Summary: When the Inquisitor is captured by the Venatori, they send a powerful shapeshifter back to Skyhold in her place. Her friends, and particularly Cullen, are puzzled by her unusual behaviour but assume it's simply the burdens of leadership finally taking their toll.
With no-one aware that she's missing, and so no hope of rescue, the Inquisitor has to think of a way to escape and get back to Skyhold before her doppelgänger can cause too much damage.
Inquisitor Trevelyan Anwen,
I am continually amazed by your ability to find the undead wherever you travel.
You will be happy to hear, however, that your efforts have not been in vain. I have already received word from Marshall Bastien Proulx that he has redeployed his troops to patrol the roads around Ville Montevelan to protect civilians from these 'Freemen of the Dales' you have encountered. It disgusts me to think of these deserters terrorising the very people they have sworn to protect and I am glad the Inquisition has been able to assist in bringing an end to their mindless terror.
Leliana's scouts report that you are making excellent progress back to Skyhold. It makes your absence a little easier to bear knowing that you will soon be home.
I finished the book you so kindly lent me. You are right; I did find the Guard-Captain to be a compelling hero – although I doubt he could have chased the murderer across the city's rooftops after having received such a severe stab wound in the final chapter (and, yes, I can see you rolling your eyes at me as you read).
I did not fold the page corners, as instructed.
The trees in Skyhold's Garden have started to blossom and your favourite spot has been engulfed amongst a storm of pink. I was thinkingPerhaps It would be a pleasant spot for a picnic, if you felt so inclined upon your return.
I miss you. A lot.
Maker protect you,
Cullen
Postscript.
Tower to D5.
The last line makes her chuckle.
They hadn't managed to finish their last chess game; some emergency involving one of Vivienne's noble guests had required Anwen's immediate attention, and then when that had been resolved, Cullen had been called away to inspect his newest recruits. And then Cullen had needed to review the guard patrols. And Anwen had had to attend a fitting for her new set of armour.
And so the poor chess board had been abandoned, alone and forgotten in Anwen's quarters, awaiting the day its players would return and play to either glory or defeat.
It had been Anwen's suggestion to complete the game in their correspondence, although she'd intended it as a joke – she was embarrassed enough at her constant, repeated thrashings at the hands of her Commander; to lose at chess while miles away from an actual board seemed like a uniquely cruel form of torture. At least when Cullen beat her in person, he soothed her wounded pride with gentle kisses pressed against her pouting lips.
But Cullen had taken her suggestion as sincere and had ended all his letters since with his next masterful move in their game. Anwen had felt obliged to respond in kind, though she can't really remember where all the pieces had been positioned – not that it really matters; she knows defeat is all but inevitable, whether she remembers the board or not.
Although, truth be told, it doesn't really matter what the outcome of the game is. Because as much as Anwen likes to win (which is a lot), she likes spending time with Cullen more, likes sharing in the things which bring him joy. And there's something oddly comforting about continuing their game in their letters; something comforting about the knowledge that mere distance cannot hinder that joy.
She folds the letter and slips it inside a leather portfolio alongside the latest reports from Leliana and Josephine, as well as Cullen's more official update with information on the Inquisition's holdings and troop numbers. She'll write a response when they set up camp for the night – it'll give her the whole day's journey to consider her next move. Perhaps she can even persuade Dorian to assist in her ongoing endeavours to finally beat Cullen (although she knows that Dorian's record of wins isn't particularly impressive either – although at least Dorian puts up a good fight).
"What are you grinning about?" Dorian asks when Anwen emerges from her tent, peering at her over the rim of his mug and blowing tentatively on the steaming tea within. He sits on a low stool around the fire at the centre of their camp, looking immaculate even at this early hour.
"Nothing," she replies airily before turning to a nearby scout and handing them her latest set of reports and replies, ready to be sent with the next raven.
"Perhaps something in your morning letters has delighted you? Perhaps something from our fair Commander?"
She frowns, dismayed to find that she's so transparent.
"Ha," Sera cackles around a mouthful of bread and cheese, sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Dorian, "something dirty? Something about… positions?"
Before Anwen has the chance to respond, she feels a sharp burst of pain as The Iron Bull slaps her convivially on the shoulder. "Niiice!" he bellows as he steps around her, helping himself to a bowl of stew from the cauldron bubbling above the campfire before settling down on the other side of Dorian. She glares at his back as he fusses round the fire, fighting the urge to rub pathetically at the smarting pain in her shoulder.
"Firstly, I hate all of you," she begins; Sera and Bull grin in response while Dorian clutches his chest in feigned offence. "Secondly, Cullen is a perfect gentleman in his letters; he wrote about books and chess and-"
"Pfft," Sera interrupts, "you two are so pissing boring."
Anwen's frown deepens, resenting the allegation. There are few things she can think of more insulting than being described as boring (except, perhaps, nice).
"Don't worry, Boss, I can have a word with him when we get back to Skyhold." Bull gestures with his spoon as he talks, dribbles of gravy arching through the air with his enthusiasm. "You two spend so much time apart, it must get lonely in that bedroll of yours. I can give him some tips on spicing up his letters – what he wants to do to you, what he wants you to do to him. It'll give you some inspiration when you're, you know, sorting yourself out at night."
"All right, Bull," she snaps, eager to end the conversation. "That's a… very kind offer. I'll – um – I'll keep that in mind."
He's grinning – broad and toothy – and she wants to send him a withering glare but she can feel her traitorous lips curling up into a smile. When he pulls up a nearby supply crate and gives it a welcoming pat, she feels the small smile broaden. By the time she's settled, and Bull has handed her a bowl of stew and a mug of tea, her own grin is as wide and warm as his.
Well, shit – she can't stay mad at these idiots for long.
"Did you get my note?" Sera asks around another mouthful of bread, and Anwen is relieved to see the conversation shifting away from speculation about what she may or may not get up to in her bedroll at night.
"Yes – although I don't quite understand."
"What's there to understand? Some gobshite in Maida Vallée is being a prick, yeah? He fires half his staff – now they've lost their livelihoods – and the other half is jittery and scared. No one knows what's going on, which is why we need some of Leliana's people to pay a visit, right?"
"Yes, I got that, and I've sent Leliana a letter requesting her assistance, but normally when a Lord makes drastic cuts to his staff it's because of financial difficulties in the family – and I'm afraid there's not much the Inquisition can do about that."
"My people haven't mentioned money troubles."
"Well noble families tend to keep those sorts of things very well hidden. It wouldn't be surprising if the staff were unaware."
"Are you saying they're lying? Or stupid?" Sera's voice sharpens as the speaks, tinges of anger colouring the edges of her words. Sera's used that tone of voice with her before – especially at the beginning, when she'd learned about Anwen's noble heritage but hadn't decided yet whether she was the good kind of noble.
"Of course not! I'm just saying… there are some things that not even the Inquisition can fix. If this Lord is truly having money problems, well, it's shit for the staff who've lost their jobs but hardly nefarious."
Sera hums in begrudging acceptance, nodding her head slowly.
"I'd have thought you'd be happy, Sera, seeing some uptight, holier-than-though noble fall from grace?" Dorian suggests, perhaps in an effort to smooth some of the tension.
"Not if he takes the little people down with him," she grumbles in response.
"How about, if Leliana finds out that something is amiss, you and I can pay this Lord a personal visit?" Anwen suggests, "You can unleash a swarm of bees on him and I'll – I don't know – set fire to all of his breeches or something. Deal?"
Sera smiles, small at first then increasingly wicked.
"And this, Inky, is why we're friends," Sera says with a wink, and Anwen is relieved to hear the sharpness fall from Sera's voice.
Their friendship had not always been an easy thing. Anwen had originally thought Sera peculiar and Sera thought her a snob – opinions which had proven difficult to overcome (largely because they aren't entirely untrue). It had taken both women a long time to recognise the other's finer qualities, even longer to build their relationship from one of begrudging respect to genuine friendship, but now Anwen values Sera's opinion and her company more than most people's, and she hates it when Sera speaks to her with terse, clipped tones – as occasionally still happens when Anwen says something snobbish.
So it's a great relief when Sera starts affably chatting away about some of her prouder moments, words muffled and indistinct around ambitious mouthfuls of breakfast as she describes hapless nobles caught pants-less at fancy parties, or fashionable salons inexplicably overrun with wild nugs. Dorian rolls his eyes and Iron Bull laughs uproariously and Anwen would be content to stay around the campfire all day just sharing stories. But then Scout Harding appears, an apologetic look on her face as she taps the ground impatiently with her toe, and that's when Anwen knows it's time to leave.
Anwen feels a slight twinge of guilt – she really hadn't meant to dawdle so much over breakfast – but then they have made excellent progress over the last few days. Surely they can afford a little leisure today.
After all, it is a beautiful day. The weather has started to turn, days becoming warm and long as Spring firmly takes hold over Thedas. The Exalted Plains had been beautiful, wild flowers carpeting the softly undulating hills, painting the ground in broad strokes of yellow and blue. If not for the ramparts filled with shuffling corpses, Anwen would have thought the whole place almost unbearably picturesque.
Cullen's letter had mentioned blossoms back at Skyhold and Anwen feels a little frisson of excitement at the thought of seeing her home bedecked in a mantle of colour – it'll be her first Spring in Skyhold and her growing anticipation makes her long for home even more than usual.
She's always liked Skyhold, right from the very first moment she'd stepped foot inside the castle's walls; it felt safe, somehow, comforting. Perhaps because of its age, or simply its majestic baring – the proud, straight walls standing in defiance against both time and the unforgiving climate of the Frostbacks. But to see Skyhold drenched in sunlight, awash with colour from Spring-time blooms – well, that's not just majestic – that sounds bloody magnificent.
The terrain is easy as they make their way across the Dales, the party still another day away from the rockier terrain which marks the start of the Frostbacks, and conversation is lively as they travel. Sera and Anwen play a guessing game of Sera's creation (the rules of which thoroughly elude Anwen), while Dorian and Bull bicker good-naturedly about Tevinter history. When they stop for lunch, Anwen asks Dorian for advice on her chess game but with Anwen unable to recollect the board, Dorian can do little except offer his commiserations.
As they settle into the afternoon's ride, Scout Harding starts to sing, a lively, cheerful tune that Anwen doesn't recognise – something Ferelden most likely, or perhaps Dwarfish?
Bull pulls up his draft horse to ride alongside Anwen and for a time they talk in excited tones about the rumours they'd heard of a High Dragon in the far north of the Plains. Bull offers some ideas on potential battle tactics, gesturing wildly to fully explain his points, and Anwen can't help but snort with laughter at his more outrageous suggestions. It's not that she doesn't admire his ingenuity or sheer enthusiasm – but she's certain that Varric will object to how frequently he features in Bull's plans as some sort of impromptu projectile. After a while she's pretty sure he's just pulling her leg, suggesting more and more ridiculous tactics purely to make her laugh.
She's still chuckling to herself when she notices that Bull has suddenly turned quiet and thoughtful, and when he starts speaking again, his voice is softer, pitched low so that the rest of the party cannot hear him.
"You know – it's not just the letters," he says, "I can give Cullen advice about all kinds of things."
"Excuse me?" she asks, not quite catching the first part of the sentence but fearing that the conversation is about to take a turn toward uncomfortable territory.
"Positions… roleplay… techniques… toys…" He counts each new point on his fingers.
"Bull," she interjects before his list can become too exhaustive, "thank you – but this isn't really necessary." She can feel a blush beginning to bloom across her cheeks.
"Ah! So he's already tickling your fancy! Good for him!" A delighted smirk spreads crookedly across his face and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Well – actually… I don't…" She averts her gaze, pointlessly readjusting her grip on her reins.
His previous elation drops from his face, looking mildly disappointed instead. "Oh – so you two haven't yet?… I just assumed… from the way you two go at each other on the battlements."
Her head jerks up at that, looking at him with a pained expression. "I thought we were being discreet!"
He guffaws, loud and bellowing, then stops abruptly when he realises she's not laughing with him. "Really? You thought - ? Oh shit."
There's an awkward pause as Anwen looks at the landscape around her, looking at the trees, the clouds – anything but Bull's incredulous expression. It's not that she feels she needs to hide her relationship with Cullen but, well, it's hardly befitting of a woman of her noble stature to be seen canoodling in quite such a public setting.
Although sometimes she thinks her noble stature can fuck off – because canoodling in public can be awfully fun.
"With all due respect, Boss, why not?" Bull asks, and if it was anyone else asking the question she would dismiss them at once for being unduly invasive. But from Bull the question seems more like concern for her wellbeing than nosiness, and she finds she doesn't resent it.
"There hasn't really been time," she explains with a small shrug. "We've only been together a few months and we've been – busy. First I was finding the Wardens, then there was that Rift in Crestwood, and those journeys to and from the Western Approach took fucking ages. And then there was Adamant, of course, which preoccupied quite a lot of our time and – well – I don't think either of us just wanted a quick fuck bent over Cullen's desk."
Bull snorts. "That's a shame; that sounds fun."
She gives him what she thinks is a reproachful glare but she must be losing her touch because he only grins in response. "I've been an apostate most of my adult life," she continues, feeling a peculiar need to defend herself, "always on the move, always trying to keep one step ahead of the Templars – and I've never really had time for a relationship. I've had brief affairs from time to time but now – with Cullen – it's different. I don't have to run anymore; I can take my time, really savour things."
"I get that," he says, nodding sagely. "It's nice sometimes, to ratchet up the anticipation, teasing, push him to the very edge of want and then leave him lingering there until he's ready to burst."
She narrows her eyes at him. "It sounds way dirtier when you phrase it like that."
His grin somehow manages to broaden, wide and toothy. "You're welcome."
She laughs then, light and easy, and Bull joins her with his own heartier chuckles.
"But remember – when you're ready to have some real fun – you can come talk to me any time for advice. Cullen looks like the kind of man who could be into some really kinky shit if given the chance; it's always the noble types."
Her blush is back. "Well – thank you for… thank you. I'll – keep that in mind."
He starts giving her some tips then, despite her insistence that they are unnecessary, regaling her with tales of some of his greatest conquests. Many of his tips and tricks are frankly absurd, either scandalously obscene or requiring a level of acrobatics she is certain she does not possess. And yet while several of his suggestions are staggeringly ambitious, some of them are… intriguing, and she makes a mental note to ask for more information when the need arises.
She's enjoying herself, she realises, despite her habitual discomfort in talking about something she usually considers deeply private. Her cheeks are burning with colour, and she can't seem to stop her hands from fidgeting nervously with her reins, but there's something about Bull's laidback charm that puts her at ease.
Bull's not trying to be quiet anymore, speaking in broad, animated tones so that anyone riding nearby can hear, and Dorian and Sera's occasional interjections do nothing to stop the burning blush that has now spread all the way down to the collar of Anwen's tunic. Bull makes rude hand gestures to illustrate his most sordid stories and Dorian tuts in what appears to be feigned disapproval, and Anwen's so engrossed in conversation that she doesn't realise something is wrong until she notices that Harding has stopped singing.
She looks up – Harding's pony is happily trotting along, leading the party from a few feet ahead as always, and nothing appears amiss until Anwen sees Harding slowly slumping forward in her saddle.
At first Anwen's confused, staring at Harding with a quizzical curl to her brows, but then Harding slips from her pony's back, body heavy and unmoving, and it's not until she thuds into the grass that Anwen spots the arrow standing proudly from her neck.
Then everything erupts into a storm of movement and noise.
"We're under attack!" someone shouts, "protect the Inquisitor!"
Anwen can't help but think that that's a thoroughly stupid thing to say. Because she's clearly fine while Harding – oh, Maker, Harding – is lying on the ground with a slowly growing halo of blood around her head.
She can feel the air sizzle and hiss as Dorian unleashes his fire magic, and the familiar sound of Bull's war cry pierces above all over noise, but all Anwen can focus on is Harding's lifeless body as she jumps from her saddle and runs over to where Harding lies. She falls to her knees amongst the grass and immediately places her hand over the wound, pushing out with tendrils of magic that pulse and throb from her fingertips. Harding stares straight ahead with glassy, unseeing eyes, mouth gaping uselessly at the air as she tries desperately to breathe through her ruined neck.
"It's all right," Anwen coos soothingly, "I have you, Harding."
One hand wraps around the arrow shaft while the other presses close to the wound. Then she murmurs a prayer to the Maker before pulling the arrow clear of Harding's neck and channelling as much magic as she can to staunch the bleeding. Harding's body spasms with pain as the arrow is ripped free, though she makes no sound, and Anwen is struck with the sudden thought that – fuck – maybe she was supposed to leave the arrow in. She gives her head a firm shake, rattling away the doubt before it has a chance to distract her, and instead draws on the spirits of the Fade to grant her the power she needs.
Anwen is dimly aware of fighting all around her, Sera cackling as she unleashes a barrage of arrows and the unsettling crack of Bull's mace as it makes contact with soft, vulnerable flesh – but all she can focus on is Harding and the tendrils of blue-white light that fall from her hands to curl around the woman's tattered flesh. Anwen has always been proficient at healing magic – a rare gift amongst mages and one that Anwen has always treasured – but as she kneels among the grass, her friend's blood seeping into the front of her trousers, she begins to feel the terrible, creeping thought that, perhaps, she's just not good enough.
Finally the skin seems to knit together, and Harding takes a deep, desperate gulp of air. Anwen lets her magic wink out, shoulders slumping from exertion, and she manages to loosen the tightness in her jaw just enough to allow for a tired smile.
There's only a brief moment of joy, though, when, in the next moment, Anwen feels something sharp against the back of her head. She pitches to the side, falling face first into the ground, and she only just manages to roll over in time to see her assailant looming over her with his fists raised threateningly. Her magic reserves are low, so much mana used to mend Harding's wound, and it takes all of her energy to summon enough magic to blow the man back and send him fumbling to his knees. It's only a short respite, the man quickly regaining his footing, and Anwen has to scramble fast to pull herself to her feet and prepare for another attack.
Her staff is still with her horse, foolishly abandoned when she'd run to Harding's aid, and it takes more energy than she really has to spare to summon a chain of lightening. A branch of glimmering purple and silver hits the man square in the chest. He stumbles – but it's too weak to do more than temporarily slow him. He grins, maybe even laughs (though she can barely hear it over the sounds of nearby battle) and lunges forward.
Anwen tries to pull from somewhere deep inside, summoning all her reserves, desperately tugging at the veil to drag across any magic she can muster. She can feel the meagre power pooling in her hand, a stuttering ball of sparks and heat, and she prays that this is enough to stop the man nearly upon her.
She lifts her hand, prepares to unleash the power jumping across her palm, when suddenly she feels an arm wrap around her, crushing her neck in the crook of an elbow. Another arm wraps around her waist, holding her tight against the unmoving body of whomever has approached her from behind. She struggles in the chokehold, thrashing her legs and kicking with all her might.
She lets loose the magic held in her hand, her whole body clenching from the effort, but it does little more than sputter and skitter across her assailant's arms, and though she can see his skin blister and smell his hairs singe, the tight grip does not relent.
The last thing Anwen thinks before the blackness overtakes her vision is, oh shit.