The Hunt for the Tevinter Maleficar

by AnimaPia

My take on the background and family story of Lady Trevelyan. What shaped her into the person leading the Inquisition, what's the motivation behind her decisions? The secrets of her past unfold as she and her party go after a Tevinter Maleficar in Wending Wood. Apologies for any mistakes, my mother tongue is from entirely different language family.

The Hunt for the Tevinter Maleficar

„Magic exists to serve man,

And never to rule over him.

Foul and corrupt are they

Who have taken His gift

They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.

They shall find no rest in this world

Or beyond."

Transfigurations, 1:2

Inquisitor rising

As Leliana brought up her report about suspected Maleficar activity in Wending Woods, disturbing travellers' activity along the Pilgrim's Path, one of the main transport arteries of Amaranthine, she emphasized the urgency of the case. All the advisors remained silent, considering the options. Just a few weeks had passed since the clash at Therinfall Redoubt and the surprising decision of Trevelyan to join forces with the templars. As she declared her intention to tend to the matter personally, the Commander interfered.

„Forgive me, Inquisitor, but I suggest you take this opportunity and test the allies you gained at Therinfall Redoubt. I would be honoured to accompany you personally and assess our joined efforts on the battlefield. Besides some of the recruits have spent far too much time on the sparring ring, it is time for them to taste real battle, to see what they signed up for. With your permission, of course..."As he spoke, his eyes remained fixed somewhere on the wall behind the Inquisitor, his tone unusually flat. Only the redness creeping up his neck betrayed the emotional storm raging within him and made Leliana and Josephine exchange amused glances.

The situation got even more awkward when Trevelyan responded in the same emotionless manner, her gaze fixed on the marker, placed over the Western approach on the war map.

„Of course, Commander. We are looking forward to draw our weapons side by side with your former brothers-in-arms. We leave tomorrow by dawn."

The afternoon was dedicated to preparations. Despite all her tasks and responsibilities, Trevelyan took her time to talk to many Inquistition members, different in rank, age and race. While Cullen was supervising his soldiers in the training grounds, he noticed her talking to a group of elder Orzamar dwarfs, her head nodding in agreement, then she visited the makeshift refugee camp, set up by some elves who left their Alienage with their entire families, looking for protection and ways to help, then speaking to the freshest recruits, boys in their late teens, a conversation vivid and obviously amusing for all, thus they all bursted in uncontrollable laughter as the Inquisitor made a funny face, mimicking a fainting noble lady. The way she interacted with people, enchanting them and drawing them like moths to a flame never seized to amaze him. What made the lady of noble birth, carrying the destiny of all Thedas on her shoulders, so down-to-earth, so approachable and charming? What had shaped her into the person she was? Only she knew the answer, but loved teasing and joking about her origin. Many thought, that the numerous rumours about her raised that personal legend, but she was the only one aware of the truth. As her fame was growing so did the myths surrounding her. Nobody was able to tell facts from fiction any more. The muddy backstreets of Denerim, the loud games with children – elves, humans and dwarves, the litter of nugs she raised with her friends, the festive clamour of the Chantry's market, the dark tavern corners, where she frequently spent the nights of her early childhood, while her father – the bard, praised the feats of the hero of the day. Not quite the noble Lady Trevelyan everyone thought she is. She didn't remember much of her mother – her gentle songs, the quiet smile on her pretty face. Just like in a bard's ballad her mother, the only offspring of the noble, wealthy and influential Trevelyan family of the Free Marches, fell in love with the enchanting songs of the travelling bard. Together, they opposed the restrictions and ran off. Rumour claimed that her authoritative Grandfather sent assassins after her father and set a prise on his head. She couldn't confirm that, what she remembered clearly whatsoever was the constant travelling in her childhood, the countless nights spent in taverns' stalls or on the hard ground under the stars. Nights, taking away her mother's smile, changing her beautiful face beyond recognition before she perished. She never entirely understood if the death of her mother – Bann Trevelyan's only child – broke her Grandfather's temper and he forgave her father, or the bard plainly got tired of running. What she remembers clearly was the night of her 8th birthday, that suddenly transferred her to another life. A life of lavish food, whispers in the corners, expensive clothes and jewelry, Tevinter furniture, private tutors, overprotective Grandparents that gave her their name and zero friends besides her books. Till they discovered her magic in her middle teens. A gift or a curse, she accepted it with resignation. „It is the Maker's will" she repeated herself while she was travelling tot he Ostwick circle. Somehow she always knew, that her future is bound tot he Maker's will – a life in service of the weak, among silence, contemplation, prayers and books. Her life in the Ostwick circle was not much different than her visions – through the magic she was able to feel the beating heart oft he Maker's creation and that was all she needed.

Tolerance and justice were virtues, natural to her. Would Andraste had been praised as the Maker's bride if in the eyes of everyone she would had been nothing but a slave? She was always judging the people by their words and actions, not by their ears' shape, origin or height. Maybe that was the reason she never had any problems either with her comrades or the Templars at the Circle. Despite all the lingering hatred between Mages and Templars she never had any problems with them – to her they were silent, vigilant guards, stoically devoted to their duty. When she was a young child she sincerely admired their ornate uniforms – the ever shiny armor, the symbol of the military order – the sword, surrounded by flames, the purple skirts, generously embroidered with golden thread, symbolizing the religious aspect of the military organization. She treated their stoicism and beliefs with understanding and respect. She was noticing the countless hours of military training in the yard behind the Circle's barracs, of devoted prayers in the Chantry, their stoic purity vows. Sometimes behind the raw and impassivе surface she captured a glimpse of an entire universe of suppressed passions and desires , a pending question „what if?", a concealed doubt in their choice, which most of them drove away by nights of prayers, chants and vigil. When the rebellion swept across the Free Marches she was inevitably drawn into a whirlpool of events, shaking the comfort of her world fundamentally. She attended the Conclave believing, that she is a part of a bigger plan, that she could turn the events for good. She was very much aware of the dangers coming with her magical gift – there were enough books in the Circle's library , describing the petrifying horrors of blood magic and the consequences of pacts with demons. She was treating her own magic with caution and was always looking out for temptations, able to open the portal to the darkest corners of the Fade within her.

That's why she left for her Harrowing determined, focused and with resignation. „I surrender to Your will", she was repeating breathlessly while she stepped over the boundaries of this world and beheld the Fade for the first time. The fact, that a Templar is holding a dagger to her throat while she was examining the forbidden desolated landscape, didn't upset her. She was ways too focused on her task to allow herself to feel fear or lament.

Wending Wood

There was something in this forest... Some magical sparkles crawling up her toes all the way to the ends of her dark hair. All members of her squad felt it. The recruits – looking around suspiciously ; Varric reaching to touch Bianca as if making sure she is still there. The Inquisition favoured moving in smaller groups – to avoid ambush and to be faster. The Inquisitor usually took no more than 3 of her closest companions, to avoid the decapitation of the organization if something goes wrong. For her journey to the Amaranthine Forest she picked Dorian, Varric and Solas. The nature of the expedition required also the presence of Cullen and three of the Templar lieutenants - men, fanatically devoted to the Inquisitor and her cause after the battle of Therinfall Redoubt. Some of the most promising young recruits were accompanying them as well, eager to get their first taste of battle. The small squad was moving fast and quiet among the moist air, soaked with magic and the smell of rotting leaves. The thick trunks and crowns of the ancient trees blocked the light of the noon sun and absorbed all the noises. Everyone sensed the magical shivers, running through the forest – not only the trained in detecting spells templars, who lead the team confidently, their gauntleted hands on the hilts of their weapons, but also the fresh trainees, who compared the barely distinguishable whispers and sighs in the vegetation to the bewitching song of the red lyrium. Red lyrium – the deadly danger to anyone, susceptible to magic. But Solas, Dorian and the Inquisitor had encountered that substance frequently enough to distinguish its foul call. The voices in the Amaranthine forest were not caused by red lyrium. Others, more ancient forces, had been awaken and summoned by the Tevinter Maleficar and watched closely the progress oft he small group.

They discovered the first sign of apostate activity when the sun was setting and they were looking for a place to camp. A few small branches, bound together with red thread and decorated with faded flowers and leaves were hanging from the lower branches of a giant tree. Inspected closely the weird object reminded of a deadman's face and the scout who found it tossed it aside disgusted, wiping his hands off his clothes.

„Elven spell" – explained Solas, nudging the object with the end of his staff, „Its purpose is to confuse the enemy, to distract them and to conceal the destination of its creator. We need to tread with caution. The trees grow thicker and it will get more challenging to use the sun and the stars as orientation. Our maps are old, and the paths in the forest are changing constantly."

„That means only one thing, Chuckles – we are getting closer..." spoke Varric, stroking Bianca.

The evening was still young, cheerful and promising – after a hearty meal in the camp everyone but the guards gathered around the campfire, cups of mead in their hands, and the Inquisitor was exchanging fiery glances with the Commander, sitting among his templars and trying to keep the blush creeping on his face under control. Cullen Stanton Rutherford ... There was something calming and cozy in his name – just like a warm bed at the end of a hard day ... Cullen ... Stanton ... Rutherford... she was repeating it countless times, like a mantra, like the spells she was learning at the Circle. She was tasting every sylable and wondering where its magic comes from. There was something about him that hitched her breath every time she laid eyes upon him and raised unclear longing... Something about the droplets pure sunlight in his ever smiling warm brown eyes, the golden highlights in his hair, his imposing proud stature and his imperious voice that made her think of sunny meadows, covered in summer flowers and cosy family evenings around the fireplace while а snowstorm is raging outside. She was stifling those thoughts while advancing through the woods, but she was catching herself looking for him and though he was often carried away in strategical debates with his brothers in arms-the templars, or he was barking orders to the fresh recruits, she met his amber gaze frequently, catching a glimpse of warmth, care and tenderness.

He made her feel desired, protected, unique. Was she beautiful? According to many – yes. Not the poisonous deadly beaty of the ladies in perfumed gowns from Orlais – beauty, that had driven to madness and perish so many chevaliers, that the common decency started requiring that they wear masks to conceal it. Not that beauty, overthrowing empires and praised in taverns by countless bards, but the quiet beauty of a summer sunset, contemplated from the windows of your family's home. Beauty, conquering the hearts with depth and warmth. Many would pass her by on the street without even noticing her, but those who noticed her were marked by her forever. Enchanted, they turned their heads following her every move and watched with an unexplained yearning long after she passed them by. Was this effect caused by her enthralling warm sight, the encouraging kind-hearted smile always gracing her full lips or by her contagious laughter, spreading around sparkles of joy like an Antivan firework? Or was it the way she moved - with the confident step of a proficient swordsman, ready to strike, and the sinful fluidity of a Tevinter slave dancer.

Anxiety snuck up on the squad when they picked up distant panicked cries for help among the singing and the laughter around the campfire. Trevelyan recognized one of the guards, obvuosly being dragged away from the camp and deeper into the forest. The whole camp got back on their feet, grabbing weapons, the Commander shouting orders and organizing several of his men into a rescue team – the camp and the Inquisitor should not remain unprotected and not everyone should rush to aid the poor soul, whose cries had been reduced to muffled wails. Among the chaos and clanking of armor and weapons, Trevelyan noticed the concerned gaze of Cullen, resting on her.

There was not much left to do, but wait for the return of the rescue team. They returned past midnight after a few hours of intense search, failing to discover the unfortunate guard. He disappeared without any trace and continuing the search in the impenetrable darkness was a bad idea. Cullen's face turned dark and grim while he was receiving the templars' report about the failure, angry vein pulsating on his forehead. He laid his hand on the hilt of his sword making a determing stride towards the dark area beyond the light of the fire, but hesitated when he heard the voice of Trevelyan: „Commander..." , his broad back froze, „There is nothing we can do for him right now. Our people need you. We continue the search by daylight." His eyes full of barely concealed rage he started organizing the soldiers and double the guards.

It was going to be a long night...

The morning didn't bring any trace oft he disappeared soldier, but added confusion as the squad found a few more enchanted objects. They were progressing in a tight formation and in silence, disturbed only by the crunching of dry leaves under their feet.

They realized they are getting closer to the Maleficar and his supporters' encampment by the magic tension, poluting the air and whispering unclear words in their minds, weakening their determination and striking terror in their hearts. The terrain got confusing – it seemed they passed by the same rock, overgrown with moss and rashvine several times. The new recruits were walking quietly, their faces pale; the Commander – with sinister determination and the templar veterans were using their dispell-magic skills every now and then. The Inquisitor and her closest companions were used to even harder challenges and Dorian was carried away in a conversation about the Fade with Solas, who was answering thorough and polite, watching their surroundings closely.

Suddenly the elf spoke quietly, but firmly and the whole group stood still.

„Stop. This way" – pointed the mage with his staff towards a seemingly impassable thorny thicket, covered by countless blue blossoms.

Barely finishing his last words, he resolutely stepped into the bushes, which swallowed his golden-green robe.

„Follow Solas" ordered the Commander and disappeared in the thick vegetation.

The Inquisitor sensed tingling in the Anchor, while stepping inside. She braced herself for the thorns to scratch and tear her skin, and the resistance of the densely tangled branches, but nothing happened. The sensation was similar to walking through a cold waterfall. They gasped in amazement when they laid their eyes upon a clearing – large trees knocked down and partly scorched by magic, ancient ruins amidst the desolation. „Elven", judged the Inquisitor while scanning the landscape before a powerful wave of cold smashed her and forced the air out of her lungs.

They had finally discovered the enemy.

Cullen instantaneously leapt to her side, care and protectiveness in his eyes. Helping her up he cautiously examined her for injuries and she perceived his sigh of relief even among the thundering spells and the clang of swords around them. A warm and dangerous feeling surged through her, a feeling potentially lethal in battle – the feeling of safety.

The Commander regained his self-control swiftly and he started organizing the flanks around her team and assigned his templars as her personal guardsmen. He was confident of the Inquisitor's combat skills as he had witnessed their efficiency first hand, a memory he cherished and never failing to make him smile.

Cullen stared at the Inquisitor's activity at the sparring ring in Skyhold with cool professional interest. She enjoyed talking with Cassandra there and to measure up the new recruits. He failed to notice the involuntary smile creeping on his face when the Inquisitor grabbed two throwing daggers and started weighing them up with a thoughtful look on her face. Cassandra was smiling and clapped her hands approvingly, a crowd slowly gathering around them and the training dummies. Flashing armours, clanking weapons, calling her name in encouragement, the crowd was growing thicker and the Inquisitor was still concentrated on weighing the daggers and measuring up eyes-squinting the distance to the training dummy. Cullen approached hypnotized – he couldn't figure out later if he was enthralled by the predatory flexibility in her moves or the enthusiastic cries of the soldiers , growing louder. He joined the crowd and scrutinized every detail of the warmaiden, who was obviously perfectly in charge of her mind and every single muscle of her body. The blush on her cheeks caused by the sudden attention of all trainees was reduced, the look in her eyes got focused and clear – the only thing that existed for her on this world was her target – the poor training dummy, jokingly nicknamed „Corypheus' Arse" by the soldiers. Cullen was standing close to her and percepted the change in her breathing – the shallow, excited hasty breaths turned normal in a matter of a second. Surprised he recognized in that action one of the main Templar skills. He didn't get the chance to dwell on where she picked that trick up from, because with a lightning speed the Inquisitor threw a dagger towards her target, spectacularly graceful leapt even closer to the dummy, threw the second knife ... all that among grave scilence from the audience. Cullen could hear every single breath and gasp of his soldiers and if he were able to part his eyes from the enchanting sight before him he would have noticed their looks, glowing with admiration. Both daggers burried to the hilt in the heart of the dummy, the Inquisitor was anything but done with it. While the pupils of all spectators dilated surprised at the sight of the knifes in the chest of „Coripheus' Arse", performing a maddeningly casual somersault she landed behind it and triumphing slit its throat. Cullen and the crowd around him was dumbfounded, one could literally hear jaws dropping. Her speed and skill could only be explained by magic, wrapping time and space. While the recruits were drawing a deep breath, Cassandra, the ever so composed Cassandra, yelled in admiration and clapped her armored hands. А deafening storm of ovations followed, sweeping along Cullen in its enthusiasm. An unwilling smile appeared on his lips, he clapped and cheered with his men and in front of them stood their Inquisitor – a fragile shape, standing out to the large armoured silhouettes of the soldiers, smiling visibly embarrassed. He was again unexplainably overcome by this sight and his first reaction was to rush to her and shake her hand , but then he noticed the shy giggling of the younger recruits and their telltale eyes, admiring not only the fighting skills oft he Inquisitor, but also her supple curves, the rounding of her breasts, provokingly enhanced as she swung to throw the daggers. Cullen clenched his jaw and yelled with his most-commanding voice: „Enough! Back to work!", the giggling instantly replaced by displeased grunts and awkward blushing. The soldiers were slowly breaking the circle and returning to their duties.

„Sorry for the interruption", mumbled the Inquisitor, eyes shyly to the ground.

„It was my idea", interfered Cassandra, putting significant effort to conceal her smile, „I thought it would boost the morale of our troops if our leader, our banner, shares a little bit of her skills."

Cullen was embarassed, he didn't mean to make them feel bad.

„No need to apologize please. Your Worship – you were more than impressive. I am sure that your skills would be valued highly among Leliana's scouts." He spoke slowly, regaining his composure in the awkward situation - „ I couldn't fail to notice how skilled you are with daggers, your Worship... Unusually skilled for a mage", said Cullen measuring her up.

„All thanks to my noble Grandfather and his fanatical principle, that a young lady should be capable of defending herself and always having a... hmmmm... ace up her sleeve..." said the Inquisitor, radiating good mood and even the composed facade of Cassandra cracked and the three laughed.

„ Are we going to see you on the sparring ring more often then?" asked Cullen, realizing too late, that he said aloud one of his innermost wishes.

„Maker's mercy upon Corypheus' Arse!" concluded the Inquisitor and the three bursted in laughter.

Solas and Dorian were spreading horror among the apostates' ranks and several mages, foolish enough to challenge them, were lying breathless on the ground. Cullen's soldiers pushed away the attacks on the flanks, Solas, Dorian and Varric leading the core team, followed closely by the Inquisitor and her newly appointed bodyguards, who dispelled the enemies's spells with a stunning efficiency. The air was heavy with magic. The squad slowly advanced to the ruins.

The apostates and the waves of undead, summoned and controlled by them barely posed any challenge for the group. Obviously the mages were still young, unexperienced and scared. Trevelyan noticed with satisfaction how well trained Cullen's recruits were; building an unbreachable wall of shields around them, their swords cutting through the walking dead with ease. Most oft hem still very young, beardless boys from the villages around Skyhold, tired of the fighting between templars and mages; idealists, seeking to change the world for good and fight for a noble cause. There were fanatical andrastians too – the Inquisitor recognized them by their war cries „For Andraste!" and their vicious courage on the battlefield, always confident, that they are being protected by a higher power. Those young men always looked down embarassed, whispering prayers whenever she walked past them in the barracks or the training grounds of Skyhold. The templars by her side – stern and reticent warriors, tested in multiple battles and experienced the worst sides of magic, filled her heart with awe. Cullen made a wise pick – they truely represented the elite of the military order. With supple and precise moves they were smiting, dispelling and silencing spells, their hands mechanically performing the familiar drill shield – blade – shield, leaving a trace of dead bodies behind. Surprised Trevelyan spotted the similarities between their technique and Cullen's. Though not donning the templar uniform any more one could unmistakeably tell where the Commander gained his fighting skills from.

His sword hissing in broad and precise swings, he was sending mighty waves of dispelling power towards the enemy. It didn't take long and the chaos caused by the initial surprising attack had been replaced by a perfectly organized battlefield. Just like in one of their chess games the Commander knew his strong sides well and took advantage of them, lining up his next moves with immaculate strategical insight. His eyes were looking for her, making sure she is doing fine. Dorian and Solas were spreading death and destruction over the battlefield. The squad almost reached the entrance of the ruins when the apostates decided to surrender. The Commander arranged soldiers to guard them and assigned a few man to keep an eye on the entrance and watch their back.

The Friend of the Dead

O Falon'Din

Lethanvir-Friend of the Dead

Guide my feet, calm my soul,

lead me to my rest...

Like all the remainders of the elven dominion all over Thedas the ruins were filled with melancholy and memories. Trevelyan seeked the eyes of Solas – his face was expressionless, a little bit too composed considering how much he appreciated all the relics of the Old Days. Her back leaning on the ancient wall in the elven ruins, she was perceiving slight echos from the past. What a corrupted place... Despite the foulness the walls were whispering of different times – they were faintly emanating the soaked into them millenia ago hymn in honor oft the Creators, the incenses, the lights of thousands of candles, the distant glow oft he jewels, offered to the pagan elven gods. Even the millenia of humidity, darkness, dust and taint couldn't erase the bright moments of Thedas' youth, when the Maker walked among people and elves and blessed all with His benevolent smile.

The ancient building seemed deserted. An intense odour of earth, moisture and mould hit them as they entered; water was dripping somewhere in the darkness. The sound of their footsteps echoed under the high arches.

„Now what?" chirped Dorian cheerfully, raising his staff above his head and casting a light spell. All eyes turned to her in expectation. Before she spoke from the dark gaping opening ahead resonated an unexpected noise – laughter. Not some kind of evil, predicting doom laughter, but young, bubbling, rippling laughter, spreading the cheerful chatter of a spring stream among the ancient walls. It seemed the ruin shaked off millenia of darkness, oblivion and decay and their surroundings turned brighter. The group stared on amazement at the source of this cheer – a fragile elven maiden, almost a child. Her long fair hair woven in a intricate graceful hairdo, her bright eyes shone in inviting smile. Not only her exquisite gown and her lavishly decorated with jewels wrists and brow opposed the darkness and corruption of this place – her figure emitted soft light.

„Desire demon" – warned one of the templars and before any member of the squad managed to react he smited the vision. Trevelyan and Solas rushed to stop him. The clear laughter echoed under the high ceiling.

„ I didn't expect that" spoke she in a soft voice with an unfamiliar accent, visibly not harmed by the templar's smite. Everyone sensed her magic – ancient and diffierent, drawing power not from the lyrium veins under the surface of Thedas, but from elsewhere – the Fade or the past, still lingering in the dark corners of the old building. „He is waiting", said the spirit, turned and disappeared in the dark passage, without making sure they are following.

The Inquisitor shrugged and stepped into the darkness. The rest of the group exchanged glances and followed. Cullen scolded Aldemir, the templar who smited their hostess and caught up with Trevelyan.

„Allow us, mylady, to take that risk", he asked with a chivalrous bow. She hesitated but then nodded. The Commander and his templars were leading the group now, and Varric and Dorian exchanged knowing glances, barely covering up their smiles.

Last in the darkness of the entry hall remained Solas, leaning on his staff, head tilted to the side, as if listening to voices, speaking only to him.

They walked the sinister passage in silence, the sound of their footsteps resonating among the crumbling walls. All the soldiers were clutching their weapons, expecting to engage the enemy at any time. Cullen and his templars were moving close to the Inquisitor, swords drawn, ready to countercharge any possible spell. Trevelyan tried to mark their route in her mind and considered which spell would be more efficient against the Maleficar. What surprise has he prepared for them? Hordes of undead, ice mine traps, bound rage demons, fire pillars? She didn't sense fear – she learned to ignore it and replace it by cautiousness, which proved tob e far more productive.

The attack came insidiously unexpected – their elven guide disappeared behind a corner and the light instantly died out. The group was standing in a large hall, the only light pouring from the staves of Dorian and Solas. Trevelyan immediatly hit with her staff the ancient floor, the echo of the sound still reverberating among the high arches and her lips casting a light spell when the first wave of undead hit them. The Commander leapt towards her by instinct, signalling the templars to follow him. Flashing through the several meters between them he stroke down several of the greyish staggering creatures, tentatively clutching rusty Tevinter swords. When he reached her he realized that his concern was in vain – the Inquisitor was confidently swinging her staff, eyes squinted in sinister focus. Her lips muttering arcane words, her body flexing to avoid the clumsy attacks of the walking dead and to hurl them with a magical explosion in the dark depths of the hall. He held still for a moment, ignoring the raging battle around them and admired her composure, her swiftness and litheness. Their eyes met and she clearly read his affection, the sudden realisation startling her and breaking her concentration for a split second – time sufficient enough for a shambling grey-brown silhouette to raise a rusty dagger, aiming for her chest with uncoordinated, but terrifying force. Cullen leaned in, skewered the corpse and threw it in the darkness, rage and disgust taking over his handsome features. Trevelyan noticed definitely something predatory in his gaze as he wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders. An emotional fire storm was ravaging within her, fuelled by the adrenaline of the battle. She forced herself to leave Cullen's embrace and to rush towards Solas and Dorian, separated from the rest oft he squad by hordes of undead, apparently attracted by the mages. „To Solas and Dorian!" commanded she and the templar veterans leapt to aid the mages with a swiftness almost impossible for their steel-plated massive figures. Varric was shooting hails of arrows towards the dark corner, spawning the blighted creatures. The Commander directed the rest of the warriors that way but didn't follow, before he got a silent nod from the Inquisitor. She looked at him with a confident smile and he leapt towards the swarm of dry, mummified bodies. After several magical explosions that drained the three mages completely and piles of dry grey-brownish bodies on the floor, the battle was finally over. The Inquisitor was leaning on a nearby wall, breathless, but smiling in triumph. She was always getting intoxicated by that ovewhelming sensation of might, while drawing mana from the invisible streams of magical energy under the surface of Thedas ... That feeling of power, surging through her very being and the shattering triumph when the magical bolts stroke down another enemy... Every move of the world around her was slowing down, the sounds of her surroundings muffled by the monotonuos noise caused by the flow of the magical force – she was perceiving the slow heavy pulse of the entire great creation of the Maker, it was filling her up, swelling within her and spilling over her entire being, skilfully steered by the conducter of her magic – her staff. All that intensified immensely and reached a peak, that just a few mortals could endure, after she gained the Anchor. The Anchor – the name itself was ominous. While closing rifts, she was an anchor between Thedas and the Fade, a connection between two realms, soothing and dividing at the same time. After every single battle she was feeling depleted, robbed; the world around her extremely hectic, loud and full of grotesquely lurid colors. A devastating sensation forcing her to long for seclusion and silence after each encounter with magic. She was craving the mighty pulse of the Maker within her, thus having a weak spot for quiet peaceful locations, ancient forests and ruins, gracing the world with their majestic beauty in the ages when Thedas was still young and the Maker was not yet tired of His creation.

Her brothers in arms thought her ferocity in battle was due to courage, determination and ideals. The truth was simple: she was confident, that she was doing the Maker's bidding, that she is a small trebuchet in the arsenal of His army, besieging the fortress of Evil.

The warriors lit up torches, saving the scarce mana of the group and started salvaging the battlefield – collecting arrows and well-preserved weapons, anxiously considering what lies ahead.

„I suggest we follow the northern passage", spoke Solas, his voice clear and confident. „This is an ancient tomb and a temple in honour of Falon'Din attached to it. This architecture is typical for that age – if we follow the Northern passage we will reach the burrial chamber, which I supppose is the camp of our Maleficar."

„The undead were no elves„ spoke one of the Templars,"they had Tevinter armour and weapons on."

„Very observant of you", responded Solas, his face expressionless, „all the undead we've slain, were actually Imperials...There is something odd about this place – instead of the usual statues of Falon'Din – the friend of the Dead, the statues of Elghar'nan are dominating... Elghar'nan – the All-Father..."

„And the God of vengeance" finished the Inquisitor, gaining silent admiration from Solas.

"There is ancient grudge lingering in this place" agreed the elf, „power, burried deep...Power and lust for vengeance – this is what attracted the Imperials here."

„Which explains the bodies" – interfered Dorian,"many magistrates seeked out places like this for their rituals. Too much blood has spilled here..." finished he softly, as if apologizing for the deeds of his ancestors.

„Blood magic"-hissed the youngest templar, utterly disgusted and the words alone made the decoration of his helmet stand up.

„Thread with caution", summed up Trevelyan,"we are following the Northern passage. Solas, Dorian – to me, barriers up all the time."

The Commander walked with his scouting team, looking back and searching for the Inquisitor in the torches' light far too often.

They walked in silence, the angle of the hallway suggesting that they are venturing deep under Wending Wood. This fact and the rising concentration of arcane energy suggested, that they had reached their goal. Cullen didn't abandon his men from the leading team, but he was looking back to the Inquisitor ways too often and his gait gained something of the readiness of a predator about to jump.

The world around them shifted at the moment when the leading squad entered the hall. As if stepping into a time wrapping bubble centered around their hostess – the beautiful elven girl – her face focused and twisted with pressure, her hands weaving a spell. Behind her, lurking in the shadows of the tall pillars, the Inquisitor recognized a dark silhouette wearing the distinctive pointed Tevinter mage cоwl, his actions matching the circular movements of the hands of the elven spirit, just like a puppeteer commanding his puppet. The magic-saturated air hit her eardrums and obviously startled the whole team. The templars and Solas reacted first and while Varric was loading Bianca in cold blood, the elven spirit had been smited three times, Solas immediately raising a barrier and hectically considering his next move, his staff ready and aiming forward. Trevelyan casted a purging spell without any significant success while Cullen was storming with few of his men the silhouette lurking in the twilight. Suddenly the enemy's magic exploded and reshaped the world around them. The Inquisitor was almost swept off her feet by the power of the Tevinter spell – she was prepared for anything – hordes of undead or demons, but definitely not for soft sunlight, air, heavy with scents, and a few dozen slender elven warriors, their faces beautiful and expressionless, encircling the group with drawn weapons. Only the unnatural angle of the sunlight, the muffled noises of the surrounding world and the sizzling pressure of magic convinced Trevelyan, that it is all not real. She glanced towards the centre of the events assessing the fragile elven figure and relaised what she was during her lifetime – the beloved daughter of a powerful elven lord, walking in the sun of a world, full of miracles and magic; graceful but strong, madly in love – until the world around her started changing. The Tevinter empire predatory reached a gauntleted hand, striking down armies, burning down cities and under the armoured hooves of her knights echoed the moaning of an entire race. Despair and doubt filled the temples, built to honour the Creators, but Darryln'haen (her name resonated through the centuries), unaware of the impending danger, was laughing, dancing and creating perfectly rhymed poems in Elvenhaen. But the shadow reached her, devouring her Promised One – the only one for her. Darkness consumed her as they laid his lifeless body, pierced by countless black arrows with red feathers, at her feet. While her father was defeating the rear-guard of a Tevinter aggressor, Darryln'haen, surrounded by loving courtladies and her loyal bodyguards, who carried the body of her beloved, retreated to a secluded tower and started a forbidden ritual. Trevelyan read the entire story in the ethereal eyes of the spectre, along with her pleas for liberation. The tomb, later defiled by the Tevinter necromancer, was the place where her devastated father laid her body to rest; a place where the silence of the centuries never brought her any peace. Anger, regret, despair and yearning were hovering in the darkness. The Tevinter Maleficar percepted her pleas resonating through the ages. He harnessed her magical energy for his own, self-seeking goals, corrupting and enslaving her essence.

The second the Inquisitor locked her eyes with Darryln'haen was more than enough for the enemy forces – all enslaved spirits attacked her simultanously and Darryln'haen hurled a mighty ice spell toward her, but Cullen purged it. Solas' barrier disappeared with a quiet magical crackle. The Inquisitor started feverishly casting damage spells, noticing the enemies tightening their circle. While the templars and the Inquisition soldiers were engaged with the elven warriors and the princess, the Maleficar, still hiding in the shadows, uttering foul words, seemed to have control over the battle field. Cullen leapt towards her with speed and power, that seemed almost unnatural for his massive figure. He was slashing his way towards her, sowing death with the broad and perfectly controlled swings of his sword, and his shield, slightly tilted downwards in a typical for the templars manner, was catching bunches of arrows and repelling hostile spells. Varric was eliminating the hostile bowmen one by one. Solas and Dorian, back to back, were engaged in a close fight with several controlled elven warriors, hurling deadly spells towards the enemy and stabbing those, who dared to get closer, with their sharp staff blades. If it was not an emergency situation one could only admire the harmony oft he both mages, despite the difference in their fighting styles. While Solas muttered ancient elven spells quiet and focused, the eyes of Dorian were glowing and he was challenging and verbally abusing the enemy, shooting streams of aggressive arcane energy.

The Inquisitor came to herself and started clearing the space around her, her posture challenging and threatening, her hands spinning the staff with cool and deadly confidence. Cullen was just a few meters away, when suddenly her left hand bursted in green light, the pain and the surprising made her drop down on her knees, loosening the grip on her staff. All the companions looked to the ceiling of the ancient hall, where the centuries-old darkness was ripped apart by a fade rift. Dorian and Varric hadn't finished their colourful curses yet when the rift spilled out several despair demons. Cullen kept his eyes firmly on the Inquisitor and reached her side with a desperate jump, just on time to thrust his sword into an elven warrior, swinging a spear towards the defenceless, squirming in pain body of Trevelyan. The momentum of Cullen's strike only reduced the speed and the power of the spear, and Cullen witnessed the breath-taking horror of the enemy blade blade entering her body around the right collar-bone. The shock, the pain and the force of the strike knocked her down senseless. The Commander roared like an injured beast and kneeled over her, covering them both with his shield. Her face was pale, eyes closed, her breath – shallow and ragged. While he was assessing her condition, his gaze a madman's mixture of horror, empathy, tenderness, his unoccupied hand feeling the spear, sticking out of her shoulder, Dorian and Solas , attracted by his shrill cry advanced towards them, carving a path clear of demons and ancient elven knights on their way.

The rumble of the combat magic of the Maleficar and Darryln'hanaen, mixed up with the clanging of the weapons of the Inquisition forces reached a crescendo as the templars attacked again with renewed ferocity and desperate determination, attracting all the aggression of the two magical foes. Cullen, calling out to the Maker, opened a healing potion with his teeth and poured it carefully down her throat. Her body was slowly getting slack in his hands and he was frantically calling her name. Solas reached them and ducked under the cover oft he shield. No muscle on Solas' face twitched and he didn't make a sound as he grabbed the spear, protruding from her shoulder, twisted it and pulled it out with a swift move. The Commander's wrath would had certainly destroyed the apostate, if Cullen suddenly hadn't felt the lifelessness of her body in his embrace and the realization made him squeal with despair and terror. Solas dropped his staff and ignoring the battle around them, the deadly song of Bianca and the rumble of combat spells, moved skillfully hands over the gaping wound in Trevelyan's shoulder, chanting soothing elven words. Soft blueish light was streaming from his fingertips, drawing from the healing power of Eschel-Thanaen, the invigorating fountain of the forgotten elven Gods. The unpenetrable facade of indifference on his face started cracking as he realized just how badly injured she is. Not only unconscious, but her mind was elswhere, she was wandering the Fade, alone, lost, confused and in desperate need of help... Maybe she was calling out to him from the other realm? Maybe she will place a grateful kiss on his lips when she wakes up and realizes, that he, Solas, was the one who saved her. Clutching to that hope he closed his eyes, a flash of their first conversation going through his mind.

„Alderaan Artishaan", adressed she Solas, trying to start a conversation in Haven's tavern days after their first introduction. The elf didn't react when he heard the most common elven phrase in Thedas, didn't even try to conceal his annoyance, mentally rolling his eyes. What made him suddenly stare back at her bewildered, were the ancient words, pouring out of her lips after that. His indifference was quikly replaced by awe, because the words echoing among the woodwork of the tavern, usually filled with drunken soldiers' voices, were spoken in Elvenhaen – the High Tongue of the ancient elven empire. Words he hadn't heard since ages and definitely never spoken by human. The conversations on their table froze up and everyone watched the exchange between Trevelyan and the elf, seeing appreciation in his eyes for the very first time.

„We had a large library at the Circle and that extravagant collection of old elven books. Besides that I grew up reading Brother Gentivi's travelling books, it all fuelled my fascination with languages." explained she later, a statement Solas could easily confirm after observing how she welcomed the delegation of Orzamar – only the dwarves comprehended her speech, nodded in silent acknowledgement and pledged their support to the Inquisition's cause at the very same day - a decision so unexpected and swift measured to dwarven standards that made the surprised Josephine drop her quill.

These moments and their quiet conversations about the past and the Fade, where Trevelyan showed academical knowledge and sincere interest have stirred and awaken something deep inside him, something he considered dead and burried millenia ago. If everyone walking Tedas was an open book to him, this female human was a mistery. Her motivations, the power driving her, the way she was – attentive, focused, brave, tolerant and eager to explore – such combination he encountered for a very first time. The interest she started showing towards the Commander of her forces and the templar's clear reciprocation made him furiously growl deep inside.

This and the intensity of her gaze, while she measured up Michel – the disgraced champion of empress Celene, made him boil with silent rage. In order to regain control over his feelings he tried to interpret her interests as a superficial fascination with rippling muscles, shiny armour, thick blond hair and the simple ideals behind the blades of the both knights, the simplicity of the black-and-white worlds of these military men. Protecting the weak and fighting for a good, honourable cause was everything driving them, in deep contrast to Solas' universe, composed of different shades of grey. Getting to know her better, the apostate figured out what attracted her: both knights had an obscure past and they had been through their share of bitterness, darkness and despair, which had marked them forever. It was the darkness in their past that pulled her towards them, a fascinated empathy with their suffering, as she knew very well what they were going through.

He sighed, shaking off the dark tentacles of jealousy and focusing on the task ahead. As one of the most influential women in Thedas, Trevelyan was surrounded by outstanding men. His only option was to wait patiently for the right moment to capture her attention and to venture deep into her unique secret garden.

The Fade

„Demons do not create everything in the Fade. They set the stage, as it were, and we fill it with our own dreams and nightmares..." Wynne

The second she opened her eyes, the realization forced the air out of her lungs – she was in the Fade. She grabbed her staff tightly by instinct and looked around, scanning the area for potential threats. The scene, that unfolded right in front of her, set to the background of the ever-changing sinister landscape oft he Fade, made her freeze. A female human and a young child, sitting around a small campfire, their backs leaning on the walls of a ruined house with a missing roof. The child was chirping cheerfully while the woman was focused on cutting a piece of hard bread and some mouldy cheese into tiny bites. Yearning, sadness and an unclear sense of emptiness rose within the Inquisitor as she recognized the delicate features of the woman and her warm brown eyes, surrounded by purple shadows. The hand of her mother was an unhealthy shade of waxy yellow, smaller and thinner than the hand of an elf.

„I told you already- I am not hungry. It's all for you" spoke her mother softly, passing the cracked wooden plate to the child. „Our halls are larger than all the halls of the lords of this realm ..." continued she.

„For they have neither walls, nor ceilings." Finished the little girl the first phrase of the simple grace they used to say before every meal. The lips of the Inquisitor moved synchroniously, whispering the words she hadn't heard in decades. „Our chandeliers burn brighter than any of the golden Tevinter lamps, for they are the stars above Thedas, lit by the Maker himself."

The child smiled and Trevelyan couldn't hold back ther tears anymore.

„Our food is more delicious than all the king's feasts, for we share it with the ones we love..."

As the child reached for the plate, a tall man with long dark hair and a lute over his shoulder approached them hastily.

„Quickly, pack our things!" commanded he, panic in his eyes, „Two Antivan at the inn are asking questions about us", finished he and grabbed the little girl, carefully wrapping it in a blanket. Her mother dropped the plate and the scarce dinner scattered on the ground, snatched the two bundles leaned on the wall. Her father strode fast without checking if her mother follows. Had he turned around he would had seen how his exhausted wife faltered and dropped on her knees, then slowly rose carrying her obviously heavy burden.

The scene flickered and dissolved into the ghostly landscape oft he Fade. The Inquisitor looked around confused.

„You killed her, you know that, right? You and the pride of your father. He said he loved he more than anything, yet he thought himself too strong to beg for lord Trevelyan's forgiveness. I can see her memories, her thoughts. She hated her life, she hated you both..." mighty voice of a despair demon echoed through the wasteland.

„Show yourself, demon!", challenged the Inquisitor holding her staff tight, tears still rolling down her cheek, dropping in the fine dust of the Fade. Melancholy and desperate longing seized her – she wanted to cuddle in the warm embrace of her mother, to cry all her sadness and worries out, to tell her all the things she learned to bury deep in the back of her mind throughout the years. Quiet macabre laughter echoed around her and she noticed a pale light, materializing in front of her. She prepared to cast a barrier, but noticed, that the flickering light is actually a burning out candle. Her tormentor revealed a a narrow shabby room with scarce furniture – a rotten wooden box, the dying out candle on top of it, a sagging bed, covered by stained sheets, the floor covered in rubbish and an old lute with missing strings, carelessly discarded under the bed. At first glance she mistook the occupant of the bed for one of the undead creatures she fought before. When examining it closer though, she recognized the silhouette in the bed – it was a tall, extremely skinny old man with hollow-cheeked face and long, filthy white hair. His chest was rising fast, his sunken blue eyes burning in fever. The chapped lips were quietly mumbling something – when she got closer she perceived her name, repeated over and over like a desperate prayer for salvation to a deaf god , with passion, fury and despair. Her father was calling her from his dying bed. His voice reached a crescendo, his lungs whistling, his gaze turned mad and scary, eyes about to pop out and his body started twisting in painful convulsions. The Inquisitor couldn't bear the sight any more and put her palms over her face. Her constantly smiling father – the tall handsome bard from her childhood, who was laughing and joking even when they were sleeping under the stars, with their bellies empty and rumbling; the long-haired blue-eyed artist, that stole the heart of her mother, singing happy songs in the most desperate times only to cheer them up ... She hasn't seen him since the day he took the difficult decision to deliver her to the old Trevelyans, wishing to give her a hopeful future and a fate, better than her mother's. In the first years she was regularly receiving joyful letters describing his exaggerated adventures and several lyrics of his latest ballads, but as she entered the Circle all her communication to the outside world had been cut off. While growing up she had learned to supress all the thoughts of her family, but somehow the demon had found the sealed Pandora box of her childhood's memories and fears. Years of want, yearning and regret were predatory manipulated into destroying her.

„So much pain, so much regret, how deliciously delightful!", spoke the cold voice again and startled the Inquisitor," Do you want to hear what your mother said about you in her last breath? Should I show you what your closest actually think of you?"

Trevelyan didn't bother to wipe off the tears, streaming down her face and looked around. In front of her a despair demon was slowly appearing from the mist. Its appearance not any different than all the despair demons she had fought and slain before, but its presence whispering of enormous power. Its figure was antropomorphic, but its face was constantly changing – she saw the full lips of her mother, stretched in a cruel smile, the delirious eyes of her father, the warm, caring gaze of the Commander...

„Welcome to my realm, Inquisitor! You, your loved ones, your whole organization – you all reek of despair. You are all marked by me. To me your innermost thoughts are nothing but food. Let me taste your most delicious fears and memories, your sorrow and your pain. Let me consume you..." spoke the demon reaching out to her with its clawed hands.

„It's just another demon" repeated Trevelyan in her mind while fighting to regain control of her breathing, just like the assassin-tutors at her Grandfather's home had taught her. She firmly grabbed her staff and scanned her foe searching for any weakness. Alas, staring at the demon was not a good idea - the feminine features of Leliana's face were instantly replaced by the amber eyes and the handsome face of Cullen.

„This is a tasty one", spoke the demon in Cullen's voice, heavy with lust and excitement, enjoying the shivers that changed the Inquisitor's face. He extended his gauntleted hand towards her, a promising smile dancing on his lips. Mesmerized by his gaze, full of longing and need, she didn't move, not until a knife flashed in his hand. Аiming a blow at her the Commander's face and body gained some predatory force– there was curiosity and amusement in his eyes, just like a cat playing with a mouse. Trevelyan launched a counterattack, realizing how much the Fade drained her mana and weakened her. That wasn't the only reason for her hesitation to strike him down- she had became aware of her feelings for Cullen shortly after they met. Upon realizing that her initial curiosity towards the stoic and valiant Commander turned into admiration and that she was searching for any excuse to spend time with him she immediatley took measures to suffocate the budding feeling. After many restless nights , pending between sorrow, longing, professional scruples and passion that heated the depths of her entire being, she decided not to give in to this feeling, come what may. While she was vaguealy defending herself from the monstrosity, wearing her beloved's skin, she recognized just how deep this feeling is. Taking advantage of her hesitation, the demon tossed the blade aside, dove under her guard, wrapped and armoured hand around her neck and lifted her efortlessly. Her tormentor savoured her pain with cool interest through the gold-sparkled eyes of Cullen, as she dropped her staff and gripped at his hand in a desperate attempt to free herself.

„And now, Inquisitor, you will be mine. Let the delicious feast begin..."

Fighting to remain concsious, Trevelyan noticed how the features, so dear to her heart, shifted and got replaced by pale wrinkled skin, just like the face of drowned corpse, its eyes – two black windows to the void. The demon was licking its sharp uneven teeth and munching in anticipation. With her last strength Trevelyan dropped her right hand sharply down, allowing the knife, tucked in her sleeve, to slip to her palm, wrapped her fingers tightly around it and plunged it into the monster's skull. In her mind she thanked her noble Grandfather and his persistance in teaching her how to properly wield a dagger. The crunching sound of breaking bone made her shiver in disgust and the world around her exploded in green light.

She woke up in the hands of the Commander, his face mad with angst. Her pupils, dilated in terror, contracted and she reached out to caress his face, whispering softly „It's you..."

Solas abruptly turned away his gaze from the couple. He grabbed his staff and rose swiftly, so nobody could notice the sadness and anger in his eyes.

At Peace

„The light shall lead her safely

Throught the paths of this world, and into the next.

For she who trusts into the Maker, fire is her water.

As the moth sees the light and goes towards flame,

she should see fire and go towards light.

The veil holds no uncertainty to her,

and she will know no fear of death,

for the Maker

shall be her beacon and her shield,

her foundation and her sword."

Transfigurations 10:1

The Commander was still holding her tight, petrified by emotions, unable to let her go. Trevelyan turned her face towards the battlefield and extended her left hand to the rift. She sensed the Anchor shooting energy towards the gap in the veil, shattering her entire being. The balance of power on the battlefield shifted instantly as the rift disappeared – the marching elven warriors destroyed, the unnatural light around Darryln'hanaen significantly dimmed and the Maleficar slowly stepping back, looking for a way out.

Coming to his senses, Cullen released his grip on Trevelyan's body murmuring softly „Forgive me" and supported her gently in her efforts to rise. Varric and Dorian looked at her in disbelief and sincere admiration as she leaned on her staff, her armour sprinkled with her own blood, her face still an unhealthy shade of grey, her long dark hair, braided in complex hairdo full of dust and dry leaves. Before anyone could object she casted a mighty dispell towards the Maleficar. He got caught off-guard, not expecting another, far more powerful enemy and dropped to his knees. This moment of weakness was enough for Cullen's templars to pin him down with their armoured bodies, disarm him and chain him in enchanted shackles. After securing the most dangerous foe everyone turned their attention to Darryln'hanaen who seized her attacks at the very moment the necromancer lost control over her. The spell surrounding her got disbanded and the group stood again in the centuries old darkness of the tomb, breathing in the smell of mould. Solas was speaking quietly to the fading spirit.

„May the Friend of the Dead guide you to the other side," spoke Solas and the beautiful face of the elven spirit nodded in agreement and got absorbed by the darkness, whispering words of gratitude and relief.

„Take him for judgement to Skyhold", pointed Trevelyan at the moaning and helplessly cursing Maleficar.

„She is in peace", spoke Solas.

The soldiers around them lit torches and started searching the bodies, discovering the missing Inquisition scout, drained of his blood.

„Victorius again!", twittered Dorian cheery, approaching her "That's why I like sticking around. Another „bad" Tevinter falls", smiled he ironically.

Cullen regrouped his soldiers, shouted orders concerning the security of the prisoners, but his concerned eyes rested upon the Inquisitor more often than the common decency demanded.

„Don't worry, Curly," said Varric, patting his arm calmingly,"she has seen worse."

As Cullen blushed, all faces around them stretched in knowing smiles.

The journey back to Skyhold reminded Trevelyan of a promising spring morning. She was chatting happily with her companions and enjoying the chivalry and the presence of her Commander, standing out among the other soldiers and the excited recruits, who were striding proudly after their first successful battle and the templars, exchanging battlefield stories.

Nobody noticed the discontent expression on Solas' face and the clouds, gathering in his grey eyes, foretelling the rise of a devastating storm.

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