Note: Cullen does some moping and Anwen gets shit done!
Cullen frowns at his report as he writes, a deep crease carved between his brows as he tries desperately to focus on the words in front of him. But the lines seem to writhe and waiver the more he looks at them, his vision blurring despite his stubborn attempts to just concentrate harder. There's an odd twitch in one eye, a fluttering rythem in time with the dry scratching sound of his quill against paper, and he can feel the first faint murmurings of a headache beginning to pulse behind his eyes.
It's a stupid report anyway; he doesn't even know why he's writing it. Some mundane analysis of the troop numbers in Crestwood, recommending an alteration to the manning of Caer Bronach (fewer scouts, more soldiers) to provide more protection along Dead Man's Pass. They keep losing caravans along the route – falling prey to either bandits or wild animals – and it's beginning to affect the Inquisition's supply lines. It's affecting morale in the area as well, both in the Keep and for the citizens in Crestwood Village, and a more decisive Inquisition presence seems a good solution to both problems.
Not that it matters.
Interrupted supply lines are a petty concern, really, compared to the very real possibility that the Inquisitor is dead.
Oh Maker
Please don't let her be dead.
He's repeated those words so often now the sounds are beginning to blur and blend in his mind. Sometimes a prayer, spoken in soft, reerential tones; sometimes a mantra that skips across his mind whenever he lets his thoughts wander, inevitably thinking of her when he's not keeping himself preoccupied.
It's hard not to think of Anwen though – she's been missing for nearly two weeks, and while he has great faith in Leliana and her scouts, he's beginning to think that he will never hear word of her.
And that, he thinks, is perhaps the worst possible outcome.
To know her dead would devastate him, rattle him from the inside out until all his cracked and crumbling parts tumbled free and he came completely undone. But at least it would be quick.
To not know. To forever wonder whether she lives or lies dead. That seems like a particularly cruel form of torture; the jagged little pieces of him coming free one tiny splinter at a time, wearing him away piece by piece. His hope would sustain him even as his despair tore him apart. He would come undone all the same, but it would take longer and hurt even more.
He has let his mind run away from him, he realises – as is happening more and more as the days stretch by – and as he draws his attention back to his report, he notices the quill has left a large, spidery splodge on the page where he paused in his writing. Several words have been consumed by the gradually growing ink-blotch, making several sentences all but illegible.
Fuck.
He tosses the quill across his desk and it scuppers across his papers, leaving a great arc of tiny ink splotches across his report to accompany the broad black splodge. Ah well, he was going to have to rewrite it anyway. His frown deepens, increasingly frustrated by his growing inability to do even the simplest of tasks these days.
He stands abruptly; his chair screeching across the wooden floorboards at his sudden movement. He needs to get out from behind his desk, he decides, he needs to stretch his legs, needs to breath some fresh air – something, anything.
He walks to Skyhold's main Keep the long way, marching along the battlements from his office before descending to the central yard. He nods at the training soldiers in the sparring ring before taking the staircase up to the Great Hall. He's not really walking anywhere in particular but it's oddly comforting nonetheless – to let his feet wander rather than his thoughts, to focus on the steady rythem of his footfalls rather than the increasingly panicked tone of his internal monologue.
Eventually he finds himself in the library, unsurprised to find himself heading toward the small alcove that Dorian has claimed as his own; with Anwen gone, Dorian's one of the few people Cullen can really talk to. He'd expected to find the man in question curled up in his favourite wing-back chair with a book in hand. Instead he's standing next to a large crate with an armful of heavy tomes, eyes flitting along the shelves as he mumbles and tuts to himself.
"What's going on here?" Cullen asks as he nears.
Dorian's head jerks up at the question, looking momentarily irritated until he realises the interruption comes from Cullen and his features soften. "The College of Magi has sent over some of its collection – a gift to the great Inquisition, apparently. Although they've sent us such uninspiring dross I rather suspect they just wanted to clear out their shelves to make room for something better." He snorts. "Some gift…"
Cullen smiles in spite of himself, amused at the sight of Dorian's fretting. "The Emergent Compendium isn't so bad," he offers, recognising one of the books in Dorian's hand, "once you get passed the first few chapters. The introduction is too focused on countering Sister Dulcinea's work but there are some interesting points Levall he starts discussing his own views."
Dorian hmmms non-commitally then slides the book into its new home on the shelf. The rest of the books cradled in his arms soon follow, carefully organised away into the appropriate spots. When he's finished, he snaps his fingers imperiously at Cullen then points at the open crate with a sharply raised brow. With a sigh, Cullen reaches obediently into the crate, pulls out a number of books, then hands them to Dorian one-by-one as Dorian makes sure each book is placed in its proper place.
It's oddly soothing work, far more so than Cullen's earlier failed attempts to write reports – reaching into the crate, handing books to Dorian, reaching back into the crate.
Dorian makes rude comments about the books as he puts them away, or just prattles on with general small-talk, and Cullen suspects he's doing it for his sake, rather than because Dorian really cares about whether the kitchen's new pastry chef is better than the last one.
There's something amusing in the haughtiness of Dorian's tone, in his expression of utter disdain whenever he sees another Orlesian account of Tevinter depravities, and Cullen can't help the small smile that finds its way onto his lips. He realises now just how inordinately grateful he is to have Dorian here; he'd never expected to find a friend among the Inquisition – and certainly not a Tevinter mage at that. But somehow Dorian had become one of the dearest friends that Cullen has ever known.
"Ugh, another copy of The Studious Theologian," Dorian grouses, "that makes five now!"
"Brother Gentivi is one of the few historians to be respected in both Ferelden and Orlais," Cullen explains, "it's a safe choice for a gift."
Dorian groans. "Safe but damnably dull."
Cullen watches as Dorian places the book on the shelf, his gold-lined fingers catching the light where they curl around the spine. The shelf is already crowded – old, proud tomes unwilling to welcome their new comrade – and Dorian struggles to push the book into place. Cullen tries to help, holding the books aside to make enough room for the newest addition, and it's then that he notices that something is amiss. To the left is a work by Lord Renaures, to the right is one by Sister Adalaide, and the other four afore-mentioned copies of The Studious Theologian are nowhere in sight. He blinks, somewhat confused, finding it hard to believe that someone as smart as Dorian has failed to master the alphabet.
"Umm… I'm not sure how to say this but I think you've put that book in the wrong place," Cullen says sheepishly once Dorian has finally managed to wedge it onto the shelf. He lets his eyes dart along the spines, noticing for the first time that none of the books appear to be in alphabetical order, or in fact any order that he can ascertain. "In fact, all of these books appear to be in the wrong place."
Dorian sighs deeply, and from the weary resignation on his face, Cullen gathers that this is a comment Dorian has heard frequently.
"Yes, I am well aware that the Skyhold library defies all comprehension." Dorian raises a hand and drags his fingers along the gold-embossed leather of the books in front of him. "There was a lot of debate about how best way to organise the library when we first found ourselves in Skyhold. I, of course, wanted to use the Mosteiro system as used in all the finest libraries of Minrathous. Minaeve, however, wanted to use whatever ridiculous system they use in those barbaric Circles of yours." Dorian gives Cullen a pointed stare at the words 'barbaric Circles' and Cullen rolls his eyes good-naturedly in response – Dorian always enjoys his little jibes at the Circles.
"Anyway," Dorian continues, "in the end our illustrious leader intervened with a system of her own devising. The books are separated into genre and then…" he pauses, as if it physically pains him to say the words, "they are colour-coordinated."
Cullen's brows twist in confusion. "That's madness."
"Oh, I am well aware," Dorian responds with an emphatic nod, "but Anwen claims it is easier to find books when the library is colour-coordinated. She says she often forgets book titles or authors but she always remembers the colour of the cover."
Cullen looks around the library then, noticing for the first time the repeating pattern of little rainbows on every shelf; it looks quite nice actually.
Cullen lets out a little huff of amusement. "She is utterly ridiculous."
"I know," Dorian responds with a smile.
The thought of Anwen tugs at something inside Cullen's chest, something fragile and wanting, and suddenly the little rainbows seem somehow malicious – as if they're mocking him in their cheerfulness. "I love her," he says quietly.
The smile falls from Dorian's face. "I know."
Cullen steps back from the crate of books, now feeling very tired, and sinks down into Dorian's chair, letting his body sag forward as he buries his face in his hands.
Dorian moves toward his friend, lifting his hand as if to touch him then deciding instead to just let it fall to his side. "No word of her I assume?"
Cullen shakes his head. Nothing.
"Don't worry; wherever she is, she's all right."
Cullen's head lifts slightly. "I wish I had your confidence."
Dorian just smiles, weakly but there. "That's because you've not seen her in the field as often as I have. Our Anwen is… a force of nature. There's an elegance to the way she casts – but also a fierceness. It's remarkable, really, considering how slapdash her training has been over the years. I would never admit it to her but she is… far and away the superior mage to myself. Or at least – she certainly has the potential to be."
Cullen lifts one brow at that, astonished to hear Dorian sounding so humble.
"Of course you mustn't tell her I said that," Dorian says with a flap of his hands, "she'll be utterly insufferable."
Cullen chuckles then – a sad and tentative thing – but oddly relieving nonetheless. Dorian does touch him then, one hand coming to rest on Cullen's shoulder, squeezing in the softest gesture of camaraderie, of shared pain at the loss of someone crucially important to the both of them.
"Do you know what the worst part is?" Dorian continues, "it really is easier to find books with the library colour-coordinated. But you mustn't tell her I said that either."
Cullen places a hand to his heart. "I will keep your many and sundry secrets to the grave."
He stands then, patting Dorian vigorously on the shoulder – thank you, my friend – before stepping round him toward the crate of books, intending on resuming their previous work of unpacking. But before Cullen can reach for another armful of books, a messenger comes jogging toward him, face flushed with exertion.
"Commander," he says, nodding severely in greeting, "Lady Montilyet is requesting that you come to her office at once."
Cullen looks at him puzzled, brows twisting. "Did she say why?"
"She only said that it's of vital importance and that it concerns the Inquisitor."
And with that, Cullen is running.
He doesn't wait to dismiss the messenger, or thank him, or say anything at all – he only barrels passed, already intent on the stairs leading down to Solas's rotunda, the Great Hall and Josephine's office beyond.
Perhaps Anwen has returned; perhaps she's safe in Skyhold at this very moment!
At the very least he assumes there must be word – one of Leliana's scouts must have reported back with news.
He tries to steady himself, tries to rein in his rapidly rampaging thoughts – it could be bad news, he warns himself; he needs to prepare himself for every eventuality. But he can't help the happy scuttering behind his chest, the spreading warmth that's slowly filling the empty void that has been growing and growing over the last few agonising days.
Let it be good news, oh blessed Andraste, please let it be good news!
Cassandra and Leliana are already in Josephine's office when Cullen arrives, arguing in quiet but urgent voices from opposite sides of the Ambassador's desk. They stop when he approaches, though no one says anything in greeting. That's fine; Cullen doesn't see the point in wasting words on pointless pleasantries anyway. Dorian has followed, though he must know that his company has not been requested, and he keeps his distance slightly behind Cullen – if anyone wants him gone, no one says anything.
"What's going on?" Cullen asks, coming to a halt immediately in front of Josephine's desk.
"We've received a letter," Leliana responds.
"From one of your scouts?"
"From the Inquisitor."
Cullen feels something move in his chest – a giddy little pattering – followed by a long whooshing sensation as all the tension that's been gathering in every muscle is suddenly released. A smile comes immediately to his lips.
She's alive!
"Apparently," Cassandra adds, throwing him a reproachful glare when she sees his smile, a stern warning against any premature celebration.
"Cassandra has her doubts," Leliana says with a shrug, "which I do not share. I think the message is genuine, despite its… unusual origins."
"Unusual origins – what does that mean?" Cullen asks.
"The message came from a Red Jenny," Josephine says, rising from her seat. "She gave it to one of my diplomats in Lydes who sent it back to Skyhold."
The Red Jennies? Now that is a surprise. Why wouldn't Anwen just seek out one of the Inquisition's camps and then send her message back with one of their ravens? Unless, of course, she'd found herself in a part of Thedas without an Inquisition presence – the Inquisition has been steadily increasing its influence across Orlais and Ferelden day-by-day but there are still areas where the Inquisition presence is thin.
"That is unusual," Cullen says, "but not perhaps overly suspicious. Maybe they were just the most convenient way to send us a message?"
"That's what I said!" Leliana snaps, hands gesturing toward the sky in frustration, and Cullen wonders how fierce her argument with Cassandra had grown before he'd arrived in Josephine's office.
"That may be the case but I still think caution is wise," Cassandra says, folding her arms defensively. "We've already been tricked by one copycat so far – I do not want us to fall prey to another. There is no way to know for certain whether the letter came from Anwen or… someone else – which is why I recommend we send Leliana's scouts to gather more information before—"
"The letter is requesting urgent assistance!" Leliana interrupts forcefully, "if I send a scouting party to verify the information in the letter, we are wasting precious time which may undermine Anwen's efforts in stopping these Venatori she has encountered."
"Can I see this letter?" Cullen asks, deciding to step in before Leliana and Cassandra start arguing again.
Josephine hands him the letter and he reads it eagerly, eyes flitting hurriedly over lines and curls that are so achingly familiar he can't stop his hopefulness from swelling (no matter how much Cassandra is counselling caution). He can feel Dorian step closer behind him, reading the letter over Cullen's shoulder.
Anwen's letter is addressed to all three of the War Council members, the word 'urgent' written just below the address, underlined emphatically. She starts by describing the ambush of her travelling party in the Exalted Plains and her resulting capture by the Venatori. She briefly mentions her escape, though no details of how exactly such a feat was achieved, then describes how she ended up wandering directionless through the Dales for a time before she managed to find her way to a village she knew to have a Red Jenny presence.
The final few paragraphs outline her intended plans. She'd returned to the underground complex where she'd been held captive only to find it abandoned – but, thanks to Red Jenny contacts, she believes she has discovered the location of the Venatori stronghold in the region. Her letter requests immediate Inquisition support in order to storm this stronghold.
The letter is straightforward and relatively short – using the professional tone of voice Anwen uses in her official reports rather than the more conversational one she saves for her personal correspondence to him. It does sound like her – but then it's polite enough that it could really have been written by anyone. And while the handwriting also looks like hers – it's not unfeasible to think that the Venatori could have obtained a sample of her writing and then copied that just as easily as the woman sitting in Skyhold's holding cells has copied Anwen's face.
But then he reaches the end of the letter, reads the very final line, and he knows – he knows without a shadow of a doubt – that the letter is real; it's really Anwen.
At the bottom of the letter, written in her elegantly curled script, it reads, "postscript. Mage to D5. Mage takes Tower."
He smiles, remembering all the time they've spent together playing chess – her childish pouts when she loses, her utter, unbridled glee when she manages to capture a particularly valuable piece.
"It's her," he says, handing the letter to Dorian so he can finish reading it, "it's definitely her."
"How can you be so sure?" Cassandra asks, curiosity in the lines of her frown as she looks at him.
"I just am," he replies, not wanting to waste time by trying to explain the chess game. "We need to put together a travelling party at once – this location she specifies for the Venatori stronghold is only a few days' travel from here. I want to take Scout Harding, of course, and a few of my soldiers. Probably Bull too, and you, Cassandra."
"You're going as well, Commander?" Cassandra asks.
"Yes," he says, and though his answer earns a few raised eyebrows, he's glad that no one seems inclined to object. He needs to do this; needs to see for himself that Anwen is safe and sound. He owes it to her after he'd so spectacularly failed to uncover her doppelgänger.
"I'm coming too," Dorian says, folding up the letter once he's finished reading it and handing it back to Josephine.
"Good," Cullen says with a nod, then before anyone can waste any more time with words, he turns and starts walking out of Josephine's office. "I want to leave as soon as possible, as soon as we've gathered our equipment and saddled the horses," he calls over his shoulder. He can hear the rest of the War Council offer their assent, although the words are muffled as he's already half-way out the door leading to the Great Hall.
This time when Cullen walks through Skyhold, he's no longer wandering aimlessly, he's striding with a clear, unalterable purpose. He hurries across the Great Hall toward Solas's rotunda and the quickest route back to his office, eager to gather his equipment as soon as possible and get onto the road.
It's been too long already; too long since he's seen Anwen's smiling face, too long since he's heard her laughter or her biting wit.
It's time he brings her home.
Anwen pulls her hood back as she leans forward from her vantage point and looks out across the Maida Vallee estate stretching below her. The rain has stopped, at long last, and the hood is more a hindrance than a help now, blocking her peripheral vision and muffling her hearing.
She needs to be alert tonight – needs to be wary of every sight and sound.
Standing on a high ridge at the northernmost edge of the estate, she has a good view of the grounds below, from the stables and the stone-trod yard, across the formal gardens, and all the way to the summer house and then the main chateau itself. The chateau is a grand affair – as overly elaborate as one would expect for Orlais – all columns and curved roofs and ornate tracery on every gable. Under different circumstances she would have loved to take her time and soak in all the beautiful details; Anwen has always been a sucker for Orlesian architecture.
But there's no time for sight-seeing tonight; tonight, Anwen has Venatori to kill.
She turns to her side and raises a brow at Sera in silent question. What do you think?
"Looks easy enough to get inside," Sera responds with a one-shouldered shrug, "the wall in the north-east corner backs right up onto this ridge – should be easy to jump across. Then we just run through the flouncy trees to the main house. There are people inside who like the Jennies – they'll help us."
Anwen nods in understanding then looks over Sera's shoulder at the other Jenny allies that have agreed to help her. Horace, the dwarven man from the Rose and Crown tavern, stands immediately next to Sera, a pair of daggers glinting dangerously in his hands. Beyond him, Prudi, an impressively well-muscled elven woman with keen, sharp eyes is bouncing impatiently on the balls of her feet, her heavy mace held at readiness.
"The outhouse is not being used anymore," Horace says, eyes darting quickly to look at Anwen before returning to the grounds below, "according to a friend of mine still working at the estate, it's being used to store furniture. That suggests they've emptied out several of the rooms from the house – probably to make room for their equipment. You said they'd been carrying out experiments, right?"
Anwen nods, hoping that none of her companions noticed the little shiver that rolled down her back when Horace mentioned experiments. "Yes – the compound where I was being held was filled with scientific equipment. Some arcane objects too. It makes sense that they would have moved all that stuff with them here."
She'd been disappointed when she'd returned to the Venatori's laboratory with her Red Jenny allies only to find it completely empty. Disappointed but not surprised. Their quarry had escaped, leaving a path of destruction in her wake, and they must have assumed that she would return to finish the job. It makes sense that they'd gathered their equipment and ran.
Not that running would save them.
Prudi had proven a skilled tracker, and Horace's network of informants seemed to stretch throughout the entire region, and it had been relatively easy to locate the Venatori stronghold at the Maida Vallee estate. Now it was only a matter of storming the stronghold and defeating the Venatori mages working within.
And this time, Anwen won't let anyone get away.
Prudi steps forward, twisting her mace in her grip as if just itching to give it a good swing. "Well are we going to just stand around here yammering on or are we going to go smoosh bad guys into a pulp?"
Anwen feels a small tug curling at the corners of her mouth. Prudi makes an excellent point: it's time for less talking and more smooshing. The tugging turns into a full, toothy smile as she jerks her head toward the estate below. "Let's go fuck up some Venatori shit."
There's a cackle as Sera takes her bow from her back, and Prudi and Horace exchange their own crooked smiles before nodding at Anwen to take the lead. Then the three of them are off, hurrying through the undergrowth that lines the ridge until they've reached the point where the wall of the estate is only a small jump away. They clear the wall with ease (apart from a small stumble and a few choice curse words from Horace) before making their way through the formal gardens, keeping their bodies bent and their heads low as they weave through the meticulously manicured hedgerows.
The large chateau looms ahead, lonely and cold and shrouded in gloom. It had looked pretty from the ridge, grey and delicate like a charcoal picture. But from the ground it just looks foreboding. The lingering rain clouds have choked out the moons and stars, cloaking everything below in blackness. Anwen can't even see much light coming from inside the house; only a few windows lit by a weak, greasy glow.
Their pace slows as they near the house, growing more cautious, eyes sweeping the surroundings in search of patrols. The security at the estate seems peculiarly meagre, with no patrols in sight and only a few standing guards. Perhaps the Venatori thought that a heavy guard presence was unnecessary, that their secrecy would be their greatest protection. It suggests an over-confidence, Anwen thinks, an arrogant carelessness that she is happy to exploit.
There's a group of guards by the main entrance, but only a pair of men by the servant's entrance at the back of the chateau. Sera fells the first with an arrow to the throat then fells the other before he's even had a chance to react. The bodies fall to the rain-slicked grass with soft thuds and though Anwen watches the front of the house with a spell ready on her fingertips, none of the other guards seem to notice, quietly chatting amongst themselves while huddled under the ornate portico of the main entrance. Prudi drags both bodies into a nearby bush – grumbling something under her breath that sounds a lot like "the next one's mine" – before Sera picks the lock to the servant's entrance and they all slink into the chateau.
The few startled whelps that emerge at the sight of the interlopers are quickly shushed when the staff realise that it's Jennies approaching, and not more Venatori.
"Horace, thank the Maker," a grey-haired woman exclaims as she steps forward, "I told them that the Jennies would help us, I told them, but no one—"
"There's no time to talk," Horace interrupts with a stern voice, though he places his hand on the elderly woman's shoulder in a gesture of comfort, "I've brought the Inquisitor with me, we're going to deal with these Venatori once and for all."
The elderly woman's eyes go wide when Anwen waves at her with her anchor-marked hand, the faint green fracture in her skin shimmering in the dull candlelight of the kitchens, before she falls into a small bow. Anwen tries hard not to cringe, it seems awfully ungallant when all the woman is trying to do is show her respect. But while Anwen doesn't mind the Inquisitor title, or even the general deference people show her, the bowing just seems a step too far.
"That's not necessary," Anwen says as she takes the elderly woman by the hand, gently pulling her upright, "we're just here to help. Now – please – can you tell us where the Venatori are within the chateau? And how many?"
"Some will be in the bedrooms, but most of them are in the basement with their experiments. All day and night, someone is doing something down there." Her voice drops to a whisper as she continues, "it's unnatural, whatever they're doing. Blood magic, I'd wager, and I don't want anything to do with—"
"How many are there?" Anwen asks again, trying to convey with her eyes the urgency. The longer they stand around the kitchens chatting, the higher the chance is that they'll be caught.
The elderly woman shrugs feebly. "I don't know – at least ten. Maybe fifteen. Twenty even."
Anwen nods, turning to her companions. "A few upstairs asleep, the majority in the basement below. What's our plan?"
"I'd say let's off the sleepers first," Horace suggests, casually flipping his daggers as he speaks, "it'll be quiet – then head downstairs. If we go to the basement first, the fighting might wake those upstairs and then they'll come down as reinforcements."
"Agreed," Anwen says with a nod to her companions before turning her attention back to the elderly woman, "gather all the staff in the servant's quarters – quietly. Stay out of sight, stay safe, and don't move until one of us says that it's all right. Understood?"
The elderly woman nods, then turns to a group of nearby kitchen maids and ushers them closer before whispering some instructions and pointing toward the pantries at the back of the room.
Content that the servants will keep themselves out of harm's way, Anwen beckons at her Jenny allies to follow before leading them out of the kitchens.
Most of the chateau is empty, its rooms eerie and lifeless, occupied only by the hollow stares of the oil paintings that line each wall. Anwen and her companions step-toe silently through the corridors, peeking in each room and dispatching any unsuspecting Venatori within as quickly and quietly as possible.
Horace is the best at this, slipping silently into each room and ending his victims with a clean slice of his blades against their throats. Prudi grouses about being bored, her body thrumming with impatient energy, but Anwen is just grateful that the Venatori have given little resistance so far. She remembers all too well the brutal fighting as she tried to escape her underground prison – remembers her aching limbs, remembers the raw surging of magic, jagged and angry, as she'd torn mercilessly into her former torturers.
It had been ugly – had unleashed something ugly in her – and it's not an experience she's keen to repeat.
Once they've cleared all the chateau's rooms, they start making their way downstairs and toward the basement. There's a small stone staircase at the rear of the building, far narrower and plainer than the grand, wooden staircase that sweeps up the centre of the chateau. Sconces are positioned sporadically along the walls – casting faint, flickering halos of orange against the rough stonework of the stairwell – but there's not enough light to reach the floor below, and the last few steps seem to stop into nothingness.
Anwen takes the lead, taking each step cautiously as she descends to the floor below, deciding not to call a magelight to her hands in case the spell draws the attention of the Venatori below.
"There were only a few of those fuckers upstairs," Sera notes as they descend to the basement, "which means it's about to get fucking messy."
"We're going to be badly outnumbered," Horace says, though he doesn't sound panicked; it's just an observation.
"So what?" Prudi responds with an amused chuff of air. "The more the merrier; we can take them."
Anwen begins to feel a flaring of her nerves, a peculiarly strong fluttering behind her ribs, and she starts to wonder whether it would have been better to wait for Inquisition back-up to arrive. There are a number of Templars among the Inquisition's ranks, and their abilities would obviously be invaluable against a cohort of Venatori.
But as useful as the Inquisition would be right now, Anwen knows she can't wait around and just pray for their arrival. She doesn't know whether her letter made it to Skyhold in time, or whether it made it there at all. And if it did arrive, she has no idea whether anyone believed it. Maybe the mage wearing her face got to it first, destroying it before anyone else had the chance to read it, or passing her words off as the ramblings of a madwoman. There are too many variables, too many ways that things could have gone wrong – and there just isn't time to wait and see if the Inquisition will come to her aid.
She has to end these Venatori now – before they get away.
Again.
Anwen clenches and unclenches her fists as she steps carefully down the stairs, feeling keenly the absence of her staff as she prepares herself for the inevitable fighting ahead.
Not that she needs a staff, as she reminds herself again and again. Anwen had been an apostate for years and never used a staff to focus her magic; after all, carrying a staff in public was hardly the best way to pass incognito. But she's got used to wielding a staff since joining the Inquisition, since learning just how helpful a staff can be to centre and channel her magic, giving it greater strength, focus.
There's also something comforting, she thinks, in the feel of her staff, the cool smooth shaft, feeling sturdy and powerful. There's an odd tingling when she places her fingertips against the everite, not magic itself but the potential for it.
The bottom of the staircase leads into a short corridor, at the end of which is a wide, wooden doorway. She suspects there's a much larger room beyond it, probably a wine cellar originally, and she leans against the door to press her ear against the wood. She can't really hear anything from the room beyond – but she can feel the palpitating pulse of magic, curling, throbbing, almost calling to her.
Her left palm starts to prickle.
Anwen sucks in a quick breath and turns to her companions. "Definitely Venatori ahead," she whispers urgently. "A lot of them – I can feel a lot of powerful magic. Prudi," she points at the woman, "I want you to charge in front. Horace," she points at him next, "you flank down to the right. Sera and I will thin the crowd from the doorway."
Everyone nods in understanding, Prudi with a wicked grin and Horace with a professional severity. Sera looks a little anxious, probably less than enthused to face so many magic users, but she's trying to hide it under a lop-sided smirk and Anwen offers her friend her own small smirk in return.
"Let's do this!" Prudi shouts before throwing her shoulder against the wooden door and forcing her way into the room.
She's gone as soon as she's over the threshold, barrelling forward into an unsuspecting Venatori mere feet from the door. The others follow, Horace disappearing from view as he stalks into the shadowed edges of the room and Sera's bowstring ringing like a harp as she unleashes her first volley of arrows into a small cluster of people huddled to the left.
Anwen's hands are already crackling with power as she steps into the room, and she's barely had time to raise them before the magic comes surging forward, a great arc of lightning that skips from person to person with a sickening pop and crunch. There are screams, a familiar hiss as a few barriers are put into place, and then muffled thuds as those too slow to react fall to the stone floor.
Her companions are moving fast, attacking with a surprising level of finesse given that they are mostly strangers and have had little time to get acquainted with each other's fighting styles. Prudi ploughs through her opponents like an avalanche, her great mace making quick work of poorly-armoured mages, while Horace dances between fights like a hummingbird between flowers, daggers moving at such a speed there are only brief flashes of silver before there's a spray of red and Horace is moving again. And all the while, Sera fills the air with arrows, tripping off her fingers with such speed there's hardly even a pause between firing.
And yet Anwen – Anwen is moving slowly, steadily. She takes her time to read the room, to make note of her allies' movements before selecting her next target and unleashing a carefully cast whorl of magic, a flash of electricity here, a bolt of ice there. She's trying to find a balance, a balance between the raw rush of power she'd felt before in the cave, and the careful control she's always dutifully maintained. The magic is still surging to her fingertips hot and heady – but she's trying to think, to be analytical rather than lose herself to something more primal.
She thinks she's doing a pretty good job so far.
But then she sees the tall man.
He stands at the farthest end of the room, putting some unknown arcane object aside so that he can grab his staff, and when his eyes catch hers, his lips curl into the same smug sneer he'd worn whenever he'd spoken to her, whenever he'd leaned over her restrained body and pushed waves of agonising magic into her body.
There's a burst of sudden hot anger, followed by a slowly building rage, and all thoughts of control are pushed aside as Anwen starts running across the room. She summons the Fade with every step, using magic to propel her forward, blurring across the flagstones and leaping across benches and tables with an acrobatic ease.
He lifts his staff as she approaches and, without a staff of her own, Anwen finds herself reaching toward him with fingers curled into claws, as if she intends on ripping him apart with her bare hands (which perhaps she would, if given the chance).
He taps his staff against the stone floor and a great wave of energy is released, sending Anwen flying back and crashing into a wooden table laden heavily with glass equipment. She lands painfully, one arm trapped beneath her, broken glass piercing through fabric to bury into skin. From her prone position she can see the tall man stalking closer, raising his staff for another attack, and she picks herself up as quickly as she can, pushing small bursts of healing magic across her tattered skin.
Spirals of magic are convalescing at the glaived end of the tall man's staff and Anwen throws out a quick dispel spell before he can send his next attack at her. He swears under his breath, raises his staff to start casting again, but Anwen beats him to it, engulfing him in a cloud of ice with a snap of her fingers. She can hear satisfying screams as the sudden drop in temperature causes his skin to blacken and burn, his limbs turning brittle and weak under an onslaught of ice and wind. It's a powerful attack – one that normally cripples even the most hardy of opponents – but through the whipping winds of silver and blue, Anwen's sure she can see the tall man smiling.
There's a pop and a sudden gust of warm air, and Anwen watches in dismay as her Blizzard spell is cast aside, icicles dropping to the ground and splintering against the flagstones with an almost melodic tinkling. Without the winds obscuring her view, his smile seems even sharper, and it curls into something taunting and wicked as he raises his staff and sends a spiral of fire toward her, the lingering chill of Anwen's smell immediately consumed by a bright burning.
She dodges out of the way – though not quite fast enough.
Her jacket catches light, from the right arm all the way down to the tails, and she shrugs out of the jacket just in time before the whole thing goes up in flames. She's only just freed herself from the smoldering fabric when she feels something sharp jab into her calf, and when she looks down – it's the fucking glaived end of the tall man's staff, now neatly embedded in her leg.
She screams, blood immediately slicking her skin as the metal slides cleanly into her flesh.
Fuck.
There's a deep, angry gash when he pulls the glaive free and his sneering smile somehow manages to broaden as he watches the thick rivulets of blood start to stream out of her leg and soak into the fabric of her trousers.
Well fine, Anwen thinks, mimicking his sneer with her own curled lips, if you're going to stab me, just wait until I fucking stab you right back.
She clasps her hands together and summons her Spirit Blade, the angry lines of her expression softened by bands of golden light as the weapon flashes into existence. The tall man's eyes widen with surprise for only the briefest of moments before he attacks again, swinging his staff to send another fireball hurtling toward her.
She lifts her blade and parries the attack with ease, just as her instructor had taught her, bouncing the fireball back at him and rejoicing at his shocked little squeal as he leaps out of the way.
And then she's on him – closing the space between them in only a few steps, bringing her sword down in great, heavy arcs. He lifts his staff to counter, catching each swing on the ironbark shaft, but Anwen is relentless. She hits him again and again, each strike ringing harder and harder against his staff until the tall man's knees buckle and he falls to the floor. Even prone on the floor, he holds his staff in front of him, trying with all his might to keep her attacks at bay as she hits at him again, and again, and again. There's a snarl on her lips, sweat beading along her brow as she swings her sword over and over, the ironbark staff creaking and groaning until, finally, the tall man's staff is cut in two.
The broken pieces clatter to the ground, the tall man's hands losing their grip as they tremble with exertion. Anwen lets her Spirit Blade fade then, picking up the half of his staff with the glaive on the end and holding it to his throat.
It seems more poetic this way, she thinks, ending this miserable man's life with his own staff.
He's whining below her, his face contorted with fear and despair as pleas for mercy fall mumbling and senseless from bloodied lips. It's a piteous sight, his flesh scored with thousands of tiny cuts from the razor-like shards of ice in her blizzard spell, skin mottled with fat blotches of black, necrotic flesh. It's enough to make her pause, the glaive hanging expectantly just a breath away from his neck.
She suddenly remembers how she felt in that underground cave, when she'd let her magic unravel with a frightening intensity. Sure it had felt freeing, to unleash her magic without constraints or limitations. But when the haze had cleared – when she'd stopped fighting long enough to look down at herself and see the blood of strangers splashed across her clothes – she'd been left with a gnawing emptiness. Looking now at the pathetic man before her, Anwen realises that there has to be some sort of balance between using her magic without shame and becoming lost to its power.
She throws the glaive aside then turns to her companions. "Stop!" she yells across the clamour of the fighting.
Horace and Sera immediately stop, though Prudi sneaks in a few more crushing blows before she finally lets her mace come to a rest.
"That's enough," Anwen says, "they're done. We've won."
Casting her eyes across the room, she can see that there are only a handful of cowering Venatori left, all of them baring the copious wounds of a fight they no longer have a hope of winning.
"Look for rope or something," Anwen continues, "we'll tie them up and—"
She stops at the sound of footsteps from beyond the room. Armoured feet on the stone staircase, descending fast.
Oh piss it, she thinks, reinforcements.
She should have seen this coming; should have known the Venatori would fight to the bitter end. The others seem to have come to the same conclusion at the same time, grim expressions falling into place as they lift their assorted weaponry in readiness.
Anwen summons her Spirit Blade again, though the golden energy seems to flicker and fade almost timidly. Without her staff to channel her magic, her spells have burned too hot, too fast, and she's now running dangerously low on mana.
The fight to come will be a quick one, whichever way the outcome falls.
The footsteps get louder, a steady clanging of hurried feet, and then the wide wooden door bursts open to reveal a cadre of men. Soldiers, she realises, not more Venatori mages, all sporting a familiar silverite and sage green uniform.
Inquisition soldiers.
And at their head, sword and shield drawn ready for battle, stands Cullen.
Cullen.
His eyes scan the room with a soldier's diligence, taking in the field, picking out enemies and allies, evaluating the best course of action. But then his eyes fall on Anwen's and something in him snaps, his posture immediately softening. His sword and shield fall to his sides, all the fight seeming to rush out of him and leaving only weariness and relief in its place.
"Anni," he murmurs, almost reverently, as he strides across the room, stepping over the many fallen bodies without so much as a glance.
Anwen moves forward too, as if drawn toward him, and her eyes never break away from his. She hears a dull thunk followed by a slightly sharper one, the sounds of his shield and sword as they're dropped to the floor, and then before she even knows what's happening, Cullen's arms are around her and she's being pulled against his chest.
He's holding her in an almost vicelike grip, pressed tight enough against his breastplate to be uncomfortable, but it's Cullen – and he's solid and safe and here – and Anwen can't find it in her to object.
"Thank the Maker you're all right," she hears him whisper into her hair, and then there's only murmured prayers – an endless litany of oh Maker and blessed Andraste – punctuated by small, soft kisses pressed against her crown.
"Cullen?" she says, interrupting his prayers, pushing back slightly so she can crane her face up and get a good look at him. He looks exhausted – dark smudges around his eyes, an odd paleness to his usually golden skin – but there's a warmth to his eyes, relief and pleasure giving them a soft glossiness. She lifts her hands to frame his face, thumbs stroking gently against his cheeks, one thumb dropping to trace the scar that bisects his top lip, and there are so many words fluttering through her head that she's not sure which ones to start with.
Thank the Maker you're here.
I missed you.
I love you.
Instead all she manages is a slightly breathless, "you're late."