Tracey Rutledge

Tracey snorted. “Stay in my line of work long enough, and even the pleasant surprises start to suck,” she replied. 

Samson wasn’t reacting to anything they’d given him, and given the very limited history that Samson had given her Tracey didn’t think Clemence was going to be in any danger. Their prisoner hadn’t even sized up the guards, like everyone who ended up in an Inquisition cell always did, herself included all of those months ago. She stood, and made for the door. 

When she was gone, Clemence continued gathering his supplies. “The Inquisition was only able to save a few of us,” he mused, “but perhaps it’s worth considering that the Herald has tried to save every one of us she’s met. Your friend, for example. Commander Rutherford was there, he told me that she used every healing potion she had left trying to revive him, as well as physical techniques from her world.” 

——————–

Inquisitor Rutledge didn’t slam the door to her office behind her. She closed it as calmly as she could manage, and just stood on the other side for a moment, staring at Bull with the same blank stare she’d grown up giving to teachers, bullies, and police officers. 

“You’re going to apologize to Clemence,” she said, stepping away from the door to head for her desk. This is where she was supposed to be all “leadery,” right? “You’re going to use all of that Ben-Hassrath training and make it real. First, though, you’re going to tell me one very important thing.”

Tracey ended by sitting down in a chair she hated almost as much as she hated the not-a-throne. “How in the name of Roddenberry did you know that Samson didn’t know?” 

“Why wouldn’t she save somebody worth savin’, if she could?” asked Samson. “Speclally considerin’ that she’d save the likes o’ me...” Then he blinked. “Wait, what? Her world? I missed somethin’ here. What world is there, besides this one and the Fade?”

“You’d need to ask her about that,” said Clemence. “I’ve heard things, but I can’t claim to understand any of it.”

“Well, what have you heard?” asked Samson. “Because I doubt she’ll be droppin’ back  t’ visit any time soon.”

The Tranquil shrugged. “Something about another world, on the other side of the Fade. But I may have heard wrong…”

“I don’t think so,” Samson said thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be the first thing the Chantry got wrong. And it prolly…won’t be…the last.” By now  the elfroot tincture was making him drowsy; and closing his eyes, he drifted off without another word. Clemence gently tucked the blankets around him, and left.

________________________________________________________

“Sure Boss, if you want me to apologize I will. But wanna bet me a pint of Chasind, whether that kid really thought I meant it? Cause I can almost guarantee you he didn’t.”

“As for how I could tell about Samson…didn’t you notice how his face, his body language, everything changed when the kid started working on him? He looked ten years younger. Until he started remembering what happened to Maddox…”

Bull sighed. “Look, I know you’re not gonna like my saying this…but I just can’t see this guy as the monster you and Cullen think he is. Cullen’s all judgey now because he’s going through withdrawal himself. But remember that poor bastard we found by Winterwatch Tower? He was afraid even just the blue stuff could turn him into a monster, to the point that he killed himself.”

“I’ve told you about the Ben Hassrath re-educators…how they use hypnotism combined with drugs to control people. It’s pretty obvious the Templars have been doing the same thing.”

To Tracey’s great credit, she didn’t tell Clemence to “speak for yourself” at the claim that nobody hated Samson. Her feelings towards the man weren’t exactly what one would call warm and fuzzy, after all. She stayed nearby as Clemence administered the draught, though. One never knew, Samson might be the first person ever to have an allergic reaction. Or the red lyrium in his blood might react with it. It hadn’t done anything when exposed to the blue stuff, but the red wasn’t right at all. Nothing happened, though. Clemence had to move quickly to remove the stitches as Samson’s body healed around them. The bruises on his face shrank before their eyes and vanished, and swellings where muscles had been torn returned to their normal sizes. Tracey heard a clanking noise as the guards outside started readying themselves. If he wanted to, Samson could in theory be dangerous again soon. 

“His name is Cole,” Tracey explained. “Sort of, anyway. That’s what he wants to be called, so whatever. Ghost of a kid who was killed slowly by Templars.”

“That’s not exactly what Cole is,” Clemence said. He snipped the last stitch, and began rolling up the bandages again. 

“I said ‘sort of,’“ Tracey shrugged.

“Cole is a spirit of compassion,” Clemence said. “He was unable to help the boy, and in grief copied him.” 

“Then he came to us and spoiled your surprise advantage in Haven.” Tracey smiled, but it wasn’t the friendly kind. 

Clemence suddenly stopped rolling. A small glass bottle was peeking out from between unused bandages. The healer held it up, blinking as if something wasn’t computing.

“And that would be Cole, too,” Tracey shrugged. “Drink it once the healing potion’s done its thing. It’ll make the withdrawal a bit easier to manage.” 

She wasn’t too worried about the lyrium reacting with that. Tracey had developed the Elfweed tincture for Cullen when he’d started having trouble, and it had been used already by several ex-Templars who had decided to give up lyrium. It didn’t make the pain go away, but it took the edge off. And it kept a lot of the mental problems at bay.” 

Samson  was under no illusions about the Inquisitor’s opinion of him. Clemence, like Maddox and every other Tranquil he had known, had a tendency to think kindly of others, even those who least deserved it. Among which number he did include himself…

Still, he was surprised at the efficacy of the potion the Inquisitor had Clemence give him. Although, he supposed he shouldn’t be. After all the Inquisition…even Arcanist Dagna…would have little to learn from his corpse.

The Inquisitor’s smile as she brought up Haven made him think of a Dracolisk. So, he gave her the same sort of smile right back. “Th’ trick is t’ be a pessimist,” he said with a shrug. “That way, the only surprises ya get are th’ pleasant ones.”

Which was precisely the sort of surprise he experienced, when Clemence found the second vial and the Inquisitor explained what it was for. He gave her an assessing look. Was this was some new form of subtle torture, in which she would let him think she was softening toward him, just so he’d lower his defenses?

Samson wasn’t reacting to anything they’d given him, and given the very limited history that Samson had given her Tracey didn’t think Clemence was going to be in any danger. Their prisoner hadn’t even sized up the guards, like everyone who ended up in an Inquisition cell always did, herself included all of those months ago. She stood, and made for the door. 

When she was gone, Clemence continued gathering his supplies. “The Inquisition was only able to save a few of us,” he mused, “but perhaps it’s worth considering that the Herald has tried to save every one of us she’s met. Your friend, for example. Commander Rutherford was there, he told me that she used every healing potion she had left trying to revive him, as well as physical techniques from her world.” 

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

Inquisitor Rutledge didn’t slam the door to her office behind her. She closed it as calmly as she could manage, and just stood on the other side for a moment, staring at Bull with the same blank stare she’d grown up giving to teachers, bullies, and police officers. 

“You’re going to apologize to Clemence,” she said, stepping away from the door to head for her desk. This is where she was supposed to be all “leadery,” right? “You’re going to use all of that Ben-Hassrath training and make it real. First, though, you’re going to tell me one very important thing.”

Tracey felt herself being set back down, though she still wavered a bit. That last blast from the despair demon had hit her right in the back of the head… hence the undignified carrying. 

“Right,” Sera snickered as she replaced her bow on her shoulder. “Is Dresden’s pet demon one of them too?” 

“Is it true that Cullen was the one who discovered your affair?” Dorian asked, eyes twinkling. “I imagine he needed a strong drink after that.” Sera’s snicker turned into a laugh.

Tracey counted on her fingers. “Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra in rapid succession,” she sighed. “I think Cassandra was the one who took it the worst, actually.” 

“Meh,” sniffed Sera. “That’s just because she wanted to climb the mountain herself.”

Dorian smirked. “Koslun knew better than to wait for the mountain to come to him.”

“You’re blushing!” the Elf cackled. “The HERALD is blushing!” 

“I am not!” Tracey countered.

Dorian leaned to the side to get a slightly better angle to look. “Perhaps you are a little bit,” he smirked. 

“I hate you both!” she chuckled. “And I’m not banging Bob. I’m not even sure how that would even happen. Not that I would, if I did know.” 

“I’ve read some Tevinter texts on the subject, if you need ideas.” 

“Shut up, Dorian.”

“You make all of it go away, and Thedas is fucked,” Tracey answered him. Then she turned to the now-sticky Fae. “Toot, was it? Can Mab get them back to Earth?”

“Them?” Toot’s head cocked to one side, and he wiped off his chin with one sleeve.

“Don’t you mean ‘us?‘” Michael asked, frowning.

Tracey hesitated, but she cast her eyes downward and shook her head. She always felt small when she thought about this, and she didn’t care for it. The armor never helped, either. The heavy plate armor she had refused, the Inquisition heraldry on the tents, all it did was make her feel like she was playing dress-up in her grandfather’s work boots again. 

“I mean you,” she finally said. “I told you, I’m the only one who can fix this. I’ve been here for a month, guys. I saw the Temple, I’ve seen the refugees. I’ve seen the… the bodies.” She gave a small laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “If I leave, these people are dead. All of them, everyone in this world, they don’t stand a chance against this mess. I mean, neither do I, but I have a bigger chance than they do.”

“So,” Dresden answered her. “Even if Mab had a way for us to leave right now– which by the way, I doubt that she does–you wouldn’t take it. Because if you did, a world full of people you don’t even know might die. OK,” he amended, “judging by what I’ve seen, they definitely would die. And you don’t think there’s much chance that anyone is going to survive this mess, but you still can’t  walk away.”

“And yet,” he went on, “you expect people who actually know you…who are like, you know, your friends…you think we’re going to do what you just admitted you can’t do yourself.”

“So…evidently you think a stupid green mark on your hand makes you…what? More righteous than the rest of us? That only you care enough about other people to take risks for them? Or that we aren’t good enough friends to take those risks with you?”

Her voice was starting to break a little. No one had survived the explosion, that’s what they had told her. The bodies had been nothing but bones and ash, and sometimes not even that. There was no identifying anyone, and there had been Carpenter’s bag right in the middle of it all. 

Tracey had seen the visions by the breach, the Shoulderpad Shadow and the priestess, and herself stumbling into the thick of it, except she herself had no memory of any of that. All she had were vague, dreamy images of the glowing woman reaching for her, then of the jail cell and Cassandra screaming accusations. Had the others gotten involved and killed? Had they been looking for her and gotten too close? She’d had no idea, she could only believe that they had all been killed. 

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Toot-Toot interjected. “It’s walled off here. Queen Mab is trying, but the crack I found was barely big enough for me. You won’t fit. She just wants to know you’re alive for now.” 

“IRON BULL!” Inquisitor Rutledge barely managed to get the rebuke out of her mouth before everything happened at once. Samson had a burst of strength suddenly that nobody in the room was prepared for, throwing himself at Bull. The guards moved to intervene, but the Inquisitor held up a hand to stop them. There was no way Samson could damage Bull, but in Tracey’s mind Bull deserved whatever blows he got at this point. 

What had he been thinking? Even as angry as Tracey was, she wouldn’t have said that. Especially not with… Tracey had never heard Bull be that kind of bigoted before, never as long as she’d known him. Shock. Betrayal. She actually forgot about Samson for a split second and focused all of her rage on Bull. 

Samson, for his part, never connected. His strength gave out at the last minute. If not for Clemence, he would have landed on the stone. 

Then… that wasn’t a ploy. Samson wasn’t a good enough actor for this display. Tracey’s jaw clenched. Dammit. It couldn’t have been simple. It couldn’t have been fucking simple, could it? The gods just wouldn’t allow that kind of bullshit to stand. 

Tracey entered the cell herself, crouching down next to the bed with Clemence. “Doesn’t make it right,” she told the healer, reaching into her boot to pull out a vial. “Here, use this.” 

“Healing potions are running kind of slim after that fight, boss,” Bull reminded her. “MY OFFICE!” Tracey shouted over her shoulder. “NOW!” Bull took a step back, a moment of very real concern flashing over his face. A five foot tall woman shouldn’t have induced that expression, in any other situation it would have been funny, but here and now? The Qunari nodded solemnly, but as he turned Tracey saw a glint of something in his one good eye. Ben-Hassrath did nothing without thinking it through, after all. 

“It’s my own supply,” Tracey reassured Clemence. “He won’t need the stitches.” 

Clemence nodded. He often helped with brewing potions, and was familiar with the Inquisitor’s special blend. 

“Here,” he said, uncorking the vial and holding it to his patient’s lips. “It will be all right,” he said softly. “You’ll see. The Inquisitor will find the people responsible, and they will get what they deserve.”

“She hasn’t given me what I deserve,” muttered Samson.

“Perhaps,” replied the Tranquil, “she knows better than you, what you deserve.”

Samson snorted. “She hates me. You would too, if they hadn’t…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“No one hates you. They are angry and grieving, as you are. Now behave yourself and drink this.”

Samson obeyed, as Clemence fluffed the pillows and helped him to settle back.

“You know,” Samson said thoughtfully. “You remind me of…somebody. Can’t quite recall who. But I remember seein’…a big hat.”

“Ah,” said Clemence. “That must mean he likes you. He doesn’t usually let people remember that much.”

“His name is Cole,” Tracey explained. “Sort of, anyway. That’s what he wants to be called, so whatever. Ghost of a kid who was killed slowly by Templars.”

“That’s not exactly what Cole is,” Clemence said. He snipped the last stitch, and began rolling up the bandages again. 

“I said ‘sort of,’“ Tracey shrugged.

“Cole is a spirit of compassion,” Clemence said. “He was unable to help the boy, and in grief copied him.” 

“Then he came to us and spoiled your surprise advantage in Haven.” Tracey smiled, but it wasn’t the friendly kind. 

Clemence suddenly stopped rolling. A small glass bottle was peeking out from between unused bandages. The healer held it up, blinking as if something wasn’t computing.

“And that would be Cole, too,” Tracey shrugged. “Drink it once the healing potion’s done its thing. It’ll make the withdrawal a bit easier to manage.” 

Tracey’s eyes narrowed at him, and her arms crossed. “My advisors say you might still have a chance at not being a giant bag of dicks, but playing dumb is not helping,” she scoffed. “What, did you just not care beyond the one Tranquil you saved?” 

For Clemence’s sake, she didn’t want to discuss it. Even considering how the Tranquil were, it seemed heartless to just talk openly about it all. Of course, Clemence wasn’t bound by that concern.

“All but a few of my fellow Tranquil were killed,” the man calmly replied, unwrapping a bandage from Samson’s ribcage. The disgust on Tracey’s face flickered into something sadder when she heard Clemence say it. He was so blasé, as if he were discussing the morning news over tea or something. “Their skulls were used to make the oculara.” 

Ah, there was that hot feeling in her chest again. Tracey had been reduced to kneeling behind the hut where they’d found the skulls, vomiting up the dried fruit she’d had for breakfast that morning. Varric hadn’t been much better, and Solas had dissolved into a string of vehement Elvhen that Tracey hadn’t needed translating. The find had been one of the deciding factors in her rebellion against the fledgling Inquisition, driving her to Redcliffe Castle and the horrors inside. 

“I’m sure you’ve seen those,” Tracey hissed. Her voice practically dripped acid. “Gods know they’re all over Thedas, can’t climb a hill without finding one. Don’t tell me you didn’t know. There’s no way Corypheus’ honored general could have missed it.”

“Oh well,” said the Iron Bull, who had shouldered his way through the guards to stand at the Inquisitor’s side. “You know, it’s not like they were doing much with their heads anyway.” 

As the bystanders gaped at Bull in horrified disbelief, the wounded man rose to his feet with unexpected force, shoving the guards aside and lunging right past the Inquisitor, toward Bull. Raising his fist, he aimed a haymaker at the Qunari bastard’s jaw. However, before it connected he became suddenly aware that the room was spinning. He reeled and would have outright collapsed if Clemence hadn’t caught him and gently eased him back to bed.

“You sonofabitch,” growled the Red Templar. “This lad here…and Maddox, and every Tranquil I’ve ever known…have more in their heads than ya’ll ever have in that empty space y’ got between the horns!”

“Hush now,” Clemence said calmly, pushing him back down. “You’ve opened up the stitches in a couple of places. Just rest easy, and I’ll have them touched up in no time.” He dabbed with one hand at the blood trickling down Samson’s side, while with the other, he wiped away tears Samson didn’t even know were welling in his eyes. 

“Yes, I’ve seen the skulls,” he rasped, glaring up at the Inquisitor. “I’ve looked through ‘em. Hell, I’ve even found some of the fuckin’ shards. I thought the Ocularum were more of those old Elven relics the Tevinter bastard had us looking for. The Avvar do call the shards Elfstones…”

He closed his eyes, as the tears spilled over and ran down his stubbled cheeks. “Maker forgive me…” 

“Hush,” Clemence said again, a bit more forcefully. “This time it’s not your fault.”

Bull had suddenly found his own boots to be the most fascinating thing in that small, crowded cell. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said at last, in a surprisingly small voice for a man his size.

What had he been thinking? Even as angry as Tracey was, she wouldn’t have said that. Especially not with... Tracey had never heard Bull be that kind of bigoted before, never as long as she’d known him. Shock. Betrayal. She actually forgot about Samson for a split second and focused all of her rage on Bull. 

Samson, for his part, never connected. His strength gave out at the last minute. If not for Clemence, he would have landed on the stone. 

Then... that wasn’t a ploy. Samson wasn’t a good enough actor for this display. Tracey’s jaw clenched. Dammit. It couldn’t have been simple. It couldn’t have been fucking simple, could it? The gods just wouldn’t allow that kind of bullshit to stand. 

Tracey entered the cell herself, crouching down next to the bed with Clemence. “Doesn’t make it right,” she told the healer, reaching into her boot to pull out a vial. “Here, use this.” 

“Healing potions are running kind of slim after that fight, boss,” Bull reminded her. “MY OFFICE!” Tracey shouted over her shoulder. “NOW!” Bull took a step back, a moment of very real concern flashing over his face. A five foot tall woman shouldn’t have induced that expression, in any other situation it would have been funny, but here and now? The Qunari nodded solemnly, but as he turned Tracey saw a glint of something in his one good eye. Ben-Hassrath did nothing without thinking it through, after all. 

Tracey snorted at Michael’s amusement, and the suggestion that came with it. “Of course,” she tried not to yell. “It wasn’t enough to wake up with a cursed hand and the fun of being the literal only person with the ability to save a whole planet I know nothing about, was it? Maybe toothpicks would be safer, if the knives mean I have to start working for a god I don’t even li-AAAAAHHHH!” 

It wasn’t a scream that came out of her mouth, it was more of a choking duck call that was paired with a small jump backwards. The fuck was that? THE FUCK WAS THAT? 

It… he, now that he was a foot in front of her face and threatening her with a Narsil-shaped letter-opener, she could tell this was a he… was about a foot and a half tall, and dressed in gear that was half altered Ken doll clothing and half repurposed garbage. It looked like Terran garbage, though. Tracey could see purple hair peeking out from under the golf ball, and a face that belonged on a supermodel. 

The wings were what bugged her, though. The pixie man had a wingspan of nearly two feet, four transparent things that made him look like a possessed dragonfly. And he was glowing silvery-blue. And he was shouting at her as if he were about five feet taller than he actually was. 

Tracey couldn’t form a reply at this point. She just poked her head around the pixie to raise a disturbed eyebrow at the wizard.

“I don’t think Sanya ever felt obligated to swear any sort of fealty,” said Michael, as calmly as if there was not a possessed dragonfly hovering in front of Tracey’s face, menacing her with a letter-opener.

“Stand down, Toot,” said Dresden. “There’s bread and honey by the fire, if you’re hungry. No pizza here. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “they could probably learn to make it. I think they’ve got all the ingredients.”

Turning back to the unwilling Herald, he went on, “Michael’s right, Trace. You don’t have to believe what he does, to use the knives. I’ve been left in charge of  swords here and there. Nobody would ever accuse me of being a churchgoer. I think maybe what you were hoping was we could just make all this go away.” He sighed. “I know the feeling, believe me. But it doesn’t work that way. Sorry…” 

And then, as if it was an afterthought, he added, “Oh, and by the way, Toot…how the hell did you find us?”

In between bites, with honey drizzling down his chin, Toot looked up and said. “Mab sent me.” 

“Them?” Toot's head cocked to one side, and he wiped off his chin with one sleeve.

“Don't you mean 'us?'” Michael asked, frowning.

Tracey hesitated, but she cast her eyes downward and shook her head. She always felt small when she thought about this, and she didn’t care for it. The armor never helped, either. The heavy plate armor she had refused, the Inquisition heraldry on the tents, all it did was make her feel like she was playing dress-up in her grandfather’s work boots again. 

“’You’re a clever one, aren’t you? Clever as they come, I imagine,’“ The accent was London academia, though the voice was still that of a teenaged boy. “’That was masterfully done.’ He found you after the engineers rejected you. Everyone rejected you…”  “Cole,” Tracey interrupted him, her voice taking a warning tone. “That’s private, you know that.” 

“It’s so loud, though,” the spirit mused sadly. “Everyone’s so loud today.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Tracey put an arm around Cole’s shoulders for a small hug. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take a break for a while? You need breaks, you know. You have to be taken care of too.” 

“Too much hurt today,” Cole shook his head, a bit harder than Tracey thought was needed and for a bit too long. “I… Ooh…” He looked up for a second, a small smile aimed at Tracey, and the boy was gone. 

Tracey looked through the small corridor, to the side where yet another set of stairs led to basements she got lost in and ahead to where Solas was taking notes while reading one of his older-than-hell giant tomes. In an instant, she decided she didn’t want to talk to him. Go not to the elves for advice, the old joke said. It wasn’t even from this universe, but it still seemed to apply sometimes. Besides, it wasn’t advice Tracey needed. It was… She didn’t know what it was she needed. 

Tracey decided that she needed to not be dressed like a Noble. Nobles did stupid shit, didn’t they? She headed back to her quarters, where it only took a few minutes for her to be back in something resembling sane clothing: a pair of plain breeches, a boring (but comfy) tunic, and a hoodie which was sporting more patches and repairs than any sweater back home would have been allowed to have. It was the sort of outfit she only wore here, when she wasn’t expected to look all Nobley and wasn’t expecting an attack.

She took a moment to watch Skyhold from her balcony, all of those people who were depending on her, believing in her to protect them. That thought scared her more than Corypheus did, especially since she’d done such an awful job of protecting them back in Haven. And to think she used to love the smell of meat cooking on a wood fire…

The sun glinted off of Cole’s hat, where he was quietly talking to the top of a head that looked like it belonged to the apothecary. Tracey frowned. Once again, Cole was being nicer than anyone else was. Tracey made a growling noise, said something that she was very thankful no one was around to hear, and headed downstairs. 

She saw Cullen leaving the dungeon entrance just as she stepped outside, but he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her. She nodded a greeting to the guards, and headed down. 

Samson was talking to Clemence. She could hear him through the door, his tone sounding disdainful to her. Inquisitor Rutledge stepped into the dungeon while Clemence responded. 

“Most Tranquil are. At least…those that survive,” the man said.

“Not everyone gets to have a big bad kingpin protecting them,” the Inquisitor added. She leaned against the bars of the empty cell next to Samson’s. “We’ve only managed to save a few from your ‘living god.’” 

Clemence opened the doors to the cell, nodding something at Tracey she didn’t understand. “Just so you know,” the Inquisitor said. “You try anything, there are guards outside who’ll turn you into shiny red paste before you even get to the gates.” 

Samson’s Lowtown Kirkwall accent was probably what made him sound disdainful. He certainly didn’t feel that way toward Clemence. The Tranquil’s unobtrusive kindness was every bit as cooling to his frayed nerves as the poultices and tinctures were to his cuts and bruises. For Clemence he felt only gratitude…and unworthiness. Much as he’d always felt with Maddox.

However…the Inquisitor was another story. “What am I gonna try?” he asked, in a definitely disdainful tone. “Doubt I could stay on m’ feet long enough fer the guards to bother. They had to hold me up in front o’that fancy throne o’ yers.”

He thought for a moment, frowning. “What did y’ mean, that y’ could only save a few from…him?” Both disdain and fear were evident in the way he pronounced him. 

For Clemence’s sake, she didn’t want to discuss it. Even considering how the Tranquil were, it seemed heartless to just talk openly about it all. Of course, Clemence wasn’t bound by that concern.

“All but a few of my fellow Tranquil were killed,” the man calmly replied, unwrapping a bandage from Samson’s ribcage. The disgust on Tracey’s face flickered into something sadder when she heard Clemence say it. He was so blasé, as if he were discussing the morning news over tea or something. “Their skulls were used to make the oculara.” 

Ah, there was that hot feeling in her chest again. Tracey had been reduced to kneeling behind the hut where they’d found the skulls, vomiting up the dried fruit she’d had for breakfast that morning. Varric hadn’t been much better, and Solas had dissolved into a string of vehement Elvhen that Tracey hadn’t needed translating. The find had been one of the deciding factors in her rebellion against the fledgling Inquisition, driving her to Redcliffe Castle and the horrors inside. 

Magical Mythbusters

Like, the world of Avalon has it’s own TV and reality shows and one of those is a “mythbusters” type show.

“Today we’re going to see if you really can summon an Eldrich being with a mirror and candle!”

“Well, that was loud.”

“Turns out, Dragons are fireproof on the inside! Myth BUSTED.”

Oops. They were safe from demons, but not those fucking Prowlers that just popped up out of nowhere. Little bastards were like cockroaches. Where there was one, there were bound to be others.

This time there were three of them. Between Sera, Dorian and him, they made short work of the little fuckers.

“Right,” Sera snickered as she replaced her bow on her shoulder. “Is Dresden’s pet demon one of them too?” 

“Is it true that Cullen was the one who discovered your affair?” Dorian asked, eyes twinkling. “I imagine he needed a strong drink after that.” Sera’s snicker turned into a laugh.

Cole was following Tracey out of the main hall, past people who had lost interest already in what was going on. She got a couple of nods, and one bow from a masked dandy who had already proposed marriage twice in the last month. Josephine said he was a high-ranking Noble of some kind, but Tracey didn’t remember his name. What the man thought he was going to get out of THAT pairing, Tracey didn’t want to think about.  “Every douche I’ve ever known has had some kind of tragic backstory that he claimed made it okay to hurt the people he did,” Tracey grumbled. Cole’s head turned to one side a bit, face blank. He didn’t look as if he understood, but Tracey knew that didn’t mean anything. Cole never had mastered human facial expressions. 

“I’m sorry, Cole,” she sighed. “I didn’t mean to snark at you, it’s just…” She shrugged, and opened the door to the rotunda. 

“You hurt too,” Cole replied, still following her. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Listen, if you’re worried about him, why don’t you slip him a bottle of elfweed tincture to help take the edge off of his withdrawal symptoms?”

Back in his cell, Samson looked up at his former colleague and bunkmate. “Why didn’t y’ just kill me when y’ had the chance?”

“Too easy,” said Cullen. “A quick kill would have brought me no satisfaction. Nor would a quick death come anywhere close to making up for what you did in Haven…let alone to your own men. Who believed in you. Who would have followed you anywhere…”

“Like I just told the Inquisitor, Commander…that’s none o’ your business. It might’ve been, if ya’d been there when I was on the street in Kirkwall, and needed a friend. But y’ were too busy kissin’ Knight-Commander Meredith’s ass.”

Cullen winced. “We were trying to restore order…”

“As was I, with what little was left o’ me.” He sighed. “Y’ know… y’might’ve come lookin’ fer me, when the Right Hand recruited ya. It wouldn’t have been too late for me, then…”

“Commander Cullen…” A soft voice spoke from the doorway. It was Clemence, one of Apothecary Adan’s Tranquil assistants. “I need to change the prisoner’s bandages. And…” he added gently but firmly, “he needs rest.”

Glad of the excuse, Cullen turned on his heel and left the cell.

Samson looked up, as the young man bathed and re-bandaged his wounds. “Y’ don’t hate me the way the others do,” he observed. 

“I am Tranquil,” Clemence answered. “We hate no one.”

“Ah. I should’ve guessed. You…remind me of someone.”

“Maddox, yes,” said Clemence. “Perhaps that is why I was assigned to you. But,” he added, “Commander Cullen doesn’t hate you. I suspect he feels guilty.”

Samson snorted. “Well, aren’t you the sharp-eyed one? But then so was Maddox…”

“It’s so loud, though,” the spirit mused sadly. “Everyone’s so loud today.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Tracey put an arm around Cole’s shoulders for a small hug. “Tell you what. Why don’t you take a break for a while? You need breaks, you know. You have to be taken care of too.” 

“Too much hurt today,” Cole shook his head, a bit harder than Tracey thought was needed and for a bit too long. “I... Ooh...” He looked up for a second, a small smile aimed at Tracey, and the boy was gone. 

Tracey looked through the small corridor, to the side where yet another set of stairs led to basements she got lost in and ahead to where Solas was taking notes while reading one of his older-than-hell giant tomes. In an instant, she decided she didn’t want to talk to him. Go not to the elves for advice, the old joke said. It wasn’t even from this universe, but it still seemed to apply sometimes. Besides, it wasn’t advice Tracey needed. It was... She didn’t know what it was she needed. 

Tracey decided that she needed to not be dressed like a Noble. Nobles did stupid shit, didn’t they? She headed back to her quarters, where it only took a few minutes for her to be back in something resembling sane clothing: a pair of plain breeches, a boring (but comfy) tunic, and a hoodie which was sporting more patches and repairs than any sweater back home would have been allowed to have. It was the sort of outfit she only wore here, when she wasn’t expected to look all Nobley and wasn’t expecting an attack.

She took a moment to watch Skyhold from her balcony, all of those people who were depending on her, believing in her to protect them. That thought scared her more than Corypheus did, especially since she’d done such an awful job of protecting them back in Haven. And to think she used to love the smell of meat cooking on a wood fire...

The sun glinted off of Cole’s hat, where he was quietly talking to the top of a head that looked like it belonged to the apothecary. Tracey frowned. Once again, Cole was being nicer than anyone else was. Tracey made a growling noise, said something that she was very thankful no one was around to hear, and headed downstairs. 

She saw Cullen leaving the dungeon entrance just as she stepped outside, but he was far enough away that he couldn’t hear her. She nodded a greeting to the guards, and headed down. 

Samson was talking to Clemence. She could hear him through the door, his tone sounding disdainful to her. Inquisitor Rutledge stepped into the dungeon while Clemence responded. 

“Most Tranquil are. At least…those that survive,” the man said.

“Not everyone gets to have a big bad kingpin protecting them,” the Inquisitor added. She leaned against the bars of the empty cell next to Samson’s. “We’ve only managed to save a few from your ‘living god.’” 

Tracey couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion that she, of all people, might be a virgin. “Yeah, me a virgin,” she mocked. “Rutledge women and virginity… we don’t…” Then she collected herself. No, there were more important things to deal with here.  “If you locked one of us up and told us we couldn’t fuck, set a bunch of ‘Templar’ soldiers to tell us that we were dangerous demons, we’d probably light your ass on fire too. And everyone who told you that was a good idea. Hell, I can’t even promise what my gramma would have done if you’d called yourself that around her. Probably would have involved a bigger gun than you’ve got.”

Tracey glanced down to see the biggest spider she’d ever seen approaching. She raised an eyebrow at Raleigh, the eyebrow that had a grey barbell on it. “What, you’ve never seen a spider either?” she asked. She stomped on the ground once, and the tarantula reared two sets of legs in the air. A hissing sound came from the creature, that was new. She’d never seen a spider do that before. Two more stomps, the vibrations in the ground hinting at something bigger than she was, and the spider turned to scurry away.  “Most are smaller than that one, though big ones aren’t as likely to be dangerous,” Tracey informed him. “If you see any small ones, don’t get bitten. Damn near everything is poisonous here, from what I’ve heard.”  Tracey kept walking towards the water, keeping a sharper eye out for wildlife. 

“Yes, I’ve seen spiders,” Samson retorted irritably. “Small spiders. Spiders as big as a child’s pony. Spiders the size of a plow horse. You know to look out for the big ones though, and they’re hard t’ miss. But that one…there’s just something wrong about it. All that hair. And the hissing…” He shuddered, and was thoroughly embarrassed that he did so. Which of course only made things worse.

“Look, I’m not sayin’ it was right, how mages were treated.  I did mention I was kicked out of the Order not just fer disagreein’, but fer outright disobeyin’ the rules. After I was kicked out, I still did what I could, helpin’ runaway mages get out of town. People said I only did it for silver to buy lyrium; but passage on a ship costs money, and I had none.”

“But that Anders fellow…he didn’t just kill Templars and clerics when he blew up the Chantry. He killed a lot of innocent folk, just goin’ about their business in the neighborhood.”

“I wasn’t the only kid who got dumped off at the Chantry, and ended up as a Templar. We’re brought up fer that. Fightin’s the only thing I was ever good at. Couldn’t even read ‘til I was almost eleven.” 

People never changed, even in the so-called Modern Age. When the drought came when Tracey was ten, the pastors had blamed the Rutledges. When the tornado took out the biggest church in the county? Their fault. The 4.2 earthquake that had shaken her high school but done zero actual damage? Jesus threatening to destroy the community for their tolerance of Paganism. Every lost pet, damaged tombstone, and badly thrown baseball hitting a Christian’s window in Sedalia, it was all attributed to one of the Rutledge women. 

Yours does. 

Two years ago… hell, even one year ago, the retort would have fallen from Tracey’s lips without conscious thought. It felt like decades ago, now, didn’t it? Combat boots stomping through the grease puddles on a garage floor, arranging model water molecules on the floor outside of Pertwee’s office with a “wet floor” sign. 

Pertwee who was dead. Pertwee who had played the role of her father so well that even she had started to believe it, who had been felled by a Red Templar in Haven. A Red Templar who had been led and corrupted by the junkie in front of her now. 

Tracey rolled her eyes at Samson. The silence that had fallen in the hall at his insult was broken only by a dim laughter in the back, and a wide hat bobbing. Oh good, Cole had heard the inside of her head again.  “I really hope that wasn’t your best insult,” Inquisitor Rutledge sighed. “That was weak, seriously pathetic. But, your choice is made.” She smiled at Cullen. “He’s all yours, Commander. If he gives you any trouble, just hand him over to Dagna or something.”

Tracey wondered how hard it would be to find Dresden, or Butters. Or even Morgan. She wanted to talk to someone who knew her, and not the Herald of Andraste, or the rouge Knight of the Cross. Maybe she just needed to go hug Bob’s skull and try to get him to say something distractingly rude towards her.

 Lowering his eyes, the prisoner said nothing more as the guards half-supported, half-shoved him all the way back to his cell. Both of them lost people in Haven too.

Cole materialized at Tracey’s elbow, as the crowd dispersed. “A small boy crying on the Chantry steps,” he murmured. “A sister opens the door at sunup. ‘Maker’s mercy. How long have you been sitting there?’ He doesn’t know. He’s five years old. ‘She said she’d be back,’ he tells the sister. But he knew all along she was lying.” 

He watched as the guards gave the prisoner a last shove, through the doorway that led to the dungeon. “He insulted you the best he could. His heart wasn’t in it…”

"I'm sorry, Cole,” she sighed. “I didn't mean to snark at you, it's just...” She shrugged, and opened the door to the rotunda. 

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