Author's Note: 05/31/16

When I first posted this story here, I didn't get as much traffic as AO3. Figuring that this those on this site held little interest in it, I ended up deleting it. A recent decision urged me to repost this story here and continue it in a drive to share it with you guys.

I'm picking up where I left off now that school is out and I have some time to write. After looking back at all the posted chapters on AO3, I realized that I wanted to edit some things to catch this story up with my current writing style. Some chapters will be very different while others will have only a few changes here and there. As I've edited and written a lot ahead of time, chapters will be posted quickly and regularly, so make sure to check back frequently for updates if you decide that you like the read.

If you have some time, please drop me a line and let me know if you're enjoying the story.

Your support makes all the hard work worthwhile.

Warnings/Genre Tags: Possible spoilers, action/adventure, drama, mystery, violence, dark fantasy, romance, love/deep friendship, sexual situations.

Pulchra Tenebris was conceived, outlined, and written before the existence of the Tresspasser DLC was revealed. It's a project that I've been working on pretty much since I finished my very first playthrough of Inquisition. I'm pleasantly shocked and surprised to see that there are certain similarities between this cannon DLC and my own story. However, for that reason, I must give a disclaimer:

Any similarities between Pulchra Tenebris and "Trespasser" are coincidental and are likely results of too much obsessive reading and theorycrafting. Still, if you have not played the DLC, there may be events in this story that some might feel are "spoilers" to Trespasser, though I think that we should be safe. I would rather be safe than sorry.

Full Summary: The world's endless wonders hold no mystery for me save one: How I might protect you - how I might prevent the inevitable tragedy ahead of us. The storm approaches. Everything will change - the land, the people, the misguided faith and ignorance that have held sway for centuries. Battles will rage. Hundreds - thousands - will fall. Though I may wish it, I cannot complete my task alone. Yet, neither can I risk losing you. So tell me, vhenan - how can I keep you safe when you are the only one who can fight beside me?

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Pulchra Tenebris

Prologue

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Excerpt from the writings of Darius Grille - Rebel, Heretic, and Traitor:

[...Date unclear...]

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That morning, the blood red sun scorched the clouds and baked the earth with savage heat as though the Maker himself was filled with fury at the events unfolding before him. On that fateful day, the blade of selfish greed slaughtered justice with indifference. Hundreds bore witness to it, but not a single voice spoke out against the deed. Smoke billowed through the air, vile and black as the souls of those who dared to call this an act of righteousness and justice. Before a motionless sea of eyes and faces, those in power got away with murder and remained unchallenged.

Now, years later, nothing has changed. The same murderers are still in power. They awaken every morning believing themselves to be untainted despite the fact that they are damned in our eyes. No one speaks of that day. They quake in fear –- terrified that they've angered our God. There is no record of their heinous deeds anywhere, even in the libraries of the largest of our cities. Those who were there, and especially those responsible, would have us believe that the event never took place, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

The jeering of the crowd. The excitement in their voices. The smell of burning flesh. And the woman, resolute and brave –- masking her terror with untold courage despite her quivering hands and shoulders. The woman who stood for selflessness - who refused to scream even when the chains around her turned a searing orange and melted into her skin.

You wouldn't think I'd remember as small a detail as her hands, but the image of her long slender fingers and the softness of her wrists has stayed with me despite the many years that have passed since that day. In the hours before dawn, I often thrash in sleep, dreaming of that softness and remembering how I clamped those small and fragile hands in irons.

The night before the execution of the Herald, I was assigned as the leader of the prison guard. I watched her, hunched and slumped against the mold-covered walls of the dungeon, and wondered what was going through her mind. Was she afraid? Was she angry? After all, many whose lives she'd once saved stood as traitors against her. I was terrified that she would cry, that I wouldn't know what to do if I saw the woman I admired display such a weakness.

Instead, she prayed.

At least, I think it was prayer. Cracked dry lips cupped and caressed syllables I'd never heard before. Elven, probably. Her voice was lower than a whisper, so quiet it could be mistaken for a breeze. The sound filled with me guilt; it clawed and scraped at my insides. I was ashamed. My sense of reason dubbed me a coward, and my craven nature bowed its head and forced me to turn away from the woman behind the bars. Something about her resolve refused to leave me be.

Watching her execution was akin to witnessing a disaster or the struggles of a battlefield. I wanted to stay away from her, to look at anything but her; yet, my eyes refused to budge. She was too engrossed in prayer to see my clumsy glances and awkward stares. Blood stained the coarse white sack that the interrogators forced upon her. Bruises littered her arms and legs. Even through the cloud of mold and mildew that permeated the air, I could smell the stench of rotting fruit the crowd had thrown at her in passing. Her hair hung in tangled hanks down her face, sliced apart until some strands were shorter than others. Skin that might have once been a beautiful ivory now hung limp over prominent cheekbones and bulging ribs.

Her trial had lasted for weeks, and in all that time she had hardly been allowed to see the light of day. Chantry officials had tortured her, beating her and starving her. It's difficult to say why. I was just an ignorant grunt, a single drop in an ocean of recruits undeserving of facts or explanations. I could only guess at the truth. Perhaps they needed for her to confess to something. Perhaps they wanted her to agree to relinquish some, if not all, of her power as Inquisitor. But how could she do that? The Chantry and the rulers of the land agreed to dissolve the Inquisition long ago. Whatever authority and power she held now stemmed from her legend and her deeds, not sanctioned rights. She led because she believed in a cause, and those who followed her did so because they believed in it.

I remember thinking this a travesty –- that this execution went against everything termed just and good. But back then, I swallowed my shame and obeyed the commands of those above me, fearful the Order would cast me out if I protested. So, I joined the masses in saying and doing nothing to stop what would become the most horrific experience of my life and the catalyst to the storm that followed…