The convalescence of the Herald of Andraste was shorter than anyone had anticipated. Though she lingered in the Fade for three days, insensible to the outside world and watched closely by the healers, when she woke she waved away their concerns.

"Yes, yes, two broken ribs, lost a lot of blood, twisted my ankle, some frostbite and burns. All of it is healed because you are all gifted. Let us move forward."

She called a meeting of the Council in her tent and told them everything she could remember: Corypheus, the anchor, the dragon, her miraculous escape from Haven. They had questions, some of which she could answer and others which she could not.

Josephine explained they had no way of knowing, yet, how many were lost.

She nodded, firming her mouth against the quiver of grief. There would be time to mourn. She would make it, for all of them. "I would like to make a demonstration in about an hour. Josephine, could you pass along to Varric and the rest to meet us just over the eastern ridge? Tell Bull to bring the Chargers, as well. I will speak with Fiona and Mother Giselle."

"May I ask what you plan to do?"

Meera nodded to Leliana, trying to ignore how Cullen stiffened at the mention of Fiona. So he had yet to forgive her for the mages. She wanted to be surprised. Keeping her eyes level on his, her face completely expressionless, she said, quietly, "My magic has changed. I would have you see it. There may be a use for it."

She carefully boxed up her misery and heartache, burying it deep, when Cullen looked at her as if she were suddenly dangerous, an unknown apostate. She was the Herald. There was work to be done. "One hour. Eastern ridge."

OoO


OoO

"So, Seeker, what do you think she's gonna do?" Varric raised an eyebrow when Cassandra sent him a concerned look, her eyes clouded. Ah, he realized, the Seeker knew something of what was about to happen.

"Give a demonstration, as she said." She tried to sound nonchalant but she knew that Meera was teetering on the edge of breaking, of reverting to the cold, distant woman she had been. As Cassandra turned and saw Cullen trudging up the hill, hand on the hilt of his sword, face drawn and pale and tired, she wondered and she worried.

"Of what?" Solas sounded worried, a tone out of place in his normal placid delivery. He fingered the necklace around his neck absently.

"Magic. Ugh." Sera was picking at a thread on her trousers, leaning companionably against Krem. He nudged her and whispered something in her ear which made her snort out a laugh. "Shut it, perv."

"He can't. It's the Tevinter in him." Iron Bull laughed when Dorian sneered at him, throwing his huge arm over the smaller man's shoulder. Dorian huffed but didn't move away as the rest of the Chargers, sprawled along the way, laughed, and Krem rolled his eyes.

As she crested the hill, Meera almost called out the joke on the tip of her tongue. She was right there, the Meera she liked, the Meera with smiles and laughter and so many feelings for all of these people. The Meera who'd dared to dream Cullen, handsome, noble, former Templar Cullen could care for her, a mage.

"My little dragon."

She didn't make the joke. In fact, she said nothing, moving to stand in the middle of the loose circle of the Inquisition's finest. She noted how Fiona, Vivienne, and Mother Giselle were standing apart from each other. How Blackwall stood next to Cullen, both of them looking uneasy. How Cullen's eyes were cold and stern, his beautiful mouth drawn into a thin, frustrated line.

Before the hurt could rise up to choke her, she held out her scarred left hand. "Cassandra, if you would place the little wooden person in the middle, please."

Once it was in place, she nodded to Cassandra, who stepped into the middle, facing her. "Dorian, Fiona, Vivienne, Commander, please place yourselves at the four points of the compass on the inside of the circle. Be prepared for anything."

"Anything as in what, darling?" Vivienne sounded coldly amused but her eyes were watchful.

Assuring herself everyone was in place, Meera kept her eyes on Cassandra's, lifted her left hand up to the sky, and opened.

The anchor flared to life, brilliant and stark against the snow. With the sound of crackling magic and the smell of veilfire, a ball of brilliant green light appeared above the wooden figure. There were gasps and other, more vocal cries from the audience as the ball turned, flattened and then widened, a glimpse of the Black City forming, wavering and indistinct. The dummy wavered, wobbled, and then began to drift, piece by piece, into the rift.

It should have been more difficult, tearing a hole in the Veil that protected the everyday world from the Fade. Instead, it was a little like taking a hard, fast breath after a quick sprint, filling lungs that had been constricted by exertion with life-sustaining air. It was magic, pure and complex and wonderful.

It was over in seconds. Once the figure had completely disintegrated, Meera released the magic by closing her hand into a fist. She had never looked away from Cassandra's watchful, protective, encouraging gaze and could not, now.

Of course it was Varric who managed to find something to say: "Holy Maker's balls, Princess, what did you just do?!"

"I opened a rift into the Fade. The resultant magic collapses upon itself, dragging whatever is nearby through." Her voice was steady as if she were repeating a transcription to the High Enchanter. Still, Cassandra reached out and firmly squeezed her shoulder. The Seeker raised her voice to carry:

"A gift from the Maker." It is what she had said earlier in the day, when Meera had sought her out. Meera had known she would say it. She had been surprised it had felt comforting.

"I realize this is a weapon. I know that no matter what promises I might make, some of you will not be reassured." Meera forced herself to raise her eyes, to seek out Cullen. To let him see how much the Inquisition mattered to her. She needed him to see at least that much, if he could see nothing else. "I am a mage. Some might call me a maleficar. I choose to believe I am still the Herald. I choose to believe the Maker and his Bride still have work for me to do. I choose to believe in us, in the Inquisition, and to use the tools I am given."

She refused to feel anything when Cullen bowed, once from the waist, stiff and formal, and abandoned the field.

OoO


OoO

"You're doing her wrong, Curly." Varric had waited until after supper, but just, to approach Cullen. He'd wanted to talk himself down from 'killing the bastard' to 'beat the shit out of the Commander' and he had. Mostly.

"Not now, Varric." It was a clear dismissal. Cullen didn't even bother to look up from the map spread on the table before him to deliver it. Of course the dwarf ignored him.

"Yes, now." Varric tapped his fingers on the table impatiently until Cullen growled and looked up, startled to see Varric's eyes were hard as flint. "She thinks you're still mad at her about the mages."

"I am still angry with her about the mages!" The admission was out before he could stop himself. Cullen closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. "Varric. This is none of your business."

"Oh, Curly, the Princess is my business." Somehow, Varric made the nickname sound intimate, sibilant and sweet.

"Why do you call her that?" He didn't want to know, or care. There was no snap in his voice, no heat in his gaze. The curled fist inside of him that was Meera had not tightened unbearably in need.

He wanted, desperately, to convince himself all of that was true.

Varric smirked slyly. "It's the accent. And the way she carries herself. Noble to the bone, that one." The dwarf's lips uncurled, flattened. "She was also stuck in a tower for a long time."

"Yes." Cullen raised an eyebrow, determined to keep his face impassive. "Are you implying she needs to be rescued?"

Varric shook his head, gave Cullen a level look. "Curl…Cullen. Listen. I sorta know where you're coming from, mages, Templars, all that shit. Kirkwall, right?" Varric's gesture looked obscene. "She doesn't need to be rescued, but she might want to be."

Cullen dropped his head, sighed. He tried to forget that Varric had been in Kirkwall, too, in the thick of it, next to Hawke every step, even as the city burned. "I'm trying to do my job, Varric."And he was no one's idea of a prince.

"Good, great, fine, do your blighted job. Does that mean you can't be a man, too?"

"It's a distraction for both of us, Varric, one we can ill-afford."

"Nugshit. If that's true, you better start talking to all the people in camp who are humping like bunnies." When Cullen blushed, Varric chuckled. "Face it, sex is fun."

"Yes, well." Cullen cleared his throat. "Be that as it may, I don't think Mee…the Herald is looking for a quick tumble with the Commander of her armies."

"You don't want a quick tumble, either, Curly. Not how you're made, not with a girl like her." Varric's eyes had softened, his voice taking on that persuasive edge he did so well. "She likes you. That's kinda a big deal."

He was so tempted. So very, very tempted. Quick tumble, long, slow seduction, words whispered on soft skin in the dark, sweet curves and gentle kisses, shared laughter and a voice that helped chase away the demons.

And even as Cullen yearned, he could not shake the memories of a woman with an impassive face who stood on a hill in the snow and ripped open the Fade.

He closed his eyes and bowed his head, defeated. "She's a mage, Varric. I can't just…forget."

Varric's fist slammed down onto the table, his voice a frustrated growl as Cullen's eyes opened and then narrowed. "Andraste's asshole! You're not a Templar anymore!"

Varric nearly reached across the table and slammed his fist into Cullen's face when Cullen's mouth turned mutinous. "Get over it right the fuck now! That girl is in love with you!"

The way Cullen reeled back, his face going completely blank, every bit of color leeched away, was almost as satisfying as if Varric had punched him. Almost. Because it was, because Meera mattered and Cullen mattered to Meera, and because Varric had been in Kirkwall, he gentled his voice.

"Don't keep walking away. Show her you're something different. Someone worthy of her."

Varric had almost turned away in disgust when Cullen finally murmured, "And if I'm not?"

"I think you are. The Seeker thinks you are." When Cullen sighed, Varric said, quietly, "Don't make us liars, Curly."

With a pained exclamation, Cullen turned away from the map as Varric stalked away. Maybe a walk around the perimeter of the camp, checking the defenses and supplies, might help him to clear his head.

After completing almost a full circuit, and as the sun began to sit behind the mountains, he was surprised to nearly stumble over Vivienne and Fiona sitting together before a fire, sharing a pot of tea and speaking in low tones. When he made to move past them with only a nod of acknowledgment, still caught in the whirl of his own thoughts, Fiona called, "A moment, Commander."

He stopped, suppressing a grumble. "Yes?"

"We are concerned for the girl," Vivienne said crisply, her beautiful face giving nothing away, smooth teakwood. Beside her, Fiona's own ageless elven face was pinched, her eyes tired.

"I do believe everyone is concerned, Madame du Fer."

"The magic she performed today, how it must have tormented your Templar senses," Vivienne purred, satisfaction and something more in her tone, a knot Cullen couldn't untangle.

He saw how Fiona stiffened, her mouth opening, and he raised a hand, shaking his head slightly. She subsided with a frown. "Her magic today was unknown to me but not uncomfortable."

That was a half-truth at best. The few vials of lyrium in his personal stores had been lost at Haven; his Templar senses were past barely functioning and well into failing completely. According to the other few Templars in the camp, however, Meera's casting had not caused any undue magical alarm for them.

No, their alarm had everything to do with their training, the need to leash what they didn't understand. He had been raised a Templar, had served, had been tortured. He knew. And yet, here he was, hoping Varric was right and he was prince enough to rescue the princess.

Pathetic.

"It is certainly something forbidden in the Circles," Vivienne prompted.

"Yes," he said, rolling the syllable around on his tongue. He paused, considered carefully, and then decided to the void with it. If he was wrestling with the implications of the magic, perhaps they were, too. "But why?"

Vivienne raised one perfectly sculpted brow. The corner of Fiona's mouth twitched. A voice from behind him, male and smooth and Tevinter, murmured, "Why, Commander, you aren't just a little Chantry puppet!" Dorian, his trademark smirk in place, came into view, moving to stand next to Fiona.

"You know very well why such magic is not allowed within the Circles, Commander."

Slowly, Cullen shook his head, frowning at Vivienne. "I know what I've been told, that magic should never rule over man."

"Changed your mind?" Dorian drawled.

"Not...precisely. Someone told me recently that magic is like any other weapon." Cullen drummed his fingers on the hilt of his sword, then drew it from its scabbard in one smooth motion. He studied the blade thoughtfully. "This blade is not evil. It has no ill intent. That it is sharp, capable of causing great harm, even death, is part of its nature." He fell naturally into a guard stance, the weapon held at the ready. "As the one wielding the weapon, I control whether I use it to protect, to defend, or to pillage."

"Yes, but the sword is useless if you are untrained or unskilled," Vivienne broke in impatiently. "Magic works in quite the opposite manner."

Using the tip of the sword, gauging his distance very carefully, Cullen flicked the lid from the teapot that sat on a low stool between the two women, watching as they both flinched and Dorian looked amused. "So only unharrowed apprentices and apostates are capable of harming someone?"

"Come, darling, do be reasonable. All mages are capable of causing harm. It is those unharrowed apprentices and apostates, however, who are more likely to do so involuntarily through ignorance." Vivienne sniffed, looking from him to the lid meaningfully. Once again using the tip of his weapon, he lifted the lid from the ground and set it back on the teapot. This time, Dorian snickered and even the twitch at the corner of Fiona's mouth turned into a small smile.

"So we should teach them control, as we teach soldiers to properly hold a sword, as we teach scribes to properly write their letters, and so forth." Re-sheathing his weapon, Cullen raised an eyebrow. "I don't lock my soldiers in the barracks and tell them their weapons are evil, Vivienne. In fact, I encourage them to have lives, to write home, to have a drink."

"To be people," Dorian said approvingly. "Exactly! So maybe as a mage I can summon a demon in a bar fight. Pfft, I can also draw a dagger. Either way, very messy and bloody and the person is still dead."

"The more someone is pressed into a corner, the more likely they are to use the weapons at their disposal," Fiona added quietly. "Magic should serve man, that is true. But magic is a thing; it is not the people who are wielding it." She turned to Vivienne. "The Herald is a good woman, Vivienne. You have seen this."

"She is powerful."

"Powerful does not have to mean corrupted." And he, thought Cullen in disgust as the words tumbled from his mouth, was a Maker-damned half-wit. He was a Templar; that didn't make him Meredith. Meera was a mage; that didn't make her Uldred.

"That is true, darling." As he met three faces, all mages, all wearing the same encouraging expression, Cullen realized he had been cleverly manipulated.

"Maker's breath. Tell me you gave the same speech to the Herald."

Fiona sighed and shook her head. "She has taken to her tent. Mother Giselle is with her. They have turned away visitors."

"I wasn't the only one to give her grief, then," Cullen murmured.

Vivienne looked away briefly as Dorian shook his head. "No."

"I will try to speak with her." He turned to go and then paused. "Thank you."

He was called into a Council meeting before he could approach Meera. He, Leliana, Josephine, and Cassandra argued fruitlessly, around in circles, over blame and supplies and what should or even could happen next. As he turned away in disgust, he was arrested by the sight of Meera standing near the entrance to the healer's tent, watching. She looked tired and pale, her mouth drawn, her stance so impossibly lonely. He started to go to her, to make amends, when Mother Giselle's voice suddenly filled the darkness.

"Shadows fall

and hope has fled.

Steel your heart

the dawn will come."

It was a holy hymn to Andraste, half-forgotten from his Chantry education. Leliana was the first to join, lifting her voice in praise, but soon many voices of the Inquisition, his included, were united, echoing from the mountains. Meera stood, quiet and still and alone, as the healers, the scouts, the enlisted men and women, the mages, the Templars, all of the Inquisition, saluted or knelt, looking to her.

The spring green eyes that haunted his dreams lifted to his, wet and shining and hopeful, and he did what he should have done earlier in the day, in the clearing: he drew his sword and saluted her, fist to heart.

"The night is long

and the path is dark.

Look to the sky

for one day soon

the dawn will come."