A/N:Although I've always planned to write this chapter, I have to say that I'm so glad that I played DA2 before I did! So much in that game echoes what I think a mage warden like Alixire would have to contend with, and it really resonated with my own ideas of the in-game portrayal of the Chantry. But luckily I don't think Alixire is quite at the point where she feels the need to blow things up to make her point. Let's hope she stays that way! Enjoy!

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Twenty-One. Alixire: Hand of the Chantry.

She can feel their eyes upon her as soon as she walks through the doors. It is a feeling she is especially attuned to, given what she is. As soon as people see the staff hooked onto her back, the very atmosphere of the room changes. Conversations halt, and eyes size her up, searching for signs of danger in her all too innocent face. They wonder why she is here. They are supposed to be protected from people like her, and suddenly they don't feel safe, even within the walls of the Chantry. Even with the darkspawn threat on their heels, she is the more imminent concern.

"You all right?" Hannon asks, placing a hand on Alixire's shoulder. He's been attracting stares as well—due to the tattoo, Alixire suspects, because no one seems to pay Alain any mind—along with Morrigan, whose questionable getup would raise anyone's eyebrows, regardless if she is a mage or not. But neither Morrigan nor Hannon seem to be bothered by the wary gazes. In fact, they seem to enjoy it. They share conspiratorial smirks over the priests droning their Chant of Light and chuckle at the naïve belief that stating these words will save them from the darkspawn more effectively than running for their lives will. But they are different from Alixire. She was raised to believe in the Maker; they were not. They have other beliefs and philosophies to fall back on, but she has nothing else other than these bitter feelings of being a rebellious child estranged from her unloving parent. She can't bear Him, but all the same, she cannot deny Him. She is of His flesh, and that is not something you can erase simply by wishing it isn't true.

"I'm fine," she says, although he is sharp enough to know that she is lying. But the thing she likes about Hannon is that he knows which points not to press. He'll ask her about her training at the Circle all day long if she lets him, but the moment it shifts to a deeper place than she is willing to go, he'll let her be. He knows there is only one person she can speak of these things with, and he is not here. And the loss of him sits like a weight on her heart: a weight of guilt, of sorrow, of longing.

"I just need a moment," she adds, drawing away from the rest of the group slightly. "I don't think I want to see the Revered Mother with the rest of you."

"Are you sure, lethallin? I have a few good questions for her about our missing Dales. You might not want to miss this."

"I thought we were supposed to be addressing her about the Qunari prisoner?"

"The rest of them may, but I have my own way of doing things. But you know this, right?"

"Of course you have your own way. Of course you do. And I'll be listening in the other room and laughing right along with you."

The back of the chapel contains a statue of Andraste, the standard one most Chantries seem to have of a beautiful, well-shaped young woman with some triangular headdress sprouting from her forehead. When she was younger, Alixire thought this was the tool she used to communicate with the Maker. She even tried to break if off the statue once so she could use it herself to ask Him why He had taken her away from her parents. Her parents had been loving and kind, and they had devoted everything to making her happy. As excited as she had been over all the possibilities of her magic, she wondered what she had done to deserve losing her family and being foisted upon these new and strange ideas that didn't seem to have anything to do with her. Maleficar, abomination, demon, spirit… the more she learned of these words, the stranger she felt. She knew herself well; she knew she would never condone interfering with these things. But still she was condemned because they existed. She was condemned for crimes she had never committed.

Sometimes, if she thinks about it hard enough, she can remember her mother's voice. Alixire, my little light. Alixire, my sunshine. Those were such kind words, such beautiful things to hear. Her mother used to adore the way she was always laughing and teasing everyone, behaving like a little rascal with all the good intentions and warmth of a ray of sun. It wasn't like that in the tower. Everyone hushed her in her lessons and in the Chantry, accusing her of being disruptive and crude. Only Jowan and Irving humored her regularly, and even they fretted after her sharp tongue. "You'll end up getting cut on that thing, child," Irving said. And she did, frequently. Her track record with the Templars and Knight-Commander proved that well.

But then there was Cullen. For the first time, someone was in awe of her for something other than her talents. For the first time since she left the Amell estate, someone lived for the sound of her laughter, for the way she remained buoyant through everything, even though her heart hurt with emptiness in her chest when she realized even though he loved her and she loved him, the Circle would do everything it could to make sure nothing ever came of it. She couldn't be anyone's light and sunshine but the Maker's, and even He would never love her properly as long as she was a mage.

Alixire kneels before the statue of Andraste and rests her forehead against the cool stone. If you can hear me, tell your Husband that I am the same as you were. I love someone who is so far from my reach that all I can do is stare up at them and wonder how to get to where they are. Why must I be punished? I wasn't the one who killed you. I'm not anyone you should fear.

In the other room, she can hear the Chant rising over her thoughts. These are words she is unfamiliar with. Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lie eternity. She doesn't remember such words of comfort from the Circle Chantry. Maybe because they are exempt from this promise. All they need concern themselves with is that they are on the brink of becoming maleficars. Or entering into maleficardom, as Jowan called it, most likely before he realized he was truly on his way to becoming one himself.

And above the Chant, she can hear Hannon's voice. "Tithe to the Chantry? Are you joking shemlen? You want me to give my money to support those who enslave my people? Should I put the whips to their backs myself?" His voice is cool and collected, but mocking. He has waited so long to say this. She is proud of him, but sorrowed, too. This is nothing the Chantry hasn't heard already before. They have witnessed their sins told by voices more powerful than his, and still they have not changed.

Alixire laughs bitterly to herself until tears run down her cheeks. Why does this even matter to her? The Maker isn't a part of her life; His loss means nothing, because she was never aware that she ever had Him. She should be like Hannon. She should tell the self-righteous mothers and priests and sisters what they did to her and ask for repayment. She should let them know how wrong they are.

But no,she reminds herself. Not all of them are wrong. Some of them just don't understand. Some of them will learn with time.The fact that Cullen loves her means something. It has to. It has to indicate that a bridge can be built between the opposition, and some sort of compromise can be reached.

Brushing away her tears, she smiles again and reaches up for Andraste's headdress. This place is going to the darkspawn anyways, and she thinks the prophet would rather have herself defaced by something other than the taint. With the help of magic, it snaps off easily in her hands. She tucks it into her pouch and rises to join the others.

It matters to her. She can't pretend it doesn't. But perhaps it is somehow in her hands to fix the twisted way things are. Perhaps one day Andraste and the Maker will hear her voice and realize that there are people in the world who won't take their way, their silence, as an answer.

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Coming Up:On the way out of Lothering, the Wardens face the blade of a hired assassin that Loghain has sent to silence them for good. Alain isn't sure what to make of this flirtatious and potentially dangerous rouge, but something tells him that this may be the spark of interest he has been waiting for all this time.