She walked at his side for a time as a forest grew around them by his will, starting from little seedlings beneath their feet until they grew so tall that her eye could no longer see the canopies, and all around them the world was green. Her eyes stung with tears as she took in the sight. "I've been so lost," she admitted. "So lost without them."

"You'll find them again," he assured her and squeezed her hand. "Tell me, da'len . . . Have you remembered my name?"

Ayah stared at his head in confusion. "What?"

"No, of course not," he surmised more to himself than to her, and shook his head in disappointment. "You've forgotten his name, too. I shouldn't be so surprised."

"You're—" she began to scoff, because it was ridiculous, of course she remembered his name, he was her oldest friend - but it died on the tip of her tongue. What had she named him?

"You've forgotten," he told her, somewhat sternly. "You'll remember when the time is right. I shouldn't rush things like this. It was too soon. You've barely begun."

Ayah stared down at her feet, at the whorls of energy they left in their wake spreading out in iridescent pathways leaving behind a trail of small silvery flowers that grew out of the ground in a trail. She'd seen them before - seen it all before, surely - but then why was she so confused? Why couldn't she remember his name? And she could recall Owain so clearly, but not the name of the boy she was interviewing, or the name of the Dreamer before her. Was it all a lie by the Fade? A dream from Pride, or something else entirely? A mouse's old trick?

"Don't worry so much, da'len," the elven man assured her. She stared into his eyes, a startlingly familiar shade of gray so close to lavender.

"I remember you," she told him in a broken voice, "but not your name. Nothisname. Why? Why am I—why do I feel so lost and alone?"

"You formed a world around them, and without them, that world became hollow. You centered yourself upon the crux of their devotion, and without it, you have been uprooted." He pulled one of the flowers out of the ground that had grown in her wake, and examined it closely. It dissolved in his hands into silvery dust that itself dissipated into nothing. "From whence it came, it returns," he mused.

"I know your name, I know it," she assured herself more than him. "It's—I'm . . . Ayah, aren't I?" She wondered aloud, feeling more confused than ever. The feeling was slowly slipping away, though, morphing into something else entirely that she couldn't name. "I named you once," she realized.

"To name me, would make me real," the elven man told her. "But now, it's time for you towake up."

And then Ayah opened her eyes and straightened from her position on Sten's shoulder. The qunari looked down at her with passive concern. She rubbed her eyes, and then her head, trying to remember her dream - or was it a dream? Was it a memory? Was it something else entirely? - but it faded with the Fade, slipped out of her fingers and into that calm ocean beneath the surface of her thoughts where the rest of Ayah that the brand hadn't sealed away dwelt. For just a moment, she felt like crying, but like all things it passed. All she could recall from the distant dream were echoes of half-remembered words. A promise, to always find her.Da'len.And those ever-curious golden eyes.

'No, but it's a strong start, don't you think?'