A/N: suggested soundtrack: Exit Music - Westworld OST.


Calpernia closes her eyes for a second, pushing away her grief to concentrate on this new, unexpected feeling of something squeezing her throat and making her so weak she can barely stand. Despite everything, despite the harm that was done to him, Servis smiles at her, and in that moment Calpernia wonders that maybe this feels like home.

Or something close to it, she's not sure she would know.

When she opens her eyes she catches Samson's gaze. He stopped mid step walking down the stairs, and he's looking at her with the kind of expression she can't quite decipher. Once the initial surprise is gone, she notices the clothes he's wearing, a fine robe fit for a magister. Servis must have got it for him, perhaps it once belonged to the smuggler. But how could anyone think the former templar is from the Imperium, he doesn't look Tevinter at all. What a silly thought amidst all this chaos.

Talia interrupts Calpernia's thoughts as she appears out of nowhere. The girl wraps her arms around Calpernia, trying not to cry and failing miserably. For a heartbeat Calpernia's terrified what the girl will do once she learns what happened to three other people who, just like her, were once slaves that decided to follow the former leader of the Venatori and paid the highest price for their choice.

The weight of guilt in her heart nearly crushes her. Calpernia takes a deep breath to calm down, listening to Talia's weeps how worried she was, how scared.

The room quickly gets crowded, much to Calpernia's surprise. The other man, the healer called Tristan, follows down the stairs. And it's him who tells Talia to let go of her, his voice gentle but strong enough that she lets go without a word of protest. He's by Calpernia, asking her questions like any good healer.

"How do you feel? Are you hurt?" There's a tiny hint of worry in his voice, barely noticeable, but it makes Calpernia wonder in what shape Servis was once he got back home.

"I'm fine," she manages to say. The look Tristan gives her confirms he doesn't believe her. Perhaps he's so used to hearing lies that he may recognise one instantly.

"What about your magic?" he changes the topic. His eyes observe her carefully, his right hand resting on her shoulder. There's a faint smell of healing magic in the air. "Crassius couldn't cast until now, those bastards silenced his powers with magebane and some tricks."

"I'm fine," she repeats without hesitation. Her moment of weakness is gone, it can't happen again.

Tristan's brows knit at the obvious lie. His eyes linger on her for another moment until he finally decides it's best not to press her further. Sorren appears as well, he probably heard all this commotion, and gives her a sad smile, saying how happy he is to see her back. His eyes betray him, however, showing just how hurt he is. The elf and Ontario served together for the slaver Vicinius back in Val Royeaux. Now Ontario is dead, and there's nothing keeping Sorren here.

Calpernia glances at the faces around her. What's keeping you here?, she considers asking to get the answer from every single one of them. She keeps silent instead.

"Alright," Tristan says in the very same tone of voice he used when speaking to Talia. His hand from Calpernia's shoulder is gone. "I imagine you wish to rest. We'll make sure no–one bothers you. Sleep is the best medicine, some say."

"Actually there's something I need to do first," she says, her heart heavy.

And then she tells them. Not everything, not yet, but important parts, because they deserve to know that her plans cost three people their lives. She can't bring herself to look at them, at Talia's puffy, red eyes, the golden bracelet on Servis' right arm. Samson observes her carefully, standing aside as if he couldn't quite believe she's here. Tristan listens as well. His face is blank, it's hard to tell what he really thinks. The fact that he's by Servis' side is enough to make Calpernia trust him for now.

Words flow even though her head is empty. It's like there's someone else speaking, explaining how she woke up in the Old God's temple, that it was magister Anodatus who's responsible (but is he? Isn't this all her fault?), how she woke up, saved by a servant girl. She keeps the revelation about her possibly allies a secret for now. Talking about all this makes her nearly exhausted.

"There's nothing I can do for them now. I merely wish to honour their sacrifice." She glances at Posca, tries to ignores how worried and tired and old he looks, as if years passed since they last saw each other; then she asks if there's still wood left, enough to build a pyre.

The old servant nods. "Yes. We have whatever you require, lady Calpernia."

Not even half an hour later flames are burning high in the garden behind the estate. Their heat makes Calpernia take a step back. It's far from the comforting warmth of fire she can conjure with her magic. Whatever helped her get through the Fade that time when a demon trapped her, Samson and Servis there, is gone as well. It didn't protect her from the Imperial templars.

Perhaps now that her magic is silenced, and her connection to the Fade shattered, she will be able to sleep peacefully for a change. She doubts it, though. Nothing's that easy in this world.

Talia's weeping by her side. Calpernia glances briefly at the girl. Talia's hair is as fiery as the flames in front of them. Calpernia takes a deep breath; her own eyes are dry.

I won't let your sacrifice go to waste.


Vyrantium hasn't changed in the slightest, Tristan muses, as he moves through the streets towards the docks. It's a bit shocking to discover that everything is going forward, no portals to the Fade opened because some people were attacked. One of them died, the other got his hand cut off, while the third didn't tell much about what happened but Tristan knows enough to wonder why Calpernia so stubbornly claims she's alright.

And yet despite all that cruelty, the world as a whole doesn't seem to care.

Two guards in leather armours stand guarding the main entrance to the Red Unicorn, glaring at him when he approaches. Two Unicorn's workers stand by them, one man and a woman, and it's hard to say who's guarding who. One of the guards puts his hand on a sword by his belt as a not so subtle warning.

"The brothel's closed today," barks the other. His golden teeth shine in the sunlight.

"Let him through, he's the healer the boss told you about," the woman says, opening the door for Tristan. "We're closed today, master Tristan. If you're looking for the boss he's not here."

"I just need to get a couple of things from my room," he explains, confused.

"Be quick about it, then," the guard tells him.

Tristan quickly gets inside, resisting the urge to talk back. As he climbs the stairs all the way up, he discovers the place is oddly empty and silent, every door he sees is locked. Something must have happened, but he doesn't have time for seeking the explanation. He should simply pack his things and get back to Servis.

He unlocks his room and starts packing, pushing whatever he finds into a bag. He doesn't have much, thankfully, two spare robes, a bunch of potions and herbs, and some personal items. The unusual stillness and silence of this place makes him anxious in a way he can't explain. The whole world is going mad, he thinks with a bitter smile.

"It's a pity you're leaving us, Tristan. We could always use a good healer like you."

Tristan jerks his head to look at a woman standing at the door. He vaguely remembers meeting her before, though her name remains a mystery. He's never been good with names.

"My little vacation is over, time to go back home. I'll visit when I'm back in Vyrantium."

She smirks. She's muscular, and surely knows how to use a dagger she has by her belt. She's one of the Red Unicorn's employees, has the tattoo on her right biceps, but she's someone like a bodyguard. While the prostitutes prefer simple robes, she's wearing tight leather trousers and a vest, unbuttoned to leave little room for imagination. Tristan is half sure that she wears such revealing clothes on purpose, to show off the scars on her body, and she has quite a lot of them.

You could get it all healed in no time, he muses idly, as his eyes focus on a particularly nasty scar on her shoulder.

"The word on the street is," she says, glancing around the room; it seems like she's talking more to himself than to Tristan, "the Archon's men are on the streets looking for the Venatori. That got me thinking, but the cult is long dead and gone. You remember how Radonis ordered to publically execute every single one he could find in the Imperium, right? A quick way of dealing with political opponents. Lots of them went south with their god or whatever, and died there. So why hunt them now?"

He shrugs. "Radonis really needs to find a new hobby."

"Vyrantium's a big city but the secrets don't last for long here, Tristan. Rumour has it the Archon's men already caught some poor soul. You wouldn't know anything about it?"

Tristan shakes his head. "Never cared that much about rumours."

She turns her head to look at him and studies his face for a longer while. Then she laughs. "I forget I'm speaking to a magister's son. You see, master Varro, simple minds like to gossip."

He smiles at her; it's one of his carefully chosen, fake smiles.

"Saw guards by the main entrance," he mentions to change the topic. "Something happened?"

Her face darkens in an instant. She narrows her eyes, lips scowling. "I guess I may as well tell you since you're going to find out anyway. It's a big sensation, you could say," she scoffs. "One of our girls was found in the docks, all beaten up, head smashed with a rock. Things got ugly, the boss isn't happy. Soon the whole city will talk about it."

"What's the girl's name?" Tristan asks, suddenly feeling numb.

"Elya. We had to notify the city guard but nobody knows a fucking thing." She lets out a resigned sigh. "You wouldn't know anything about it?"

Elya.

The words cut deep like a blade that stabs and twists, slicing him into pieces. Elya came to him so he would heal her bruises. He wanted to help her, do something to avoid seeing her beaten up by the bastard who visited her. But the plan shattered once Servis was attacked. Tristan had to be with him, had to make sure Servis was safe.

As a result he did nothing for that poor girl who was so terrified by her abuser. Something stirs in his chest, squeezes his heart with so much force the intense feeling nearly makes him paralysed.

But he's trained himself well. Tristan doesn't react, giving no indication about what's happening in his mind, staring the woman in the eyes.

"Elya?," he repeats the name as if it meant nothing to him, and shakes his head. "I remember her, but we barely spoke."

Lying is easy. Lying is what I do.


His whole left arm trembles so suddenly he nearly spills wine on his clothes. Embarrassment and anger battle in his mind; it's hard to say which one wins.

Servis stills his hand, and takes a deep breath. To say things are more difficult now that he has to do everything with his left hand would be an understatement. Yet he stubbornly refuses when Tristan asks him about prosthetics. He's seen them, fancy golden limbs fuelled by one's magic. If he had one, it would be easier to… to do everything.

It would be easy to forget, one day. He won't allow himself to forget, not now, not ever.

Servis takes a sip from his cup, wine leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He's standing by the door leading to the garden, enjoying what's left of the afternoon sun, and looking at watching Sorren train. The elf is furiously attacking one of the pieces of wood left from the pyre. Everyone has different ways of dealing with grief.

"Young master," Posca says, appearing by his side. Servis never noticed it until now, but the old servant has a way of moving around quietly and subtly like he was a ghost. "A guest has arrived."

Servis shoots him a puzzled look. He didn't invite anyone.

"It's magister Erimond, young master," Posca explains somewhat worried. "Do you know why he's here?"

Servis lets out a sigh. "I guess we're about to find out."

He follows Posca back inside. Erimond stands right in the middle of the main room as if he was purposely waiting for someone to pay attention to him. He's accompanied by an elven slave in a grey tunic and a leather collar, carrying his staff for him. The slave doesn't move when Servis walks in, his eyes fixed on the floor, head obediently bowed. He seems more like a lifelike statue than an actual person. His master, on the other hand, moves a little too much. Seeing Servis he almost jumps, then he stares at the stump that was once Servis' right hand, and shakes his head.

"So it is true!" he gasps, his shocked face almost comical. "All those rumours about the Archon's men looking for the Venatori. Did you know how terrified I was?! I expected them to appear at my door any moment. And they got you!"

Posca glances at Servis with a question in his eyes, ready to sacrifice his reputation to protect his master. Servis shakes his head.

"They sure did," he says, resigned, and points at his right arm. "Is there anything else you wish to know, magister Erimond? I assure you the Archon's men won't come looking for you, so you may rest easy."

"What about Calpernia? It's her they wanted to get, isn't it? I told her Radonis will find out eventually! Where is she? Was she captured?"

Servis massages the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache approaching.

Erimond continues, getting louder with every word. "I demand to see her!"

Servis scowls. "You may demand nothing. You are an uninvited guest in my house. Why did you come here, magister Erimond? Be quick about it, recent events made me a little bit impatient, as you may imagine."

Erimond frowns, offended. "We're in this together, aren't we? My estate in Minrathous is technically yours now. I came to remind you that I need to pack all my belongings first before you decide to move in."

"I advise you better hurry up with packing. I'm leaving for the capital tomorrow."

"You can't be serious! Going to Minrathous just after, uh, all that," he waves his hand vaguely. "Is Calpernia going with you? Where is she?"

"Don't be so worried about her. All I can say is that we'll all meet in Minrathous."

Erimond narrows his eyes at Servis, clearly dissatisfied with the answer. "Well then, I suppose we will." He turns on the spot, gestures at the elf who instantly runs ahead to open the door for his master. "Tell Lady Calpernia I'm deeply saddened I couldn't talk to her. Goodbye, Servis, and let's hope you won't be missing any more limbs when we meet again."

What a charming man, Servis thinks, watching the magister leave. It's nearly impossible to think that he once considered Livius Erimond a man of worth. Now he perfectly understands why Calpernia detests him so much.

His eyes move back to Posca who seems even more irritated than Servis feels.

"There's one more thing I need to take care of before I leave for the capital," he says, and puts his now empty cup on a nearby table. "Come with me."

Posca follows him upstairs to his bedroom. Thankfully the old servant doesn't comment on the mess, various pieces of clothing tossed carelessly on the floor, books scattered everywhere. As much as he likes traveling, Servis hates packing, and Posca knows it all too well.

A wide wooden desk standing by the window is the only piece of furniture that's not covered in various things. Servis takes a parchment from the desk, checks if the ink is already dry before handing it to Posca.

"Here, take it. I should've done this long time ago."

The old man's eyes scan the text, with every word the worry on his face seems to deepen. His hands begin to shake. He doesn't speak, reading it again and again, as if not quite believing in what he sees.

"Tristan wrote it down for me, I still had to sign it. Hope my signature is legible enough. It's like my left hand doesn't even know how to hold a pen." Servis attempts to smile; it feels more like a spasm. "But the message is clear. You're a free man now."

Posca's face changes as the realisation washes over him.

"I leave the house to you," Servis continues. "For your service you'll be paid a reasonable sum of money. Though I'm open to suggestions, if you think you deserve more. I trust you with paying everyone else for their service as well. I'm not big on speeches, you already know that, so could you please tell them that I included them in the document as well? They are as free as you are now, they may leave if they want."

There's nothing even close to happiness in Posca's eyes, only worry, and Servis recalls the day when Calpernia arrived in this house. She asked the servant if he wanted freedom, and he refused. Is the prospect of living your own life so terrifying?

Tevinter law is old, cruel to those who dare to break it. If anything happens while Servis is in Minrathous, no other person will be punished for his actions, only him.

"If anyone has any objections," Servis continues, ignoring a pang of concern, "or wants to force you to do something, show them this document. A free man doesn't obey anyone's orders. Just in case I'm leaving the communication crystal for you, so you can contact me if anything happens. Of course, if you'd rather leave, then…"

"No," Posca hastily replies, forcing calm into his voice. "I want to stay here where I belong."

"You can do whatever you want. I have one final request."

"Yes, young master?"

Servis winces. "Let's make it two. You need to stop calling me that. If my father asks, then… Well, tell him whatever you want. If he has any objections, do remind him that the estate belongs to me, and you and everyone else who stays work for me, not for him."

"Thank you," Posca manages to say, clutching the parchment in his hands.

"And one more thing. Take it off. You don't have to wear it anymore," Servis says, pointing at the plate the old man's wearing on his chest like a shield.

Posca stares at the plate like he never realised it's there. He weighs it in his hand for a moment before taking it off. When their eyes meet, his gaze is no longer filled with worry, but with gratitude instead.

Calpernia was right. Every smallest gesture makes a difference, Servis thinks, then smiles, and this time it's genuine.


He hesitates for a split second, enough to still his raised hand. He stares at the door, uncertain if he should…

To the Void with it, Samson swears in his thoughts and knocks on Calpernia's door.

There's no answer, so he tries again, feeling more like a fool with each passing second. Then her muffled voice tells him to come in, so he pushes the door open and steps inside. One quick glance tells him that the room he was given is more or less the same. Maybe Servis likes having people over, that's why there are so many guestrooms in the estate. Or perhaps every Tevinter house looks like this, how would he know.

His eyes then find Calpernia who's sitting on the bed. The short grey tunic she had when she came back is gone, replaced by a brown blouse and leggings. What's strikes him most is that she has her hair loose. Seeing how she always wears her hair in two tight buns, he never realised just how long her hair is. She has a hairbrush in her hand, and continues what he clearly interrupted. For a moment he watches her hands, transfixed.

"Do you wish to talk about something?" Calpernia prompts. She looks tired, lips pressed into a thin line. It doesn't seem that she's been harmed in any way, yet there's something in her eyes that makes him uneasy.

Not to mention that he can't sense any magic in the air. It's always there, surrounding her, letting him know he's in a presence of a powerful mage. After being a templar for so many years he can recognise the peculiar sensation of magical powers almost instantly. It's like a tingling somewhere in the back of his mind. Sometimes there's a hint of smell, too; something like dried leaves of elemental magic, heavy smell of sulphur or iron of blood magic.

He can't sense anything right now, there's no magic present here. Just like when Servis returned and confessed he was attacked by the so–called Imperial templars that not only used Silence on him, but also magebane.

Calpernia said no such thing. Why would you lie about it?

A stupid old templar feeling sorry for a mage. Samson resists the urge to laugh. Wherever that hag Meredith ended up after death, she must be laughing at him now.

Samson shifts in place, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Yes, I do, in fact, want to talk about something. Whoever attacked you… They took your magic, didn't they?"

She studies his face for a longer while before she slowly nods.

"Well, is it back yet? And don't give me that I'm fine crap. Unlike Servis and his pretty boy, it's not so easy to fool me."

She narrows her eyes at him in a way he's seen million times before, and there's a flash of anger in her gaze as she regards him in silence.

"It is not," comes her brief reply.

"Templar powers doesn't have a permanent effect. It'll come back," he says, hoping his voice sounds reassuring. They had almost the exact same conversation back in Cumberland, but there certainly is a difference between being attacked by a former templar hungry for lyrium, and a trained professional supposedly employed by the Archon himself.

"Did you come here only to tell me what I already know?" she hisses, and there it is, the kind of irritation present in her voice almost every time they speak.

But this time Calpernia uses it as a shield to mask her true feelings. If she doesn't want to admit how hurt and tired she is, she doesn't have too. It's enough that he saw her staring at the burning pyre they built in the garden.

"Despite everything that happened, we're still going to Minrathous," he changes the topic. It's a fact. Other people would abandon their goals and run away, not Calpernia, however. "So, what's the plan?"

"Are you sure you want to come?"

Samson scoffs. "How many times are you going to ask me this question? Yes, I'm sure. Though it looks Servis and his friend would rather see me leave them alone."

"Then I imagine they're happy that we will travel separately. They, along with Talia and Sorren, are taking a ship to Minrathous. It's the fastest and safest way to get to the capitol from here. You and I will travel near the coastline, stay away from the Imperial Highway. Servis knows a mounts merchant who can get us a pair of Taslin Striders for a reasonable price."

Samson's eyebrows shoot up. "Just the two of us?"

His poor attempt at a joke is ignored completely as Calpernia flatly states, "A bigger group of people is easier to track down. Nobody will question two magisters, whereas we both aren't protected by Tevinter law in any way. It's more convenient if we split."

He nods in understanding. Of course she has it all figured out. Whatever you want to do, count me in.

She gets back to brushing her long hair, and he considers leaving. Yet there's still one more thing that needs saying.

"Calpernia?"

She turns her head to look at him, and their eyes meet. There's something… fragile about her.

"Don't blame yourself for their deaths, it's not your fault."

She will remember their names, and their deaths will either fuel her need for revenge or break her. But Calpernia's not a person who breaks easily, so he's only mildly worried about it.

She won't forget them, just like he will never forget the Red Templar who fought by his side, and died when they all served a false god.

Calpernia opens her lips, takes a breath, perhaps to scold him, like she usually does. I shouldn't but…, he stops, uncertain how to finish his thought. Yet another thought he's too afraid to finish that he may add to an already existing pile of doubts.

Before Calpernia speaks, she shivers as if something scared her, the hairbrush falls on the bed. She regards her hands with a surprised look on her face, and a heartbeat later Samson feels it, too. It's like a warm gust of wind, something that's barely there, yet he can sense it.

Calpernia bites down on her lower lip, hard, to keep herself calm and focused, and raises her hand. She gazes at small flames that appear and hover millimetres above her fingertips. There's so much pure joy and bliss in her eyes that he can't look away, wishing he could capture this moment.

It's just a convenient coincidence that Calpernia's magic returned right now, and yet…

Isn't everything just a coincidence?, Samson briefly wonders.

"Told you," he chuckles. "There's your magic."

When Calpernia looks at him, he can't quite understand the expression on her face. He watches the flames dancing on her fingertips, the sight gives him some sort of comfort he didn't even realise he needed.


A/N2: I struggled to put all this together, but I hope this chapter provides at least some sort of conclusion.

As I mentioned before, the *whole* story isn't over yet, and the next fic will pick up right after this one. I'm not sure when the first chapter will be out, though. Deadline for the Wintersend is getting closer, so I need to focus on the fic exchange first.

Thank you for sticking with this story for so long!