A short palate cleanser for your reading pleasure! Regular chapters will continue next week.
In the dream, it's always the same. The funeral. People clad in somber, black formals. A Chantry sister reciting asinine phrases. Trickles of rain drops so bloody typical to the Free Marches.
He is alone.
As complete strangers who claim to be the family circle the coffin to say their goodbyes, an ancient dowager walks up and spits on the ground in front of him. "A mangy knife-ear mutt like you should've died with your slave-loving wastrel father."
No one protests. No one stands up for him. He tries in vain to look like he is okay. The nails dig into the skin of his palms.
The next moment, a tall figure is standing in front of him. Expensive clothes, expensive shoes, and an expensive scent.
A man with dim gray hair speaks in a kind voice. "Haretharin, your father wrote me before… He wanted to make sure you were looked after if anything happened to him." How forethoughtful for a drunkard who couldn't even take care of his own bowel movements in the end.
"We haven't met before, but I'm your uncle, for all intents and purposes. Would you like to come home with me and my family? It would put me at ease if you lived with us."
The boy nods tentatively. This man might not be so bad. Certainly better than that wrinkly hag. As young as he is, he recognizes that he needs a new home, a new place to belong.
The man's face relaxes. A kind smile to match the kind voice. "Good, good. Come, I want you to meet your new brothers and sisters."
The large, thick hand on his back is warm and comforting. He desperately hopes that things will be all right.
His prayer notwithstanding, things fall apart immediately. The dream always ends at the moment he leaves the Trevelyan estate, alone and hated.
When he opens his eyes, he remembers the faces of those who showed nothing but contempt for him. Especially Lucilla Trevelyan, the termagant who couldn't wait to get rid of him and relegated him to the estate's stable for his last night there.
He cannot remember the face of the uncle whose kindness wasn't nearly enough to keep him.
The templar has decided. He will never return to that prison, and he will never return to the Order. He will forever curse those who thought nothing of the mage, who thought his life was something to be toyed with.
He is following the great Minanter east, away from Hasmal. As he powers through lyrium withdrawal – luckily enough for him, mild – he finds that the wide and undulating river has a calming effect. Every day the symptoms become less overpowering, and every day his will to leave behind the templars grows stronger.
But when he reaches the outskirts of Tantervale, he realizes he should choose a new direction. The city is infamous for its fanatical devotion to the Chantry, and there is more than a good chance he would wind up captured and dragged back to the Circle. So, he bids his farewell to the river and heads south, toward Ostwick.
This decision comes naturally, almost automatically to him. In his subconscious, the name Ostwick is associated with everything he lacks. A shelter, a refuge. Family. Home. He travels through the rolling hills and farmlands for two days, ever headed southward, like a salmon swimming upstream to its birthplace.
But when he stops to relieve himself off the beaten track, he has a small epiphany. As he watches the content of his engorged bladder stream out and flood the dirt by a tree trunk, a thought pops into his spaced-out mind.
There is nothing good waiting for him in Ostwick. There is no one eagerly waiting for his return, no one who would drop everything and commiserate with him. No one who would gladly open up her house and embrace him and tell him everything is going to be okay.
No Mum or, as drunk and useless the man would be, his father. At best, his return would be met with the Bann's plea to return to the templars, and at worst it would be met with endless berating and insults from the Bann's wife. For all intents and purposes, he is homeless.
But where can he go?
After tipping his waterskin to rinse his hands, pulling up his trousers, and tying the waistband, he just stands and remains motionless. A minute later, he starts to pace in a circle like a rudderless ship. That is, until he sees.
In front of him stands the rugged peaks of the Vimmark Mountains. A perfect place to disappear from the world. And he wants to disappear, to be even more of a nobody.
So, into the wild he goes.
The former templar is pleasantly surprised to find that the mountain life suits him.
Of course, the first month was tough. He had no previous experience in the wild. But he was prescient enough to purloin a guidebook on outdoor survival from an out-of-the-way inn he nighted in. It likely harmed no one. The book was covered in a thick layer of dust when he got his hands on it.
Whatever the Order may have been to him, it has made him disciplined. Through the grief, he still follows the strict regimen provided by the guidebook religiously. He wakes up, gathers firewood, hunts game, forages for edible plants, and cooks meals in the den he uses as a shelter. Anything he cannot make for himself or collect from the nature, he goes to the nearby village to purchase. It is a grueling but uncomplicated life he had longed for. The kind of life he would have liked to share with the mage.
After the sun sets, when the sense of unwelcome solitude, of boundless isolation imposes heavily on his consciousness, he lets his thoughts roam free. Though it pains him, he thinks this is the only way to atone for his weakness and foolishness.
Most times, he criticizes himself. He bitterly regrets not having had the courage to leave the Circle with the mage when they could. Just leave and disappear into the vastness of Thedas. If he managed with everyone's eyes on him, how hard could it really have been? It does not matter that the mage's phylactery would have guided the templars straight to them. The former templar still feels eloping would have been the right decision.
Physical punishments during the day and mental flagellations at night. He sticks to this routine with no letup.
But he has to admit that it's hard to keep track of the days when one is living away from the civilization. Seasons, possibly, but days, definitely not.
It must have been a while, because the mage's face is starting to blur in his mind. He has been in denial for some time. Eventually, however, the day comes when he has to acknowledge it and when he does, he feels like he has betrayed the mage once again.
He begins to draw a portrait of the mage but fails. He tries again, only to give up. Sketching and painting have never been his forte. At the beginning, it is the sheer act of committing to paper the visual memory that frustrates him. But soon, it is the blurring edges of the face he desperately wants to cling to that frustrates him.
Like a putrefying carcass abandoned to be devoured by the elements, the mage becomes nothing in his memory. The finality of this decomposition rends his heart asunder, yet there is nothing he can do but to fulminate the limits to his own memory, the expiration date placed on his love.
At least he was farsighted enough to take writing utensils and parchments with him. Even if he cannot draw, he can now write down everything about the mage. That is how he will memorialize. That is how he will remember.
The mage and he, together.
The young man knows he is running out of coins. The gold and silver he had managed to squirrel away during his short stint as a full-fledged member of the templars are starting to run low. Granted, it was not much to begin with, but it is still disheartening when the money that took him years to accrue doesn't last more than a year. He hasn't lived long enough in the mountains to be completely self-sufficient, and the supplies he needs do not come cheap.
He sighs as he hands the blacksmith the last copper in his pocket. He will soon have to start selling his game. Or find odd jobs around the village. Otherwise, he may not be able to get his hands on vital supplies – steel arrowheads, to begin with – necessary for wintering in the mountains.
When he turns around to leave, he sees a young woman staring at him across the market stall. Though she is dressed in a rather drab ensemble, he can tell she is no ordinary marketgoer. For a starter, she has a gigantic gray cloak on.
Everyone from this tiny village knows each other. And everyone in this tiny village is wary of outsiders. It took the young man several trips to warm up to shopkeepers, who are supposed to be the friendliest people anyway. There is no way a villager would decide to wear a cloak to the market unless she wanted to appear unneighborly and aloof. And appearing unneighborly and aloof was not a good idea in this part of the Vimmarks.
But that ensemble is definitely helpful to the young man.
"Finally," he murmurs to himself. He has sensed he is being followed for the better part of the week. Now he has a definitive idea of who the stalker is. His instinct tells him to draw the dagger on his back.
But instead of disappearing into the shadows, the woman approaches and the young man panics. He debates whether to bolt, looks around to see where to retreat, but then decides that she would not want to make a spectacle in the middle of a public street. Although… that's what he thought about the Circle too.
The woman holds both of her hands up. She comes in peace. "Are you Haretharin Trevelyan?"
He furrows his brow in suspicion. "What's it to you?"
"I've been sent by Bann Trevelyan. Please, we must discuss an urgent matter."
"Well, well. Guess my illustrious uncle's sent an emissary to yell at me in his stead."
The young woman sniffs and adds, "No such thing. C'mon, hear me out. I will buy you a drink."
The young man is rightly wary. After a few seconds of pregnant silence, she gestures at him to follow and says plainly, "The public house at that inn. That safe enough for you?" To this offer, there isn't much he can do. He nods and follows.
The tavern has seen better days. When they enter, a thick odor of unwashed bodies and stale beer hits the young man's nostrils. He instinctively crinkles his nose in disgust. The woman is completely unfazed.
She nods a quick greeting to the publican, who looks like he should have been decommissioned in the last age. The gray dwarf barks in a raspy voice, "Sit anywhere ya want. Ain't like there's any payin' cust'mers."
To this, the woman raises an eyebrow and wiggles her left hand. A silvery ring stands out. "Bless my heart. Do stop flirting before I swoon. I'm a taken woman, you know."
Forcing his wrinkled face even wrinklier, the dwarf mutters irritably, "E'ryone's a friggin' fool."
She chooses a filthy table at the edge of the hall next to the hearth, though it is choked with ashes and is stone cold.
The table itself is littered with half-empty steins, chipped glasses, and plates crusted with unfinished food, the mess which the young man immediately starts to clean before abruptly halting. She is giving him an amused look, like she's watching a trained bear in a frilly tutu juggle apples. He feels his face flush and sits down quietly.
The woman plunks down on the chair opposite him and takes her hood off. She is rather beautiful. Her short raven locks have a wild quality to them, but they are not uncontrolled. Her eyes are bright turquoise, and her nose is straight. In fact, except for the permanent smirk that is stuck on her mouth, people may mistake her and the young man for siblings.
As soon as they settle down, the woman hands him a letter.
"The Bann's asked me to get this to you."
He opens the envelope to find rich stationery imbued with his uncle's signature scent. The stench of duplicity, more like, he thinks facetiously. Years later, the young man still remembers it and feels tiny pricks of antipathy.
My dear boy,
I've heard the news of the mage's death and your subsequent departure from the Hasmal Circle. I understand the nature of your relationship with him and wish I could have helped. I want you to know that I do not blame you for leaving.
Nonetheless, I must ask you to come back to us. You will consider me crass for saying this, but your mage friend would have appreciated your being part of the Conclave to bring peace.
You may remember that my second son, Maxwell, has joined the templars as well. He has been invited to represent the templars of the Free Marches. Or at least those who refused to fight against rebel mages. He regards you well and will treat you like his own brother, as he is ought to. I ask you to accompany him to the Conclave and protect our interests.
Please Tharin, I hope you will do as I ask.
Your father; always,
Otto Trevelyan
When he looks up from the letter, she continues smoothly.
"And a message. Maxwell told me he will be waiting in Kirkwall. He's booked a passage to the Lake Calenhad Docks that leaves in a fortnight's time. He said he's already purchased a ticket for you too, so you just have to show up."
The woman is done until she hurriedly adds one final detail, "Only if you want to go. Maxwell was very insistent. He emphasized that you are under no obligation to join him, but he would very much like to see you."
Max is pleasant enough, if somewhat dull. He is the only member of the extended clan who kept in touch after his mother banished the young man. In fact, the letters continued to come even after Lucilla found out and demanded cessation of any correspondence with her son, all the while calling the young man "a freeloading crossbreed."
Max cheered on when he was told about the clandestine liaison with the mage. He may be a dullard and certainly not the most politically astute of the Trevelyan progeny, but he is brave and empathetic.
When things got rough, the former templar took off; Max obviously stayed and pitched in. He is the kind of person who is easy to like, easy to admire. It would be good to see him after all these years.
Besides, this is an opportunity to see to the end of the war between mages and templars. The young man concedes that his uncle is right. His "mage friend" would approve. In the end, it doesn't matter what he thinks of the Bann. He knows he wants to go.
He refolds the letter and gingerly puts it back in its container. "Thanks."
"Is there a message I should relay back?"
"Tell my uncle I am on my way."
The woman looks skeptical. "Are you really?"
"Would you like to tag along to make sure? I hear Kirkwall is a mighty pleasant place to visit."
To this jokey offer, the woman sniggers and refuses bluntly, "No thanks. I've already been, and I'd much rather try to track you for weeks again than go back to that shithole."
"Then you will have to trust me on this, won't you."
"Hey, I'm paid either way, so it's no skin off my back."
"That's the spirit."
"Yes, yes, you're hilarious. I'm going upstairs to pack. I'm leaving the tab open, so get whatever you want. Well… within reason." The young woman stands up casually. Her movements are more leisurely, less single-minded now.
The former templar snorts and asks not at all seriously, "Is that your way of being nice on your payday?"
The devilish grin that seems to be permanently stuck on her face becomes more pronounced. "I don't do nice. Your generous uncle will be picking up the tab. Part of the job, you see."
"Well then, here's to House Trevelyan and all the coin in its giant vault."
"Hear, hear."
She raps the table twice and looks away, ready to depart. It suddenly occurs to the man he is not even acquainted with the messenger. "Hold on, I don't even know your name."
A noise of pure mirth. Her entire person seems to bounce with conspicuous jollity. "What, you want to have a tearful reunion after the Conclave?"
"No, but you know mine. I think reciprocity is a key to mutual trust, don't you?"
The young woman guffaws heartily, but soon lowers her voice. "Nice try, kid. I'm not going to divulge that particular information. I've had some run-ins with the authority, you see. Gotta keep a low profile. So… G'day, young master."
She accentuates the goodbye with an exaggeratedly affected curtsey, for the ancient publican's benefit he thinks, and leaves with sure steps.
End Notes:
Extra points for you if you can figure out who the messenger is at the end of this chapter!
Next up, Tharin's turn to leave Skyhold for an adventure.
Follow me, isk4649, on Tumblr! You can find frequent updates on my new WIP, Where the Waves Crest (波が上り詰める所): Tharin/Cullen AU fic set in contemporary Japan! I've posted the summary as well!
Comments, reviews, and critiques are always welcome but never obligatory! Thank you for reading!