In advance many thanks to CaptainRocket and Hayama 4 and also KyloRen'sgirl213 who are wonderfully supportive with every new chapter I post! I love you!

Finally some news about the Inquisitor…

Enjoy!


Wintersend part 30


'This is a list of the guards you can trust unconditionally,' Cullen said, nervously busying his hands with moving papers around, 'and this is one of the by me appointed Captains throughout Thedas.' He looked at Fenris who returned his look unperturbed. Cullen added, 'It goes without saying you can trust them as well.' He and Fenris stood in the Commander's office at a desk laden with maps, lists and documents. 'If you need to contact one of them,' Cullen went on, 'just send them a message. You can make use of the birds in the rookery at all hours.'

The elf lifted one eyebrow and shot him a lopsided smile. 'I hope you're aware I will be absent as well,' he said. 'And I can't take the rookery with me.'

Cullen fluttered a hand impatiently. 'Yes yes, of course. I just think it's reassuring to know you'll leave the castle in capable and trusty hands, with equally capable and trusty back-up, if need be. And Leliana has spies and scouts with access to birds even in Halamshiral, in case –'

'I want to raise an army and storm the palace?' interrupted Fenris him straight-faced.

Cullen stared hard at him for a few moments but then deflated. 'Last time we met in this room the situation was reversed … I don't know how you managed to stay so cool and collected when Hawke had disappeared,' he moaned.

Fenris shrugged, outwardly calm, although each time he thought back at those weeks, his innards clenched painfully again. 'I had quite an outburst in the War Room, as I recall clearly.' He didn't want to take credit for his – mostly – composed attitude from back then. Four or five years earlier he had probably killed everyone around him in his panicky frenzy. He took a moment to think. No, that was not true, not even then. But undoubtedly he had reacted much strongly. He had learned a lot since then. He had taken strength and self-esteem from his relation with Marian; that had done him a card load of good.

'And very legitimately too,' the Commander bit hotly through his contemplation, 'and then you went and apologized for it. With no need at all.' Brusquely he plopped down in his chair and buried his face in his hands. 'Maker! I'm a nervous wreck!'

Compassionately Fenris looked at him and silently blew out some air. His hand twitched to pat the other man's shoulder but he thought the better of it. He wasn't at all certain Cullen would appreciate the gesture. Instead he said, with a faint hint at humour, 'If it makes you feel better, I think you're doing quite well; no one in your vicinity has died as yet. But don't expect me to comfort you with some hollow platitudes.'

Cullen removed his hands and grimaced. 'Please don't. For good order: if you're going to tell me everything will be all right, I'll punch you flat.'

'You can always try,' reacted Fenris evenly, with a near imperceptible smile.

Suddenly Cullen laughed out loud. 'At least you've succeeded in letting me feel a little better.' He groaned and rubbed his neck absentmindedly. 'I merely asked you here to hand you your credentials. And those of Marian Hawke, of course. Don't give them to anyone else but the official Imperial Seneschal. The Court will frown upon you two enough as it is, but both Josephine and Leliana have assured me Empress Celine will accept the documents.'

'I will guard them with my life,' Fenris promised.

When he exited the office, he heaved a sigh of frustration. Despite what he had said to Cullen, he wished he could have set the Commander's mind at ease with a few well-chosen words. Before he could prevent it, a sudden memory popped up. One of an impeccable looking, sweet-talking Chantry Brother.

Ah.

Sebastian had been much better at this. Then again, Sebastian had had the Maker on his side. Or had pretended he had.

That one hurt. For more than one reason. He had trusted him, they all had. Nearly all of them, that is. Varric had despised the guy and Anders had loathed him. For reasons Fenris had considered as obvious as unimportant. He closed his eyes for a step. Sebastian had betrayed him, them, just as Anders had.

Fenris frowned delicately, making a hastily passing scout miss a step.

He had considered him a good friend, back in Kirkwall, though even then he had now and again wondered whether all those gentle and comforting words had been really heartfelt or that Sebastian had played a well learned part. He seemed too good to be true, which was how he turned out, in the end. It was difficult to forget how he had stood looming menacingly over Hawke, throwing aside in one moment everything he had been spouting about humility and forgiveness along the years, threatening Marian and the whole battered city with his vengeance. At that moment he had openly foregone the humble Chantry Brother and had once again become the haughty, self-absorbed Starkhaven Prince.

But even then he had spoken well. Or at least with the right words had expressed his arrogant anger.

The elf grunted at the memory but then had to smile. Wanly. He could have given Cullen such a brilliant, sensitive speech that it would have thawed the cold heart of winter itself, that it would have moved Madame de Fer to tears, the Commander probably had looked unconvinced and would have told him sternly to stop that nonsense. And, honestly, had someone spoken cheap words of hope when Marian had gone missing, no matter how beautifully wrapped up, he would not have appreciated it, to put it mildly.

He suddenly felt a desperate need to hold her close and he started running.


Completely unaware of what was about to happen on this, thus far, unblemished day, Dorian ambled merrily along the forecourt on his way to the merchant Bonny Sims. He had no other troubles on his mind than to see whether she had already received the order of Tevinter figs and dates he had placed and was impatiently awaiting. He had put all his hopes on her; even the Ambassador had not such delicate lines connected to his homeland. The wine was fairly easily to come by, but the titbits were a whole different matter. And he o so much wanted the Bull to taste them. If only to shut the big man up about the horrible bites his country seemed to boast. He could not wait to see the expression on his face when he would bite into the newly on sale dates. Beautifully matured. Perfectly sugared.

He almost drooled at the prospect.

He had not come far when he heard behind him the patting of swift nimble footsteps coming nearer and then a voice calling out urgently, 'Master Dorian! Master Dorian, please wait!'

Although this promised nothing good, the mage stopped automatically and turned to see a young woman approaching rapidly. She was carrying a stack of colourful cloth he couldn't identify – it could as easily have been bedlinen as some extravagant ball gown – which she pushed into his arms anyway before he could utter a protest. 'Please bring this to Marian Hawke and Fenris. I'd do it myself but I have absolutely no time, I'm afraid. So much to do!' And off she ran, leaving behind a totally befuddled Tevinter mage, his arms full with itching colour.

'Master Dorian,' he muttered morosely to himself, when he had found back his voice and wit. 'Master Dorian! Like I were some kind of dwarf!' But, because there was no getting away from it, he reluctantly went to do her bidding, praying Marian Hawke wasn't involved in something embarrassing like making love to her elf. Or shouting at him. Thankfully he found her doing nothing more disconcerting than reading a book.

When he entered she looked up, surprised, and rose from her chair.

'I come bearing gifts,' explained Dorian, with his chin indicating his vibrant burden. He uttered his words with a pacifying smile because it was hard to tell what mood Hawke was in. Better safe than sorry. He walked over to the bed where he laid out the cloth that turned out to be two uniforms. Sort of. Undoubtedly to be worn at the Masquerade. His heart sank and involuntarily his faced twitched with an expression of abhorrence.

Marian stared at the trousers roughly in the same way. Then she stared at the jackets, both evenly tight. 'I have a bump,' she declared tonelessly.

'You have a what?' Dorian swallowed hard, expecting the worst.

'I have a bump,' Marian repeated, pointing at her midsection.

Comprehension dawned and with it panic arose. Dorian took a step away from her as if she was about to explode in hormonal fury and he would have her wrath spewed all over him. He heaved his hands as if trying to ward off evil. 'Oh no! No no no! My knowledge of prenatal conditions is practically non-existent and I gladly like it to stay that way, thank you very much!' he cried in distress.

Angrily Hawke glared at him. 'This has nothing to do with my pregnancy! Well, technically it has, but only for the practical reason. Why, in the Maker's name, can't anybody in this bloody castle grasp the simple fact that a woman carrying is, indeed, carrying a baby and that babies have the tendency to grow!'

Dorian took another step back. The feared explosion seemed very close now and he wanted to get out of the way of flying missiles as fast as possible. Furtively he started to look for an escape route.

'This is the second time I blunder into this kind of stupidity,' Hawke seethed on, 'how do they figure I'll fit into something like that, that, those – uniforms or whatever they're supposed to be?! Besides that, they're hideous!'

'On that, my lady, we agree,' Dorian assented, in a strange way feeling relieved. Pregnancy had, up till now, clearly not affected the woman's sense of style. He relaxed somewhat. 'There is, however, little to be done about it, I'm afraid. As I understand it, we'll be leaving in only a couple of days.'

'Oh yes there is,' growled Hawke firmly, her arms akimbo, her chin jutted out as to underline her statement. 'I will take an army of seamstresses with me to Halamshiral, if need be
I will force them. They will have plenty of time during the journey to do something about that disaster.' She pointed with an accusing finger at the mother of all fashion catastrophes.

Dorian didn't doubt for a second she would have her way. And also that she failed to see she was acting as capricious as the infamous Empress Shehera who, according to legend, every day wore a different exquisite outfit. And was willing to flay her seamstresses, should they fail to meet her demands of high standards. But it could well be, he mused, the Champion never had heard of said Empress.

Hawke looked at him, saw the tension on his face and made an apologetically gesture with her hand. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't shoot the messenger; after all, it's not your fault this fortress is inhabited by morons and hare-brained idiots with bad judgement. Would you care for a glass of wine? We have a few bottles of Aggrigio Parvali lying about that, according to Fenris, are of a good vintage.'

'He drinks Tevinter wine?' Dorian asked, surprised.

'He does.' Some pride crept into her voice. Only she knew Fenris had started to drink the wine out of spite, but had along the hard way of learning and experience come to the point of appreciating the red rich liquid.

'And Aggrigio Parvali no less. He has taste.'

Hawke smiled sweetly. 'Of course he has. He chose me.'


Stealthily Elissa Cousland and Blackwall had made their way along the path and now stood hidden among the trellises. They were watching the entrance door of Villa Maurel. Above which hung a lantern. In front of which stood a sentinel.

'This is a setback,' grumbled Blackwall grumpily.

'Doesn't have to be,' murmured Elissa, as optimistic as her bright nature. 'They posted only one guard, so they're not expecting a hostile invasion. But they did post one, so my guess is they're expecting visitors instead. I'm curious to know who they might be. We might be able to use it to our advantage.'

Almost at the same moment they heard the tell-tale sound of soft footfalls coming along the way they had just abandoned.

Elissa pulled Blackwall with her into the pitch darkness of the shadows behind the blooming lattices. 'Keep your eyes peeled,' she whispered, 'and stay alert for details.'

Not minutes later four figures appeared on the pathway in the bright moonlight, three human forms, one animal. The one up front, the one who was walking the horse, was heavily hooded and cloaked, but it was evident that both the mantle and the boots were made out of expensive materials. He – the low voice made him out to be of the male persuasion – called out to the guard who opened the door promptly and called back they were expected. The hooded man was followed by two soldiers in full armour; shields slung on their backs, swords buckled at their hips, spears in hand. Unmistakably bodyguards. To Elissa's disappointment she couldn't discern any coat of arms or other insignia by which she could detect the identity of the man.

When he drew even with the sentinel, the hooded man gave the reins of his horse over to him and slipped with his small entourage through the door which he closed shut behind them. The guard petted the horse on its long neck reassuringly and started to lead the animal towards a path on his right-hand side, undoubtedly leading to the stables. Within a few heartbeats he was out of sight.

'Who was that?' breathed Blackwall.

'Haven't the foggiest,' Elissa answered back, 'but at any case he is wealthy; no commoner could afford that kind of pricy equipment. And he's an influential bloke too; he was accompanied by two bodyguards.'

'That narrows it down significantly,' Blackwall remarked wryly, 'since Orlais isn't stuffed with rich, important folk at all.'

'That does not only count for Orlais,' reacted Elissa, sounding a bit snobbish, though Blackwall couldn't tell if she was really serious.

He doubted it, but to be on the safe side he said, 'How could I ever overlook the great importance and wealth of Ferelden! My sincere apologies, my Lady.'

Next to him Elissa Cousland chuckled softly. 'The man is developing a sense of humour,' she said to one in particular, 'we should be wary!'

Yes, though Blackwall, while they walked cautiously to the entrance of the villa, I believe I'm starting to see life in a different, more positive, view. He was astounded. He had fled Skyhold in distress, convinced he was useless, a criminal, a no-good. Hoping he could make amends by rescuing the Inquisitor, if need be by giving his life to the cause. And now another woman, a woman who had looked right through his lie at the very moment they met, had given him worth, one way or another. At the same moment she had exposed him as a fraud, she had granted him her trust.

It gave him wings.


To her own amazement Evelyn was granted some freedom of movement. She had been given decent clothes to wear, food was served thrice a day, she had a real bed to sleep in and she was allowed to roam a substantial part of the premises. Well, it seemed a substantial part. She suspected it wasn't much.

She constantly tried to get her finger behind the trick of the lean treatment she was given till now and, at the same time, did her best to find a way out. Both tasks turned out to be hard.

It almost felt as if she was back in the Circle and only now she realised how mind-numbingly dull and suffocating that life had been. The only difference seemed to be that in here she was watched by common guards at all hours, instead of by Templars. She soon found out that back in the Circle she had had the luxury to easily ignore the Templars and could blend in in the environment quite effortlessly; so she had been able to go, till certain degree, her own way. Here, though, she was the only prisoner, where the Ostwick's Circle had teemed with mages. She stood out in the absent crowd, so to say.

She wondered if her guards, or at least some of them, had the Templar ability of numbing a mage but she didn't think so. Because they had taken other precautions – they gave her magebane. They thought she didn't notice, but she saw the little apologetic smiles and the secretive ways with which they served her food and water. As if they had something to hide. But what choice did she have than to eat and drink? She could hardly starve herself to death; that wouldn't help the situation.

They gave her the herb in small doses, truly, so she wouldn't get sick as a dog and weak as a lamb or would suffer from several other animal related physical ailments. She felt strange, though, as if her head was afloat. And sometimes it seemed her vision swam and it became harder to focus. And her magic was reduced to a sad, pathetic sizzle.

She had used her other, feminine, charm to figure things out, to some level of success. She had found out she was held captive in the Villa Maurel, in the Emerald Graves. She knew of the location, it had stood on her to-do list as a place to investigate. 'So, investigate,' she muttered morosely, urging herself on. There hadn't been much to investigate, not with the invisible manacles that held her back. On every corner there had stood guards; they had even tried to invade her bedroom. With some harsh words and an even harsher expression she had driven them off.

No one had come to her rescue.

To her astonishment the villa hadn't been abandoned when they arrived. They had been welcomed by someone who had introduced himself as Maliphant, General of the Freemen of the Dale. The title had sounded rather extravagant for the leader of some ragtag band. On the other hand, Evelyn thought the Freeman had more power than the Orlesian establishment thought convenient. And they had made it very difficult for the Inquisition on more than one occasion. They were a force to consider seriously.

Evelyn hadn't seen Commander Duhaime since their arrival, but that didn't mean he had left. She was barred from a great part of the villa; to her disappointment that included also the large, sunny patio. So she couldn't be certain about his movements. Listlessly and the same time edgily, she strolled along dusty bedrooms, untidy storage spaces and cold kitchens; in short: the places she was permitted to go. But there must at least be one working kitchen, she mused. She got meals, after all. And she imagined a dinner room, drawing rooms, some decent bed chambers and even a study. Duhaime could stay in there with Maliphant, enjoying all the luxuries the Villa had to offer. Even sharing a bed, as far as she was concerned. For a moment the Bull and Dorian sprang to mind and despite all her worries she had to smile.

This night had been different. For a good part of the day she had sensed the nervous tension that seemed to have taken possession of the building itself and everyone in it. Something important was afoot. Something big.

Till now she had managed to keep her anger, her nerves and her fear in control. She assumed the Venatori had abducted her because of her title. Because of what she represented. It wasn't personal; they needed a lever to upset the balance of power. And, she reasoned, the same counted for the Orlesian Freemen. Although, frankly, she couldn't think of one good reason why Tevinters, who clearly thought themselves the top of the world, would want to mingle with the course Freemen of the Dale. As far as she could see it, they did it reluctantly. With abated breath she had watched the two groups not work together. It was just a matter of time until the tense situation would explode.

But before that could happen, she was guided, with some degree of reverence, she had to admit, through the barrier of the part of the Villa she had been prohibited to visit. All the way to some kind of reception room. Both the Tevinter Commander Duhaime as the Freemen General Maliphant were present.

But it was immediately clear that the person who stood between them, though a foot less tall, was the lead actor in the drama. He looked too cocky and too confident not to be.

'My Lady.' He bowed reverently to her, with ballet-like elegant movements, but Evelyn wasn't fooled. It was obvious he mocked her. He thought he had her in his grasp and his power.

You idiot.

She had never met him, but she could make an educated guess at who he was. She answered his exaggeratingly sophisticated gesture and hardly shielded triumphantly looking eyes with a cold, haughty glare of her own.

Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

I will have you for breakfast. And if not, Cullen will. You are dead, you just don't know it yet.

She felt her heart hammer in her chest. She acknowledged she had never been this scared in her life before.


I consider the outfit the Inquisition members wear to the Ball extremely dull and unimaginative. They could have made so much more out of it! Hence the scene with Hawke and Dorian. Well, partly. It's always fun to write about Dorian.

Perhaps I should mention here that I'm not going to follow the Inquisition tale of Blackwall, insofar he will not reveal his true identity on the scaffold. And will not have committed those harsh deeds for which he could be condemned to death. It won't be the first time I mangle the story, you should be used to it by now! And I hope you still like it…

Anyways, I very, very much thank you for reading. And even more for your kudos and comments!