Before Thedas

I've been a daydreamer for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, my mother would have to pull me out of the way to keep me from walking into things or from crossing the street without looking. She averted all manner of other disasters just by keeping an eye on me. With all the window-gazing I was prone to do, finishing high-school says something about my determination. While Mom worried about my perceived lack of social activity in elementary, I was all good to play with my two friends. Usually we played football or held dodgeball matches during recess.

They probably regretted the day they allowed me to get a laptop, because I was glued to the screen for entire days. Showers and sleep were still part of my routine, so I wasn't like the addicts who'd rather pee in a bottle than go to the toilet. My other hobby was watching House MD, Grey's Anatomy and other doctor shows. Good thing I'm not squeamish about blood.

Gaming was more my father's thing. After my parents got divorced, I'd still visit him every weekend, and he'd let me do my own thing on my laptop. He played the heavy duty shooters and the Defiance-esque games and everything, I sat holed up in my room playing the Sims. I'm sorry, I meant torturing the Sims. No shame here, it's what we all do.

His computer was a custom made thing with fans that could help lift a plane off the ground; my laptop was a small thing on its last legs by the time RPG's became a thing.

Oh, and yeah, I was around when MSN rose and fell. I'm 22. Yes, that age where you realize that you're not the force that keeps the universe going. Or life. Or anything, really. I studied accounting, miraculously found my first job in that field, and botched it within six months. They kept me on for another three while looking for my replacement. Joy of joys. The second job wasn't much better. Or should I say, I wasn't much better.

Change of plans. Instead of looking for an accounting job, I took the first job within reach: washing dishes in a restaurant. I'd been washing dishes at home for years, which is obviously different from washing dishes in a restaurant, but whatever. It was an instant success. It might have been boring as Hell, and sometimes acted as a stage for Hell in my daydreams, but it got bread on the counter and a place to live in.

I completely forgot to mention how having a father with autism and ADHD hooked me up with autism and ADHD. My mother, and all the stepfathers that came and went, had no fucking idea how to deal with that. I was a total pushover, scrambling around to please everyone, ignoring my own feelings and denying my own problems because my mother and stepfather kept telling me that I was making the problems. Thanks a lot, Mom.

Paranoia is my middle name. For whatever reason, sometimes it jumps out and convinces me that people are talking about me while I know perfectly well that the world doesn't revolve around me. Maybe it's undiagnosed narcissism. Maybe it's delusions of grandeur.

Or maybe it's just all the Red Lyrium underneath Kirkwall. Or the blood magic.

Because one day, I came back from another exhausting 12-hour day, took a shower and decided against better judgment to game a little before bed. I'm pretty sure I woke up with keyboard imprints on my forehead at five in the morning, with a blue screen o' death demanding attention, while rain was pouring in through the cracked window. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget the burglar. With a gun.

I think he was twitchy or something, because he spooked when I slammed my elbow against my desk as I fumbled to my feet. Next thing I knew, there was a bang, a flash, and piercing pain cracking through my skull. Getting shot in the head isn't nice. Screaming my head off because it hurts a lot isn't nice. Getting shot in the head twice while a criminal kicks you in the ribs and tells you to shut the fuck up isn't nice, either.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 05:00 AM

'Waking up' in an apartment not out of place in Sparta the movie is much more fun, but not as much fun as waking up in your own house after dreaming the head shot fiasco. The room I woke up in was blah, even when the sun only just peeked through slitted windows. It was small and nearly empty and spoke of a no-nonsense person's reign. A single bed shoved against the wall, covers tangled on the floor because I'd flailed my way out of them. A crude wooden nightstand with two drawers and a bare surface. A closet on the other side, a rack with three levels next to it. Sunlight reflected off metal. Some kind of bizarre decoration?

Wait a minute. If I got shot in the head, where's the pain? Touching my head as carefully as I can, I tangle my fingers in my hair and search for blood, wounds, bullet fragments, anything. Hair brushes over my shoulder when I pull it aside-

My hair hasn't been long since I was six. It hasn't been blonde since I'd started dyeing it brown at thirteen, either. It's soft and smooth, not crusted up with gore and sweat. The single bed doesn't look like a hospital bed. No machines, no IV, no blaring alarms because I fell out of bed and accidently detached a dozen of life-supporting tubes and what the fuck is that pot doing on the ground?

This is bad. This looks every bit like a room that was supposed to look homely, but failed disastrously and knows it. It screams mental institution. Fuck. I look down at my hands. If I'm really in a mental institution, my nails will be short to the point of having bled when they were clipped. My friend's suicide attempt has taught me that much. I look down at my hands

I'M NOT LOOKING DOWN AT MY HANDS.

My own hands are small, because I'm a small person. Or I was a small person. I'm taller now. But me isn't me and I'm ridiculously tall and bulky. Bulky. I used to work out, lifting weights, but this body doesn't belong to the Grethilda (yours truly) who deadlifted and squatted 25kgs thrice a week. This body belongs in Behind Enemy Lines.

Oh God no, I've been in a 22-year long psychosis. I've been living in a padded cell for my entire life without even being aware of it. Oh God, what if I was in prison, which would explain my buffness, and they used me as a guinea pig for experimental brain transplantation or something. I believe that the you that is you is right at home in your brain, no soul or other spiritual attachments. Which means that a brain transplant transfers the you that is you into another body. Surely doctors believe me the same. Which means guards, locked doors, prison bars.

Unless they found a way to transplant the memories of someone who'd never broken a law in their life into my head. It makes a frightening amount of sense. Destroy the criminal's mind, transplant their brain into a criminal who's memories don't allow for suppression, or a brain dead person, or a suicidal person, and pray for nurture over nature.

Wherever I am and whatever they did to me, I'm not staying around to face the aftermath.

As any sane person who wants to escape would do, I started snooping.

Not that looking around did me any good. The wardrobe revealed a few shirts, tunics, whatnot. There was only one skirt. No dress. Something that looked like leggings, meticulously folded and sorted color. By color. Whoever did that is insane. Wait, if this is a mental institution, it's not that weird. Orderliness and all that. And I have to admit it's easy on the eyes.

But what's with the bright colors? Hospital clothes are drab and boring and calm. The brightest I've seen are bright yellow hospital gowns on Suzanne Young book covers. About fictional mental institutions. Gotta love the irony.

So what's this? What's with the god-awful bright yellow hexagon thing on a freaking red shirt? The thin yellow lines scream against the red background. I hold it in my hands and brush my thumb over the fabric. Rough cotton, sturdier than the shirts I buy at convection stores. Bigger than my size, too. Still… maybe it's one of the oversized shirts I used to sleep in? A second-hand buy to snuggle in at night? The skirt at least tells me that I've hijacked a woman's body, or the body of a cross-dresser. Which would be fine, too, apart from the 'do I pee standing or sitting down now' dilemma.

Anyway, thinking about cross-dressing finally gets me to look further than my hands. She has scars. There are burns that haven't healed well, and thin lines on her legs and arms that hint at knives being involved. Something took out a good chunk of her right calf.

Son of a bitch, they torture people here. If my legs and arms look bad, what will my face look like? Someone give me a fucking mirror.

There's a bathroom, with a hole in the ground for a toilet at the end (ew), a sink to my left and a bathtub to my right. Everything looks like it was crammed in and is now stuck, to forever stand silent vigil long after their owner gets violently murdered by these crazy people that brought me here. The walls are plastered in the same drab beige as the rest of the place.

There's a mirror above the sink, and with leaden feet, I take a step toward it. OK, I can do this. I should do this. Knowing what I look like will make it easier to get the fuck out of this place. Gripping the stone sink (that's odd, isn't it?), I pull myself in sight of the mirror.

Good glorious god, are you fucking kidding me?

Eyes so vividly blue they practically leap off the mirror. Frown lines around those eyes, dark circles underneath. Bristly eyebrows, mouth curved down in a permanent sneer. Framed by long, shiny blond hair.

"Shit. Oh shit," a melodious voice says, with hysterics underneath. I dig my nails into my palms so I don't laugh or scream. Her voice is more beautiful than mine could ever hope to be, because I've had partial vocal cord paralysis since I'd been born, resulting in a creaky hoarse voice that I hated. Surgery had made it better, but not like this.

"At least I'm not in a mental hospital or a padded cell." I mutter to the me-who-is-not-me. New me's voice sounds low and somewhat sharp. My new voice, apparently. The bad thing is: I recognize it. Had I mentioned yet that I've played Dragon Age? The second installment is my favorite game, because who doesn't love Hawke?

Hint: I'm not Hawke. I didn't even get lucky enough to get stuffed into Merrill's or Isabela's body or even some random NPC. By now, I would've been happy to have hijacked Verania. Or Hadriana, Magister/Slaver situation notwithstanding. Hell, Bethany would've been glorious. Even Carver would've been fine, acute transsexuality aside. I'd just hole up somewhere and make friends with Krem by the time Inquisition rolls around.

I'm pretty sure I haven't mentioned yet that I'm 100% pro-mage, to the point that my father peered at my screen with a frown on his face, asking me if the burning church was a good thing because I was cheering. Yeah, I'm that kind of player. The leave-your-morals-at-the-launch-screen player. The kind of player that has done both a Darkest Timeline and a Kill Everyone playthrough. The characters are real to me until the screen goes black.

I think this might be punishment for my blatant disregard of innocent lives.

Something hums on the peripheral of my mind, a slow seeping song that tugs at me. Sadly, it's not because I'm a renegade mage. I stomp back to the bedroom and open the other door, to what's apparently a small living room. Oh, and I have a kitchen. I know how to cook, so I can cook for myself. And I'll probably be all by myself for the rest of my borrowed life. Yay.

Unless you count Templars as company.

One last thing before I start screaming in absolute horror, and praying to Andraste and the Maker and any Old God that wants to listen (though five are out because they're dead.) I follow the song and end up at a weapon rack. There's another rack next to it with minimalist armor. It has no decorations save for the Templar sword. Joy. What's more disconcerting is the sword in the stand.

I pick it up, and the hum becomes louder and more insistent, as does the song. Where first there were distant nonsensical chill-inducing whispers, now I make out a word or two. They're underlined by a lazy thrum that might just be a heartbeat of something big.

Fallen… endure… wait… found…

Er… this is creepy as fuck.

Warmth seeps from my fingers into the rest of my body. Obviously, Hawke and company have made the trip to the Deep Roads. Shit, I have absolutely no idea if Hawke's a man, a woman, or even a mage. And which sibling is alive and who died? I guess I'll ask my assistant when I get to it. Nothing will faze her, that I know for sure.

Because the sword I have in my hands? It's made out of Red Lyrium. And then I do scream. I clamp my hand between my teeth as to not alert anyone.

Though I'm sure the Templars are used to the madness that is Meredith fucking Stannard by now.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:32 AM

It isn't as bad as I thought it would be. When I finally emerge from my apartment in the Templar barracks, probably way too late but hey I'm in charge here so who the fuck gives a shit, I'm wearing armor (thank you, Elsa, my dearest Tranquil assistant, for your unblinking lecture about where bits and pieces go) and I brought the Red Lyrium sword. If I can sneak away, I'll drop by Hawke's and get Sandal to look at it. Anything to get the song out of my head. I wish I could go by Anders's afterward to get looked at myself, but I don't really feel like facing a spirit of Justice. Even if I'm technically on his side.

Wait. I'm in Meredith Stannard's body. But I'm not Meredith Stannard. I'm not from the Fade. What does that make me? A spirit? A demon? Just another obligatory Modern Girl In Thedas? Speaking of Meredith, if me being here makes her an abomination, where is she in my head? Are we one? Have we merged? God, please don't let her be shoved into a dark corner of my mind, seething and frothing at the mouth, waiting for just the right moment to give me an aneurysm or something. That'd be just my luck.

I stop dead in my tracks, obscured by crates and boxes, and frown myself into a migraine, reaching out with my mind.

Hellooo, anyone home?

Nothing. Hm. Let's try that again. Let's crank up the flattery, too.

My most favorite Knight-Commander in the world, are you present? Are you well? Hello? I swear I'll take good care of your body. I swear I won't decorate your apartments with the pinkest pink of fluff. Hey, that's a good idea.

Yeah, my flattery sucks. And Meredith doesn't answer, if she's even there. What had Anders said? "I can't discern between my thoughts and Justice's thoughts"? Coming from the guy who can have black-outs and regularly gets himself hijacked by a murderhappy spirit, it's probably best not to put too much stock in anything he says about spirits.

Have I ever heard Solas speak about possession? He's the Fade expert. But no, I can't remember. The closest thing was how he taught himself to be safe from possession or something, and how spirits are easily corrupted into demons.

Hm… I think I'd be a Pride Demon. Or a Hunger Demon. Maybe that's why I get hangry. Yeah, no, I'm not really a demon or a spirit. So I can't reach Meredith, which is probably for the best (imagine the arguments. She'd break me by sleep deprivation alone.), but I might have her memories. Maybe. What do I know about her? She had a sister, Amelia, who got possessed by a demon and murdered her entire village.

… Wasn't there an Amelia in Honnleath? Nah, timeline doesn't add up. Plus, Meredith's entire family is dead. Her mentor is also dead. And that's about the extent of what I know about her. I try to envision a younger Meredith, playing tag in a village square, followed by a blurry-faced younger sister. Maybe she has blond hair too, or maybe she's a brunette. (Maybe she had buck teeth. Ugh.)

It all leads to absolutely nothing, and with a shrug, I decide to let it go. Cole might know, if I live long enough to see Dragon Age 9:40. Now, back to business. I stride into the courtyard, shoulders straight and chin held high.

A Templar in the courtyard sits on a crate, legs dangling off and his head leaning against the wall, snores coming from his wide opened mouth. I roll my eyes and shake my head and leave him be.

"Knight-Commander," a familiar voice greets me in a serious tone, and I nearly jump out of my skin. In a reflex that's probably more muscle-memory than instinct, I'm holding the Red Lyrium sword to Orsino's throat.

I've always thought elves looked weird and otherworldly in DA2. I was wrong. They are otherworldly, plain and simple. My eyes immediately glue themselves to his pointed ears. Pointed ears. Shit, don't stare too much, he might figure out something is wrong. With effort, I tear my eyes from his ears and look at his face. Jesus Christ in Thedas, how can anyone in their right minds make them servants? Everything about him, from his arched eyebrows to his smooth chin and his sharp jawline, speaks of nobility.

Oh, yeah, and fear. Because y'know, I'm holding a sword to his throat. Oops.

His eyes (eerily moss green and vivid) are as wide as saucers, and people around us stop talking and bustling and watch us in an eerie silence.

"Apologies. I have not slept well and find myself particularly agitated today."

I try to force Meredith's harsh, low voice into something resembling friendliness, but I might as well give up. Every word comes out like I'd much rather smite the heck out of Orsino than exchange courtesies. I'll have to work on that. Oh, and maybe dropping the glowing red sword will encourage friendship as well.

The sword disappears into the sheath I strapped on, and Orsino's eyes follow it, his lips pulled into a thin line. He looks uncertain and I sigh, and cringe inwardly when even the sigh sounds like an insult. Good god, no wonder this woman is always grumpy.

"The escape still bothers you?" Orsino asks, following in my steps. Wait, people escaped? Good for them. Can I buy them passage on the next boat to Rivain?

"No." I say, deciding that being short is probably the best way to avoid giving myself away. The Templars can't get suspicious of me. Sadly, this also means I can't just throw open the doors of the Circle and let everyone out, because that'd end in a massacre.

"I see." Orsino says, sadly giving me nothing else to determine when I ended up. Obviously we're past Act 1, because lyrium sword. But what else? I frown, trying to remember the details. My ADHD renders everything that's not today into this giant soup of 'has been' and picking out things is a hell of a job for scatterbrain me. I remember irrelevant little things like Hawke's sarcastic comment about boneless women flopping around, but that's not a memory from Meredith, sadly. It also makes me fight the guffaw that wants to come out, and Orsino gives me a strange, questioning look. I shake my head and hope he doesn't ask.

"If I may ask..."

"Ask."

Maybe I can get through DA2 with one-syllable words like: 'Yes, no, fuck, die, Templar, maleficar, elf, Harrowing, stop, Tranquil, sword, fetch.' and avoid every other conversation ever.

'I suspect you have questions.'

'Nope, Fen'Harel. Fetch.' Oh God, don't laugh. Don't laugh.

"Do you still want Hawke present at today's Harrowing? He has only just taken his vows and... might not be up for it."

"Hawke?" I ask, giving him an incredulous look. Hawke's supposed to be pro-mage, damn it! And the game has never given me the option to have Hawke as a freaking Templar, anyway.

"Carver Hawke?" Orsino asks, furrowing his brow, head tilted to the side.

"Right. Of course."

Why is he still looking at me? Oh wait, he asked me a question. Right, answer it.

"No. Send him to..."

Light bulb moment.

"Send him home to fetch the dwarf. The one that only says 'Enchantment'."

Orsino blinks at me, even more confused, but gives me a nod and finally leaves, his robes flapping around his feet. The irrational irrelevant thought of 'Do they wear anything under that?' surfaces in my head and I squash it down. Back off, down and shiver, good ol' perverted mind of mine.

Day 1 (15th of Drakonis) 07:58 AM

"Knight-Commander," Cullen greets me, his voice rising a notch. Right, Cullen's in Kirkwall. Try not to drool all over his macaroni hairdo, Grethilda. Do I address him with Knight-Captain, or Cullen? Oh God, strike me with lightning, please.

"Rutherford."

His last name is probably safest, and I'm halfway past him when I realize he's looking at me with a 'Warden, find my missing pet rock' kind of look. You know, the look every villager ever gives you in Origins? Stifling a sigh, I turn back to him, really wishing that I could just crawl back into Meredith's uncomfortable bed and skip this day. He blanches, and I realize that I'm probably turning the full force of Meredith's Glare on him. It's not my fault that Meredith's resting face sits somewhere between 'You are unworthy of breathing in my presence.' and 'Die maleficar, die.'

"Something wrong, Rutherford?" I ask, trying in vain to bring something other than agitation into Meredith's voice. He blushes and clears his throat, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at him. Does the man blush at everyone? Meredith's what, ten years older?

The realization that I have absolutely no idea how old Meredith is hits me, and I squelch the panic that follows. I also know nothing about her personal life save from hear-say about a sister that turned into an abomination, but I doubt her personal life is a topic during dinner-parties. If she ever goes to those.

"Well... Initiate Wilmod has disappeared. And there is word among the new recruits about a... private initiation. Nonsense, of course."

Wilmod. The name doesn't ring a bell at all, but the rest of what he says does. A private initiation? Oh fuck. This is the opening quest of act 2.

"Leave it be, Rutherford," I say, because there's no way in Hell I'm letting him face a Templar abomination, Hawke or no Hawke. Not after Kinloch. He opens his mouth to protest and I GLARE at him. He blanches and sputters and I nearly burst into laughter at his conflicted state.

"Cancel today's Harrowing, as well."

At this, Cullen becomes even paler, impossible as it sounds. He takes a step back, hands curling into fists and his mouth opening and closing like he turned into a fish in Templar armor. (He'd be a salmon, stubbornly swimming upstream only to couple with a hundred female fish, then die. God, that's depressing. I'm never getting the image of a human-sized salmon in Templar armor out of my mind, either. Not until I bleach out my eyeballs. Joy.)

He pinches the bridge of his nose, shoulders raised and set, fists clenching and unclenching. "Will we perform the Rite, then?"

For a second, it's tempting. The game tells us hardly anything about the Rite of Tranquility, not enough to piece together what it actually involves. Inquisition gives us a breadcrumb about how it's reversible, but nothing else. Well, except for Seekers. And only the Lord Seeker knows how to make more Seekers.

I'll just head into my office and interrogate Elsa about how she was made Tranquil, later.

"No," I tell him honestly, and his shoulders lower. He stops pressing his lips together, blood flows back in. The old carefree Cullen is still in there somewhere, because the scowl leaves his face and he places his hands on the pommel of his sword. Not in a threatening way, but in a 'I have no clue what to do with my hands' way.

"I believe the apprentice isn't ready yet."

"I see. I'll inform Orsino."

"No. I will discuss this with him myself."

I look over his head for a few seconds (Meredith is tall, damn) and meet his expectant gaze when I lower my eyes to him. I shake my head.

"Rutherford, when have you last had a day off?" I ask him, and his forehead creases into a frown.

"A day off?" he asks, gaping at me. The Templar Salmon is back, I guess.

Shit, Templars don't get days off? What kind of a place is this?

Oh right, it's Kirkwall.

"I don't remember..." he says, trailing off, eyes distant.

I chuckle and give him a nod.

"It's about time then. Take today off and do... whatever it is you do when you're not here. And stop worrying about Wilmod, I'll handle it." I tell him, and he stares at me like I've just grown a second head.

"I'm serious, Rutherford. Go away before I have them drag you out."

The threat sounds convincing enough, because he gives me a nod, expression still stuck on 'WTF just happened', before he trudges away.

It's not like he ever did anything other than just stand there and be pretty, right? Right?