Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan

He absently rubs at his wrists; even though he’s no longer imprisoned, he’s acutely aware of how she had him trapped. How she still has him trapped, really, given that for miles around is nothing but water.

Never ending weeks on end spent traveling, killing demons, closing magical tears, making sure refugees in the Hinterlands were were fed, clothed, and had shelter, fighting mages and those soldiers in the overly shiny armor in the field then making sure they don’t kill each other back at Haven, and somewhere in there trying to find time to learn the language, meant Imogen just didn’t have time to process everything that had happened to her or how absurd it all seemed. In the few quiet moments, late at night when the rest of the world slept, she would sit in her cot, stare at the burning, crackling mark in her hand laugh.

She knew the gods were cruel and liked to torment her, but … how could this be her life now?

On the bright side, the hours and hours of language lessons with Varric had been paying off. While she still had trouble understanding many things, and often misspoke or misunderstood, at least she didn’t need Melina to translate everything for her. She could get enough context in conversations to carry on herself, make more of the decisions herself instead of needing to pass them along to Cassandra.

The only times things seemed to settle was back at Haven, and even there was a blur of activity she could barely wrap her head around. At least with the efforts of that soldier… what was his name… Domnic… refugee needs were being met, the city was expanding, city guards were being trained.  To say she was thankful that he took that on and she didn’t have to worry about it would be an understatement.

He was also the only one who was able to help her make any sort of sense about what was going on in the world, what they think happened to her, and what everyone was saying about her. Which was why when she needed someone whose advice she could trust  when it came to dealing with the templars and mages, she went to him.

“You..are busy, but… I need to ask for your help again,” she said as they sat down for dinner. “the ah..” she paused a moment while she searched for the right word, “mages… in the Redcliffe. Can you come with me to the meeting?”

Dom looked up and smiled good-naturedly, seeing the Inquisitor approach. “Not too busy for you,” he said lightly. In truth he always liked talking with her; in some ways he probably ought to be intimidated by her, given her title and her position, but the past weeks working with her had shown him that, hand of the Maker though she might be, she was very much human as well. 

She was clearly giving every bit of effort in her body to doing her work as well as she could, and the effects were impressive. Haven’s community was growing strong under her encouragement and his effort, and from what he had seen when they traveled away from the camp, the battles in the field were beginning to bring some sense of stability to the Hinterlands. All this, in addition, while still learning the language which was so different from her own-- a feat he would have had no confidence in his own ability to match. And she needed the best assistance that he could offer and he was happy to throw his full effort into it as well; she deserved nothing less.

In short, she had his respect as well as his loyalty by now, in only the short time they’d known each other.

“The mages. Yes.” He knew of the collection of rebels who had congregated under Enchanter Fiona at Redcliffe Castle. A valuable set of allies, no doubt, if they could effectively negotiate. “I’d be happy to be of what assistance I can,” he said with a grave nod, rather pleased that she trusted him enough to request his advice and insight on the matter. “When did you have in mind to leave?”

“Nothing keeps you from going back- you can always return. I am sure we will survive without you for a couple of weeks.” A warm smile. She would not want to keep anyone away from their homes -  yet at the same time, she kept herself away for so many reasons she dared not voice. Her fingers traced the wood of the handrail.

Dom was completely right: going back to the Free Marches was free of political implications. But Tevinter… the South, and the chantry, always had strained relations with the Imperium and only her lack of magic and false claims of piety had kept her safe. Janna only survived in the South because she was naught but a fraud. Now, she was a foreigner in the South and estranged from the North. Everyone knew of the things she did, the things she said, the things she claimed. A heretic.

“I do not know what will expect me in Tevinter,” she admitted. Were her parents proud? would they welcome her with arms outsretched, overjoyed to see their daughter returning, even if only for a couple of days?

A shaky sigh escaped her lips and she merely shook her head. “No… things are going so well… I cannot risk putting a damper on everything. Besides, I would not want to catch anyone off guard.” She was afraid of going back, even if she desired nothing more than returning home.

He could hear the tremor of some unnamed emotion in her voice, but did not comment on it. There were things one did not ask the Herald of the Maker’s Bride, and one of those things was what might bring a tremble into her outward breath like that. But he wondered. It almost sounded as if she was afraid to go home.

That idea saddened him. His own home, though far away at present, was never far from his thoughts. It was the place where he began and where he belonged, and he would never lose that connection to it as long as he lived. He couldn’t imagine what all these years must have been like for her, disconnected among people who either distrusted or idolized her. Dom among them at times, if he was honest, on both counts.

“Not all the dead leaves are crunchy,” she answered with a shrug. “Look.” She pointed to a small patch of leaves, then promptly placed her foot on them. As predicted, they didn’t crunch. Then, she pointed out another patch, put her foot on them, and crunch. “Telling the difference is just… natural to me. But more than that, look here.”

She took his hand and led him into the bush, along the path she’d taken. As far as leaves went, the path was fairly clear. “Bushes are different than trees,” she explained. “More of a tangle of twig-branches, leaves can’t fall so well under them. More space in a tree’s branches for the leaves to just… drop.” She mimicked the motion with one hand.

“And then there’s how you place your foot,” she added. “I can hear you shemlen coming from a long way off. You… stomp.” She led him out of the bushes, exaggerating the drop of her feet, making a sound with every step. Once they were free of the bushes, she added, “Elvehn…” Unsure of how to explain it, she just… walked, placing her feet lightly, carefully. Even as she increased her speed, her steps were light, made little to no sound even as she shifted into a jog. Then she stopped, turned to face him, expression expectant.

“See?”

He followed her willingly, his natural instinct to like and trust slowly overcoming his pride and caution. And his eyebrows raised appreciatively, noting the difference between their steps. “Huh,” he said quietly, and squinted at the black leather of the boots he wore. (A Marcher style, just shy of dedicated riding boots and ready to be swung into a saddle at a moment’s notice-- thick, durable, and heavy).

After a moment’s pause for thought, he kicked the boots off and stood barefoot among the leaves, took a few steps along the forest floor. Immediately he winced; the twigs and rocks strewn over the ground hurt his feet. But he was quieter. “Like that?”

She let him lead her. Now that the heat of her anger was fading, she mostly felt exhausted and confused. Had she been fully aware, she might have found it humorous that she, an apostate and a nonbeliever was being bunked in the Chantry. As it was, she merely scowled as they passed Cullen again. A moment later, she turned back, careful not to wrench herself free of Dom’s comforting touch on her shoulder. It wouldn’t do to make him worry she was already going back on her opinion that something happening to Cullen would harm the Inquisition.

“Knight-Captain,” she said sharply, “you have no authority over me.”

He promptly shook his head. “None at all, Lady Trevelyan.”

She’d imagined a handful of responses he might have; that wasn’t one of them. With an expression that was half satisfied, half confused, she turned away, now content to let Dom take her wherever he wanted.

Dom met Cullen’s eyes over the top of Aislin’s head. The commander looked a little thrown and shaken by the appearance of this face out of his Kirkwall past, but his shoulders were square and his answer had been direct and calm and Dom was immediately and deeply grateful for that. He let his eyes carry the sympathy and apology he couldn’t voice out loud and then led Aislin quietly through the door of the Chantry, not speaking until the heavy doors had shut behind him.

“I know you are the Inquisitor because I have examined memories like yours,” the being states simply, watching them with something not unlike compassion. “Stolen by the demon that serves Corypheus.” She turns slightly, facing the glowing rift in the distance. “It if the Nightmare you forget upon waking. It feeds off of memories of fear and darkness, growing fat upon the terror.”

You’re not going to grow fat on my cousin, Solona thinks with a sudden fierce flash of anger. A Nightmare… but this description is familiar to her. The Hero of Ferelden is all too familiar with nightmares, and in driving through them with nothing but a blunt, sheer force of will when all else has collapsed in ruin. She clawed her way from the sloth demon’s dream in Kinloch, she gave her life to sorrow and agony. And the darkspawn fell. A well-placed pride. Keep that confidence, Warden. Hero of Ferelden. The Nightmare will tear you to bloody strips. You are nothing more than a mage, and I will have you at last.

Solona shakes herself and forces her attention to return to the figure before them. “The Nightmare created the Calling that the Wardens felt, didn’t it? It was false this whole time. Just a way for Corypheus to bind us all to demons so he could create an army of Wardens.”

A strange, new flicker at the edge of her consciousness drew her attention slightly away again, fire coiling its hungry tendrils around her anger where pride had once had supreme hold. A new demon tasting the edges of her thoughts. Just one more of you bastards to kill. She swears that she can feel them laughing.

“When you entered the Fade at Haven,” Justinia says, and Solona drags her attention forcibly back, “the demon too a part of you. Before you do anything else, you must recover it. These are your memories, Inquisitor.”

They’ve disappeared. Fenris shakes his head. “No. People do not just disappear. The three greatest heroes of this age did not just disappear.”

It can’t be possible. He simply refuses to accept it. The unlikelihood of the Inquisitor and the Warden-Commander both being lost aside, Elliot is not gone. Elliot would not simply vanish. Fenris would know it if something happened. He would feel it.

Would you, though, little wolf? For all your fear of magic, you’ve cautioned him, and his power is not what it could be.

“The Champion of Kirkwall did not just fall off a bridge and disappear. When you fall, you land somewhere. Where is he?” Elliot can heal any injury. He survived the arishok. He survive the destruction of Kirkwall. He will be fine.

“I am Fenris. Forgive my… abruptness. But I must find Hawke.”

Dom listens in silence to this dialogue, his head spinning a little with the flood of new knowledge. This woman, spirit, whatever she is...speaks of a demon that stole his memories of what happened at Haven. 

He prods backward in his mind, feeling for any recollection of what happened there. It’s always been a blur, nothing more than flashes; he assumed it was because the explosion hit him in the head or something similarly mundane, but what she is describing is something far more malevolent and deliberate.

He follows her gesture, which draws his attention to small plumes of light drifting through the area. Those...are memories? He takes a step forward as if to reach out to one of them, then stops, suddenly afraid of what might be revealed to him in the remembering. He looks toward Justinia--if that is who she really is, and then to Solona, more intently. He can see her determination, anger at whatever has thrust them here; he lets that bolster him, steady him. He may not understand the things happening around them, but she will. Hawke will.

Hawke, for his part, seems tenser than ever listening to the spirit address them; his already tight shoulders square with irritation. “Get on with it, then,” he snaps at Dom acerbically. “What are you waiting for?”

Dom’s lips twitch in a slight frown, but he nods, takes another step forward, then another, his fingers reaching out to brush against the shafts of light. They seem to shift in acknowledgement, to recognize and move towards him as if returning to their home, soaking in through his skin with a warmth like spring breeze in the midst of the hot dampness of the Fade air...

The reality around them seems to swirl abruptly as the memory coalesces, images forming, a scene coming together even as it reforms in Dom’s mind...

The room is an undercroft in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, a storeroom barely used by anyone. It glows with a red, unearthly fire which is wrapped tightly around Justinia’s body, lifting her off the ground as she struggles in vain. The fire is emanating from the hands of ten Grey Wardens standing in a semi-circle around her, their eyes hard and determined, immune to her pleas as she cries out.

A figure moves in the shadows at the opposite end of the room; a familiar voice rumbles. “Now is the hour of our victory.”

Corypheus emerges into the room. His huge form is lit by the deep green glow of the orb Dom saw him carrying when Haven fell, which he lifts to hold in front of Justinia. “Keep the sacrifice still.”

The fire tightens around her; her struggling becomes more desperate and her eyes light with fear. “Why are you doing this? You, of all people?!” she calls to the Wardens. They are unmoved and silent. “Someone, help me!” she cries...

...and the doors bang open. Dom sees himself, slightly indistinct in the memory’s hazy light, eyes wide and startled at what the room reveals to him. “What’s going on here?” he snaps, too surprised to second guess the objection.

It’s enough to distract both Corypheus and the wardens, just for a moment. Justinia gathers her strength and lashes out, knocks the orb from Corypheus’s grasp, sends it rolling across the floor in Dom’s direction. Dom moves, more instinct than thought, picking it up before it can roll past him-- and immediately it erupts in light. He screams with pain as the light sizzles through his hand, along his arm, bursts outward and upward and blasts the mountainside with an overwhelming explosion...

Dom staggers, crying out as the memory fades and the light dies; his hand is burning with sudden fire and he nearly falls to his knees, reaching out for one of the rocks nearby to steady himself. He feels suddenly dizzy, sick with the clarity of the memory’s significance.

My mark...they called it the mark of the Herald, but it came from him...

*****

Barris eyes Fenris warily for some moments in silence, relaxing a little as the elf seems to recover himself somewhat and apologize. Clearly Hawke means something to him.

BUT

Evidently today is National Puppy Day. So it seems quite important that I post something for Dom today. ;)