Author Note: So this is the start of my first story! Be kind, (rewind) review!
Disclaimer: All intellectual property of Dragon Age belongs to BioWare and/or EA.
The walls had become too familiar over the past four years, both comfortable and confining. Without them, she only wished to be back. But that had always been the case for Wilhelmina Amell.
She had first arrived at Kinloch Hold at only five years of age, her magic newly manifested and with the world suddenly shunning her away from playing in the sun. She despised those walls so. Sobbed into the one which her bunk was propped into, and stared aimlessly at them during her first lessons, dreaming of what lay beyond the stone and surrounding lake.
And she had left them at twenty-one, recruited into the Grey Warden Order and flung headfirst into a journey where she would be one of only two Wardens alive during a Blight and then be the first Warden to kill an Archdemon where they could still breathe after that fact.
Four years ago, First Enchanter Irving died. In his sleep, which was pleasant enough as deaths go. And with him, the freedoms granted to the Circle were thrown into uncertainty. There hadn't been someone ready to take on his mantle within Kincloch Hold, and being a Fereldan Circle, no foreign Enchanter would have had sufficient authority to truly head the mages there. So, they sent for the Warden Commander of Ferelden, hoping that she would accept the offer. Which, she did.
Wilhelmina never hated the Circle for long past her initial entrapment there. It became home, and the inhabitants a dysfunctional family. Such a family she found in the Warden Order too, and she lived more lives with them than she might have dreamed as a child staring at the walls of Kinloch Hold.
"First Enchanter?" She looked up from the book she'd been deciphering for the past hour or so, judging from the changing length of her candle, and shut it neatly on her translations. In the open doorway, a young mage clutched at the frame, his face pink from running up to her study. "There's… a courier… at the docks. The Templars wouldn't let him in because of last… time."
She recalled the last time someone had entered the Circle from outside. Claimed to be looking for sanctuary from the emerging Mage-Templar War. She'd been cut up and ashen faced, then it took four Templars and her own magic to end the wretched blood mage by the time she killed half the Tranquil. The War tried to get in, Kinloch Hold wasn't letting it happen.
"Did they send a note? Say anything?" She enquired, turning to him. Phillip, came to the Circle shortly after the Blight, has a flair for destructive potions and spirit based magics, she recalled as she took him in; a First Enchanter had to know everyone as if they were the closest of friends, or a facsimile of that.
Phillip held a hand up to take in a few healthy lungfuls of air, wriggling out his shoulders. "Braska!" He put on an awful Antivan accent. "If that paranoid mage will not come down here I will scale the wall from outside!" He paused a moment, returning to his normal voice. "I ran up here."
"I'll go see him. If you have it left in you, can you go to the kitchens and have someone bring up some Antivan brandy, a pot of black Tevinter tea, and anything they have to hand that will make a decent meal for two? I would imagine he hasn't eaten, and neither have I. Thank you." They left the study together, chatting about Phillip's studies and his last letter from his mother which had been about how his brother was looking to wed his sweetheart soon, before he ducked off toward the kitchens and she to the main entrance.
When she arrived, two Templars dragged the great doors open. The evening air swept inside, damp and unseasonably cold. "You didn't really plan on climbing the wall. It's covered in algae, you would have slipped." Wilhelmina announced at the figure a little way off as she descended the steps to the wooden docks. They were starting to ice over from the encroaching mists, a year-round sight during the night when surrounded by Lake Calenhad. Sometimes they looked like fallen clouds.
"I did bring a royal seal, in case you believed some foolhardy attempt at impersonation." The figure drew up toward her, revealing his willowy features and the tattoo that caressed the side of his face. "Mi amiga, you are looking a beautiful as ever."
"Flattery will only ever get you so far, Zevran." Wilhelmina smiled. "Come in, I informed the kitchens to get some meals sent to my study. Have you eaten?"
There was a dark chuckle. "Not so much as a bite since I decided to come here, Mina." There were cursory glances at the odd duo as they walked slowly together up the winding tower. Newness was a novelty here. "You would think they never saw an elf before."
"I don't get visitors as often as you imagine, Zev. Oghren and Felsi at Saturnalia, Nathaniel a few times during his transition to Commander. If people need to see me, I tend to be summoned. Usually by letter." The last part was emphasised. "So what brings you here? It's been four years, and you forget to write. I thought you might have missed a few Crows who managed to get the better of you."
"Ha! You think so little of me, your words wound!" The Antivan laughed, walking into her study as if he owned every inch of table and every book on the shelf. He sat down in a way which appeared haphazard but was every bit as controlled as a dance, and pulled the book left on the desk over. "Your reading habits are still boring." He pushed it away.
"I never was Wynne, Maker rest her soul." Wilhelmina sat on the comfortable chair by the liquor cabinet, which had since been refashioned into a stock of rare herbs for potion-making and alchemical research, and unbeknownst to even the Templars, her hiding space for the good wine. She pressed an indent, unlocking the dwarven made cabinet with a click of oiled cogs, mechanisms pushing it open. "So…"
"Have I tired of waiting for you to rush into my arms, abandoning all duty to make love all every waking moment?" Zevran grinned, a playful lift of his eyebrows. The gasp didn't even startle him.
"First En-" The servant barely had time to finish her utterance, her tray clattering loudly in front of the elf, remarkably landing on the desk in a way that nothing broke. She hurried with picking the food and drink off, bringing the teapot and a cup and saucer to Wilhelmina wordlessly before she gathered up the empty tray, clutching it tight to her apron. "Please don't go. I can get someone to pull a double bed up here. But if you go, the War isn't going to stay outside for very long." She babbled, every so often stepping closer to Wilhelmina.
"I have no intention of running off and letting the War in, and certainly not for sex. Could you excuse us?" She gave the servant a smile through gritted teeth, keeping it up until the study door closed behind her. "Zevran! You knew she was there!"
The elf rolled his eyes. "It was fun, and it is not hard to see - they forget the woman behind your titles." He looked over the offerings, cold cuts, chopped fruits, a cheese so soft it practically oozed over the edge of the little wooden board it sat on. He grabbed a knife and a piece of sliced bread, helping himself. "I can feel that look. So withering." He dipped the bread into a small dish of oil, taking a large bite.
"Why did you come here? It wasn't for company." She grit out, pouring the stewed tea by muscle memory. "Is something happening out there which meant the only safe courier for a message was an assassin?"
"You got no news?" He frowned, taking another bite and plucking a halved fig in one hand, a cut of ham in the other. "Of the forming Inquisition, the Mage Rebellion at large taking Redcliffe for their own? I assume you looked out the window in the last few months?"
"I received a raven with the degree of the Inquisition. And the tear in the Veil had me seeking an old friend or three. But of Redcliffe? What of Arl Teagan, and the army? Taking the Arling is an act of war, close to treason, if Alistair hasn't taken a side, a side has been chosen for him." Wilhelmina narrowed her eyes. Redcliffe stood to a darkspawn horde. What in the Void had the mages done? How far had this war taken them? Perhaps hiding the mages loyal to the Circle had been wrong, but there were children, Tranquil – those who had no stomach for blood and death, Kinloch Hold was more impenetrable than most. "What of the rebel Templars?"
"I briefly met a very talkative Inquisition scout…" Zevran trailed off, eating the fig half in one bite. "They plan on sorting them out. Let them, if they can get the Templars to broker peace-"
"Then whatever you've come here for will be all the easier. Am I correct?" He smiled and continued to eat. "Do you have a letter from Alistair?"
Zevran pulled a letter from inside his jerkin with one hand, tossing it over the room. She failed to catch it, instead having to retrieve the rolled vellum before it escaped under her chair. The First Enchanter ripped open the seal and flattened it out next to her cup and saucer.
She started to read, sipping the bitter jet black tea. Alistair had penned the letter himself, his scribe had much better handwriting. The Kings was still that of a trainee Templar, used only for the writing of shift rotations and copying the Chant.
Mina,
I'm sure Zevran has already told you, if you did not know, that the mage rebellion has taken Redcliffe.
I ask, not as your King, but as your friend, that if you think it possible, you go to the rebellion and remove them. Make peace, take those who will rejoin the Circle under your wing and kill the rebels, I don't want to know.
Save Redcliffe. I trust you.
As little bloodshed as you can.
I would send the army but the people will be caught in the middle. There's been enough of that.
You have loyal Templars, and mages. You're the only person I can think of that might be able to do this.
I received a letter. I don't know who it's from. They said that they were, I'll give it to Zevran. Anora dismissed it, but regardless, I need the Hero of Ferelden.
I know you kept the war out, but now, there are people who need you again.
Alistair
Wilhelmina sighed deeply. Wordlessly, Zevran passed the next letter. It was a torn piece from a book. Upon closer inspection, one on botany.
Next to an illustration of a prickleweed and the distinct shape of the leaves up close, was the message itself. Short, neat… it looked as if it had been written by a Tranquil. The Tranquil all wrote so precisely – before the war the Templars would receive requests from nobles to hire them as scribes, paying handsomely for their services. That is, if their runemaking and alchemy weren't more highly valued.
King Alistair Theirin,
I was present at your birth, I am now in Redcliffe.
Your mother is in great danger, but cannot see it.
A Tevinter **~#~*
The writing stopped there with a splutter of ink and a few messy fingerprints. The writer had been in a hurry, or had been caught… or simply signed it 'A Tevinter' and it was hastily sealed up. Wilhelmina clenched her jaw.
Anora might have dismissed it. If she were in her right mind, she would too. Goldanna had all but proven that whatever woman King Maric had bestowed a bastard on was with the Maker now. But Alistair would have been heavily invested enough in ousting the Rebellion from Redcliffe. It didn't make sense to send a letter like this in the hopes it reached him. It hardly made sense to reveal his mother was alive, if this was true, ten years after claiming the throne.
The writing of a Tranquil. It irritated her. Would a midwife be illiterate but able to pay a Tranquil, even for such a short letter? Could a mage that was now Tranquil have spotted his mother in Redcliffe? Apostates were known to work as healers, a pregnant woman fearing birth… Goldanna was from Redcliffe and of course, Alistair was there before being sent away to become a Templar. Wilhelmina didn't hold out much hope that the Rebellion was looking after Tranquil, there had been a few which somehow managed to survive and get to Kinloch Hold at the outbreak of war. But that stopped within a couple of months.
It was nonsensical. To get this sort of letter all the way to royalty as well! It hadn't been sealed, there wasn't a scorch from overheated wax, not even residue. She ran her hand over the torn page, trying to detect any traces of magic that might have gotten it to him. Anything. A glamour that made those who saw it find it irresistible not to get it to the King, blood magic, she wracked her brains but researching mages had made spells that could keep dirt off boots, apostates and Dalish had magic she'd not ever dreamed of prior to becoming a Warden, she looked for something out of the ordinary… But nothing. Magic always left a trace.
She even gave the paper a sniff. It revealed the faintest whiff of fennel, a common reagent used with prickleweed, old paper, and ink. Nothing even potion-wise that might be magic. "You read both. You resealed Alistair's letter, I wasn't born yesterday and I know you, Zevran. What do you think?"
The assassin glanced at her over another fig half. "I found that when you are involved, coincidences and million to one chances happen nine times out of ten. For example, allowing an assassin to live and befriending the handsome fellow." Zevran chewed on the fig half for a moment. "You found the Urn of Sacred Ashes, defeated a God incarnate, cured werewolves, crowned two kings. All of this in a year. As sceptical as you believe me to be, I believe the writer of this note."
"Shit. Always shit to complicate matters." Wilhelmina sighed loudly, reaching to the back of her liquor turned herb storage cabinet and retrieving an unopened bottle of wine. "I have some planning to do. Tomorrow… I have a Circle to rally."