Note: Anwen is subjected to Venatori experiments while her copycat causes mayhem back at Skyhold.
As a heads up - this chapter starts with a brief but visceral description of magical torture. If this bothers you, you can skip to the section break about a quarter of the way down.
Anwen's hand is on fire.
The Anchor flairs and spits across her palm, sending waves of searing, singing heat that licks up her arm from her fingertips to her shoulder. She feels like her hand has been dipped into liquid metal, like her skin and flesh is being peeled layer-by-layer from her body until all that will remain is blackened bone.
And she screams.
Oh Maker, does she scream.
Sounds are wrenched from her mouth with every pulse of the Anchor, every crackling surge of energy. Sometimes loud bellows, sometimes strained whimpers or groans that blur into senseless babble – they're all dragged through clenched teeth until her throat is left dry and raw.
She wants it to stop.
She wants it to stop.
Except she knows what happens when the pain stops.
That's when they feed her strange concoctions, pinching her nose and stroking her throat to force it all down. She's not even sure what she's drinking. Sometimes she recognises the tang of Lyrium – but it's mixed with other stuff, sometimes bitter, sometimes cloyingly sweet. One time it scalded, settling in her stomach with such scorching intensity she thought she would burn from the inside out.
She doesn't know how long she's been strapped down – wrists and ankles straining against metal cuffs, her skin blistering as she struggles against her bindings – but she's not sure how much longer her body can last, how much pain it can endure before it tears itself apart with one final agonising spasm.
She doesn't even know what they want; doesn't know what will satisfy them, what willmake the pain stop. She knows it has something to do with the Anchor, with opening a Rift like the one she'd opened at Adamant – but that had been an accident, a flare of power in the heat of the moment, when death had seemed all but inevitable. She has no idea whether she can do it again, or how the poison and the pain is supposed to help. All she knows is that the Anchor is burning.
Flashes of green illuminate the faces of the Venatori that encircle her, giving their features a ghoulish pallor before the light sparks out and they're lost again in the murkiness. She can't really see much around her, her vision swimming from the pain, but she thinks she can pick out nearly a dozen different people around her, nodding sagely as they scribble notes, rubbing their temples in careful though.
Sometimes she catches sight of the tall man – and he just smiles.
"Enough," comes a voice from… somewhere. "Let's try something else."
The pain stops and – oh blessed Andraste– Anwen has never been more grateful for anything in her entire life. She knows it is only a temporary respite though, a precious moment of peace, and she fears that what she has endured so far is merely a preview of what is yet to come.
There is shuffling around her, and she can sense more than see the figures as they move around the table to which she's been chained. There are murmurs, quiet conversations, then the clinking of glass.
"Try this," comes a voice, a woman's perhaps, soft and reedy.
Something cool touches Anwen's lips and she tries to turn her head, straining against the shackles that bind her in place. But then she feels firm hands framing her face, keeping her in place while another hand yanks at her jaw. Something sharp and sour courses down her throat, leaving an oddly metallic taste at the back of her tongue, and she spits and sputters in a vain attempt to stop herself from swallowing. It's no use – strong fingers pinch her nose, hold her mouth shut, and she must choose between swallowing or suffocating.
Someone leans over the table, smiling at her with a wide, toothy grin. She knows this face – is far too familiar with each sharply angled feature; it's the tall man. "Now, now – why must you make everything so difficult?" he asks with a little shake to his head, "if you would only cooperate, we wouldn't have to hurt you so."
She tries to answer him – I don't know what you want from me, I don't know how to control the Anchor– but only a broken moan escapes her lips.
His smile only grows, splitting his face until it appears grotesque and inhuman in the quivering light of the oil lanterns that line the walls. "Very well – we shall have to try again."
He steps back, out of sight, and she can hear him issuing orders, though she can only make out a few words: "again… arcane power… unique reaction…"
There's no warning when the pain resumes – just one moment it's gone and the next it is there, surging and soaring and crowding her senses until she feels full to bursting.
This time it doesn't burn – this time the pain crackles and bites, tearing and nipping like she's being eaten alive.
She tries to think of pleasanter things, tries to force her thoughts to wander – an escape from this torture, if only in her mind. It's the only way she's been able to cope so far, the only survival method she has devised while her magic still hides beyond her reach. She pushes her thoughts beyond the pain, beyond the craggy walls of this miserable cave and out across Thedas towards home. She thinks of Skyhold, of blossom-capped trees and her favourite spot in the garden by the pond. She thinks of the Herald's Rest, and games of Wicked Grace played into the early hours of the morning, of the smiling faces of her friends as they drink their drinks and share their stories.
She thinks of Cullen – sweet, precious Cullen – and prays that he is all right, that the imposter sent to Skyhold in her place leaves him unharmed. She thinks of the warmth held in his honey-coloured eyes, the way his scar crinkles when he smiles, the way his palm seems to fit so naturally at the small of her back. She thinks of their chess game, still waiting in her room for her return, and how insufferably smug he'll look when he beats her again.
Reaching out beyond the pain – the crackling and the biting and the stinging sharpness – Anwen instead thinks of Cullen, and distracts herself trying to imagine what Cullen is doing at this very moment.
Cullen watches as Anwen paces alongside the War Table, looking peculiarly distant with her arms crossed and head bowed.
Josephine is reciting her latest report – speaking in bright, almost cheerful tones as she informs the council of the war that has been narrowly avoided along the Tevinter-Navarra border – but he's not sure that Anwen's really listening. She makes no eye contact with her advisers, makes no sounds of either assent or disagreement – just strides back and forth along the length of the table.
It's odd – he's never seen her act this way at a War Council before. Normally Anwen stands smartly at attention, listening intently to her advisors, nodding in agreement or pursing her lips in thought. When she's really trying to concentrate, she'll kneel down until her eyes are in line with the tabletop – as if the new perspective will provide her with some sudden inspiration on the best course of action (and, miraculously, it usually does). But today she seems a million miles away, never stopping, always moving, fidgeting with uncharacteristic nervousness.
"Thanks to the work of hundreds of negotiators and allies – not to mention a few personal connections – Nevarra and Tevinter have issued orders for their soldiers to return to their respective cities. The contested land has been split down the middle and the area is, by all accounts, peaceful – if somewhat tense." Josephine underlines something in her ledger once she's finished speaking, then looks up at Anwen expectantly.
Anwen paces for a few more moments then suddenly stops and turns to face her Ambassador. "Very good, Josephine. Make sure to pass on my gratitude to our people."
Ah – so she islistening.
"Oh – and what rewards have our efforts reaped?" she adds, almost as an aside.
Josephine looks a little startled by the question, eyes widening and brows arching. "We have averted a war – there is no higher reward to ask for."
"And have we tried? Asking that is? Have we tried asking for a reward?"
"No, I… Inquisitor, I'm not really sure what you're asking. Who would we—"
"Contact the nobles along the border," Anwen interrupts, "inform them of our efforts in avoiding war and ask for some compensation in return. They should be grateful to us after we brought peace to their lands – and if they're not grateful, we send a few soldiers to makethem grateful."
Cullen and Leliana exchange a look, part confusion and part concern.
"Are you suggesting we extortthe local nobility after they gave us their support in negotiating peace?" Josephine asks, and though she's trying to sound polite, Cullen can hear in her voice how distasteful she considers such a proposition.
"I'm suggesting you do your joband get the Inquisition the resources it needs to carry out its sacred duty. Do you have a problem with that?"
Cullen starts – utterly astounded to hear Anwen speak to Josephine in such a manner.
Beside him, he can feel Leliana bristle, and when he risks glancing at her, he can see her eyes narrow warningly in her otherwise neutral expression.
When Leliana speaks, Cullen's impressed at her ability to sound civil when she's so clearly riled. "Inquisitor, I don't think—"
Anwen cuts her off with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I don't care what you think; I've listened to enough opinions for one day." Anwen turns and, without preamble or warning, stalks out of the room, calling over her shoulder as she pushes through the door, "this meeting is over – it's lasted too fucking long already."
She leaves a stunned silence in her wake, her three advisors staring wide-eyed at the wooden door as it slams shut behind her. There's a pause – none daring to speak – until finally Leliana turns to the others, face a mix of fury and confusion.
"What in the Maker's name was that?"
Cullen wishes he knew.
Anwen's seemed… strangesince her return from the Exalted Plains, distractedperhaps, but her behaviour during the War Council this morning had been utterly incomprehensible. She'd been disinterested at best, downright rude at worst – and her parting blow to Josephine was so startlingly out-of-character that Cullen fears her recent injury at the hands of the Venatori may have been more severe than originally believed.
"Something is certainly… amiss," Cullen says, choosing his words carefully to avoid appearing overdramatic. "She hardly spoke a word last night at dinner and she missed breakfast this morning because she overslept." There's a pause, and when he starts speaking again his voice is much quieter, as if talking more to himself than the room. "Anwen neveroversleeps; she's the most obnoxiously cheerful morning person I've ever met…"
"Well I think we all knew this day might come," Leliana says with a somewhat wearied shake of her head.
"What day?" Josephine asks.
"For months now she's been shouldering an enormous burden. First as the Herald, now the Inquisitor. Close the breach, end a civil war, stop Corypheus from plunging the entire world into darkness and chaos – every day there's some new catastrophe awaiting her. It shouldn't be a surprise that one day she'd… falter."
Falter?
Is that it? Has Anwen finally reached her limits?
Cullen supposes that Leliana could be right. To carry the entire fate of Thedas upon her narrow shoulders must exact a heavy price. And, if he's honest, he hasbeen expecting this day to come. As much as he admires Anwen, as proud as he is of all her achievements, he knows she is only human – and no human, no matter how brilliant, can keep fighting all these months without the exertion taking its toll.
"I'll… speak to her?" Cullen offers, "or… perhaps she would prefer her space?" He shakes his head – feeling suddenly lost. Their relationship is still relatively new – wonderful and tender and perfect– but still new, and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. What he does knowis that Anwen is proud and stubborn, that she hates appearing weak or vulnerable, especially in front of him (which is ridiculous – as if someone as broken as him could possibly think less of someone for being merely cracked).
He decides that a direct confrontation is probably best to be avoided. He'll wait – give her some space – and when she's ready to let him in, he'll be there waiting to support her however he can.
"Do what you can," Josephine says, voice gentle, one hand raising to rest companionably on his shoulder. "And we'll do what we can as well. If you can think of some way we can help, you only need to ask. And… I'll probably refrain from contacting the Nevarran nobles, at least until Anwen has cooled somewhat."
Cullen nods, a faint smile managing to work its way onto his lips – immensely grateful to have Josephine and Leliana's support. Sure the two women seem to take far too great a delight in teasing him (and he's sure Mia would be relieved to know that someone has taken on her mantle in her absence) but after the almost crippling solitude of Kirkwall's Gallows, it's nice to know that he now has people watching his back.
When he leaves the War Room he feels, well, mollified – if not exactly comforted.
He'd planned on working on some reports after the War Council meeting – there's a stack of paperwork on his desk so towering he fears it may soon endanger his life should a gust of wind send it toppling down – but he doesn't think he's in the right frame of mind for it now.
Instead he seeks out Moira, challenges her to a bout in the sparring ring with a teasing joviality he doesn't feel. If she can see the tension behind his eyes, read the lie behind his forced cheerfulness, she doesn't mention it – only smiles crookedly and accepts his challenge with hasty readiness.
Things feel better in the sparring ring, with his sword in his hand and sweat inching down his spine. They've both forgone their armour, shields too, choosing instead to focus purely on swordplay. It had been his suggestion – the pace is faster without heavy armour, and that's what he wants. He doesn't want to be patient, doesn't want to carefully consider his next attack or sensibly ration his movements to prolong his stamina – he wants to dash and slash, drive forward, reel back – he wants to push himself to the point of exhaustion so he doesn't have any energy left to worry about Anwen and her peculiar behaviour.
The grin that had spread across Moira's lips when he'd first challenged her has long since fled – instead she sucks in ragged breaths, her face contorted in deep concentration. Moira can thrash most of the Inquisition's soldiers with little effort, mouth curved in a smile and eyes alight with amusement – but Cullen isn't the usual Inquisition soldier, and it's oddly rewarding to remind himself that thisis why he'sthe Commander.
Cullen is still going strong several hours into their sparring session and when he manages to knock Moira to the ground again, leaning over her to press his blade against her throat in simulation of the ending blow, she doesn't even try to resist before gasping out a breathless, "I yield!" He shifts his sword to his off-hand before reaching down to Moira and hefting her back to her feet, giving her a companionable pat on the shoulder in recognition of her fine effort, despite her ultimate defeat.
Moira takes a few moments to walk circuits around the ring, sucking in deep lungfuls of air while pressing a steadying hand to her ribs. Cullen only stands and waits, happy to give her some space while she catches her breath. Her face is turned upward, perhaps trying to hide from him just how exhausted she is, how pained her expression, though he can see her flush spreading all the way from her cheeks down her neck, and the steady rivulets of sweat coursing down her hairline.
"Giving up?" he asks, twisting his sword nonchalantly in his hand.
Moira gives him a glare out of the corners of her eyes, though she doesn't offer a biting retort like he'd have expected (perhaps too out of breath to speak).
Taking pity on the young woman, he walks to the edge of the sparring ring, places his sword down on a low bench and picks up a canteen of water. He turns and offers the canteen to Moira, chuckling softly when she practically snatches it out of his hands, a look of desperate longing on her face. She nods her thanks before tipping her head back, gulping greedily at the proffered drink while dribbles of water snake down her chin.
Cullen turns to fetch his own canteen and is startled to find Cole instead, sitting primly on the bench, Cullen's canteen gripped tightly by pale, spidery fingers.
"Can I have that?" Cullen asks tartly.
The spirit-boy unnerves him, though he tries to be civil (mostly at Anwen's insistence; she is oddly protective of him).
Cole hands him the canteen and he takes it somewhat gingerly, sniffing cautiously at the contents when he pops the cork (not that he expects the spirit to have tampered with his drink; it just seems like something he should do, just to be safe).
"You think you can make it right by fighting. Push out the anxious thoughts until all you feel is tiredness. But it won't work; you can't fix her when she's not broken." Cole tips his head back so that he can look at Cullen from below the wide brim of his hat. The whole effect is rather unsettling; the cryptic words, the oddly intense stare.
"Yes, well, thank you for that," Cullen says, though he's not sure he means it, "now if you don't mind; I'm busy."
"You don't understand; this is important," Cole insists, now rising from his seat and stepping forward. "You want to help her, want to piece together the parts of her, hold them in place until the cracks disappear. But you can't fix her when she's not broken." The spirit is looking at him almost plaintively, as if desperately trying to articulate something but struggling to find the right words.
"You're talking about Anwen," Cullen says, now unexpectedly intrigued in what Cole has to say. If the spirit knows something about Anwen, Cullen needsto know it too. "She's not herself right now. She's unwell or… tired, perhaps… from the burden of being Inquisitor."
"No, no, no," Cole cries, growing increasingly agitated, "not unwell. Not tired. She's not herself; she's someone else."
"Yes – that's what I just said; she's not herself right now."
Cole is shaking his head, muttering no no noagain and again, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso in an attempt, perhaps, to comfort himself. Cullen's just about to ask Cole a question, to try and find some sense among the unintelligible mumbling, when suddenly he hears a loud crash from inside the Herald's Rest.
Cole stops his chanting, his head jerking up in the direction of the tavern. "She's not broken but she can break things around her. Precious things." He turns to look at Cullen, fixing him with a glare that would be full of meaning if Cullen could only decipher it. "I can't help her; I don't know where she is. But you can find her – because you know her."
Cullen glances toward the tavern then back at Cole only to find that he's disappeared. He quickly scans across the yard, head sweeping from side-to-side but finding nothing (and one would think the hat would be pretty hard to miss).
"What did he want?" Moira asks from over his shoulder.
Cullen shrugs, confused and unnerved and suddenly feeling strangely powerless. "I have no idea. But—" he looks back at the tavern when he hears another muffled crash from inside, "I'm going to see what that ruckus is all about. Thank you for the practice," he adds as he strides passed her. Moira nods at him in response, eyes slanted with concern as he departs.
He doesn't know what he was expecting inside the tavern, but it certainly wasn't what he finds.
A crowd has gathered on the ground floor, the tavern's patrons all craning their neck to see the drama unfolding on the first floor. He can hear raised voices, and he can see Anwen gesturing wildly with her hands, and – Maker– things are being thrown from Sera's nook, books and pillows and assorted trinkets turned into makeshift projectiles, all of them aimed toward the Inquisitor.
The Iron Bull and a few of his Chargers stand warily at the foot of the stairs, as if undecided whether to intervene or merely watch. Cullen pushes through them, taking the steps two at a time so that he can reach the altercation as soon as possible and – well, he has no idea – do something.
"Get your smug, self-important face away from me!" he hears Sera yell as another book is sent flinging through the air. Anwen steps to the side, dodging the book by mere inches.
"For an archer, your aim is pretty piss-poor!" Anwen retorts with a smirk, arms spread wide as if inviting another attack.
"Why you pompous, trumped-up gobshite!"
Cullen steps between the two women, palms raised placatingly, and gets a candlestick in his ribs for his trouble. He looks over his shoulder to give Sera a warning glare and she lowers the teapot now clutched in her hands (though, he notes, doesn't let go of it).
"What is going on here?!" he roars.
"She's out of her fucking mind," Anwen snaps, "isn't that obvious?"
"I'mout of my fucking mind?" Sera is practically bouncing with restless rage. "You'rethe one who's being a total shit-heel – pissing on the little guys; punching down."
"I'm trying to save the fucking world, Sera, sometimes the little guys are just shit out of luck!"
"Shut up, the both of you!" Cullen snaps, and he never thought he'd be in a situation where he'd be yelling at the Inquisitor like he would an unruly child. "Now… explain to me what's going on. What started all this?"
Anwen huffs as she crosses her arms, but before she can respond to Cullen's question, Sera answers. "Her Gracious Ladybits has decided not to send a battalion to Verchiel – it's apparently beneath the Inquisition's attention."
Cullen is a little stunned by Sera's words – Anwen has already requested for the battalion to march; she'd said as such in her most recent letter. Why would she suddenly change her mind now? (and why wouldn't she tell him?)
"And nowshe's decided that the Inquisition doesn't need the Red Jennies – apparently Lady Magic-hands here has her sacred, fancy-pants status to protect." Sera gives a mocking little bow then gestures rudely with her hands.
"When I recruited you, I expected people," Anwen says, "but instead all I've got is you– your immature ramblings and petty pranks. You and your whole organisation is just a stain on the Inquisition's fine reputation."
Sera's low growl is all the warning Cullen gets before the teapot goes flying and Sera flings herself from the threshold of her room, fingers curled like claws as she reaches toward Anwen. Cullen grabs her by the waist, holds her tight against his chest to stop whatever this is from descending into an outright brawl.
Anwen doesn't look shocked by the attempted attack. Instead she only stands there, serene and smiling.
"Let me go, Cullen!" Sera cries as she squirms in his grasp. Cullen thinks that would be a decidedly terrible idea and just holds on tighter.
Anwen takes a few steps forward, face so calm and gentile that it seems almost chilling. Sera stills as she nears, though rage still seeps from her in waves.
"Get out," Anwen says, low and warning.
Cullen and Sera both respond at the same time with a startled, "what?!"
"I said – get out. Get out of this tavern, get out of Skyhold. We don't need traitorous peasantslike you in the Inquisition."
Cullen's not sure whether Sera managed to wriggle out of his grasp or whether he dropped her from shock but the next thing he knows, Sera is storming away, knocking Anwen sharply with her shoulder as she passes. She stops at the top of the stairs, looks straight at Cullen while pointing at Anwen.
"That's not her!" she shouts (not that she needs to; the tavern is so deathly silent he'd be able to hear her even if she whispered). "Anni can be a stuck-up bitch sometimes but she's not that fucking monster. She's wrong – she's… possessedor something!"
Cullen feels his spine prickle at the mention of possession. Sure Anwen's been acting strangely but that doesn't mean she's possessed! She can't be possessed; not Anwen – not hisAnwen – not the only thing he's had in his whole life that hasn't been corrupted.
He feels a sudden surge of anger – or maybe it's fear – and then he's shouting back at Sera before he even realises what he's doing. "Anwen is the Inquisitor and you will speak to her with the respect that she deserves!"
Sera's face falls, features twisting into an expression of hopeless frustration. Cullen's never thought Sera particularly fond of him but her disappointment surprises him, and he finds himself feeling oddly ashamed.
"Oh pissing shit!" she snaps before hurrying down the stairs, pushing her way through the crowd to leave the tavern as quickly as possible. Bull follows after her, wearing the same expression of confusion and anger that Anwen seems to be invoking wherever she goes today.
Slowly, Cullen turns to look at Anwen, and for a startling moment he realises he barely recognises the woman in front of him. She looks eerily calm – body relaxed, eyes bright, a gentle smile playing on her lips. She does not look like a woman who's just asked one of her closest friends to leave and never come back.
Cullen feels the first shiver of doubt starting to creep up his spine. Sera's words needle at the back of his mind – possession– could Anwen be possessed? She'd been injured in a Venatori attack; Dorian had said her mana was too depleted to defend herself. Could she have made some desperate pact to save her life?
No – No. The mere thought is preposterous. Not Anwen. Not her.
He's seen her march toward almost certain death, striding from the Chantry to face an Archdemon and a demi-God among the burning wreckage of Haven. He's seen her cut through walls of demons at Adamant, exhausted and spent but still somehow able to pull dazzling arcs of magic from her hands. She's travelled through time, she's walked bodily in the Fade, she's pieced his jagged edges together and made him feel whole again – someone that strong, that defiant, does not give in to the thrall of possession.
And yet.
When she turns her softly smiling face toward him, he can feel the heavy weight of fear start to settle in the pit of his stomach. The sweat patch on the back of his shirt has gone cold (and, Maker, does his sparring session with Moira seem like a lifetime ago); the damp fabric sticks to his skin, the chafing sensation only adding to his growing discomfort.
He narrows his eyes at her, a challenge, and she quirks her head to the side in silent question; the very picture of innocence. It only takes a few steps to bridge the space between them and then he leans in close and growls in her ear, "we need to talk."
He grabs her by the hand and pulls her after him as he storms out of the Herald's Rest, taking her up through the attic door so that he doesn't have to face the murmuring crowds below. She doesn't resist as he leads her across the battlements to his tower, though he worries what it must look like to the people in Skyhold's yards; the Inquisitor being dragged through her own fortress by her fuming Commander.
When he reaches the privacy of his tower, he makes sure to take the time to lock all the doors before finally turning on her.
"Please, Anwen," he begs, "explain to me what in the Void is going on."
She arches her brow while crinkling her nose, seeming almost affronted by his request. "I don't have to explain myself to you."
He'd hoped for an apology; instead her response leaves him feeling deflated. "No – you don't haveto explain yourself to me. But I would like you to all the same. I'm – it's… it's me, Anni. You can tell me anything; I'll understand. Just – please– please talk to me."
"Sera and I have always butted heads. Her departure was inevitable."
"She's one of your closest friends!" he insists, "you love her."
He's surprised when Anwen scoffs. "I don't love her. She was useful – until she wasn't – and then I asked her to leave."
His mouth opens but there are no words.
He's never heard Anwen sound so… mercenary. Sure, Anwen likes to think of herself as practical, likes to make well-reasoned decisions after careful consideration and analysis – but she is, at heart, an idealist (Varric likes to joke she's read too many fanciful novels) and he has never heard her speak of her companions with anything other than pride and unparalleled affection.
"This isn't like you," he says, voice soft and wounded, "the Anwen I know doesn't discard people when she's done with them, the Anwen I know doesn't snap at Josephine for doing her job or scold Scout Harding for an incident that was outside of her control. These people are your family, Anni, and I know there is nothing you value more."
She looks at him with such a level expression, it's like her eyes are piercing straight through him. "Then maybe you don't know me as well as you think you do."
She's still wearing that insufferable smile when she walks away from him, head held high, chin jutting proudly. She unlocks the door leading to the bridge to Skyhold's main Keep, pauses with the door half open, then looks over her shoulder and sneers.
"I have to make the decisions that no one else will. I have to protect the Inquisition from any threats to its power, even threats from within. If you can't understand that – that's not my concern. But I won't let anyone stand in my way, not even you."
She slams the door behind her as she leaves and the sound echoes around Cullen's tower with startling finality. He feels as if something has ended, as if something precious has been irretrievably cast aside.
He feels unfathomably empty.