Soon to be an epic multichapter fic of Inquisitor Trevelyan (mage) with all the depth and personal character development that I felt was lacking in the game. Eventual Trevelyan/Solas. Not always canon compliant.
Chapter One: Flirting With Danger
"You fell out of a rift and our soldiers found you. They say they saw a woman in the rift behind you, but no one knows who she was."
Cassandra's words echoed across the chasm as they approached the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Sorschia Trevelyan stood mute and immobile, overwhelmed by what she was hearing as a frigid wind pelted her face and body. Her eyes widened as she witnessed the horrific sight before them.
The crater was still smoldering, littered with the remains of mages and templars, bodies frozen in grotesque postures of abject agony. Her stomach lurched as the smell of burning flesh racked her senses.
Sorschia's mind was reeling as they descended deeper into the carnage, the reverberating hum of residual magical energy rung in her ears. The thrumming ache in her hand was growing stronger and she looked up, vertigo shocking her senses as the dizzying display of brilliant green light throbbed menacingly above her.
This is where they had found her, in this lifeless ashen landscape, with no wound except a magical mark upon her hand. She had fallen from the fade itself, and had been in a fevered sleep for days.
She looked down, wincing at the throb in her arm. The mark paced itself in rhythm to the enormous green fissure. The rifts occasional bursts energy washed over her and left her shivering from head to toe.
Sorschia turned to take in the sight of blackened structural remains, once the fortified stone walls of the ancient temple. She recalled her excitement at being a part of the mage delegate to meet with the chantry, and with Divine Justinia, in person.
Sorschia Trevelyan had spent her young adult life dreaming of that moment; a chance for the mages of the south to declare their right to freedom to the chantry and the Divine herself. She had prepared quickly when she'd heard the news, eager to watch the deliberations and support her fellow mages during this historic moment. She was apprehensive but secretly hopeful for a potential future free from a chantry leash. She knew her fellow mages could prove they deserved that freedom, and would earn that freedom, no matter what obstacles lay before them. They were determined to be recognized, to be represented and treated as equals. This was their shining moment.
... She could have never imagined it would have ended like this.
Both sides were devastated by an as-of-yet inexplicable cataclysmic event. No matter what the outcome after they dealt with the breach, Sorschia knew that the world would be reeling from the Divine's untimely death for years to come.
The mage's plight would only get worse.
Her chest ached for her comrades; those she lost in the blast were some of her closest friends to whom she had confided so much, the few in all Thedas she could trust. To think that others, most likely mages, may have combined their efforts to do something like this; a blood magic ritual massacre of sky-tearing proportions ...
And what was my role in this?
She scowled bitterly, flexing and clenching her now-luminous hand. The mark was far from understated. The connection she felt to the magic here was undeniable. What exactly had she done or been forced to do?
The guilt and fear clawed at her insides. Her memory was full of holes, only a buzzing blur of ... something echoed in her mind, shreds of memories snapping back to the surface, only to dissipate and leave her dazed by foggy glimpses of noise and fear.
A being of light. Reaching for her. Grasping her hand. Had she imagined that?
It wasn't as if she'd never met a spirit before. In fact it was quite the hobby for her back at Ostwick, but the thought of meeting one while being physically within the fade itself felt ... completely alien to her. The thought was beyond description. No mage had ever, at least according to the Chantry's historians, entered the fade since the dastardly magisters of old, who had spoiled the seat of the Maker and brought the blight. She'd only thought it a fairy tale to scare young mages into fearing their power ... but if she really had emerged from the fade what did it mean for her?
... Or better yet, what did that mean for the fade?
Maker, she groaned internally. And here she was, miraculously living and breathing, while every living thing within a hundred meters of where she stood had died around her. It started to make sense why everyone was in complete awe of her.
Sorschia had always possessed a natural charisma that had gotten her into the right circles, as was expected of her noble lineage. She had also garnered a healthy level of respect and awe from her peers for her denouncement of said noble lineage to fully commit to the mage rebellion ... but this was different. It was as if she were something ephemeral, ghostly, and if they were to take their eyes off her she might spirit herself back to the fade at any moment.
Their eyes were always trained on her. Especially, she noticed, the elven apostate.
Solas, as the mage called himself, had kept a keen eye on her ever since their formal introductions. For a hedge mage offering their services to glorified templars he was awfully well informed ... there was clearly much more to him than he was letting on to Cassandra and the others.
Sorschia knew a liar when she saw one.
His often excessive amicability and flattery were dead giveaways. Of course it was only natural to become a good liar as a mage, and most definitely living as an apostate, but there seemed to be an unfathomable depth to his character that she couldn't place. She'd met many hedge mages in her time serving the mage rebellion, and none had offered as much arcane knowledge as Solas was now sharing with the seeker and herself. She'd assumed his cooperation was a ruse, and Cassandra had most likely had him in chains just like herself, strong arming him into to keeping Sorschia alive with his hedge magic ... a pilgrim turned prisoner. Varric had at least been straightforward about his displeasure in their situation.
And when Solas had grabbed her hand and held it to the rift, an immense electrical shock had gone through Sorschia. It was almost as if he'd channeled his energies through her body, helping her use this mark to mend the weave of the fade. She had been dumbfounded after it. No mage had ever combined their energies with her in that way, it was too intimate to describe. Despite her distrust of him, she couldn't help respecting his power.
He had locked eyes with her then, and afterwards she had felt a little awkward around him, though she had masked it well.
Sorschia mentally steeled herself. She knew with near certainty that no mage in their right mind would willingly sign up to help in a situation like this unless they had motivations of their own, no matter how much arcane knowledge lay at their disposal, no matter how noble or foolish.
She'd make sure to be wary of this one until she could learn more of his true intentions, though the rapid beating in her heart told her she'd be finding a way to engage with him more in the future, if there in fact was a future.
She'd always loved flirting with danger. But since when haven't mages been flirting with danger. It was the nature of being a mage.
As she came closer to the origin of the fade rift she heard it; the voice of a woman crying out, begging for help.
Sorschia whipped around, frantically looking for any signs of life only to wince in pain as a wave of magical energy erupted from the fade, pulling at her mark and dragging her forward. Her body was pulled towards a reflection high above her, watching herself rushing in a panic to aid a bound and pleading Divine Justinia.
Quickly she realized this wasn't a trick of the light. These were memories, a reflection of the past, burned into the very fabric of the ether and tethered to the tear in the fade.
"You were there! Who attacked? And the divine, is she ...?"
Suddenly a swell of emotions overcame Cassandra as she grabbed Sorschia by the shoulders, shaking her with urgency and desperation hitching her voice.
"Is this vision true!? What are we seeing?"
Even if she did know what happened, Sorschia wasn't sure if she'd dare to share it with Cassandra, as meaningful as her plea was. Even proven innocent, they would find some way to put her in chains again. They always do.
"I don't remember," she responded meekly, feigning empathy. She had hoped Cassandras grip would relent, but she held fast to the mage as Solas stepped forward, his eyes never leaving the breach.
"Echoes of what happened here. The fade bleeds into this place."
He approached them and Cassandra stepped away, releasing Sorschia from the sting of her iron gauntlets. She slouched in relief, rubbing at her aching shoulders, then quickly stilled her movements as Solas spoke again, his words spoken more to himself than to her or Cassandra.
"This rift is not sealed, but it is closed, albeit temporarily."
That was when his eyes fixed on her, boring into to her soul as he finally acknowledged her presence, her mark trembled anxiously as he spoke.
"I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side."
"That means demons!" Cassandra bellowed at the troops waiting above them. "Stand ready!"
With haste the troops and officers clamored out of the charred stonework and surrounded them, bowmen and scouts positioning themselves on high ledges with arrows nocked into place. All at once, her companions, Varric, Solas and Cassandra, encircled Sorschia, readying themselves for the onslaught.
Then suddenly all eyes were upon her. Cassandra gave her a meaningful nod as they waited, expecting her to do her best to reach out and expunge this dangerous magical vortex from spreading further and becoming an even greater danger.
She hesited. She should be doing this for her fellow mages, for the safety of Thedas, and still she hesitated. This was surely suicide, but inevitably being met with a flurry of cold blades and arrows at her back didn't seem to be an appealing alternative, or adversely an equally good motivator.
With a pointed, dangerous look at Solas, she readied herself for what was to come. She spoke to him with her eyes, an expression of distrust etched into her features.
You better not make be regret trusting you.