Summary::: Where the Hero of Ferelden suddenly finds herself with new titles - most notably the Herald of Andraste - and with all the people who vowed to serve the Inquisition. Amell/Cullen.

Main character description: Amell - grey warden, human female, mage.

Warnings: unbetaed, requires some amount of Dragon Age lore to understand

Looks Godward, Past the Shades where Blind Men Grope

Amell

The sound of her mabari's paw scraping at the iron deposit at the mountain side jolted her out of her reverie - Amell slowed her descent, stood still, and took a deep breath. Carrion... Darkspawn... Some ten meters to her right beyond the tree line. It was as if Janeka had left behind a trail of breadcrumbs - good mage, foulest woman. Amell tugged at the fraying thread of her cowl and reached behind for her staff, the spell for a fireball already on the tip of her tongue. It was over before her mabari could overwhelm the group. Instead, Dog (unfortunate name: by the time she had a better one to offer, Ser Barks-a-lot, thank you Anders, he was already accustomed and reluctant to change) returned at her heel with some herbs in his mouth.

"Elfroot doesn't stop the voices," she admonished while tugging at his lone ear, "I thought I told you that already. Thank you anyways, boy." Sighing, she straightened and brushed off dirt from the pants of her mercenary armor that she pilfered off a dead corpse: such was the lifestyle of a person living outside of the towns. "Stupid Janeka. Stupid Callings." A raven flew overhead as she again adjusted her hood, "the only thing worse than walking into a trap is knowingly walking into a trap without the knowledge of the nature of trap or or how to disable it. Is it brave, crazy, or stupid?" Then she smacked her cheeks twice, hard enough to sting, "Ugh. Stop talking to yourself, Amell." As if fleeing from her self-manifested insanity, the Warden Commander started a fast pace, feet eating the ground as she swiftly crossed the valley, Dog loping happily behind her.

As she rounded the bend, the small settlement of Haven slowly emerges from the Frostback Mountains like a mirage in the distance. Humble homes of pious men and women offered hints of a merry hearth through their windows - a marked difference from when she had last ventured here. All the reavers that had she killed so long ago must be turning in their graves. "The Temple was built into the mountain, a bit higher in altitude, if I recall correctly..." Dog barked an assent. "Right, right," Rubbing her hands together, she mumbled, "Let's hope that they allow inconspicuous visitors to peruse their libraries."

Divine Justinia's entourage that arrived days prior at Haven included countless scholars, many Brother Genitivis, and tomes that hold a more unbiased, historical viewpoint of the origins of Darkspawn (Orlais has always held knowledge for the sake of knowledge at a higher value than Ferelden, being more "civilized" and all). Perhaps there in the Temple of the Sacred Ashes, she could find a solution to the Calling madness. The problem was that she couldn't figure out whether the plan to infiltrate the Temple was her own or was encouraged by the Calling- and if it was the latter, then why to Haven and not to the Deep Roads?

Nervously, Amell fingered the locket resting between her collarbones, blood-red and warm to the touch. Flemeth had offered it hanging off one extended arm, reflecting light from a sun hidden behind the clouds, "It may not seem like it, child, but I am pleasantly surprised to find that you are still alive," the apostate had remarked with the usual glint in her eyes, one that Amell always failed to interpret, "was it Morrigan who found the ritual? She always did like to defy fate, which is why she broke the mold. It's the first step to godhood," and then she threw her head back and laughed at her private joke.

Amell had exchanged a not-so-discreet look with Dog and raised an eyebrow, "You want me alive like you want Morrigan alive," she had muttered, mind trying to connect lore and logic, "though I don't understand what this is supposed to do." She held up the locket, running a finger over the gem encased, jerking back as it trembles with power, "I won't have long to enjoy it. I don't know if you're aware but the Calling frequency is rising among the Ferelden wardens. We are all dying."

"Not so much dying as being picked off," Flemeth had dryly remarked.

"I've watched my people march toward their meaningless deaths. I am well aware," frustrated, she ran a hand through her hair, barely held together by pieces of string and ribbon- a rather apt metaphor for her life, "I'm looking for the one responsible but she's disappeared. And its not like I'm effective in this state of mind, waking up in places I don't remember walking to; my feet turning northward if I do not focus." Stupid Janeka. "But," the Warden Commander had mused, "you know that. You..." She turned toward the elder and eyed her critically, at her armor and bone-white hair, the wrinkles and the hard eyes, "you are something else beyond a batty, old woman that lives in the Kocari Wilds. I don't even know why you let me kill you, sort of, not really."

The elder woman had laughed. "Smart child, I did like that about you. This gift will help you solve your problems. Accept the boon and be grateful, for it is rare that I favor mortals, especially ones who tried to kill me. Or is it that my favor grew because you killed a part of me..." The witch had pursed her lips, "the latter," she decided as she touched the red gem with a finger, "wear this and you will not forget. It will give you... A fighting chance to save those under you. But beware, this is fragile and we do not share our fragile things. Do you understand?" Amell had wordlessly nodded, "Good. Then I am done here. The Hinterlands do not appeal to me in the slightest." Flemeth took five steps back and closed her eyes. The young mage did not blink as she watched the power swirl around the Witch of the Wilds, morphing her features into that of a familiar dragon.

"She works in mysterious ways, doesn't she? Just like the Maker." Amell had turned on her heels as soon as the dragon disappeared over the horizon and squinted at the trail marker sitting a few meters away. As she slowly increased her pace to a steady jog, she adorned the gift and shivered as the metal hit her skin. She didn't feel better; there was no miraculous cleansing of her mind and she could still feel the Calling pulling at the back of her head. The Taint was still there. Well, Flemeth had said that she could stop the sleepwalking, not the Blight.

The sheer presence of the Temple of Sacred Ashes forced a chill down her back... Or maybe there was some foreboding air about the structure, contrary to it's divine origin. She listened to the Chant echoing deeper in the mountain. After sending Dog away to gather more elfroot (the Temple did not allow mabaris, ironic considering that Dog was one of the original four of her party to traverse the area), tugging once again at her hood and making sure that her pack and her staff were securely strapped, she ventured through the doorway and... and...

Leliana

Vengeance sang in her blood like an old lover - it sang Marjolaine's song, once used to enchant the Orlesian nobles in the Empress's Court. The hunger for the death of her enemies was a feeling that she is used to but never had it struck with such speed or force as when she witnessed the formation of the large rift in the sky, high above the Frostback Mountains, the demons ravaging the once-peaceful lands, and the fires crackling around the destroyed Conclave. Cassandra stood in front of her own armed men before the ruins, face unmoving as if made of cold iron. Leliana's hands begun shaking as she listened to the warrior's report: she had known something was wrong, but this... The destruction pales in comparison to what she expected to find, to what she had hoped for. As her eyes inspected the utter havoc and as she began to calculate the costs of the fallout and the potential paths to take following the explosion, she listened, "...in the Temple that ripped the... releasing shades... One survived... require your skillset... She is beginning to stir."

"Take me to her," her tone promised retribution that few would imagine. She was led to a cell at the end of a long hallway in a structure that muffled the screams originating from the outside world. The two did not talk.

The prisoner was kneeling on the stone floor, wrists shackled by a wooden board, a sickly green sigil on her left palm, head bent forward, face covered by an over-sized cowl. Cassandra opened the barred doors, causing its inhabitant to startle, an aborted jerk but nothing more. The Seeker strolled forward, a hand gripped the edge of the hood, and abruptly yanked it back, revealing startled gray eyes, blinking rapidly at the sudden increase in light. Leliana drew a sharp intake of breath: the face tired but still youthful, the dark hair held back by strings and ribbons, the lips that could curl into an easy smile, they were all features she knew keenly, "Amell?!"

The mage warden stilled for a second before hesitantly calling out, "Leliana?" (Her name was the only Orlesian word that the warden could say without butchering the pronunciation.) Still blinded, Amell turned her head in the direction of the bard's voice, "Is that you?" She winced as the sigil flared up, "What happened? Why am I here?"

Cassandra stalked around the small encasement, hands twitching, itching to strike a blow toward the prisoner, "It appears that you know Sister Leliana. I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. We are the Right and Left Hand of Divine Justinia V. Her Most Holy perished with all the members of the peace conference who wished for ceasefire and all the clerics of the Chantry and the pilgrims who hoped for salvation in the war - the Conclave is gone." After a few moments of silence, broken by the footsteps of boots on the stone floor, she continued, "Fade rifts are opening in the skies above us, allowing demons to spill out into our world. My men spotted you falling out of the Breach, the original tear in the Veil. You are the only survivor."

"So many dead... You think I'm the one responsible," Amell whispered with a faint tone of incredulity, "I would not!" She turned to the other woman standing in the shadows and pleaded, "Leliana! You know I wouldn't!" And that's the crux of it, wasn't it? The Amell she knew would not condone such an action - the Hero of Ferelden would never wish for such bloodshed. This woman was not the enemy; she is a long lost friend. And yet, there are no other prisoners, no other suspects... Unless...

Leliana shook her head and kneaded the skin between her eyes, "I'll vouch for her character." Cassandra visibly cooled but remained restless, looking for someone to implicate - her rage was that of her blade, one that can be honed and sharpened. The ground trembled, dust fell from the walls as they shuddered on questionable foundations. "There are many things to discuss," many which included the fact that the Divine's agents had been searching for the Warden Commander for years just to have her fall into their laps at the worst of times, "but we have more immediate issues to address. Cassandra, release her so we can leave before the ceiling falls on us. Amell, tell me what happened."

The warden swayed onto her feet and half-collapsed onto Cassandra's shoulder as the locks clicked open. As she limped down the arched chamber, her head began to spin and it felt as if the exit was moving slowly away from her, ever out of her grasp. She gingerly rubbed her raw wrists, frowning in thought as she slowly recounted her version of the events, "I was in the Fade, the paths were overwhelmed by spider-like creatures. I followed the figure of a woman, silhouetted by light... She reached out to me..."

"A woman...," Leliana murmured, exchanging looks with the Seeker, "Before that?" she further pressed as she scrutinized Amell's mien: glazed, unfocused, exhausted...

"I... don't remember," the mage admitted, wiping her face with her sleeve as she stumbled her way to the doorway and into the open air, "I was here initially to..." Her mouth dropped open, eyes widening in shock as she stared at the pulsing green hovering to the left of the mountains, "Is that a rift? Andraste's flaming-" And then she hissed, doubling over as the mark angrily crackled, green light shining past her clenched fists. Leliana pried open her fingers and made a displeased sound.

The Seeker's scowl grew darker, "There are many out there and it seems as though your little gift from the Fade might be connected to them."

"If you can take this gift off of me, I'll never curse again," the mage groaned, turning her head as to not accidentally swallow grass, trying to wave away Leliana's reawakened habit of fussing over her.

"It grows as the Breach grows: that implies a shared power," Cassandra continued as though Amell had not interrupted, drawing her sword and shield, "We can test this against the original. If my hypothesis is correct and that mark gave you the power to close the tears, then you are the only one who can save us."

From her place on the ground, Amell started laughing with a touch a hysteria.

Cassandra

Seeker Pentaghast had always known that her pledge to the Divine locked her into a future of dedicating her templar talents to serving the righteous. She had foreseen a future of battling all sorts of entities and overcoming all sorts of challenges: Chantry politics, darkspawn, corrupted wildlife, both sides of the inevitable mage-templar war, and the degenerates of humankind: but never would she had predicted that the sky will tear and scatter demons and spirits across all of Ferelden. It was as if all of Fate's worst possible choices had crashed down upon her: the death of all of those in the Conclave is one such tragedy that would take years if not a lifetime for her to forgive herself. Logically, she knew that she was not responsible for stopping a tragedy of this scale but...

So one could only look ahead - past the mass exodus to the north camp in Haven and past the initial success of stopping the Breach from growing. Many villagers were beginning see the Herald of Andraste as a means of salvation, the comatose mage that is currently being frantically treated by an alchemist turned reluctant healer, Amell, "Commander of the Grey, Ruler of Vigil's Keep, Arlessa of Amaranthine, and Hero of Ferelden," Leliana had informed Cassandra the day before she left camp to gather her scouts to the eastern parts of the Hinterlands, promising to return before the patient wakes. "Collector of unique friends," the Sister had added with a hint of smile on her lips, referring to the fact that neither Varric nor the elven apostate, Solas, had decided to join the groups that were trying to make their way to Orlais to escape the chaos and were at the camp waiting for her slow recovery to finish. "Her charm has not dwindled in the years that we've been apart. The dwarf had remarked that it was probably a family trait."

"So after scouring the entirety of Thedas, the Hero of Ferelden shows up on our doorstep with death, fire, and Fade chasing her," muttered the Seeker, resisting the temptation to rub her temples. Clearing her throat, Cassandra recalled, "Yes, Varric's story did detail the history of Hawke's immediate and extended family. I thought it was related to his characteristic habit embellishment. So it's true, the Champion of Kirkwall is related to the Hero of Ferelden?"

"Second cousins to be exact," Leliana affirmed, "though I think only Hawke is aware of the relation." The Spymaster bends down to brush off dirt from the tops of her boots, "The Maker has a sense of humor, does he not? These days, I do not know whether to smile, cry, or scream." she paused as she adjusted her hidden daggers, "I would strongly recommend you to debrief Commander Cullen before you assemble the War Council. And when you do tell him of the news, please break it to him gently."

Cassandra raised her eyes heavenward. She had once heard a wise woman remark that the strings that hold people of destiny, the people who have that will inside of them to make significant changes in history, were all connected - but she did not realize how nearly literal that statement would come to be. These series of seemly naturally foreordained events were beginning to wear on her, "Is he also familiar with the Herald?"

"Somewhat," the bard spoke slowly, as if delicately choosing the words to accurately frame the overall atmosphere that Cassandra can expect when she would next meet the Commander. "I don't know much of Amell's past before I met her; she offered very little. He was acquainted with her before she joined the wardens, when she was still an apprentice. I was there when we saved Kinloch Hold from a blood mage rebellion and he was one of the few templars we managed to rescue. It was not a pleasant reunion."

And because these days the Maker does seem to have a sense of humor, Cassandra was not surprised that when she walked towards Commander Cullen's desk later that day, that she would spy the dwarf sitting on a high-backed chair making conversation, seamlessly transitioning from one topic to another. The Seeker did her best to ignore Varric and the small smirk on his lips when he noticed how she momentarily twitched upon seeing him. "Looks like Seeker is here," he cheerfully announced, smoothly closing a worn, leather bound notebook and tucking it into an inner pocket, "you might want to look up from your papers before she decides to use that shield of hers to make you listen." At those words, the Commander glanced up and stood to welcome her in. After taking a moment to decide whether or not to kick the dwarf out of the room for some semblance of privacy (and in the end, she did not, believing that for all of his faults, Varric Tethras does know which words to use to unravel tension in a conversation), Cassandra spoke.

Although Leliana is usually correct in her judgments of people, she surprisingly downgraded the importance of this one instance. Saying that Cullen Rutherford knows of the Hero of Ferelden is like saying Leliana knows of the Divine. His reaction, the inkwell shattering in his hand, did not in any way show that his and Amell's relationship could be described with the word "acquainted." In a rare moment of synchronicity, Cassandra and Varric stared at the shattered glass on the floor, the black liquid dripping down between clenched fingers, at each other, and then back at the Commander, each with a raised eyebrow. "Do you need a private moment, Curly?" Varric asked as Cullen did not speak and instead stared at his stained glove as if it held to answers to all the questions in the world.

"I... No... I'm fine." The man forced himself out of his dazed reverie. Many emotions danced on his face unguarded: conflict, hope, anticipation, others flitted by so fast they were unreadable. He drew in a deep breath as he separated his stained papers into two piles: the salvageable and the unreadable, turned toward Cassandra, and struggled to regain his authoritative air. "The Herald... Hero... Amell... Amell. I read your report where you stated that she was unconscious when she arrived due to the battle with the Pride Demon and suspending the growth of the Breach but - I mean, can I..." He trailed off, the tips of his ears turning into a shade of red that was visible even as he ducked his head.

"Our chemist is trying to heal her, but it seems like the elven apostate, Solas, is doing most of the tending. He explicitly stated that he was not to be disturbed until she can walk." Thank goodness he said so - for his word and self-proclaimed expertise of the Fade is one of the main factors preventing the locals of Haven from treating the Herald's small cabin as a secondary Chantry. "His vigilance at her bedside is admirable," she stiffly admitted.

"Chuckles mentioned something about making sure that the Mark doesn't kill her as she heals," Varric helpfully added, knuckles rapping against the wood of the desk. "He's lucky her mabari allows him cast all those spells on her; that animal is terrifying, even with the missing ear." Her dog is the other factor preventing a mob from forming at her doorstep.

Cullen kept shuffling his papers, "In that case, can I inquire how she is faring?"

Brow furrowed in mild confusion, Cassandra dutifully answered, "Adam reported that she is expected to make a full recovery though he was adamant to emphasize the fact that she almost died multiple times and that he is not a trained healer."

"I mean when you first me her: how was she?" Sudden, the unspoken inquires in his sentences made more sense. Was she happy? Upset? How is she a person? Do you like her like I do? Frustration laced his tone as a red blush spread from the tips of his ears to his neck. He kept his eyes pinned on the opposite wall, careful to avoid both of the other occupants' curious gazes. The walls and floors were of stone, decorated by tapestries and fur rugs stripped from the warm bodies of bears and wolves. "It's- it's not what you think," he quickly backtracked, holding up both hands, palms forward.

Varric gave a low whistle, reaching in his leather duster for his notebook, looking as though he had won a lottery. After a moment of deliberation, Cassandra suddenly understood, "Ahh," she sighed as she crossed her arms.

"It's not what you think," he repeated, "We were only friends in Ferelden." It was a known fact to his circle of close friends that the Commander is not capable of winning Wicked Grace because of his tells: one most notable is when he rubs the back of his neck, signifying utter embarrassment. It is even more rare that he indulges in this gesture in a professional setting.

"Not with that attitude," Varric admonished, also crossing his own arms, "You're a horrible liar, by the way. Tell me, you said you knew of an Amell when Hawke and I first met you in the Gallows - that's her, I take it?" But Cullen, with finally enough time to recover from his blunder, clamped down, and refused to reveal anymore. Not that it could deter Varric; the dwarf tsked at the Commander, slowly shaking his head, "So those rumors... I thought so." Cullen slowly lowered himself back to his chair and covered his burning face in his hands, both the stained and the unstained. The Seeker closed her eyes in thought; what she knew of Cullen's past were from conversations with the man (regarding his battle with lyrium addiction), Leliana (the few words that he had exchanged with the Warden Commander at Kinloch Hold), and the story that she had wrangled out of Varric during his interrogation (the mess at Kirkwall). But this? This continuation of Leliana's intelligent thread was becoming too personal for her to feel comfortable to finish. The dwarf obviously had the same thought, for after two beats of silence he sighed and offered, "She looked tired."

Cassandra glared at the dwarf, who immediately dropped into a defensive stance, "Something more positive, Varric," she icily rebuked before turning towards the man behind the desk, "She is a noble woman, Cullen," a description that embodied the Seeker's opinion of what is the most highest praise. "Though I did not stay with her long, I can already identify the qualities that you admire in her."

Standing beside her, Varric failed to hide his burst of laughter, "Yes, noble. Let's just say that Hawke would love her." He raised a shoulder in a half-shrugging motion, "She reads Hard in Hightown; so she's automatically off of my immediate kill list." Cassandra suspects that it would only be a matter of days before he comes up with a suitable nickname for the Herald; she hopes that the dwarf would at least wait until she is awake.

"Thank you, both," Cullen groaned, voice muffled in his hands, "for your valuable input. An embodiment of contradictions; yes, that sounds like her." He heaved a deep sigh, straightening his back, his expression, hovering between torn and fond, disappeared. Varric chuckled; he had spent half of the day with the Commander regaling tales of his brief adventure with her - though he had not mentioned the name, such is the nature of Varric Tethras, with his one exception being Hawke. He did not expect the day to shape up in this manner. The light that shined through the windows was nearly parallel with the floor - night arrived with the dim noise of the men returning to camp with firewood. So ended day two of the Herald's... Amell's recovery. "Did she read any other of your books, dwarf? The ones where you narrated the life of the Champion of Kirkwall? Does she know what I did there?" What horrors he had both prevented and allowed past his watchful gaze, stationed at the Gallows. How he had served under a Commander who was willing to used tainted power to further her own plans.

"I don't think so; she didn't say," Lingering by the doorway, Varric mused, rubbing his chin, then hurriedly attempting to sooth the distraught man, "You weren't too terrible in Kirkwall, Curly. You fought alongside us in the end against an army of statues in the Gallows and Meredith when she began glowing - not many people can do that." After a few more minutes of Varric's awkward attempts at comfort which included, "Just direct her to me if she's scared - I'll make her believe that you kiss puppies every morning," the dwarf gave up and, after shooting Cassandra an unreadable look, announced his leave, and was gone, humming a small tune under his breath.

Cassandra patiently waited for the doors to close before audibly clearing her throat, "Commander." The man's eyes snapped up to meet hers; she assumed a ready stance, "It has already been decided that you will be one of her advisors. When we inform her of her place in the Inquisition, will I expect any problems between you two?" Because though she doubted that Cullen had an actual tryst with the Herald (they possibly had something close to that, but never the real thing), as what Varric was snidely implying, she did acknowledge some deep set, dark history between them, likely revolving around the infamous mage, Uldred, and the bloodshed at the Ferelden Circle.

To her surprise, Cullen laughed, low in his chest, emanating with a hint of bitterness, "From Varric's tales, you won't need to worry about any fuss from her end - it seems that she hasn't changed at all, even after all these years. I, on the other hand," he stares into a potential far distant future with a wistful expression on his face, "Regardless of what she thinks of me, I will be happy to see her again."