Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters you recognise.
Note: In this story, Greagoir retired long before the events of Inquisition and by the time the circles fall, Kinloch has a new Knight Commander.
Dear Diary,
We're leaving Kinloch. The fighting is getting closer and closer and the Circle is too obvious a target. With Chantry aid spread thin, we don't have the means to launch a sortie if we're ever surrounded.
It's strange. For twelve years, all I ever wanted to was to leave here, but now that we are leaving, I'm loathe to do it. For all that the circle tower was my prison, it's also been my home for more than half my life. I don't have any other home left. I know it's not about the blocks of stone, but I swear this place has memories of its own. This was where I met Sol, Anders…
No, I won't be sad. It's ridiculous to be. I'm finally getting my wish. I finally get to be in the world rather than observing it through a narrow stone window. Home is with the people who love you and all my friends are going with me.
Still, this moonlight shimmering over Lake Calenhad, shattering as it meets the ripples on the water, so so beautifully sad. I've seen this scene hundreds of times. Will tonight be the last? You don't think you're going to miss things until you're just about to lose them.
I think I hear someone looking for me. Oh, it's just Andrew. I might stay a while, say goodbye to the tower.
The moon was setting by the time the small band of Templars and mages, half trained and weary, pushed the boat out onto the glassy surface of the lake. Sibby cast a glance back at the silent stone tower that held so many memories, both good and bad.
"Sybille, come on!" Andrew called. The others were all looking warily at the woods surrounding the lake, trying to discern any movement amongst the dark boughs that could indicate the presence of enemies.
There was nothing. She clambered into the boat and sat next to Knight Commander Erik, who had been stripped of his commission when Kinloch had been disbanded. Was the Templar really going that grey? She hadn't noticed until now. They loaded their meagre belongings onto the boat.
"So where are we going to go?" asked David, a young apprentice whose voice had just started changing.
"Out into the wilds, with the rest of the refugees," said the Knight Commander — Erik. Ser Erik. He would always be the Knight Commander to her. "Somewhere we can hide and blend in to weather this storm."
"And how long will we stay there for?" asked Florence. She clutched her small bundle to her chest, her eyes inordinately wide in her thin, pale face.
"As long as we need," was the grim reply.
It didn't comfort Florence one little bit. Sibby gave her a small smile, to assure her that it was all going to be all right. She didn't believe it herself, but as one of the oldest mages in the group, she had a responsibility to keep the others calm.
Andrew finished loading the boat and got in himself. Out of his Templar armour, he somehow seemed smaller, and there were shadows beneath his eyes. Had he grown old too?
She took up one oar, and he the other. Together, they rowed towards the shores of Lake Calenhad.
Dear Diary,
It's been four days since we left the Circle tower. Whatever excitement there had been initially has all but dissipated. We're trying to blend in with the other refugees heading for Ferelden's Hinterlands. King Alistair is the only monarch in Southern Thedas who hasn't condemned all mages. They whisper that he's still pining over an apostate — a Chasind witch. I think I met her that time when Sol came back during the Blight to help with the Uldred issue. Yellow eyes, lots of feathers.
Knight Commander Erik had us all liberate commoners' clothing. The downfall of most apostates escaping from circles, he said, was that they never thought to wear anything other than mage robes. All the enchantments in the world won't deter any Templar with eyes. I bet Anders wished he'd known to do that. Maybe he wouldn't have…
Who am I kidding? It's not like a pair of rough woollen trousers would have changed his mind about shit.
Erik has me rationing out our Lyrium supply. We brought all that we had but that's not very much to begin with. I found that enchanter's secret stash but even that was running low, with Orzammar's trade having been interrupted by the war. It sounds so civilized when what King Bhelen actually means is that we're too screwed up to do business with. I happen to agree with his assessment. There are bodies everywhere, their mouths and nostrils and eyes crowded with humming black flies, with little white maggots squirming all over their wounds and hair. They're just lying there by the side of the road for animals to chew on. Some of them are still alive, but beyond aid. Andrew wanted to help them, but what could we do? We barely have enough supplies for ourselves. So we left them. I'm trying not to think about their eyeless sockets. The birds, they go for the eyes first. Pluck them out like juicy nuts. Oh Maker, Creators, whatever. I'm sorry. I really am. But I need to live.
Dear Diary,
We've set up base in the wilderness where there are more goats than people. There are bears too but they don't really bother us. We're too well armed. Of more concern are the Lyrium smugglers, who are suspicious of anyone who crosses their paths. We've found a supplier though. That would help. We're hoping that we can last out here long enough. Word has it that the Divine has called for a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes to try and resolve he war. Is it too naive to hope that it'll work?
I don't believe in the Maker — if he's real, and he really is all powerful, then he has a lot to answer for. He owes me. But I really do hope someone out there, up there, is taking note of all these prayers. This war has got to stop. I have reason to hate the Chantry — more than most, I would say, but if this madness goes on for much longer, none of us would be left alive to remember why we're fighting. I can't imagine this was what Anders was wanting. He always just wanted to help everyone. I don't believe what they say, that he was a maleficar. That's not the man I knew. We've talked about this before. The last thing he would want is for all these mages to die needlessly. We're all being played. We're being played by the Chantry who look more and more needed, more and more relevant as time goes on.
Erik's started getting the shakes. He needs a lot more Lyrium these days. I have to wonder, does the Chantry know what it's doing to these men and women who dedicate their entire lives to the faith? Is that how they repay their loyalty? I know what happens to Templars who get too old and absentminded to serve. The Chantry blames us for needing the Templars' sacrifice. And they let us blame the Templars for our suffering even though it's the Chantry that's ordering it. The Templar Order didn't kill my family. It was sanctioned by the Chantry, who wields the Templars as its weapons. Templars, mages, even kings; we're all just toys in their game for eternity, or whatever it is they actually are playing for!
(Here, ink has been splattered, possibly from a shattered nib. The paper is slightly torn and the edges are browned and curled.)
Dear Diary,
I lost control yesterday. I almost burned you. Hah, that would be the second magical incident to have been caused by me. Except nobody knows what I almost did and I intend to keep it that way.
I've given Erik an Elfroot and spindleweed mixture to manage his pain and the shakes. He called me Amell today. He thought I was Sol. I'll give him a higher dosage, perhaps, and see if that helps. Even these common herbs are hard to come by, because the rogue templars have control of the waterways where spindleweed grows and the rogue mages have the wood with the elfroot. I can't help but wonder if this is actually a Chantry plot. Before Kirkwall, the circles and the Order were almost getting along. Is the Divine afraid that she's about to become obsolete? With more magical developments and even more scientific developments, the Maker and Andraste seem more and more like distant fairy tales. So the Chantry is jerking our leashes to remind us who's in charge.
Fuck the Chantry.
FUCK
Sibby couldn't write. She couldn't do much. All hope was gone. The conclave had been blown up and, along with it, any chance for peace. They would never return to Kinloch, never come out of hiding. They were all going to die out here.
"They're talking about a new Inquisition," Andrew said, coming over to hand her a bowl of thin soup of nug and wild roots.
"What's that?" asked Sibby, looking up at her old friend. Andrew sat down next to her on the damp mossy log and stared into the campfire.
"Long ago, when the world was in chaos," he began intoning as if telling a story to a child, "the Inquisition was formed to bring order to a world on the edge of destruction. I can't remember exactly what was going on. They later became the basis of the Templars and the Seekers."
"Sorry, Andrew, but I don't think more Templars is going to solve the issue at hand."
Andrew gave a short laugh and poked another stick into the campfire. "I thought you liked us," he said.
"I like you as people," said Sibby. "You're my friends. But the order — the order is not my friend."
"I hear this new Inquisition is bent on finding a solution to the Mage Templar conflict," said Andrew. "And the hole in the sky, whatever that is. They're looking for recruits, of any kind."
"I'm not sure I trust them. They sound like too much of a good thing."
"We may not have a choice soon. We're running low on lyrium."
They'd been raiding rogue Templar caravans to replenish their stocks, but with winter setting in, there were fewer and fewer of those coming through and the ones that did were heavily guarded; far too heavily guarded for their ragtag bunch to raid.
Some of the smugglers were willing to trade, but for exorbitant prices. The last time any of them got paid was when some rich Ferelden captain gave her gold in exchange for a night in bed. It was the easiest five gold sovereigns, and the most legal, she'd ever made. The others thought she'd sold some pelts. She wasn't going to tell them or anyone, ever.
The five gold sovereigns had bought them enough lyrium to last them five days. It was an expensive habit, created to leash Templars to the chantry. They'd been rationing their supplies to stretch them out a bit longer, but there was only so much time before they ran out completely. Erik was getting worse day by day. He hid it, for their sakes, but she could see.
"I hear they've taken back the crossroads," Andrew continued. "The Inquisition. They've got someone who can deal with the demon rifts. They call him the Herald of Andraste. I know you don't believe in religion, and I'm not asking you to, but if they can deal with the rifts, maybe there is something there for us. Why don't we go down to the crossroads tomorrow, check it out?"
"Fine," said Sibby.
"Eat your stew," said Andrew. "We don't need mages fainting as well. Templars are bad enough. Tomorrow, we go to meet the Inquisition."
The Crossroads were teeming with activity and there was a palpable buzz of excitement in the air, like a hive of bees awakening to spring after a long, bitter winter. Everywhere, there were signs of this new Inquisition, with the sunburst sword and the all seeing eye on every banner. It was much changed from what she remembered, just a few weeks ago, when everyone had been living in fear of the rebel mages and Templars taking over and killing everyone.
She picked her way over the wooden paths laid down hastily over puddles, following Andrew's lead. What did he hope to achieve? Was he just going to approach one of the soldiers and say, "Hey, what about this new Inquisition, huh?"
Actually, considering it was Andrew, who'd made shadow puppets to comfort a terrified and angry little mage apprentice whose parents had just been killed by a bunch of Orlesian Templars…
"Hey there, careful!" She crashed right into a scratched breastplate, behind which was a powerfully built young man with broad shoulders, light grey eyes, and curly brown hair. At his narrow waist, he wore a sword, much like what a standard Fereldan soldier would wear, while on his back was a shield most usually borne by Templars.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I wasn't watching where I was going."
"You're all right," he said. "Or are you? That was quite a hard bump."
"I'm not that delicate, Ser," she said with a smile.
"No, I daresay you're not," mused the man. "I've not seen you here before. Are you new?"
Who was this man who seemed to think he ought to know every middling refugee in the Crossroads?
"Herald, there you are," said a stern woman in Chantry livery. Her accent was Nevarran, and she had a scar on her face. "We must not tarry. The rebel mages are encroaching on our boundaries and each day they have hold on the Witchwood is another day when supplies cannot come through to the people here."
Herald? Herald of Andraste.
"Excuse me," said Andrew. "But are you… Inquisition?"
Oh Creators and Maker above! He really was going to do it like this!
"And you are a Templar," said the stern woman.
"Was. Had been. Before," said Andrew.
"Smooth," said the young man. The Herald. He raised an eyebrow at Sibby. "You're not a Templar too, are you? I have a thing about them. They're always trying to recruit me." He made an exaggerated face of disgust.
The stern woman rolled her eyes. "That is definitely not a Templar. Just a civilian."
"Yeah, civilian. That's me," said Sibby quickly.
"Cassandra, surely a Seeker would know a mage when she sees one?" said the languid voice of the elven mage, who was leaning on his staff and watching the entire proceeding with distracted interest.
"What? Mage? Me? Baseless accusations if I ever heard any."
"Are you not?" asked the mage. The seeker, Cassandra, frowned.
"I've never cast a spell in my entire life," Sibby declared.
"That's almost true," said Andrew.
Traitor.
"Peace," said the elven mage who'd started all of this. "There is no need for concern if you mean no harm."
"We're just getting supplies, weren't we, Andrew?" said Sibby. She tugged on her friend's arm. The sooner they got out of here, the better. She didn't like the look of that Seeker. Or that Herald.
"So soon? But we only just met," said the Herald. "I don't even know your name, Miss…?"
"Beaumar," Andrew supplied. "And I am Andrew Collins, formerly of Kinloch Hold."
"Say, didn't Commander Rutherford come from Kinloch, Seeker Cassandra?"
Cullen? Crazy Cullen Rutherford, who lost the plot and almost killed Mervyn for trying to set his pants on fire? He's a commander now? Somebody was mad to give him that job. Then again, the Inquisition was basically a faith militant. They all had to be a little bit mad. Still, the man they called the Herald seemed quite charming and perfectly normal, save for the mark he supposedly bore. He wore gloves so she couldn't really see it.
"He did," said Andrew, before Sibby could say anything. "We were friends. He'll vouch for us. We've a group of us, mages and Templars who just didn't think there was anything very clever about fighting each other. We're running low on… just about everything,really."
"You don't have to tell them all our secrets," hissed Sibby.
"They're friends," said Andrew. "I mean, you are, aren't you?"
Cassandra pursed her lips and gave them a lookover, as if she was considering a particularly distasteful purchase.
"Of course we're friends," said the Herald. He held out his arms wide and gave them a grin that showed off his impressively white and straight teeth. Maker, he was beautiful.
"You're not so bad yourself, Miss Beaumar," said the Herald.
Did she say that out loud?
Cassandra made a disgusted noise.
"It occurs to me I haven't properly introduced myself," the Herald continued as if nothing untoward had happened. "Alexander Marcus Maxmillian Cassius Trevelyan, fourth son of Bann Maxmillian Marcus Cassius Alexander Trevelyan of Ostwick, at your service. My friends call me Alex. Most get lost by the time I get to my third middle name. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Ser Collins, Miss Beaumar, and would love it if you could join us at our stronghold at Haven, where we have supplies. Some."
"Do you just talk demons to death?" asked Sibby.
"I believe I haven't tried that one yet," said Alex.
"You could give it a go, Charming," said a dwarf who approached them with a sack that looked to be full of weaponry parts. "You'd probably win every battle without a scratch."
"Says the dwarf who likes to dominate every conversation and spins the most extraordinary tales."
The dwarf gave a low, almost mocking bow. "I live to entertain," he said. "Varric Tethras at your service."
"You wrote Swords and Shields!" Sibby blurted out before she could help herself.
"That serial? Somebody reads that?" The dwarf looked almost aghast. "Huh. Well, I'll be damned."
"It was one of the few novels we were allowed in the Circle," said Sibby, blushing. "The Chantry approved it as being harmless."
Cassandra snorted.
"Maker, please don't remind me of the romantic tripe that was available in the Circle library," groaned Andrew. "I thought it would be about adventure, considering the number of weapons mentioned in the title."
"I assure you, there are much better books in Haven," said Trevelyan. "We even have the entire collection of Hard in Hightown, signed."
"I guess that settles it," said Andrew. "Food, supplies, entertainment, excellent company; you offer an irresistible deal, Herald. We will consult with the others but I am willing to wager money I don't have that we'll be in Haven by the end of the week."
Dear Diary,
Haven is an icy dump at the arse end of the world, not at all what its name implies. But I guess we're safe here and we've a roof over our heads. Well, some semblance of a roof. They have non-leaking tents at the Inquisition. Still, despite the simple conditions that we're living in, it's still better than staying in the Hinterlands.
I've been assigned to the healers' division, working for an apothecary named Adan. I like him. He's gruff but straight and he doesn't abide by any kind of fluffy nonsense. We work well together. I'm better at sutures than I am at potions and poultices and, to be honest, we need a few more surgeons anyway, with all those warriors who are coming back wounded from the fighting.
Andrew and the others are back in their best form, having gotten enough good quality lyrium. I'm glad, because for a moment there I really was worried. I don't live with them anymore. The men have their own barracks. I suppose they don't really want the sexes fraternizing too much when there's serious work to be done. Also, mages and Templars don't exactly make for the best roommates. I'm sharing a tent with an apprentice from Starkhaven called Minaeve and Florence. Minaeve is a researcher for the Inquisition and she's helping me develop the tincture to make it more effective. I know, from experience, that Erik will only get worse. He seems all right for now, though. I'm not going to question small blessings.
Oops, I shouldn't be writing. Adan's shouting at me for shirking my duties.