Caged Together

Chapter 1

And so the battle was over, the Arch Demon defeated and the majority of the Blight slaughtered.

And the Civil War had been put down, Loghain had been executed, and Alistair had assumed his rightful place on the Throne, as King of Ferelden.

And she was at a loss. She didn't know what to do.

There were no more darkspawn to kill, no wars to stamp out, and no ridiculously impossible quests to set out on.

She had been content for a while, hanging around Denerim and helping to rebuild. But now things were actually beginning to get back on track. Which meant fewer distractions.

For everybody.

So people were beginning to take notice of her. A lot of notice.

It was like the coronation all over again. Constantly.

And they would give her strange looks—sometimes of curiosity, sometimes of admiration, and sometimes of just plain fear.

And she didn't know which was worse.

She also had less work to busy herself with. Which meant that her mind started to wander—usually back to things she would have preferred not to think about.

Like Alistair. And Morrigan. And Alistair and Morigan.

But, she had agreed to it. Encouraged it, even. And she was truly, incredibly grateful for all of the witch's help.

But that didn't stop the images.

And though she had made sure that she had been very, very far away at the time, her mind filled in the gaps and forced her to view its creation, no matter how hard she tried to block it out.

It made her feel sick to her stomach.

Leliana had done her best to cheer the Warden up. And it had worked… for a while. But, even with her friend's vast number of adventures to tell, she could only hear the same stories and songs jokes so many times. And eventually, even the bard had run out distractions.

The city was unnerving. And suffocating. And she could only take so many people and their failed attempts at discretion and whispering and pointing so many times a day.

Camp was awkward. And quiet— especially now that two of their once-companions were gone. And she was tired of the glances that she got from Leliana and Wynne when they thought she was busy with something else and wasn't paying attention. It was as if they were expecting her to break down and start crying—or go off on some mad, homicidal rampage—at any moment.

And so one night she gathered her companions around the fire and, with Dog at her side, told them her plan:

She was going to go back to the Tower.

"What?" Zevran stared at her, "The Tower? Of Magi? But is that not the very same place that you so often referred to as a 'cage'? Why would you willingly return to such a life?"

"It wishes to return to the Tower?" Shale sounded almost amused. "No doubt it misses frolicking alongside its own kind. And here I was under the impression that it enjoyed its freedom."

"I am not so sure I understand," Leliana said slowly, "You want to go back? But— what for? Are you not happy with our travels? I think that it is sweet that you wish to return to your home, however…"

"If the girl wants to stick herself back in a sodding prison and live with a buncha tight-wad ass-wipes for the rest of her life, I say let her," Oghren grunted as he crossed his arm, averting his eyes from the group.

Wynne shot the dwarf a stern look then turned back to the younger mage. "I can't say I was expecting this," she said in her calm voice, "Though I would be lying if I said that I was unhappy about your decision. But please, do tell us why you are planning on returning."

"Yes, explain yourself, Kadan."

And she just shrugged. "Well, I don't know what else to do. I mean," she paused, "You all seem to know what you're going to do now…. But I don't. Not really. Truly, I never thought I'd leave the Tower in the first place, so... So I never put any thought into what I would do if I did get out of there. Aside from fighting darkspawn and everything, I mean."

And so the following morning she said farewell to her friends and gave them the hopeful offer to "drop by anytime" and the promise to see them all again someday.

Leliana had been close to tears. Oghren had 'gotten some ale in his eyes' and had been rubbing them furiously for the duration of her departure. Zevran had woe'd his heart out, saying that "Fate was such a cruel mistress" and that "Such a beautiful girl should not be confined to such an ugly prison" and that she should "be free to wander the countryside as she pleased—and perhaps consider taking up a position as an assassin as well, no?" Shale had sent her off with the warning to look out for birds ("The nasty little things.") and to try not to get squashed into a pulp by something no-doubt larger and less squishy than she was. Even Sten, it seemed, was standing just a little bit stiffer than usual as nodded once and told her to keep her skills sharp. Wynne had been the last to speak to her, saying that she expected to see her again in the fairly near future and asking her to give Irving and the others her best regards.

And, with her things packed up and her goodbyes said and her faithful Mabari at her side, Amell headed west.

She had walked part of the way and hitch-hiked the rest.

She got her rides from refugees, mostly, hoping to find their hometown at least a little bit intact now that the Blight was over; the rest had been from merchants trying to find somewhere to set up shop and sell their few remaining and undamaged goods to the desperate towns that wished to so rebuild, hoping to use whatever profit they could bring in to help themselves get back up on their feet.

But whichever category they fell into, the people that she encountered were usually more than happy to give her a ride. Because, versus the possibility of running into any darkspawn stragglers, the idea of traveling along-side a friendly-enough girl with magic at disposal was a very appealing idea—made even more so by the Mabari war-hound at her side.

The people were kind enough and she was friendly enough, exchanging pleasantries and light-hearted conversation as they traveled. She would even go so far to consider the trips calm and peaceful, even enjoyable.

Until she made the mistake of telling one of the refugee families her name. And thus was bombarded with stares and questions and requests for tales of her adventures and battles.

That ride hadn't ended soon enough.

And really, the only trouble she ran into was a small, rag-tag group of bandits and scavengers who were "cleaning up" a recently abandoned caravan.

But she had been too tired to fight or argue or even tell them to stop what they were doing. So she had handed them ten sovereign for passage through their blockade.

And then she reached Redcliffe. And they, like the rest of Ferelden, were busy rebuilding.

But they had noticed her, and they had welcomed her.

And for once, she was happy to be recognized. Because that meant friendly, familiar faces. And a bed.

And for Dog, it meant food. Actual, honest-to-Andraste food. Like cow.

She had stayed for a few days, allowing herself to become side-tracked with helping to fix up the village.

And she saw Valena and Bella and Katilyn and Bevin and Berwick and Ser Perth.

And she learned who had died.

And then she said her goodbyes again (much to Dog's unhappiness), now rested and a little more light-hearted and eager to finish up the remainder of the journey.

It took her two sun-ups and one two-downs to reach Lake Calenhad, arriving the late night of the second day.

And after greeting a rather surprised-looking Kester and clambering, with Dog, into his boat, she was on her way across the lake as the looming structure grew bigger and bigger with each stroke the oar.

- o -

The Tower was cold.

And dark.

And empty.

And when she creaked open the massive oak doors she was greeted by the smell of damp stone and a hint of copper and ash.

But nothing else.

And for a panicked moment she thought that the Tower might have suffered another attack.

And her heart sped up and her body stiffened and she grasped her staff, her suspicious feelings backed by Dog's low growl that sounded beside her.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a thin flash of metal in the dim light just feet away from where she stood, and she heard Dog bark and slam against something as he leaped into the shadows at whatever was lurking out just out of sight, followed by the crash and scraping of what she had come to know as armor hitting stone and the clang of something metallic skirting away.

And then she heard the very startled, very human cry of "Oof—!"

"Dog." she said sharply, "Dog, yield."

And the Mabari gave a low whine and she heard the trot of his nails on the Tower floor as he returned into her field of vision and sat down at her side, a quiet growl still sounding in his throat.
But adrenaline still rushed through her veins and her eyes scanned the darkness, ready to cast at the slightest sign of movement.

"Who's there?" she hissed as her palm lit up with mana and the faint crackle of electricity sounded as it jumped between her digits, "Show yourself."

.X.x.X.

Cullen had volunteered to take the night-watch. Again.

After all, it wasn't like he had anything else to do.

He had tried, at one point, to quiet his nerves; to trade them in for a restful sleep. But he soon gave up.
Because when he slept, he dreamt. And, plagued by images of charred corpses and fallen comrades and twisted, hellish versions of a girl he would rather forget, his sleep offered him no more comfort than his waking hours.

Often, it was worse.

Because in his dreams he saw their faces. Clearly, perfectly. More so than he ever did when he was awake. And the demons of the Fade saw, too.

And they relished in them.

And, just when he thought that his dreams couldn't get any worse, they did.

Because the demons took them and twisted them and morphed them one after another, each nightmare even more terrible than the last.
And he would wake up sweating, screaming, just begging for them to stop.

And, sometimes, his dreams were of her.

And that was what he feared most of all.

And she would come, just like she had in the Tower, surrounded by her companions, intent on putting a stop to Uldred's madness.

And he would wait there, in his circle-cage, for her return.

But when she finally did return, she did so dead; bloodied, bruised, and broken— almost beyond recognition— limp, in a laughing Uldred's arms.

Or sometimes she would return as an Abomination.

Or blood-puppet.

And each time, Cullen found himself waking, gasping for air, and resisting the urge to run up to the Harrowing Chamber just to check that everything was okay.

Then, even still, there were the dreams that mimicked what he had been taunted with by the Maleficar during his imprisonment; dreams, nightmares, that would show her— calm and quiet and at peace, speaking to him in a voice that he once would have given anything to hear her use as she watched him and smiled at him and ran her hands over him.

No, Cullen had given up on slumber, taking instead to patrolling the halls at night, ever-vigilant despite his constant exhaustion, watching for even the slightest sign of disturbance.

And as he was pacing corridors that branched off of the tower's foyer, Cullen heard, magnified by the vast, deserted halls, the scraping of wood on stone, followed by the thud and the latch of the oak doors.

Cullen went rigid.

What now?

No bandit, no matter how crazy or cocky or desperate, would try and break into the Circle Tower, home to mages and Templars alike. And though Cullen didn't know for certain, he was pretty sure that demons and abominations didn't use doors.

So that left the Maleficar.

He grimaced, steeling himself. And his hand went to the hilt of his sword and he moved forward in the darkness, surprisingly swift and reticent for one so heavily armored.

And as he drew closer to the foyer, Cullen could begin to make out the silhouette of whomever, or whatever had entered the Tower.

And his stomach lurched.

Because even in the almost non-existent lighting he could tell that this particular silhouette looked very familiar, indeed.

And for a brief, fleeting moment he was willing, wanting to believe that it was her; that she had again returned to the Tower to stop some dastardly, evil force from running rampant and amuck.

Except that there were no evil forces running about the Tower.

He had made sure of that.

So why would she, the country's number-one idol, return to a place that he knew she thought of as nothing more than once-prettied-up prison?

She wouldn't, of course.

And so the only possible, logicalexplanation was, of course, that he was seeing things. Quite possibly thanks to some forbidden, evil, magical force.

And, this in mind, Cullen set his jaw and unsheathed his sword and moved in what he prayed was a silent manner towards the newly-arrived fallacy.

And somewhere in his mind, he registered the sound of a low growl. And—

Wait.

Mages don't growl.He frowned. Do demons?

And he remembered Ser Ivan— a fellow Templars and a good, honest man—who had fallen under the spell of one of the Desire Demons who had, on that night, found its way into the tower. And Ser Ivan had been blinded by that demon, tricked by a too-sweet lie that had been placed before him—a lie of a family; of a wife and children and a cozy little home that would be waiting for him at the end of the day, instead of the cramped bunks and glaring mages and stone-cold hallways that the Templars really knew. And then the demon had led Ser Ivan, still feeding him his illusion, to his death. Death at the hands of very woman whose doppelganger Cullen saw now.

And Cullen felt pang after pang of rage, sorrow, and determination. He raised his sword and prepared to attack; and when he was just feet away from his target he heard the growling turn into a single, fierce bark and he felt something very large and very solid ram into him at full force, connecting with his armored chest and knocking him over. And as he fell, winded, his sword slipped from his grasp and clattered away, stopping just out of his reach.

But Cullen didn't have time to even try to retrieve his weapon; because whatever had knocked him down was now snarling and snapping and bearing its teeth as it kept him pinned firmly to the ground, apparently quite unhappy about the fact that he had tried to sneak up on it with a sword.

And it was all he could do to keep the thing from sinking its jaws into his windpipe— and then quite possibly feasting on his innards. And just as he was beginning to worry about whether or not his armor would hold up against the forty-two very sharp, very angry spikes that were intent on burying themselves into his flesh, the beast retreated, summoned by its master's call.

Cullen was on his feet in less than a second, his weapon back in hand.

And when he turned back around the room had brightened considerably, illuminated by the flicker of summoned electricity, along with an unnatural bluish glow that hailed from the hand of his demon-illusion.

.X.x.X.

Amell stared.

And blinked.

And stared.

And she wasn't sure whether she wanted to give into her shaking knees and collapse, or ignore them to run forward and just hug the man.

But, considering that he had just come at her with a sword, she ventured that latter of the two actions was probably not the wisest.

And next to her, Dog growled. And though he stayed her side, his hackles were raised and his ears were folded back and his teeth were bared and he was not taking his eyes off armed and armored stranger. She let her right hand fall from the staff that was holstered to her back and stroke the agitated Mabari once.

And Dog's growl turned into a whine and died out and, reassured by his human's touch, he now dubbed it safe enough to straighten up and close his mouth and relax his muscles, though he kept his ears back and his eyes forward.

His human may have let her guard down, but he wouldn't. Not completely. Because his job was to protect his human— even if she wasn't protecting herself.

.X.x.X.

Cullen stared.

And frowned.

And stared.

And he wasn't sure what to make of the two figures standing in front of him; that tackle had certainly felt real enough and—he studied her features and posture, his gaze coming to rest on her face— she certainly looked real enough.

But he knew better than to trust simple appearances.

And there was something in the way she stood, in the way she watched him, that just struck Cullen as wrong. But it wasn't the 'I'm-a-product-of-Blood-Magic-slash-lack-of-sleep-come-to-play-with-your-thoughts-and-torment-your-mind' kind of wrong that he was expecting— it was different. Harsher, colder.

Real-er.

There was no trace of soft, loving eyes or a playful smile (fake or otherwise) like there had been when he and his thoughts had been at the mercy of the Blood Mages. In fact, it was just the opposite.

There was something in the way she stood that was guarded, tense— but also completely confident, knowing and ready. And there was something in the way she watched him, her eyes focused and bright and hard, holding a sort of icy fire that, for some reason, made him very glad that he had his sword again. And as he studied her, the fleeting thought of "Changed," crossed his mind. Though he wasn't exactly sure why or how.

But he didn't have time to figure it out as his attention was drawn away from her face and down to her hand as she moved it. And he was sure that she was about to cast something—more lightning, maybe—and he was on his guard and ready to dodge or deflect or dispel or whatever he needed to do. But her hand remained quite lightning-less, doing nothing more than going to pat the Mabari at her side.

And when his eyes darted back up to her face, narrowed and suspicious, he noticed that her stance had shifted; her feet were together now and her right hand was at her side and the miniature lightning she had held in it previously had disappeared.

And then he noticed that the eyes that she watched him with had also changed; they were no longer hard or bright or lit with any kind of fire at all. They were soft, yes— but not loving. Not even friendly. They simply looked…. tired.

And as he watched her, wary and unsure, he heard her speak. And she did so quietly, civilly— almost casually— addressing him as she had so many times before.

"Hello, Cullen."

He felt his mouth draw into a thin line, his knuckles white beneath his gauntlets as he clutched he pommel of his sword. His mind was in overdrive, trying to piece together the scene in front of him sort through his still-forming thoughts at the same time.

Then finally, cautiously, he heard himself speak a well. "…Why are you here?"

And she looked at him and blinked, and then looked at him some more. But she didn't answer.
And Cullen felt something hot and sharp and piercing push against the inside of his chest, and he found himself suddenly annoyed at her silence. "Well?"

The Mabari at her side let out a low grow.

But the look in her eyes softened even more, he noticed, and she let her other hand drop to her side, still surrounded only by a pale-blue glow that lit the room. And maybe it was just the shift in the lighting, but Cullen though that suddenly, she looked very, very tired.

And finally, sounding drained, she answered, "Do I really need a reason to stand in my own home?"

And Cullen frowned and considered her words. And then he considered telling her to open her eyes and look around, because anyone, especially a mage, who would willingly return to this place and proceed to call it their "home", destruction and all, was clearly insane.

But Cullen decided that he, too, was tired, and that it wasn't worth it.

And it wasn't like he could really talk, anyways.

So, he settled for scoffing as he sheathed his weapon and slowly turned away. "Do what you like," he said coldly, "Just… put that damn light out."

And then he trudged away, leaving a tired, and now rather confused-looking mage-Warden to stand in the renewed darkness in his wake.