Notes: Anwen's doppelgänger isn't done making trouble.
The first thing Anwen notices as she nears Skyhold's prison is the urgent buzzing of conversation, quiet murmuring mostly but with the occasional sharp bark when someone loses their patience.
The next thing she notices is the smell. There's the usual mustiness Anwen has come to expect from this part of Skyhold. But there's something new cutting through the damp and the mustiness, something hot and crisp that makes her nostrils burn. It reminds her a little of when she casts, that lingering sharpness when she calls on her lightening, but it's different too – a little drier, a little sourer.
Above it all hangs the bright, coppery tang of blood.
The guards she'd seen the last time she and Cullen had come to visit her doppelgänger are gone, the door to the prison gaping open to reveal a small circle of bent figures huddled around an indistinguishable mass of metal and flesh on the floor. Anwen finds her steps faltering, battling the sudden instinct to stay as far away as possible from whatever awaits her in the prison. She doesn't want to take a closer look, doesn't need to take a closer look – she knows first-hand the damage that can be wrought when primal magic meets fallible flesh.
Everyone falls silent when Anwen enters the room, a dozen tense faces turning to face her expectantly.
"What's happened here?" Anwen asks, though the mangled limbs of Cullen's soldiers and the conspicuously empty holding cell at the far end of the room render her question largely moot.
A lone soldier is standing slightly to the side, face strained and sad, her sword held in such a powerful grip that Anwen thinks she can hear the metal creak with the force. "Karnas was f-feeding the prisoner," she stutters, "when she attacked with her magic – I've never seen anything like it; it was like the ground just… grabbed him… and crushed him into the stone." She gestures feebly with her free hand, her sword arm just hanging limply to her side. "Swinson went to help but she… s-she crushed him too."
"And what were you doing throughout all of this?" Cullen snaps from over Anwen's shoulder, and Anwen doesn't need to turn her head to imagine the storminess of Cullen's expression; she can tell from the way the guard cowers that Cullen's expression must be positively livid.
The soldier averts her gaze, eyes falling to the blood-smeared ground before thinking better of it and instead staring intently at the wall. "I-I t-tried to help. But – but—"
"That's all right, that's enough," Anwen cuts in, not interested in apportioning blame right now; she's too preoccupied with thoughts of her doppelgänger to really care. "Just – do we know where the prisoner is now?"
A dozen silent faces stare at Anwen, seemingly at a loss for words. Then Leliana steps forward. "Unfortunately not – and given the prisoner's ability to imitate appearances, it will be extremely difficult to locate her. We will need to carry out a systematic sweep of the entire fortress."
"And look for what, exactly?" Varric asks, "as you said, she could look like anyone."
"Look for anyone acting strangely," Leliana suggests, though it's clear from her tone that she is painfully aware of the inadequacy of her own plan.
Varric scoffs. "In the Inquisition, strange is kind of our hallmark."
"Do you have a better idea?" Leliana snaps with unexpected sharpness, frustration managing to splinter her usually impassive façade, and Anwen can feel her brows raising in response to her friend's unusual outburst.
"Let's focus on containment for now," Anwen says, lifting a hand to draw all attention to her, "we can't let a mage this powerful escape."
Cullen nods in agreement, "I'll order the guards to close the gates at once."
Josephine bristles a little, her brows pinching together. "That might cause alarm – our guests might not like being treated like prisoners. We will need to explain the situation to our guests in order to allay their concerns."
"We cannot let knowledge of this woman's existence spread beyond this group," Cassandra cuts in sternly, slowly casting her eyes across the Inquisition's inner circle, "we cannot predict the kind of alarm she could cause."
Josephine frowns at Cassandra's interruption. "Of course not. I wasn't suggesting we tell our guests the truth – but we will need to come up with a convincing cover story to explain the closed gates and keep people to their rooms. It'll be easier to search the castle if everyone stays put."
Cassandra opens her mouth as if to respond but Anwen lifts a hand to stop her – time is of the essence and the longer they discuss the situation, the more likely their prisoner will escape. "It's decided then. Cullen, close the gates; no one comes in or out. Josephine and Vivienne, I want you to keep our illustrious guests in line. The rest of us will split into pairs and search the fortress room-by-room – look for something… even more strange than is the norm around here."
A short discussion follows as Anwen's inner circle split into pairs and select sections of the fortress to search. Most faces look sceptical, though some are better at hiding their doubts than others, and Anwen can't really blame them. She knows their plan is woefully inadequate; she knows that the prisoner is likely long gone, disappearing into the Frostbacks before Cullen's guard had even had the chance to raise the alarm. There is no logical reason for the prisoner to loiter long enough to risk capture.
But then… there'd been something about Anwen's earlier conversation with the doppelgänger which made Anwen think that she might not choose the logicalchoice, choosing the most disruptive one instead. It had been clear from the woman's ever-present smirk and mocking words that she'd delighted in the chaos she'd wrought. Perhaps she'd stay and carry on tormenting the Inquisition until her eventual capture or death. She'd already admitted that she'd fully expected to die on this mission – had hoped only to cause as much mess as possible before she did.
While Anwen is resigned to finding nothing, there's a small but vocal part of her which is absolutely certain that the doppelgänger still remains within Skyhold's walls – all they have to do is find her. Hopefully before she has the chance to do any more damage.
Anwen and her inner circle leave Skyhold's prison with dark, stony expressions, exchanging only a few final parting words of advice before splitting for their respective tasks. Anwen and Sera head straight for Skyhold's lower level, starting at the kitchens first before heading toward the centre of the fortress and the staircase leading up to the Great Hall.
The kitchen staff chat amicably with Anwen and Sera as they pass through – clearly unawares of any mischief happening within the fortress – and both women leave the kitchens with fingers left sticky from honeyed buns but no further information as to their quarry's whereabouts. They encounter no one else as they wind their way through each room and Anwen is certain that their search will prove fruitless.
She's surprised that this thought doesn't bother her more than it does.
It would be best for the Inquisition if the doppelgänger was found, Anwen knows this, but if she's completely honest with herself, she also wants the woman to just – disappear and never come back. It would certainly be easier than putting the woman on trial, trying to come up with some suitable judgement. Mostly, Anwen doesn't want to be reminded of how a stranger had worn her face to terrorise her friends, to terrorise Cullen, while she'd been writhing, helpless, on some examination table.
But then she can't let some woman run around wearing her face, causing trouble in her name – her pride simply won't allow it. And so she carries on searching dutifully, trying to ignore that clawing uncertainty that, sooner or later, she's going to have to figure out a more permanent future for the doppelgänger.
"This is fucking dull," Sera groans as she slams the door to the wine cellar shut, a little more forcefully than really necessary.
"Agreed," Anwen says with a sigh, turning slowly on her heels before nodding across the small hall toward a staircase in the corner.
Sera falls in step beside Anwen. "Cullen should have just killed her the moment he figured out she wasn't you."
Anwen frowns. "He wouldn't do that."
For some reason, despite all the misery this woman has brought into Anwen's life, the thought of Cullen killing her seems wrong somehow. "Cullen wouldn't kill a potentially useful source of information. He must have deduced that she was part of a wider plot and taken her prisoner so that she could provide the Inquisition with invaluable intelligence."
Sera hmms non-comitally at Anwen's comment, clearly unconvinced with her reasoning. "Pfft. That's not why he didn't kill her. For someone so smart, you can be really stupid sometimes."
Anwen turns to face Sera, one brow arching sharply while her nose wrinkles disdainfully at the word 'stupid'.
Sera just smiles at her. "He couldn't kill someone wearing your face."
Huh. That hadn't occurred to Anwen; she'd assumed Cullen had done the practical thing in capturing the doppelgänger. It hadn't even occurred to her how difficult it must have been for him to turn on a woman he thought to be her.
"You're really fucking smart," Anwen says, reaching out into the space between them to give Sera's fingers a gentle squeeze.
Sera turns, and Anwen expects her to say something snarky. But instead she just smiles, something gentle and touched curling at the corners of her lips.
And then there's a flash.
And a thunk.
And Sera's smile is shattered as a blood-curdling scream is loosed instead.
It takes a moment for Anwen to realise what's happening; an arc of lightning skittering up Sera's limbs at the same time as she's sent flying across the hall by a clenched fist of stone and dirt. Sera hits the wall with a sickening crunch then flops to the floor, her body crumpled like a broken rag-doll, and this time it's Anwen's turn to scream.
When she turns to face their assailant, Anwen can't help but startle when it's her own face smirking back at her.
"What was it you said to me?" Not-Anwen muses with a smirk, "you will stand before me in judgement? Well – here I am, Inquisitor – bring on your judgement."
There's ice at Anwen's fingertips before she even has the time to think and when she raises her palm, a wall of glittering silver appears at Not-Anwen's back.
That's it, keep her contained – don't let her escape.
But the Shapeshifter doesn't seem concerned with escape, instead running toward Anwen before leaping and tackling her to the ground. There's a short tussle, limbs and fists colliding as Anwen tries clumsily to unseat her attacker. But then there's a crack as Anwen's skull is forced to the stone floor below and when her vision has cleared, Not-Anwen is smirking down at her, seated atop her chest and pinning her in place.
Anwen wonders briefly how she managed to find herself again without her staff in the midst of a fight – but then it hadn't seemed prudent to stalk Skyhold with her staff in hand (a sure-fire way to spread panic among her guests).
Those thoughts are quickly banished when Not-Anwen frames Anwen's cheeks with her hands and pushes bolts of lightning into her skin, sensible reasoning forgotten as pain slices through all thoughts and feelings. Anwen's body bucks, uncontrollable spasms from the electricity pulsing through her limbs, and her screams echo through the sparse confines of the small hall.
Anwen pushes against the pain, battling against the urgent jerking of her limbs, until she can lift her palm and push. The resulting wave of energy sends Not-Anwen flying, her body reaching a few feet into the air before slamming down again. Anwen just has enough time to roll over, scrambling to her feet and pulling on the magic inside her – magic that comes fast and wild without her staff to focus it.
Not-Anwen groans as she lies winded on the floor but Anwen gives her no quarter, raising both palms to unleash a flurry of lightning with a snarl.
The Shapeshifter screams, and for a moment her form seems to shimmer and shake – her appearance shifting with each jump of her body against the lightning.
But when the lightning disperses and Not-Anwen is able to pull her smoldering body to its feet, her appearance is impeccable once more, a perfect copy of Anwen… right down to her clothes.
It is uncanny and – disturbing.
Anwen pushes out another lance of lightning, the magic tripping hot and bright from her fingertips, but Not-Anwen pushes out at the same time, filling the room with heat and light and energy as both women's electricity merges into a writhing ball of spitting magic.
There's a lull – a moment of bright silence as the two magical balls collide – and then there's an explosion. A loud shattering that rattles the bones before Anwen is sent flying back, crashing into the wall behind her before falling to the ground only a few feet from Sera's motionless body.
As she pulls herself to her feet, Anwen can feel the roiling anger begin to rise – just as it had when she'd escaped the cave. Although now it's stronger. Because taking her captive and experimenting on her for days on end is one thing – but to hurt her friends, to cause chaos in her own home, that is something entirely different – something utterly inexcusable.
There'd been a time when Anwen had promised the Shapeshifter mercy.
Well fuck mercy.
Anwen lets loose a snarl as she rushes forward, her whole body skittering with lightning as she pulls her magic forward, a swirling force of fire and electricity. She lets it pool and build, a small ball of power cupped between her hands, growing and pulsing as she pushes all her anger and focus into her palm.
On the other side of the room, Not-Anwen is doing the same, the ground shaking and rumbling as she manipulates the very earth with her magic.
The women face off against each other – ready to unleash their combined powers in one final, devastating attack.
And then the door creaks open.
And Cullen steps in.
Anwen immediately pulls her magic back, yanking it from the cusp of attack and desperately reeling it back in, afraid that she might unleash her power and catch Cullen in the crossfire.
His sword is in one hand, shield in another, and he looks across the hall with a look of furious anger.
Until he catches sight of Anwen
Of both Anwens
And then there is only confusion.
His heart had stopped when he'd heard the commotion – stopped and then pounded with resounding panic at the sound of a crash and the sharp clatter of lightning. And then he'd felt the magic. Even dulled as it was without the lyrium singing in his veins, he could still feel it – the sharp, urgent tug just beneath his skin, the shiver along the base of his spine.
His feet had come to a sprint before he'd even had the chance to think. If someone was using magic – magic here in Skyhold – then it could only mean that the doppelgänger had been found. And if the doppelgänger had been found, Cullen wanted to be the one to drag her back to her cell (this time for good).
He'd lifted his shield in readiness as he'd approached the door and the clattering noise beyond, flexed his hold on the pommel of his sword. Ever the soldier; ever prepared. But he wasn't prepared for what he'd find when he opened the heavy wooden door to the small hall, wasn't prepared to face the ridiculous situation of finding himself face-to-face with two Anwens.
Oh Bugger.
His head scans the room – desperately trying to make sense of the scene before him – and takes in the scorch marks across the ornate rug at the centre of the room, the cracks and divots in the stone masonry, Sera's slumped form in the far corner. There'd been a tough fight, and he's glad he arrived when he did, but two familiar faces are staring at him expectantly and Cullen has no idea what to do.
Anwen is standing right there – the real Anwen; his Anwen – but he has no idea which one she is. Both women are breathing hard from exertion, their brilliant blue eyes narrowed in anger, their pale skin flushed and sweaty, haloed by a crown of dark curls now left in terrible disarray. Both postures are bent, both expressions twisted with anger and frustration – and both are so painfully similar that Cullen feels the breath snatched out of him, feels all certainty vanish at the sight of them.
"Cullen," they both say in unison, stepping toward him with outstretched hands.
"Don't!" he barks, raising his sword in warning, and both women flinch, hurt and confused by his reaction.
It is painful. Knowing that one of these women is the one person he loves above all others, knowing that he's letting her down by not being able to tell her apart.
"It's me, Cullen – it's your Anni," one says imploringly, taking a tentative step forward.
"Don't listen to her!" the other shouts, "she's not me, I'm me."
"Stay back," he orders, turning his sword between them, trying to keep both of them at a distance should he need to strike.
Should he need to strike
Oh Maker, will he really raise his sword to Anwen? Could he possibly strike her down knowing that he could be wrong? That he might inadvertently kill the woman he loves?
"Just… just stay back," he repeats, uncertain as to how to continue, "you're both going to… stay there. Until I figure… until I figure this out!"
"Your name is Cullen Stanton Rutherford, you were born in Honnleath, you have two sisters and a brother," one says, words tripping from her lips as she desperately tries to prove her familiarity.
"Anyone could know that information," the other snaps, rolling her eyes as if wholly unimpressed with this attempt to prove authenticity. And it's such a familiar gesture, the roll of the eyes, the accompanying disdainful crinkle of the nose – it's so very much like Anwen that Cullen is certain that she must be the right one.
Well… almost certain.
Not-Anwen had also been good at appearing disdainful.
That morning after her deception had been revealed, she'd looked at him from her holding cell with such utter contempt. Sneering, mocking. How she'd delighted in teasing him, telling him that Anwen was dead, trying to seduce him. How pleased she'd seemed watching him squirm, watching his face twist and fall as she'd dripped each cruel word from her mouth. How smug she'd looked – even with her clothes dishevelled and her hair in disarray, her pale skin marred with the purpling bruise from when he'd knocked her out.
Oh how she must be enjoying this little spectacle now – enjoying watching him fidget with confusion.
Except – wait—
A purpling bruise over pale skin – the wound he'd given her that she hadn't been able to heal. Because the Shapeshifter can't heal.
The Shapeshifter can't – but Anwen can.
He drops his sword and shield, and the clang reverberates through the narrow hall, startling both women. They stare at him as if he's lost his mind, and perhaps he has, but he has an idea and it's the only thing he can think of to finally figure out which woman is which.
He reaches down and pulls out the small, narrow knife tucked into his boot. It feels oddly insubstantial compared to the heft of his sword, though he's seen enough rogues in his time to know how deadly such a seemingly small weapon can be in the right hands.
But he doesn't need the knife for anything fancy – he just needs it to make a point.
He lifts the dagger, holds the blade against his abdomen. The weapon shudders a little in his grasp, fingers trembling as a thought circles round and round in his head – this is the stupidest thing I have ever done.
One of the Anwens realises what he's planning a few seconds before the other, and her face immediately drops, panic coming quick and strong to her features as she takes an urgent step forward.
"No, Cullen, don't!" she cries, voice trembling with fear.
But it's too late – he's already pushing the blade in.
His jacket is thick and it takes more pressure than he'd expected to push through. But then it suddenly gets easier – the blade jerking forward with a slick, wet noise, and then, oh Maker, the pain comes. Sharp and insistent, a blinding pain that makes him gasp. With the pain comes blood, coating his fingers where they still hold tightly onto the blade, pooling in the lines of his palm.
Both Anwens scream.
Both Anwens step forward with faces contorted with fear, pale and wide and panicked. Both extend their hands, reaching toward him as if they can stop him.
But only one has the tell-tale blue of healing magic curling across her fingertips.
He pulls the dagger free and with the last vestiges of strength he throws it at the doppelgänger. There's not much force behind the throw but his aim is good and the blade sticks snugly into the woman's neck.
He watches with a grim satisfaction as her eyes fall blank, as her body teeters before toppling to the stone floor.
And then he's falling too, blood seeping thick and fast through his puncture wound, his head feeling fuzzy as the pain spreads and dulls at the same time.
He hits the floor with a heavy thud, though he doesn't feel the fall, the pain in his stomach overpowering all other feeling.
But then Anwen is by his side – the real Anwen, his Anwen – and there are tears streaming down her face. As she leans over him the tears fall from her cheek and onto his, and he doesfeel those, feels the hot droplets of water as they splash against his skin.
She's talking – though it's hard to pick out the sounds over the pounding of blood in his ears. But he can see her lips moving even if he can't really hear the words. It looks an awful lot like, "you're a fucking idiot."
He feels warmth then – not the weird, uncomfortable warmth of the blood seeping into his shirt – but a soft, shifting warmth spreading from the inside-out. There's an odd tickling sensation as his skin starts knitting together, a soothing brush as her magic caresses against him.
Anwen's face softens as she channels her magic into his body, the panic and the fear vanishing into something that looks a lot like relief (tinged with only the slightest edge of anger). Her eyes are glassy with tears, sparkling with the light of her magic, and her whole body is highlighted in gentle brushes of blue.
She's beautiful, he thinks.
Beautiful and real.