A/N: ...I remembered belatedly that Seekers are supposed to be immune to mind control. I'm not sure quite how broadly the definition of 'mind control' should be interpreted, so let's just call the start of this chapter dramatic license? Hope you don't mind!
Chapter Three
She staggered back, blood streaming from her nose and a cut beneath her eye. But without need of conscious thought, she found her sword in her hand.
Violette's eyes met hers above her shield, cold and hard as her drawn blade. Anselm stood at her side, Karina and Evans behind them, the Lord Seeker's men after all.
Cassandra snarled, heedless of the blood filling her mouth and dripping down her chin. But before she could charge the crack! of magic filled the air. Ice crystallized from the ether, forming like a second skin around Violette, freezing her to the spot.
"What in the Maker's name is this?" an outraged cry followed from the direction of the pier. "Lay down your weapons at once!"
Warily, Cassandra allowed her gaze to slide briefly away from the other Seekers to assess the newcomer. It was Kirkwall's Knight-Captain. And…an unknown mage.
"Never mind," Anselm barked to the others, "Kill all of them and be done!"
So that was how it was to be.
Cassandra bellowed a challenge and charged forward to meet him. Her sword crashed against Anselm's shield, then she danced back as Karina joined the fray. She could hear the slide of steel on steel as the Knight-Captain drew her other opponents but could spare him no further attention, too caught up in her own fight. Karina and Anselm fought well together, well trained, as all Seekers were. While Anselm engaged her head on, Karina moved to flank her. She might have admired their natural teamwork under other circumstances.
Relief came in the form of another spell, some form of spirit magic which set Karina screaming. Cassandra rounded on her, lashing out with her shield and sending her tumbling to the ground. But before she could finish her off Anselm was on her again.
As she probed his defenses there came a sound like breaking glass as the ice which had encased Violette shattered, then a high-pitched shriek of pain as a dozen razor-edged shards found their way past her armor. From the corner of her eye Cassandra saw the Knight-Captain lunge forward to take advantage. She fell back to give him room, luring Anselm with her, distancing him from his allies.
The world narrowed to the rhythm of her strikes, to the harsh sound her breaths, to the familiar patterns of her footwork. She threw herself at him, again and again, slowly wearing down his guard, watching for the fatal error. When his shield dipped, her blade slid past it, glancing off his shoulder pauldron. It did not pierce the mail, but he stumbled. Cassandra pressed him, she had him-
When suddenly she was on the ground, the breath gone from her lungs, the world flashing senselessly in and out of focus.
Karina. The woman was on top of her, still spell-maddened and screaming, beating and clawing at her with her bare hands. Thank the Maker she appeared to have dropped her sword and shield in her frenzy. Her helm was gone, too, giving Cassandra glimpses of her bared teeth and wildly rolling eyes.
Cassandra's shield was trapped half beneath her body, preventing her from raising her left arm. But her sword arm…
She twisted her face aside, trying to avoid Karina's raking nails, and swung with all her might. The blow connected with Karina's ear. They rolled. Cassandra rose smoothly to her feet, then plunged her blade down into the unguarded flesh of Karina's neck, bringing her entire weight to bear. Karina's cries gurgled and went silent. Cassandra spun from the dead woman, bringing up her shield as she did, searching for Anselm.
He had not gone far. Cassandra found him stalking the mage who had appeared with the Knight-Captain; she herself was attempting to flee whilst fending him off, her attacks by now reduced to basic magical bolts. Cassandra sprinted forward to defend her. Though Violette lay crumpled and unmoving on the ground, Evans continued to occupy Knight-Captain Cullen's attention.
Anselm saw her coming; abandoning the mage, he turned to meet her. Their shields slammed together and he slid back a step, off balance - sloppy footwork, Cassandra thought with grim satisfaction, he must be tiring. She dug in, forcing him back again. When he attempted to disengage she sprang forward, leading with her blade now, bringing it down in an arc just over his elbow. Anselm cried out with the impact, but didn't drop his weapon - raising it just in time to catch her next swing. Grunting with effort, she bore down harder. His weakened arm gave way and she caught him another glancing blow just as he twisted away, backstepping to his right in an effort to regain open ground at his back for a retreat.
He'd failed to account for the mage.
She could have fled back to a safe distance by then, but had instead stayed close. Now, instead of summoning a spell, she joined the melee with a single well-aimed swing from the bladed butt end of her staff. The blow hit the weakly-armored joints across the backs of Anselm's knees and his legs buckled. Cassandra followed with a strike to his head that sent him sprawling.
In desperation, he flung a fistful of dirt toward her face, but it was too little too late. They both knew he was done for. "Void take you," he gasped, before Cassandra brought down her blade for the final time.
When she looked up, the Knight-Captain was jogging to meet them. The battle was over.
Rush fading, the cold realization of death was left in its wake. Her eyes sought out Evans' body, then Violette and Karina's in turn, finally returning to Anselm.
The Seekers were a disparate order, and she could not in conscience follow their break with the Chantry, but they remained her people. She had travelled the Waking Sea with them from Orlais. She had not wished for this.
Lifting a hand in benediction she intoned over the fallen, "Walk in peace at the Maker's side." Drawing a breath, she turned to the others. "Thank you for your help. Both of you."
Knight-Captain Cullen dipped his head. "I'm pleased we were able to assist." Recollecting himself, he gestured to the mage, stood so close to them and yet somehow apart. "This is Enchanter Delia… the last loyal mage of Kirkwall."
He said it like a title. Cassandra eyed her with interest, and as if this was the permission she had been waiting for, she stepped forward. "I do not have much in the way of healing," she murmured in apparent apology, "but with your permission I might at least stop the bleeding."
"My thanks," Cassandra replied.
A cool tingle washed over her face, accompanied by the itch of knitting flesh. Unbuckling a gauntlet, she raised a hand to wipe at the crust of dried blood beneath her nose. Delia handed her a handkerchief to complete the job. She nodded once more in thanks, then returned her attention to the bodies of the four Seekers.
Reining in a swell of emotion, she knelt and began to search Anselm's pockets.
"How did you happen to find me?" she asked as she worked. An unusual thing, a Knight-Captain and an Enchanter to be wandering the docks together after dark.
Tight-lipped but intent, the Enchanter looked to the Knight-Captain to reply. A faint frown creased his face. "Delia overheard your colleagues as they were plotting. Once she came to me we made for the city at once. As for how we found you once we arrived…"
"The gulls," Delia supplied, gesturing vaguely upwards.
They were screaming and flapping to and fro from their roosts amongst the rooftops, woken and unsettled by the commotion. "A lucky thing for me," Cassandra observed. There were no shouts from people in the wake of their battle - no lamps lit in windows, no one hurrying to investigate the scene. The absence was almost conspicuous. But that was Kirkwall.
Finding nothing of interest in Anselm's possession, she moved on to Violette. The Knight-Captain watched her closely. "Madness," he muttered, clarifying at Cassandra's sharp glance, "Breaking with the Nevarran Accord is one thing - but attacking the Right Hand of the Divine? It's unconscionable. What were they hoping to achieve?"
Cassandra could speculate, but the bodies of the fallen yielded no insight. Perhaps a search of their room would unearth more - some note of instruction from the Lord Seeker, something. Meanwhile: she turned back to the Enchanter. "What exactly did you overhear?"
She seemed surprised at being addressed directly. "Not very much. One of the men asked how long they were going to wait. Someone, a woman, I think, replied that they wanted to learn how close you were to finding what you were looking for. There was an argument. I didn't catch it all. Once I understood what I was hearing, I didn't stay."
"And this was yesterday?" Cassandra guessed. "Why did you not notify the Knight-Captain or myself at once?"
Her anger was not really for the Enchanter, but the mage provided a convenient target. Then she thought of Galyan's letter, tucked in her shirt pocket, and felt ashamed.
Enchanter Delia primly drew herself up, her face going closed and distant with the implied accusation. "I needed time to make sense of what I'd heard. It was not immediately clear to me the extent of the Seekers' disloyalty."
Or, perhaps, to whom she should extend her support. Mages held a tenuous position at the best of times, after all. In either case, it was done now. Cassandra could not truly begrudge the Enchanter her uncertainty.
She stood, wiping her hands on the handkerchief Delia had given her. "Anything else?"
A brief look passed between the Knight-Captain and the Enchanter. "I will fetch the City Guard," he announced, excusing himself. "They can deal with this from here."
Once he was lost from sight amongst the sharp corners and winding alleys of Kirkwall's docking district, Delia turned her direct gaze back on Cassandra. "Knight-Captain Cullen has granted me permission to attend the Conclave."
Cassandra raised a brow, at both the change in subject and its content. "The Conclave is intended to broker peace between the rebel mages and Templars. To my knowledge neither you nor the Templars here have broken from the Chantry."
"Yet surely you cannot deny that what happened in Kirkwall was key to all that unfolded after. The last time the Seekers came to Kirkwall, they did not speak to mages. You would not be speaking to me now if I had not forced my presence here-"
"You misunderstand me," Cassandra interrupted, raising a hand to forestall further argument. "I have no objection to your attendance. But you must be aware of the focus of the negotiations or you will find yourself disappointed."
"Then consider me forewarned," the Enchanter replied with a shrug. "I have spent my life negotiating peace with Templars. It is nothing new to me. But someone from Kirkwall must be there. Someone must be there who knows."
The words resounded like a struck gong in Cassandra's head. She frowned and thought of Varric. And of Kirkwall's Knight-Captain.
The return journey to the Gallows was quiet. Cassandra appeared preoccupied, he thought, but that was hardly surprising under the circumstances. She turned to him before they parted for the night and told him, "We should speak tomorrow."
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. "I am at your disposal."
But when there came a rap at his office door the next morning, it was not the Seeker who stuck her head inside but Ser Moira. Her face was solemn, but there was a banked triumph in her eyes. "I've got him, ser," she announced before unceremoniously hauling the proclaimed culprit through the door.
"Felton?" Cullen exclaimed, rising to his feet in astonishment.
The young Templar shuffled from side to side, keeping his head bowed and his eyes averted.
"Leave us," he instructed Moira.
Her mouth dropped open, but catching sight of his glare she bit back her protest. "Ser," she muttered grudgingly, giving Felton a rough shake as she released him and backed out through the door.
Cullen paced back and forth for a moment in silence, as much to calm his temper as to let Felton stew. "Is it true?" he finally asked. "You stole from our lyrium stores?"
"Yes, ser," Felton mumbled. "It was me."
"Maker's breath, man, why?"
"I… It wasn't for me, ser; it was for Ser Braxton."
Cullen loosed a breath as understanding dawned. Ser Braxton - the Gallows' oldest and longest-serving Templar. Yes, that made more sense. Pushing sixty, the man was a relic; completely lyrium-addled. A fine object of pity for the younger men. Or hostility, for some few of them: a mirror into an unwelcome future.
"He didn't ask me to, but I… His dose isn't high enough, he says, and he's been suffering for months, ser, you can see it in him; he needs it to function. I gave him some of my own ration, but it wasn't enough. And no one else was willing to split theirs. So I…" Felton wrung his hands together, then caught himself mid-fidget and deliberately clasped them behind his back instead, forcing himself to straighten to attention. "I take full responsibility, ser."
"This is a grave offense," Cullen told him. Going back behind his desk, he lifted the stack of contracts he had been perusing, then let the heavy pages drop with a loud smack. "Months of negotiation have gone into each of these. You understand we have been reduced to dealing with the Carta to ensure our access to lyrium? And meanwhile, before our supply lines have even been secured, you risk the wellbeing of each man and woman stationed here for the sake of one. People have been dismissed from the Order for far less."
Felton's eyes had gotten rounder and rounder as Cullen spoke, but he made no further efforts to defend himself. "I understand, ser."
The lack of fight was almost as enraging as open insubordination would have been. "Get out of here while I decide what to do with you," Cullen ordered. "Consider yourself confined to your quarters until you hear otherwise."
"Ser."
Leaning on his fists, Cullen glared down at his paper-strewn desk long after the door clicked shut, as if the wood itself might yield up answers if he only pressed hard enough. What a Blighted mess. The fool boy had wanted only to do a good turn by one of his fellow men and now he faced losing his livelihood for it. More than that - for where would he get lyrium to meet his own needs if even the Order itself was struggling? Well, the answer to that was readily apparent. With the Order tearing itself apart, desperation would surely drive him to throw in his lot with the rebels, those agents causing so much disruption to their supply lines in the first place.
The irony sat ill in Cullen's gut. He was fed up to the back teeth of Maker-blasted lyrium.
What good would it do anyone for Felton to be tossed out of the Order? What good would it do for him to stay? They were a Circle without mages, barely serving their purpose, barely keeping Kirkwall from plunging back into chaos…
It was in this position Cassandra found him some time later. "Am I interrupting?" she asked after a single look at him.
"On the contrary," he replied, straightening. "You are a welcome reprieve."
An answering smirk briefly played across her mouth. "You may not think so when you hear what I have come to discuss."
Cullen briefly massaged his forehead. "All right. Let's hear it."
Resting her hip on the corner of his desk, Cassandra waited for him to meet her eye. She had washed the blood from her face and her breastplate (the only armor she wore today), but even after a night's rest she looked tired. A new, thin line of puckered scar tissue marked her right cheekbone, still angry pink. His fingers itched with a sudden, irrational urge to touch it. He crossed his arms instead and nodded in readiness.
"I think it time you told me about Meredith."
Ah. Perhaps he had been foolish to think he might escape this conversation, but Maker help him, when she had brushed the topic aside the other day in favor of asking about Hawke…
Which reminded him. Shifting his stacks of papers about, he located Moira's sketch, nearly forgotten the hurry of embarking for Kirkwall the previous night, and handed it to her. A faint sound of recognition escaped her. "In case your search will continue without your colleagues."
"Thank you."
He nodded the thanks away, wondering just where he should begin on the subject of Meredith Stannard. As it always did when he thought of her, the gulf of culpability yawned wide at his feet. Cassandra tossed him a lifeline: "Varric told me Grand Cleric Elthina refused to intervene to stem Meredith's excesses, even when pressed to by the Champion."
"That's true," Cullen agreed.
"Did you never approach the Grand Cleric yourself?"
"I did not," he admitted. "The truth is I admired Meredith for a number of years. Even when she began to cross lines I would not have considered, I felt I owed her my loyalty. It seemed to me that it was better to work with her than against her, that the chaos of her removal would cause more harm than attempting to curb the worst of her excesses from within."
"I take it you have since changed your mind on that score."
"I was a fool," Cullen said bluntly. Cassandra made no reply. Her expression was smooth as glass, inscrutable, except for that piercing stare of hers, which remained fixed on him. He shifted restlessly away. "Magic is dangerous. Protections against it must exist. But I have no desire to be needlessly cruel to those afflicted with it. Meredith became unfit to lead when she lost the ability to distinguish between the two."
"Hmm." Cassandra stepped away, frowning in thought. "I am curious. What do you think would have happened in Kirkwall had Meredith not been driven mad by red lyrium?"
This was not one of the what-ifs Cullen generally spent his sleepless nights considering. For a moment his mind stuttered helplessly over the question, unable to perceive its true shape or dimension. But then possibility crystallized into certainty. "I do not think it would have been much different. Meredith was on her path long before red lyrium came into her hands. It merely accelerated what was already in motion."
Cassandra nodded, taking this in, then faced him once more. "Tell me this, then. You have spoken of your regret following Meredith past the point you should. How will you avoid making the same mistakes again?"
This time Cullen was not caught unprepared: he had spent three years asking himself that very question. "I was an angry man when I first arrived in Kirkwall. I allowed that anger to lead me, to blind me to those things I did not wish to see. But I am not that person anymore. Working to bring order back to Kirkwall these last few years has reminded me of my principles, of the reasons I first joined the Templars. It is not the Order I wish to serve, nor any commander, but the people of Thedas. It is not a lesson I will soon forget. It is perhaps why I do not march with the rebels now."
There was a smile on Cassandra's lips when he finished speaking. She stepped closer to him, and with her voice pitched confidentially, she told him, "In that case, I have a proposition for you."
He allowed her to lead him to a seat, and when she had sat down across from him, she told him about the Inquisition. "I want you to join us. If the Conclave fails, we will need a Commander. I think it should be you."
He felt dazed, too stunned by her offer to answer at first. Gradually he became aware of the pull inside him and realized that, yes, he wanted this. Something like hope flickered in his chest, coaxed back into life by her words after long lying dormant. But before he could get too far ahead of himself - "I have a condition."
"Oh?" She plainly hadn't anticipated that, but looked at him expectantly.
He could not quite believe he was about to say these words aloud. Bracing himself for the rejection that must surely follow, he told her, "I wish to stop taking lyrium."
She stared at him in dumb shock, her eyebrows leaping toward her hairline. The silence stretched almost painfully.
It was as he thought, then.
Still, he did not drop his gaze and eventually the shock on Cassandra's face eased into thoughtfulness.
"You choose a hard path for yourself," she finally said. If he didn't know better he'd think that was admiration in her voice.
"If I am to leave the Templars, I will leave it behind fully," he replied, the forcefulness behind his words taking even him by surprise. He had not thought to ever have such an opportunity, but faced with it, he saw the desire had been building in him for years.
He had pledged himself to the Chantry, but that had not been enough. Drink this, they had told him; and dutifully, he had done so. He had allowed the Order to subsume him in the service of something greater than himself. The lyrium was a promise, of strength, of certainty, but it came with a price. He saw it in the men twice his age, and in men not so very much older than him, now. He saw what he would become if he continued down this path, and seeing made his innards clench. He knew what it was not be in control of his body, his mind; the dread of it kept him awake night after night. Duty had become a choking weight round his neck; the promises given, ash in his mouth.
"What you ask is dangerous; I know of none who have succeeded in such an endeavor. I do know of the mental and physical suffering undergone by those who have tried, either by choice or through circumstance. Men have gone mad. Men have died. You are certain this is what you wish?"
"Yes." Even if Cassandra denied his request, he saw now he could not remain as he was. Would not.
She leaned back in her seat, looking him up and down. "If I am to agree to this, I have conditions of my own." His breath caught in his throat. This was already more than he expected. "First, you will not do this alone. I expect you to come to me when you need to, whenever your suffering is great. And it will be great, I am sure. Secondly, this cannot be allowed to put the Inquisition at risk. We will tell no one of your decision, at least until the worst has passed. I will monitor you. If I determine you are not fit for duty, you will step down. Thirdly, you will need a second-in-command whom you trust and who can be relied upon to fill in for you, no questions asked, when you are…indisposed."
"Yes," he agreed without hesitation, without question, scarcely able to believe his ears. He already had an idea of whom he might call on to be his second…
Cassandra gave him a decisive nod. "Good. We are agreed, then." She held out her hand. Still hardly daring to believe this could be happening, Cullen reached out and took it. Her palm was warm and rough under his, hard with calluses, her grip firm and steady. "Welcome to the Inquisition, Commander."
Commander, he marveled. Maker's breath, what a gift she had given him. And he - he must strive to be worthy of it.
Leaning forward, still with his hand in her own, still with her eyes boldly holding his, she added, "What you are doing is very brave. I will support you however I can… Cullen."