I was having some stupid fun with the title. Pardon my sense of humor.

TRIGGER WARNING! Interpersonal violence.

Josephine and Leliana were to be busy for next couple months as they tried to extend the Inquisition's influence over all of Thedas and execute Tharin's scheme against the Trevelyans. Cullen, of course, would be occupied with training the recruits and dispatching soldiers here and there until all strategic positions near the Frostbacks were occupied. With Skyhold in their dependable hands, Tharin ventured forth to Emprise du Lion, bent on solving the situation with the Red Templars and the stoppage in the primary metal trade.

Once he arrived in Emprise, Tharin thought that this was the worst place he had ever been to. Indeed, it was hard to imagine how things could get worse than they already were.

As the Inquisitor and his retinue walked through the deserted streets of Sahrnia, the cold wind blew through little gaps on his armor. Tharin shivered. There was rubble everywhere, and dead bodies were piled in the town square.

Why was it that the world kept on falling apart despite his best efforts? It was like the Maker wanted all of this to happen, that somehow all the death and destruction were light entertainment for the deity that could not be bothered to show up at the moment when the presence of an all-powerful being mattered the most.

"Maker take them into his hands," susurrated Cassandra as they closed in on the emaciated corpses haphazardly wrapped in coarse shrouds. Varric and Dorian murmured in agreement. Tharin sniffed as discreetly as possible. Despite their casual attitudes and all the blaspheming, Varric and Dorian were still Andrastians through and through.

Yes, let us invoke the Maker. The Maker who seemed entirely absent in all of this. Tharin could not help but scowl at the thought that what Cassandra was doing was an exercise in futility. Because he had been doubting the Maker's very existence for a while. Since his templar days, in fact. How Cullen managed to maintain his faith in a higher being, he would never understand.

As they rounded the corner and came upon a manor house painted mustard yellow, Tharin observed an interaction between a woman and an adolescent boy. The woman was draped in fur and a grand frock that must have been something to behold when it was first made. But now, its patterns looked faded, and the skirt was marred by frayed edges, minute holes, and dried mud. The boy looked even more tattered. His clothes were mere rags that barely held themselves together, and his feet were bare in this freezing weather.

"Come, lad. I have dried beans and radishes." The woman handed the boy a parcel. "It's not much, but with last week's salt pork, it makes a meal."

"Thank you, madame." The boy beamed in gratitude before turning to leave. He clutched the parcel tightly to his chest. There was a slight limp in his gait.

The woman crossed her arms as she watched the boy wobble away. Tharin stepped closer, and a patch of ice he stepped on inevitably broke and made a crunching noise. With a start, the woman turned to him. Her face remained tense as she greeted Tharin in a distinctly Orlesian accent. "Ah, the Inquisition. I'm Alban Poulin. Welcome to Sahrnia. Or what's left of it."

"That was generous of you to help that boy."

Poulin's arms were still crossed, and her shoulders were raised high like her neck was cramping. With a sigh, she began, "I do what I can. I am partly to blame for all this." With her gaze directed squarely on the frozen ground in front of her, she explained, "The Red Templars are here because, fool that I am, I sold them my family's quarry. They've taken every worker. We haven't seen them in weeks. And it's not enough. They keep coming, taking more people. And there's nothing I can do to stop them."

Tharin was aghast. He knew things were bad in Emprise, but actively collaborating with the Red Templars? This was beyond the pale. He bellowed with a voice that was carelessly loud, "How could you have sold land to the Red Templars?" He outstretched his hands.

Poulin raised her eyes and stared at Tharin with a sorrowful look. "I didn't know! I swear by Andraste's pyre! They looked like knights, chevaliers! Such pretty speeches! They said they would reopen the quarry, bring employment and trade back to Sahrnia. We'd been struggling since the war began. How could I refuse? It was good for a time. People went to work, they were paid. Then they stopped coming home. After that… the Red Templars stopped pretending."

The Inquisitor had a hunch, but he had to probe. With a frown, he inquired, "What do you mean, the Red Templars take workers?"

"People just disappear. First those who worked the quarry, then they took people from their homes. I don't know why. I just prayed they'd leave me and my family alone."

Tharin leaned forward, trying to look as menacing as possible, before he announced, "Well, one way or another, I will find out what is truly going on. And whosoever is responsible for the Red Templars building a stronghold here shall face consequences."

Alban Poulin cowered as though she were a nug facing a feral predator. And like a feral predator, Tharin feasted upon her fear.

But he was not satiated. He wanted more.

More.

He felt his insides twist as that unmentionable thirst overwhelmed his senses. It was that time of the day, he supposed.

Despite all the destruction, Sahrnia was apparently a guarded town. At the town entrance were spiked roadblocks and sandbags piled high. And beyond the defense perimeter stood Michel de Chevin, a lone figure in a shiny chevalier armor. Much like the lion engraved on the breastplate that seemed to roar from rage, the man's face was twisted in obvious anger and frustration.

Tharin remembered that Michel de Chevin used to be Empress Celene's champion, at least according to Josephine. Even Cassandra, who hardly cared about Orlesian courtiers, had heard of him. And now he was not. A disgraced chevalier, he explained that he was guarding Sahrnia from the shades unleashed by a demon named Imshael as well as the Red Templars.

Sahrnia was in a bad shape. The townsfolk could use any help they could get. Just like he had done to Mistress Poulin before she revealed her treachery, Tharin praised Michel before getting on his mount. But he could tell the man was not quite finished. He stared at the former chevalier until the man began to speak haltingly, "Your worship, might I ask…?"

"Yes? What is it?"

"Is it true that your mother was… an elf from Tevinter?"

Tharin was surprised not at the question itself, but at the mere fact that someone was actually bold enough to pose that question. "Indeed, she was. Why do you ask?"

Michel visibly fidgeted before answering, "It is… Well, it must be hard for the Orlesian court to contend with that fact. The Herald of Andraste being half-elven. And my own… Um…"

The Inquisitor felt like there was something more but did not feel like pressing the man. Anyway, this was not the time to be sharing an idle chat. He gripped his reins firmly and considered for a moment before replying with a scoff, "Well, it is the Orlesians' problem, not mine. They better get used to it. I am to be their prince. Or something like that."

Michel seemed satisfied for now. He nodded. "Be careful, your worship. Do not let Imshael speak."

"Do not worry, Ser Michel. I will meet you at Suledin Keep."

So much for Michel de Chevin, a man who used to be Empress Celene's champion. Imshael had apparently unleashed more shades and he had to return to Sahrnia to take care of them. So, there was to be no reinforcement, even as insignificant as a mere disgraced chevalier, when the Inquisitor and his retinue stormed the fortress.

Suledin Keep was labyrinthine. There were twists and turns, and at every corner lurked Red Templar horrors. Monsters that barely looked alive, red crystals mercilessly tearing through their wrinkled gray skins. Whatever was left of their consciousness was animal and instinctual as they roared and swung their crystalized arms around.

In the mazelike path through the Keep, the red lyrium creatures were not the only ones that confronted Tharin and his party. Red templars, who, by the grace of the seemingly absent Maker, managed to avoid being turned into horrors, came at them with their swords and scuta. They were especially troublesome because they would mirror Tharin's every move, parry every thrust he made with his greatsword. Even hidden behind their templar helmets, Tharin could tell they were smirking, gloating in their crimson arrogance.

In between enemies were shards of red lyrium. And they were strewn everywhere. Each time the Inquisitor stepped on the ground, he could see little bits of crimson crunch and ricochet against his sturdy boots. Varric's face was invariably creased in concern.

There was no end in sight with the Keep as the party trudged along. In a large courtyard entirely covered with snow, the party ran into a giant corrupted with red lyrium.

The Red Templars standing next to the giant seemed to be in control of it, which was inexplicable. Was mind control one of the effects of red lyrium corruption?

An ambush was out of the question. The enemies were standing in the middle of an open field, and the Inquisitor's armor was too heavy for him to move silently across the plane. Indeed, when Tharin took another step forward after observing the giant, half of the Red Templars turned. The next moment, they were rushing toward the party with leonine ululations.

Holding his greatsword in front of him, Tharin shouted, "Dorian, Varric, get behind me!"

Varric positioned himself behind Cassandra instead, loading Bianca and rapidly shooting bolts at the Red Templars charging toward the retinue. Dorian, however, was stubborn, as Tharin was well aware.

The mage readied his staff and began to emit fireballs all the while flinging scathing remarks at the young man. "Oh, dearie me." A blazing projectile. "What will I, a poor, helpless debutante–" Another thing of flame. "–ever do with myself in this frightening situation?" After lobbing a particularly giant burning meteor at a couple flustered Red Templars still on their feet and reducing them to charred corpses, Dorian bellowed, "You underestimate me to your detriment, Inquisitor."

Certainly, Tharin should not have underestimated the mage, for he, working in concert with Cassandra and Varric, took down the good majority of the Red Templars and blinded the red lyrium giant with an icicle in the process. Meanwhile, Tharin was bogged down by a Red Templar who was a skillful swordsman.

And Dorian was the one to inflict the finishing blow to the giant as well, the final enemy standing. As Tharin watched the giant with its head almost completely severed keel over, something in him rumbled, castigating him for failing to protect his companions. If he were a competent fighter, he would be the one to bring down most enemies and therefore decrease the chance of his companions getting mauled.

But perhaps he was not a competent warrior. Much like how he did not make for a great Inquisitor.

After sharing elfroot potions to keep up their strengths, the Inquisitor and his retinue proceeded forward to the Keep's inner sanctum. There stood a titanic chunk of red lyrium. It took Tharin a moment to see that there was also someone standing in front of it. Something, more likely. Because if Michel de Chevin was correct, this was the demon Imshael.

There was no one else in the sanctum. No additional Red Templar warriors or horrors protecting Imshael. And yet, the demon looked deceptively weak in its human form. Perhaps it was haughty, believing in its omnipotence. Imshael began with an unctuous smile, "Ah, the hero arrives. But is it hero? Or murderer? It's so hard to tell."

"So this is the demon called Imshael," muttered Varric.

Imshael cleared its throat and insisted, "Choice. Spirit."

"Maker, give us strength!" shouted Cassandra as she held her heater shield up threateningly.

Imshael looked around and pointed at the weapons everyone was wielding. "Wait. Wait. Wait! These are your friends? They're very violent. It's worrying." He crossed his arms and proclaimed, "True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn't always have to end in blood."

Something in Tharin halted him from brandishing his greatsword at the smarmy demon. That little piece of him that did not care for the fate of Thedas. His blood seemed to roil as he considered the possibilities. He curtly ordered, "…Talk."

Predictably, Cassandra was scandalized. "Inquisitor!"

One side of Imshael's mouth curved up, as though it knew Tharin was falling for its trap. Not that Tharin was naïve enough to let that happen.

The demon continued, "It rarely hurts to listen, my dear man." It shrugged, seemingly determined to be as cool as possible. "Simple. We don't fight, and I grant you power. Shower you with riches. Or maybe virgins. Your pick." It waved his hand dismissively. "Then we all live happily ever after. Well, not all of us. But who's counting?"

How trite, Tharin scoffed. "I am quite confident that I want none of those things."

Suddenly, there was a twinkle in the demon's eyes. "Ah. Well then, why not a wish?"

"A wish?"

"Just one simple wish. To delight yourself or to cause pain of others. Preferably the latter, if you–"

Cutting the demon off, Cassandra shouted, "Do not listen to the demon, Inquisitor! Remember your duty!"

That was the push Tharin needed. His duty as the Inquisitor, it was the thing that would eventually kill him or drive him mad. On restless nights back in his quarters in Skyhold, he would imagine himself being free from it, living his quiet life in the mountains. And so, he asked in a strident tone, "Can you give me my life back?"

"Inquisitor!" exclaimed Cassandra, who the young man entirely ignored.

Tharin heard Dorian sough and add, "Seeker, that is obviously not working! Stop yelling at him and try something else! Anything else!" The young man snorted. There was nothing and nobody to stop him now. He looked at the demon expectantly.

Imshael caressed its chin and cocked its head. "Hmm, that's not exactly the most specific wish, is it? Let me in so I can see you." It extended its hands toward Tharin and knitted its brow in concentration for a moment. And Tharin let it.

Soon, Imshael's face broke out in a wide, obviously malevolent grin. "Now I see what you want." The demon hummed, "I knew you were interesting. Most people run toward power and wealth. But you, you run the other way. Does that make you brave or cowardly? I can't quite decide…"

With a flourish, the demon declared. "I suppose I am powerful enough to make the things you wish for happen for you, oh brave, murderous hero."

Tharin wrinkled his face. "Things?"

"Oh, I may have seen another teensy-weensy thing while rooting through in there." Imshael pointed squarely at Tharin's chest. "You want someone to love you the way you love him. I shan't say his name. Unless you would like…?"

The Inquisitor could feel his palms sweat as the realization dawned on him. He glowered. "You were not supposed to see that."

Imshael snorted, amusement borne of confidence clear in his tone, "You can hardly fault me. I am but a humble spirit. It's not as though your desires are entirely separate and compartmentalized."

Tharin could no longer hide the hostility springing from within. He growled, "For a demon who claims to be quite powerful, you are especially oblivious and clumsy, aren't you. Running into things you are not allowed."

"Now, now. That kind of talk is unnecessary. As I said, the deal is simple. You get a wish, and I go my way." The demon now focused on cleaning its fingernails. If its nonchalance was a mere charade, it was a convincing one. "In fact, I will sweeten the deal. I make both of your wishes come true. You get your life back, and your love loves you back."

"Leave Cullen alone, demon!"

"Oh, for… Choice! Spirit!"

As Tharin took a defensive stance, the demon extended its hands threateningly. "If you won't be smart, be afraid!" In a flash, Imshael changed its form to a fear demon.

Tharin could tell it was planning on picking the party apart one by one. It headed straight for Dorian. In a panic, Tharin jumped in front of the mage and slashed at the demon.

Dorian scoffed audibly, as though he wanted everyone alive and dead in the Keep to hear his incredulity. The next moment, Tharin's face seemed to burst aflame as a white-hot projectile hit Imshael and it shrieked.

The demon disappeared into the ether for a moment, only to reemerge right in front of Varric. As Tharin whirled around and tried to get to Varric, the dwarf somersaulted away from the demon and shot a bolt at its head. Another otherworldly shriek came forth, and Varric shot another bolt at what appeared to be Imshael's maw. With a short arrow sticking out from its face, it screamed, "Enough of this! Enough of all of this!"

Tharin felt useless and pathetic as his companions and the demon flitted about the courtyard. But then, Imshael changed its form once again. Rage demons were not known for their ability to float or transport. Seizing this chance, Tharin charged.

Befitting its appearance, the rage demon was fiery. Tharin felt his helmet heat up and with it his face too. But he persisted, determined to keep it in its current position and make sure it did not have any chance to direct its attacks at his companions.

Tharin leapt and hacked even more vigorously every time the demon turned its head toward someone else. It turned out to be an effective means of forcing attrition on the enemy. As the arcane spikes and bolts kept pouring in, the rage demon powerlessly flailed against Tharin and, to a lesser extent, Cassandra. After a few minutes of continuous assaults, Imshael roared, "Xebenkeck! Gaxkang! Give me strength!"

Now, it turned into a pride demon. Perhaps the most formidable form due to its sheer size, it stomped on the cobblestone ground and made it quake. Varric skillfully dodged the tremor, but the other three lost their balance and fell.

Despite the ringing head, Tharin immediately got back on his feet and rushed to protect Dorian as Imshael extended its sharp claws toward the man. But Dorian lifted his torso from the ground, conjured a fireball, and hit it directly on its head. He then glanced at Tharin with an unmistakable simper.

Ignoring the simper, Tharin changed his direction to climb the stone steps next to the demon and jumped off it. His greatsword penetrated Imshael's chest from the top, and the disoriented demon howled miserably. The sound was almost enough to elicit sympathy if not for the fact that Imshael was responsible for corrupting many a templar and that the demon wanted to slay everyone in the retinue.

As Imshael fell, its form began to discolor and then turn transparent. Pieces of it floated away into the overcast sky until the demon was no more. On the cobblestone ground among little bits of debris was a glowing piece of spirit essence, which the Inquisitor promptly pocketed for research.

The Inquisitor and his companions emerged victorious yet again. At least Tharin managed to redeem himself in his mind somewhat as he fiercely guarded the others during the battle. Indeed, he could be a competent fighter if he put his mind to it.

Cutting through her ragged breaths and with her weapons still at ready, Cassandra asked in a sharp voice, clear in her intent to reproach, "Inquisitor, were you truthfully considering accepting the demon's offer?"

Tharin smoothly countered, his breath slowing back to its normal tempo far faster than he had expected, "No, I wanted to see if it would reveal anything useful. As far as I am aware, there is no Chantry law that says I shall not trick a demon. So, I tricked it."

"Preposterous…" mumbled Cassandra, so clearly upset.

Dorian chimed in, "Well, I for one am glad you decided not to take its offer. It would've been a nightmare to break you free from the demon's thrall."

Varric sniffed and drawled as he put Bianca back on his back, "So… Your mentioning the name of our long-suffering Commander was just about tricking the demon?"

"I believe you misheard me. You really should get your hearing checked once we make our way back to the forward camp."

Tharin's comment was enough to draw an incredulous chuckle from the dwarf. "Whatever you say, your inquisitorialness."

After assisting Inquisition agents sweep Suledin Keep and take control of the area, the Inquisitor moved onto the quarry that Mistress Poulin mentioned.

The news of the fall of Suledin Keep must have reached other groups of Red Templars in Emprise. It had only been two days since the capture of the Keep, and the marble quarry was heavily fortified and guarded by what seemed like a regiment of Red Templars. Dorian sighed as he watched the Inquisitor charge in somewhat rashly. The battle ensued immediately.

Not that the mage got to show off his skills to his satisfaction this time. The Inquisitor was a beast, forming a barricade between the enemies and his companions all by himself, striking down Red Templars left and right. Dorian could see that even Cassandra was relegated to a supporting role as she concentrated solely on enemies flanking them. After the first battle, the Inquisitor was covered in gore from head to toe. Billows of white breaths emanated from behind the helmet, and Tharin truly looked like a predator that he was.

Dorian had to pry his eyes away from the Inquisitor, lest he start to gawk at the unbelievably gruesome and somehow still alluring sight. The mage was in disbelief over the fact that he found the Inquisitor in that ghoulish state still attractive.

Obviously heedless of the companion's gaze, Tharin untied a kerchief around his upper arm and wiped the greatsword clean. Or as clean as it could be wiped with a piece of rag that had been used many times before. He then motioned. "Stay behind me. We are going in."

The actual site of the quarry was deep within the mountains. More Red Templars rushed to defend its entrance, but the band was small and was easily dispatched with.

There were no other entrances to the quarry, which meant there could not be that many Red Templars within. Stragglers if any. The party therefore decided to split up to secure it faster. The Inquisitor and Dorian to one side, Cassandra and Varric to the other.

With the quarry seemingly abandoned, it soon became more of a survey than a security sweep. Dorian was examining his own distorted reflection on a large red lyrium deposit when he heard the Inquisitor's booming baritone, "Dorian, come quick!"

He approached a miniscule nook between two boulders and found something they had been expecting. In fact, having heard Poulin's account and acquired many letters written by the Red Templars during their expedition, the party had been waiting for this with trepidation.

Another horror borne of the Red Templars. People – alive and breathing – being used to germinate and cultivate red lyrium, as though they were nothing but a plot of tilled soil.

In that ridiculously small nook was a disheveled middle-aged man chained to a large slab of marble, and his lower half was entirely encased in red lyrium.

"Help…" rasped the man.

Dorian watched as the corrupted man reached toward Tharin from the red lyrium outcrop with his free hand. The arms were spindly, rendering the man all the more pitiable. Tharin's hands began to reach out too, but before Dorian warned him, he halted. The calloused hands hovered midair, looking quite lost.

It reminded Dorian of Redcliffe Castle, that time when he and the Inquisitor found the Cullen of the other reality. There were no tears this time, however. Only silent rage as the man gritted his teeth and the powerful jaw clenched.

Eventually, Tharin spoke in an unsteady tone, "Be brave. We will get you out of this."

Dorian knew that it was futile. Once infected with red lyrium, there was no turning back. No amount of magic could revive the person, at least as far as he knew. Perhaps blood magic could accomplish that, but he was not about to unleash something he could lose control of. He approached and squeezed Tharin's right shoulder before speaking in a low voice, "I am afraid you must not make such promises so hastily, Inquisitor."

Tharin sharply turned to the mage, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him away from the outcrop. Dorian felt the power coursing through the young man's grip and became alarmed. The young man whispered, "Can't you do something? Anything?"

Disregarding the nagging feeling of dread, Dorian retracted his hand free and answered honestly, "If I could, I would've done something in Redcliffe. I may be one of the most capable mages in all of Thedas, but even I cannot rid red lyrium from a living being."

Tharin huffed before he shook his head. There was an unkind sneer in his face. "You're useless, Dorian."

Dorian glowered. "As are you, Inquisitor."

As Dorian quietly argued with the Inquisitor, a faint voice came from the outcrop. "Please… Please… Let me go." It was evident that the man knew what awaited him.

Tharin exhaled forcefully and slowly approached the man as he took out the dagger from his belt. He susurrated, "I am so sorry."

The next moment, the man slumped after a woeful cry. His head, devoid of life, rolled back.

And Tharin stood there, holding the dagger still buried deep in the dead man's heart.

Cassandra and Varric, who had been checking the other side of the quarry, came back around. Dorian held his hand up and the two abruptly halted in their steps. The companions watched as Tharin remained motionless in front of the man whose life he had just ended.

An eternity passed among blocks of marble and jagged shards of red lyrium. Cold wind blew through the quarry and Dorian shuddered. A stray thought occurred that he absolutely detested Emprise with all his being. Now even more so than previously.

Finally, Tharin retrieved the dagger and turned to face the companions. The expression was impassive, but something in his sapphire eyes made the hair on Dorian's nape stand up in full alert. He had never seen the young man like this. Wolfish and chilling.

Tharin commanded, "Let us head back to the town. I've a business to take care of."

The trek back from the quarry to Sahrnia took less than two days. The Inquisition forward camp had already transferred a number of mounts to the camp by Judicael's Crossing, and the Inquisitor and his companions were able to travel through the rugged terrain with ease.

Not that the conditions were conducive for traveling. The temperature dropped to dangerous levels. A flurry of snow fell upon the landscape, and everyone was covered by a layer of frozen precipitation soon enough. Hooded capes were not enough. Tharin heard Dorian continuously flicking fire on his hand, obviously trying to warm himself.

But Tharin was sure his head was boiling. All he could see was red lyrium growing out of the dead man's gaunt, starved body. And he kept invoking that image to fuel his fury until it became a maelstrom that refused to subside. Not even in the morning after sleeping in a cold, flimsy tent next to a snoring Varric.

When the retinue made it back to Sahrnia, he directed them straight to the manor house at the center of the town. Mistress Poulin was just leaving her manse with a basket hanging from her left arm. It was filled with sickly vegetables.

Tharin let his footsteps fall heavily on the frozen ground and reverberate. When Poulin turned and found Tharin coming at her, she dropped the basket. There was growing fear in her visage. Good, she should fear him.

For Tharin held a murderous intent.

The last few steps to Poulin, Tharin strode the icy patches of mud swiftly. And he did not give Poulin any time to say something, anything to alleviate her guilt.

Tharin punched her left cheek. The woman crumpled in a heap, and the young man descended upon her like a hungry hawk locked on a vulnerable animal. He grabbed ahold of Poulin's fur-lined collar and threw more punches.

Poulin's nose and mouth wept with blood. And every time Tharin threw another blow, more blood splattered. His vision began to turn into a crimson blur. Shards of red lyrium protruding from the sallow skin, mocking him to try and save everyone. Mocking him to watch Cullen succumb to a painful end.

In Redcliffe Castle, Tharin's companions all gave their lives for him, because he was Andraste's Chosen. And in the end, Tharin ran like a coward as his love crinkled his scarlet eyes. Nothing and everything was all right.

In Emprise du Lion, with Poulin under him, Tharin thought he saw the corrupted eyes of his love once again.

And they pleaded for the final rest.

"Inquisitor! Stop!"

Tharin felt two arms lock under his armpits. Unmindful of the hindrance, he dispensed more blows with abandon. But Poulin was beyond his reach now. With her bloated and bruised face, she looked dead. But not quite as dead that poor soul who had red lyrium implanted on him. And others whose bodies had no doubt already been used up by the Red Templars.

Cassandra was powerful. Her arms never let go as the young man fiercely resisted. Instead, she forced him to his feet and practically dragged him away from Poulin.

After they retreated several steps away, Tharin finally broke free from the Seeker's grasp and growled, "All right, that's enough!"

With her brow frozen in naked rage, Cassandra put her hands on her hips and yelled, "What has gotten into you?!"

Tharin refused to counter Cassandra's piercing gaze. Instead, he walked away while muttering, "Nothing's gotten into me. Just leave it."

He did not relish in the horrified looks from Dorian and Varric. Yet, his heart felt strangely lighter for having reduced Poulin to a gory pulp. It was almost like joy, a senseless thrill at the realization that he was justice walking among mortals.

Even though he was not the Inquisitor Thedas deserved, he could still do good as an embodiment of justice. That was clear to him now.

The Inquisitor's retinue headed back to Skyhold with Alban Poulin in tow, not as an honored guest, but as a condemned prisoner.

Locked in a caged wagon, the woman wailed day and night. The two soldiers tasked with transporting her would yell to intimidate her from time to time, but any quiescence was momentary at best. Ceaseless begging for mercy and excuses for her past actions notwithstanding, Poulin was coherent for the first couple days. After three days of traveling, however, she began to sound more like a wounded beast than human, her words rendered incomprehensible as intermittent high-pitched screams became more frequent.

Surrounded by Poulin's cries and the sounds of nature, the Inquisitor's companions were completely silent. Even Dorian, who no doubt would be making sardonic comments about the boorishness of forcing him to travel to Maker-forsaken parts of the world under normal circumstances, was hushed. Not one, not even Cassandra, dared to meet Tharin's eyes. It was just as well. Tharin wanted to be left alone, to fume in silence.

With her throat hoarse and her body fatigued, Poulin finally fell silent on the fourth day of traveling. And then two more days passed. Tharin knew they were nearing Skyhold. He would be able to get some proper drinks at Herald's Rest that night, which was one thing he desperately needed.

Suddenly, a series of arhythmic clip-clops rang across the frozen air, and the Seeker's mount appeared beside the Inquisitor.

Cassandra took a beat to match Tharin's pace and pat her horse's mane before cautiously asking, "Is… everything all right?"

Having expected this, the Inquisitor boomed, "No. You know everything is patently not all right."

"Yes, what we found in Emprise was… shocking to say the least. But I don't mean that. I am asking if you are all right."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Tharin whipped around to glare at Cassandra. He saw a fine divot appear in the woman's brow. Her face was unchanged otherwise.

The Seeker sighed, "Because you punched a defenseless woman. And you would have done more if I did not stop you."

"She deserved it. She deserves much, much more. I am going to make her pay for all she has done."

Her expression hardened. "Are you sure you are in the right state to judge that poor woman? She was misguided, but she did her best given the circumstances."

And Tharin matched her severe tone. "Are you seriously questioning my ability as the Inquisitor while simultaneously defending that wretched woman? I don't believe this! You of all people should know better. Poulin aided the Red Templars and led her people to certain death!"

"I realize that. But Sahrnia was in a dire strait, and she did not have all the pertinent information. I believe her when she says she truly thought they were just regular templars."

Tharin glanced back at the caged wagon. Poulin was leaning against the bars, one of her eyes still swollen shut and the other eye looking glassy. Her face, the part that was discernible at least, was entirely impassive. He barked, "Well, I say she needs to pay."

Cassandra being Cassandra, she was not about to let go. "I just think you need to take a breather before judging her. Take a break, clear your mind for a few days in Skyhold, and then come back to judge."

Tharin shrugged nonchalantly. "…Mayhaps I shall, if it pleases you."

But Tharin doubted his mind would change.

After a few more hours of silent riding, they arrived. Before them stood Skyhold's outer portcullis. As the chains worked the gate open, Tharin let his seething anger boil over into a lethal intent. No doubt Mistress Poulin would get the brunt of it. He would make the woman pay dearly with her own life one way or another.

What sentence could the almighty Inquisitor bestow upon Poulin? Compared to a lifetime of hard labor, death was starting to sound like a reward rather than a punishment, and he smirked.

Total control over a treacherous villain's fate. The Inquisitor quite enjoyed this sensation, and he did not care if his glee showed.

END NOTE

And now, a little bit of bad news to follow all that whump. For a while, I have been suffering from a writer's block as well as a burnout and my RL work has been hectic. I believe I am finally leaving the writer's block behind, but it unfortunately depleted the store of pre-written and edited chapters. I realize Honor and Will just came back from a long hiatus, but I will be going on another after the next chapter. I sincerely apologize.

One good thing is that I have the rest of the fic planned out. I wish I could show you all the scribbles I have written down to prove that I am dead set on finishing this one way or the other, but they are obviously spoilers. The next chapter of Honor and Will, which is also approximately halfway point in Part III, is coming on June 27, 2021. In case you miss my writing, I will post chapters of Where the Waves Crest (波の上り詰める所) every week during the hiatus.

Again, many, many apologies. I hope you stick with Tharin and Cullen and all their friends despite my flakiness.