She thought she had died.

When she had opened the rift, a tall and wide demon had tumbled out, roaring challenges to everyone who was in the vicinity. It had some kind of lightning whip, too, which had been so fun to deal with as she had been trying to stay behind it, trying to hide in the shadows and catch it by surprise. That had been difficult without all of her equipment; her Antivan Instant Darkness Powder had apparently been confiscated while she was in the dungeons and nobody had thought to give it back.

Eventually, though, the demon had gone down and she was able to get a clear shot at the rift. Her palm connected with the tea, but this time it was different - her hand hurt, beads of sweat blossomed from her face, she clenched her jaw tightly so a scream wouldn't come out.

Her vision had exploded in blazingly bright green light, she had fallen to her knees and heard a scream come from someone - herself, she realized, as pitch black blobs began to ebb at the edge of her line of sight. Her body tipped forward, but before she could slam into the charred rock of the temple's remains, a pair of hands caught her.

Then, nothing.

Now she awoke covered in sweat, covers flying off as she sat up in a… bed? It took a moment for the world to come back into focus, but yes, it was a bed. Not her bed, not her bed back in Ostwick, but at least it wasn't the hard ground of the Chantry dungeon.

"Oh! You're awake!"

There was a clatter as a wooden box hit the ground. Margol's head snapped in the direction of the noise. A young elven woman dove to the ground to retrieve the supplies she had dropped. "Beg forgiveness, Herald!"

"Harold?" Margol questioned, putting a hand to her hair. It felt… clean? "My name is Margol."

"Yes, o-of course, Lady Margol," the elf spluttered, her hands shooting around to pick up rolling glass bottles and elfroot leaves. "That's just what they've been calling you, my lady."

"Why are they calling me Harold of all things?" she asked, sliding out of bed to help the elf retrieve some bottles that had rolled underneath the bed. The elf seemed surprised and a little afraid, but said nothing about Margol's assistance. "Who is calling me that? And where am I? How long was I unconscious?"

"You're in Haven, my lady," the elf explained, gently taking a bottle from Margol's fingers. "You've been unconscious for two - no, three - days… they're calling you the - the Herald of Andraste. They say you've been sent by Andraste herself to help us heal the sky!"

Once all of the supplies had been packed up, Margol sat on the edge of her bed, looking confused. "First they wanted to kill me and now they're saying I've been sent by Andraste herself? Maker, these people need to make up their minds. But you said I helped heal the sky - was the Breach closed?"

"I - I'm not sure," the elf stammered, standing and bowing slightly as she started to retreat back to the front door. "I was told to send you to Lady Cassandra as soon as you awakened. She said, 'at once'! She's waiting for you in the Chantry."

Margol was very tempted to sink back into her bed and to bribe this elf to say she hadn't woken up yet. Her body ached. Her hand still tingled, like an appendage that was beginning to fall asleep. "Very well," she decided finally with a heavy sigh. "I'm going."

The elf nodded fervently, squeaking out a final "at once!" before leaving.

Once she was alone, Margol stood, her legs feeling a little like jelly. A basin full of clean water had been left on a table next to the bed. She used it to wash her face and hands, patting her face dry with a towel that was neatly folded on the table. There was a simple hand mirror on a dresser to the right and she nearly groaned when she lifted it.

Her temple was a sickly purple-green. It was hard to imagine how it must have looked three days ago when she had first been brought back to Haven. At least all of the dried blood was gone and her white-blond hair was clean; she imagined after the ordeal at the charcoal-y temple it must have been a light shade of gray. Someone had braided it back away from her face.

"Yikes," she muttered, turning and looking at herself some more. She had dark circles beneath her eyes. They almost looked like bruises, but she knew they were just because she felt exhausted. She put the mirror back down, unwilling to find any more nasty surprises.

Margol stretched, kneeling to open a chest that had been shoved underneath one of the windows in the small house. She gasped as the sunlight caught a glitter of gold. Inside of the chest was perhaps the most beautiful set of armor she had ever seen. The leather had been bleached white and carefully stitched together to resemble dragon scales. Part of the arms were covered with golden metal scales that glimmered in the sun as she lifted the armor to get a better look at it.

Yes, it had been designed to bring a dragon to mind. It had to be intentional. The scaling pattern and the way the armor dipped in the back, resembling a dragon's long tail, was too spot-on to be an accident or an afterthought. Margol glanced at the door.

Was this for her to wear? Or did it belong to the person who usually stayed in the house? She wished the elven woman had stayed longer. She could have asked her if she could have worn it.

Margol's fingers clutched the armor and she felt suddenly guilty. "No, Margol, it's not yours," she told herself, willing her fingers to put the armor back into the chest. She didn't move. "It's not yours."

Twenty minutes later she stood, buckling the last clasps of the armor and turning around appreciatively. It was a medium-weight armor, light enough for her to move in but still heavy enough to provide protection. It fit like a dream.

She took a breath, deciding that she would wear it on her trip to the Chantry. Surely Cassandra would know if it was for her or not… yes, that was a good plan. Margol would just take a trip to the Chantry and ask Cassandra. If the Seeker told her to take it off, she could come back. Nobody would see. Nobody would know any difference.

Except that when she opened the door, she found that she had been wrong. Everybody would know. Everybody would see. Because it seemed like everybody was now lined up outside her door, staring at her or kneeling, their fists clapped over their hearts in a symbol of respect.

Her heart thrummed in her chest as she walked through the clear pathway they had formed.

"That's her," someone whispered. "That's the Herald of Andraste."

"Her hand's not glowy," someone else said, sounding disappointed. "I thought it was glowy."

Margol moved fast, nearly jogging as she made her way to the Chantry. The wooden doors were heavy; she struggled to open them. Once she got inside, shutting the doors firmly behind her, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim candlelight.

"Ah, you are awake," Cassandra said, moving from an alcove where she had been sitting on a chair, reading a piece of parchment. "Good."

"Yes. Also, I was wondering if this-" she gestured to the set of armor she was wearing, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed at her lack of self-control. "I found it in the house. If I shouldn't be wearing it-"

"Of course you should be," Cassandra said, looking at Margol with steady eyes. "If we did not intend for you to wear it, we wouldn't have left it in the house. We thought it would be important for the people to see you looking clean and fit for the title of Herald."

They walked now, down the long hallway of the Chantry. Some of the people inside stopped and looked as they walked, but nothing was said to the pair. "What's going on with that title, anyway? Herald of Andraste? What does that mean?"

"The figure that people saw behind you in the fade when you came to us - people are saying it was Andraste herself. They believe you have been chosen to help our cause, to help seal the Breach."

"But I tried sealing the Breach. It didn't work," Margol said slowly. "It's not gone, right? What else am I supposed to do?"

"That… depends."

"Depends on what?"

Cassandra sighed, stopping before a wooden door at one end of the Chantry. "On whether or not you accept our offer. Now, come, and stop asking so many questions," she said, pulling the door open and gesturing for Margol to go inside. "Just listen."

Margol stepped into what looked like a large meeting room. There was a table with a map spread on it, with markers put here and there. The room had more people in it than she had expected, most of which she did not recognize.

A dark-skinned woman with a clipboard turned as she entered, smiling encouragingly. Margol was envious of her golden sleeves on her shirt; clearly, this woman was no warrior. "Herald… Trevelyan, is it?" she asked, her accent Antivan. "I am Josephine Montilyet. Ambassador for the… well, that will come later."

Margol gave her a nod of recognition, Cassandra coming to stand next to the table. "You know Leliana," Cassandra said, gesturing to the redhead with a wave of her hand.

"Pleased to see you alive and well, Herald. My post here deals with delicate information and manipulation of-"

"She's our spymaster," Cassandra said curtly. Leliana's lips pursed.

"Always so tactful, Cassandra," she murmured, but Cassandra had already moved on to motion to the last person in the meeting room.

He wasn't as finely dressed as Josephine was, but he was definitely fit for combat. Not sneaky, rogue-based combat like Leliana's gear indicated, but he looked like a warrior. "Cullen Rutherford," he said with a small nod of his head. Margol noticed a scar on his lip as he spoke. "Commander of our... limited troops."

"Nice to meet you all," Margol said mechanically, her manners automatic. She looked at everyone in the room, suddenly suspicious. "And… why are you all here? Is this my trial?"

"Goodness, no!" Josephine said, looking shocked. "Er, no. We.. Cassandra?"

"We are reinstating the Inquisition."

Margol laughed. "What?" she asked incredulously, still looking amused. "How? Why?"

"You are familiar with it, then?" Cassandra asked, placing a heavy-looking book down in the middle of the map on the table.

"Of course I'm familiar with it," Margol said breezily. You didn't grow up in a house with such strong connections to the Chantry without learning all about it, after all. "Why are you looking to reinstate it? And why am I here? Am I allowed to go home or am I supposed to be shipped off for trial somewhere?"

"The Chantry is in shambles after Divine Justinia's death," Leliana explained. "Templars and mages are at each other's throats. On top of all of this, the threat of the sky still looms over us all. We are resurrecting the Inquisition to try and repair the world before it is too late."

"That's a big task," Margol said, looking down at the map that was spread across the table. There were several markers with little red flags attached to them. When she looked up, everyone seemed to be looking at her expectantly.

"It is a big task," Leliana agreed quietly, stepping closer to Margol. "One that needs to be unified under a single leader."

"And who better to be that leader than the one they are calling the Herald of Andraste?" Cassandra asked, raising an eyebrow.

Margol's stomach knotted and she had to stop herself from nervously laughing again. "You're… joking? No, you're not joking," she decided, looking upon all four serious faces in the small meeting room. "Why don't you just make Cassandra the… leader? Or Leliana? Why do you want me to be the - the… Inquisitor?"

"It would look like a conflict of interest," Cullen explained, his hand on the hilt of his sword. It looked like it was a habit. "Leliana was the left hand of the Divine; Cassandra, the right. We need someone else to be the face of the Inquisition, someone the people already believe in."

"I'm pretty sure people only believe in trying to assassinate me," Margol said uneasily. "Look, I'm sure I've already pissed enough people off by being called the Herald of Andraste. I don't want to give anyone another reason to want my head on a pike."

"We can protect you from assassinations-"

"I just want to go home," Margol said firmly, shaking her head as her gaze locked on the thick book marked with the symbol of the Inquisition. "I didn't ask for any of this, you know? Didn't ask for the glowy hand, didn't ask for the magic. Didn't ask to be the one to survive the Conclave."

They all looked at her with various expressions on their face, but none spoke.

She took a breath. "I'll put the armor back and then I'm heading back to Ostwick. If your people want to give me a trial, that's where they can arrest me. But I'm done here."

Margol turned, then, and headed out the heavy door of the meeting room. To her surprise, no one tried to stop her. She had half expected Cassandra to catch her arm and execute her right there on the spot. Apparently that wasn't their plan, then.

What was their plan? She wondered as she walked down the Chantry's long entry hall. They had to be pretty desperate to ask her of all people to lead their organization. They knew next to nothing about her. Well… Leliana was their spymaster, Cassandra had said, so perhaps in the three days she had been unconscious, Leliana had been gathering information.

Her past wasn't very impressive; the middle daughter of a Bann who had six children. Some of her siblings were involved with the Chantry, some voluntarily and some because it was expected. One of her brothers was a mage at the Ostwick Circle of Magic. But Margol herself didn't feel all that connected to the Chantry and she stifled a small laugh; she had been asked to lead the Inquisition, something that in the past was connected to the Chantry.

What would she say when she returned home? Hello, mother and father. I was just held as a prisoner in that Conclave where everyone died except for me. I have this magic glowing mark on me. I sure hope it gets better. I also sure hope that the sky fixes itself because I sure as hell wasn't going to get involved…

"Ahhhh," she groaned as she lifted up a hand to push open the front door of the Chantry.

Just keep going. Push the door open. Grab your stuff. Head back home.

Margol didn't move. Her left hand was pressed flush against the wooden door and she had every mind to open the door, to flee back to Ostwick and enjoy whatever time was left in the world. "Agh," she groaned again, this time pulling her hand from the door and reluctantly marching back to the meeting room.

She heard arguing as she approached.

"I can't believe you thought it would be a good idea to ask the prisoner-"

"She is innocent, Cullen, you did not hear the voices at the Temple-"

"Perhaps we could try to locate Hawke again, or Warden Aeducan-"

"We have tried, Josie, and-"

She didn't knock, merely opened the door and cleared her throat loudly. Everyone turned, only Leliana looking unsurprised at her return. "I'll help," she said finally, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. "Haven't got anything better to do, I guess."

"That's the spirit," Cassandra said dryly.