***SPOILER ALERT***

The events of this chapter take place in Emprise de Lion and contain major spoilers for key events in that area of the game

The pursuit of Sampson leads Marcus and the Inquisition forces to the Eastern Orlesian province of Emprise de Lion and the town of Sahrnia, now virtually controlled by the Red Templars. Cut off from the rest of Orlais by unseasonably bad weather and the ongoing civil war, Sahrnia's situation is desperate and the Inquisition it's only hope for survival.

Even with all they've already seen and experienced; neither the Inquisition nor its young leader are fully prepared for the horrors awaiting them in Sahrnia Quarry and Suledin Keep

****Trigger Warnings****

Strong language, violence, horror, referenced/implied torture, referenced/implied non-consensual sexual activity

****Disclaimer****

Dragon Age: Inquisition is copyright to EA Games and I own nothing to do with it (not even that sweet, adorkable, stammering Fereldan cinnamon-roll Cullen 'Maker's Breath!' Rutherford, *sigh*). Characters and situations are used solely for non-commercial entertainment purposes.

Please review and comment, constructive feedback is always welcomed. Many thanks for all the comments and feedback given so far

9:15 Dragon: Willowberg Keep, Terynir of Ostwick – Ancestral Seat of House Trevelyan

Lady Marjolaine's scream echoed through the family apartments of the Keep, barely muffled by the thick tapestries and curtains of the bedchamber. In his private oratory, Bann Lewin gritted his teeth, his hands clasping so hard his knuckles hurt as he tried to focus on his prayer

Blessed Andraste protect her, keep her and the child safe. Look not upon my sins but upon her goodness; deliver her in good health and may our child always bear your blessing…

It was supposed to get easier after the first birth, his mother said, but his sweet Marjie's third showed no sign of being any less arduous that the first two. Childbirth was a peril for woman regardless of rank or wealth, dangerous as the battlefield. He might have imported the finest Orlesian physicians, called in a Rivaini midwife and paid for services of intercession in half the Chantries of Ostwick, but the wife of the grand and powerful Bann Lewin Trevelyan ultimately had no greater chance than that of the woman who bleached her linens.

In the drawing room, the Dowager Lady Claudine winced as another scream reached them.

"I should never have agreed to Lewin marrying a de Cressy, regardless of the dowry" she said, for the third time "Everyone knows Compte Marcus had the Black Palsy as a child; the de Cressy's have been feeble ever since."

Lady Lucille, Bann Lewin's twice-widowed aunt and the true head of House Trevelyan grunted impatiently as she turned another card

"Nonsense, Claudie! Look at Johan and Alysanne, they're half de Cressy and healthy as druffalo; some women just have it difficult every time and poor Marjie is one of them; now, let me concentrate on my game."

Six-year-old Johan and four-year-old Alysanne sat with their governess as she tried to hold their attention with a game of Running Geese. Alysanne sat tight up close to her older brother, clutching his hand tight every time mamma screamed. If they were supposed to be happy that the Maker was sending them a little brother or sister, why were the grown-ups all so worried?

Eventually the screams stopped and the two women waited breathlessly for what felt like an Age before the drawing room doors opened and Bann Lewin entered, smiling broadly despite the tears in his eyes. He crouched down beside his children

"Johan, Alysanne… do you want to come and say hello to your baby brother?"

In the bedchamber, the midwife finished wrapping the newborn Lord Trevelyan in a soft cotton towel and laid him in his mother's arms.

"He is healthy and strong, his limbs well-formed with no inauspicious birthmarks." She grinned broadly as the infant let out another loud wail "and very powerful lungs. The gracious Lady has given birth to a mighty warrior I think."

Lady Marjolaine, exhausted by the long labour, smiled as she looked down at the child in her arms; his cries settling down to a soft gurgling as he felt her heartbeat against his head. Marcus - that would be his name, Lewin had promised their second son could be called after her late father. The pain and tiredness no longer matter to her, this made it all worthwhile

"And what will you do, my precious little Marcus?" she whispered tenderly "What wonders will you show the world?"

9:41 Dragon: Sahrnia: the province of Emprise de Lion, Empire of Orlais

Marcus's stomach heaved again. He honestly didn't think there was anything else left in there but still managed to spit out a trickle of thick saliva which clung tenaciously to his bottom lip. The Red Templars weren't mining Red Lyrium in Sahrnia Quarry, they were growing it… in the living bodies of the townsfolk taken as 'workers'. It took a lot to un-nerve the young Inquisitor but this was too much like the nightmare future he'd seen at Redcliffe; it was the smell, more than anything else, nauseatingly sweet at first then clinging to the back of his nose and throat until it felt as if he would never be free of it. He retched again, stomach spasming painfully.

At least he wasn't the only one; Varric still looked queasy and even Vivienne had excused herself discreetly for a few moments.

"Here, darling, drink some of this; it might help..."

Marcus swallowed a mouthful from silver flask she offered him; coughing violently at the sudden, familiar burning. He looked at the Imperial Enchanter in surprise

"Dragon's Piss?"

Vivienne laughed, a refreshingly normal sound in this place of nightmares

"Such a vulgar name, but descriptive… and it is excellent for settling the stomach after a shock! It also makes a superb skin cleanser..."

She took another sip herself and stoppered the flask.

"...Don't tell Blackwall, my dear, he'd only become insufferable"

Inquisition soldiers, cloths soaked in vinegar wrapped around their mouths and noses, had started hauling the bodies out for cremation. One pyre for the Red Templars, another for the townsfolk. Marcus didn't want those who remained to see what had become of their friends and relatives. At least with an urn of ashes they could be remembered as they were. Inquisition forces had managed to liberate the quarry before the most recent consignment had been infected and the rescued workers huddled in a group, weeping and praying as the bodies were piled up.

Marcus wiped his mouth and turned towards Ser Michel de Chevin, approaching them with a leather satchel in his hands.

"Correspondence and orders from Sampson to his lieutenants here" the chevalier told Marcus as he handed him the satchel "This should help your Sister Nightingale locate where the man has his headquarters. We also found bills of sale and loading to, and from, Madame Poulin. She was providing them with names of people to take in exchange for food and supplies.

Marcus sighed, he'd expected something like this. The whole situation in Sahrnia was depressingly like Crestwood. Madame Poulin had made a devil's bargain to save at least some of the townsfolk at the expense of the rest. It was unlikely the survivors would look upon that bargain kindly. He handed the satchel back to Ser Michel

"Take this to Harding. Have Madame Poulin arrested, discreetly, and transported to Skyhold for judgement"

"The people will tear her apart if they find out, Monseigneur" Ser Michel warned

"I know. That's why it must be discreet. The Inquisition deals with justice, not vengeance"

The Chevalier nodded approvingly, then glanced up at the silhouette of Suledin Keep on the crest of the hill. The broken, roofless arches looked deceptively fragile; their haunting elegance giving no hint of what awaited them within…

"I'll deal with Imshael" Marcus assured him "You've done enough"

"Normally I would feel honour bound to argue that, Monseigneur…" replied Michel, with a slight bow "But a man must know his limitations and this is something only a Mage can handle. I will escort you to the gates of the Keep, then attend to the defence of the town should the demon attempt a distraction; which I fear it will."

One of the sergeants approached the two men with a discreet cough

"We… we're ready for you now, your Worship."

Marcus nodded to the two battle-mages, standing to one side, who began to formulate the immolation glyphs that would reduce both piles of bodies to ash within minutes. Magefire burned hot and fierce, destroying the Red Lyrium in the process and rendering the ash pure and safe. As the flames blazed up he began to sing, in a clear tenor voice;

The Light shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water...

Vivienne joined in, a rich contralto, with Varric's baritone enhancing both; Chantry tradition in the Free Marches preserved musical forms dating to before the sundering of the Northern and Southern Chantries and the solemn, austere, notes rang out in the icy air as the fires roared. The bodies had already crumbled as the song faded; the soldiers standing in silent guard until the last of the flames died away.

"What shall we do with the Templars' ashes?" the sergeant asked, quietly.

"Put them all in a single urn, inter them with honour at the Tower of Bones" Marcus ordered "They were men and women of valour and courage once, betrayed by their commanders, that must never be forgotten..."

Had he made the right decision? Choosing to seek out the Mages at Redcliffe gave Sampson and his agents the time to corrupt the Templars with Red Lyrium. From what they'd been able to determine from the trail left at Therrinfal Redoubt, an Envy Demon masquerading as Lord Seeker Lucius Corrin had first turned the officers and then the bulk of the knights; convincing them this was merely a new, more potent, form of Lyrium to aid in the fight against the rebel Mages. They'd taken it without question, trusting in their commanders, and become these… things. Aside from a few scattered groups and those who had joined up with the Inquisition, the Templar Order had become a tool of Corypheus; a monstrous parody of itself.

Should he have paid more attention to Cullen and Cassandra's urgings and gone to meet with the Templars instead? Tried to win them out from under their tainted leaders? Marcus shook his head, he couldn't afford to second-guess himself, not now; it was just… under different circumstances, one of those deformed creatures might have been Cullen.

"You're over-thinking this, Red" Varric could tell from the anguished look in Marcus's eyes what was going through the man's head "Either way, Haven would have burned and we'd be knee deep in shit; or ass deep in my case. You did what you believed was right and I haven't shot you in the balls yet, so I guess I must agree with you."

Marcus's cough sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh

"As Cassandra would say; that's comforting. On behalf of my balls, I thank you for your ringing endorsement."

The dwarf shrugged

"I try to bring a little sunshine into people's lives…"

###

I hate this place, Cull, the cold gets everywhere; I don't know if it's some trick of the demon, or the Red Lyrium drawing all the heat from the air, but everything about this feels wrong. The Elvhen ruins, beautiful though they are, make it worse – as though the whole landscape is grieving for the people who first shaped it.

Tomorrow I face Imshael, the demon-ally of Corypheus who sits in Suledin Keep and is the facilitator of the misery visited upon the people of Sahrnia. This isn't the first time we've met, I confronted an aspect of it in my Harrowing; it's old, cunning and now it has physical form. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm afraid; I pray that fear will make me cautious, I can't afford to be foolhardy in facing this challenge. Pray for me, my Lion; even though this message won't reach you until after the battle just writing those words comforts me, knowing that you remember me each night as I do you.

I love you, and will write to you as soon as this is done...

Marcus laid down his pen and rubbed his eyes. He would need to get some sleep soon but the business of the next day preyed on his mind; his thoughts were busy, fragmented and lacking order. He walked over to the pile of books beside his bed. Sera and Blackwall often made fun of his 'posh' habit of bringing a book-chest along with him on expeditions, but the mind needed trained and honed as much as the body. That dusty little basement book-room he'd discovered in Skyhold was a treasury of rare classics on the magical arts; some of them long thought lost, like this one - Magister Vesalius's "On the True and Authentic Nature of the Fade and its Diverse Inhabitants".

'…Demons are neither truly many, nor entirely singular. Lesser beings of spite or want abide, without intelligence or will, possessing little beyond the basic need they prompt; a practitioner of the art, even a mere apprentice, has naught to fear from such nuisances of the Fade. A true Demon, a being of Pride, Desire or Vengeance, is as complex and variegated as the forms they manifest; one name, but many countenances, like unto the manifold aspects a man presents to those around him…

Each countenance is complete, showing forth all the appearance of being whole and entire, but is possessed of commonality with all others under that name; any Demon of such magnitude is a true commonwealth of knowledge and experience that the skilful mage can access…

Beware of seeking too far within such a commonwealth of deceit and guile. Remember the parable of Peridon's Labyrinth and go no further than the first turn lest the winding ways close around thee and conceal the pathway back. Even if mind and will return intact, knowledge of the wrong sort is a poison to the soul…'

Marcus closed the book with a sigh and returned it to the pile. Solas would no doubt greatly disapprove of many of the Magister's conclusions, and perhaps the work of a notorious Tevinter Blood-Mage was not the best source of inspiration for the morrow, but he was one of the few writers to truly investigate the living nature of demons in such depth. The way the last chapter ended in mid-sentence might be one reason why no-one had followed up on his research in the succeeding Ages. Marcus exhaled heavily and turned back to finish his letter to Cullen, trying not to think about the other one already sealed and lying on the table beside his bed; the one he'd written in advance, just in case tomorrow did not go in his favour.

Before sitting down, he picked up the Spirit-Blade hilt from the cushion where it rested, the polished metal warm and vibrating in response to his touch. Each such hilt was unique to the Knight-Enchanter who crafted it and the Spirit inhabiting it would answer to no other. It was an ancient Elvhen technique, Solas had informed him, one that dated back to before the Fall of Arlathan and had survived in diminished form into the time of the Kingdom of the Dales. If the spirits of those Elvhen forebears of the Knights-Enchanter still loitered around, Marcus hoped he would put on a good show for them…

###

"Power? Riches? Virgins?" Marcus scoffed as he moved carefully in counterpoint to the Demon, keeping a safe distance between them "That part of you I met before was much more imaginative, Demon!"

"Choice! Spirit!" Imshael snarled. It had abandoned all pretence of human form, becoming a shifting mass of corrupting tissue. The surface, slick with decay, rippled as limbs, features and internal organs continually re-arranged themselves, responding to and reflecting the movements and words of the young Mage who now confronted it. "And perhaps it is you who has become less imaginative… has your position ossified you at such a young age, I wonder?"

"Stop talking to the fucker!" Sera hissed anxiously "Just chop it's bleedin' head…s off."

"Shush, dear!" Vivienne whispered, almost casually; fingers tapping nervously on the shaft of her staff "This is the Inquisitor's fight. He knows what he is doing…"

"I hope so…" Varric muttered, Bianca cradled ready in his arms. Marcus accepting Imshael's challenge to face him one-on-one seemed like a really shit idea and, so far, his opinion hadn't changed. The challengers circled round each other, the mage dwarfed by the roiling cloud of putrescent matter that was his opponent, watching and waiting for any weakness or opening that could be exploited. Marcus's gaze was fixed on Imshael, his movements slow and cautious. His feet seemed to be feeling for their next position independent of where his attention lay, like a man pacing out the steps of a new dance; or…

You crazy fucker, Red; what're you up to?

"You just haven't found what I want, yet: Demon!" Marcus grinned "Try harder…"

Imshael's present form didn't have anything that appeared to be a mouth but Marcus was sure it was smiling. Here, in the physical world, the Demon could still get inside his head; pluck from his thoughts the way that Cole could. He had to exercise the same control on those that he did on his body; keeping their movements controlled and intentional.

"Something more personal then, less generic?" Imshael mused, the voice resonating and echoing from some unidentifiable organ of speech "Vengeance, perhaps?"

Images, vivid and bloody, flooded Marcus's mind. In the midst of them; Anders and Knight-Captain Herrick, writhing and screaming at his feet at chains of magical fire burned their flesh without devouring it, a pain that could be prolonged for years…

…Too close to home, too personal. He couldn't afford to let the Demon get that much purchase on his thoughts.

"You offer me nothing I couldn't gain by myself, without your price attached to it…" Marcus continued pacing, watching, keeping alert to every move Imshael made as it turned and flowed, tossing his staff from hand to hand almost casually; allowing no opening for a surprise attack. "You have let yourself slip, do you remember so little about me?"

Blackwall's hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, body vibrating with the urgent need of battle. Marcus had the demon's full attention, they should be attacking! He ground his teeth in angry frustration, this duel was a mistake; they had a better chance going against that thing en masse… He shouldn't have agreed to this!

Varric's attention was still on Vivienne. The woman stood with perfect poise apart from the fingers tapping upon her staff; except there was a rhythm, a definite sense of purpose to the movements… and to the faint trembling of her lips, like she was forming words within her mind that the muscles of her face reacted to. Dwarves might not be able to work magic, but he'd seen enough to recognize when it was being worked

You crafty, crafty piece of shit!

"Oh, we remember…" the echoes deepened and multiplied, a chorus speaking in unison, the voice of the Collective "…we remember much…"

Something that might have been a nose in a sick man's fever-dream twitched, smelling the air

"…you stink of Templar, inside and out; Lyrium and piety like bitter apples on our tongue. We remember that taste… remember that boy… Perhaps information is what you seek? Would you like to hear him scream? Hear how he begged and pleaded, how he soiled himself even as we made him cum again and again until he bled?" the compound voice dropped lower; a wet, insinuating whisper "Would you like to know the desires we tore out of him…? The things he secretly wants to do… what he secretly wishes you would do…?"

Marcus swallowed back the bile that threatened to rise and choke him as the sounds, images and smells the Demon evoked surged through his mind. He'd let it get too close… too deep into his mind… needed to find a way out

"Goss… gossip and pornography; is that all you have to offer? No hidden secrets of the Fade? No tantalising clue about defeating the Darkspawn who bound you and made you his janitor here; like some pathetic wraith…"

"I am not bound!" Imshael screamed in fury at the insult "I CHOSE to serve!"

"Then you should have paid more attention…" Marcus grinned, cracking the butt of his staff against the flagstones as Vivienne uttered a Word of Power and the lines of the containment glyph he'd paced out burst into vivid green light.

"You swore…!" Imshael howled in panic as the Fade-fire tore into its substance, shredding it even as it writhed and twisted to escape the sudden assault

"I swore to face you alone…" the Spirit Blade blazed in golden light from the hilt the moment Marcus drew it "I said nothing about fighting you that way… NOW!"

The Demon fought desperately, limbs and protrusions sliced apart almost as fast as it could manifest them; the glyph containing, dissolving it even as the cold fire of the spirit blades tore through its physical form. The two mages moving in a lethal dance, dodging and weaving to avoid flailing claws; Blackwall's sword cutting deep and hard as Varric and Sera peppered it with bolts and arrows. Imshael's shrieks of rage and pain vibrated off the ancient stones of Suledin Keep; echoing down to Sahrnia in the valley below, where the terrified townsfolk sought refuge in the ruined chantry as Ser Michel and Dorian led the Inquisition troops in battle against the horde of lesser demons summoned by their master's terror and fury.

At last, Marcus could see it; the Demon's core, a pulsing mess of corruption at the heart of its disintegrating form. He dropped and rolled, swinging the blade up and round from a low crouch, slicing clean through the core in a single blow… Silence, absolute and total, descended upon the Keep; broken finally by Blackwall's hoarse breathing as he struggled to his feet

"You… you could have fucking warned us!" he gasped, unsure whether to hug Marcus or punch him in the face.

"And the demon would have taken that knowledge from your mind as if it were an apple from a tree…" Vivienne retorted, looking down at the pile of rotted bone, teeth and flesh which was all that remained of Imshael's physical form "I suppose the researchers will want this to poke about with…"

They turned at a sudden noise, metal on stone; a figure in Templar armour crawling across the flagstones, arm outstretched, shards of Red Lyrium protruding from under the fingernails; one final nightmare hidden within the walls of Suledin…

"Please… water…" the man begged, a ghastly bubbling noise in his throat.

"Careful, darling…" Vivienne cautioned as Marcus approached the knight and knelt, holding a waterskin to his ruined mouth.

"Every garden… has its gardener… It… it said it would take the Red out if I…" the Templar choked out the words, bleeding eyes fixed on what remained of the Demon, then averted his gaze "I… I still have some honour left… Please, Monseigneur… the mercy of the blade?"

"What is your name, Ser Knight?" Marcus asked softly, cradling the man's head in his hand as the others looked on in silence. The Templar was young, maybe not even as old as him

"Rey… Reynaud de Campagne. I ha… have a family in Lydes. Please…"

"They will hear nothing of this, only that you died with honour" Marcus promised him "Close your eyes, Ser Reynaud; this will not hurt…"

It was over in seconds. Marcus laid Ser Reynaud's head back gently on the ground, pulling the scarf from round his neck and covering the man's face. He got up and walked over to one of the ruined window arches, staring out over the ravaged landscape below, his back to the others. Sera, biting back tears, moved to go to him but Blackwall placed a restraining hand on her arm

"Give him a few minutes, lass. It's hard on a man… showing that kind of mercy."

Varric sighed heavily, his words summing up how they all felt

"Well… this is some seriously fucked up shit we're involved in!"

One week later

With the detritus of Imshael and the Red Templars cleared out, Suledin Keep had rapidly become the Inquisition headquarters in Emprise de Lion. The local Barons and Chantry Mothers, such as remained, were quick to pledge support and assistance; relieved to see the Red Templars gone and assured that the presence of Inquisition forces would offer the province some measure of protection from the ongoing Civil War. It would be wrong to say that normality had returned to Sahrnia; the town still grieved and lay in ruins, but with some peace and stability restored the townsfolk could begin to believe they might have a future after all.

whether it was the effect of Red Lyrium or the Demon I cannot say but, now that both are gone, there are definite signs of a thaw and the locals tell me the river should be navigable within days. Cull arrives tomorrow with fresh troops and to review the defences at Suledin. Once he's satisfied himself that the trebuchets are properly calibrated I intend to return home with him to Skyhold. I miss it badly, but realise I am going to miss Sahrnia as well – I never thought I would say that. It's been a painful, arduous, challenge but for the first time since Redcliffe Crossroads I feel we have won a clear, undisputed and untainted victory. People here are starting to smile again, it's hard to realise how important a thing that is unless you saw what it was like before.

The tavern in the market square re-opened yesterday; Blackwall's shared some of his distilling secrets with the owner. Urine de Dragon looks set to become a local favourite…

Marcus looked up from his journal as Varric knocked at the door. The dwarf stood there with two bottles of wine

"Gift from one of the barons! Thought I'd liberate a couple of bottles before Sparkles hides them all away." He settled down in the chair across from Marcus with a grunt and began prising the cork out of the first bottle "We both deserve a good drink… and we haven't had the chance to speak much since Suledin Keep."

Marcus had been expecting this at some point. He closed the journal and leaned back in his chair

"Some of the things it said, I would rather they remained…"

Varric chuckled quietly as the cork popped out, but his tone was serious when he spoke

"It doesn't take a genius to guess which Templar it was talking about. Curly's secrets stay his own and, as the two of you are still pretending everyone doesn't know what's going on between you, we're all doing our best to forget that part… but…"

Marcus laid down his pen and pulled out a couple of glasses. He'd talked long and hard with Hawke about what happened in Kirkwall, about what happened with Anders. Hawke had been unable to execute his lover, regardless of what he'd done. Marcus could understand that even though no justification would ever win Anders an ounce of forgiveness from the normally generous-hearted Mage. The Apostate had shed Trevelyan blood, murdered his beloved older sister and her infant son along with hundreds of others who just happened to be in the vicinity of Kirkwall Chantry, there would be a reckoning for that one day but Hawke was too valuable an ally to alienate and, besides, he was Varric's closest friend

"I promised Hawke I wouldn't hunt Anders down, and I promised myself that I would never abuse the position of Inquisitor for personal purposes. I'm not going to break either promise; you're my friend and I wouldn't want to put you in a difficult situation."

"Well, I gotta say I'm relieved; because you know I'm always gonna be there for Hawke and I'd hate to see the two of you go up against each other." Varric filled both glasses to the brim and pushed one over to the Mage "But, if Anders ever crosses your path…?"

Marcus stared down at the glass in his hands for a long time before draining it in a single gulp and sighing heavily.

"Balon, my nephew, he wasn't even eight weeks old. I'll never forget the… the sound Mother made when Father told us" he looked straight at Varric, his eyes hard and sorrowful "In my place, what would you do…?"

Varric shook his head sadly as he refilled the Mage's glass

"Honestly, Red? If that ever happens, I'll hold your coat..."