A/N – This piece was inspired by some dialogue that occurs between Meredith and Orsino during "The Last Straw" quest right before the "fireworks." It seemed to me that up to that point, Meredith was very frigid, and never expressed any emotion. In one moment of dialogue between her and Orsino, where she is practically begging him to give her some other option—her face softens, and she looks like a woman torn between her duty and someone that means a lot to her. That one scene in the game finally convinced me that Meredith was human, and not some kind of templar-robot hybrid.

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Disclaimer – I do not own Dragon Age or any of its characters. I do, however, love Dragon Age and all of its characters.

The 5th day of the month of Cloudreach, 9:37 Dragon

I have been branded many things in my life by many people: commander, mage-hater, visionary, zealot, even murderer. I could be all or none of them, depending on who you speak to and what you choose to believe. If this memoir is being read by someone other than myself, I have more than likely passed through the Veil, and could care less about any of those given monikers. There is only one title that I desire to be remembered by posthumously—that of lover. For an eye-opening and bittersweet time, I knew the glory and agony that comes with sharing one's heart. I only experienced love once and it was brief, but it had a profound effect on me, molding me throughout my years both privately and professionally. Ultimately, it put me on a path that I had to see through to its inevitable end. If the history books of Thedas know nothing of me except how and who I loved, then they will understand more of me than my most trusted advisors and subordinates. If nothing else, I feel my story needs to see the light of day, so that all who come after will understand and hopefully avoid making the mistake I made—giving my heart to a mage.

I can still vividly recall the first time I laid eyes on my only love. I can remember the sparkle in his bright, searching eyes and the form of his graceful, strong hands. I was barely seventeen at the time, a brand new initiate into the order, and he could not have been too much older than me. I had been assigned to a routine detail that involved searching the Circle mages' quarters for contraband, as one of my first duties as a Templar-in-training. My superior at the time was instructing me on how to look for illegal items, and normally I would be absorbing every word like a sponge just as I had done with all my previous training. But, this time was different. I could not keep from staring at the mage; something in the back of my mind was honing in on him like a beacon. I was so thoroughly intrigued by him—equal parts of suspicion and curiosity mixed with the fearlessness of youth. I had seen hundreds of his kind before, but none quite like him. He was young and elven, which made him different but hardly unique. There was something else about the man that I could not put my finger on—no one had ever caught my attention like he had, mage or not.

"Initiate, are you listening to me?" I heard the Lieutenant bark at me through my fixation.

"Yes, sir," the lie slipped past my lips easily.

The Lieutenant met my gaze, and squared his shoulders, "Then what did I say?"

I took a guess, and prayed to the Maker that I was right. If not, I would be peeling potatoes in the kitchen for weeks. "You asked me to search the mage's wardrobe."

He huffed, "Lucky guess, Initiate. Now get to it, and do a better job searching than you did listening."

I moved over to the dresser, keeping my eyes focused on the benign-looking piece of furniture. I knew that if I looked at the mage again, I would lose my focus. I shook my head in an attempt to try and clear it; I had no idea what it felt like to be hexed, and I was beginning to think that the mage had somehow magicked me into staring at him in a stupor. If I did not get my wits about me, I knew that I would never be a Templar. I simply could not allow a mage to have that kind of sway over me. I had moved methodically, peeking and poking through three drawers in the wardrobe, when I froze halfway through searching the final one. I had been sifting through some papers, all legitimate, until I came across a letter that appeared to be addressed to the mage's family in the Alienage. The rules dictated that all outside correspondence was illegal unless sanctioned by the Templars, and this missive bore no seal of approval. I turned around to alert my superior to the find, and instead met the gaze of the rule breaker. I could see in his eyes that he knew what I had discovered, and he looked both terrified and resigned to his fate.

I stood there mouth open, contemplating whether or not to utter the words that would expose the mage's secret. I simply could not bring myself to do it. The missive to his kin seemed to be the result of homesickness, and nothing more. If it had been something more serious, like a manifesto detailing a coup to take over the Circle, I would have turned him in immediately. Instead, I felt an immense amount of empathy with him—I knew all too well how it hurt to long for your family. It was a victimless crime and one where I understood his motives. I made up my mind, and finally managed to speak, "Lieutenant."

My superior replied curtly, "Yes?"

I kept my eye contact with the mage as I spoke, "I have finished my search of the wardrobe. There is nothing illegal within it."

The mage cracked an earnest and surprised smile.

The lieutenant responded, "Good. The trunk is also clean. On to the next room, Initiate."

The templar walked out, and I followed, but not before flashing my new mage friend a quick grin in response. At the time, I made the mistake of thinking that the mage's correspondence home was harmless, but I was so very wrong. That seemingly innocuous document fed my curiosity and gave me information I would later come to wish I never knew—his name—Orsino.