Note: Cullen comes face-to-face with the Venatori shapeshifter.
And then I have some fun writing Sera's POV - which was SO MUCH fun.
Cullen stares through the bars of the holding cell at the woman wearing the Inquisitor's face.
It is an uncanny resemblance – the dark hair with subtle flecks of red, the bright blue of her eyes, the softest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, so faint that most people don't even notice them. But Cullen has noticed them – because Cullen spends an inordinately large amount of time staring at this face; staring at it, admiring it, memorising every little feature so that he can hold on to his image of her when she's away from Skyhold for weeks at a time.
Which is why he's so thoroughly astounded that he didn't see the truth sooner.
The replica may be remarkably accurate but it's also just – wrong. It's too calm, too placid. The eyebrows aren't animated enough while speaking, the eyes not soft enough when laughing, and the smile – too sweet, too gentile, not crooked and goofy and warm as it should be.
How could he have ever mistaken this fraud for his Anwen?
The woman looks up, noticing his looming presence, and her face falls into something pitiable, lost and afraid and hurt. "Cullen, let me go," she pleads with a tremulous voice. "I-I don't understand. Why am I here? Please – it's me – please let me go." She leans forward, hands curling around the bars as she looks up at him with large, soulful eyes.
He only looks down at her impassively. "Don't even bother – I know you're not her."
The sorrow immediately drops, chased away by frustration and a long, rumbling sigh. Then she steps back from the bars slightly, raises her hands to her hips, and sneers at him, nose crinkling as one side of her mouth curls up sharply. "So what can I do for you then, Commander? Come to continue our little tryst from the bedroom?"
He feels a flush of anger darkening his cheeks, hot and red – though, there's embarrassment there too. He'd been so excited when she'd come to him, pale skin bathed in moonlight, full figure visible through the far too-thin nightgown; excited and intrigued and painfully aroused. That he'd let such base emotions distract him from the terrible truth – the realisation that that's not Anwen – is enough to thoroughly shame him.
"Shut up," he snaps, stepping closer to the bars in warning, his far larger form towering over her.
She doesn't appear fazed by his posturing. If anything, she looks amused, her sneer turning into something gentler, almost coy. "I could have made you very happy, Commander. I would have done anything you wanted, anything at all." She steps closer too, snakes her arms through the bars so she can run her hands down his chest, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt as she drags them down. When she speaks again, her voice is dark and husky, yet so achingly like Anwen's that Cullen can't help the traitorous little quiver that spills up his spine. "Don't you want me, Commander? Don't you want to claim me – make me yours – use my body for your pleasure?"
"Shut up," he snaps again, more forceful now, pushing her hands off him and taking a resolute step backwards.
She laughs, and the sound is infuriating, light and happy, delighted by his misery.
He's glad when the door leading to the holding cells swings open and Leliana and Cassandra step briskly inside. Not-Anwen stills, watching the women approach with interest and (as Cullen notes with satisfaction) perhaps the barest hint of apprehension.
Both women look a little disgruntled, eyes blinking heavily with sleep, steps a little more leaden than usual. Leliana's not wearing her hood, and Cullen's surprised at how much younger she looks, sweeter, with dishevelled hair and an expression too tired to hold her usual reserve. Cassandra just looks irritated, eyes narrowed and a scowl tugging her mouth down.
They look at him questioningly as they approach, clearly puzzled by the unexpected and rather rude awakening in the middle of the night. He'd sent messengers to wake them with only the faintest of details – come at once; a new prisoner at Skyhold – eager to stop news of Anwen's absence from spreading around the fortress. Because the alarming truth of the matter is that the Inquisitor is missing – likely captured, possibly dead– and he doesn't know how the Inquisition will handle such news.
Honestly – he's not sure how he's handling such news either. He feels equal parts frustration and terror, and he keeps clenching and unclenching his fists – itching to do something but entirely unclear as to what.
"Care to explain what's going on?" Cassandra asks as she nears, then her eyes widen with shock before she asks, a little louder, verging on shrill, "why is the Inquisitor behind bars?"
"That's not Anwen," Cullen replies gravely, "she's an imposter."
Both women bristle at the news, sharing a look of confusion before turning to face him again.
"If that's not the Inquisitor – then where is she?" Leliana asks.
"Dead," Not-Anwen replies with a twinkle in her eyes, clearly enjoying this little spectacle.
Cullen can feel the blood drain from his face, his whole body stiffening as he sucks in a sharp breath. It's what he's been dreading, the answer he's been secretly suspecting at the back of his mind but forcefully quieting because if it's true – if it's true – it might just break him.
Beside him, Leliana and Cassandra have similar responses, their faces turning pale, a clear, stifling panic settling behind their eyes.
Not-Anwen laughs, a girlish giggle wholly unlike Anwen's usual hearty snorts. "Or maybe she's not dead. Maybe she's being presented to Corypheus as a prize. If that's the case, maybe she would prefer death."
"Stop playing games and give us a straight answer," Cullen snarls.
"Oh – but I like playing games. Wouldn't you like to play with me, Commander?" She cocks her hip to the side, rolls her shoulders back so that her chest pushes out a little further, straining against the front of her nightgown.
He flushes, suddenly mortified at the thought that Leliana and Cassandra might figure out what he was doing before he'd realised the deception, might think less of him for having so easily succumbed to the woman's seduction attempt. He wishes he'd thrown a robe over her or something, anything to cover lithe limbs exposed by a far too flimsy nightgown.
"Where is the Inquisitor?" Leliana asks again, voice firm, eyes boring into Not-Anwen with a piercing intensity.
"I don't know," the woman replies, head shaking slightly, and there's a calm openness in her expression which makes Cullen believe her. "I didn't need to know. All I needed to do was take her place and cause as much trouble within the Inquisition as possible before I got caught."
"You knew you would get caught?" Cassandra asks, genuinely interested by the woman's words.
"Of course it would happen eventually. I may look like her but I'm not her – I have none of her memories – and I knew that eventually I would be caught out. I did hope to last more than a few days but… well… the Commander likes to get rough." She gives him a wink and he feels his flush deepening.
Neither Leliana and Cassandra seem to notice his discomfort though and they focus their attentions on the woman behind bars. "How has this deception been achieved?" Cassandra asks.
"I'm a very powerful mage," Not-Anwen responds, somehow managing to sound smug despite her captivity.
"A shapeshifter then?" Leliana asks and Cullen immediately scoffs.
"Impossible," Cullen says, "no mage is powerful enough to mimic the human form."
"I don't know," Leliana responds, "I knew a remarkably powerful shapeshifter once. Perhaps this ability isn't quite as impossible as you think."
Not-Anwen only smiles – that sweet, gentle smile that looks so strange on Anwen's face.
"Who are you?" Leliana asks.
"Does it matter? You're going to kill me anyway."
Cullen's fingers twitch for the sword at his hip; he would gladly give this woman the death she so clearly expects. But while this woman thinks her death inevitable, Cullen's not so sure. She'll sit for judgement in front of Anwen, that much is certain – but Anwen has shown remarkable mercy in her judgements. She didn't kill Alexius for what he did to the mages at Redcliffe, nor the Mayor of Crestwood for all the innocents he drowned during the Blight. He thinks it likely that Anwen will show this woman mercy too – although… Anwen needs to be found before she can show anyone mercy.
"No – you're right – you don't matter," Cassandra responds, steely and disdainful, before turning from the cell and walking away, ushering the others to follow her to the door which leads to the rest of Skyhold. "We need to find Anwen, Leliana—"
"I'll send messages to my scouts to search all areas where the Inquisitor has recently travelled," Leliana interrupts Cassandra before she can finish her sentence, already formulating a plan. "I will only use people I can personally trust – we need to keep this information as contained as possible. Otherwise there'll be panic."
"I'll assign my best men to guard the prison – with strict instructions not to engage with the prisoner or tell anyone of what they see in here." Cullen gives a decided nod as he speaks then pauses for a moment in thought before adding, a little softer and more uncertain, "what are we going to tell people about Anwen's sudden disappearance?"
"I'll go speak to Josephine," Leliana answers, "she'll manage people's inquiries. We'll have to tell people she's sick or something – given her irrational behaviour these last few days, I imagine people will believe it."
With a plan of action decided (vague as it may be), the two women march determinedly from the room, whatever tiredness they'd felt mere moments before completely forgotten as they focus on the task at hand.
Cullen lingers, thoughts still a whirl of confusion and anger and fear.
He walks slowly back to Not-Anwen's cell, not entirely sure why.
When he looks at her, he's glad to find that she's no longer smiling, merely standing with a blank expression on her face, almost defeated, though too proud to show it and trying for impassive nonchalance instead. There's a growing bruise on her temple from when Cullen backhanded her, the dark purple standing starkly against the paleness of her skin.
"Aren't you going to heal that?" he says, gesturing vaguely toward the wound.
She just carries on staring at him impassively, though he doesn't think he imagines the brief flash of irritation that flits across her eyes, Anwen's startling blue replaced with a stranger's gold for the barest of moments.
A sudden realisation dawns on him. "You can't heal it. Healing magic is a rare gift that Anwen possesses – but you do not." He smirks. "Maybe you're not as powerful a mage as you think."
"Healing magic will not save her from whatever Corypheus has in store for her," she responds defiantly. "Your precious Anni will die, the Inquisition will crumble, and you will be left with nothing."
A growl catches at the back of his throat as Cullen suddenly surges forward. "If anything happens to her, I will kill you myself," he spits, rattling at the bars of her cage.
"Then I look forward to seeing you next time, Commander," she says, waving her hand at him dismissively. She shrugs languidly as she turns away from him, then walks to the far end of her cell before sinking down to the floor.
His movements are far more tense, turning sharply and marching from Skyhold's prison, trying not to hurry but walking with strong, controlled steps. He doesn't want her to see how much she's riled him, how much his heart aches at the prospect that Anwen may already be dead.
Mud clings to Sera's boots as she trudges along the forest path, thick and wet and stubbornly persistent. It takes a frustrating amount of effort to yank her feet from the sludge, cringing at the odd slurping sounds she makes with each step.
It sounds fucking gross – like punching a grapefruit.
The rain had come unexpectedly, drenching the forest with a sheet of water before fucking off as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a chill in the air and a quagmire of water and muck on the ground.
Spring Showers, she's heard it called – as if giving it a whimsical name makes it any less shit.
At least the smell is nice – clean and clear and leafy. It's different from Denerim, which never smelled clean even after the most enthusiastic of downpours, only ever dank and dreary. It's different from Skyhold too – it had always smelled a little strange there, like the air was a little too thin to smell of anything much.
She can feel something bristle along her spine when she thinks of Skyhold. Something hot and itchy. For a moment she thinks she's angry but she soon dismisses that idea. It's not anger – because that would mean she cares, which she doesn't.
She's not angry that the Inquisitor was being a total arsehole.
She's not angry that the Inquisitor sent her away from Skyhold.
She's not angry that the first friend she's had in a really long time (maybe ever?) looked her right in the eyes and told her to get lost.
Something twists in her gut, something uncomfortable and swirly and – stop it, stop it!
It's the same feeling she gets when Solas starts talking about the Fade, or when Cole starts talking about, well, anything. It's a numb feeling, an empty feeling. The kind of feeling which makes you feel like an idiot – like everything you thought was right is wrong. It's the kind of feeling you have to fight against, punching and spitting, because if you don't then all you'll end up feeling is nothing.
Fuck the Inquisition.
Fuck Skyhold.
And fuck that fucking Inquisitor.
With her pompous little smirks, and her stupid matching outfits, and her knowing things– always knowing everything about everything! She thinks she's so fucking smart.
Well she's not smart – she's stupid – which is why she'd turned down the Red Jennies' help. Too up her own arse to appreciate the work they were doing.
Although… she had understood – at least at first. She'd listened patiently when Sera explained about the Jennies. In fact, Anni always listened patiently – to everyone. Even if she didn't agree with them, Anni always listened first. And she'd helped them too; she'd got Sera her bees, sided with the servants when some Lord started gobbing off against the Inquisition, even helped the Jennies take those caravans in Kirkwall, despite how angry it made the Marcher merchant houses.
Anni had been the good kind of noble.
Until she wasn't.
Then she was just another uptight arse-muncher with delusions of superiority.
Sera had been glad to leave Skyhold (that's right – glad. That hadn't been anger roiling in the pit of her stomach, or sadness crawling under her skin). She was eager to get back to the Jennies – back to doing what she'd always done, what she'd always been good at: pissing off arseholes and standing up for the little guy.
Her plan was to head back to Val Royeaux, pick up where she'd left off before Her Gracious Ladybits had recruited her. It's not far from Skyhold either – several days – crossing the Dales before skirting round the tail-end of the Waking Sea.
She'd been making good time too, already in the Exalted Plains, until she'd received a note from one of her people requesting her immediate presence in Belmont.
It had been a weird note, oddly personal – missives from the Jennies rarely requested individual agents by name. That's kind of the whole fucking point – the Jennies are an anonymous collective, hidden, innocuous; they can pass unnoticed everywhere they travel, dispensing justice to whichever gobshite noble was stupid enough to invoke their ire.
But Sera is itching to do something, anything, to distract her mind from darker thoughts. To push away all memories of Skyhold or the Inquisition or the ugly, ugly argument she'd had with Anni before she'd left. To banish the sadness that sits heavily in the space behind her ribs.
Not that she's sad – she's not sad – she's fucking fine.
The rain starts again just as she's reaching Belmont, heavier this time, and Sera pulls her jacket closer, cursing a little when she feels the water seeping through a poorly patched hole at the right shoulder. The village backs straight up against the forest, it's architecture that weird mix of Orlesian and Ferelden styles that's common in settlements this close to the border. They're nice buildings too; the village is relatively prosperous, made rich through the lumber trade, though falling under the patronage of the grander estate at Maida Vallée, which eagerly takes its share of all profits – sometimes a little tooeagerly, hence the Jenny presence.
Fucking nobles.
Sera darts quickly across the lumber yards at the outskirts of the village (well, as quickly as the mud will allow) before winding her way through the mix of houses and shops, eyes narrowing at hand-painted signs made grey and blurred by the deluge as she tries to navigate this unfamiliar place. When she finally sees the sign she's looking for, a rose with a crown around its stem, she barrels forward, flinging the door open with a clatter so she can get out of the rain as soon as possible.
Several patrons snap their heads up to glare at her as she stumbles through the heavy wooden door and she glares right back at them – nosey shits should mind their own fucking business. Most people quickly turn their attention back to their drinks; only a few keep their eyes on her, watching with interest as this strangely dishevelled elf picks her way between the messy scramble of tables.
It's a large tavern, much larger than the Herald's Rest, although it seems peculiarly filled with furniture, as if the building has shrunk over time, crowding everything closer. The clientele isn't particularly varied – large, burly men mainly, most wearing the same thick overalls they presumably wore for the day's work. Occasionally there'll be a smarter-dressed man or a stuffy-looking woman, trying very hard not to look at anyone (as if they can't be seen if they're not looking).
When she reaches the bar she asks for a beer, throwing more coin across the table than necessary before taking her first eager sips. The beer is warm, stale and oddly papery, and still the greatest bloody thing she's tasted in ages. She's running low on food and drink, having left Skyhold too quickly to pack with any great care, and she's grateful to have this opportunity to fill her belly.
She's only a few sips into her beer when someone approaches, a dwarven man with a fulsome beard, carefully braided, and a pair of well-mended overalls. His face is painted with the thick, black lines of a tattoo – although his skin is so heavily scored and grooved from a hard-lived life that it almost looks like the tattoo has been carved into him.
"Sera?" he asks when he's by her side, looking up at her before glancing quickly over his shoulder. It seems an oddly nervous gesture, his eyes flicking to the far corner of the room.
"Who wants to know?" she retorts, chin jutting defiantly.
He rolls his eyes, little patience for Sera's evasive answer.
"Just… come on," he says, beckoning her to follow as he turns his back to the bar and walks swiftly away.
A part of her wants to stay stubbornly where she is – irritated that he didn't answer her question – but then she didn't take this little detour across the Exalted Plains just to be difficult. She follows him; keen to find out what job requires the Jennies tonight.
He leads her to the corner of the tavern that's furthest from the door. There's a small table there, only room enough for two, so obscured by the winding staircase to the second floor that you wouldn't see it unless you knew to look for it.
Someone is sitting there already, back turned to Sera, and from the small stature, Sera assumes it to be a woman. As she gets nearer, Sera starts to feel the slow dawning of recognition – there's something about the woman's straight posture, about the slight flecks of red in her dark hair, that's so powerfully familiar that Sera starts to feel that odd feeling in the pit of her stomach again (the feeling that's definitely not anger and definitelynot sadness).
Sera's boots scuff on the floorboards and the woman turns, Sera's eyes immediately coming to lock onto a pair of very familiar, startlingly blue eyes.
Sera stops in her tracks, turns, and starts to walk away. "Oh, fuck off," she calls over her shoulder.
"Sera, wait!" Anwen calls, trotting after her, one hand reaching out to stop Sera's departure, something sad and plaintive in her eyes.
Sera just swats it away. "No – piss off – you told me to leave, you can't trick me into meeting you then expect me to come back."
"What?! I never asked you to leave!"
"Oh so I just imagined it when you called me useless, called me a traitorous peasant– when you told me to leave Skyhold and never come back?!"
At first Sera thinks Anwen looks hurt – but then she realises it's shock, her eyes blown wide and her mouth gaping slightly.
Anwen steps forward briskly and tries to grab her again, this time successfully wrapping her fingers around Sera's wrist and dragging her back behind the shadow of the staircase. Sera could pull away if she wanted – but she finds that she doesn't.
And it's not because she still considers Anwen a friend or because she wants to hear what Anwen has to say – because she doesn't.
It's because, well – shut it!
Anwen pushes her into a chair then takes the one on the opposite side of the table. Sera notices that the dwarven man is standing near the foot of the stairs, blocking the route to this secluded corner of the tavern as if standing guard. Anwen leans close and Sera finds herself leaning in closer too, bent over the pocked surface of the small table, and when Anwen starts talking, it is in a quiet, urgent voice. "Sera, I never called you those things. And I certainly never told you to leave Skyhold." Sera scoffs but Anwen just carries on undeterred. "I haven't even been in Skyhold – I've been in an underground Venatori laboratory for… fuck knows how long. They sent a shapeshifting mage in my place so that my absence wouldn't be noticed. She's the one who told you to leave."
Sera fixes her with a level stare. "That's the craziest shit I have ever heard."
Anwen looks a little crestfallen. "You don't believe me?"
"Of course I fucking believe you!" Sera suddenly shouts, causing Anwen to flinch and quickly glance over her shoulder to see whether Sera's enthusiastic outburst has drawn any attention. Sera rolls her eyes at Anwen's paranoia but speaks a little softer when she adds, "because the alternative is even fucking crazier."
"And what alternative is that?" Anwen asks in the same hushed tone as before.
"That you'd gone proper nuts – seriously, Anni, that bitch who's taken your place is out of her fucking mind."
Anwen groans, dropping her head until her forehead rests against the wooden tabletop, her fingers coming to bury into her hair. "That's what I was afraid would happen," she murmurs.
"I knew it! I knew it!" Sera crows, suddenly feeling elated. Not that she'd felt angry before, angry or sad or disappointed – because she hadn't – but still, it's nice to have Anni in front of her again, the real Anni, not some uptight arse-hat. "I knew it couldn't be you – I said it; I said it to Cullen. I told him you were possessed or something. Something demony."
Anwen's head jerks up at the mention of Cullen. "Oh Maker, Cullen – is he all right?"
Sera just shrugs. "Your precious Cully-wully will be fine. He's a big strapping boy – I'm sure he can look after himself. He's a fucking idiot though for not figuring it out."
Anwen frowns, though Sera's not sure what caused it – either irritation that Sera called Cullen an idiot or disappointment that he hadn't been able to see through the shapeshifter's trick.
"All right," Sera says, making to stand again, "let's get you back to Skyhold as soon as possible – then you can sort out this whole pissing mess."
"No!" Anwen cries, surprising Sera with the sheer panic in her voice. Sera sits back down. "The Venatori that captured me – I killed some of them but… there are some left. If we go back to Skyhold now, it'll take too long to send anyone and they'll get away. I've sent a message with the Jennies back to the Inquisition but… I don't know how long it'll take them to respond. I don't even know whether they'll believe my message with that fake-me there. They'll get away, Sera. And – I can't let them get away. I need to find them, I need to know what they were trying to get from me, and I need to… make them pay."
Sera looks at Anwen curiously, one brow arched while her mouth gapes in silent question. Normally Anwen is so fucking noble it's almost obnoxious – so determined to prove that she's not a monster, that she's not the wicked mage that the world seems to expect her to be. So to see Anwen pleading for retribution, eyes wild, words seething out between clenched teeth, comes as a shock to Sera.
Oh Tadwinks, what have they done to you?
It's only now that Sera really notices how wretched Anwen looks. She'd been so excited before – so intrigued by this unexpected reunion – that she hadn't really paid Anwen's appearance much attention. But now she can't help but stare at the hollowness in her cheeks, the dark smudges around her eyes, eyes that seem a little less bright, darkened by something whispering and haunted lurking behind the familiar blue. She looks much thinner too, and the borrowed clothes she's wearing gape and bulge around the neck and elbows, only exaggerating just how smallshe looks.
She looks at Sera with those sad, haunted eyes. "Sera, will you help me?"
Sera smiles – as if she even needed to ask.
"Yeah – let's fuck this shit up."