Dawn, and the world was slowly waking in the pitifully pale sunlight. Though spring had claimed dominion over the southern lands, she had yet to extend her reach to the Frostbacks, where winter still held sway. Daily, though, there were signs of his weakening grip, the birdsong heralding the rising sun, rivulets of melted snow carving tiny canyons on their way to join the lake, snowdrops, deceptively delicate, peaking white heads and green shoulders above the softening snow.
There was a cluster of them growing by the cabin in the trees beyond Haven. They twined with the elfroot that was, no doubt, intentionally planted by the previous owner. In time they would likely carpet the small clearing, preserving the blanket of white for a few extra months, maintaining the image of the mountain that pilgrims would expect. It was into this early morning tableau, this scene that looked to be painted, a masterpiece, rather than an image formed by the realm of reality, that Chance walked, slow and deliberate. He was careful not to crush any of the growing green underfoot, reaching up to greet the trees, feel the cool prickle of snow-covered pine needles on his fingertips, the brittle leafless branches of the birch. He smiled at them each in turn, these sleeping giants with whom he felt a strange kinship, noting the green buds beginning to form. Awakening. Renewal. Yes, he definitely understood.
Still smiling, he stopped, and, careful not to expose more of his clothing to the lingering drifts than necessary, squatted next to one of the snowdrops by the cabin door.
"Good morning, beautiful," he whispered, gentle fingers tracing up the stem, carefully stroking the downward curving petals. "I'd like to borrow some of your strength, if you don't mind. Today might be a difficult one."
The only answer was silence, and he chuckled at his own absurdity, reduced to talking to flowers for reassurance, closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the faint scent of honey cut by the crispness of the early morning air.
"Cheers," he whispered to the blooms, nodded his thanks, and stood, opened the door to the cabin and walked in to wait for the others.
In spite of his lack of official position beyond 'Agent of the Inquisition,' a request from the Herald of Andraste appeared to be tantamount to an order. Or, at least, some had been taking it as such, and those he had invited, would, he hoped, respond either out of respect for the mark or simple curiosity. It had been a simple enough message, delivered to three: "Please meet me at Taigen's cabin to discuss a matter of some import," along with a date and a time.
Luck had arrived first, arm finally free of its sling, dark hair tied back in an elaborate knot. She was early, as was her wont. What Society took to signify a vulgar eagerness on his sister's part, he knew from years of casual observation that it was simply another sign of her conscientious nature. By arriving early, before any others, she was given the opportunity to choose from any of the positions within the room, and she did so, close to him, back to the wall, facing the door to observe any others who might arrive.
Chance shifted his own place, around to the side of the lit brazier in the centre of the cabin's main room, just a little further away, a little more open to attack from whomever might walk through the door, and grinned when she stiffened, tossed her a wink in response to the quiet glare when she realised what he was doing.
Not that he expected that either Commander Cullen or Cassandra, who walked in together, would do any such thing. In spite of their apparent dedication to the Chant, they had both expressed their belief that he had not been the source of the Breach, which, considering that neither of them seemed the type to strike down an innocent, had certainly contributed to his continued existence, not to mention had gone some way to earn his trust.
Then again, he had never been accused of having particularly high standards on that front.
He welcomed them in, and motioned for them to join him around the fire. A tilt of his head signalled to Luck, still lurking near the back wall, to join them. She took a step forward, only a step, thus remaining behind, out of the circle. So there they all stood, armored, Cassandra and Cullen openly wearing their swords, and if one counted the magic at his disposal, and the knives that Luck undoubtedly had hidden somewhere on her person, all were armed. A confused little conspiracy within a conspiracy. Cassandra watched him, arms crossed over her breastplate. The Commander, trying valiantly, and failing miserably to look relaxed, stood with both hands crossed over the pommel of his sword, eyes darting occasionally from the Herald to where Luck stood in the background, apparently staring into the fire, but watching the pair of warriors from beneath her lashes.
"Well," Chance declared, before the silence deepened from simply awkward into truly uncomfortable. He brought his hands together, rubbing them briskly before clasping them in front of his chest, thumbs tapping together. "I'm sure you're all dying to know what I've asked you to meet with me, all the way out here, at this time of the morning."
Taking their nods, and Cassandra's grunt, as confirmation, he continued, "I would have suggested that we meet in the Chantry, but one gets the impression that even the walls' ears have ears there, if you take my meaning."
He noted out of the corner of his eye, the abrupt flick of Luck's head as she turned to look at him, though his own line of sight never left the Commander and Cassandra, exchanging a glance.
"You… did not wish this meeting to be overheard." The Seeker spoke for them both.
"I did not," he agreed, dropping his smile, and with it, all pretense of this being anything but the most serious of conversations. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked at them each in turn. "What I say to you now is to be kept in the strictest confidence. If you stay, you agree that nothing that passes between these walls will be shared with any other."
He paused to allow his words to sink in. "If you feel that you are unable to do so, I will allow a moment for you to leave."
The moment passed, in silence but for the soft squeak of leather and metal as Cassandra shifted from foot to foot. The air felt thicker, somehow, the fire dimmed as Chance pulled in a shaky breath, and continued, lowering his voice enough that even if someone should happen across the cabin, they would not be able to hear.
"Seeker, so far as you are aware, I am the first mage to have ever been permanently cured of Tranquility, correct?"
"You have already asked me this," she replied, with some impatience.
"Please, Cassandra." Chance sighed, "Humor me."
"No. There have been no others."
"Thank you." He did his best to nod graciously, the early training of his childhood long since eroded to dust, now being practiced in the mountains of rural Fereldan. Turning his head to the other woman in the room he asked, "Luck?"
"Chance." It was only a name, only his name, but through her gritted teeth the tone was clear: suspicious, a warning, a promise that if he continued down this path it would end badly.
He closed his eyes, felt the slow constriction of throat and heart and lungs. The flames in the centre of the room flared as a log collapsed, sending up a shower of sparks.
"In your research," he heard her sharp intake of breath, drawn in between teeth. "In your studies of the history of the Rite," he amended, "Did you find anything to suggest otherwise?"
She shook her head, eyes now fixed firmly on the others, watching. "No."
"Good! Well, not good. Good that we're all on the same page, bad that we have no information." Chance smiled, forced, involuntary, like his body had just decided to function independently of his mind. He was babbling, and he recognized that too, but he could not seem to stop himself, words rushing out of his mouth of their own accord. Like a witness to a disaster he was forced to watch, feeling as though somehow, somewhere, he and his mind had diverged, and he was running without himself. His palms were sweating. It itched. Idly, he dried them on his breeches as the waterfall of words continued to fall.
"No point beating around the bush. I can feel. I can do magic. I'm having some difficulty controlling both, and we have no idea if I may be vulnerable to possession."
He felt his sister step closer to the brazier. At the same time, he watched Commander Cullen take a step back, just a fraction, hands tightening over his sword. Cassandra alone remained motionless, as he expected her to. Of the gathered group she was the only one who had been witness to his daily struggle first hand, the only one with whom the subject had already been broached, although it had been Varric, and not himself, who had asked.
He swallowed, pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes to ward off the sting of tears which threatened, shook them when he realised that all that he was accomplishing was turning the tears to ice.
"If," Chance began, voice wavering in spite of his resolution otherwise. "Seeker. Commander. I should very much like your word that if that should come to pass… Will you do what is necessary?"
They turned to look at each other, they who had served the Chantry since their youth, nodded. The Commander turned back to him to speak, "Herald."
He got no further, cut off by a voice coming from Chance's right. "Tell me, brother, should you also like to specify the manner of your death?"
She was quiet, her mouth barely moving as she spoke in a voice so tight he was amazed that any sound at all could be produced. This was not his sister, this creature walking out of the shadows, not with the aristocrat's mask covering the barely contained fury, eyes harder than any stone. This was the Lady Luck advancing on him, as she spread her hands in offering. "If we are going to be determining these details in advance, should we not aim for perfection?"
"Luck…" his own hands were held up, in placation, to ward her off, he didn't know.
She continued as though she hadn't heard him, "No doubt, with all the swords available we could arrange for Andraste's Herald to meet a similar fate to his predecessor. Or would you prefer decapitation? They do say it's painless, and becoming quite fashionable among the nobles of Orlais."
Another step, and she was in his space, not enough to be nose-to-nose, not yet, but close enough that he would be forced to stand his ground, or else give way, and let her back him into the wall. "I note that I was not asked to give my word. May I take that to mean you do not wish your death to be delivered by an arrow to the eye? Is death by an archer's hands not to your martyr's taste?"
He wanted his staff, safely stowed in his own cabin. He wanted something to hold, something to focus on. Something that wasn't this attack. Mouth dry, throat tight, he tried to supress, force down the anger, the betrayal. He was shaking. Like a dragon, it rose in spite of him, and he pushed back, sparkling frost dancing over his fingertips as the fired dimmed, the room cooled.
The Commander stepped forward, blocked by Cassandra's arm across his chest, a decisive shake of her head, but Luck stepped forward too. Closer. Too close. She was right in his face, blocking out everything else, and the ice crept higher, coating the fists that he kept clenched at his sides. He would not, tempted though he was. He would not, even if she stood too close, her anger in almost palpable waves rolling into him. He would not strike, no matter that every fibre of his being cried out to fight back, to ward off this assault that it was facing.
"Then why," and he could feel the breath on his face, "hand your life back to those who stole it in the first place!" she spat, and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
He inhaled, held it, exhaled, and the ice coating his hands cracked, shattered, fell to the ground as he flexed his fingers. She hadn't been fair. It wasn't their fault, not Cassandra, nor Cullen.
He inhaled, deeper, exhaled, faster. She had no right. It was insulting.
Inhale, shallow, exhale, forced. The dragon rose, the flame in the brazier shifted. Couldn't she see? Couldn't she understand the danger that everyone could be in?
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. Hard, heavy. Hands to his hair, he paced. Behind him, the flames rose, a slowly spiralling column, a pillar stretching for the ceiling as he spun in his own mind. How could she? How could she? After everything they'd been through. After a shared lifetime, how could she turn on him like this? Who could he trust if not for her?
"Herald." Cassandra's quiet warning, stern, cut across his rumination.
He turned, saw the tower of fire that had been built behind him, and his eyes widened. He started back. "Shit."
Waving a hand, he intended to bring it down. Instead, the pillar was encased in ice. It lasted a moment, and then it shattered, exploding outward; the three still in the room brought their arms up to protect their faces from the flying shards.
The others lowered their arms slowly, but Chance brought his hands to his face instead, scrubbed at it, before running them through his hair, resting them on the back of his neck. He stared at the floor, rather than meet their eyes, stared at the now-melting remains of the fire, the sodden logs he'd lit earlier, and the heat that had left the room with the fire's death flared in his cheeks, spread to the rest of his face, his ears, until the entirety of his being felt the prickle of flaming embarrassment, consumed by a wish to be swallowed by the floor and disappear for the rest of eternity.
Again, it was Cassandra who broke through, with a mild remark. "Your precision is improving."
A shaky laugh burst from his mouth as he looked up to her, then another, harder, once he noticed the horrified expression on the Commander's face. He laughed until he was bent double, eyes streaming, arms clutching his middle, breath coming in wheezing gasps. Three times, he thought it was finished, began to stand, only to dissolve into a helpless paroxysm again.
A fourth attempt and he got himself under control, barely, and, wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked to where Cassandra was watching him with a quirk to her mouth. He grinned back at her, "Don't tell me no one's ever found you that funny before."
He was rewarded with a distinctly disgusted noise, a quiet cough from Commander Cullen, and a sense that the world was slowly, ever so slowly, righting itself.