Note: Anwen makes it home after her unfortunate incident in the Exalted Plains but something doesn't seem quite right...
Cullen winces as sword hits shield. It's an ugly sound; a crunch then a shink as the blade scrapes against metal.
"No, Roland!" he barks, "you need to vary your attacks; no wonder she keeps blocking you."
His voice is tempered with more than a little impatience. It's been a long day – a morning filled with reports and an afternoon filled with training sessions – and Cullen's passed the point where he can keep the frustration from his tone.
"You have your own shield, Roland – try doing something with it!"
The young soldier lifts his shield, bashing it against his opponent's then trying to slice his sword at her flank. She brings her own sword up in time, parrying his blow and sending it wide of its mark.
Cullen sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between gloved fingers. At least Roland has the good sense to look abashed.
"Start again," Cullen says with a nod.
Cullen thinks he can hear Roland mutter something uncomplimentary under his breath as he turns and walks to his starting position at the far end of the sparring ring but decides not to call the man out on his language – he's had a thorough thrashing this afternoon and Cullen suspects his deep mortification is enough punishment for one day.
Roland twists his sword's pommel in his palm, adjusts his grip, then falls back into a ready position, knees bent slightly and torso pitching forward with intent. On the other side of the sparring ring, his opponent lifts her shield in front of her in preparation for his next attack.
When Cullen gives his signal, Roland darts forward with a surprising amount of speed for someone in full armour. Roland had been a Templar though, before joining the ranks of the Inquisition, and Cullen knows from experience that underestimating a Templar's speed is a mistake only made once. Their armour may be heavy and cumbersome but Templars train to carry such a burden from childhood and they soon learn to shoulder it with relative ease.
Roland lets out a bellowing cry as he nears his target, raising his shield at the same time as he aims low with his sword. Despite the strength behind his attack, the sword is deflected, chinking harmlessly against metal as his opponent swoops down with her shield. Unperturbed, Roland pushes against her, using the momentum from his strike to circle around. He pulls his sword back then quickly stabs out again, this time managing to break his opponent's defences long enough to land a hit on her flank.
"Yes, finally!" Cullen shouts as he hears the dull thud of blade against armour.
There's an indecorous whoop as Roland steps back from his opponent, sword and shield dropped to the sandy ground as he raises his arms in what was probably intended as a celebratory gesture were his limbs not so heavy from hours of training. Instead they just flail clumsily.
His opponent removes her helmet, tucking it under her armpit as she regards him with one sharply arched brow. "I was taking it easy on you," she drawls with a growing smirk, "it was beginning to get embarrassing."
"Shut up, Moira," Roland snaps back, though with little genuine anger, "I'm trying to enjoy the moment."
She chuckles. "By all means, enjoy it while you can – it won't be repeated."
Roland responds with a rude hand gesture and Moira's chuckles turn into full-blown laughter. Cullen watches the spectacle before him with an amused quirk to his lips until, unexpectedly, he finds that he's laughing too. It feels good, he realises, to forget about Corypheus or troop manoeuvres or supply lines, and just focus on the people under his command – these hard-working, dedicated, ridiculous people. As the Inquisition has grown, Cullen has found himself spending more and more time cooped up in his office with reams of paperwork. But this – training his soldiers, sharing in their struggles and their laughter – this is where Cullen feels most at home.
He's about to call for another drill – there's a shield technique he's read about in one of Dorian's books he'd like to try out – when he hears the familiar rumble of the horn from atop the gate-tower. His heart does an embarrassing little flip-flop, excited at the familiar sound and what it signals.
The Inquisitor is back.
He looks toward the gate longingly, though he knows there'll still be a few minutes until Anwen actually arrives in Skyhold, then back toward his soldiers. His gaze is quickly drawn back toward the gate and this time he has to consciously force his head back to the task at hand. It's a bit embarrassing, really, that a man as disciplined as Cullen should find it so hard to keep his attention on his soldiers.
But then Anwen has been away a really long time – several weeks trying to bring some semblance of order to the chaos left in the wake of this stupid Orlesian Civil War – and Cullen wants nothing more than to see her, to hear her voice as she tells him about her travels, to just… be in her presence. But he has drills to run, crucial tactical knowledge to impart, and a dozen eager soldiers waiting for his next instruction.
Casting his eyes across the assembled group before him, trying to remember what drill he'd been planning before he'd become distracted, Cullen startles a little when he realises that Moira is looking at him with an oddly pointed expression. It's a little unnerving actually – the piercing stare, the slight quirk to the corner of her lips.
"If you like, sir, I could oversee the next few practice drills on your behalf if you have… other tasks that require your attention," she offers with an annoyingly knowing twinkle in her eyes.
His first thought it to dismiss her offer – primarily out of embarrassment that his desire to see the Inquisitor is so obvious to her. But then, Moira is one of Cullen's most capable soldiers, and since Rylen's departure to the Western Approach she has become something of a second-in-command – certainly in practice if not in name. He's confident that the training session would be just as effective under her watchful gaze as his own and, really, it would probably be a good idea for the Commander of the Inquisition's forces to have an update on the Inquisitor's progress in the Exalted Plains as soon as possible.
He gives a curt nod to Moira, hoping it exudes a steely professionalism. "Thank you, Captain, that would be appreciated. I expect a full report on the progress made by the end of the day."
"Of course, Commander." She gives her own curt nod, though he wishes she would stop smiling at him like that, like he's a small child that she's caught sneaking cookies from the kitchen.
After a final appraising look over his soldiers, he turns and marches toward the gate, hoping his speed is interpreted as busyness rather than eagerness.
He arrives at the gate just in time to watch the Inquisitor's party approach, Scout Harding at the front with a smattering of scouts immediately behind her. Anwen and her companions bring up the rear and he feels an immediate rush of relief at the sight of her. He knows it's foolish – for him to worry so keenly when she is away. She has proven herself more than capable over the many months since the Conclave. And besides, the journey from the Exalted Plains to Skyhold is an easy one, with a heavy Inquisition presence along all the major travel routes – there's no reason for him to fear the worst.
Except he can't help but fear the worst; a habit borne from experiencing far too much loss for one of such relative youth.
He smiles as she nears, and she smiles at him in return – though he's a little displeased to see that the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
She dismounts as soon as she's within Skyhold's walls, closing the few steps between them before raising to her tip-toes and pressing a quick kiss against his lips. It's gentle – and far too brief for his liking – and when she pulls back he can see the faintest of furrows between her brows.
"Something wrong?" he asks, reaching out as if to comfort her. She steps away before he can touch her, turning her back to him and wrapping her horse's reins around one fist before leading the horse toward the stables.
"No, not at all," she says over her shoulder, "just tired is all."
He follows her, his own frown coming to furrow the skin between his brows.
"I take it your journey home was not as easy as predicted?"
She gives a hollow laugh. "I can't remember the last time anything was easy."
He expects her to elaborate further but she doesn't – her oddly evasive answer left lingering alone in the space between them – and Cullen feels his frown deepen into a scowl.
Anwen is often… calculated with her words, saying what she thinks people will want to hear, what she thinks will get her what she wants. She's careful and cagey and frequently manipulative with people. And maybe she was with him too, at the start – but that was a long time ago. And he thought they'd reached the point where they could be open and honest with each other. It's frustrating to see that he may have been mistaken.
Anwen walks briskly away from him, not even looking over her shoulder to see whether he follows and Cullen feels, well, he doesn't like it.
She's normally pretty affectionate. Polite, of course, when in public – too conscious of her public image to do anything that may be construed as vulgar. But she somehow always manages to find some subtle little way to show how much she cares for him; a little squeeze of his fingers, a gentle nudge of her shoulders against his. But this, this indifference, is wholly unlike her.
Cullen loiters near the entrance to the stables, eager to stay out of the way as Dennet and his stable-hands come to greet the Inquisitor's party and take their mounts, watching the Inquisitor and her companions with analytical interest. It's not just Anwen, he realises, everyone seems a little… off. Dorian and Bull greet him as they pass but their words seem hollow, trite pleasantries rather than genuine efforts at conversation. And now that he gets a good look at her, Scout Harding looks positively ashen. As far as he can tell, no one appears to be injured, but there's definitely a heaviness to the party, a leaden solemnity that hints toward some greater unease.
When the party emerges from the stables he takes a few steps toward Anwen, keen to talk to her and figure out what has happened, hopefully find a way to alleviate her obvious distress. But Harding beats him to her, breaking into a short jog as she tries to catch up with Anwen before she can disappear into the main Keep.
"I ugh… I wanted to say th-thank you, Inquisitor, for s-saving my life." The stutter comes as a surprise; Cullen's never heard Harding sound so unsure. She's usually so confident, perfectly composed.
"Yes, well, you're welcome," Anwen replies, her tone unusually cold. "Just do better in the future. I don't want you in the field if you're going to be a liability; I won't let the Inquisition be undermined by your incompetence." Harding looks dumbfounded as Anwen steps around her and strides briskly away; dumbfounded and, Cullen can't help but notice, a little despairing too – there's a damp sheen to her eyes, and he spots the slightest tremble in her hands before she curls them into fists to hide it.
"Oi," Sera shouts at Anwen's retreating back, a sharp scowl pulling at her features. "Shit happens; you don't need to be such an arse about it."
"If I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it," Anwen snaps, her pace never once faltering as she marches toward the Keep.
What?! What in the void is happening?!
He turns to Dorian, and his distress and confusion must be obvious in his expression because Dorian immediately sighs and shakes his head.
"What's wrong?" Cullen asks, "Did something happen?"
"Just some minor altercation with some Venatori – nothing we can't handle."
Dorian pauses as he looks at Bull and Sera, and they exchange some kind of look that Cullen can't quite decipher. Concern perhaps? Irritation? Cullen's just about to prompt Dorian for more when he continues, "Harding went down at the start of the fight – quite a… grisly blow in fact. Anwen was able to heal her of course but, well, we were all a bit shaken by it. And then Anwen was hurt-"
"Hurt how? How badly?!" Cullen interrupts, realising with growing horror that he was in fact entirely justified in fearing the worst earlier.
Dorian waves his hand dismissively. "Nothing too bad. But she'd used most of her mana healing Harding, which means she wasn't able to fight off an attack before some Venatori bastard landed a few blows. She's fine, obviously, just a little upset. Honestly? I think she's mainly just embarrassed – you know what she's like when she thinks she's failed."
Cullen nods slowly. Dorian's answer is both a relief and, well… not. He's glad that Anwen is all right but troubled that she had been injured, that her magic had been insufficient to fight off an attack when she'd needed it. And to think that they'd been so close to losing Harding! Her loss would have been sorely felt throughout the Inquisition.
Anwen was right; things never seem easy any more (although, when Cullen really thinks about it, he doesn't think anything in his life has been easy. Not since before the Blight, before Kinloch Hold).
Dorian pats Cullen's shoulder companionably as they walk in step toward the Keep. "Don't worry; I'm sure she'll be back to her usual charming self in no time."
Cullen hopes he's right.
Consciousness comes to her slowly at first.
There's a dull thumping at the back of her head, a lingering stiffness in limbs left unmoved for too long. Something digs into her side, hard and sharp through the thin fabric of her jacket.
Then, all at once, things start sharpening into terrifying clarity.
It's metal digging into her side – chains, she realises – pinned between her body and the ground, chains that connect to the manacles around her wrists. She's on the ground, limbs akimbo as if she'd been roughly thrown there, the stone jagged and sandy beneath her skin – a cave then, most likely, rather than a building.
There's little light, only a few lanterns peeking through the gloom, blurred by the oily haze that hangs just below the cave's ceiling. She can just make out a door on the opposite side of the cave from where she's slumped, a gnarled plank of wood hanging crookedly in an opening hacked into the rock. It looks pretty flimsy, old and partially rotten, and she's pretty sure she could break through it with only a small amount of effort.
Anwen feels the first spark of hope at the prospect of escape.
That spark is quickly extinguished as she tries to shift and feels a burst of pain behind her eyes, a burning frisson along her arms and legs. The dull thumping in her head feels more like a throb as sensation begins to return to her conscious mind – she vaguely remembers a blow to the head, falling to the ground. She hadn't had the mana to heal it, nor the time, as some unexpected foe had lumbered toward her with fists raised. She tries now – tries to sooth her pounding head and numb limbs with the warmth of her healing magic.
Instead, nothing.
No wispy ribbon of power. No curling warmth unspooling behind her ribcage – nothing.
Oh shit.
She can feel the rising tide of panic, a great swell of dread threatening to drown her, and suddenly it's a lot harder to breath.
Calm yourself, Anwen, she chides in her mind, forcing herself to take deep, steadying breaths. If you panic now, you'll only end up dead.
She has been without her magic before – felt the cold, empty thrall of the Templar's smite on a number of occasions (and bitterly resented it each time). But this feels different somehow; she's never known the effects of a smite to last so long and from the numbness in her limbs, she's clearly been unconscious for quite some time.
Magebane, then; she must have been poisoned.
Oh shitting balls.
Well – magic or not, she needs to find a way out of this sodding cave, and Anwen is not the type to just lie and wallow in misery (too proud to accept failure, even in the most dire of situations). So instead she tries to focus on moving, on wriggling some warmth and feeling back into her limbs. She starts with her fingers and toes, gently waggling them back and forth as she works some sensation into them. Next comes her arms and legs, and she takes each limb in turn, moving them inch by inch, back and forth, until she can move them freely without pain. Finally, she pushes herself into a sitting position, taking her time and breathing in slowly as the movement causes her head to swim.
She's not sure how long it takes her to get completely upright but she suspects it's been a few hours and the realisation is somewhat disheartening.
She tries another little pull of magic.
Nothing.
Whatever has been done to her, whatever concoction of poison she's been given, the effects are apparently longer-lasting than she would normally expect.
Never mind – her magic will come back to her eventually. And then whoever has taken her captive will regret all the terrible life choices that led them to this moment as she unleashes a furious storm of lightening and ice. Or maybe she'll summon her spirit blade – it's a new technique, her Knight Enchanter training still in its infancy, but she thinks it'll be particularly cathartic to take down her captors from close range.
The darkness of her thoughts surprises her – Anwen has never considered herself to be particularly blood thirsty – but her panic has slipped away to leave a seething rage in its place. Anger at her captors for having the temerity to take her hostage, anger at herself for being stupid enough to get taken. And so she lets the images play out in her mind – images of her dramatic escape, images of her assailants writhing on the ground with skin left scorched and blackened – as her anger spits and roils.
She is alone for a long time, sitting on the dusty ground of what she now suspects to be some long-abandoned mine (the walls look too even to be natural, cut with an axe rather than eroded by time). The chain which links her manacled hands to the back wall of the cave stops her from exploring her surroundings, forces her to just sit and stew in her shame and discomfort. She tries to move her limbs as much as she can, keen to stop them from going numb again so that they won't hinder her escape should an opportunity for such present itself. It would be easier if she could just heal herself, rid her head of pain and her limbs from lingering stiffness, but her magic has still not returned.
Still.
When the door finally rattles, she thinks she may have fallen asleep, her head suddenly jerking up at the sound, her head swimming for a second in momentary confusion.
A man walks in, tall enough that he has to stoop to walk through the roughly-hewn doorway. He's skinny, face gaunt in a way that makes him look striking rather than sickly, cheekbones sharp and chin strong. She's sure she would recognise him had she seen him before so she's forced to assume that he is a stranger. He smiles at her as he approaches, and it would have seemed friendly were it not for the way his eyes narrowed, analysing her with a cold, captivated gaze. He's looking at her the way Solas looks at those strange, ancient orbs, or Dorian looks at his books – as if she's a curiosity in need of study rather than a living creature.
"Ah, you're awake I see," the tall man says as he steps slowly, leisurely, toward her. Anwen bites backs the urge to say something sarcastic, deciding it's probably best not to antagonise her captors until she can feel her magic returning.
As he gets closer she can see him a little better through the gloom, see his neatly clipped hairstyle and the fine tailoring of his mage robes. They're showier than what you'd see on a Southern mage, with sharply pointed shoulders and a gaudy abundance of metallic adornments.
Venatori then – though that's hardly a surprise.
"And what have I done to deserve this audience with the illustrious Venatori?" she sneers, narrowing her eyes in warning.
He only smiles at her, like he's indulging some small, stupid child. "You took something from my Master, something that you are not worthy to possess. And now he wants it back."
"Yes, the Anchor, I know." She gestures with her marked hand as best she can given the chains. "But he's already tried to take it back and it didn't work. So either you let me go or just kill me – because I really don't know what else you're hoping to get from me."
His smile widens, curling into something cruel and knowing. "Oh – don't worry. Death will come… eventually. But first I want to see what secrets may yet be revealed by the Anchor. My master thinks you have spoiled it, rendered it useless, but I was at Adamant, I saw you open the Rift to the Fade – and now you're going to use that power to help Corypheus."
"You'll get nothing from me," she shoots back, voice steely despite her growing unease. Anwen has always been good at keeping her expression neutral, at projecting whatever face she needs to mask her true feelings – she hopes she's succeeding in doing so now, hopes that she is exuding nothing except a stern resolve, although she fears she can feel the slightest quiver at the corner of her lips.
The tall man laughs and the sound bounces between the walls of the cramped room, adding to the oppressive heaviness of the thick, hazy air.
"Well I didn't expect it to be easy; you are the mighty Inquisitor after all." He places undue emphasis on her title, twisting it into something mocking. "But without your magic, you will have no means to resist me and, I assure you, I am very good at getting what I want."
"The Inquisition will come for me," she retorts, voice clipped – seething in response to his jeers. "They'll be looking for me as we speak. And when they find me, they will tear you to shreds with righteous fury."
He laughs again, this time louder, almost giddy with amusement.
"The Inquisition has no idea you're missing!" he manages to spit out between snorts of laughter.
That gives Anwen pause – how can the Inquisition not know that she's missing? She's the fucking Inquisitor! Of course they know! Of course they're looking for her! They're probably close to finding her right now; the Venatori can't have taken her that far away from the ambush site.
No – this sneering Venatori is just trying to unsettle her – that's all.
"We've sent someone back to Skyhold in your place," the tall man explains, "none of your little minions have any idea that you're gone."
She can feel her face turn pale, disquieted by his words. "What?! How is that even possible?"
"Surely some of you weak, Southern mages have mastered the ability to shapeshift?" He pauses, though Anwen doubts he expects an answer to his question; the pause seems primarily for theatrical effect. "The mages of Tevinter have refined this rare talent into an art form, performing deceptions you couldn't even fathom. We've sent a new Inquisitor back to the Inquisition in your stead – completely indistinguishable in every way."
She can feel the panic coming back, the icy fingers of fear and doubt ghosting along her spine and pressing deep into her skin. At first she wants to dismiss his words as preposterous – she's never heard of a Shapeshifter powerful enough to mimic the human form. Such an ability would be a terrifying source of power. But then she remembers something that gives alarming credibility to his words.
"I met Grand Enchanter Fiona at Val Royeaux," she says, voice frustratingly small to her ears, "but then when I spoke to Fiona at Redcliffe, she claimed to have never met me. She was a Shapeshifter, wasn't she? The Fiona I met at Val Royeaux – she was a Venatori agent sent to lure me to Redcliffe."
"Ah – then you've met my associate!" he crows, triumphantly. "And so you know my words to be true."
A powerful Shapeshifter within the Inquisition?! A powerful Shapeshifter wearing her face, issuing orders in her name?! The very thought of it makes her sick. For the Inquisition to be infiltrated right at the very top – she daren't imagine the chaos this Venatori agent could inspire, the absolute disaster she could set into motion.
Oh shit.