Dark Way

Part III: The Mages

" It is dark here and there are ghosts roving

Up and down among the trees and by the roadway.

Come closer, my darling, and let me guard you

From the evil that is round us and threatening."

-Valentin Iremonger, Dark Way.


She remembered very little other than the blackness. Blackness that was the distant past, blackness that was the almost present, blackness wedged between the blurs of green and blue that was the here and now. Something was tinkling like tiny bells beside her. Something was whistling high above. Something was beating down on her and her mangled mind called it the sun.

A shadow fell across her. She might not remember anything, but habit curled her hand into a fist.

"Well, if it ain't my lucky day!"

There was something not right about that voice. Slurred and stumbling, she couldn't place it. She opened her eyes just a crack.

A shadow leered down at her, haloed by wisps of white gold. She frowned. It leaned a little closer and she wrinkled her nose at the stench and her mind recoiled at the memories it evoked. "You're the Hero, right?"

It came crashing down around her ears that she was just that. Hero. Some hero, she thought, not for the first time. She tried to nod but found a sluggish tiredness swimming around her mind. She tried to open her mouth but the taste of blood constricted around her throat.

The shadow knelt over her, she could feel the warmth of the other body pressing down upon her. She shuddered as a mouth was pressed to her ear. "I was sent to look for you."

Neria Surana came to full consciousness and every single one of her senses told her she had to fight. Her already coiled fist flew through the air, trailed by lightning. A soft thunk as it connected with boiled leather. A hiss from the shadow straddling her. The pressure on her torso suddenly released. Her legs scrambled to right herself, sliding in the mud. Her palms patting herself for a blade, but before she could grip the hilt at her thigh there was cold, cold, steel at her throat.

"Careful," the shadow hissed. Neria was aware enough to realise the voice was female, despite its gruffness. "I'm not going to stand for you messing around. If I have to I'll hogtie you and drag you back to Skyhold."

Blue eyes, as cold as the steel at her throat, flickered over her face. "Now, Hero, are you going to play nicely."

Neria considered her dwindling options. "Yes," she forced through gritted teeth.


This was not how he'd expected to return to the damnable cold climes of Skyhold. Useless as a babe in arms, cowering under rugs and furs, he feigned sleep as the scouts carried him under the great, stone walls.

The Inquisition had found them two days after he'd taken the arrow to the knee. He'd not wanted to return...not one bit...but the assassin had exhausted his healing knowledge and his talk about hacksaws and tourniquets had forced Dorian to concur that returning to the fortress was the best option.

Though he squeezed his eyes tight shut, the rest of his senses were alive enough to know the reception they garnered was as frosty as the snow upon the ground. His leg thrummed with the pain of his wound. His mind recoiled with disgust at the knowledge that the whole of the Inquisition were present to witness his weakness.

Silence reigned. The kind of silence that only a large group of people could make. He shuddered further under the trappings of his illness, wishing fervently that the assassin had taken them somewhere, anywhere, but here.

"Where have you been?"

The Herald of Andraste's disapproval seeped into every syllable. A white hot anger clawed at Dorian's belly just imagining that towering frown. He pictured himself sitting up and taking that gruff throat between both his hands and squeezing until the man could disapprove no more. He gritted his teeth.

"Inquisitor," the elf's voice slid over the title with reverence, armour creaking as he stepped into a bow. "This mage is severely wounded, perhaps we may answer your questions in the warmth of the infirmary?"

A growl. Heavy footsteps crunching over the snow as the man approached. "And who in the Maker's name are you?"

The assassin did not easily succumb to anger. Patient, sweet as honey, his voice sang out like a choir-boy's. "Forgive me my rudeness, Inquisitor," and the creak of his armour as he bowed again. "I am Zevran Arainai, friend and...personal assistant to his Majesty, King Alistair of Ferelden."

The assembled crowd began their whisperings. Dorian imagined the elf's face a picture of calm, the exact opposite of the raging disquiet on his own covered features.

"Perhaps you can explain to me, elf, what exactly the King means by this insult?" The Herald's anger reverberated around the high walls. "By sneaking a man into my ranks? By stealing away a member of my Inquisition?"

Dorian ached to peak out between the blankets but knew this would make him a target for the bastard's ire and in his current state he could hardly defend himself. He bit down on his tongue and stayed as still as he could manage.

"But of course!" The elf was grinning, Dorian could hear it in his voice. "Though perhaps we may do so over a brandy and a hot meal. I am utterly famished, yes?"

Dorian winced, his hands shifting to clutch at his head. The elf's flippancy would earn him no friends among the stern, mage-hating, members of the Inquistion. He held his breath, waiting for the inevitable rebuke.