From Sacred Ash

by Son of Caliban

Marcus Venier is a young student from Canada, who jumps off a waterfall and falls into another world entirely. Markus Venier is a young Templar from the Dales, who fails to prevent the death of the Most Holy. I am the man born of their convergence. I am the Inquisitor. And this tale is mine to tell.

8. Relics, Ripostes, Romance

I dream of a silver spire.

It is a proud edifice, jutting with a sort of defiant magnificence from a featureless plain of black stone. It is distant from me, this I know, yet it looms as high as the horizon is long, and it dominates the heavens in spite of its distance. I feel I could run for an hour to my left or my right and still be eclipsed in its shadow.

About the spire things are moving. There are nine in total, generally featureless balls of light each cast in their own colour. Here one is gold, and radiant, and it moves in straight and simple lines. Beneath it is sickly green, which sways to and fro, seeking and searching and never finding. There is vivid orange, bouncing erratically, unsure of where it must go. Cool and simple blue, moving in gentle circles, between the others.

They dance and spin and sway and swing, and I see each of them move toward the spire's peak in its own way. And the peak of the spire unclenches then, five smaller towers opening as a hand would, and within there is a light that is red and green and gold all at once, which threatens to eat the nine. They circle it, slow and uncertain, but drawn to its fire.

The hand clenches shut and traps them all inside, and fire blossoms between its fingers in a dozen rainbow hues, spilling out into the sky and erasing the shadow in which I linger, bathing me in the spectrum of all we see and do not. I cannot see the sky, nor the spire; only the light, burning and dancing in a million spiralling lines, stretching out over all.

And then I wake, in a bed of soft silk and satin, my head propped up on a pillow and my hands folded on my chest. I blink once, twice, at the near featureless void around me. The desk with the great grimoire sits. Were they not loose papers before? The bottle of wine rests beside it, out of the bed. I sit up, and realize I am once again shirtless.

I see a shape by the window in the air, blue light and smoke entangled into itself in the incomplete shape of a person. It is small, maybe three feet tall, and it is rough; two arms, two legs, a torso, a head, but no detail. No eyes, no mouth, no hands or feet… it is a child's drawing of a man. Or… the tapering of the waist, the swell of the hips, narrowness at the shoulders… a woman, perhaps.

"Hello Beck," I say, for I know my own mind and my own guests, and the shape bobs its head up and down.

"Hello." it says cheerily. "I made a body like Beck's, but I'm not enough of me to make it right."

A body like… . The shape is more familiar to Marcus now, like his almost-girlfriend in miniature, crude as the rendering is. I smile, before swinging my legs off the bed, sitting on the edge.

"Did you see the Hinterlands?" I ask. "I know you were in my sleeve, but maybe you saw what I did?"

"I did." Beck confirms, bobbing its head. "I saw the trees and rocks and water, and the mountains and valleys and the people in cloth and metal. Why do they fight?"

Wow. Alright, heavy questions first then. I swallow, thinking a moment about it. Then I nod.

"The people in cloth have suffered under the people in metal, and so they want others to suffer like them." I explain, as simple as I can make it. "The people in metal are supposed to protect the people in cloth from the others, but they forget that and hurt them instead. Now they're both fighting because they couldn't talk, and they think hurting is the only way to fix the problem."

Beck hums softly, swaying it's new body from side to side. One of the arms rises, the little pointed tip pressing to the bottom of the orb that makes up its head, and it takes me a moment to realize it's rubbing its chin.

"They're all so angry…" it murmurs. "They want to batter and bruise and break like they've been battered bruised and broken, but the jagged edges catch and tear and they only hurt each other more. And the hurting makes them hate, and the hating makes them hurt."

"It's a vicious cycle." I tell it, leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees. "One the Inquisition is trying to break. I'm sorry you have to see it all."

"I'm not." it replies, the head shaking from side to side. "I am Calm. They are distraught, devastated, dying in droves for despair. If you are going to stop them, I want to help."

"If it weren't for you, I'd probably have thrown up at least twice now." I say, chuckling. "So I thank you for that."

I stand up, stretching my arms out to my sides. I look around this empty dream space, frowning a little at the lack of furniture and… well, it hardly speaks well to me that the inside of my mind is just a blank space with a bed and a desk, does it?

"You could put things in it." Beck says suddenly, floating to my side. "From your memories."

"I already tried that, remember?" I sigh. "I can't get a PlayStation in here no matter how hard I try."

"Try your sword." Beck advises, and I look at it. "It is near to you. You make it real when you swing and slash and strike, a part of you. A metal fingernail that-"

"Let's pretend I never said that." I cut it off, before shrugging and reaching out a hand. "But… alright, me. Let's have a sword then."

And then there is a sword in my hand. It's a plain long sword, of Fereldan make, straight and narrow with an undecorated cross guard and a simple round pommel. I know it well, because I've used it to kill several people now, something I'm becoming less and less bothered by. I blink, before pointing the blade forward. Then I lunge, stabbing with one hand in a chevalier's thrust. Then I backstep, angling myself, sword closer to me, flat of the blade across my body, raising it at an angle. The second stance, for guarding the side of my sword hand, and thrusting from a position of strength in tight spaces.

I swing, from the right, horizontal. One hand, lightning quick. Meant to catch a man off guard, punishing him for lowering or raising his shield. I remember Knight Harvald's instruction; "Never spin, boy! Your back's a target; keep it away from the bastards with blades!"

I smile as the familiar steps come to me. Forward once, swing from the left diagonal. Forward twice, push them back, sword across the body from the bottom edge. Nobody guards the bottom edge the first time. Forward once, thrust from the top down, through the mail. Blade won't break, trust the steel. Backstep if they deflect, sword up to guard, top or bottom dependent on their parry. Chevalier's will block up, open you for a stab. Then, in with the foot, kick, hard slash from the top. Brutal. Unfair. Ideal. Through the collarbone, killing stroke, sword up and around, pommel by the ear, stab for the throat.

Massache's Fifth. The first sequence I committed to memory. I have nine, each different. Massache has thirty-four for the longsword alone. One day, perhaps, I will know them all. It would suit a Herald to be a master of the sword as well.

"Dancing with a razor, like the elf with no shoes." Beck says. "She enjoys it, when you turn red like cherry trees from home."

Not touching that one. Not yet, anyways.

"So…" I stare at the longsword again. "I have a sword. Very nice."

I prop it up against the desk, frowning a little at the enormous book there. It is plain enough, heavy and leather bound, and truly vast. The cover is blank but for a single symbol etched in gold leaf, three lines next to one another. III. Three, I estimate. I press a hand to the cover, and feel it is cold. Then I peel back the cover, and stare at the blank page behind.

"The book is where what you know goes." Beck says helpfully. "The page is blank because you don't know."

"Okay…" I try the next page, and blink when I find an image of Cassandra staring back at me. "Oh. Hello there."

Beneath the artistic rendering of her face, stoic and vigilant, is a pair of text columns, telling me more of her. Her name, her gender, her place of origin. It tells me who she is, her attitude and character and strengths and flaws. I read it all, despite knowing most of it already.

"Wait a second…" I check the top again. "This is… this is a wiki article."

It is. In effect. All the prominent information in a single blurb at the top, then long descriptors just precise enough to be helpful, but vague enough to cover for any potential mistakes. I'm almost disappointed, but it's too interesting to be truly upset by slightly lacking flavour.

I check the other pages. More information. Varric, Solas, the Templars, Mages, the Inquisition, Mother Giselle… and those I haven't met yet. Blackwall. Sera. Vivienne. All of them are here, their names and natures all recorded for me to review.

"Well this is useful." I declare, before closing the book. "Very, very useful."

I look back at the bed. If I sleep, I wake again. Am I needed? I'm not sure. I don't actually know what time is here compared to outside, and for once a confusion in my head isn't answered by Beck interjecting.

"Sorry," the spirit says, and I smile at it.

In that case…

I take my sword up again. I have eight more sequences I know, and a little practice never hurt anyone.

I run through the seventh. Then the fourth. The fifteenth, with its vicious downward strokes. I spin through the twenty-fifth, before practising the vicious lunges and nimble retreats of the eighteenth, nicknamed the Form of the Phoenix by somebody who's never seen a Phoenix before. The ninth reminds me of Chanson, clashing blades with my brothers under the hot Dalish sun, before the twentieth takes me forward to now, where I must hunt mages with brutal strikes they cannot use their staves to deflect. Finally, the thirtieth, the most complicated sequence I know. Meant for practising a fight with two men at once. I spin from one facing to the other, moving in a staggered circle and endlessly switching my guard, striking once every eight or nine steps.

And when it is over, I am sweaty and tired and oh-so satisfied. I set my sword down on the ground before me as I kneel on the soft black stone of the ground here, head bowed. I breathe long and slow and deep, eyes closing.

"Twenty six left to go…" I murmur, before chuckling. "If I can find a teacher."

The bed calls to me now; I've worn through my stamina here. It's time to go back to the waking world, where I can put into work all I've practised. I glance over my shoulder at Beck as I walk to the bed, and it bobs its head at me eagerly.

"So you in the real world." I say, smiling, before I climb into the bed, set my head down and drift away, up and up.

And then my eyes open, and I feel that someone has thrown a blanket over my slumbering form. It's a rough blanket, and it smells of horse, but it's warm and I appreciate the gesture. There is a dim light about, the early morning sun not quite having mustered the energy to set the world on fire with its radiant just yet. I yawn as I sit up, propping myself on my side with one hand on the ground. There are few people moving just yet; I see a few guards walking around, their patrols taking them between tent rows and along the sides of buildings. Some refugees build morning cook fires, while one of the few merchants bold enough to set up shop here lays out her wares on the table beside her wagon.

Our messenger birds went out last night, requesting the Templars and other such reinforcements. That means we have a few days before they come. Days we can use.

Lysette and Varric are still lost to me somewhere in the camp, so I climb onto my feet and fold my horse blanket, leaving it under the tree before setting off toward the makeshift training yard at the bottom of the camp hill. Three straw dummies stand proud and immobile next to a small ring drawn in the dirt with a blade, a few archery targets set up much further away. Nobody else is mad enough to be here so early, so I draw my sword and square up against one of .

Strike, strike, sidestep, quick reverse, forward thrust, backstep turn and catch the blade, down and cut. The dummy suffers my warmup well, taking each blow with all the dignity a sack of straw can muster. I do my best not to break it, pulling my blows at the last moment except for the final strike in each sequence. The killing stroke must be lethal regardless of the target, that is the way of Orlesian swordsmanship.

It is some time before I realize I've attracted an audience. A small one, half a dozen Inquisition soldiers and a few refugees, but ten or so people is still a shock to see when you turn expecting none at all. The soldiers salute me, the refugees just staring.

"That's the Herald of Andraste," I hear one of the soldiers tell the refugee next to her. "He's been chosen by Andraste herself to seal the hole in the sky and save us all. They say he walked out of the Fade itself with the Lady standing over him."

I bow my head to them, before searching their number with a glance. Most look like peasant soldiers, likely volunteers from Haven and the surrounding regions. And soon enough, they'll be battling renegade Templars and Mages alike. Can they do it?

"You there." I point out one, a tall and heavily built young man whose armour barely fits him. "What is your name?"

"Connor, your worship!" he declares, stepping forward.

He's got some shoulders on him for sure, and arms like stone pillars. Definitely a farmer's boy, hauling bales of hay since he was tall enough to pick them off the ground. I smile at him, the tip of my sword flicking to gesture at the ring beside us.

"I've had Commander Cullen tell me the Inquisition's forces grow stronger and stronger every day." I say, stepping into the ring. "But strength is not all that matters. How long have you been swinging a sword, Connor?"

The boy swallows at that, but I shake my head and beckon for him to continue.

"A… a week, your worship!" he says, voice only a little quieter.

"Show me what a week has done for you, Connor." I say to him, standing tall and straight, sword at my side with the blade angled down, held loose in my hand. "Show me Commander Cullen was right to be proud."

And he does. He acquits himself eagerly, drawing his sword and charging me. His stance is poor, his posture is off, but as he swings I can practically see the power behind it. I step under his attack, my own sword cutting up and pressing the edge to his stomach.

"Don't open too high, Connor, or a shorter man like me will go right under." I tell him, prompting a bit of laughter from the watching soldiers, before stepping back. "Now, again. Lower this time."

He swings lower, for sure, cutting now towards my chest rather than my head. I could try and duck under it again, but I'd rather not risk the hit. So I turn toward his swing, bracing my sword by grabbing halfway down the blade with my hand and catching his swing on the flat. He's definitely strong; even half-swording as I am, I am pushed back by the power of his blow. The resonant clash of our swords gets my blood racing, however, and by the time he recovers and goes for another strike my own sword point is already pressed to his throat.

"If your foe commits to a block as I do, be it with a shield or a sword, do not commit to the stroke." I tell him, remembering Knight Harvald's teachings. "If he's braced, he'll be slow to change. Feint and strike elsewhere."

"Feint, sir?" Connor asks, and I remember that in speaking to a farmboy.

"Pull away at the last moment and swing elsewhere." I reply, before squaring across from him, sword right in front of me in a neutral guard stance. "Block my blow, Connor, I'll show you."

He does so, and I swing from the right. His sword moves to block, quickly too; he's got good reflexes to go with that muscle. I feint, sword twisting in the air to strike from below instead. Connor blinks, and by then the sword is once again pressed against his stomach. There is a moment of silence, before he chuckles.

"That's good!" he says, stepping back. "Show us how, your grace?"

And before I know it, I'm teaching half a dozen of the Inquisition's new soldiers how to feint with their swords. It's a simple trick, in truth, nothing particularly complex or advanced, but it will serve them well fighting sellswords and bandits. Daemons, however… I'm still figuring that one out.

I walk aling the line they form, instructing as best I can, hints and tips. Elbow higher as you swing so you can turn your arm more, loosen your grip on the sword to afford you that extra centimetre when feinting, don't use your other hand to punch somebody unless they're actually open… little things like that.

One woman ends up basically mastering the technique, while the others get to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if they could do it while on an adrenaline rush, the technique coming to them in one of those split-second awakenings that so often occur when one's life is on the line. I just hope it helps.

"Stand proud, soldiers," I tell them, when the ache in my stomach becomes too much to ignore and I go to seek breakfast. "We'll save the damn world yet."

They cheer as I go. It feels good.

So does stuffing my face with a biscuit and some sausage, to be honest. Not more so, but the satisfaction of simple fare on a hungry morning is unmatched, something Markus knows well. Marcus almost misses sugary breakfast cereals, but I side with the former. This is damn good.

Lysette evidently thinks so too when I find her, stealing one of my last sausages with a smirk. Varric, sat across from her, guards his meal better with one hand on his crossbow.

"Morning." I greet them, once I'm sat down out of reach of Lysette's thieving hands. "How are we this fine new day?"

"Sore," Varric grumbles. "Cross-country trekking is hardly my strong suit."

"City boy," I scoff, and he chuckles with me when I catch his eye. "Don't worry, there'll be little travel today. Ser Fallon wants to wait for the Templars from Haven before we press an attack on the mages' stronghold."

"And the renegades?" Lysette asks, looking to me with an eagerness in her eyes.

"I believe that's today's discussion." I reply, taking a bite of biscuit before continuing. "Beyond that, Ser Fallon has considered sending a force to secure a foothold at Lake Luthias. We'll need a supply of good fresh water if we're to wage a proper campaign, and the area's seen bandit activity in recent weeks. I thought to volunteer as leader of that little expedition."

"I should hope to join the assault on the renegades," Lysette replies, cracking her knuckles. "To drive them down and avenge the good name of the Order… it would be a good day."

"There was talk of a big hunt yesterday, something about rams in the hills." Varric chimes in, having finished his breakfast. "Some of the locals are trying to rope me into that. Apparently Bianca would make a good sheep killer."

"Feeding the hungry, avenging the fallen, blazing new trails…" I chuckle. "Is this an epic we're writing, Varric, or a Chantry parable?"

The dwarf shrugs.

"So long as it keeps Cass… ah, my bad, Seeker Pentaghast off my back, I don't really care." he replies, before climbing to his feet. "You two have fun while I go native, alright?"

I wave as he walks away, before looking back at Lysette. She's staring at me, which is slightly disconcerting until she smirks again. The sunlight catches in her eyes, and I have to stop myself from describing it in some trite poetic fashion. It's just… pretty. She's pretty.

Oh fuck I'm slipping.

"Lake Luthias is supposed to be a lovely place, the locals say," she says, lilting her voice in that way Orlesian's do when they're toying with you. "Had you though to seek company for the journey?"

Oh no, she's flirting.

"I…" I struggle to speak like the idiot I am. "The scouts?"

"And nobody else?" she chuckles, her hand touching mine ever so gently, fingertips brushing against one another so subtly I'm unsure if it's even happening until I look to check. "You invited me all the way out here to Ferelden, Ser Venier. Surely this is no greater a step?"

Oh no, she's good at it.

"I-I… ah…" I give up, swallowing back my doubts and just coming out with it. "I would be pleased if you were to join me, Ser du Montefort."

She smiles. It's surprisingly earnest, given her usual alignment of smirks and scowls and that odd little thing she does where her lip curls a little at the left side and…

And I've really just gone and fallen for her play, haven't I?

"Find me when it is time to go," she says, standing up. "And do be sure to gather yourself before we go. It would not do for the Herald of Andraste to be seen with drool on his chin."

I wipe my mouth, feeling nothing, and she chuckles as she walks away. Well… damn. That was something. I'm not sure what, but it was certainly something. I stand, and stretch my neck and turn my head to the sky, only to see a familiar looming sight above. Ah yes. Calenhad's Foothold. A part of me wonders if a recipe for a potion is still buried in its empty western tower.

And then a much wiser part of me wonders why it should sit empty at all.

I head for Ser Fallon's command tent then, with its great awning outside over the map table. There he stands, conferring with an unfamiliar man in heavy armour whose voice rumbles through a closed helmet as he speaks. The helm and plate are familiar; Fereldan in construction, though the axe at his hip is rather foreign looking, with a curved, elegant head and an almost hammer-like back end.

"Redcliffe's gates remain barred, Lyle." the stranger says, sighing as he crossed his arms, armour clanking with the motion. His accent is Fereldan, with a slight lilt that seems distantly familiar. "I trust you, but the Arl is spooked by all the chaos. Took me all day yesterday to convince him that me leaving to come talk with you wasn't a suicide attempt."

"The Arl should be out here himself, saving his bloody people!" Fallon snaps back. "Dammit Logan, you never should have gone back to him! The Inquisition-"

"Don't start on this again, Lyle," the man scoffs, shaking his head. "The Conclave failed. Justinia failed. I have my sisters to look out for, and their children."

A tense silence settles between them, and I decide then to step in.

"Begging the pardon of all," I say, interrupting the quiet. "A pleasure to meet you, but I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with you, Ser."

The man eyes me up and down, before nodding once.

"Templar." he says, voice low. "I'm Logan, captain of the guard in Redcliffe. It's my job you've been doing out here."

"Inquisition, actually, though I'm hardly in a position to complain." I say, before looking at Ser Fallon. "Am I to assume you two are previously acquainted?"

"Hah!" Logan laughs. "You could say that. Lyle and I go way back, before the Blight."

Fallon frowns, crossing his arms now, but Logan leans in closer, one hand braced on the table while the other points to his old friend.

"He and I grew up north of here, shit little village called Greygold." he says. "When we were young and dumb, we took up adventuring, killing bastards and monsters for coin. Made a fine run of it. We wandered here and there, selling our swords to whoever needed them most. Fallon even found himself a pretty little elf girl and-"

"Not her, Logan, damn you." Fallon interjects, slamming his hands back down on the table and shooting Logan a dark, hateful look. "Any of the stories, but not her."

Logan actually takes a step back, as do I. I've seen Fallon angry, about the mages and the war. I've even seen him in a battle fury. But this… this is old. Bitter. There's grief in the anger, something he can't let go of. Beck pulses around my arm again, and I touch it with a hand.

"We sold our swords for a time, then the Blight happened." Fallon continues, his head falling. "Greygold was destroyed. We went to Redcliffe and found it… you likely know the tale well. The Hero came and saved the town. The Arl made Logan guard captain for his efforts against the undead, and I stayed on as his foremost lieutenant."

"We agreed to escort the mages who had taken cover here to the Conclave." Logan finishes, his tone subdued. "Then that all went to hell, and I came back while Fallon forsook his duty and joined your Inquisition."

"My duty is to Fereldan and the Maker, not just Teagan's little corner of His domain." Fallon says. "I serve a higher purpose now, Logan. One you should consider as well."

"I know my duty, Lyle," Logan replies, stepping away and turning his back on the Fereldan Knight. "But it seems you've forgotten yours."

He walks away, and Fallon breathes a long and mournful sigh in his absence. I watch the stalwart knight fall against his table, head bowed and eyes shut. I dare not speak for a long moment, until finally he looks up to me.

"I apologize you had to see me like this, Herald." he says, voice low. "I… I had hoped he would see reason."

"Remember the fire." I say, voice low. "You must pass through it, alone, to be forged anew."

Fallon looks at me, and on a whim I reach forward and touch his hand. He meets my eye, and I smile.

"Look." I say. "Look upon the Light so you may lead others here through the darkness, Blade of the Faith."

He considers my words a moment, his head bowing again. Fallon, I have seen, is a man of great faith. I must speak to that within him if he is to be strong. He believes in the Maker, in Andraste… in me. I must be for him what he needs me to be, as I must for all Thedas.

I wonder in this moment if I'm crossing a Rubicon of my own making. Is this where I am born, Inquisitor, proud and true? A hero to the land, the man who shall shape and shake the whole world for ages yet to come? In this quiet moment I speak to a single man, and it feels as though I speak to myself.

I must be the Herald. I must be the Inquisitor. If I am not…

Then there, in the devastation of the Temple of Sacred Ash, in the evils of the Apostates and Renegades alike, in the despair I saw in Lyle Fallon… There lies the abyss.

I cannot let that win.

"I understand…" he says, his voice catching, eyes wet. "You… She truly sent you. She must have. I had doubted, thought it was perhaps a lie, wishful thinking but… you are Her Herald."

"I am here to save us all," I say truthfully. "And She is with me, as She is with us all."

"Then I march for you, Herald." he says, his voice stronger then, as he straightens up, clapping his fist to his chest. "As I would for Her. Where you bid, I will go."

"Above us is a fortress, untouched in a decade." I tell him. "Centuries ago Calenhad and his hosts unified all of Ferelden from that very foothold. The Inquisition would make better use of it than his descendants, I think."

"Of course…" Fallon looks down at the map, a frown on his face that quickly shifts to a rare smile. "There… We could patch the walls, set defences around it. It commands a view of the whole valley, and from those towers we could see foes marching from miles away."

"The men would be pleased with a solid roof over their heads as well, I think." I add, chuckling. "Can it be done?"

"It would take time…" Fallon says, before nodding. "Aye, it could be done. I'll send… no. Your grace, you should see it first. I'll send a man with a banner with you. If there are any foes cowering…"

"Then I shall drive them out." I declare. "Serve well, Lyle Fallon. You are a good man."

"Andraste be with…" he stops himself, smiling. "No… I suppose she already is. Walk in the light, Ser."

I bow to him, and he does the same for me. And when we part, I go first to Lysette, who waits by the training yard, leaning on her shield and watching as two men spar in the ring. Her eyes… no, I won't do this again. I approach from behind her, and lay a hand on her shoulder without a word. She starts, before looking at me and grinning when she sees who it is.

"The lake?" she asks, and I smile back.

"Better." I tell her. "Or at least I hope."

"Hope is good," she says. "But what is it you are so hopeful about?"

"I had thought that perhaps, instead of a lake, you might wish to join me in capturing a fortress." I tell her, and her smile sets my heart racing.

"Oh…" she says, voice lower now, almost husky as she draws nearer to me. "Ser Venier… you know just what to say to make a woman happy."